The Worm Turns

Disclaimer: All fanfic writers thank J.K. Rowling for letting us play in her world. We're not worthy! We're not worthy!

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Ron stood in front of the Gringotts vault, panting and sweating. He told himself he was being an idiot. Why balk now after racing down here like a demon was on his arse? He needed to go into the vault, Harry needed him...

For some reason, he found himself thinking of Ginny. That was a subject he tried not to think of. Why did baby sister choose to live in virtual exile from all her family? On the other side of the Earth? She never came home to visit. If you wanted to see her, you had to go to her. Which meant there was no avoiding her husband.

Ron really did not want to think about him. He should be thinking about Harry. Ron knew he feared what might be within that vault. Harry had never regained his footing after the war. He seemed content these days, but still required peace and quiet. Ron could not forget Harry's catatonia in that terrible time after Voldemort (still hated to even think the name)-- after Hermione--

Ron shuddered. He did not want to think why he shuddered: the thought of Moldyfart, or the thought of Hermione. Maybe it was the sweat of exertion cooling on his body. Maybe it was the thought of Harry dead behind that door...

Harry hasn't done away with himself, he hasn't--

Ron's fears for Harry had receded in recent years, but still lurked in the background. It was a comfort that clan Weasley had adopted Harry. They all kept a discreet eye on him. Janet was always trying to fatten him up. Bless her, Janet always tried to force-feed everyone she could lay hands on. However had he gained a lovely, loving wife who cooked as well as Mum? If not better. Even Mum was rendered speechless by Janet's tamales--

Just open the damned vault!

Ron murmured the Dobby-provided password: "'Proud to be a Mudblood'." Memorable, if less than respectable. The latest slogan of Hermione's Harpies. Ron felt faintly embarrassed; he'd almost glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. The Harpies had never done anything illegal, at least not yet, but the Ministry took a dim view of that secret society. They knew far too much.

Ron's heart leapt with relief: There was Harry. Alive and well. Bowing and smiling. "Enter freely and of your own will!" He seemed in a very good humor. "'lo, Ron. You're looking well."

It was true; Ron looked settled and almost prosperous, if prematurely middle-aged (thanks to his rapidly receding hairline). "You look-- tired. You're working too hard, Harry."

"I think you'll see it's worth it all and more." The massive door shut with a satisfying clang.

"Oi, what's this about?" Ron looked about the bare walls of the vault. "Stuffy in here." He tugged at the high collar of his dress robes. "Dobby gave me your letter, you had something important to show me--"

Harry put a finger to his lips in a jocular fashion. "Shhh. We have company." Drawing out his wand, Harry drew elaborate patterns with its faintly glowing tip. Before them appeared the last sight Ron expected: Severus Snape, attired in his finest, seated in a silver chair.

"Bloody hell," Ron said weakly. He hastily dropped his gaze from that pallid, much-hated face. In his shock, he noted a random fact: Harry and Snape both wore the same shade of bottle green, though Harry's robes were older and of cheaper fabric.

"Do sit down." Harry gestured quickly with his unwanded left hand. Ron collapsed into the identical chair that materialized behind him. Harry conjured up yet another silver chair, placing it so that he, Ron and Snape made three corners of an equilateral triangle.

Harry adjusted his robes and carefully seated himself. He leaned forward, peering first at Ron and then Snape.

Ron tried to joke: "So, we're not all dressed up for nothing." He felt he was sitting rather too close to the other two men.

"I thought you might be interested in what he has to say. This vault is spelled so that those within cannot lie." Ron's face lit up. "That applies to us, too, so be careful."

"Wait-- Harry, this should be an official Ministry matter--"

"Don't pull a Percy. You are the Ministry. Severus Snape!" Ron nearly jumped out of his skin as Snape blinked. He had been like a waxwork figure before. It was as if Harry had just breathed life into him. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes." Snape's voice was not as smooth as usual. His expression was blank.

"Thirteen years have I worked for the privilege of hearing you speak the truth." Harry's words had the feel of ritual. "We'll start with some warm-up questions," he said more casually.

Ron fumbled through his pockets. Whatever had he done with his wand? Maybe he'd misplaced it in his quick change into dress robes, in his tearing great hurry to get to the bank-- "Damn it! I was going to take notes."

"Never mind, I've got it." Harry withdrew a tiny tape recorder from his robes.

