Psychopomp

Harry Potter had learned one thing in twenty-eight years of life: hearing disembodied voices was trouble. Especially voices no one else heard. When those voices started evolving into vague people-shaped figures, Harry knew that the shit had officially hit the fan.

When those illusory people started resembling Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy, Harry quite suspected he was going mad.

Both men had been dead for nearly eight years. They had the solidity of being real, being alive.

This was most disturbing.

"Potter?"

"Potter."

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. He realized dimly that the first voice had been Millicent Bulstrode. It must seem odd to see Harry Potter standing still in the middle of the Ministry of Magic hallway staring at nothing.

Nothing but two dead people.

The second voice had belonged to Snape; it may have been almost a decade since he had heard it, but there was no way that Harry could ever forget that smooth, resonant, and precise tone.

"Potter? Are you all right?" Millicent again, this time touching his arm in concern. Harry briefly shook his head, closed his eyes, and then opened them again. Snape and Malfoy were gone. "Potter?"

He looked over at Millicent and gave her a small smile. "I'm all right, just trying to remember if I left the oven on at home," he lied.

Millicent stared at Harry for a moment more, quite obviously starting to agree with Harry's own assessment of his sanity. "All right then, Potter. You're blocking the way."

"Thanks," he replied brightly, before smiling again. He hurried off toward Arthur Weasley's office; the quicker he could get this errand run, the quicker he could get back to Hogwarts and talk to Dumbledore.

If Harry had learned two things in his life, the second was that if anything remotely went wrong, the person to see was Dumbledore.

Harry reached the office with no further visitations from the dead, and he silently thanked as many deities as he could think of for that. Knocking on the office door, he peeked his head in. "Mr. Weasley?"

Arthur Weasley had changed greatly since the first time Harry had seen him. The last remnants of his balding red hair had turned stone gray, he had permanent bags under his eyes, his skin was slightly jaundiced, and his clothes hung like tents on him. Harry some days wondered if the man had to punch extra holes in his belts in order to keep his pants from falling down. The most noticeable change, however, were Arthur's eyes. Or rather, lack thereof.

During Harry's Sixth year at Hogwarts, Lucius Malfoy had kidnapped Arthur as he worked a late night at the Ministry. After a nerve-wracking week of worrying, searching, and comforting, Harry had stumbled upon Arthur near the top of Stoatshead Hill. He had been beaten, forced to drink Veritaserum, and then finally blinded. No one was completely sure why the Death Eaters had finally released him. Harry hadn't been able to decide what was worse when he returned to the Burrow, carrying the unconscious Arthur in his arms, Molly Weasley's expression at seeing her husband, or the blankness on the face of Albus Dumbledore as he recognized the after effects of Veritaserum and almost immediate started making arrangements to change the codes and supply lines they all used. After and the last of the Death Eaters had been killed, Arthur had finally been well enough to go back to work. The Ministry, and the Wizarding World as a whole, didn't really have accommodations for handicapped, but Arthur had found ways around the blindness.

Arthur's head was bowed over a document, but he looked up at Harry's knock. "Yes?"

Harry stepped all the way in the room. "It's me, Mr. Weasley. Harry."

"Oh yes, our weekly. I'd lost track of time." Arthur smiled tightly, and pointed to a chair.

"How is the family?" Harry asked politely as he sat down. He hated these meetings. The conversation was always stilted. He resented the reason behind them even more.

"Fine, as always."

"And Bill's project with the -"

"Harry, I'm sorry, I don't have the time today. Let's just get down to business, shall we?"

"Right, sir." Harry scowled at Arthur, once again finding a small part of himself grateful that the other man couldn't see. If he let even one hint of what he really thought about this travesty out to anyone but Dumbledore the consequences wouldn't be pretty. Arthur pointed his wand at Harry and quietly muttered the spellword that guaranteed honesty.

"State your name."

"Harry James Potter."

"Age."

"28."

"Birthday."

"July 31, 1980." Harry rolled his eyes. He understood that procedures had to be followed, but the same questions, week after week, year after year tended to grate on his nerves. What was Arthur expecting? For Harry to walk in and announce that "I'm Merlin reborn, I'm 325 years old, I like to wear pink tutus, bow down before your lord and master"?

"When was the last time you used the Imperius Curse?"

"May 23, 1999."

"And Cruciatus?"

