Harry Potter and the Remnants of the Soul

Chapter Twelve: Playing for Keeps

"... Serving a filthy half-blood mongrel! It's beneath even vermin like you!"

Harry smirked as he appeared in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Black was at it again. Every time he Apparated into the house, it set the damn painting off, but this time she had a new audience. Salty was in the front hallway, struggling to close the curtain.

"You've just got to sweet talk her a little," Harry called out, tossing his cap onto the sofa.

Mrs. Black heard Harry's voice and stopped screeching, a twinge of fear evident on her oil-brushed face.

"Shut it, you old hag!" Harry hissed.

Mrs. Black abandoned her struggle, and the curtains jerked shut of their own accord.

Salty's pale yellow eyes betrayed a flash of amusement. "I was not aware that you're a Parselmouth."

Harry shrugged. "Just hiss. She doesn't know the difference."

The elf's ear twitched in delight. With an evil glint in his eye, Salty ripped open the curtain, hissing like an asp in heat. Without so much as a single word, Mrs. Black dropped her lace handkerchief and fled the frame.

"You're a vindictive little bugger," Harry observed.

Salty emitted a low growl but did not bother to object. "The post arrived while you were out," he announced, retrieving a clipboard and handing Harry a collection of opened envelopes. "The Muggle Prime Minister is expecting you Thursday at nine."

"That's fine. Just keep that night open. I want to see Puddlemere and Falmouth."

Salty jotted a note on his clipboard. "Mr. Stratton's office sent over the passport you requested. He's also available for dinner Friday evening."

Harry briefly inspected the new passport before slipping it into his pocket. "Dinner on Friday sounds terrific."

The elf scribbled another note before handing Harry a piece of green parchment. "This is the schedule for Saturday's ceremony."

Harry studied the schedule for the Order of Merlin presentation ceremony. To his surprise, he saw that Arthur, Remus, and Tonks would be receiving posthumous Orders of Merlin, second class.

"You've already ordered memorial wreaths for the others," Salty volunteered.

"Great," Harry murmured, setting the schedule aside and returning to the stack of envelopes. "Who is Lawrence Ligby?"

"Apparently, he's your solicitor... Mrs. Black hired him twenty years ago." Salty saluted the empty portrait with his middle finger. "He wants to schedule a meeting soon."

"Maybe later," Harry muttered. "The rotten shyster sure took his sweet time contacting me."

Glancing through the remaining envelopes, he came to a hand penned thank you note from Susan that brought a smile to his face. "I should send a card to Oliver Wood."

Salty gestured toward the kitchen. "It's next to your sandwich. Just sign it, and I'll give it to the owl."

---888---

"Salty!" Harry yelled, standing in front of his closet door.

"Good morning, Master Potter."

"Where are my clothes?"

The elf looked up at Harry peculiarly. "Your clothes are in the closet, sir."

Harry scowled, a hard edge glinting in his voice, "There are clothes in here, but none of them seem to be mine."

"I bought you a new wardrobe yesterday. You desperately needed it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Everything is black."

"Black is highly functional."

"For a bat," Harry muttered. "I have to meet with the Prime Minister in thirty minutes. Where's my old stuff?"

Salty huffed in annoyance. "I've binned it. Everything was either three times too large or too hideous to wear in public."

"You binned everything?" Harry's voice quivered slightly. "Including my sweaters?"

"It's mid-August," Salty objected, shuffling his feet.

Harry glared at the house-elf. "Did your old master let you throw out his clothes like this?"

"I've told you. I'm magically bound not to talk about my previous owner."

Harry ground his teeth. "I think you had better rescue my clothes before the dustcart comes."

"Yes, sir." Salty disappeared with a soft pop, leaving Harry to a closet filled with black socks, black under shirts, black pants, black dress shirts, even black underwear.

---888---

The boy sat in the outer office. Most visitors would fidget and squirm before being admitted to see the Prime Minister, but this one did not. Rather, he calmly stared at his own dark and angry reflection in the mirror.

Behind the one way mirror, "The Animal" froze, stale breath burning, eyes refusing even to blink. The boy had not been in the waiting area twenty seconds before those green eyes had found the mirror and latched onto it. Could the boy sense him - an out of place hit-wizard, tucked away in a thoroughly non-magical observation post?

