Harry Potter and the Last Chance for Sanity

Chapter Two

Places to Go and People to See

World domination wasn't as easy as it sounded.

Harry had followed his plan thus far. He'd awakened, eaten no less than five rashers of bacon, and then spent a happy morning in the hedge mutilating earwigs and stinkbugs. At noon he'd come out of the bushes for a hasty lunch of toad in the hole, and then retired to his room with a bag of pork rinds for moral support, ready to cement his schemes for global conquest.

Two hours later, he had very little to show for his efforts outside of a very messy list of ideas. Oh, they were good ideas, but he wasn't certain how they all fit together or even if they did.

He sighed, gazing out over the disorderly landscape of his bedroom. Crumpled wads of paper littered the floor along with piles of dirty socks, empty bags, torn wrappers, and legs from earwigs he'd picked off his shirt before going to bed. His schoolbooks gleamed in a pristine stack on his desk, but he ignored them. Hanging in one corner was a largish domed cage - about two and a half feet tall and a foot and a half wide. It was not large enough for a full-grown snow owl, however. Hedwig's wings were crumpled up against the bars, and if she wanted a drink of water she had to stand on one foot and stick her head under her own left wing.

Harry ignored this too. Although students at Hogwarts were encouraged to keep exotic pets, they weren't given any advice on how to care for them. "Hello, Hedwig," he called. "Got any ideas?"

If she had, they probably involved a bigger cage or at least being let out on occasion. However, she was as adept at ignoring him as he was of ignoring her discomforts and didn't so much as hoot in reply.

Ah, well, back at it. He picked up his list and perused it again. Between the spatters of ink and crude caricatures of his teachers and classmates, several items were listed. The first one was 'eat lots of pig.' Well, of course - that was practically a given. But suppose he had to give his followers a reason why they should eat pig. Hmmm. He could tell them it was to keep up their strength. Or maybe he could make up a story about how eating pig meat increased your magical power - heck, maybe it did. That would explain why he, Harry Potter, was so marvelous. Satisfied, Harry scrawled a note, crammed a pork rind into his mouth by way of self-congratulations, and moved on to the next line.

Torment the Dursleys. Okay, they could be used as the test subjects for all the new spells the Pig Eaters came up with. Torture earwigs. Errr. . . Harry squirmed; he'd get back to that one later. Fart - no, hang on, he'd just written that one down to be funny. Never mind. Humiliate Draco Malfoy. He wrote 'see Dursleys' next to that item and moved on. Ask Daddy for an allowance - that could go towards paying the Pig Eaters' fees. Heaven forbid Harry should be asked to spend the heaping piles of gold in his vault.

Acquire followers. Harry paused over this one because it was the first thing he had listed that sounded like the beginning of an actual plan. Of course he already had people who were happy to kiss his arse. They'd do for a start. But what he really needed was someone who was good at this tiresome strategy stuff so Harry wouldn't have to do it himself. Someone like Hermione, really. Pity he already had her marked down on the Pig Eater hit list.

Harry sat back on his bed, folded his arms behind his head, and tried to think if he knew anyone who'd both be willing to follow him and would also make a decent tactician. Not Ron, of course. Ron's brain could get lost inside a sultana. Nor Neville Longbottom. Oh, Neville would join the Pig Eaters eagerly enough, but his primary functions would be to serve as the butt of all jokes as well as the scapegoat, should anything go wrong.

Colin Creevey? Now there was a hyperactive little marmoset of a child if there ever was one. But was he clever? Harry couldn't tell, because every time he was around, Colin became all breathless and giggly. That was irritating, but at least Harry knew he'd have someone on the team who'd gladly step in front of an Avada Kedavra for him.

Justin Finch-Fletchley? Ah, no, he was a Hufflepuff, and they were all morons. Ravenclaws were supposed to be clever; perhaps he should ask Luna Lovegood?

Maybe it was all nonsense about Ravenclaws being clever.

Wait! Theodore Nott was said to be very - no; he was a Slytherin. Harry picked up his quill and added a new line: no Slytherins. He'd put that one into the rules, right below 'must eat pig.'

Ginny Weasley? Hey, not bad! Ginny was awfully clever and she harbored a crush on him. At least he supposed she did - he hadn't bothered talking to her for a year or so. Well, if her infatuation was flagging, he was sure he could woo her back. Pleased with himself, Harry took up his notes again. Now all he had to do was arrange them into some kind of outline for taking over the world.