"I have never used Cruciatus."

"The Killing Curse?"

Harry sighed quietly. "October 31, 2001."

"Thank you, Harry, you can go. Until next week." Arthur's head bowed back down toward his desk, and Harry could see that he was reading a Braille-coded document. Harry turned and quickly walked out of the room. It didn't do to linger when Arthur was in that sort of mood. As soon as he left the Ministry building and found himself back in the bustle of Diagon Alley, Harry reached into his trouser pocket and touched the Portkey to Hogwarts he had with him.

Harry never really got over his nervousness and instinctive dislike of Portkeys. The summer after his Fourth year, Dumbledore had made a special visit to the Dursley's house in order to teach Harry several spells for detecting and enchanting Portkeys, so that he would never be caught again the way he was at the TriWizard Tournament.

The problem was that Harry just physically couldn't cast the spells on every new object thinking it might be a Portkey. Not that he didn't try the first two or so weeks while he was at Hogwarts.

Harry landed in Hogsmead, just outside of the Hogwarts Anti-Apparition fields. Unlike Diagon Alley, Hogsmead was deserted. It had been destroyed in a Death Eater attack, and no one really had the heart to try and repair the damage so the wreckage just stood as a reminder of the lives lost.

Harry started walking toward the castle. He knew by the time he got there, his left knee would be screaming in agony.

"Potter."

Harry froze at the voice.

They were back again. He sighed, closed his eyes, and kept walking.

"Potter."

Harry clenched his fists, and did his best to ignore both men who were flanking him. He ignored the pain in his knee as he limped up the large doors of the castle, throwing them wide open. The eyes of hundreds of students, not to mention the entire teaching staff of the school trained on him.

"Bugger."

Dumbledore, at the head table, stood. "Go on with your meals." He strode, unconcerned about the curious stares, to Harry. Taking in Harry's black expression, he placed an arm on the younger wizard's shoulders. "Let's go to my office, shall we?" Harry nodded, and limped along with Dumbledore. "The knee still giving you trouble, I see," he sighed.

Harry nodded. "Well, since the Ministry," Harry pronounced the word as venomously as possible, "didn't let me heal it, it's no surprise."

"Oh Harry," Dumbledore sighed again. They had arrived at the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office quickly. Harry suspected that Dumbledore had probably been aiding him with magic. "Snickerdoodles," he said, and the gargoyle moved out of the way smoothly. "Come in. Have you eaten?"

"No, not yet. You know it takes me all day to travel in to the Ministry." Harry gingerly lowered himself into a chair in front of his desk as Dumbledore conjured some sandwiches and tea from the kitchens. He smiled slightly. "Someday, Albus, you'll have to tell me how you do that."

"If only I could, Harry."

The Headmaster's kind tone belied the steel behind the words, and Harry lost any sense of amusement he might have had. "I can't do this anymore, Albus. It's just so wrong!"

"You've done it for nearly seven years, Harry. You'll get up and do it again next week and the week after that."

Dumbledore's pragmatic answer made Harry furious. "They broke my wand! They put wards on me so that I can't perform magic! They force me to come back here every week to answer the same bloody questions so that I can't even escape into the Muggle world! It's worse than being a criminal, Albus!"

"But to them, Harry, you are a criminal."

Harry stared mutinously at Dumbledore for that. "Well, what did they expect me to do?" He sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to dispel the impending headache. "May I have a glass of water?" Dumbledore nodded and conjured a tumbler of water for Harry as he fished in his trouser pocket for the small bottle of aspirin that he kept there. Taking one, he sipping on the water, waiting for it to take effect. "I just... I don't know. I almost wish they'd Obliviated my memory completely and left me in the Muggle world."

"They never would have done that, my boy. Regardless of the actions you might have been forced to take, regardless of how those actions are viewed, you are still the Boy Who Lived. They would never go so far to ostracize you entirely."

"Seems as if they did a pretty good job of it, don't you think? Aurors, Albus, Aurors have to meet me, put timed glamour charms on me, and take me to Diagon Alley because someone might kill me before I can make it to the Ministry. But they don't bother with the same courtesy on my way back. And then they don't bother to help me or heal me when I do get hurt. I'd say that's pretty close to complete exile as you can get. I suppose I should count myself lucky that I can still see the Leaky Cauldron, even if I can't get into it."

