Harry Potter and the Remnants of the Soul

Chapter Seven: Minerva's Two Cents

After returning from the Grangers, Harry lay in his bed at Grimmauld Place. He was exhausted and unable to keep his eyes open; but sleep would not claim him. Instead, he battled excruciating pain. His soul had been violently torn to pieces, and he did not know what to feel. He didn't feel. Everything was foreign to him. He felt removed from his body, removed from his mind, removed from his essence.

As the sun gave birth to a red dawn, Harry finally succumbed to exhaustion. His dreams were not peaceful.

---888---

The following morning, Harry sat on the sofa in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place. In his hands, a book rested. It was open, but not to any particular page. He was staring into the hearth, which was as empty and vacant as his gaze. His mind was devoid of thought and emotion. Time passed unnoticed.

Unbeknownst to Harry, he was being observed by Dobby, the free house-elf. After twenty minutes, Dobby silently left the room. During that time, Harry never noticed his friend's presence.

Soon thereafter, the hearth burst to life, filling with flickering green flames. Minerva McGonagall's head appeared directly in Harry's line of sight. But unseeing emerald eyes made no note of her presence.

"Harry, may I come through?"

"Uh huh."

McGonagall's eyes narrowed in concern at Harry's despondence. The flames flared again, and Hogwarts' Headmistress stepped through the Floo. "Hello, Harry. How are you doing today?"

"Yeah... I'm fine." Harry's voice was hollow and devoid of emotion. He was only half-listening to McGonagall.

"Do you need someone to stay with you?"

Harry blinked before focusing his eyes on his professor. This question was somewhat unexpected. It required at least a minimal thought process to formulate a response. "No, I'll be OK."

"Would you mind if I sit with you for a bit?"

Harry grunted something that sounded like an affirmative response before glancing down at the book resting in his hands. The bound tome offered no escape from conversation. He belatedly realized that it was upside down. After a while Harry asked, "Where were you last night?"

"I was at the school," she replied softly. "I did not know about the battle until this morning when I read The Prophet."

Harry groaned in annoyance at the thought of the newspaper. "What did it say?"

"It said there was a battle last night," she answered tentatively. "Death Eaters attacked your party. They killed several of the Weasleys and your guests. It also said that you killed You-Know-Who."

Harry snorted in response, mumbling, "They left out some minor details."

"Such as?"

Harry's eyes remained fixed on the upside down book in his hands. "The fact that I killed a bunch of Death Eaters."

Harry's response cracked McGonagall's frigid outer shell. "Oh, Harry," she sighed compassionately.

As if he hadn't heard her, he listed the slain Death Eaters. "Lucius and Draco Malfoy, Bellatrix, Wormtail, Dolohov, Snape. I killed them all."

By mutual consensus, the two sat in silence for a while longer. Finally, McGonagall asked, "How are you coping?"

"I'm fine."

"Then it is worse than I feared," she stated gravely.

Harry looked up at her for the first time since she'd sat next to him. "What is?"

"I have only known a few wizards who could kill and not be affected the next day. All of them, without fail, were evil beyond measure."

With an alarmed expression, Harry's voice hitched, "You think I'm evil?"

Calmly, she replied, "Only if you are truly 'fine.'"

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Harry asked defensively.

"You could begin with the truth."

"The truth is that I feel horrible. I don't want to talk to or see people, but I don't want to be alone. I hate life."

Harry's anger-filled response did not seem to affect McGonagall or diminish her patience. "Then you're not fine."

"No. Not exactly," Harry huffed, rolling his eyes.

"Would you like to tell me why you killed those Death Eaters?"

Harry broke eye contact with McGonagall and looked back down at his book. "No."

She appeared unfazed, but asked in a more demanding tone, "Harry, why did you kill those Death Eaters?"

"I was angry."

"I've seen you angry in the past. I've never known you to kill before."

Harry balled his fists and looked McGonagall straight in the eyes. Hoping to intimidate the witch, he leaned in toward her and nearly hissed, "You've never seen me as angry as I was last night."

McGonagall did not flinch, and her patience remained unbroken. "I see," she said in the same calm voice. "Why were you so angry then?"

"Why are you doing this?" Harry demanded as he backed away from McGonagall.

"Doing what?"

"Asking all these inane questions like some kind of bloody psychologist?"

"I've some experience dealing with children who have just been visited by tragedy."

Harry did not know what to say in response, so he grunted and fell silent again. When it was apparent he wouldn't answer her question, she asked, "Do you have a favorite Quidditch team?"

"Huh?"

"You heard the question."

"Er, I guess the Chudley Cannons."

"The Cannons?" McGonagall asked in disbelief. "Is there a particular reason why you like that abysmal team?"

Harry took no offense at her insult, but he realized that Ron probably would have challenged her to some sort of duel. "They're the only team that I know anything about, really."

Pride crept into McGonagall's voice. "I myself am a fan of the Pride of Portree. My uncle played for them when I was young."

"What position?"

"He was a keeper," she answered with a far-away look in her eyes and a slight smile on her thin lips. "He used to have me fly around and try to sneak the Quaffle past him. That was how I learned to play chaser."

"You played at school?"

"I was on the Gryffindor team for three years. We won the cup in my sixth year."

Harry pondered this for a few moments before meeting her gaze. "Did you ever think of playing professionally?"

She shook her head with a slight smile. "Unlike you, I wasn't of the appropriate caliber. The professional leagues are quite competitive."