Ron watched with interest as Harry clicked on the mysterious Muggle device. "Dad would love that."

Harry set the recorder in mid-air, hovering between him and Ron. "Let us discuss the demon-spawn of the Marriage Law. A generation of healthy, powerful, seriously disturbed children. Nothing like being born to parents who hate each other and you too..."

Ron felt a slight stab of guilt. Perhaps Rica's tales of Hogwarts had not been exaggerated after all. But she was such an adolescent angst princess--

"You were shrewd enough to leave your teaching post before the first tide swamped Hogwarts. Curious, that... I understand that your sideline has become a business. Is it true that you have cleared ten thousand Galleons in the past month alone?"

"Yes." Snape's voice was recovering, but still a bit raspy.

"Have you been selling contraceptives?"

"Yes."

"Abortifacients?"

"Yes."

"Untraceable poisons?"

"Yes," Snape hissed, now alert enough to fill the monosyllable with promises of slow, hideous death. He was frozen in place but for his head, but this did not seem to distress him.

"Does your wife know about your trade in illegals?"

"No."

"Have you had to lie to her about it?"

"No."

"Why is that?"

"She--" Snape seemed to struggle. Then the words came out in a rush. "Does not pry into my affairs," he muttered.

"How convenient." Harry looked to Ron. "I think the spell is working."

Ron pumped his fist in victory. "Yesss!" This confession alone was worth a long stretch in Azkaban. Maybe he didn't have to worry about Harry anymore. From the way he was handling things, he seemed to have pulled himself together.

Harry raised one eyebrow, a gesture that was Snapelike in its eloquence. "Do you have any questions?"

"No, you're doing fine. Go ahead. This--" Ron took in their surroundings with an armsweep-- "is all your doing."

"True," Harry said shortly. "Let's go to it, then. Consider this the never-held inquiry into the cause of death of Hermione Jane Granger."

"Hermione Snape," sneered the former Potions master. Ron scowled at him.

Harry was unperturbed. "Tell us exactly how Hermione died."

"I'm sure I don't know why she chose to do that to herself."

"I'd think her reasons would be obvious. Even to you."

Snape cranked up his patented sneer a notch. "I never beat her. I never raised a hand to her, never even raised my voice."

"Yes, you were the kindest of jailers. All you did was lock her away from everyone and everything she loved. All you did was rape her two or three times a night."

What the-- Ron had never heard about that!

"How did-- did you--" Snape sputtered to a halt, nearing apoplexy, then burst out: "A man cannot rape his own wife!"

"You know, Ron, he believes that. He believes he treated Hermione fairly. A man can't rape his own wife, because a man owns his wife."

"That is correct." Snape fixed his glare on a point halfway between the two younger wizards. The tape recorder seemed to particularly offend him. Ron thought the machine might combust under the force of that glare. "I don't know what you hope to accomplish with these theatrics, Potter. My wife will report my disappearance. The Ministry--"

"Your wife doesn't know you've disappeared. She's in hiding, in fear for her life. She has everyone's sympathy. After all, you killed Hermione."

"I did not kill my first wife!"

"No, you were a good and loving husband to her."

"I did my duty to her. She failed in her duty to me, her duty to the entire Wizarding world!"

"So you treated Hermione fairly."

"Yes! If anything, I was more than fair."

Harry looked to Ron and shook his head in disbelief. "He really believes that."

Ron felt nauseous. He didn't want to risk speech.

Snape appeared ready for much more speech. "I--"

"Shut up, Snape." With that casual command, Snape was rendered mute and furious. "You might as well have put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger... but that would have been more merciful..." Harry looked to Ron. "The hell of it is, we're no better than Snape. If anything, we're worse. Perhaps this creature can't help being what he is, but we were her friends. We should have been there for Hermione. We should have seen what was happening. But we didn't." Harry spoke softly, but his voice was deep with regret and sorrow. "We did nothing, we were too wrapped up in our own little problems... She was just a cunt and a womb to him--" Harry jerked his head at Snape-- "and she was just a tutor to us... poor Hermione."

Silence reigned. An increasingly uncomfortable silence. The slight hissing of the tape recorder seemed more and more loud. Ron swallowed the lump in his throat. "We couldn't have known that her life with Snape would be-- be so bad." Oh, that was lame.