But where to start? Staring at his notes in dismay, Harry banged his head gently, hoping to dislodge an idea.

Two hours later, the bag of pork rinds was empty and Harry's head hurt. A lot. Giving into despair, he rested his forehead against his knees. Maybe it was all too much for him. The only new idea he'd had was some notion of adding spikes to Bludgers for a little extra carnage at Quidditch. Nothing to sneeze at, but it wouldn't have the masses falling on their knees before him either.

And that was the moment when divine inspiration - of a sort - struck. Hedwig, who'd been showing signs of increasing discomfort in her cage, managed to wriggle around enough to let fly a gooey dropping. Something in the sight of her feathery butt thrusting through the bars and letting a big one loose all over the floor sparked his creative juices.

Suppose on the train to Hogwarts that he put the question before his friends - in a purely theoretical way, of course? Something like, "I say, if you were going to take over the world - hypothetically, I mean - how would you go about it?" Surely smart-ass, know-it-all Hermione wouldn't be able to resist putting in her opinion. And then he could take her ideas, have the Pig Eaters off her, and claim they were his own.

Yeah. That could work. Harry was quite certain of his own ability to phrase the question so cleverly that no one would suspect what he was really up to. "Good girl, Hedwig!" he cried, leaping to his feet.

Hedwig tried to hoot in response, but she was too cramped to move her beak. It didn't matter anyway. Harry was already dashing downstairs in search of celebratory pork.

* * * * *

"Why are you looking at me like that, Sirius?"

"Hmmm. . . . ?" It took a moment for the question to register. "Oh, I'm sorry, Moony. How was I looking at you?"

"Well, I'd call it speculatively. Yes." Lupin cradled his mug of cocoa, frowning slightly, a faint crease between his brows. "It put me in mind of our school days. You used to stare at Snape in much the same manner when you were planning to do something ghastly to him."

"Oh, come on!" Sirius laughed just a shade too heartily and the line between Lupin's eyebrows deepened. "Surely you don't imagine I'm going to do something ghastly to you?"

"I certainly hope not, Sirius, because I only have a few days of vacation left before I have to start preparing for classes again. I don't want to spend the time laid up in hospital as the result of one of your pranks." He sighed deeply. "Back to the old grind. Quite a shame, isn't it, Tonks?"

No reply.

"Tonks?"

"Cousin?"

Silence.

"Nymphadora?"

"Don't call me Nymphadora, Remus," she snapped, jolted back to reality.

"Well, what did you go all zombie on us for? Oh, dear, it wasn't that last crash, was it?" he asked worriedly. "You did hit you head rather hard on that branch."

"Sounded like a coconut being struck with a Bludger club," agreed Sirius.

Tonks favored them both with a level, almost dignified stare, only slightly marred by the chartreuse hair she was sporting on the theory that she was on vacation and could do as she bloody well pleased. "My head is fine and I am fine," she replied, dropping a bit of butter in her coffee and pouring cream over her toast. "You just happened to catch me in the midst of a daydream." And here she let out a longing sigh.

"About Hogwarts?"

"God, I hope not," sniffed Sirius. "The Black family line better not have sunk that deep into the sewers. Maybe she was dreaming about that disco we went to."

"Or the opera."

"Or the nude beaches."

"Or the fine wine."

"Or the casino."

"Or the museum."

"Or the arcade."

"Or the ch--cripes, it wasn't about the. . . the you-know-what, was it?"

Tonks sniffed loudly.

Nymphadora Tonks had discovered, of all unfortunate things, roller-blading. She'd taken to the sport with the same kind of deep, soul-rending passion usually associated with teenagers falling in love for the first time. And naturally, she was spectacularly bad at it. It seemed to be the summer for that kind of thing - Dudley Dursley with his ballet would have approved.

"Only Muggles would dream of putting wheels on their shoes," grumbled Sirius, who did not approve at all, mostly because he too was spectacularly bad at roller-blading.

"They'd probably say the same thing about us and broomsticks," replied Lupin. He also did not approve of roller-blading, mostly because he suspected he'd look perfectly ridiculous on them.