"You still have me, Sirius, and Remus. You are not alone." Harry sighed and scowled at Dumbledore. "What really brought this on, Harry?"

Harry sighed. There were times he hated Albus Dumbledore. He hated the man's ease at manipulation. He hated the man's perceptivity. He hated the man's seeming ability to know everything and yet share nothing, leaving the rest of the human race to flounder around trying to figure things out on their own. He hated the way the man always made him feel petty. He hated the way the man had lived through 160 years of life and three wars relatively untouched while everything Harry had been close to and believed in was ripped away. "I've been getting death threats again. Somehow they're getting past the filtering charms Remus put up for me. Some of them are even coming Muggle post." That surprised Dumbledore, and Harry felt a large surge of satisfaction at finally knowing something the other wizard didn't. The location of the Riddle House was a very protected secret, and not only because Harry was the one living in it.

Despite Dumbledore's surprise, he waved that off. "There's something else, isn't there?"

"Tell him, Potter. Run to Dumbledore as you always did. Tell him, Potter. Show him you're mad and not to be trusted. Show him exactly what you are: a helpless little boy." Harry could swear he felt Snape's breath on his cheek as the other man hissed in his face.

"I've been... seeing things."

"Things, Harry?"

"Professor Snape and Lucius Malfoy."

Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, his eyes crinkling slightly. "Are they with you now?"

Harry looked to his left, Malfoy was glowering at him. At his right, Snape was smirking. He looked back at Dumbledore's purposely blank face and nodded. "How long have you been seeing them?"

"Define seeing." Dumbledore just looked at Harry and raised his eyebrows. "I started hearing voices no one else did about six months ago. At first I thought it was the garden snakes, but they're the least talkative bunch you could imagine. Then about a month ago I started seeing figures. It wasn't until today that I finally saw them clearly enough to recognize them."

"You've been talking to the snakes?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry shrugged. "It's not like there's much else to do. I finish the book packages Remus sends me quickly and for obvious reasons no one ever visits."

"Is the newest book going well?"

"I finished it earlier this month and sent it off to my editor. It's a piece of crap. The butler did it. It'll sell millions." In his Seventh year at Hogwarts, as a "training exercise," Dumbledore had ordered Harry to start writing all his reports out, only allowing him to give the most important ones in person during Order meetings. Harry found that he actually enjoyed the writing, and had started doing it on his own in the little bit of spare time he had between Order missions, Quidditch, and classes. It had taken him nearly two years, but he had finished his first novel and surprisingly enough Dumbledore had recommended that he try and publish it in the Muggle world under a pseudonym.

Now, several years later, Harry found himself incredibly grateful for that bit of encouragement. His career as a mystery author gave him something to do and a damn good reason to be a virtual recluse. Although, in retrospect, Dumbledore never seemed pleased with his choice of pseudonym: T.M. Riddle.

"Harry, I might suggest you try and take a break. Maybe take a vacation?" Harry snorted. "I could arrange for you to have your weekly testimony given remotely." Harry snorted again.

"Of course you'd say no, Potter. That would involve leaving your hiding place, boy. Where's your vaunted Gryffindor bravery now?"

"Why don't you believe me, Albus?" Harry asked, tuning out Snape's sneering much in the same way he learned to do working with the man.

"Harry, the wards are constructed so that all bits of innate magic were stopped. You shouldn't be a Parseltongue anymore, let alone see Wizarding ghosts."

Harry rubbed his forehead and grimaced. "Fine, don't listen. Can I borrow your fireplace?"

Dumbledore reached into his desk and pulled out a small bag of Floo Powder and passed it to Harry. "Running away again, boy? You are a spoiled brat, aren't you? The minute you don't have someone holding you up, you fold." Harry scowled, his hand clenching around the bag.

"Thank you, I'm sorry for disturbing lunch."

Dumbledore smiled. "It's quite all right, my boy! We all need a little excitement in our lives, don't we?" He gestured to the dormant fireplace and it lit up for Harry, who smiled weakly back. He tossed the Powder into the fire.

"Riddle Mansion."

After his adventures in Knockturn Alley when he was twelve, Harry had never trusted Floo travel. It was dizzying, nauseating, and given Harry's abysmal luck, all too likely to deposit him somewhere nasty.