"Well, arranged marriages are common enough in the Wizarding world... I never did tell you how happy I was that you accepted my relationship with George. And you persuaded your mother to accept it, too... You and Molly are brother and mother to me. You do know that, don't you, Ron?"

"Of course, Harry." It had been so long since Harry had expressed any happiness that Ron almost choked up. "But it's good to hear it."

"I hope you're not too shocked by the fact that I'm hopelessly heterosexual. Ron, you moron," Harry said fondly in response to Ron's dumbfounded look, "I needed George. I had to be branded a 'confirmed bachelor' to keep from being married off myself. I couldn't have George killing himself after his other half died... Christ, don't tell me you didn't know about him and Fred!"

Ron found his tongue: "I didn't know."

"Well. We all have our blind spots. Let me fill you in. Let me tell you what I've been doing with my spare time these last thirteen years... After Hermione died, I built a wall around my pain. I had to, or die. I couldn't die; I had work to do. I swallowed what I admit is my considerable pride. I took care to publicly and spectacularly fail at every effort to distract myself from my agony."

Ron's mind flew to Harry's notorious failures as an Auror (screamed and ran away), Quidditch player (screamed and flew away), and writer (forced to return the publisher's record advance).

"At last I crawled to George, who let me come to work for him. He needed the help. He was at sixes and sevens after Fred was killed. Bad enough to lose his twin and lover, but now the business was failing... It wasn't hard to seduce him."

How could Harry be so casual about it? George loved Harry deeply!

"The news spread like wildfire that I was George's bottom... which confirmed my view that Wizarding Britain is a prison... I was an object of pity and scorn. The pathetic, ravaged war hero, reduced to house-elf work-- cooking, cleaning, mending. Stocking shelves, fiddling at foolish inventions, helping George earn a modest living... the perfect wife! I could have done worse... George has a very kind heart. I have learned to... be fond of him." Harry sighed. "Fond enough that I feel rather badly about stealing from him."

Ron could only reject the very idea. "You? Never!"

"It's called embezzlement, Ron. The original Dark Art. George thinks the business is barely scraping by. He has no idea how profitable it's become. He thinks the mindless drudgery of accounting is soothing to my poor nerves. It's not soothing; it's just drudgery. But very useful drudgery."

"Why? Harry, why? You're rich!"

"Not rich enough to accomplish what was needed."

"Merlin's-- What did you need the money for?" Aghast as he was, against his own will, Ron wanted to know where this was leading.

Harry beamed at them. "Would it surprise you to know I financed the modifications to Hermione's Law?" Snape answered with a venomous glower. "Feel free to thank me for the establishment of Hermione's Harpies... To fully answer the question, I needed the money for bribes. I needed to pay very well. Azkaban is full of those who didn't bribe enough.

"I established a network of informants throughout British and French Wizarding society, and a few even further-flung. I persuaded Mad-Eye to show me the ropes. I've never been much for intrigue, but I learned. It's even fun when you become good enough. All those spies, most of whom have no idea who they're working for, or why... old Mad-Eye had a time pounding those lessons into my thick skull. God rest his cantankerous soul."

That reminiscence caused Snape to smirk.

"I even managed to employ one of your house-elves, Snape." Bye-bye, smirk. "Did Hulga ever learn English?"

Snape's face was puce with rage, but he jerkily shook his head 'no'.

"Who's Hulga?" Ron blurted, instantly regretting that foolish question when Harry cast him an impatient glance.

"Snape's beloved second wife. The refugee orphan." Harry looked to Snape. "Your blushing mail-order bride. Because no witch in the English-speaking world would have you. After what happened to Hermione, even Lucius Malfoy was preferable to you! A suitable period of mourning, then seven years of searching for another bride. And you finally settled for Hulga. Poor, ugly, ignorant Hulga. But the agency promised you a young, healthy, fertile virgin, and such a one she was. Thus, upon her you kindly bestowed your person and all your worldly goods. Why the fetish with virgin child-brides, Snape? Don't answer that.

"It's not Hulga's fault she makes Minister Umbridge look like Aphrodite. And she's not nearly as stupid as she pretends. Hulga may be illiterate, but she reads people very well. She can read you like a book. Which explains why she was so upset when I finally had the pleasure of meeting her.