"What did you do after school then?"

"I worked in the Department of Magical Transportation."

Subconsciously, Harry frowned at the thought of working for the Ministry. "Did you like it?"

"No. The Ministry has hundreds of rules. Few of them are actually followed." Her smile disappeared at the thought of broken rules. "I was always by the book... but my boss was always doing and owing favors for his friends. I did not think it was appropriate to bend the rules for only a few people."

Harry actually smiled at this, and the two sat silently for another few minutes before McGonagall pulled an antique pocket watch from the folds of her emerald cloak. "Harry, I need to get back to the school. Will you be alright here by yourself?"

"Yes."

"May I return tomorrow morning?"

He was surprised that she would consider coming back again. He'd been rude to her for most of their conversation. "If you want."

"Very well then, I shall see you tomorrow." With that, McGonagall retrieved a pinch of Floo powder from a small tin and tossed it into the flames in the hearth.

---888---

Faced with an afternoon all to himself, Harry was suddenly at a loss for what to do. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have remembered the appointment with his solicitor. But, death and its consequences left no room to think about such mundane things. Instead, he thought about Hermione and Ron.

Hermione would undoubtedly be coiled around a book up in the library, and Ron would be begging to go out and play Quidditch. Flying sounded like fun, but Harry didn't have his broom. The Aurors had confiscated it as evidence. In fact, Harry realized, he didn't even have a fresh change of clothes. Virtually everything he owned was still in his trunk at the Burrow ... and he wasn't all that interested in returning there for a while.

Fishing around in his back pocket, Harry extracted his Moke-skin moneybag. Most Hogwarts students bought one during their first trip to Hogsmeade or once they realized how much of a hassle it was to carry around a non-magical moneybag. The brilliance of Moke-skin was that it could expand and contract as needed, thus allowing people to carry a sufficient supply of bulky wizarding coins.

From the Moke-skin bag, he retrieved fifty pounds. After running away from Privet Drive the summer before his third year, Harry had traded Hermione ten galleons for the notes. Since then, he had kept his 'just in case' money hidden away with his magical items, ensuring that Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley would never find it.

With the notes tucked safely in his left pocket (the right pocket had a hole in the lining), Harry ambled along the street for several blocks before emerging onto a thoroughfare. On his left, there was a small strip mall called Perkienew Square with an aging department store that was advertising a sale.

---888---

Harry returned to Grimmauld Place with three pounds in his pocket and a shopping bag in hand. He had purchased a new pair of jeans and a green button-down shirt. But, as soon as he walked in the door, he felt an oppressive weight settle on his shoulders. He couldn't stay inside; he needed to get out!

Changing into his new clothes, he decided that he ought to visit the Grangers again. However, Harry realized that transportation would be troublesome. The Grangers did not have a Floo connection, and Kingsley wasn't around to take him. For perhaps a split second, he considered the Knight Bus, but there was no way he wanted to take it if he could avoid doing so. The conductors were always nosy, and he didn't want to answer any questions.

Harry was tempted to Apparate. In fact, two days ago he would have. The worst the Ministry could do would be to expel him for performing underage magic. But, now that he was an adult, unlicensed Apparation carried the possibility of a stay in Azkaban. Still, Apparation would be the most convenient way to get there and pretty much anywhere else he wanted to go.

Taking an old sock, Harry transfigured it into a cap that would hide his scar. In the sitting room, with the cap pulled down snugly over his ears, Harry lit a fire and tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the hearth. "The Ministry of Magic."

When all the spinning finally stopped, Harry stumbled away from the hearth. He was in the Ministry atrium, standing in front of the Fountain of Magical Brethren and staring directly into the eyes of a sculpted wizard. The wizard and the other sculptures had been repaired following the duel with Voldemort at the end of his fifth year.

The atrium was bustling with visitors and Ministry employees. So, Harry had to wait in line to have his wand registered. When he got to the front of the line, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. The guard wore rumpled blue robes and his stench suggested he had spent the night in a smoke filled pub with sticky floors and peanut shells underfoot.

The guard lazily waved a long flexible golden rod in Harry's general direction, not bothering to actually check his legs or back. "Wand," he grunted. Harry handed the man his wand and waited as the brass scales vibrated. The guard's eyes, bloodshot with heavy purple bags beneath them, sagged shut. When the instrument printed a slip of parchment, Harry patiently waited for several seconds, but the guard's eyes remained closed.

Harry cleared his throat and the man jerked awake. Without reading the slip of parchment, the guard impaled it on a metal spike and thrust Harry's wand back toward him. "Next."

Harry gratefully advanced to the row of lifts and ducked into one that was just about to close. The Wizard sharing the lift with him had a lunch pail tucked beneath one arm and was merrily whistling an off-key Christmas carol.

When the car door opened on level six, Harry followed the signs to the Apparation Test Center. After signing in, he took a seat in a deserted corner of the waiting area and spotted Lavender Brown. She was on the other side of the room near a door that read 'Testing Area' in large orange letters.

Lavender was seated beside an older gentleman, and Harry was trying to figure out if the man was her father or grandfather. There was certainly a family resemblance between the two. Periodically, the man would try to engage Lavender in conversation, but her replies were monosyllabic and curt. She was too preoccupied with the latest edition of Witch Weekly to be bothered.