"I'm not asking you to join in," Tonks told them tartly. "Either of you."

"No, I'm sure you can smash up quite well enough on your own." Lupin lifted his cup towards his lips. Sirius's gaze took on that slightly predatory air again. Lupin set the cup down at once, puffing out his cheeks in exasperation. He'd been looking forward to his morning cup of chocolate. "What did you put in my cocoa, Sirius?"

Sirius quickly put on an innocent expression. "What makes you think there's anything in you cup other than cocoa, Remus?"

"The way you're watching me. Honestly, Sirius, being dead has dulled you edge."

"Has not!" Sirius retorted indignantly.

"You saw it, didn't you, Tonks?"

"Yeah," she replied, already sinking back into visions of Great Skates to Come. "Out of the corner of my eye."

"And how did he look?"

"Speculative."

Sirius exchanged his innocent expression for a wounded one. "I'll drink it myself if you don't trust me," he offered.

"Whatever it is probably doesn't work on ghosts. Or whatever you are."

This was quite true. Sirius was casting about for another way to reassure Remus when flames in the fireplace leapt high and green. Thick smoke, smelling of musty cabbages and old shoes, filled the room. Remus and Tonks began to cough; Sirius simply stopped breathing, as it wasn't necessary for him anyway. When their watering eyes finally cleared up enough to see again, they perceived a head sitting in the middle of the fireplace. An old, befuddled, slightly cross-eyed head that could only belong to Albus Dumbledore. It looked like part of his beard was on fire.

"Ah, there you are," said the old coot, brightening. "What have you been doing on your vacation, you naughty boy? I couldn't see you for all the smoke in the room."

"Good morning, Headmaster." Lupin coughed a couple more times. "Err. . . you might have gone a bit heavy on the floo powder there."

"Oh, pooh! Don't be so cheap. Anyway, I was wondering if you could be back at Hogwarts tomorrow?"

Lupin stifled a groan. Although it was framed as a request, he felt certain that Dumbledore would continue to badger him in the most irritating and doddering sort of way if he refused. "Well. . . " he hedged.

"I could really use you back here. Why, if you left today, you could be back by this evening!"

Don't press your luck, thought Lupin. Aloud, he only said. "Actually, I hadn't meant to return until -- "

"I suppose leaving this afternoon would be all right. You could be here late tonight."

Lupin held up a hand. "May I ask why I need to end my vacation early?"

"Certainly." Dumbledore beamed. He looked expectant.

Lupin sighed. "Why?"

"Why what exactly?"

"Why do you want me to come back to Hogwarts early?"

"Err. . . I've forgotten. But it's very urgent!" Dumbledore beamed some more and shifted his weight. They could hear his arthritic old knees crackling a hundred fireplaces away.

"Well, I suppose -- " Lupin had been about to frame an excuse as to why he couldn't be back so soon, but Dumbledore cut him off with a cheery nod.

"Good man! We'll be expecting you this afternoon, then. Try to be here by four. No, four-thirty," he decided magnanimously. The werewolf didn't seem impressed by his show of generosity, however. Lupin quietly ground his teeth. Then his gaze fell upon his forgotten cup of hot chocolate and he brightened.

"A spot of cocoa before you leave, Headmaster?" Lupin offered. He paid no attention to Sirius's frantic hand-waving and the vehement shakes of his head.

"Oh, goody!" Dumbledore eyed the cup greedily. He opened his mouth and allowed Lupin to pour the contents in. He smacked his lips and burped. "That was rich and yummy!" he exclaimed.

"I'm sure it was," said Sirius glumly.

"Well, ta-ta for now," Dumbledore continued. "I'll see you around one o'clock then, Professor Lupin." The fireplace flared again, and when the flames died down, the head had vanished. Lupin flicked his wand to open a window.

"Jerk," he muttered. He caught the expressions from the other two. "What? You don't like him any more than I do."

"Yes, but you're supposed to be the nice one," Tonks reminded him.

"Well, I'm getting a bit tired of it. Especially as what it seems to mean is that everyone expects me to do the grunt work. Or go rushing back to Hogwarts on some very important business that the old fart can't even be bothered to remember. Probably misplaced his favorite chamberpot or something."

"He won't be missing it for long," muttered Sirius. Lupin raised an eyebrow.

"What's that?"