Thankfully most days Riddle Mansion, Harry's home, counted under the category of "nasty." Harry had bought the place through a Gringott's agent at a remarkably cheap price the day he turned 18. It was a birthday present to himself. He had then proceeded to hire carpenters, electricians, plumbers. Anything and everything necessary to restore the house to good condition and prefect Muggle standards. Four people had died before the project was finished; there had been rather annoying traps hidden all over the house. It had gained quite the reputation with the locals as haunted, further reinforcing the general idea that Harry was not only reclusive, but also quite mad.

Only five people in the Wizarding World knew of the purchase: the Gringott's agent, who was contractually bound to silence until death, Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, and Severus Snape. When each had asked Harry, in varying degrees of wariness and surprise, exactly what demon had possessed him to buy the Riddle Mansion, Harry hadn't been able to explain his actions. Looking back, he decided he was just far better at Divination than anyone ever thought he might be.

Some days he longed to go back to his first home: Godric's Hollow. Sirius and Remus had rebuilt the place during the war in secret, not even telling Harry about the changes. All of the Hogwarts Alliance had chipped in some way, even Snape. Although Harry was fairly sure Snape had only agreed to use his precious protection potions under the threat of blackmail, torture, and perhaps even being fired.

What none of the Alliance realized was that Godric's Hollow, the starting and ending place of the wars, would become a tourist attraction. Wizards from all around the world gathered there, right down to a yearly pilgrimage on Halloween to celebrate the Dark Lord's twice defeat on that day. Harry had spent a week in the house, cooped up, trying to avoid both reporters and well-wishers, before accidentally attacking someone who had snuck up on his to take a picture. He had left swiftly for Hogwarts after that, using Albus's fireplace to Floo to the Riddle Mansion. Harry hadn't been back to Godric's Hollow since. He had given Remus and Sirius free reign of the place, saying it was theirs in all but name. This year for Christmas, he planned to give them the deed to the property. Harry was rather eager to see Dumbledore's expression when he heard about that.

Harry tripped out of the fireplace as he always did, landing in the rather Victorian library floor, on his bad knee. He sucked in a hiss of air as the pain spiked. "Clumsy as ever, boy. I don't know how you managed to survive this long if you can't even walk without tripping over your own feet."

"Oh shut up, Snape," Harry muttered, picking himself up off the floor. The first thing to do was check the doors.

Harry was fascinated with locks. He figured it had to do with so much time spent locked in a cupboard. He just felt safer the more locks he had around him. The front door, and only entrance into the house from the outside had four locks on it: two deadbolts, one for the doorknob, and a chain. There was something supremely satisfying about hearing the click of the locks into place. He glanced over at Malfoy, who was sneering at him. "Is he the only one who can talk?" Harry gestured over to the smirking Snape.

"I thought you wanted me to shut up, Potter. How like a little boy; constantly changing your mind." Harry sighed at Snape's reply and walked out of the library into the front entrance. He strode to the front door.

All the locks were undone.

Harry felt his fingers twitch slightly, missing the loss of his wand yet again. "Problems, Potter?" Snape sounded ecstatic. Harry turned and glared at him.

"Shut up!" he hissed in reply, turning to the closet. He silently pulled out his .45 and loaded the spare clip he kept in his jacket pocket. He'd owned the semiautomatic for nearly ten years now, and kept it well hidden from the British government. Only two people knew he owned it, Harry and Snape. Harry had been supremely surprised when Snape had presented the weapon. Of all the people Harry had known in his rather sheltered life until that point, Severus Snape was the last person he would ever imagine knowing how to use Muggle weaponry. Harry had been 17 when Snape presented him with the gun, and took the time to explain the cleaning, care, firing, and concealing the weapon both magically and mundanely. When he was proficient at everything Snape was trying to teach him, only then did the older man allow him to actually use the gun on raids and missions.

"I see you never got rid of it, did you Potter? Another part of my legacy. How many did you kill with it? Tell me, boy!"

"Shut up!" Harry tried again. He knew the library was clear, and obviously the hallway was as well. Next room on this floor would be the sitting room. He passed the door to the library and walked silently toward the sitting room.

"I see many things never change when it comes to you, boy."

"Look, Snape, or whatever you are, please be quiet!" Harry finally pleaded, feeling desperate. The day had been trying enough without having to deal with a sneering Snape and a possible killer at the same time. Not that he hadn't done it before, but the last time Snape had been alive and at least partially helpful in deflecting hexes and curses while Harry worked.

