Harry Potter and the Remnants of the Soul

Chapter Thirteen: Complex Loyalties

Later that afternoon, Harry lay stretched across the sofa, his nose buried in a book, when the smoldering embers flared to life in the hearth.

"Harry? Would you mind if I came through?"

He glanced up and offered a broad smile. "Sure, Professor. How are you?"

"Well enough." McGonagall dusted off her cloak before taking her customary seat across from him. "What are you reading?"

He held up the book so she could see it. "It's called Snitching and Snatching: How to Break Wind with the Best and Leave Others Panting in Your Wake. It was actually written by my great-great-grandfather."

McGonagall allowed a rare smile to part her lips. "You seem relaxed."

"I had a great holiday."

She feigned surprise. "Oh really? I didn't even know you'd left. You certainly didn't mention you were going away."

Harry gave her a boyish smile, the kind that had gotten him out of detention when he was twelve. "Sorry, Professor... It was kind of a spur of the moment thing. I was really mad at the Minister, and I... I just left."

"Next time, you should tell someone," she admonished. "Perhaps maybe even your house-elf."

"I told Fred," Harry offered, trying to squelch the growing resentment that yet another person felt entitled to know his whereabouts.

"Fred Weasley?" she hissed.

"Uh huh."

Her pupils narrowed dangerously. "Those two both swore they didn't know where you were!"

"I asked him not to tell," stated Harry.

"Well, at least you're safe," she relented. "So, do you want to tell me where you went?"

Harry forgot his frustration and spent the next fifteen minutes excitedly telling her about Bonaccord Manor - the regulation sized Quidditch pitch, the bust of Pierre Bonaccord, the Quidditch pitch, the small lake, the Quidditch pitch, the hiking trail, and yes - the Quidditch pitch. With a triumphant smile, Harry announced, "I've decided I want to play professionally."

McGonagall didn't seem surprised by the revelation, but neither did she share in his enthusiasm. "Are you sure, Harry? You won't be able to train as an Auror if you're playing."

He welcomed her objection with a snort. "That's the last thing I want right now - I'd have to work for Scrimgeour." He fished around on a side table for a moment before producing a dinner invitation. "He's roped me into a dinner on Thursday night so he can make one last pitch to me before the Wizengamot meeting. I could never escape him if I were an Auror... it'd be a complete disaster."

She hid her disappointment well, but not entirely. "What about after he leaves office?"

"I've thought about it," Harry admitted. "I just don't think I want to be an Auror anymore. You've got to make a lot of sacrifices... and I'm just tired of... I don't want... It's too..."

"I understand you're hurting," she said gently. "And, I know you'll love playing Quidditch for a few years, but eventually you might change your mind. If you finish school -"

Harry raised his hands in surrender, a grin sprouting from his somber mood. "I'll save you the lecture, Professor." He flipped to the end of his book and pulled a folded piece of parchment from between the pages. "I'd like to enroll in Hogwarts this term."

"I knew I'd eventually wear you down." Her triumphant smirk disappeared as she studied the sheet with an appraising eye. "This is one of the lightest course loads in your class."

He nodded. "It's the minimum I need to qualify for the Auror program. But I'm concentrating my efforts on Quidditch this year."

"Very well, then." She tucked the parchment into her robe. "May I ask a tremendous favor? You're welcome to say no."

"Er, what do you need?"

"I was hoping to announce your decision to The Daily Prophet. It would reassure some reluctant parents."

Harry was not surprised at the request, but he still frowned at the prospect of voluntarily appearing in the paper. Yet, for all of Fred's talk about 'angles,' McGonagall was still being honest with him. "How about a deal?" he replied. "I'll grant them an interview if I can come up to the school and use the Quidditch pitch whenever I want."

She shook her head. "You're welcome to use the pitch anytime, Harry. But it's not quid pro quo. I'm not going to push you into it, if you're averse to the idea."

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose. It would have been easier if she'd just accepted his deal. He knew he could lie to himself and say that he'd granted an interview so he could use the pitch, but now she was forcing him to choose between his privacy and her request. "How many people will sign-up if I make an announcement?"

"Perhaps twenty students," McGonagall answered, already knowing he would grant her the favor.

---888---

"So what's his excuse now?" Parvati Patil yelled jabbing her finger at that morning's Prophet. "He's been using Harry as an excuse all summer, and now that Harry's going back, he just wants to ignore it?"