"Oh - well, you'll be rushing back to find it for him now, won't you? Or, more likely, he'll perversely find it two minutes before you arrive."

"I wouldn't put it past him." Lupin pushed back from the table and stood. "Well, suppose I'd better go and pack," he said. "Looks like you're free to stay a few days longer, however, Tonks."

"Okay, cool," she replied, much to his annoyance, as he'd hoped for a greater show of support. He stalked out of the room, privately vowing to hide her skates where she'd never find them. Perhaps the dustbin. No, she'd look there. Perhaps in with the cleaning supplies.

Sirius sighed to himself and ran a finger around the rim of the empty cocoa cup. He'd covered himself well, but what he meant by the remark that Dumbledore wouldn't be missing his potty for long was that the cocoa had been poisoned. Actually, the cocoa had been poison; a rare, powerful poison that looked and tasted exactly like chocolate. James had thought it was the ideal tool for murdering Remus. Poison, after all, could be added indirectly, and Remus had never been known to turn down chocolate in any form.

Only it hadn't worked after all. And James had warned him not to make the same attempt twice, for fear that the Powers That Be might catch on.

What a nuisance.

"Well, on to Plan B," he said aloud.

"Eh?" asked Tonks, coming vaguely back to reality.

"Don't worry about it."

"Okay."

* * * * *

"Hi couldn't 'ardly believe it when youse told me youse wanted to see me again, Miss Evans." Peter Pettigrew's voice was tearfully grateful. "Hi really 'ardly couldn't."

"It's Mrs. Dursley," Petunia replied primly. "And do drop the stupid accent, whatever it's supposed to be. It's terrible."

"Fair enough," he replied, shrugging.

If only he'd be so understanding about everything else! Unfortunately, he seemed to have gotten the wrong idea entirely. But that wasn't surprising. Pettigrew was a moron.

Twenty years ago, Petunia had, in a moment of bad judgement, capitulated to her younger sister's pleas. Lily and her beau James (the awful boy!) had made plans to go to a fancy ball with his three closest friends. But Pettigrew couldn't find a date and was moping and blubbering and feeling sorry for himself and generally doing everything he could to spoil the occasion. So Lily had begged Petunia to go out with him, just this once. "Perhaps you'll really like him, Pet," Lily had said, her big green eyes wide and sincere.

Lily had always been one fantastic liar. She was also clever enough not to give Petunia a chance to meet Pettigrew before the big event. Otherwise. . .

Well, if she'd met him prior to their date, she would have taken one look and flung him out on his ear. And then he wouldn't owe her a favor, which would mean that they wouldn't be here now in this prissy little teashop - the kind where even the lampshades have frills and the table legs are covered lest the bare sight of them aroused the patrons. And while that in and of itself wouldn't be a bad thing, it would also mean she'd have no means of stopping Harry and saving her dear Dinkydums.

She sighed, took a sip of overly sweet tea -- her pinkie properly in the air - and glanced across the table. Yes indeed. The teashop was throwing all of Pettigrew's bad features into sharp relief, and as far as she knew he had no good ones. Amidst the poofs and the frills and the objects covered with pink fabric and tiny rosebuds, he looked flabbier, lumpier, and, God help her, more stupid than ever.

Oh god. He had that soppy expression on his face again - the one that made his eyes practically disappear in their folds of fat. They'd come away with very different interpretations of their brief relationship. She'd developed a lifelong phobia to men named Peter, even turning down a perfectly decent proposal from a fine young chartered accountant named Peter Rosedale on account of it. For him, it was the happiest night of his life. Now he seemed to believe that she'd at last come to her senses and left her Muggle husband for him.

"Yer lookin' splendid, Pet," he told her. His hand wriggled on the tablecloth like it would quite like to hold hers but didn't quite dare. She suddenly recalled the strange, fat, smelly purplish flower he'd presented her with for a corsage that night twenty years ago. In many ways, it had been the defining moment of their date.

"Mrs. Dursley," she reminded him for the fifth - or was it sixth? - time. "Mr. Pettigrw, I'm not here to be social. I have a serious problem and you're the only one I know who can help me."

Peter leaned back. His chest swelled with pride, which was unfortunate because he didn't require any further swelling. "Anythin' you need," he assured her, forgetting he was a piss-poor wizard who'd spent most of the summer as a rat on sale at the Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley. (He'd recently been purchased. By whom? Read on and discover.)