Harry slowly pushed the door to the sitting room open and peaked in. There wasn't anyone visible. "To your left, Potter." He cautiously walked in the room, deliberately leaving his left side open, and holding his breath.

The tell-tale whisper of sound as boots strode over the carpet gave the intruder away. Harry turned on the balls of his feet, pointed the gun in the vicinity of where he heard the footsteps, and pulled the trigger. A thud and a deeply-voiced muffled cry of pain gave Harry a great deal of satisfaction. When the figure had fallen the fabric of the Invisibility Cloak the man was wearing had ridden up a bit, exposing black trousers. Harry had gotten a clean shot to the man's thigh.

He kneeled down next to the cursing figure on the floor before looking over at his two "guests." Snape was sneering and Malfoy leering. Harry rolled his eyes before addressing Snape. "Thanks." He turned back to the figure and pulled the Cloak completely off the man.

Oliver Wood, former England Seeker and leader in the fight against Voldemort, lay on his side, clutching his right thigh.

"Well. That's certainly unexpected."

Oliver spit in his face. Behind him, Snape laughed. Harry scowled and removed his glasses. Beneath him, he saw a blurry image of Oliver's right arm reaching for the Invisibility Cloak. Harry began cleaning the lenses of his glasses on his shirt, keeping an eye on Oliver's hand. He couldn't afford to let the other man get a hold of his wand, gun or no gun. He put his glasses back on and in a split second had grabbed Oliver's wandering hand. "Hello, Oliver. I do wish you'd let me know in advance, I would have arranged some refreshments." He pulled the sleeve of Oliver's shirt up to expose his forearm.

"Looking for the Mark of your Master?" Oliver hissed.

Harry raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "I'm sorry, Oliver, the Dark Lord isn't at home right now, but I'd be happy to take a message and I'm sure he'll get back to you." He kept his tone deliberately sorrowful.

In the background he heard Snape's rich laugh. Harry took that as a compliment. After all, he had learned from the best. "This one certainly picked up some of the more disagreeable aspects of your personality, Severus." It was the first time Harry had actually heard Lucius Malfoy's nasal drawl since he'd recognized them earlier.

"Fuck you," Oliver spat in Harry's face a second time, redirecting his attention as the older man swung a fist that Harry easily dodged by swinging back.

He sighed. "Come on, Oliver, let's get you off the floor so I can take a look at your leg." Harry pushed himself up so that he was bending next to the other man instead of kneeling. Making sure his weight was on his good leg, Harry grabbed Oliver and lifted the man, wincing at the added weight. He limped over a few feet and dropped the man abruptly on a long sofa against the wall. Oliver's eyes had closed and Harry assumed he had passed out from the pain. While Harry's former Quidditch captain had been a good leader, and a fairly good fighter during the fight with Voldemort, he had been nothing special, just middle rank when it came down to it. He didn't have much in the way of a pain threshold.

Harry stared down at the man on the sofa and sighed a bit before taking the man's wand from him. It looked a bit like rosewood, and in Harry's hands he almost thought he could feel the buzz of power. "It's been seven years."

"You miss your wand, Potter? You miss the power? You miss the magic?" Harry heard Malfoy drawl behind him. It was amazing how like Draco the elder could sound. Or perhaps that should be the other way around?

"Why don't you try and use it, Potter?" Snape's tone was curious, not deriding. That in itself was enough to make Harry suspicious.

He turned and studied the ghosts for a minute before reaching out toward Snape. The other man stepped back before Harry could touch him. "You and I are going to have a very long talk about what's going on as soon as I get him out of here." Both ghosts smirked at him. He briefly wondered who had learned that expression from who.

Harry limped out of the sitting room, still holding the wand in his hand. He locked the door, making sure that Oliver wouldn't be able to leave. He went to the door across the hall and stepped in. It was the only room in the house that didn't retain the Victorian air, probably because of the security monitors set up. Harry had learned a few things from the war, and even more as a relatively popular author. Simple locks weren't the only thing Harry had installed in the Mansion. He turned to a computer monitor and set it to show him the last four hours time in fast replay. As he watched, he saw Oliver arrive with a pop. There were Anti-Apparition wards all over the Mansion, stronger than even Hogwarts, so he must have Portkeyed in. Harry scowled.