After a tense half-minute, Hannibal Mason exhaled slowly, chastising himself for allowing the boy's burning eyes to unsettle him. If the boy had detected a spy, he'd certainly not betrayed that knowledge. No knowing smirk, no raised eyebrows or shallow breathing, and no flash of recognition in those distinctive eyes.

Hannibal considered his assignment. This was The Boy-Who-Lived, The Chosen One, The Vanquisher of Voldemort. He was short and scrawny, skinny, and pale, marred by a handful of unsightly scars - and dressed from head to toe in black. Despite the appearance of a maladjusted teen, his mere existence caused ripples of fear all the way down the longest tentacles of government. The boy should have been dead... at least six times. The fact that he had just killed another man with a penchant for avoiding death was not lost on Hannibal's Muggle employers.

In the second room visible from Hannibal's observation post, the Prime Minister began a final review of the Potter boy's file. The manila folder was painfully thin, but it had only been opened two weeks ago.

The night of Voldemort's death, Hannibal had been summoned to number Ten Downing Street. The Prime Minister was worried. The Magical world was spilling over into the Muggle sphere too frequently... and too close to the coming election. Now that the wizards had eliminated that Lord Voldemort fellow, it was time to make sure the boy didn't follow in his footsteps.

"You might want to hold off on a hit," Hannibal had cautioned that night. The political situation was too unstable. Killing the boy would only strengthen the anti-Muggle contingent, enrage the Muggle-lovers, violate dozens of treaties... and generally cause even more 'spillover.' Hannibal and his boss, the head of intelligence, had finally convinced the panicked Prime Minister to restrict the mission to data gathering only.

He had started with the boy's relatives, or more exactly the police detective in charge of their triple homicide investigation. The boy was the number one suspect, and the hit-wizard did not bother to correct the detective. The real killers were all dead or incarcerated, and the murder charge might come in handy at some point. Instead, Hannibal interviewed the neighbors for clues about the boy's upbringing.

As it turned out, the neighbors in Little Whinging were quite nosy and the stories well detailed. The boy had been unloved at best and abused at worse. Each family had a tale of a missing cat or a mysteriously dead puppy. One housewife swore she'd seen the boy talking to a snake in his aunt's garden. Neighborhood children were unanimous about two things. They were all afraid of him, and each simply referred to him as 'the freak.'

The only evidence that the boy had ever lived in the house was a letter that arrived the morning his aunt, uncle, and cousin had been found. The envelope carried a return address of a solicitor named Lawrence Ligby, but the Muggle detective claimed the address did not exist.

"The letter is a distraction," the detective smugly confided to Hannibal over tea. "This boy has all the signs of a serial killer - no friends, abusive relatives, lots of small dead animals. You should see the linen closet. It's filled with piss-stained sheets."

All these details (and the pilfered Ligby letter) found their way into the boy's file where they were joined by a confusing mass of magical media. Some articles hailed Potter as a hero, while others hinted at a massive ego and an unsteady personality. From these often contradictory snippets, Hannibal cobbled together a rough biographical sketch of The Boy-Who-Lived.

In the outer office, the boy's eyes shifted, stealing a glance at the Minister's attractive new assistant. With each leering sweep, Potter's eyes lingered a touch longer on the beautiful receptionist. The file should be updated, Hannibal thought, sipping his tea. Potter definitely liked red-heads... and long legs.

Through the second window of his observation room, Hannibal watched as the Prime Minister withdrew the Ligby letter before slipping the Potter file back into his desk drawer. Hannibal's Muggle counterparts had embedded a microscopic homing device in the thick parchment, and now it was time for the Minister to hand deliver it to the boy.

There was an intercom button on the stately desk, but the sound in Hannibal's room came from the microphones planted in the office. "Belinda, please send Mr. Potter in."

The assistant looked up at Potter, frowning as she caught him winking at her. "The Prime Minister is ready now."

The boy twisted a gaudy ring on his finger so that the ruby L caught the light. "Thanks, Belinda."

---888---

It was an extra warm Saturday afternoon and Diagon Alley was packed with shopkeepers, ministry officials, and people from all walks of life. The Order of Merlin presentation ceremony had morphed into an all day party and shopping extravaganza. The Weird Sisters were performing from a stage in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. Madam Malkin was raffling a set of school robes every half hour, and Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, now managed by Florean's granddaughter, celebrated its grand-reopening.