"Five years of marriage, two sets of twins. That equals four children, Ron. That fulfills the requirements of Hermione's Law." To Snape: "You can thank me for that modification, too." Continuing: "Four children-- but they're all girls. They'll fetch fine bride-prices, but I should have known Snape would want a son to carry on his filthy family name. I shouldn't have been surprised to learn Hulga was pregnant again.

"I've been keeping an eye on Hulga. Not literally-- I have been using Auror techniques that attuned me to her state of mind. She's been content in her marriage until recently. She likes having enough to eat and a roof over her head. She's happy not to have been sold into slavery, grateful there's only one man fucking her every night... of late, every other night... slowing down, eh, Snape?" Snape gave an abrupt nod. Harry paused to luxuriate in his silent wrath. "And the children bring her great fulfillment. She loves her daughters. She knows you don't. The past few months she's been very worried-- and then, suddenly, she was terrified.

"When I-- became aware of Hulga's distress, I went to her as quickly as I could. She was in a taxicab outside Saint Mungo's, weeping hysterically. She's expecting triplets." Harry watched Snape's face closely. Snape was surprised by this news. Surprised and overjoyed! "And they're all girls." Disappointment. Rage. "Three more sweet little girls." Harry enjoyed rubbing it in. "Hulga was in such a state, she didn't even notice my Apparating onto the seat next to her. I gave the driver a wad of Muggle money and told him to burn it driving around.

"Hulga's command of English is limited, but her comprehension is excellent." Mimicking a high-pitched foreign accent: "'Famous Harry Bloody Potter'!" Harry smiled, a boyish, rather sheepish smile that said he was pleased to have been recognized as the Great Hero. "I told her I had been Hermione's friend, and had sworn Snape would never harm anyone ever again. That started another flood of tears, but she managed to explain the good tidings she'd got from Saint Mungo's.

"I told her it was wonderful. I played Albus for her, all vague and mystic and fatherly. I told her they would be fine healthy girls. Why, with seven children, she could start her own Quidditch team! It was good to see her smile. Hulga's almost-- well, not pretty, but almost average when she smiles...

"I disguised myself as a nondescript Muggle. The driver knew where the nearest rental-car agency was. We took their biggest SUV, and we went 'home'... Snape's old country house on the North York moors. Very Wuthering Heights. Such a stereotype, Snape! I'm disappointed in you... We packed up the girls and their nannies and even the bloody house-elves. I was able to-- impress upon the house-elves that their top priority was the safety of the next generation of Snapes. After that, the packing went faster. We had to be gone before Daddy got home.

"What a commotion! The girls didn't want to leave behind a single toy or item of clothing. We shrank everything we could, but I still had to stretch the inside of that monster SUV... Hulga, two nannies, two house-elves, and four little girls with all their absolute necessities... whew! Still not sure how I squeezed into the driver's seat...

"I Apparated the SUV a few times to muddy the trail to one of Hermione's Houses." Harry modestly inclined his head. "Don't thank me all at once. I left the SUV there. The girls had fallen in love with it. A giant plaything! They wanted to sleep in it. Good idea; it would allow that House more bed space. I Disapparated back to Snape's damnable family home... Good God, what a gloomy setting! Hulga's worked wonders on the house and grounds, making it fit for children. She has a green thumb, and loves her flowers. Ugly little Hulga has an eye for beautiful things... I went to the kitchen for a snack, and waited for Daddy to come home... and here we are."

Another uncomfortable silence followed. Ron couldn't help but feel a sense of anti-climax. He cleared his throat and ventured: "Now what?"

"Oh, yes." Harry pointed a wand at Snape. "Thank you for reminding me."

Harry didn't have to say the words. Thinking them was more than enough. Thirteen years of patient loathing and degradation suffered for the sake of his oath was enough to fuel the Killing Curse.

Even with no spoken words, Ron knew the signs. "Holy fuck!" he yelled as the green light faded. Snape spasmed out of the chair and onto the floor. An ugly burnt-pork smell filled the vault. "That-- that's an Unforgivable!" As if Harry needed telling-- "Great Hero or not, they'll send you to Azkaban!" Ron couldn't tear his eyes from the heap of silk and velvet that was Snape. He lay practically at their feet. Move, move! At least breathe!

"No matter. It can't be helped. Perhaps he deserved worse, but I had to be quick. Even without a wand, he's almost as powerful as I am." Not bragging, just a matter of fact.