Mrs. Patil, hands on her hips, glared at her daughter. "Do not raise your voice at me, young lady! Your father has his reasons. It's his decision."

"But, it's not my fault!" Parvati seethed. "We're seventeen. If Padma has to choose between father and Anthony, she'll choose Anthony."

Tears welled in the corner of Mrs. Patil's eyes. "She wouldn't do that. Padma's a good girl."

"Neither of you have even met Anthony," Parvati shot back. "If his name was Gupta instead of Goldstein, we'd be picking a wedding date!"

"Well it's not!"

"Tell him, mother! Hogwarts starts in one week, and I'm going with Padma! He can change his mind or lose two daughters."

---888---

As Parvati Patil slammed the door on her mother, Harry Potter doubled over, wheezing for breath. He'd just finished running a lap around Hogwarts' grounds and was now contemplating life as a couch potato.

The Quidditch books had unanimously suggested that running was the best way to build endurance, so Harry was determined to learn how. Sure, he'd spent a childhood outrunning Dudley and his gang, but that required sprinting a few hundred meters until his fat cousin gave up. Distance running was apparently different. It required a sustainable pace... and breathing... the part Harry was currently struggling with. At least he was done for the morning, he thought with relief. Now he could get on with the enjoyable part of training.

"Accio Firebolt."

---888---

A few hours later, Harry showered in the changing rooms before heading down the path toward Hagrid's hut. Fang was dozing in the grass, but bounded over as Harry approached.

In the doorway, Hagrid wiped his brow with an enormous handkerchief. "Harry! I was hoping you'd stop by. Want a cuppa?"

"I'd love one," Harry answered, stepping out of the sun and into Hagrid's darkened hut. It was a disaster. "Hagrid, what's with all the boxes?"

"It's nothin'," Hagrid muttered. "Just getting some stuff ready for Professor Grubby."

"Why does she need," Harry pointed at one of the boxes, "a picture of your Dad?"

"Oh, tha'." Hagrid plucked the photo from the box and made a show of putting it back on the barren mantle. "Didn't mean ta put tha' in there."

"Hagrid, what's going on?" Harry asked, finding a familiar pink umbrella in another box. "You're moving, aren't you?"

The half-giant froze. "Can't keep nothin' from you... never really could," he lamented. "It's just not the same without... without Dumbledore." Hagrid moaned, splashing tea into two large mugs. Clumsily, he extracted a flask from his moleskin coat and poured a healthy dose of amber liquid into his tea. "Great man, Dumbledore. He knew how to treat people right. Best Headmaster Hogwarts ever had. Know what I mean?"

"I miss him too -"

"He didn't go 'round tellin' people how things ought to be - just let us do our jobs. But Minerva - she can't let things be." Hagrid stumbled over to one of the boxes and thrust a rolled parchment at Harry.

~~~~~~

Dear Mr. Hagrid,

Following the recent death of our beloved Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, the Board of Governors has undertaken an intensive review of the school's performance. We were dismayed to find that over the past decade exam scores have declined in every subject taught at our fine institution. To better serve our students, the Board has reviewed the resumes, evaluations, and relevant test scores for our entire teaching staff.

Effective immediately, it is now required that all professors have a NEWT level certification in the subjects they teach. Since you do not have this qualification, and the Board did not feel that your students' test scores merited an exemption, we will not ask you to return in your capacity as Professor for the Care of Magical Creatures.

If you so choose, we would like to retain your services as Gamekeeper and Keeper of Keys. If you remain at the school in this capacity, you may continue to live in the Gamekeeper's residence. Your pay and retirement benefits will remain at their current level.

We would like to thank you for your many years of service at Hogwarts. If you should wish to discuss this decision with me, I would be happy to answer your questions.

Gratefully Yours,

Lord Seth Ashburton, Chairman of Hogwarts' Board of Governors

~~~~~~

"That's a kick in the nuts," Harry muttered. "But, they want you back as Gamekeeper. Are you sure you want to leave? I'll really miss you."

"Minerva don't want Grawp on the grounds either," Hagrid complained, ignoring Harry's plea. "She says he's not safe around children. Load of hogwash, I tell ya. He's no more dangerous than Aragog... and he never hurt a student."

Harry knew better than to argue with Hagrid over the deceased Acromantula. "But Hogwarts is your home... your family."