After a while, her father (Harry decided the man looked too young to be Lavender's grandfather) gave up trying to converse with his daughter and introduced himself to the middle-aged witch sitting next to him.

"Hello, I'm Ridley Brown." Lavender's father extended a hand to the woman. He was wearing a gold ring with a large opal stone. The ring was hard to miss; it glistened in the bright sunlight provided by the charmed windows lining the wall. "This is my daughter, Lavender." Lavender continued reading her magazine, ignoring both her father and the woman.

"I'm Selby Turpin," the woman replied with a nervous smile. "My daughter Lisa is in Lavender's class at Hogwarts."

"Really?" The other hushed conversations in the waiting area seemed to die out. Quite a few people were eavesdropping. "Lavender's never mentioned a Lisa," Ridley declared pompously. "Are you sure your daughter is in her year? Lavender's going to be a seventh year Prefect this term."

"Yes, I'm sure," Selby replied icily. She was apparently aware that the entire room had stopped to listen because she raised her voice and clearly enunciated every syllable. "Lisa finished third in her class last term, quite a few spots ahead of both that Potter boy and your Lavender."

Lavender had finally put down her magazine in time to be thoroughly embarrassed by Selby Turpin's announcement. Fortunately, a witch opened the door at the front of the room and called Lavender's name. She and her father both strutted through the door, leaving a pink-faced Selby Turpin to shoot malicious glares at those who were still staring at her.

There was no more drama during the remainder of Harry's wait at the Testing Center. He was pretty sure that Lavender failed her test because she came out of the room with puffy eyes. Selby, on the other hand, had a broad grin on her face when she finished.

When it was his turn, the same testwitch who had called Lavender opened the door and glanced at her clipboard. "Harry Potter?" she disbelievingly asked her sign-in sheet. Apparently the witch thought his name was some sort of joke because she began to call the next name on her list. "Thaddeus Steb-."

"Excuse me," Harry interrupted her. "Did you call my name? I'm Harry."

She glanced up at him and her eyes widened comically. The entire waiting room was staring at him. Several mouths were hanging open in surprise. "Mr. P-Potter. You're, you're, here to Ap-Apparate test," she stuttered, stumbling over her words. "Please f-follow me."

Harry Apparated around the Center easily, quickly completing the tests. It was the first time that the testwitch had ever been more nervous than her subject. When they were done, the witch began filling out the paperwork. As she filled in the forms, her hand shook so violently that she had to start over twice.

"Did you really kill You-Know-Who?" she asked Harry, handing him a small Apparation License.

"He's gone," Harry assured her. "And he won't be coming back."

When he left the Testing Area, Harry was not surprised to see a large crowd of people standing near the door, staring intently at him. Several people called his name, and a few actually reached out to touch him. "Excuse me," he said slipping past a witch in grey robes. "'Scuse me." He ducked out of the way of an arm reaching for his shoulder. "Excuse me, please." An elderly wizard was hoping to shake his hand.

Harry finally escaped the mob in the waiting room and quickly slunk down the hallway toward the lifts. He tugged his cap even lower, vainly hoping that it could somehow grant him anonymity. Harry pushed the button to take him back to the atrium and then impatiently punched it several more times as he heard voices following him down the hall.

The lift door finally opened. Harry ducked into the car, but it wasn't empty. A gnarled hand reached out and pushed the button to close the door. "Harry, it's good to see you." Rufus Scrimgeour's pale yellow eyes peeked out from behind his rectangular wire-rimmed spectacles. "I was hoping you'd join me in my office. It'll only take a few moments."

Harry noticed that Scrimgeour's hands were empty, and he had no assistant with him. The Minister was almost certainly not randomly riding the lifts, hoping to bump into Harry Potter. "Er, if it's quick," Harry mumbled. "I've got to get going."

"Excellent," Scrimgeour pronounced with a toothy grin. He pushed the button for the first level and then tapped it with his wand. "The lift will run 'express' this way," Scrimgeour explained when Harry looked at him questioningly. "Not many people know that trick."

On the first level, the car door opened into a reception area. There were desks for two assistants flanking a giant magical sculpture that dominated the center of the room. At its base, a jewel-encrusted crown, large enough for a dozen giants, served as a cauldron for a bubbling potion on magical green flames. Four wands leaned at an angle against the crown, shooting arcs of multicolored magical energy on a parabolic path up into the air and back down into the cauldron. Three lions, engraved on the outside of the crown, stalked back and forth, stirring the bubbling potion as they paced.

Harry tried not to gawk at the magnificent sculpture, but Scrimgeour paused to examine it. "It was commissioned by Artemisia Lufkin almost two hundred years ago," Scrimgeour told Harry. "It's called the Cauldron of Power." With a chuckle, Scrimgeour added, "You can buy a miniature replica in the gift shop."

"There's a gift shop in the Ministry?"

"Level seven, next to the British Quidditch League offices." Scrimgeour led Harry past an auburn-haired receptionist that he recognized from Hogwarts. He smiled at her trying to remember her name. Beatrice? Possibly. "Belinda?"

The receptionist blushed, hiding her surprise that he had remembered her name. "Hi, Harry." She definitely winked at him as Scrimgeour ushered Harry into his office, which was enormous. It had five walls and formed a perfect pentagon. Virtually everything in the office was either scarlet or gold.

"I was in Gryffindor when I attended Hogwarts," said Scrimgeour. "A fine house, don't you think?"