"The Ministry." Snape said it for him. The smooth satisfaction in his tone was almost unbearable. The fucking Aurors had given him away.

"Shit." Harry scowled, and set the monitor to show real-time before leaving the room and heading toward the bathroom to pick up a first aid kit as well as a few potions he had made sure to keep stocked. He debated returning to the library and fire calling Remus, but decided he'd end up in less trouble if he tended to Oliver first.

Walking into the sitting room, followed by the ghosts, he found Oliver sitting up and trying to bandage his wound using strips torn from his plain black shirt. Harry rolled his eyes, opened the first aid kit, and pulled out a pain-numbing potion. "Here, use this, and I'll take the bullet out."

"I don't want anything from you."

"Take it, or I'll force it down your throat."

Oliver growled and Harry could see that he had clamped his jaw shut. Harry sighed, and grabbed Oliver's nose with his right hand, pinching it shut, as he popped the stopper off the bottle. Oliver, still too dazed to try and shake Harry off, finally opened his mouth for a breath. Harry poured the potion down his throat. "What did you give me?"

"It's a numbing potion, Oliver. Did seven years of potions at Hogwarts with Snape teach you nothing?"

"Of course it didn't, the idiot never took his head out of a Quidditch magazine to learn anything." Harry stifled a chuckle at Snape's derision before continuing.

"You won't be able to feel anything for a while. So, let's get that bullet out, bandage you up, and get you the hell out of my house." Harry reached into the kit and pulled out everything he needed to take the bullet out of Oliver's leg.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're bleeding on my floor."

Harry worked in silence, barring the occasional suggestion or "hmm" of approval from Snape. It was rather amazing what it took to get that from the man, he really did have to be dead before he could give Harry Potter any praise. "There, done." Harry handed Oliver a second potion, one to recover his blood loss. "You should stay off that leg for a while, unless you plan on explaining to a qualified Medi-Wizard why exactly you have a gunshot wound." Oliver's lips curled into a snarl. "Now, who let you in?"

"As if I'd tell you, Death Eater."

"Oh for -" Harry burst out, thoroughly annoyed. "I am not, nor have never been, a Death Eater. They, for example," Harry pointed over his shoulder at where Snape and Malfoy were lurking, "are Death Eaters." Oliver's eyes flicked over Harry's shoulder, and he looked confused. Harry took advantage of Oliver's confusion, and poured the second potion down his throat. "Who let you in?"

"Percy Weasley." Oliver said before he could stop himself.

"Oh, did I forget to mention the small drops of Veritaserum in both potions?" Harry smirked.

"Yes. Bastard."

"How did Percy get around the wards?"

"He stole the key from his father's office."

Harry hissed at the answer. He hadn't realized exactly how much hate most of the Weasley's had for him. For Percy to go that far, breaking the rules, stealing from his own father, attempted murder; it shocked Harry. He sighed as he felt the last portion of his childhood wither and die. "Why you?"

"Percy said I was better at attack magic than he was."

"Obviously not good enough." Malfoy laughed from behind them.

"Get out of my house, Oliver. Don't come back." Harry pulled Oliver upright and started marching him toward the front door.

"Give me back my wand."

"No."

Oliver gaped. "You're not allowed to have a wand!"

"And you're not allowed to try and kill me. Wonder whose transgression is bigger." Harry opened the front door, and pushed Oliver out. He slammed the door shut.

"You've gone soft, Potter."

"Seven years of enforced isolation will do that to you." Harry made sure the door was securely locked, relishing the sound of each click as the lock activated. He then turned on the exterior security system before walking back to the fireplace. He would have to call Remus and get him over here in the next few days to reinforce or reprogram the wards. "Godric's Hollow."

"Harry?" To his surprise, it was Sirius who answered. "I didn't expect to hear from you tonight!"

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"Other than his annual dog bath?"

"Well, no. Not really. What's up?"

"Oliver Wood broke into the Mansion tonight. Do you think you or Remus could Floo over in the next few days and reprogram the wards? The keys will need to be changed. Oliver told me he got them from Percy Weasley."