In his pocket, Harry thumbed the corner of his passport for the umpteenth time. True to form, Minister Scrimgeour was taking full advantage of the podium. Ostensibly, he was dedicating a new memorial to those who had died in the wars against Voldemort, but really he was laying out his vision for the future of Magical Britain while many of his subjects sweltered in the mid-day sun.

Harry's eyes wandered from the back of Scrimgeour's head to the memorial. Truthfully, Harry thought it was a classy addition to the Alley. It began as a giant granite cylinder where the names of the dead would be etched around the outside. The top of the cylinder was scooped out to form a bowl that was filled with an eerie green fire, the exact shade of a killing curse. From the fire, a magnificent sculpted Phoenix poised on the edge of flight, a fountain of water spouting from its mouth.

"It's impressive, isn't it?" Andromeda Tonks whispered. She and her husband Ted were seated on Harry's left, the Weasley twins, Charlie, and Percy to his right.

"I like the Phoenix," Harry returned. "It looks like Professor Dumbledore's."

A sorrowful smile failed to reach her grey eyes. "I'm sure he's proud of you, Harry."

---888---

"And for bravely facing and ending the threat posed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I am proud to award Harry Potter the Order of Merlin, First Class!"

Harry stepped forward to the front of the stage so the Minister could place the medal around his neck. Fortunately, the ceremony was almost over. All he had to do was say a few words, and he could escape to the back of the Tri-W with Fred and George.

"There's also one more surprise," Scrimgeour declared with an enormous grin. "Zeke Coggins, the famous sculptor, wanted to contribute to our party today. He's been working non-stop on the final piece of our memorial!"

Ten meters away, the crowd parted and an eccentric wizard with wispy white hair aimed his wand at a now-suspicious stone bench. "Revelio!" he cried.

To a chorus of cheers, the glamoured 'bench' faded away to reveal an amazingly detailed life sized statue of Harry, his wand jabbing forward, robes flapping dramatically, and fierce emerald eyes daring any soul to challenge him. The statue's windswept hair parted to display a prominent red lightning bolt scar.

Before Harry even got a good look at his likeness, a pushy photographer seized his elbow, pulling him toward the statue. "Mr. Potter! Next to Mr. Coggins. Smile!"

Somehow, Minister Scrimgeour, cane and all, had instantly traversed the ten meters to the statue. Just in time to be captured on film with Harry, an arm draped across the young hero's shoulders like the two were old Quidditch pals.

---888---

"I got played like a cheap fiddle," Harry moaned, accepting a Butterbeer from Fred.

"What'd you expect?"

"I don't know... something different... something less obvious... you know?"

Fred laughed hollowly, sinking further into his purple armchair. "So you're mad that he took 'too much' advantage of you?"

"I told him I wasn't ready to support him," Harry answered indignantly.

"Then why'd you agree to the Order of Merlin in the first place?"

"I..." Harry's eyes darted all around Fred and George's storeroom, anywhere but meeting Fred's amused grin. "I guess, I wanted it," he finally confessed.

Fred laughed again. "If you wanted it, then you both got what you were after."

Harry scowled. "But it isn't fair. I deserve the damn medal. It's not my fault he gets to present it."

"Grow up, Harry!" Fred chided. "You're not a kid anymore. People don't give a shit what's fair. You're playing for keeps now."

"I'm not being a kid! I'm just pissed that -"

"- That you're playing a grown-up's game and they didn't let you win?" Fred smirked at Harry's red-faced sigh. "Listen, people are going to take advantage of you if they can. When George and I rented this place, we weren't too smart. This nice little old lady had us over for tea and told us about how her husband died and left her a store full of new toilets. All we had to do was help her move the toilets out, and she would give us a great deal on the rent. So we did. Two months later, we found out that she'd sweet talked us into paying twice as much as we should have."

"Then tell her to halve your rent or you're leaving."

"We can't! She'd sue us, and we'd end up paying the solicitors three times what we're paying her now. That wench saw a couple of naïve kids, and she took advantage of us. It's how the world works."

"So, you're saying there's nothing I can do about Scrimgeour?"