"Er, I like it," Harry said wondering again what the Minister wanted. At Scrimgeour's insistence, Harry took a seat on a scarlet sofa with gold stitching.

"Biscuit?"

"No thanks." Harry pointedly glanced at an antique clock on the wall.

"Well, I wanted to let you know about a few things." Scrimgeour sat in a leather arm chair across from Harry. "This morning, I did you the favor of having all your mail re-routed to our mailroom here. Thousands of people sent you owls, and they couldn't seem to find you. Most of the poor birds were just circling the city, and we didn't want the Muggles to notice."

"Thousands?"

"At least," Scrimgeour chuckled. "The mailroom staff does this for several famous people: quidditch stars, some of the popular bands, even Gilderoy Lockhart. He still receives a dozen letters a week."

"This is just temporary?" Harry asked. "I still want to get my post."

"You won't want all of it," Scrimgeour assured him with a distasteful frown. "Each week, the mailroom staff will make a list of all the people who sent you post. You can give them instructions on what you want done. Also, if you pick a pseudonym, your friends can write you directly. For instance, I chose Leo Prowl."

"So, if I sent a letter to Leo Prowl?"

"The owl would bypass the mailroom and come straight to me," Scrimgeour replied with a toothy grin.

"Sounds useful," Harry mused. He thought for a few moments about his own pseudonym. Ron Granger or Moony Black, were tempting choices, but he didn't want to decide right then. "I'll get back to you."

"That'll be fine. You'll really enjoy the mail service I set up for you," Scrimgeour declared magnanimously. He pulled out a long scroll of parchment and gave it to Harry. "This is the list of letters we've received for you since this morning. Just send me your selections, and we'll send your owl back with the letters you've requested."

Harry fidgeted with the scroll and wished that he was wearing robes so he could just tuck it in a pocket.

"Hmm, oh yes," Scrimgeour muttered. "I nearly forgot. Last night, I told the Muggle Minister about how you vanquished You-Know-Who. Well, he wants to meet you."

"The Prime Minister wants to meet me?" Harry asked in surprise before his eyes narrowed. "What about the Secrecy Statute? I thought they couldn't know."

"The Muggle Minister needs to know," Scrimgeour said reassuringly. "If there are ever 'spillovers' from our world into theirs, we need to tell them about it. It's fairly infrequent and the Muggles don't actually do anything, but they like to keep in communication." Scrimgeour waited a moment to let this sink in. "So, can I tell the man you'll meet with him?"

"I don't know why he would want to meet me," objected Harry. "There's nothing left to be done."

"I'm sure he's just curious," Scrimgeour said evasively. "He'll probably just want to have lunch."

"I guess," Harry reluctantly conceded.

"I'll have the Muggle Minister set a date," Scrimgeour declared with a single clap of his hands. "That's settled then. Oh! You'll like this." Scrimgeour walked over to his desk and retrieved a single piece of stiff parchment. "You've been selected as an Order of Merlin recipient." He paused for dramatic effect, "First Class! I nominated you myself and walked it through the approval process this morning."

"Er, I'm not sure..."

"We'll want to schedule a big presentation ceremony! I was thinking two weeks from today." Scrimgeour was genuinely excited about having a party. "We desperately need a celebration. It's been such a dreary year."

"I'm not sure I want an Order of Merlin," Harry repeated. This time, Scrimgeour had stopped talking long enough to hear him.

"You don't want it? What do you mean?" Scrimgeour was crestfallen; his grand party was slipping away before his eyes. "You must accept it. Everyone will be disappointed if you don't," he pleaded. "You're a hero now, Harry. Just like Dumbledore."

Harry threw his hands up in frustration. "Minister, stop! I'm not 'just like Dumbledore.' That's really ridiculous. I don't want the comparisons."

"Harry," Scrimgeour continued to plead with him. "First Class awards are only awarded to the most deserving Wizards. You defeated a Dark Lord - truly remarkable. That's what this award is about. It'll give people hope again."

"Well..."

Scrimgeour pounced on Harry's indecision. "I'll have Belinda work out the details. We'll do it on the steps of Gringotts. All the shops on Diagon Alley will be open. Families will come from all over! It'll be a huge boost for all the London businesses."

Scrimgeour's plans enthusiastically bubbled over for several more minutes. As Harry listened to the Minister extolling the virtues of a big celebration, he gradually began to agree with Scrimgeour. "Fine, I'll do it," Harry cut him off.

"That's great!" Scrimgeour smiled broadly. "Today is completely different from the last year. Yesterday, I was fighting a losing battle, but today - Today I'm planning a complete revitalization of the country. I'm going to improve the Ministry, kick-start the economy... I'm going to rebuild the Auror corps. There's just so much to be done!"

The last few sentences of Scrimgeour's speech sounded warning bells in the back of Harry's mind. It sounded rehearsed, like Scrimgeour was launching into some kind of stump speech.

"There's so much to do," Scrimgeour repeated wistfully. "I'll need a lot of help." The Minister's pale yellow eyes bore into Harry's. "I need your help, Harry."

The purpose of the meeting was now plainly evident. Scrimgeour had arranged for favors and awards hoping to charm Harry onto his side. But, politics was a two-way street, and Harry decided his price would be much higher than post services and an Order of Merlin award.

"I don't know, sir," Harry replied warily. "I don't want to commit to anything. There are a lot of things I'm pretty upset about."