"Then why go through all this? You could have caught him by surprise in his home!" Snape's not going to start breathing again. He's dead, no denying it, can't say I'm sorry, but Harry-- "Oh gods... maybe... maybe you can plead self-defense..." Merlin's balls, the greasy git's greasy hair is almost on my shoes-- Ron wrenched his eyes from the corpse that made an unholy center to their tight triangle of chairs. Then he wished he hadn't. Harry's gaze caught his like a rabbit paralyzed by a stoat. Shit, I'm next! he thought wildly.

Harry looked down at Snape, his face calm and thoughtful, and Ron cursed himself for a hysterical fool. "I wouldn't want you to perjure yourself for me, Ron. I have far too much malice aforethought... I needed to hear the truth from Snape's own lips. It only confirmed what his house-elf said, but I had to be certain. Snape treated Hermione abominably, he drove her to suicide, but by his lights, he was a more than adequate husband to her. Far better than his father was to his mother. That says a lot about traditional Wizarding society." Harry sighed, an infinitely weary sound. "Why did we fight for it? Did we destroy Voldemort for this?"

Gods or God, please give me the words. "Harry... You were raised by Muggles, you don't understand the way of it... The Wizarding world always turns to tradition in a crisis. And it's getting better--"

Harry savagely mimicked Fudge: "'We will see a new and better Wizarding world born out of the ashes of the old'."

"It is better, thanks to you. You've done so much, and without taking any credit. Witches all over Britain owe you a great debt. They don't have to marry anyone the Ministry tells them to, not now!"

"It depends. They can refuse anyone on the list... until the Ministry comes to the last wizard on the list. Which explains how Mad-Eye managed to win a wife." Harry grimaced, nauseated at the very thought. "I'm glad he taught me everything he knew before I killed him."

"Harry!" Ron's cry came from the heart, a cry to one forever lost. "Why? Why did you... why are you telling me this?"

Harry looked back to Ron with a gentle smile. "Haven't you heard that confession is good for the soul? This has been pressing on me for years. Thirteen years... Or perhaps I needed to boast of my cleverness." That boyish, sheepish smile again. "Where are my manners? I haven't asked after your family. How is dear Janet?"

Ron took a moment to stare at the ceiling and blink back the tears that were threatening to spill out. Then he took refuge in the mundane conversation offered by Harry. "She's..." Deep breath. Let it out. "Very hearty. They're all..." A smile quirked his lips as their numerous faces flashed before his eyes. They made his wretched job bearable. They made life worth living. "I don't know how I came to have such a beautiful family."

"They are that."

"Because they have the look of their mother, the lucky sods."

"They have your coloring."

"Their hair is a bit darker than mine." Ron couldn't help but chuckle. Ordinary, civilized banality... Harry wanted to relax a bit before turning himself in...

"They're all fine children, but I must, er, confess that Fredrica is my favorite. She's her mother all over again."

Ron grinned broadly at the mention of his oldest. His little Ravenclaw. "She's a hellion!"

"Your match to Janet was a fortunate one. Eight kids, and she still turns heads. She's put on some weight, but it suits her."

"She's lovelier than ever."

"True... Ron, I have one last confession to make."

The grin slid from Ron's face. What more could there be?

"One thing good old Mad-Eye taught me was carrot and stick. Give your spy multiple motives to continue working for you. The carrot is money, of course, and perhaps the promise of power. The stick is a threat. Blackmail is usually sufficient."

"And?"

"I've been using both carrot and stick on Janet."

"--What?"

"Sorry to have to tell you this, Ron, but I'm the father of her children."

All the air flew from Ron's lungs in a sickening gasp. Harry laughed out loud at this visceral reaction. Fucking idiot looked like he'd taken a Bludger to the balls.

"That's the only reason she didn't leave you after the fourth one." Harry wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "I've been paying her well to continue the Potter line and to inform me of the inner workings of the Ministry."

"You-- you--"

"Shut up, Ron." Ron was instantly immobilized down to his eyelashes. "It's only fair. Your surviving breeder siblings all have families. The Weasley genes are in no danger of dying out. I want something left of James and Lily after I'm gone." Harry smiled smugly. "All this time you thought you were unburdening yourself to a sweet, understanding wife-- How patiently she took in every detail of Ministry gossip and intrigue. How often she wanted to scream at you to stop boring her!" Harry shrugged. "I can't help it if she finds me exciting. My very first informant...

