Harry Potter and the Remnants of the Soul

Chapter Eight: Meet the Public

The final green flames flickered out in the hearth, and Harry felt the encroaching loneliness he was beginning to associate with the Doghouse. Professor McGonagall was gone for the day, and Harry had nothing to do, no one to talk to, no money, and no food.

Indecision and boredom paralyzed him for many minutes until Harry finally decided that he should do something. Something was better than nothing, even if it didn't sound all that appealing.

Turning his attention to the list of names that Scrimgeour had given him, Harry skimmed it quickly. There were three sections of names. The top was labeled 'recommended,' the middle was 'unknown,' and the bottom of the list was for 'howlers and potentially dangerous post.'

Harry was initially confused when he read through the recommended list. Whoever sorted the mail must have been confused because he only recognized a few of the names. Mixed in with the unfamiliar Ashburtons, Churchills, Cunninghams, and McDaniels were names like Susan Bones, Amos Diggory, Griselda Marchbanks, and Horace Slughorn. He ignored the names he didn't know and placed tick-marks next to the familiar ones.

At the bottom of the recommended list were a few more names, but these were not in alphabetical order. Harry was slightly shocked to see Viktor Krum's name below an Edward Stratton, but he marked off the Seeker nonetheless.

In the 'unknown' section, Harry found the names of several friends and classmates. Cho Chang had written him a letter, and he hesitantly checked her off. Harry was pleased to see that both Katie Bell and Oliver Wood had sent post. Near the bottom, he saw Fred Weasley right below Romilda Vane. He ticked off Fred's name and made a notation that Romilda's mail probably belonged in the 'dangerous' section.

Having finished, Harry wrote a short note to Minister Scrimgeour.

~~~~~~~~~~

To Leo Prowl:

Minister, I have returned the list with my selections. Please tell the mailroom that anyone with a tick-mark next to their name should be considered on the 'approved list' and all of their post forwarded to me immediately.

In another matter, I spoke to Hermione Granger's parents. They said that no one from the Ministry had contacted them yet. They want to have her funeral tomorrow. Would you please find out what the hold-up is?

Thank you,

Harry Potter

~~~~~~~~~~

As he completed the note, Harry whistled for Hedwig, but Phaedippas flew into the room instead, alighting on Harry's shoulder. Shrugging, he attached his post to the owl's leg and sent Phaedippas off in search of 'Leo Prowl.'

---888---

With a noisy crack, Harry appeared in Diagon Alley's designated Apparation Zone. It was near the Leaky Cauldron and across from Florean Fortescue's deserted Ice Cream Parlor. The kind shop owner, with an encyclopedic knowledge of medieval wizardry, had disappeared over a year ago.

Harry belatedly realized that it was the first Saturday of August, and Diagon Alley was teeming with shoppers. Elderly witches carried groceries, young children ran circles around their mothers, and dozens of Hogwart's students reveled in their annual school supply trips.

Unlike his last visit to the Alley, people were laughing and shouting. Small groups of shoppers moseyed from one store to the next. The line at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions stretched outside the door, and the harried proprietor bustled back and forth trying to outfit impatient students.

With his transfigured sock-cap pulled far down his forehead, Harry followed a group of excited third-years toward Gringotts. Despite Voldemort's demise, the goblins had yet to relax any of their security measures. The lines in the lobby were interminable, and several witches in the group behind Harry complained bitterly about the delay.

Nearly three hours later, Harry reached the counter. "I'd like to make a withdrawal please," he stated politely.

"Mr. Potter," the teller, named Fangtut, glared at him for several moments. "Please wait." Fangtut climbed down from his stool and slowly made his way through a door in the back.

While he waited, Harry leaned against the counter drumming his fingers against the ancient, rough, oak surface. After fifteen minutes, the witches behind him graduated from complaints to vitriolic insults. At the half hour mark, insults became obscenities. Finally, after an hour, the cursing witches were asked to leave the lobby by a harried wizard with a large golden 'G' on his robe.

Finally, Fangtut emerged from the back room and reclaimed his perch on the stool behind the counter. "Mr. Potter, Holcop will be out shortly. He will escort you to your vault."

