Old Dogs, New Tricks

The wall, at first sight, looked like it was covered in pictures. On closer inspection, it turned out to be newspaper clippings. Old and battered, and most people wouldn't remember the events they depicted. This was mostly because people had chosen to forget.

There was a picture of a young boy, black haired, green-eyed, looking very morose. Above the mug-shot, the headline of the Daily Prophet read, "Boy Who Lived gets Voldemort - but Now What the Hell do we do about the Bloody Great Mess he left behind?"

The story went that Harry Potter had got Voldemort, a pretty nasty chap, so the barflies said, somewhere in France. Voldemort had gone, but Mr. Potter had also inadvertently caused the death of a fair few people - 258 to be exact. The magical community had no chance. The Prime Minister had to admit to the public that yes, wizards existed. The public outrage had got him killed, as well as many wizards and witches. Harry Potter had got out of it scotch-free - he was only a kid, they said - but the world of magic had slowly deteriorated, until only Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stood as a monument to a secret world that had been discovered and destroyed in the space of nine months.

There were other paper-clippings on the wall - "Aurors disband - Reporters claim that the government are still using them", along with "Albus Dumbledore, age unknown, dies in hospital". One told of the ban on magic, and another told of the legalisation of the Daily Prophet. To the last of the wizards, this was a small compensation.

Away from the wall, there was an average British office. An unused kettle stood in the corner, rusting. There was a cluttered desk, and a computer, which the owner had never got the hang of. Amongst the clutter, there was one more paper clipping, which the owner was in the process of framing. It read, "Hogwarts to be torn down, signalling End of Witches and Wizards"

A piece of ash fell on the paper, and a hand quickly brushed it away - a hand with nicotine stained fingernails. The hand retreated, and the owner gave a sigh, and rubbed his forehead. The hand stopped moving, hovering over a lightning shaped scar.

"Harry!"

Harry Potter, 30, looked up from his reverie. The office door was open, and he could see his secretary through the gap. She had a phone in one hand and a nail file in the other.

"What?"

"You got a job, Harry."

"Oh, god...the Weasley twins, right?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Intuition, Fleur," said Harry. Fleur Delacour had lost her French accent over the years working with Harry. They had both quickly learned that you had to work hard to stay alive in the Muggle world of 2010. It was nothing like fighting Voldemort - in this world, you were never quite sure who your enemies were.

"Using your wand on this occasion, Harry?" said Harry's secretary.

Harry opened his drawer, and saw his wand, still in pristine condition, laying on its own inside. Harry breathed shortly out of his nose, and then closed the drawer.

"Only wands I favour now are the nice little white ones from Silk Cut," he said dryly, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

"You gonna come along to this one?" said Harry casually.

Fleur smiled. "You needed my help last time, Mr. Potter." Harry smiled back.

"What do I need to do for the lovely Weasley twins today, Ms. Delacour?"

Fleur tossed Harry his car keys. "Clean-up today, Harry. But it's one hell of a clean-up."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You'll see, Mr. Potter."

*****

Half an hour later, inside the Pranksters Incorporated Headquarters, Harry and Fleur were standing opposite Fred and George Weasley, who were looking rather anxious. Harry noticed that they had become rather anxious over the past couple of years - no wonder, when a simple joke shop kept turning up cases for Harry Potter. The 'job' before Harry now was particularly difficult.

Harry was looking at the floor, his hands clasped together in front of him. Fleur had her hands on her hips.

"Boys, boys, boys," said Harry, shaking his head. "Please tell me exactly what it is that I'm looking at."

Fred looked down at the point at which Harry was staring. "Well...it's a body, Harry. Without a head."

Harry nodded, and bit his bottom lip. "And what does the black jacket and baton at the belt tell me, Fleur?"

Fleur sighed. "It means they've made a dangerous mistake, Harry."

"It wasn't our fault," George whined, "he was nosing around, he came out back, we told him to leave us alone..."

Harry glared at George coldly. George, oblivious of the stare, continued with his list of excuses.

"...I mean, why do they have to look around anyway? Would it be easier for everyone if they just left us alone so we can get on with our lives? Honestly..."

Harry looked at Fleur. "Does the stare not work any more? I thought it was a good stare."

"It's an excellent stare, Mr. Potter," replied Fleur.

"Then why the FUCK isn't he shutting up?" said Harry, looking daggers at George, who consequently did shut up.

"Right," said Harry, taking a pair of plastic gloves from Fleur's outstretched hand. He snapped them on loudly for dramatic effect. "Where's the head?"

"The head?" said Fred.

"The head."

"It's there," said Fred, pointing at a large bloodstain on the wall. "And there," he added, indicating the spray of skull fragments and blood leading from the wall back to the stump of the policeman's neck. Harry sighed.