"She's done well by me. Eight children. Eight little Potters... Thought you were beating Arthur and Molly, eh, Ron?" Harry turned pensive. "They'll be provided for. I wrote my will when I came of age. I never changed it. I've checked with the goblins, made sure it's binding and unbreakable... I left everything to you and Hermione... or to your children, should you predecease them. Hermione died without issue. But as far as society is concerned, you have children. So, you see, Janet has abundant motive to keep our little secret. She doesn't want to be condemned by society, and she'll want that money... Carrot and stick. Dear Janet. Ah, the stereotypical transfer-student slut! Quite an actress, too. She'll be overwhelmed by surprise and gratitude to inherit the Potter estate... in addition to the nest egg she's accrued as my number-one informant... She'll move back to the States... I think to Hawaii. She's always wanted to see Hawaii...

"Oh, do speak up, Ron." And Ron was able to splutter:

"You rotten-- you BASTARD! My wife-- you-- some brother you are--"

Harry gestured, and Ron was silent again. "How unoriginal. Bored now! Let's get on with it. I owe you enough to allow you to choose the manner of your death."

Ron found that he could not scream.

"We deserve worse than what I gave Snape. We're not leaving this vault... Perhaps we should die of hunger, like Hermione. That would be just... but when Hermione died, she took justice with her. Why fight it? I'm tired of fighting... Did I ever tell you I was almost sorted into Slytherin? I had to beg the Sorting Hat to put me into Gryffindor. 'We Slytherins are brave, but we're not stupid...'

"I'll allow you to leave a legacy for yourself. Make Janet's children proud. You, brave upstanding Ministry employee, tried but failed to keep me from killing Snape. You threatened to take me in. I killed you, and then myself.

"This vault is scheduled to be opened in another five to ten years, Ron. We can't Disapparate out. There's no getting out.

"What'll it be? Starvation or the Killing Curse?"

Harry gestured, but Ron could not speak, even though he knew he was now able to. He had just realized he had not looked Harry in the face since Snape's untimely demise. (How long had it been since he'd really looked at Harry?) He had looked in Harry's general direction, but not into... into his eyes, oh shit, his eyes--

They remained the same brilliant green, but looking into them was like looking into a void. There was no mercy in those eyes. There was-- only-- cold, so cold, empty--

"Sweet Circe." Ron did not recognize his own voice. It was a miserable croak. Maybe because his genitals were trying to withdraw into his throat. "What's happened to you?" He had to fight to keep his teeth from chattering aloud. An icy sea was swamping his vitals. He could not tear his eyes from Harry's. The pupils opened up and swallowed the green with black and Ron fell into the black and knew he was not surprised by any of this. Not really. Ice cold faded to dim coolness. All his rage and fear was just posturing. What was expected. Ron found he was just as tired of pretending as Harry. The black horror became gray calm and he'd known about Janet and Harry all along. Oh yes, he'd known. And he'd known what Harry had become. Why else would Ginny flee? Ron had known and hadn't cared because he got to play the Weasley patriarch, buried himself in work, ran the house as Dad ran the Burrow-- let the wife run it. But he had a better job than Dad ever had, could even afford a house-elf-- Of course Dobby works for Harry. Dobby loves Harry. Dobby would storm the gates of Hell for Harry...

Ron remembered a bizarre Muggle entertainment he'd attended with Hermione during their too-brief courtship. It had starred Satan, playing with humans like they were his dolls, and having a grand old time with it.

Satan-- no, Harry-- was speaking. "Shall we starve together, then? We can eat Snape. Or each other."

Ron thought of his last meal. Janet's heavenly meatloaf turned to lead in his belly. Her mother's recipe. He had never met Janet's mother. Muggle Affairs had perfected its methods of scaring off any Muggle parents who might prove troublesome. Janet's mother had left her computing job in Ireland and run home to Texas. Leaving Janet all alone. Janet, the transfer student with no one to speak for her. A stranger in a strange land. Janet, oh Janet! I never thought what it was like for you! I was dazzled by your beauty, I never stopped to think how you had been swept up in the Marriage Law, I was a good husband, I wasn't like Snape--

Harry smiled at him. "I call bullshit, Ron."