Sirius sobered, and the lines on his face deepened. Other than a few added wrinkles, Sirius had aged the best of all of them. His black hair held only small smatterings of gray, most of which had appeared after Voldemort's death. His pale eyes still shone with mischievousness, even during the darkest hours of the war. Harry often wondered if working with Fred and George Weasley developing weapons and traps might have had something to do with the continuing good humor of his godfather. He had fleshed out quite a bit since his time in Azkaban, except for his face, where Sirius never could seem to get rid of the hollows in his cheeks. "Are you all right?"

Harry grinned. It was good to know that no matter what happened, Sirius still cared about him. "I'm fine, I sent Oliver off just a few minutes ago."

Sirius stared wryly at Harry's grin. "How is Oliver doing?"

"Gunshot wound, in his thigh. I patched him up, he'll live."

"Let me guess, you slipped him some Veritaserum in a pain-numbing potion?"

"You know me far too well."

Sirius's smile turned slightly sad. "No, I know Snape too well."

"It was a long time ago, Sirius. Let it go."

"He's a dog in more ways than one, Potter. He can't ever let his bones go, nor can he bury them. The only thing he can do is gnaw on them until they're gone."

Harry studied his godfather and oddly enough, found himself agreeing with Snape's assessment. "I just can't help but think none of this would have happened if I had been the one to train you. You wouldn't have been thrown under suspicion because you were associating with that Death Eater."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Whether you or Snape trained me, Voldemort still would have used the spell. They still would have died. No use blaming yourself."

"You've become awfully pragmatic in your old age, Harry."

"Apparently I get it from my mother."

Sirius sighed, and nodded. "Remus and I have plans tonight, but we'll Floo over tomorrow and start changing the keys. Who do you want to have access?"

"The same. You, Remus, Dumbledore."

Sirius winced. "Not Ron?"

Harry snorted. "No, definitely not Ron. Especially if you want me to survive until my next birthday."

Sirius nodded. "Right. We'll see you tomorrow then, say one o'clock?"

Harry smiled in reply, and Sirius's head disappeared from the fireplace. "I still don't see how that mangy mutt managed out live you, Severus."

Harry turned to his guests. "Probably because Snape stepped in front of a curse for that 'mangy mutt.' Awfully Gryffindor thing to do, don't you think?" He smirked at Snape, who simply glared back. Malfoy laughed.

"I like this one, he has teeth."

"All right then. House is empty. Time to start talking."

Snape sneered. "Oh how novel, the little Gryffindor is going to interrogate us, Lucius."

Harry glared at his former professor. "Couldn't you be helpful for once in your life?"

"Being helpful is for fools," Malfoy sneered, stalking up to stand in front of Harry. "If you want something, you must be willing to offer something of equal value in exchange."

Harry rolled his eyes. "And what do you want in exchange for an explanation of why you're here and why I'm the only one who can see you."

Snape smiled. The expression looked wholly out of place for it's sheer pleasantness. It brought his face out of the shadows and succeeded in even slightly taming the long nose, making his features seem more rounded. He glided toward Harry so that he was standing behind him. Snape's height put him nearly even with Malfoy with the shorter Harry caught in between the two. Harry had never topped 5'5". The pair pressed close, and Harry imagined he could feel the cloth of their robes on his skin and the heat of their breath whispering through his hair. "Oh that one is easy, boy." Snape's voice sounded next to Harry's ear. He shivered.

"So what do you want?"

"We want to go home, Potter," Malfoy said, leaning in to whisper in the ear opposite Snape. "And you're the one who will take us."

"What do you mean?" Harry whispered.

"It's you, Potter, it's always you, isn't it? Some sort of gift that you never asked for, something that sets you apart. Consider this one of those things," Snape answered quietly, his voice ringing throughout the room.

"But I can't do magic, they made sure of that."

"And don't you want that back, Potter? Doesn't it feel like a piece of you is missing? Does it feel like you've been dead?" Malfoy took over.

"Yes..."

"That's because, boy, you have been dead. You just haven't realized it yet." Harry felt something touch the back of his neck, a warm hand, and he jerked, breaking out of whatever spell the pair of them were seeming to cast on him. He walked away from the pair of ...ghosts... or whatever they were and sat down in a large chair. He glared at Snape and Malfoy who were smirking at him.

"What are you talking about?"

"Come now, Potter, even you can't be this dense?" Snape glared, raising his eyebrows at Harry, who returned the glare full force.

"I wouldn't be asking if I didn't need to, Snape."