"I'm not stayin' if Minerva's gonna be Headmistress. She don't know abou' loyalty," Hagrid complained. "She's gettin' rid of everyone she don't like. Me, Argus, Sibyll, even Professor Binns. She's taken everything away from me. First Aragog, then Dumbledore, now Grawp! It ain't home if you're not welcome, and it ain't family if they don't want you."

Harry shook his head in frustration. "Hagrid, none of that is Professor McGonagall's fault - certainly not Aragog or Dumbledore. And, the letter says the Board won't let you teach..." Harry reached into his pocket and showed the Leoforte ring to the half-giant. "I control a couple of votes on the Board. I could probably get you reinstated."

Hagrid patted Harry on the back hard enough to send the LeoForte ring flying across the hut. "That's mighty kind of ya Harry, but I don't want to stay!" Hagrid protested, despite suspiciously damp cheeks. "The Board's just rubber stampin' Minerva's recommendations. They always vote how they're told."

Harry retrieved the ring with a silent summoning charm. "It can't really be Professor McGonagall. You were in the Order together."

"Loyalty don't matter to her," Hagrid lamented. "Old Minerva's never liked me. She always complained about me to Dumbledore. Now she's gonna run the school her way, forgettin' about all the hard work I done. She can't get rid of me fast enough."

"But, she's not pushing you out, Hagrid! The letter says that they want you back as Gamekeeper."

Hagrid laughed, spilling his tea. "Bless you, Harry... but tha's not how it works. When someone says you ain't good enough, they don't want you around anymore."

Harry sipped his tea in surrender. "Then what are you going to do now?"

"Grawp and me are going to France." Hagrid smiled genuinely. "Olympe offered me a job, and there's a Giant reservation for Grawp."

"Will you be a Professor?"

"No, she's already got one, but her old Gamekeeper couldn't handle the Abraxans."

---888---

The following morning, Harry anxiously paced while waiting for the sitting room hearth to flare. "Hello, Professor," he said coldly.

McGonagall sighed upon hearing the staccato greeting. "Good morning, Harry," she returned, albeit without the hostility.

"So, I visited Hagrid yesterday."

"And he shared his news with you?"

Harry crossed his arms. "Were you ever going to tell me? Or was it some sort of surprise?"

"It's his prerogative. I assumed he would tell you, but it's not my place."

"You didn't think that would affect my decision?" Harry accused. "How can it not be your place to tell me when you know how close we are?"

McGonagall chose her words carefully. "I didn't say anything precisely because you two are close. Among friends, it is better to hear that kind of news firsthand. As for your decision, I assumed Hagrid's situation would make your choice more difficult, but I didn't think it would alter the final outcome. You never even asked."

Harry reluctantly nodded his agreement. He had stewed over Hagrid's news for several hours before he even briefly thought about withdrawing from Hogwarts. "Well, he's pretty angry... and so am I."

For the first time in weeks, Harry spotted a trace of defeat in McGonagall's pursed lips. "I'm truly sorry for his situation," she sighed. "There just isn't an easy solution."

"You could've hired him back as a professor."

She offered him a hollow smile. "The Board would not allow it, even if I wanted to. Rubeus performed horribly on every metric they evaluated."

"He thinks you're pushing him out, and the Board's just doing what you tell them to."

"That's no longer the case," she explained. "The Governors always treated Albus with great deference. He had a free hand in personnel decisions, but they now feel that was a mistake. The Governors have become much more attentive since the Minister tried to close the school. The Headmaster no longer has the final authority over personnel."

"But, you could fight for him. He's not that bad a professor."

She nearly laughed. "I'm afraid your friendship with Rubeus is blinding you, Harry. I'm in complete agreement with the Board's evaluation of his teaching."

Harry scowled. If he was honest, he knew she was right, but it just wasn't fair. "What about loyalty? You can't just use someone when you need them and then toss 'em out."

"I did not discard him like some piece of rubbish!" she bristled. "I convinced the Board to retain him as Gamekeeper... and at a Professor's salary, at that. Don't make the mistake of confusing loyalty and competence!" she seethed. "That's a mistake not worth repeating."

He stopped pacing abruptly. Her thinly veiled criticism of Dumbledore stung the part of him that was blindly loyal to the late Headmaster, but the criticism had been well earned. "You don't like Hagrid, do you?"

McGonagall nodded. "It's professional, not personal. I'd happily bring him back as Gamekeeper, but not as a professor. I have to do my job well, too."

"So you don't like him, then?"

She sighed. "Rubeus and I don't see eye-to-eye on many things. We've co-existed in peace for many years. I consider him a staunch ally, but no, I don't consider him a friend."