Scrimgeour's smile faltered as The-Boy-Who-Lived dodged yet another one of his requests for support. Fortunately, however, Harry was willing to play the game. "So what are you upset about?" Scrimgeour asked.

"Tonks. I don't want her name sullied. She was fighting with me. She's no Death Eater."

Scrimgeour nodded in relief as a toothy grin reappeared on his weathered face. "I'm sure that the final report will be accurate."

Harry fixed the Minister with a deadly glare. "Completely accurate. No cover-ups. No appeasing prominent politicians."

Scrimgeour's grin faltered and his low voice gravely responded, "Completely accurate."

Even though the Minister's office was below ground and all the magical windows were closed, a slight breeze ruffled sheets of parchment on Scrimgeour's desk. "What about Stan Shunpike and the other supposed Death Eaters you're holding in Azkaban?" Harry's emerald eyes darkened and his fists clenched. The slight breeze stiffened. "Either release them or have a fair trial. My godfather was wrongfully imprisoned for twelve years. It ruined his life and his reputation. What you've done to Stan is despicable."

Scrimgeour nodded warily as he eyed a sheet or parchment that blew off of his desk. "Of course, Harry. We said all along that we'll take a closer look at their cases when we could spare the resources. I'll make sure Stan and Ms. Guffy are high priorities."

Harry stood and shook the Minister's hand. "Don't ask me for your support again until they're released." The 'or else' was left unspoken, but clearly understood by both men.

---888---

Dan Granger answered the door wearing Khakis and an argyle sweater. "Hello, Harry. Come in. I'm a little surprised to see you so soon."

"I didn't want to make you wait," Harry replied quietly. "I'm sorry I left so quickly last night."

Dan waved off Harry's apology. "As you can imagine, we're feeling pretty awful today," Dan said closing the door behind Harry.

"Me too. I was up all night, I didn't fall asleep until sun-up."

"We're still in a state of shock." The two entered into the parlor, and Dan gestured for Harry to sit on the sofa. "I don't think it has really settled in yet."

"Harry dear, would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, soda?" Emma Granger inquired from the entryway.

"Tea would be fine, Mrs. Granger. Thanks."

Silence descended as Emma left to retrieve the drinks. Dan was looking at Harry, and Harry was intently avoiding Dan's gaze, studying his clasped hands instead.

The silence persisted for several minutes until Emma returned with a tray of drinks. "Here you go, Harry. Sugar? Cream?"

"No, thank you."

Emma smiled and handed him a saucer with a cup of steaming tea and two sugar cubes. Unaware of the uneasy silence before her arrival, Emma dove right into conversation. "Harry, Dan and I wanted to thank you for coming last night with Auror Shacklebolt. It was good to hear the news from a familiar face at least."

"It was the least I could do," Harry replied finally finding the courage to look them both in the eyes. He was doing this for Hermione, and he would answer all of their questions, no matter how much it hurt him to talk about the battle. "I know it would have been a long night of worrying when Hermione didn't return."

Dan cleared his throat with a little difficulty before he began speaking. "Last night you said Voldemort and about forty others were killed. I'm afraid Hermione didn't fully explain the situation to us. She told us that he was a terrorist who was trying to destabilize the Ministry."

Harry was impressed by Hermione's succinct explanation of Voldemort. "That's about right, but his aims were broader than just the Ministry. He wants to, or," Harry corrected himself, "wanted to control wizarding society and more. They were politically motivated." Harry wavered for a moment, considering just how much to tell Hermione's parents. He settled on full disclosure. "Voldemort was a blood-fanatic."

"Blood?" Emma suddenly sounded rather concerned.

Harry went on to explain about pure-bloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns. He expounded on Voldemort's history and the irony of his political beliefs. Then, he launched into a history of Grindelwald's fall, Voldemort's rise to power, his subsequent defeat, and how the Dark Lord had obtained a new body.

"When he came back," Harry continued, "there were some light skirmishes and a lot of people died. But then in May, Voldemort won a huge victory. A spy in the Order of the Phoenix killed Professor Dumbledore."

"Snape, the potions master?" interrupted Dan.

"Yeah, Snape. The greasy bastard," Harry muttered under his breath. "Dumbledore trusted him, and he double crossed us." Harry seethed for several moments before he could continue his narrative. "Dumbledore's death cleared a major obstacle for Voldemort. Without him, the resistance crumbled. The Ministry and the Order were both ineffective... Voldemort has been winning battles all summer."

"They burnt down Janet's house," Emma offered.

"Hermione told me about it. That same night, they killed dozens of Muggle-borns. I think The Daily Prophet said forty-three students. Ten in our year alone."

"Ten students in your class?" Emma asked, shocked. Hermione had obviously not shared the details with her parents. Harry wasn't surprised in the least.

"Yeah, a quarter of our class dead in one night... and six more yesterday." Harry said quietly. He got up off the sofa and walked over to the Grangers' mantle.

Emma's voice interrupted his thoughts. "So why did they attack the Weasleys last night?"

Harry cringed. He'd known the question was coming, but he had deliberately been downplaying his role in the tale. "Me," he offered weakly. "Voldemort has been trying to kill me for years now. He was always worried because of the damn prophecy. Hermione might still be alive if it wasn't for me."

"Did you kill her?" Dan asked.

"No."

"Then I don't blame you," Dan replied without a trace of hesitation. Emma nodded although Harry did not see it.

"It's still a difficult truth," Harry mumbled.