"So...you didn't blow his head off, you merely...blew his head into a million pieces?" said Harry calmly. The twins were silent. "He ate one of your more tantalising products, I assume." The twins nodded.

"He ate three," admitted George. "But he should have read the bloody packet, it said only one every 24 hours...besides, he was suspicious that this stuff was magic related, so he deserved it."

"If you're going to make up an excuse, George, NEVER use the 'deserved-it' line. This man didn't deserve death. Many people don't deserve death. But they get it, all the same. Because of people like us."

"Yeah, but..."

Harry raised a hand as a signal to stop. "Here's what we do. Fred, go stand out at the front of the shop. Look happy. Look like this day is just the same as yesterday. Just don't look like you want to scream, oh-fuck-oh-fuck-there's-a-bloody-dead-policeman-in-the-bloody-store-room. OK?"

Fred, having more common sense than his brother, left without a word.

"Right. Now George...you, I'm afraid, are going to help me with scrubbing duty. Fleur will supply you with rubber gloves. Fleur, once you have given George some gloves, get on the phone to Thomas."

"Thomas?"

"Dean Thomas. Runs a back-alley 'disposal service' nowadays. Ring him, and tell him to turn on the furnace. Should be hot enough by the time we're finished here."

Fleur nodded, and walked away. George was struggling with his gloves. "It's not rocket science, Georgey boy," speculated Harry. "Come on...you pick up the skull and brain bits, and I'll scrub the walls down."

George hesitated. "We aren't going to use magic?"

"No, George, we're not going to use magic. Magic got you into this bloody mess...hell, it got me into this bloody mess."

There were a few moments of silence following this remark, except for the grinding sound as Harry released all his stress into his scrubbing brush against the wall.

"I can't believe it..." said George, apparently to himself. "It's come to this...magic being outlawed...spells and wands on the bloody black market...we had to change the name of our enterprise just because it had 'Wizard' in it...who could of guessed?"

Harry was apparently paying more attention to the wall than George.

"You never said what happened...you know, back then..."

Harry looked down at his feet, and stopped scrubbing. He breathed in slowly through the nose, as if trying some new form of yoga. "There are things I don't like to talk about, George."

George nodded, gulping, and continued to pick up bits of brain. Fleur returned to the store room.

"Furnace is on," she said. "Anything else?"

"Put some covers down in the back of the car," said Harry, "and then find something to wrap our friend in."

Fleur sighed. "I just got these jeans...now I'm gonna get blood all over them. Second pair this week, Harry...I'm not happy..." she was still mumbling when she shut the store room door. Harry continued to scrub the wall and the floor.

"Say, Harry..." said George. Harry remained silent by means of a reply. "...have you heard of this new underground guy? He's taking over some of the street gangs...goes by the name of Riddle..."

Harry paused for half a second, trying not to laugh at George's cliché back-alley informant tone of voice, and then continued to scrub. "There are so many guys calling themselves Riddle, or Voldemort these days...I can't keep up with them. They come and go."

"Not this one," said George, and Harry noticed that he shuddered. "He's persistent. He tried to buy us out...sent out one of his goons...but Fred said no, and HE said fine, he'd just have to beat seven shades of shit out of us. But he hasn't yet. 'Till he does, we're gonna just keep quiet, make people lose interest in us..."

"By killing a policeman?" asked Harry. "I don't think that's quite the right way to go about it..." Harry sighed. "It looks like this fellow wont fit neatly into the furnace as he is..." Harry produced a small butcher's knife from his inner jacket pocket. George shuddered again/

Soon, the body was taken out through the back of the small, seedy shop to the boot of Harry's car, inside a collection of Pranksters brand plastic carrier bags. Fred and George both thanked Harry. Some colour had returned to their faces.

"Don't thank me," said Harry, "just have some actual money to give me next time. You KNOW there will probably be a next time. And don't try and rip me off with disintegrating ten pound notes again."

"Of course not, Harry, you can trust us," said George. Harry tried to keep a straight face, but permitted himself a small snigger.

"Good one," he chuckled. "Off to the furnace," Harry said to Fleur, opening the car door. It was considered, in 2010, to be quite a crap car - who had a Jaguar S-type anymore, they said, why not get the new ZX-type?

Harry revved the engine, which died immediately. He tried again, and the exhaust fumes billowed over Fred and George. Harry managed to drive away eventually, leaving Fred and George with fixed smiles on their faces, coughing exhaust fumes into the air like asthmatic yet persistent smokers.

"Harry," said Fleur, "what did I tell you? I got blood on my trousers...and whatever the fuck that is there...are you going to pay for this?"

"No."

"Then what the hell am I going to do?"

Harry threw the scrubbing brush at her. She threw it back aggressively.

Blood, bodies and the Weasley twins.