As if he had been waiting to be introduced, a goblin wearing a severely starched shirt, a waistcoat, and a tie approached Harry. The well-dressed goblin looked like he hadn't been down to the vaults in years. "I am Holcop. Follow me," he demanded curtly.

The cart ride to Harry's vault was extremely long. After thirty minutes, he began to recognize repeating patterns in their route. "Are we going in circles?" Harry demanded.

Holcop smiled maliciously, confirming a niggling fear in the back of Harry's mind. Holcop was angry at him.

"What's going on? Just take me to my vault!" Harry yelled above the roar of the cart as it continued to speed through the dimly lit catacombs. In response, Holcop sped up, taking another loop through the 300-level vaults. Twenty minutes later, the goblin slammed on the brakes in front of Harry's vault.

"Key, please," Holcop sneered.

Harry was livid. A strong wind whipped through the catacombs, threatening to knock Holcop off balance. Harry thrust the key at the goblin and towered over him, glaring down menacingly as Holcop struggled to maintain his balance. Bracing himself against the vault door, the goblin finally managed to insert the key into the slot.

Inside his vault, Harry angrily stuffed his Moke-skin moneybag full of Galleons. When that was full, he removed his cap and transfigured it into a sturdy canvas bag, piling even more Galleons into it. He wouldn't be taking a cart ride again if he could help it.

"I'm done," Harry declared through clenched teeth. "We will be returning by the most direct route! Is that understood?" Holcop did not reply. He merely climbed back into the cart and smirked as Harry struggled under the weight of his gold-laden canvas bag. Harry tried placing a feather-weight charm on the bag, but swore when he remembered McGonagall's lesson about the importance of charming objects before transfiguring them.

The cart ride back to Gringotts' lobby took only another five minutes. Once Harry was out of the cart (and safe from any further goblin-induced delays), he began to berate Holcop. "What the hell was that about?" Harry thundered.

"My time is just as valuable as yours," Holcop replied defiantly, straightening his tie. "I've claimed as much of your time today as you wasted of mine yesterday."

"Bullshit!" Harry steamed. "I wasn't even here yesterday."

"Nor were you at your solicitors' office."

Holcop turned to leave, but Harry roughly grabbed him by the shoulder. "What are you talking about?"

"My presence was requested at your estate meeting yesterday," Holcop replied angrily. "Your failure to attend wasted most of my morning."

Harry suddenly realized that he had forgotten the meeting with his solicitor the day before. However, he was still angry with the goblin and didn't want to back down or lose face. Jabbing his finger in Holcop's chest, Harry resumed his threatening tone. "The difference is that you serve me. I pay you for your time, not the other way around."

Harry started to storm off, but realized that his canvas bag was much too heavy. "I want these changed to pounds."

Holcop merely pointed to another counter in a dark corner of the lobby. There was a long line of Muggle-borns and their parents waiting to exchange pounds for Galleons.

"No way! You'll change them, and you will do it now."

A stiff breeze fluttering through Gringotts' lobby convinced Holcop that his lesson for Harry Potter had drawn to an end. "Very well, Mr. Potter."

---888---

Harry's next stop was Waylen's Formal Wizard Wear. Entering the shop, Harry reveled in the relative quiet. There were no shouting children, only a few elderly wizards quietly inspecting a display of traveling cloaks. As Harry thumbed through a rack of black dress robes, the shop proprietor appeared behind him.

Waylen, it turned out, must have been half-troll. The proprietor was at least several heads taller than Harry, and spoke slowly in a deep rumbling voice. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I need a set of dress robes for a funeral."

Waylen rubbed his eyes and looked at Harry again. Recognition slowly dawned across his weathered face. "I understand," the troll-like man replied sympathetically. "Will you also need a suit for your Muggle-born friend?"

"Er, yeah."

Waylen produced a tape measure and began measuring Harry. "I like to do it the Muggle way," he observed. "The charmed tapes simply are not accurate." When he finished, Waylen recorded Harry's measurements and said, "My tailor will finish by tomorrow. Can you send an owl?"