"Good." Petunia set down her cup and smiled. "I need you -- "

Pettigrew practically leapt out of his chair. "I need you too, Pet!" He was about to kneel on the carpet and perhaps propose, but she stopped him with a look.

"Allow me to finish. I need you to kill Harry Potter for me."

The word slowly sunk in. Pettigrew's lips began wobbling. "Killin' hain't very nice," he whined as he set his ass back on his seat.

Petunia said nothing. She picked up a slice of bread and buttered it very precisely, scraping it evenly over the corners. She let Pettigrew snivel and mutter to himself.

"'Oo do you want me to rub out?" he asked at last.

"Harry Potter," she repeated patiently.

Peter's brow wrinkled. "Cor, that name sounds familiar."

"My nephew."

"I didn't know you 'ad a nephew." Peter beamed. "Congratulations."

Petunia dug her nails into her palm until she'd mastered the urge to say the first two or three things that rose to her mind. "Thank you," she replied, once she had control of herself again. "Now will you promise to kill him for me?"

"Well. . . " hedged Peter.

"It would make me very, very happy," said Petunia, leaning across the table.

It was the right move. He beamed again, all doubt wiped off his face. "I'd do anythin' to make you happy, Pet. I'd kick me own arse for you."

Petunia had a brief struggle with herself, nearly giving in to the temptation to tell him to go for it. "Good man!" she managed instead. "How soon do you think you can manage it?"

"I can nip round to your place and do it now." Peter began to rise from his seat again, but Petunia hastily waved him down.

"No, no, no! I do not want him killed at my house, understand? We'd have to call the police and there'd be a big, nasty investigation, and the neighbors would see it all. . ." Petunia shuddered. The neighbors already treated her as a sort of pariah thanks to Harry's antics. The only reason she had any friends whatsoever was because she was the best snoop of them all and could be counted on for the finest gossip. "You must kill him while he's at school," she told Pettigrew. "I don't care how, so long as it's done before he graduates."

"Hang on - what school?"

"That ridiculous. . . magic school," she replied, forcing the word out. "Hogwarts."

"'Ogwarts? Your nephew's a wizard?"

"Yes, Mr. Pettigrew." Her jaw was aching from speaking through clenched teeth. "Lily was his mother."

"Lily?"

"Yes, Lily."

"'Oo's that?"

"You remember her," said Petunia testily.

Peter made an effort. "Oh, the pretty girl with red hair! She married Remus. Or was it James? No, Remus."

"James," Petunia corrected. "James Potter. And she wasn't that pretty."

"Yes she was," he replied positively. "I'd have done anything to get in her knickers."

He managed to come out with this statement - and rather loudly too -- just as the waiter was coming over to ask if they wanted a refill. The man twitched his eyebrows, spun on his heel, and walked off, radiating disapproval. He didn't want to be privy to that sort of a conversation. Petunia felt like sinking into the floor with mortification, but instead lifted her chin with dignity.

"Maybe after four or five years of attending Hogwarts and having access to blemish-removing and teeth-straightening spells she was beautiful," Petunia informed her companion, "but as a child, Lily had a sallow, pimply complexion and buckteeth. Looked a bit like Spongebob Squarepants in a red wig, actually."

"Don't know the gent," said Pettigrew.

"Never mind." Petunia wasn't sure why she was telling him such stuff anyway - it had nothing to do with his assignment. And it was silly to be jealous of her sister who, after all, had been dead for sixteen years. Still, it was no secret which of the two Evans sisters was Mumsy and Da-da's favorite. Just consider that they'd named one child 'Petunia' and the other 'Lily' and it became fairly evident. They'd have probably had a fit if she'd turned out to be the witch in the family. But Lily, precious Lily --

"So, can you manage it?" she asked, forcing her mind back to the present.

Pettigrew gnawed his lip. "Yeah. 'Spose. Yeah."

"Thank you."

"What do I get in return?"

"My eternal gratitude." Petunia narrowed her eyes at Pettigrew and he withered a bit, although his hand continued to twitch hopefully on the tablecloth.