Just another day, thought Harry. Another perfect day.

Can't complain, said another voice in his head, after all...this is all your fault.

*****

16 years old. He shouldn't be here, having to bear this burden. He's 16 years old, God damn it.

They're still getting bodies out of the building. The boy thought that the first bodies found would be it - that would be the end of it. But the bodies wouldn't stop coming out of the building.

Families had been torn apart that day. The people of Paris...of the world...would never be the same again.

The boy thinks, hey, at least Voldemort's gone. Another voice in his head replies, sure, but so are all these innocent people.

It's your own fucking fault.

Dumbledore's just told him that the world of magic will falter and fail. How does he KNOW that, thinks the boy, how does he know? The boy looks at the ageing man, who seems older than ever.

It's your fault.

Are you proud of yourself, Harry Potter? How's your scar gonna get you out of this one, Potter?

It's your fault, and it always will be.

The scene before the boy darkens. He can feel himself ageing. What was happening? The only thing the boy could hear was a loud chatter, as though hundreds of people were whispering. There were some voices that could be heard above the others.

"...Citizens claim to have seen people flying across the sky before the mysterious collapse of the post office occurred..."

"...The French Prime Minister admits to the existence of 'wizards' - apparently this secret cult has existed outside our knowledge for millennia..."

"...People worldwide are concerned for their safety - if 300 people have died in a supposed accident, what else are wizards capable of? The public wants answers..."

"...The French Prime Minister was assassinated today, supposedly by a group of wizards who did not want their existence known. This ties in with the murder of the British Prime Minister earlier this month...people fear for their safety and are rebelling against their own government and wizards, seeing them as a threat to public safety..."

"...The highest organisation of wizards in the UK has agreed with the new PM that the only solution to the current problem is for wizards worldwide to give up their lifestyle and their magic, to try and put a stop to the street fights and what they describe as 'gang warfare' across the country between wizards and so-called 'Muggles'..."

"...Crackdown on the use and sale of spells to help rid the UK of magic. The United Nations leaders are urging other countries to do the same..."

"...Today, with the demolishment of major magic schools worldwide, it has been announced that magic has been eradicated - magic and spell use, as well as magical equipment, has been outlawed in most countries. However, it is believed that much of this equipment will still be available on the black market to the remaining wizard folk..."

The boy was ageing rapidly as the voices echoed around him. He suddenly felt like he was thirty years old. He looked at his nicotine stained fingers, and his head started to spin...

"...Albus Dumbledore, one of the most prominent wizards of their era, died today in his home. The Houses of Parliament say it marks the true end of magic use and teaching in Britain, Europe...hopefully across the world..."

The boy was nearly unconscious. Out of the darkness, as the voices died away, someone shouted-

"Harry!"

Harry snapped back from his daze, and turned sharply to the right, desperately trying to avoid the truck next to him. Fleur was screaming, the side of the car was grinding against the truck, producing a deafening screech, and the truck driver was honking like there was no tomorrow.

"SHUT UP!!!!!" screamed Harry, and slammed on the brakes. The screeching stopped, as did Fleur. The honking of the truck slowly died away. There was silence, and then the bags of body parts fell out of the boot with a loud thump.

"Bollocks," said Fleur. "Do I have to get them?"

"Fuck it," said Harry, and slammed on the accelerator.

"We're just going to leave them there?"

"Yes, we are. I need to get away from here."

Fleur looked at Harry with concern in her eyes. "Why? What the hell just happened, Harry?"

Harry was silent. Eventually he pulled into a side alley next to a cafe, and screeched to a halt. He continued to look ahead, and then yanked the keys out of the ignition. The first attempt to open the door failed, but the second, more violent attempt worked wonderfully. Harry put his feet on the floor, and found it to be rather muddy. He looked down.

"Shit. Just brilliant. My brand fucking new shoes!"

Harry groaned, and reached across Fleur to the glove compartment, taking out a pack of cigarettes. He got back out of the car and walked around to the back. He remembered a time when this car used to be silver, and the boot stayed shut. He also remembered a time when he thought he was the best hero in the world, which happened to be the same time that he thought magic and wizards would be around, in secret, forever.

Nothing lasts forever, he told himself, slamming it down. It sprang back up, so he sat on it, and lit a cigarette. He pretended he didn't notice Fleur sit next to him.

"Are you going to tell me about it?" she said calmly. Harry started to say no, but he realised it was no use - he'd been wanting to tell her for a month, ever since all these Riddles and Voldemorts turned up, and news came through about arguments over the future of Hogwarts, a future which came to a skidding halt just yesterday.

"Hogwarts is being torn down," Harry said glumly. He took a long drag from his cigarette, and patted the ash off the end with his little finger. Fleur nodded.