Ron looked at Harry's shy smile, his harmless facade. "Liar!" Harry continued smiling. Hot rage bubbled up within Ron's chest, driving away all coolness. "How many have you killed? How many more will you kill? Are you trying to turn into Voldemort?"

"Your answer, Ron." Harry gave a theatrical yawn. This really was getting boring.

"The Great Hero. My best mate. My brother," Ron almost sobbed, wrath fading into resignation. What was the use of defiance? To complete this final joke on him, at the moment of death, he, Ronald B. Weasley, had become a Seer. For all the good it did anyone... Poor Janet. But the children would be all right. "Make me a statistic, oh future Dark Lord!"

"Thank you, Ron. I do enjoy it." Harry drew Snape's wand. "Avada Kedavra!"

He had to say it aloud because he didn't hate Ron as much as he did Snape. Although he did hate Ron for failing Hermione. Harry didn't blame himself for failing Hermione. He'd been an almost literal basket case while she was committing slow suicide.

He'd wised up since then.

Ron had slumped back in his chair. Harry got up and walked behind him, retrieving the recorder on the way and tucking it into his robes. He lifted the chair and dumped Ron from it. Ron made a heavy thud as he landed on his face. Harry vanished the chairs, then walked around the bodies, noting their positions. They had fallen correctly, but they should be close to a wall. As if Snape had been having his usual fun, spewing florid threats and forcing Ron to retreat.

Harry drew his own, real wand from its forearm holster. He removed the illusion from Ron's wand so it no longer looked like his. He cleaned the wand of his fingerprints and aura, then pressed it into Ron's cooling right hand. He moved the bodies nearer a wall, careful not to change the way they had fallen, even down to their hair and the folds in their clothing.

He repeated the cleansing process on Snape's wand. He scorched it, as if it had overloaded on the Killing Curse. That would explain how Ron had survived long enough to kill Snape. Harry had taken care to burn Snape's wand hand while killing him. He dropped the blackened wand next to Snape. A clear case of overload. Harry knew all the signs.

Harry returned his own wand to its holster and checked his cheap Muggle wristwatch. Griphook would open this vault in another twenty-two hours. Long enough to hide the fact that Snape had died about a half-hour before Ron. Especially with the air heated to increase their rate of decay. Harry set the air to gradually cool to the correct temperature by the time Griphook arrived. So simple, once you knew how. Environmental control had been his first foray into wandless magic.

Harry checked and double-checked the scene with an Auror's eye. There was nothing to show this had been anything other than a duel. Even their expressions were apropos. Snape's baseline scowl was amplified by pain, and Ron's face was stern with righteous wrath. Poor Ron, he'd got an owl about Hulga fleeing for her life, and had simply snapped. Janet would tearfully testify to that. Harry had made her rehearse the scene until satisfied she would melt a basilisk's heart.

Harry sat cross-legged and indulged himself with the sight of the bodies. Doubtless the goblins would charge the Daily Prophet a premium for a front-page spread. The Prophet would be pleased to pay for the privilege. It made a dramatic tableau: two of Britain's most famous wizards, lying stark and stiff in their best they'd worn for a formal duel.

He couldn't indulge too long. He needed to go home to his alibi. He needed to see if the potion he'd fed George had worked. His very own invention, and a year in the brewing. Harry was almost sure it wasn't lethal. He was reasonably sure it would not cause brain damage. He'd prefer George alive and well and making pots of money. Harry had a half-interest in WWW... but that was relatively unimportant, since he was poised to take over Snape's business in illegals. The important thing was George turning hetero and no longer wanting to live a lie...

Harry wondered if he should make a screaming-queen scene or accept it stoically. Whatever best fit the moment; he had learned that much from Janet. She was a genius of improvisation. After George broke things off, Harry would leave for a well-deserved rest. All the better to distance himself from the scene of the "crime". He'd be in Hawaii long before this vault was opened.

Harry rather hoped the potion worked. If so, that was another fortune made. Even if it did take off a few I.Q. points. (What to call it: "Set Straight"? "Go Hetero"?) If the potion didn't work and George died, or turned into a drooling shitbag, Harry would sublet the shop to Zonko's. Even without George, it would turn a good profit. George had no least idea what "the Intynet" was; soon WWW would be minting money from the Muggle trade. Whatever happened, Janet eagerly awaited...