Not that it should have, but her honesty and openness caught him completely off guard. In that realm, she was Dumbledore's opposite, unfailingly forthright with him, unafraid to let him make his own decisions; it was why he respected her so much. Of course, he'd always felt that Hagrid treated him similarly. "I just don't get it. What's your problem with him?"

She let the question linger for a while, perhaps hoping he would withdraw it, perhaps recalling a decision made years ago. "I suppose it boils down to different philosophies," she finally answered. "Rubeus sees the school through the eyes of a student. It's a surrogate family for him. He becomes friends with the students, and like many students," she shot a pointed look at Harry, "he sees the rules as optional. But as a member of the faculty, he continually sets a bad example." She thought for a moment. "How many times have you been into the Forbidden Forest with him? How many times has he placed you in harm's way?"

"Quite a few," Harry admitted with a grin. "I think that's why I'm so disappointed he's leaving. He's one of my last friends at the school. I'm going to miss him badly."

---888---

The next two days passed without incident. On Wednesday, Hagrid wheeled an enormous cart chock full of boxes and wire mesh cages up to the Quidditch pitch. He interrupted Harry's morning workout to say goodbye, and the two ended up sharing a pint at the Hog's Head before Hagrid left for France.

On Thursday, Harry woke early with the intention of sneaking off to Diagon Alley and purchasing his school things and a new set of dress robes for his dinner with Scrimgeour that evening. But, Salty had already made arrangements to have the entire shopping list purchased via owl order. As if on cue, Hedwig and Phaedippas returned with several neatly wrapped bundles between the two of them, and so Harry got in another full day of Quidditch training at the Hogwarts pitch.

---888---

Fifteen minutes before his scheduled dinner with Minister Scrimgeour, Harry appeared, shrouded in the long shadows cast by the Hog's Head tavern. McDaniels' Chophouse was across the quiet street, set back behind a tall row of hedges and protected by an equally tall black gate, which Harry slipped through.

If it weren't for the half dozen tables arranged on a patio in front of the restaurant, Harry would have thought he'd stumbled into someone's front yard. The restaurant was housed in a stately old brick home that perfectly matched the quiet sophistication of its patrons.

A black-robed maitre d' approached. The man's sharp eyes widening as they lit on Harry's lightning bolt shaped scar. "Lord Potter, you're here to meet the Minister?"

Harry self consciously fingered the Leoforte family ring that Salty had insisted he wear. "Er, yes."

"Please follow me." The maitre d' led him into the old home, winding through rooms, passing a dozen tables until they came to a booth in the back of a sparsely populated room.

Minister Scrimgeour stood to greet him. "How are you doing, Harry? I read in The Prophet that you'll be back at Hogwarts on Sunday."

"Saturday, actually," Harry replied as the waitress brought Butterbeers. "I have Head Boy training."

"Ah! 'Training Day,' that's right," Scrimgeour smiled faintly. "Headmaster Dippet spent the entire day giving Elizabeth Telford and I a tour of every snogging closet in the castle. There are one hundred thirty-four of them."

Harry snorted into his drink. "Sounds like an excellent use for my last day of summer." The waitress returned briefly to take their orders, and Harry seized upon the interruption to move on to weightier subjects. "Uh, Minister, have you learned anything new about who dumped Hermione's body in her dining room?"

Scrimgeour set his fork down and gave Harry an apologetic, pleading look. "I've been meaning to speak with you... Could you... Well... Let's just say it would be convenient if you would consider dropping the complaint."

"Are you serious?" Harry scoffed. "She was my best friend... her parents were mortified!"

Scrimgeour took a deep breath. "What's done is done," he proclaimed fatalistically. "Charging the person won't undo anything... You see, she's the daughter of a Wizengamot Lord," Scrimgeour said hesitantly. "I'll prosecute her if you refuse to drop the complaint, but we'll both earn a powerful enemy."

"You go from promising time in Azkaban to ignoring it because of who her father is? You're no better than Fudge!"

Scrimgeour had the good sense to look ashamed of himself. "We really need her father's vote... and the bloc of votes that follow him."

"There is no we," Harry said flatly. "I'm not dropping the complaint, regardless of who her father is."

Scrimgeour read the burning emeralds across from him and relented. "At least promise me you'll sleep on it before making a final decision, alright?"

"Who?"

"It was an office assistant in the DMLE - Eileen MacMillan."