"I heard," she said. "Beauxbatons went down a month ago, after Madame Maxime was killed. It's horrible. We're a dying breed, Harry."

Harry nodded. "There will still be little kids who can't explain how they manage to do impossible things...but they'll never know that they could have been wizards."

Fleur pretended to inspect her nails, and said casually, "So...what happened in the car? What were you thinking about?"

Harry shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."

Fleur put her hand on his knee. "I was there, you know," she said quietly.

"I know."

"It wasn't your fault, Harry." Fleur looked down at the floor. "It was mine."

Harry smiled, dropping his cigarette. "How'd you work that one out?"

"You saved me, Harry. You knew that your battle with Voldemort had nearly destroyed the building...you knew that it was going to fall...but, you came to me, when I was still under the Crucio spell Voldemort had put on me...I shouldn't have got myself into that mess."

Harry shook his head again, whilst popping a mint into his mouth. "I could have restored the building with one simple spell, Fleur! And then I could have helped you. Besides...I should have drawn Voldemort away from so many Muggles. You know that."

Fleur looked at the floor again. There was a long silence, abruptly broken by the beeping of a mobile. It was Fleur's. She flipped open the phone and suddenly transformed into her secretary role.

"Fleur Delacour," she said, and Harry heard some garbled chatter. Fleur seemed to have understood it. She held her hand against the mouthpiece, and then said to Harry, "It's Dean Thomas. Wants to speak with you. Listen carefully - it sounds like he's been smoking something illegal," she added, passing Harry the phone.

"Dean? What's the problem? Oh, yeah...we aren't going to need the furnace. Well I'm sorry...use it to light some more of whatever's gone up your nose. No, I won't give you any fucking money. Yeah, well same to you, too."

Harry flicked the lid of the phone shut, and threw the phone to Fleur, who was getting back into the car.

"Where now, Mr. Potter?" she asked.

"Time to get some information," said Harry, closing his door, "about our new Mr. Riddle."

Harry reversed the car, and the boot flew open.

"Oh, sod it," said Harry, and carried on reversing until he hit the opposite wall. The dented boot door came loose and slid off the car and onto the street.

"Better?" asked Fleur.

"Much better," replied Harry, and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

*****

Too many phones were ringing. They seemed to be coming from every room in the office block. The girl was rocking back and forth in her chair, swallowing an aspirin.

"Answer the phone," she muttered, "answer the phone...CREEVEY, YOU LITTLE SHIT, ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!"

"S-sorry, Ms. Granger!" There was a sound like someone falling off a chair in the room next door, and then the ringing stopped.

"Thank God," said Hermione Granger, removing her hands from her ears. Reporting for the Daily Prophet had been such an innocent idea at 16 years old, when the wizards were apparently 'on top'. Now everything seemed to have died down.

Not Hermione Granger. She had absorbed herself in her work after Harry's 'incident'. She had no idea where he was now. The same went for Ron...he could be anywhere. It didn't matter to her now. Friends slowed you down. Friends made you miss deadlines. Friends took too much time away from you.

The door of Colin Creevey's broom cupboard of an office swung open. The mousey little man himself looked flustered.

"That was the editor," Creevey mumbled, "there's been a road accident."

"I don't have the time for fucking road accidents, Colin," Hermione snarled, typing rapidly on her computer.

"There was a body, Ms. Granger. In the middle of the motorway. Well...bits of a body. The police say cause of death was probably magic related and fingerprints are being analysed."

"That's not enough, Colin," replied Hermione. Colin could swear smoke was rising from Hermione's rapidly typing fingers.

"That isn't it, Ms. Granger..."

"Then tell me the fucking rest, Colin!"

"T-t-there was a jumble of fingerprints, Ms. Granger!" stammered Colin, "b-but possible matches are George or Fred Weasley, Fleur Delacour, and...and Harry Potter, Ms. Granger."

Hermione slowly stopped typing. Colin gulped. Suddenly, Hermione turned on her chair, leapt up and grabbed Colin by the shoulders. Colin went rigid with fright.

"Are you telling me that Harry Potter may have turned to crime?" Hermione had a severe look on her face.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Granger. I know he's your friend and all..."

"Sorry? This could be the story of the sorry fucking year! Get your camera, Colin...and I hoped you haven't pissed yourself."

"Absolutely not, Ms. Granger," said Colin. He was shaking still, even though Hermione had let go of him to get her jacket.

"Come on!" she grunted. Colin ran back into his office and grabbed his camera.

"...It's time to get a story," murmured Hermione. She didn't care if Harry Potter had been her friend. This could be one of the most controversial Daily Prophet scoops of all time, and that was important now that the Muggle tabloids were covering magical incidents. Harry Potter wasn't a friend any more - he hadn't been for a long time. Now, he was prey. Hermione Granger was ready to pounce.