With a slight hitch in her voice, Emma asked the burning question she had been wanting an answer to all night, "Who did kill her?"

"Draco Malfoy cast the Killing Curse," Harry answered softly, sitting back down. He sipped his cold tea. Harry averted his gaze again and studied the water-color painting of a beach that hung above the Grangers' mantle. "The party was just starting. We had invited a few friends from school and they portkeyed in. Like your house, the Burrow was under the Fidelius Charm. Only a few people knew where it was.

"This sounds like a great security measure," Harry continued in a hollow voice. "But it isn't, because if no one knows where the house is, no one can come to help. The Ministry didn't arrive until it was too late."

Emma was weeping again, and Dan was visibly trying to restrain himself. "Why... why did you survive?"

Harry's throat constricted, as he tried to answer. Picking up a cube of sugar between his thumb and his forefinger, he crushed it slowly into his tea. "I survived because I could not let him survive." He reached up and parted his fringe revealing his lightning bolt shaped scar.

"We've been connected since he tried to kill me as an infant. It's why I know so much about him, and it's why he didn't kill me last night.

"Our souls are connected. But we've been destroying the parts of his soul he used to try and become immortal. He wanted to start over again. So, he needed my soul. He thought he could mix and match to make himself a new one." Harry's tone had become derisive. "If he'd just tried to kill me outright, I'd probably be dead by now. Instead, he tried to steal my soul. It was a foolish thing to do, but he almost succeeded."

"How do you steal someone's soul?" queried Dan, disgust evident.

"Dark magic. You have to draw it out of the body. There's a curse. Voldemort tried it on me, but I managed to reverse it. He lost his soul instead; and I killed him."

"Thank you, Harry." Emma's reaction surprised him. He had perhaps expected Hermione's mother to react like Professor McGonagall. "What about Draco Malfoy?" she asked.

"He's dead, too."

"Did you kill him?" Emma's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes." There was no reassuring comment from Emma this time, but when Harry looked both doctors in the eye, he was relieved to see gratification rather than judgment.

All three were ashen faced as Harry finished telling his story. He had been brutally honest with them, telling them things he wouldn't even tell the Ministry or McGonagall ... and yet, the simple act of confiding in Hermione's parents relieved an oppressive weight on his soul.

Several minutes of silence passed before Dan hesitantly asked, "What does the Killing Curse do?" His tone implied that he wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

"It just kills you. One moment you're walking around, the next you're not," Harry mumbled. A lifetime of green scythes, prematurely harvesting lives, replayed themselves in Harry's mind. "It's very sudden. No pain, just surprise." He looked Dan and Emma directly in the eyes. "It's worse for the survivors, I think."

Dan's relief spelled out across his face. Grasping Emma's hand, he asked, "Will we be able to have an open casket?"

The question caught Harry off guard. He had not even begun to think about a funeral. "I'm sure you can. She'll look very peaceful. Has anyone from the Ministry contacted you yet?"

A glint of anger was evident in Dan's eye as he shook his head. "Just yourself and the Auror. We're hoping to have the service in two days, if possible."

Harry nodded in agreement. "I'll be there."

It seemed to him that his conversation with the Grangers had wound itself to a natural conclusion. So, he stood and said, "Thank you for letting me explain myself a bit.

"Thank you for coming to us." Emma came over to him and hugged him tightly as Mrs. Weasley had done. "You're welcome to just stop by whenever you want."

"Thank you, that means a lot to me," Harry replied quietly. Glancing at the door, he said "I'd best get going. It's getting late."

"Wait a moment, Harry." Dan left the room and returned with an owl in a wire mesh cage. His voice was filled with pain as he thrust it into Harry's hands. "We don't know how to care for the bird. Would you please take her back?"

Harry understood Dan's unspoken plea. Caring for a magical owl is not a difficult task, but living with one that used to belong to your deceased daughter might just be unbearable. "I'll give her an excellent home. I really will."

---888---

Life is full of cruel and ironic twists. For instance, a young Wizard with an Apparation license and a Knight Bus phobia will occasionally find himself living in a house under the Fidelius Charm and carrying an owl that has never been there before.

After leaving the Grangers, Harry carried Phaedippas to a nearby park. However, when he opened the cage and asked him to fly to Grimmauld Place, the owl only hooted in response.

Harry wasn't sure if he could apparate with Phaedippas. So, seeing no alternative, he reluctantly raised his wand arm. The purple triple-decker Knight Bus came screeching to a halt, and a young, attractive witch dressed in a purple conductor's uniform stepped down on the bottom step. She had apparently taken Stan Shunpike's job.

Harry kept his head down and said, "I'd like to go to Perkienew Square, please."

The girl was chewing Droobles gum and it smacked as she spoke with a nasal twang. "That'll be seven sickles."

Harry paid his fare and quickly found a bed near the back of the bus. As he settled in, he overheard the conductor discussing the news of Voldemort's downfall with an older woman near the front of the bus.

"They say that Harry Potter single handedly defeated You-Know-Who and all of his Death Eaters."

Harry tugged his cap further down his forehead. The older woman probably had sixty years of practice as a professional gossip.

"That's what I heard, too." The conductor's gum smacked loudly again. "But you can never really trust the papers."

"Do you think it actually happened?"

"I don't know about all the Death Eaters, but everybody has been celebrating non-stop. He must have got You-Know-Who again." After a moment's lull in conversation, the conductor asked, "Do you think he's seeing anyone? He's cute in the pictures."