"Sure," Harry replied, placing a black wizard's cap on the counter and reaching for his moneybag.

Waylen raised a beefy hand in protest. "I will not accept your money," he said. "I've had more business in the last two days than the rest of the summer. You don't pay here."

---888---

Harry set off in the direction of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. If possible, Diagon Alley was even more crowded than earlier that morning. As he passed Eyelops' Owl Emporium, Harry recognized Professor Sinistra's shrill voice.

"Wizards use magical owls to deliver their post."

"Owls?" asked a disbelieving father. The man, clearly a Muggle, loosely held his young daughter's hand.

"Owls have an excellent sense of direction," Professor Sinistra explained patiently. "There are several breeds..." Her lecture on magical birds was cut short by a Jack Russell Terrier with a forked tail that began growling and barking loudly at the Muggle.

Frightened witches and wizards backed away from the small animal that was foaming at the mouth. Professor Sinistra was caught off guard and fumbled for her wand, frantically searching through her robes.

The animal continued stalking after the Muggle until Harry whistled at him, "Here boy." The dog turned around and approached Harry, his tail wagging happily. "Ssshhh. Be a good boy," Harry crouched down to pet the now-silent animal.

"What is that?" the frightened father demanded.

"Er, it's a Crup," Harry explained. "They don't like Muggles much." Harry reached behind the dog and seized his tail, holding up the forked end. "This one's unregistered. Their owners are supposed to dock the tail when they're young."

The Eyelops' manager charged out of his store, swinging a broom at the animal. "Shoo! Shoo! Get out of here you mangy mutt!" The Crup tucked its tail between his legs and ran away from the enraged broom-wielding manager. "Thank you, young man. That Crup's a right menace. But, you don't wanna touch him. He's infested with 'lil critters."

Harry glanced down to see small flea-like 'critters' crawling all over his chest. "Oh, disgusting!" he cried out, frantically swiping at the parasites until he was satisfied that he'd brushed them all off.

Most of the onlookers drifted away, but a few intently studied Harry. He knew they would recognize him any minute, so he began to quickly walk down the Alley.

As he hustled away, Harry's sense of smell was tickled by an alluring scent wafting from the door of a shop called, "The LadyBug." But the scent wasn't the only thing to draw his attention. Below the advertisements for perfumes, nail polish, shoes, and shampoo, there was an enlarged cover of the latest Witch Weekly.

"Just great," Harry moaned as he watched the life-sized photograph of himself repeatedly catching a snitch.

"Watch where you're going you great prat!"

Harry whipped his head around in time to see a pack of familiar girls. He collided with the one closest to him. Her shopping bag, filled with rolled posters, shoe boxes, and assorted hand creams, fell from her hand, and the contents spilled onto the ground.

The pack leader, who had just called Harry a 'great prat' recognized him immediately. "Harry! It's so good to see you!" The long black hair, prominent chin, and dark eyes of Romilda Vane thrust themselves within centimeters of his face.

Desperately hoping to avoid her, Harry bent down to help Romilda's friend pick up her purchases. "Er, sorry. I wasn't watching..."

Romilda's friend squealed in horror, slapping at Harry's hand as he reached for a poster. "I'll get it myself," she said weakly.

"Harry! I've been so worried about you," Romilda exclaimed loudly. She shifted her own LadyBug shopping bag into her right hand and looped her left around Harry's arm.

Romilda's perfume smelled like freshly fallen rain and strongly reminded Harry of the spot where the Forbidden Forest met the Hogwarts Lake. He smiled fondly, absently scratching his chest as the scent brought forth a wonderful memory of Hermione studying with her back up against a giant oak tree. Harry had been sitting on a rock with his feet dangling in the water as Ron cannon-balled into the lake, splashing both Harry and Hermione in the process.

Lost in a moment that would, sadly, never again be anything but a memory, Harry did not see the swarming crowd in Diagon Alley or the Daily Prophet photographer busily snapping photos of himself, arm-in-arm with Romilda Vane.

"What was it like?" someone called out eagerly. "Did he beg for his life? What curse did you use?"

"You coward!" a hostile voice screamed. "They killed my children while you hid away at school!"