Yes. Dear Janet. Harry had to credit her for their children's exuberant good health. She had superior genetics. After eight children, she still had that gleam in her eye, as if ready to drop eight more... Janet had gone from scrawny to voluptuous, but she still had that lean and hungry look...

Not hungry. Greedy. Janet was a lot of fun, but she was such a slut, and lately a shrew. She was getting above herself. She had openly ogled him at the last Weasley gathering. It would not be possible to blame alcohol again... She would do it again, oh yes, she would! Janet was determined to lay public claim to him. The stupid bitch had no sense of propriety. She was shameless and careless and knew far too much. She would have to kill herself for grief over Ron.

The kids would be all right. Molly and Arthur would adopt them. Plus they'd get Ron's hefty death-benefit. They'd never find Janet's nest egg. Harry had plans for that money. His own Quidditch team would be a perfect front for laundering illicit gains... have fun, make a ton!

It was too bad Ginny and Draco had run off to Australia. He couldn't get at Draco there... Well, he could, but it would take time and effort... Never mind. Time to put away childish things, Potter! Be practical. Draco would leave Ginny nothing. They were poor as church mice. Ah well, Ginny could squeeze a Sickle, and they were happy, if their house-elf was to be believed. It was all very romantic.

Hulga was a possibility. A wealthy young widow... She would waste no time mourning Snape... Why not? Harry had fucked Ron's wife for a dozen years. Why not do Snape the same favor? The irony of it was delicious.

Hulga understood discretion. He'd looked into her eyes and seen that she would never, ever tell anyone that Harry Potter had set her on the road to safety. She was eternally grateful not to be forced to abort the embryos she already loved... "Mortal sin," she had said. How quaint. But Harry Potter, of all people, understood the power of maternal love. Hulga could be a mighty ally... and it took so little to keep her content! She would not become demanding. Her lack of curiosity about a husband's business was a distinct advantage. Harry would have no problems keeping secrets from her. That great remote house was just right for hiding secrets...

It would be easy to make her love him. Harry smiled in pleasant anticipation. Ugly women were so grateful for the least attention. And Hulga was already grateful to him. And there was something... restful about her. He had enjoyed monitoring her state of mind for five years. He had enjoyed holding her as she wept on his shoulder. Pregnancy was working its magic on her breasts...

Good God. Seven Snapelets. Seven snakelings in the egg.

Harry wondered which would be less trouble: being a good stepfather, or putting an end to the Snape line. The latter could cause complications... oh, but he'd so enjoy it...

He had to consider it carefully. There was no sense rushing things, whether in love or war. He had not made himself into a laughingstock and a catamite just to throw away what he'd gained. And once he'd won power, he'd be hip-deep in witches. Pretty and ugly, good and bad, they'd throw themselves at him.

When the time was ripe, Hermione's Harpies would go above ground, with himself as their openly-acknowledged benefactor. It would be a hard struggle against entrenched Ministry interests, against the likes of Lucius Malfoy and his traditionalist ilk, but with almost every witch in Britain on his side, he'd be Minister of Magic before he turned forty.

And that would be only the beginning... What a fool Fudge had been. Once you woo and win a woman, she'll do anything for you. Ripeness was all!

Harry got to his feet. He made one last scan with the tape recorder (or as he preferred to think of it, the tricorder). There was nothing of him left behind. No aura, no spell traces. No fibers from his clothing, no DNA from his person. It was important to check these things nowadays. Some bright young Aurors had begun using Muggle forensic techniques.

Time to go home to George the Guinea Pig. Harry prepared himself for that difficult task with the mantra that had saved his sanity after Hermione died:

Justice is a joke. Freedom is an illusion. There is no justice; there is only vengeance. There is no freedom; there is only power.

As always, the words calmed and strengthened him, and he did the impossible. He specialized in the impossible. The mild-mannered, washed-up war hero Disapparated from a Gringotts vault without a trace. Next to that feat, Apparating into it had been child's play. The goblins didn't mind a thief dropping in; they very much minded that thief getting back out again.

He drew fresh air deep into his lungs, relishing the familiar scents of Diagon Alley. He let out his breath in a long, happy sigh. He chuckled at the memory of Snape's and Ron's varied facial expressions. Reminiscence would make those memories all the sweeter.

Harry James Potter, the most powerful wizard on Earth, the once and future Voldemort, whistled as he strolled home to his latest experiment.

~*~the end~*~