"Is that all?" he asked, trying to look pathetic and succeeding grandly, although perhaps not in the way he wanted. Her heart didn't melt at the sight of him, if that was his intention.

"I'm a married woman, Mr. Pettigrew." And if it hadn't been for you, she thought, staring distastefully at the pudgy, balding little lump of dough, I might have married Peter Rosedale. Who did not look like a brick in a business suit, and who did not go on about drills for hours, and who might actually have had an idea of what foreplay is. Thank you bloody much, Mr. Pettigrew. And thank you too, Lily, wherever you are.

"You shoulda married me, Pet." Peter made a convulsive effort and grabbed her hand, knocking over the teapot in the process. "I've halways loved youse, Pet," he blurted, blinking stupidly at her with his wet, colorless eyes. "Hever since that date twenty years ago. . . Peter an' Pet. Don't that sound tee-riffic?"

"Oh, yes," agreed Petunia, thinking of Peter Rosedale and the happy life of a chartered accountant's wife. "Quite splendid."

Petigrew beamed. "Forget about Harry Potter. Forget about your husband. Run away with me, Pet! We'll live the wild life - dance until dawn, drink the finest root beer - champagne gives me gas -- make love in haystacks by the side of the road. . . " Tea from the overturned pot was seeping into his pants, making a big wet stain in the most embarrassing of places.

"It is tempting," agreed Petunia - Lily wasn't the only good liar in the Evans family. "Unfortunately, I can't forget my son quite so easily."

Peter paused. "You have a son?"

"Yes."

"Oh." He sat back and mulled it over. This revelation seemed to have cooled his ardor somewhat. "Fair enough," he decided after a bit, "but I'm not changing no nappies."

"Dudley is seventeen. He hasn't worn nappies since he was two."

"Really?" Peter was impressed. "Cor, you are brilliant, Pet! It took my mum until I was fifteen to toilet train me!"

This was most definitely Petunia's exit cue. "I really can't stay any longer, Mr. Pettigrew," she told him, standing. "I have to get home and make my husband's dinner."

"So, no running away and making love in haystacks, then?"

"No, but perhaps we can have tea again sometime." His eyes glowed and she quickly added: "After you kill Harry for me. Not until then." That should light a fire under him, she thought.

And it seemed to work. Again he swelled up with pride. "Consider it done, Pet. You can book a reservation for next week."

She smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew. Until next time."

He tried to blow her a kiss, but he'd been building up gas for quite some time now and a belch loud enough to rattle the teacups on all the tables emerged instead. Petunia quickly left the building. She felt grotty all over, inside and out.

Blast that Lily, she thought angrily as she began walking for the bus stop, her heels clicking angrily against the sidewalk. All of this was her fault. It all could have been avoided if she hadn't been. . . what she was.

Petunia remembered the day Lily's Hogwarts letter arrived. She'd been home alone - her family had gone for a walk in the park, but she was more interested in spying on what Patricia Conelley was doing with Linus Morgan in the bushes. Just when they were getting to an interesting bit, a huge brown owl - she didn't know what type - had come sailing in through the open kitchen window and landed on the table with a triumphant hoot.

And let loose with the biggest, gooiest, most disgusting pile of owl crap she'd never hoped to see. Which, of course, it was her duty to clean up before her mother came home. From that moment on, she'd hated those damn birds. Why on earth did wizards feel the need to send messages via owl rather than using a telephone or a postman like decent people? Telephones didn't shit all over the place. She'd never caught their postman taking a dump on their lawn.

She'd swatted that owl hard with a broom and it had flown off, shrieking indignantly, like it had expected her to be oh-so-grateful for its arrival.

It was only then that she noticed the envelope with the green lettering. It was laying only a couple inches from the nasty mess it had left on the table. Instinctively, she'd snatched it away and set it on the counter while she went about mopping up the muck- what a nasty, revolting business that had been! And it was only when, gagging, she had thrown the sopping towel away, that she finally saw it was her sister's name written on the cream-colored envelope. But before she could open it and take a peek herself - and just think of all the trouble that may have avoided! -- her parents and sister had come home. Her parents had paid little attention to Petunia's woes, being more curious about Lily's letter. And then when the darling tot had opened the envelop and read what was inside. . . you'd have think she'd been named the heir to the throne of England what with all the fuss they made over her. It was Lily this and Lily that for days.