Harry extricated his arm from Romilda's iron clasp, gifting her with a scornful glare. He was determined to escape the crowd, but it moved with him, refusing to allow him out of the eye of the storm.

"Will you sign my magazine?" A young girl, no more than eight, held out a copy of Witch Weekly. Harry ignored her, searching desperately for an escape route. He couldn't handle the crowd. His emotions were too raw. No one understood. Romilda blocked his path again. She offered false support, grasping for his hand. He jerked back sneering, "Go away."

Behind him, two teens pushed through the crowd. "There you are, Harry. Come on, let's get outta here." Michael Corner gave him a knowing smile as he flung his arm around Harry's shoulder.

Michael's friend was a large boy named Stephen Cornfoot. Cornfoot was at least as tall as Ron and as broad shouldered as Crabbe. He plowed through the crowd with ease, leaving a large swath of newly vacated territory for Michael and Harry to escape through. Within moments, the three boys had miraculously escaped the hoard of strangers.

"You alright?" Corner asked removing his arm from Harry's shoulder. "Looked like you needed some help back there."

"Thanks," Harry answered with relief, mentally cursing Romilda's loud mouth.

"We're headed to Quality Quidditch Supplies," Michael boasted. "Stephen's been named captain. We're buying new brooms to celebrate."

Stephen turned around and eyed Harry with a malevolent but playful smile. "I'll knock you off your broom this year, Potter. I'll have a Firebolt, too. You won't be able to out-fly the Bludgers I send your way."

Harry laughed nervously. Stephen had always been large and an above average Beater, but he looked like he'd purposefully stepped in front of an engorgement charm over the summer.

"First Beater to be a Ravenclaw captain in eighty years," Michael chimed in. "Beaters are even more dangerous when they've got a brain to go along with their brawn."

"Er, sorry guys. I really shouldn't." Harry gestured to the twins' storefront. "This is my stop."

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was the brightest, loudest store on Diagon Alley. For several moments, the teenagers watched the flashing, popping, bouncing, shrieking display in the left window. However, to Harry's disappointment, the U-No-Poo poster was missing from the other display.

Entering the joke shop, Harry thought the atmosphere seemed subdued. Even though it was busier than his last visit, the store was less colorful than it had been. The change was subtle though, and it did not register with the cadre of young students sorting through bins of trick wands and studying the Patented Daydream Potions.

"Think they're working on one for you?" Michael kidded Harry.

"Huh?"

"A Daydream Potion," Michael pointed at two girls. "I'm sure you'd be a big seller."

"I'd kill them," Harry muttered beneath his breath.

Stephen quickly stepped back from Harry, fixing him with a bizarre gaze. Harry could only ruefully shake his head in response.

"Hey, Harry!" Fred greeted him. Seeing Michael, Fred frowned. "Corner?"

"We were just going," Michael replied, suddenly nervous in the presence of his former girlfriend's brother. "We spotted Harry and got him out of a bit-of-a-pickle."

Fred warily eyed Michael and Stephen for a few moments before glancing at Harry.

"It's true," Harry said, "Romilda Vane..."

George walked up behind Fred and finished Harry's sentence for him, "...wants a Harry Potter Daydream."

"You said no, right?" demanded Harry, alarmed at the thought. Michael seized the distraction and slunk out the door, followed by Stephen.

"Let's talk," George said slyly, opening a door behind the counter. "There's a world of opportunities."

The backroom had hundreds of boxes of inventory stacked haphazardly along the walls. Near a staircase in the rear, there were two work tables beneath a solitary lamp. The rest of the room was dark and cool. Dominating the center of the space were two armchairs and a sofa, arranged around the hearth.

George scooped up a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky and plunked down in one of the chairs. Its lime green upholstery was ripped in several places; padding seeped from the pores.

Fred reached into a wooden crate by the door. Frozen air breathed into the room, and he extracted two ice-cold Butterbeers. Handing one to Harry, Fred collapsed tiredly into a purple arm chair similar to George's.

"You get my letter?" Fred asked.

Harry shook his head and sat on the sofa. "The Minister's holding all my post for now. I'll get it tonight."