"You can't change the past," Fred replied sagely.

Harry snorted in disgust. "The idea is to keep it from happening again."

Fred drained the rest of his Butterbeer. "I have no idea what you should do. Politics isn't my thing. You could ask some ministry people for advice, maybe Kingsley. He's given us a few pointers... but whenever someone gives you advice, always remember they have an angle."

"Angle?"

"Everyone has an angle, okay? Even the people you trust. If someone tells you a story about their greedy landlady, maybe they're fishing for gold."

"Do you need some?"

"No, Harry. You can always trust family. I'm talking about people. Take Professor McGonagall. Dobby said that she visits you almost every day. Why would she do that?"

"She wants me to come back to Hogwarts next month."

"Is that all that she wants?" Fred asked. "I'll bet you ten Galleons that if you tell her you're going to enroll in Hogwarts this year, it will be in the paper the next day."

"You really think so?"

"That's her angle. She wants to announce that you're coming back so that everyone will think it's safe again."

"You're probably right," Harry admitted, before falling into a contemplative silence. "So, what about Scrimgeour? He told me a story about a fellow named Carrow. Supposedly he's a real bad guy - helped fund Voldemort during the war. What's Scrimgeour's angle, do you think?"

Fred reached for another Butterbeer. "That's a tricky one. Dad didn't think too highly of Charles Carrow either. Said he was a snake. But Carrow was the one that tried to oust Scrimgeour earlier this summer. So maybe ole Rufus is just trying to poison you against his rival. He probably figures that's the next best thing to your support."

Harry rubbed his temples. "But how do I know if I can trust someone? It's not like I have a lot of family left."

"You don't have to trust someone to ask their advice. In fact, maybe you should ask Scrimgeour. He'll tell you what he wants, and then you'll know what he's thinking. If he tries to hide his angle, you probably can't trust him. If he's honest, trust him a little bit more."

"I still want to get even with him," Harry pouted. "I told him I hadn't made up my mind about supporting him."

Fred grinned, walking over to his workbench. "You're too much like Ron. He always had to get even, too. Here, use this." Fred tossed what looked like a black cloak to Harry. "It's a prototype we're calling the Glamour Garb. You just put it on and it applies a glamour charm. This one makes the person look like a troll."

Harry careful fingered the inside of the cloak. He didn't feel any different, but a green trolled appeared in the mirror. "Wicked! But why do I want to look like a troll?"

"Where's your sense of creativity?" Fred frowned. "It's reversible. It'll look just like a normal cloak until someone touches you. They won't even know they've turned into a troll."

Harry got a good chuckle imagining the front page of The Daily Prophet; the Minister a giant green troll, his arm draped across Harry's shoulder. Sadly, he tossed the cloak back to Fred. "As much as I'd like to, I can't actually use this. You're right. I've got to play for keeps, and a juvenile stunt's not the way to do it."

Fred returned the Glamour Garb to his workbench. "You could just announce that you're going back to Hogwarts. McGonagall and Rufus aren't exactly exchanging Christmas cards after this summer."

"I don't know," Harry replied, once again thumbing the passport in his pocket. "I need to get away for awhile."

---888---

Nice was the last stop before Italy. Most of the passengers were sleeping through the pre-sunrise morning, their destinations Milan or Rome. But Harry joined a vacationing American family as they stepped off the train in southeastern France. A bus would take him half an hour along the sea coast to Menton, and the agent in London had given him the name of a taxi service that would drive him up the mountain to Sainte-Agnes.

The Bonaccord manor was built into the mountain overlooking the sleepy village. Locals had often gazed up at the buildings spotting the mountainside and declared that it must have taken magic to build the houses, much less reach them. Of course, they were right, but this did not deter townsfolk from marveling at the great engineering feats of the middle ages.

The pink tinges of sunrise faded as Harry passed a thick stack of francs to the driver. Soon, the taxi's tail lights disappeared around the first switchback, and he wearily turned his eyes to the steep foot trail leading further up the mountain. His eyes swept higher until he found the manor perched near the top. It was surrounded by a vast green blanket of trees, and the only horizontal surface Harry could see was the reddish-brown tiled roof.