"Oh, just tell the boy, Severus. Otherwise we'll be stuck here all night." Malfoy contributed. Harry thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Quite." He looked around the room and sighed before looking expectantly at Harry.

"What?"

"Obviously you don't spend much time with company, Potter, because usually you offer them a place to sit and refreshments," Snape snarled back.

Harry laughed. "You're dead. What do you need to sit down and eat for. Besides, I remember what the dead eat, and I'm awfully sorry, but I haven't got any rotten fish or burnt cakes handy."

"Potter, for once in your life, use your head." Snape stalked over to where Harry was sitting and ran a finger down his scar. Harry froze.

"That's bloody impossible! You both were hit by the Killing Curse!" He shouted, jumping to his feet. He regretted the action as soon as he took it, his leg gave out and he landed on the floor. He flinched, but training kicked in, and Harry hadn't let out a sound.

"You taught him well, Severus," Malfoy said pleasantly, kneeling next to Harry. "Give me the wand." Harry had long stopped responding to orders, and decided that he quite liked Oliver's response.

"Fuck off." Malfoy laughed, placed his hands under Harry's armpits and hauled the smaller man up with a surprisingly strong grip. "Will you please tell me what's going on?" The Lucius Malfoy Harry had met before his "death" never would have acted like this. Of course, Harry himself never would have whined, but it had been a rather trying day. Malfoy settled Harry back in his chair.

"Do you still have that wand?"

"It's in my pocket." Snape laughed, a pleasant, free sound, which reminded Harry of the smile he had seen earlier. There was something incredibly odd going on here.

"Use it."

"I can't, you bastards!"

"Do as you're told, boy, things will move along quicker that way," Snape jeered.

Harry took the wand out of his pocket, and held it lightly in his hands. "What do you want me to do?"

Snape rolled his eyes and cuffed Harry on the back of the head. "A healing spell, stupid boy! You'll be no good to us damaged!"

"Oh." Harry, while annoyed at the other man, couldn't fault him his logic. "How do you know this'll work?"

"Oh, stop stalling, boy, and do it."

Harry shrugged. "I hope you're not expecting much, those are fairly strong wards." He pointed the wand at his leg, picturing the jagged scar in his mind and spoke the spell. "Sano." He looked up at Snape, as if to say 'I told you so,' before realizing the pain that had been there just moments before was gone. "Bloody hell." Snape smirked at the expression on Harry's face. "Someone had better explain what the hell is going on right now or there will be consequences."

Malfoy laughed. "Impatient, isn't he?"

"Patience has never been one of Potter's strong points."

"We're going to Malfoy Manor, all explanations will be given there."

"Malfoy Manor's been deserted for years. Not to mention the entire brigade of Aurors they have watching the place in case Draco shows up and decides to start following in your footsteps, Malfoy. I'm not leaving."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Potter. Is that any way to speak to your social betters?"

"I repeat: fuck off."

"Don't you want to know what's going on, boy?"

"Oh, shut up and leave me alone, Snape."

Snape looked over at Lucius and raised an eyebrow. He tried to decipher at least some of the silent communication between the two, but failed rather miserably. Instead Harry started gingerly flexing his leg, astonished by how easily and well it had healed. "All right, boy, you'll get your wish." Harry raised his eyes to Snape's black one's, somewhat surprised by the easy aquiesence from both Snape and Malfoy. "For now." Ah, there was the codicil he had been expecting.

Harry watched as Snape and Malfoy waved sarcastically and then faded from view. It was a rather disconcerting sight; the men slowly disappeared, feet up. Harry rather suspected that his expression on his face was something like the expression on Draco's face in third year at the Shrieking Shack.

He stood and paced around the room. It was a habit he had picked up in Azkaban, and never quite lost. Six steps to the right, turn on the heel of his right foot, six steps to the left. He considered the facts as he knew them: his reemerging ability to do magic, the appearence of Snape and Malfoy who had been killed before Voldemort's death, the fact that no one else could see the ghosts, his leg was healed, the Weasleys had made another unsuccesful attempt on his life, Snape and Malfoy wanted him to go to Malfoy Manor, Snape had warned him before Oliver had made a move, and Malfoy had been nice to him.

Harry stopped pacing. He could do magic again. He pointed the borrowed wand at the chair he had been sitting in earlier. "Wingardium Leviosa."

Nothing happened.

Harry was decidedly not amused.