"Percy and Charlie are planning the funeral," Fred volunteered. "We need to know if you want to speak." He hesitated before proceeding, "There's going to be a lot of people there. The whole thing's really getting out of hand."

"I'll say something," Harry replied hesitantly. "If you don't mind."

"I'd like that," Fred said earnestly. "You're family Harry... and Ron would be pissed if you didn't."

Harry smiled sadly. "George?"

George only grunted in reply, swigging at the bottle of Firewhisky.

"He's being moody," Fred explained, glaring at his twin. "He's pissed at Percy. But, the whole thing is Charlie's fault."

"What's Charlie's fault?"

"The circus," Fred explained. "He told the Ministry they could turn the paddock into a temporary memorial."

"Oh," Harry responded, still not understanding the disagreement.

"So," George interrupted Harry's thoughts, "can we make a Harry Potter Daydream?"

"You're serious? I thought you were joking."

"Lots of people have been asking," George replied defensively. He stood up and walked to the back of the room, tossing his empty Firewhisky bottle into the rubbish bin. The sound of broken glass shattered the temporary silence. "I don't see the harm," George pressed, pulling a fresh bottle from the box below his work table.

"Er, well, I really don't want to," Harry replied. "It'd be kind of weird seeing that. Don't you think?"

Fred cut in, shooting another angry glare at his brother. "Don't worry, Harry. We won't be making one."

George slammed his bottle down on the work table. "I need to help some customers," he said sullenly, banging the door to the shop closed behind him.

Harry stared into the top of his Butterbeer, avoiding Fred's eyes.

"Don't mind him," Fred apologized. "He's taking it really hard. He'll get better after tomorrow. He's just angry with everyone right now -- Charlie, Percy, me. We've never fought until last night."

Harry was shocked by Fred's admission and cast about for a change of subject. "Er, you took down your U-No-Poo poster," Harry stated. "Do you still have it?"

Fred set his Butterbeer down and walked over to the rubbish bin. "We figured it was sort of outdated now." He extracted a rolled poster from behind the bin and unfurled it. "You want it? We're gonna pitch it."

The poster was ripped in places and spattered with Pumpkin Juice, but Harry nodded, accepting it from Fred. He shrunk it so that it would fit into his pocket. "Do you guys need anything from me?" Harry asked. "Can I help with the funeral?"

"No, Charlie and Percy have everything under control," Fred said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Just show up alright? The ceremony starts at seven tomorrow."

Harry nodded and glanced at the Floo. "Would you mind if I picked up my stuff from the Burrow? I don't even have a change of clothes."

"Sure, sure," Fred replied absently. George was calling for him from the shop. "Just don't be spooked by all the people."

--888---

The inside of the Burrow remained largely untouched since Harry had been there two nights ago. Someone had picked up the basket of laundry from the floor and re-hung the family clock over the mantle. Otherwise, dishes were stacked in the sink, and a row of dirty tumblers stood at attention on the counter next to an empty Firewhisky bottle.

Without warning, poignant memories assaulted Harry from every corner of the room. This was the Burrow, and it was dead. The vibrant life he associated with his family had been extinguished. Even the ghoul in the attic was silent.

Harry had to leave. Tears welled inside of him, and if he did not escape, they would. He flung open the back door, fleeing through the garden. He was ten again, and Dudley was chasing him. Memories of a life spoiled by fate closed in. Tendrils reached out to trip him, but he ran swiftly. Years of practice told Harry that he could run faster, fly more quickly, duck, bob, and weave away from the nightmares that haunted him.

He must have run twenty minutes before slowing. He was in the woods behind the Burrow, well beyond the pond. It was silent, and he had never been this far before. The memories could not find him here.

There was a stream trickling its way through the wood, and he approached it as a deer might. Kneeling, he cupped cool water in his hands and drank deeply. But, the water found its way to his still-churning stomach.

Harry wretched. The remains of his breakfast with McGonagall spilled into the clear water, diluting and floating away downstream. He remained kneeling for several more minutes, purging his body as best he could. When he was certain that his system was cleansed, Harry cupped the water again and drank. This time, the pure water was refreshing.