"Ernie's sister?" Harry gasped. "I knew her at school... She wasn't like that at all..."

Scrimgeour ran a hand through his tangled mane. "She's had a traumatic summer. Her brother died in the Monday Muggleborn Massacre."

The memory of that day still stung horribly. "Ernie was at Justin's house," Harry remembered. "Let me guess, she's blaming Muggleborns."

Scrimgeour eyed his drink and nodded. "It's not uncommon."

Harry mulled this over in silence for several minutes. "What exactly would she be charged with?"

"Dereliction of duty... and uh, Muggle-Baiting," Scrimgeour answered. "She's looking at maybe three months in Azkaban, probably less if she pleads guilty."

"Would she?"

"I believe her father would insist upon avoiding a public trial."

Harry slowly sipped his remaining Butterbeer. Suddenly he wasn't sure if he wanted to be responsible for sending Ernie's sister to Azkaban. "On the topic of trials, I read in the papers that Stan Shunpike was released last Friday."

Scrimgeour nodded. "I took your suggestion to heart, Harry. We reviewed the charges against all the suspected Death Eaters and decided that we didn't have enough evidence to prosecute."

Harry fixed the Minister with a cold glare. "Spare me the company line!" he sighed. "You knew quite well that there was never any evidence against them."

The accusation clearly angered Scrimgeour. "I did not know they were innocent. You need to learn that there is a formidable gap between suspicion and knowledge!" Scrimgeour strangled his napkin, knuckles white around the linen square. "Harry, the Ministry can't make snap judgments about guilt and innocence. We have to let investigations run their course."

"Oho! A new policy!" Harry exclaimed derisively.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Harry's eyes bulged incredulously. "Sirius Black!"

Scrimgeour faltered at that. "In Mr. Black's case, you are quite right," he conceded. "Minister Bagnold ordered the case closed prematurely."

"It's the same thing with Stan," Harry argued. "People rushed to judgment, and they were both locked up without a fair trial."

Scrimgeour frowned. "Black's case was much different than Shunpike. Primarily in that Shunpike claimed that he was guilty."

"Have you ever met Stan?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Multiple times," the old Auror replied. "How many times have you met him?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Twice. Once on the Knight Bus and another time at the World Cup."

"And how did you know he was innocent?" Scrimgeour pressed.

Harry paused for a bit. It was difficult to explain his original gut instinct on the subject. "A guy like Stan Shunpike would never make a good Death Eater," Harry answered. "He's not terribly intelligent or powerful, and he runs his mouth too much. Voldemort wouldn't have anything to do with him. He would have killed him just as soon as he saw him."

Scrimgeour pondered this as the waitress arrived with their steaks and another round of drinks. "Harry, think about what you've just said. Were there any Death Eaters that weren't magically powerful?"

"Peter Pettigrew."

"As for boisterous," Scrimgeour laughed. "Can you name any that weren't?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Snape was guarded..."

Scrimgeour apparently hadn't thought of the potions master. "Yes, he was a quiet one, I suppose... but the exception that proves the rule nonetheless."

"So you're saying that just because some Death Eaters shared traits with Shunpike that he was obviously a Death Eater?" Harry made a face to explain what he thought of that logic.

"No," said Scrimgeour. "I'm just saying that it wasn't completely out of the question. Think about Shunpike objectively for a moment. He works on the Knight Bus and is in a terrific position to overhear conversations and track people's movements. He has a general idea where those people live, and best yet, no one suspects him because he appears stupid and weak... But, suppose he's just a bit smarter," Scrimgeour tapped his temple with a gnarled finger. "Now, what if you were Voldemort? Would you just as soon kill him? Or, would you try to tap him for information? Perhaps the Imperius Curse, or a touch of Legilimency."

"But he wasn't spying for Voldemort," Harry objected weakly.

"How was I to know? Shunpike told a pub full of people that he was a Death Eater." Scrimgeour held up a hand to cut off Harry's objection. "You see it as a foolish boy running his big mouth, but the Aurors saw it as a man with too much alcohol in his system saying more than he should have. We had to lock him up until we could prove one way or the other."

"I still say it's different."

"Here's a question for you," Scrimgeour stabbed a fork full of steak in Harry's direction. "Should we have arrested Lucius Malfoy after you accused him of being a Death Eater two years ago?"

"Of course! If Fudge had listened to me, the Ministry would have been better prepared."

"On what evidence?" Scrimgeour challenged.

"I told Fudge what happened!"