"This better work," Harry sighed, before slipping the Bonaccord family ring onto his right hand. With a bit more deliberation than usual, Harry concentrated on the roof, grabbed hold of his trunk, squeezed his eyes shut, and Apparated. After sixty years, the family ring once again keyed the wards; Lord Bonaccord was home, struggling to keep his balance on the pitched roof.

The view from atop Bonaccord manor was breathtaking. The village of Sainte-Agnes rested tranquilly below, amid a large swath of forest, interrupted only by jutting mountain peaks. In the distance, Harry could see the Mediterranean Sea, as it caressed the French Riviera. But the best part of the view, in his opinion, was the shallow valley two hundred meters behind the house: It contained a regulation Quidditch pitch.

Apparating down from the roof, Harry tried the door. It opened easily, albeit with a lonesome creak. The interior of the house was dark and dank. He walked from room to room, leaving tracks in six decades of dust, as he parted curtains and opened windows. A gentle breeze floated inside, spilling sunshine, and erasing the musky scent of mothballs.

---888---

"Scourgify," Harry declared again. He'd finished the first level and was now cleaning an opulent second floor sitting room that opened out onto a giant patio beyond a set of now gleaming French doors. It was a magnificent space, clearly designed for entertaining guests.

"Achoo!"

Harry jumped, spinning around to find the source of the sneeze. "Who's there?"

"Bienvenue a la maison Bonaccord," a nasal voice announced.

Harry turned around again trying to find the voice. His eyes settled on a dusty bust resting in the corner. "Hello?"

The bust sneezed again. "My allergies are horrible. Would you mind finishing?"

With a flick of his wand, the remaining dust vanished. "Pierre Bonaccord?" Harry read. The name sounded familiar, but he could not remember why.

"Well, my likeness at least," the bust replied. "I've been dead several centuries."

"Er, right."

"And who might you be? I haven't had many Englishmen in my home."

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter." He raised his hand, showing the Bonaccord family ring to Pierre. "I've inherited this place."

Pierre scowled. "I met a fellow named Stanton Potter once. He stole my Dorene, and I haven't seen her since. Now, I see he's stolen my bloodline."

"Er..."

"Not to worry, Harry. Englishman or not... I'm sure you're an upstanding fellow," Pierre said solemnly. "After all, you've got Bonaccord blood in your veins."

"Er..."

"Now let's see here," Pierre ploughed on. "If you're Lord Bonaccord, but you carry the name Potter, Dorene must have had a son." Pierre studied him. "You're too young. At least one generation, maybe two."

"She was my grandmother."

"Who was your father then? He must have carried the title for a few years. English Dog! Too good to visit his ancestral home!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "My father was James. I'm sure he would have visited, but he was murdered at a young age."

"Murdered! By whom?"

"A fellow named Riddle."

Pierre froze as something clicked in his stone brain. "Harry Potter! You're that Harry Potter?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "You've heard of me?"

"Of course I have! Who hasn't? Congratulations on the Order of Merlin, by the way."

"Er, thanks. How did you know? It's not like this place gets a lot of traffic."

Pierre laughed. "I'm just like a painting. I've got another bust in Bern."

Harry finally placed the name, Pierre Bonaccord. "You were the first Supreme Mugwump."

"That's right," Pierre smiled. "We've all got a painting or bust in the Mugwump's office. When the news came about Voldemort, all the English chaps had a great party in Lord Nisbett's frame." Pierre seemed lost in pleasant thought for a few moments. "So what brings you to France?"

"I'm on holiday," Harry declared. "I heard there was a Quidditch pitch here, and I fully intend to get in some flying."

---888---

Harry touched down at center pitch and pocketed his quarry. The sun was setting, and he was liable to lose the snitch if he let it go again. Whoever had built this pitch was a serious Quidditch fan. Everything was regulation: the hoop diameters, the goal heights, even the scoring arcs. To the north, at center pitch, there was an observation tower with seating for a few dozen spectators.

At the base of the tower, Harry opened a red door. The towers at Hogwarts hosted changing rooms, so Harry was unsurprised to find a well appointed one here. However, where the girls' rooms were normally located, Harry found a dusty weight room and a small office with a bookcase in the corner.

After airing out and cleaning the tower, Harry began examining the bookcase. It was a virtual treasure-trove of Quidditch information. There were volumes on strategy, manuals on each position, and treatises on proper training technique!