Slowly, Harry stood. He turned around. The sun was low in the sky, beginning its languid descent toward nightfall. For Harry, the journey from the stream to the Burrow gave him time to fortify his emotions. He frequently paused as a rock or a tree would evoke a memory. One at a time, he could deal with the loss tinged memories, granting them perspective and drawing strength from the shadows of joy.

So it was that when he reached the pond, Harry strode with purpose to the edge of the garden. There, he could see the paddock. In the place where he had struck down Voldemort, there were mounds of flowers; candles formed a haphazard circle.

A mother and two young children sat on the ground near the memorial. The woman placed a photograph of a smiling man with a pale face near the base of the memorial. Her children each clutched a bouquet of flowers. As the mother lit a green candle, her son tossed his entire collection of daisies atop the growing mound. But, her daughter painstakingly laid each one of her poppies in a frame around her father's face, braiding the stems together.

As another family approached down the road from Ottery St. Catchpole, Harry disillusioned himself so he could watch in anonymity. For hours, a slow trickle of visitors came and went. Some were families, others were elderly. Most painful for Harry to watch, a few children came alone, laying pictures of parents and siblings. Some visitors stayed only long enough to leave a picture or a flower. Others walked the grounds of the Burrow, inspecting the garden. Some mourned, others did not.

Neither a brilliant pink sunset nor the ensuing nightfall seemed to deter the pilgrims. Candles burned brightly, and the only sounds were the soft whimpers of mourners and the forlorn chirp of crickets.

Two hours after nightfall, Harry rose on stiff legs and unsteadily crossed the garden to an elm tree. Withdrawing his wand, he canceled a sticking charm and reached into the crook between the first branch and the trunk. Harry grasped the silky invisibility cloak that he had lodged there and ambled to the Burrow's back door.

Entering the Weasleys' home once more, Harry mounted the stairs to Percy's room and found his trunk. It was undisturbed. Quickly packing his scattered belongings, Harry checked to see that Voldemort's wand was still wrapped inside the invisibility cloak. When everything was to his liking, Harry grasped the trunk handle firmly and envisioned his room at Grimmauld Place.

---888---

Harry stayed in his room only long enough to set down his belongings, extract The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two from his trunk, and rip a page from its binding. Stuffing the torn sheet into his pocket, he Apparated behind a Dumpster in Perkienew Square. There was a payphone not far from where he appeared.

"Granger residence," Hermione's father answered icily.

"Hi, Mr. Granger. It's Harry."

The line went silent for a few moments. "Harry, how are you?" Dan's voice sounded strained.

Harry reflected on the question for a few moments. His visit to the Burrow had done wonders for his psyche. "As good as can be expected, I guess," he replied. "Er, I wrote the Ministry today. Did they get in contact with you?"

Dan's voice hardened again. "You could say that," he said through gritted teeth.

"Are you alright, Mr. Granger? Do you want me to come over?"

"No," Dan replied with a resigned sigh. "The funeral will be tomorrow. Why don't you come over around eleven?"

"Sure," Harry replied sadly. "I'll see you then."

He hung up the receiver and leaned against the phone for several moments. Seeing his daughter's body must have brought the entire ordeal crashing down on Mr. Granger, Harry reasoned. Hermione's dad had been so gracious the night before, and now Harry wasn't even sure if he was welcome at her funeral.

_____

Author's Note: Please enjoy the chapter. Updates will be sporadic over the next few months as I will be sitting for several professional exams. As such, I can no longer reply to all of the reviews. Replying to each review tends to be repetitive and time consuming. I will still reply to some and I usually post answers to common questions on my LiveJournal. Take heart though, I plan to use that time to work on the story. As always, reviews are deeply appreciated and immensely helpful.

Author's Recognition: This chapter is dedicated to Ross Wrock for his exemplary story, Harry Potter and the Power of Time. He pioneered/strongly influenced the obligatory 'shopping chapter.'

I would like to thank everyone who has helped me with this chapter. My betas, Ivan and Lisa did excellent jobs as always.

Originally posted: 7 August 2006

Last Edit: 16 September 2006