It was as if the older woman's favorite topic of conversation had been broached. From across the bus, Harry could hear her breathing accelerate. "Do you remember about two-and-a-half years ago," she asked, excitement pouring from her high-pitched voice. "Witch Weekly said he was dating Hermione Granger. Well," the woman's voice dropped to a stage whisper. "She was with Harry Potter last night and died in the fight."

"Oh, that is so sad," the conductor said insincerely. "But, he's probably available now. And he's only two years younger than I am."

After five more excruciating minutes, the Knight Bus jerked to a halt and the conductor called out, "Perkienew Square." Harry got up and left the bus, brusquely brushing past the conductor and the elderly woman. Gratefully, the Knight Bus disappeared without anyone realizing that Harry Potter had been aboard.

---888---

"Open."

The front door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place swung aside to admit its Parselmouthed owner. Harry wearily stepped across the threshold and set down the heavy owl cage he was carrying. Removing the wire mesh top, he gently stroked the reddish-brown owl before it took flight.

He wished Phaedippas good luck on the owl's nightly hunt before closing the front door and trudging up the stairs to his bedroom. There, he unceremoniously fell, fully-clothed, into the too-small bed. With his feet hanging several centimeters off the end of the mattress, Harry succumbed to an evening of fretful nightmares.

The following morning, Harry awoke with the rising sun. He was still tired, but the sunbeams provided an excellent excuse to escape his nightmares and face the next day. Without showering or changing clothes, he planted himself on the sofa in the sitting room. Early morning, Harry realized, was an excellent time to brood.

Several hours later, the flames in the hearth flashed green once again, and Minerva McGonagall asked for permission to come through the Floo. Harry greeted her warmly.

"Hello, Professor."

"Good morning, Harry. I'll say you are looking somewhat better this morning."

"Er, thanks." Harry glanced down at his rumpled shirt and jeans. By contrast, McGonagall's emerald cloak and black blouse were starched to perfection.

Taking a seat next to Harry on the sofa, McGonagall inquired briskly, "Do you have anything to eat in this house?"

Harry looked at his feet. "I'm sorry Professor. I should have offered you some tea or something."

"No, no, I was asking if you have any food in the house."

"I don't know," Harry said thoughtfully. "I'll rummage around the pantry and see if I can find something."

"No, do not worry yourself," she replied dismissively. "Unless you've purchased something in the last few days, I doubt there is anything edible here. This house hasn't been lived in for over a year. So, when was the last time you ate?"

"Last night. The Grangers offered me tea."

"Food, Harry." McGonagall's voice had an edge of impatience. "When was the last time you had a solid meal."

"Yester-um," Harry paused to think. "I guess two days ago at the Burrow. Lunch." He had gone nearly 48 hours without eating and had not been troubled with hunger until McGonagall had mentioned food. He realized now that he was exceedingly hungry.

"I figured as much," McGonagall muttered to herself. She then stood and tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames. "Ponzi, please bring breakfast for two." McGonagall turned around and resumed her seat next to him.

"You should take better care of yourself," she chastised. "I know you are grieving, but you cannot hide away in this house by yourself."

"I'm not," he replied defensively. "I went out yesterday. I went shopping and visited the Grangers."

McGonagall raised a thin eyebrow at this, but replied, "You have not showered, nor changed this morning. You have not eaten, and you have no food in the house," her tone softened. "Do you need a place to stay?"

"No," he answered her resolutely. Gesturing to the room around him, he said. "I have the Doghouse."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a home with someone to look after you."

"No," Harry said more sharply than he intended to. "I don't want to trouble anyone."

McGonagall eyed the obstinate teen warily. "Very well, but know that you are welcome to ask for my help if you ever need it."

Harry looked at his feet again, embarrassed at the concerned tone his normally reserved head of house had taken with him. "Thank you," he whispered.

As the ensuing silence threatened to become uncomfortable, a house-elf appeared. He was bearing a silver platter with two large steaming plates. The elf handed the first to McGonagall with a bow. Turning to Harry, Ponzi offered him the second with another identical bow.

"Thank you," Harry said to the elf.

McGonagall, who had been staring at Harry with a piercing gaze for the last minute, apparently found this amusing. Her thin lips upturned slightly before she focused her attention on the breakfast. The elf left without being recognized by the Headmistress. The two ate in companionable silence for a time until McGonagall stated, "You are remarkably similar to Albus."

She seemed surprised when Harry looked at her warily. "In what ways?"

She sighed. "In so many that it is difficult to count. Your treatment of house-elves comes to mind. Albus had a fondness for their magic."

"I wouldn't say that," Harry answered somewhat defiantly. "I like Dobby well enough, but I hate Kreacher."

At the mention of Kreacher's name, McGonagall tapped the side of her head with her forefinger. "I had forgotten about that," she said. "I wanted to speak with you about him. He is still at the school and has caused a fair bit of disruption in the kitchens."

"He has?" Harry asked darkly. "Kreacher!"

A disgustingly dirty and bruised house-elf hesitantly popped into place in front of Harry. "Damn you! Damn you! Damn you! Filthy half-breed in the most Ancient and Noble House of Black! I won't. I won't. I won't."

"Kreacher, shut up!" Harry yelled. "I never want to hear from you again." The elderly house-elf looked mildly shocked at this direct order, but was magically inclined to seal his lips. "I want you up in Buckbeak's room until I tell you otherwise. Do not leave this house and do not move any of the possessions here." Kreacher popped away with one last glare at Harry.