With a giddy laugh, Harry selected a few books. Some sounded rather dry like, "Nutrition for the Successful Athlete," and "Making the Most of the Weight Room." Still, others promised a bit more excitement. Lars Heidrich, seven time winner of the annual Swedish broom race had penned an autobiography that Harry was anxious to read, "Stranger than Friction: From Dry Eyes to Splintered Thighs, a How-to Guide on Quenching Your Need for Speed."

---888---

After only one week in France, Harry was already bored and lonely. He'd spent enough time on his broom to earn a beet red sunburn and chapped lips. However, with no one to fly against, and only Pierre to talk to, Harry decided he was ready to return to England. He caught the evening train leaving Nice on Saturday, and Apparated into the sitting room at Grimmauld Place just before noon on Sunday.

"Welcome back, sir." Salty called.

"Thanks," Harry replied, levitating his trunk up to his bedroom, before heading down toward the kitchen. "Hey Salty, can you whip something up for lunch? I'm - What are you doing?"

The house-elf looked up from a steaming cauldron. "Brewing."

"Brewing?"

"There are no medicinal potions in the house. I'm stocking the cabinet."

Harry paused, an odd impression momentarily flickering past his eyes. "I didn't know you could brew potions. You've never said anything."

"I can do pretty much anything needed to run a house," Salty answered. "I suppose I never thought to mention it."

Harry shrugged, pulling bread, sliced ham, and a pickle from the ice box. "Are you good at it? I'm pretty much rubbish."

"Well... I can hold my own." Salty counted out another ten clockwise rotations before setting aside the cauldron stirrer. "Sorry about lunch. I would have prepared it if I knew you were coming home."

Harry smiled sheepishly. "I probably should have told you I was leaving, too."

"It helps," the house-elf answered dryly.

"Anything exciting happen while I was away?"

Salty flashed a toothy grin. "You've made the papers a few times." He handed Harry the Daily Prophet from a week ago. On the front page, there was an enormous photo of the Minister smiling broadly, his arm around Harry's shoulder.

"I don't want to read that."

"Page nine, lower left hand corner."

Harry flipped back a few pages; Stan Shunpike's picture looked up at him. "Took long enough," he murmured as he began to read the article.

~~~~~~

The Daily Prophet

August 17, 1997

Page nine, lower left hand corner

Suspected Death Eaters Released from Azkaban

Citing a lack of evidence, the Ministry dropped charges against five suspected Death Eaters yesterday. Stan Shunpike, Elladora Guffy, Davy Gudgeon, Lewis Mattie, and Otis Nell, were released from Azkaban Prison where they had been held awaiting trial.

Shunpike was originally arrested eleven months ago when an undercover Auror overheard him discussing secret Death Eater plans at the Three Broomsticks pub in Hogsmeade.

In June, Guffy, Gudgeon, Mattie, and Nell were charged with the murder of Denis and Colin Creevey, two Hogwarts students. Additionally, investigators originally believed the four masterminded the 'Monday Muggleborn Massacre' attacks, which resulted in the death of forty three Hogwarts students and their families, but formal charges were only brought for the Creevey brothers.

"Following You-Know-Who's death, the Minister ordered a review of the five prisoner's cases," said Chief Auror Gawain Robards. "After studying each case thoroughly, we've concluded that the evidence is insufficient to present at trial."

The decision to release the five is part of Minister Scrimgeour's ongoing effort to move beyond the recent war. While the prisoners were being released, the Minister was in Diagon Alley presenting Order of Merlin awards to Harry Potter and several others who participated in the Battle of the Burrow. The awards presentation capped off a civic celebration touting the rejuvenation of the historic Alley.

~~~~~~

Harry handed the paper back to Salty. "Spectacular reporting... as always."

_____

Author's Recognition: I want to thank the AFC crew for their help on this chapter. Nonjon came up with the funny book title Harry discovered at the Bonaccord Mansion. I also owe a huge thank you to Lisa, my grammer beta. Also to my readers, my apologies that this took so long. I am now a CPA, and a homeowner... two things that were not true when I last posted. Unfortunately, I can't promise that progress will quicken, but I will try.

Initial Post: 26 June 2007

Last Updated: 26 June 2007