"So on the word of an attention-seeking fourteen-year-old we should have arrested a member of the Wizengamot?"

"I was not an attention-seeking fourteen-year-old!"

"I'm just repeating what Fudge told me," Scrimgeour replied. "You didn't have any evidence. It would have been your word against his. You were right, and I knew it, but I couldn't do anything about it just because I knew it to be the case."

"You've confused me," Harry said, looking up from his empty plate. "You knew Malfoy was guilty, but you let him go. You knew Stan was innocent, yet you locked him up?"

Scrimgeour sighed at Harry's bullheadedness. "First, you knew Shunpike to be innocent. I actually thought he was guilty. The difference between the two cases is that Malfoy professed his innocence, and in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, we had to accept that. Shunpike claimed he was a Death Eater, and without looking foolish or taking a major risk, we had to lock him up."

Harry resolutely studied his jacket potato. "What made you decide to finally release him - them?"

"Mostly the fact that they're still alive," Scrimgeour answered. "It appears that Voldemort took all of his followers with him. I suppose he was disheartened by those that abandoned him last time."

"What about Guffy's group?" Harry inquired, genuinely interested in the Minister's explanation. Grudgingly, he admitted that Scrimgeour seemed to have pure motives in the realm of law enforcement.

"We're completely baffled," Scrimgeour admitted. "Guffy's wand, which was in her partner's possession when they were arrested, was used to kill the Creevey boys. But, Guffy and her bridge partners were all interrogated under Veritaserum, and they all swear that no one left... There's no evidence of a memory charm, and no one saw them at the scene. Trying the case would be a nightmare, and we have no idea if one, none, or all of them were involved."

The truth struggled free from a repressed portion of Harry's memory. "The Creevey attack?" he murmured sadly, the answer rising unbidden onto his tongue. "Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, George and Greg Goyle... Greg Goyle used a summoning charm so he wouldn't have to use his own wand. He was underage."

Scrimgeour's eyes brimmed with fear. "How do you know that?"

A voice in the back of his mind, sounding suspiciously like Snape's, screamed at him for revealing so much to the Minister, but even his brief confession assuaged his guilt tremendously. "You thought the spells were important?" Harry asked distantly. "I beat Voldemort in his mind." His voice struggled to convey the full implication of that statement. "Have you ever bathed in maggot-infested rotting flesh?"

Scrimgeour shuddered at the thought. After visibly shaking himself a third time, he leaned in and whispered. "This is the type of thing that you shouldn't go spreading about. The public is fickle. They will turn on you as easily as they embrace you."

"I know."

Scrimgeour apparently didn't think Harry was taking him seriously enough. "It has not happened for the last time," he warned. "People fear power and love a good rumor. That combination will lead to more headaches than you could possibly imagine." The Minister smiled ruefully. "Incidentally, it's also a good reason why we should work together. Having allies is always a good thing, Harry. Right now I need your support to pass some policies that will make a real difference. In the future, I can promise you will want allies when things become more difficult."

Harry's eyes wandered around the restaurant, and for the first time, he seriously considered Scrimgeour's overture. "I'll think about it."

"Will you at least vote for the DMLE funding bill tomorrow?" Scrimgeour pleaded. "Fudge left the department in shambles, and we desperately need to increase the budget. I've been trying for months, but the Wizengamot has been hopelessly gridlocked."

"Probably," Harry answered as the two got ready to leave. "I'm going to listen to the debate tomorrow, but I'm leaning toward it."

---

Author's Note: This is the first chapter written post-Deathly Hallows. That said, much of this chapter was written sixteen months ago... including the conversation about Stan Shunpike. As for HPDH, I am not going to try and adapt the story to be 'canon-compliant' with the seventh book, but where appropriate, I may incorporate some non-spoiling background information into this story.

Author's Recognition: The line about maggot infested flesh is how Snape describes Voldemort's mind in Resonance by Greengecko. (You thought I was that creative? Pshaw!). The mention of one hundred thirty-four broom closets at Hogwarts is a tribute to JBern's To Fight the Coming Darkness.

Author's Recognition 2: Thanks to the AFC crew for their input. Among other things, JBern helped with the title of this chapter. Nonjon came up with the funny book title Harry reads at the beginning of the chapter. Reviewer Hahukum Konn correctly identified a canon error in a review. And finally Lisa, my grammar beta did a great job as always.

Originally Posted: 17 September 2007

Last Updated: 4 October 2007