"Thank you," said McGonagall evidently relieved. "I'm sorry to bring this problem to you, but you're the only one that could deal with it."

"It's not a problem."

"But it is a very good lesson."

"What is?" he asked guardedly.

"Harry," McGonagall seemed to revert to the tone she used with her classes. "Kreacher is bound to you. He has a responsibility to you. But you also have a responsibility for him."

"I'm not going to kill him," Harry said defensively. His expression clearly indicated that he had been considering the opposite.

"I was not insinuating that you would or should," she replied reassuringly. "But, you are an immensely powerful wizard. I am just reminding you that with great power comes great responsibility."

"Now you're reminding me of Professor Dumbledore."

"That was one of his favorite truisms," McGonagall conceded with a smile. "You are like him in so many ways..."

Harry was becoming annoyed with the repeated comparisons to Dumbledore. "Would it be unforgivable if that made me uncomfortable?"

McGonagall's expression changed to one of shock and surprise, but she did not answer immediately. After locking gazes with Harry for a moment she answered, "It may be more perceptive than I realized. Did something happen between the two of you?"

"Nothing in particular," Harry sighed. "Just life. I've had a summer to read through his personal journals and think about him. I'm torn about what I think."

"Go on," she prodded.

"The man I remember was mostly kind and gentle, almost some sort of a grandfather. But...actions sometimes speak louder than words. He placed me with the Dursleys. There had to be other options. He knew about the prophecy, but he didn't tell me until it was too late. He didn't train me to fight Voldemort until last year, and even then he just showed me memories of the man. When I put myself in his place, I would never have made the same decisions he did."

"Such as?"

"The Dursleys. He left me on their doorstep and assumed they would love me. They didn't. The memories he showed me of Tom Riddle reminded me a lot of my childhood."

McGonagall eyes darkened slightly. "I will confide in you that I did not agree with that decision."

Her confession floored Harry. "Then why didn't you stop him?" he stammered.

"Firstly, because I worked for him -- both as a member of the Order and on the faculty at Hogwarts. Secondly, one simply did not defy Albus Dumbledore."

"Even if he was wrong?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Such are the perils of leadership." McGonagall sadly sipped at her tea. "Another lesson for this morning I suppose."

Harry's retort was sarcastic and angry. "Uh, okay. What is this lesson supposed to mean?" Harry didn't understand how she could calmly defend Dumbledore while admitting that the man had made so many mistakes.

She placed a hand on Harry's knee before replying. "Harry, you are a natural leader. So, this is something you will learn in due course... Sometimes a leader makes a bad decision, and more often then not their followers are the ones that pay the price."

Harry's anger receded to a simmer. "I still don't understand why you didn't stop him."

"I tried, but he would not be deterred," she said shaking her head slightly. "I could choose to defy him and lose his trust, or respect his decision and suffer the consequences. Oftentimes, a good leader is right in the first place. If I had chosen to defy Albus and he had been right, then I would have denied you invaluable protection."

"But he wasn't right," Harry pouted.

"And that brings us to the chief attraction of being a follower rather than a leader," McGonagall replied. "When decisions go poorly, followers are more easily absolved of the responsibility than leaders. Everyone should still be responsible for their actions, but often that is simply not the case. To the leader go both the glory and the responsibility."

McGonagall's point finally hit home for Harry, and he understood what she was trying to make him realize. "Sounds like great power and great responsibility to me," he said wryly.

"Exactly," she replied with a small smile. "As it is though, we all made mistakes. We should have removed you from their care when it became apparent that the situation was not working well."

"You knew?" Harry's crushing disappointment in both McGonagall and Dumbledore was bubbling to the surface again.

"Arabella may be a Squib, but she is neither deaf nor blind," McGonagall said, shaking her head slightly. "Albus, myself, and the others just didn't want to believe it was as horrible as all that. The bad reports didn't start coming until about a year and a half after we left you. We had moved on. It was a terrible mistake."

Harry was not so easily placated, but he had an immense respect for the witch who would sit before him and freely discuss this topic. He could not help but think that he had destroyed the better part of Dumbledore's office before the former Headmaster had chosen to speak to him about this. "You knew him very well, didn't you?"

"I knew him for forty-one years as a member of Hogwarts' faculty. I am one of the few people who really knew him well. Myself, Filius Flitwick, Rubeus Hagrid... we were like his family at times." McGonagall trailed off into silence for a few minutes. "He was always very private, very lonely. Harry," she fixed him with her intense gaze, "that is what I meant when I said you two are so similar. Be careful not to shut everyone out. You both have a tendency to bury your struggles deep within yourselves. Find someone to share your life with you."

_____

Author's Note: I promise this is the chapter in which the angst is worst. Things will improve. As such, I am dedicating this chapter to the most angst-filled story I have ever read: Harry Potter and the Maw by WoMo. Be warned, despite the fact that it was awesome, I just couldn't finish it due to the unbelievable amounts of angst.

Author's Recognition: The Minister's assistant, Belinda, is a character from Greengecko's Resonance.

I would like to thank everyone who has helped me with this chapter. My betas, Ivan, and Lisa did an excellent job. Thanks also to Myles, and Tim Joy (Jeconais) who saw this chapter in its primordial form and offered some excellent feedback.