Well, that was life. Lily got all the adoration and praise while Petunia was left to mop up the owl crap. But now, finally, she had the chance to put an end to all the irritations her sister had left behind.

Petunia smiled at the thought. Perhaps she'd make spare ribs for dinner, just this once. Harry would like that, and after all, a condemned man deserved a last meal.

* * * * *

Harry chewed sloppily away on an entire pack of extra-sticky bubble gum as he loitered around the train station, watching wizard children vanish into the partition between platforms nine and ten. He was waiting for eleven o'clock to advance a little closer, wanting to make a more dramatic entrance onto what was to be his last ride on the Hogwarts Express. Whenever a first year approached the barrier between platforms nine and ten, shaking with trepidation, Harry would smile encouragingly at him or her. Then, when they finally worked up the courage to make a run at it, Harry would stick out a foot and trip them at the last second. It was a delightful game, one he wished he'd discovered a few years ago.

He was kind of hoping he could steer some poor Muggle fool through the barrier - the expression on their face would surely be priceless -- but no such luck. No one came near him of their own free will because his clothes were moist and smelly. The wizard children only approached because they had to. Ah, well. Harry tripped one last little fat kid who rather reminded him of Neville Longbottom, checked his watch and smiled. It was time to leave. He took the wad of gum out of his mouth to see if it was ready. It was nice and sticky, so he did a furtive little invisibility spell on it, stuck it onto a bench so someone would sit on it, and dashed for the barrier, bah-ing with glee, running over a couple of first years with his baggage cart as he went.

There was the Hogwarts Express, puffing slightly as it waited on the tracks. If trains could speak, this one might have voiced a hallelujah that this was the last year it would be expected to take Harry along with it. Its corridors would be that much less smelly without the Boy Who Lived passing gas in them every autumn and spring. Harry dashed into the train, banging doors and swinging suitcases with murderous abandon. He was never satisfied unless he managed to cripple half a dozen people in his search for a compartment.

"Oi!" The sound of Ron's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Over here, Harry."

"Oh, hi, Ron." Suddenly bored and sulky, Harry slouched into the compartment Ron indicated. He was not at all happy with his best friend. His birthday present from Ron had seemed quite substandard this year. Nothing but a set of fourteen miniature figures on broomsticks, complete with a tiny Quaffle, Bludger and Snitch. You could set them up to play a game of Quidditch or send them racing after the Snitch on a special obstacle course. It couldn't have cost more than ten Galleons, all told, and Ron wouldn't have had to save his money for more than eight months to buy it. Surely he'd trained Ron better than that.

"Umm. . . how was your summer, Harry?" asked Ron awkwardly as Harry swept into the compartment, sensing his aura of disapproval. Fred, George, Dean, Neville, and Seamus all looked up with varying degrees of welcome on their faces.

"Poxy," replied Harry, tossing Fred's luggage onto the floor and replacing it with his own baggage. He tossed Hedwig and her cage up with more force and less care than usual, hoping to stun her into silence for the duration of the journey. Fred's suitcase burped as it hit the ground and then began puking up his underwear. Both the twins burst into giggles. Their practical jokes were as lame as ever, but then if Ron's brain could get lost inside a sultana, the interior of a poppy seed would give the twins' brains plenty of room to wander.

Luggage settled, Harry made a shooing gesture at Neville, who obligingly left his seat by the window and knelt on the floor so Harry could rest his feet on his back. "As you'd know if you ever bothered to write to me. My stinky Muggle relations were nothing but a nuisance."

"Maybe you shouldn't call your relatives 'stinky Muggles'," suggested Seamus, who was, after all, a half-blood.

"Oh, I don't call them that to their faces," lied Harry. He looked around the compartment again. "Where are Ginny and Hermione?"

"Up with the prefects of course," replied Seamus, with a meaningful glance at Ron, who had, as usual, forgotten all about his prefect duties. Seamus was a little bitter about the whole prefect business. He would never understand why Ron had been chosen for Gryffindor instead of himself or Dean.

(Just to clear this matter up: Dumbledore had somehow caught wind of the theory that he was actually Ron, all grown up and living in the past. And although he should have known better, he'd given the prefect position to Ron as a kind of present to himself.)

"Oh," said Harry, jiggling a foot impatiently. "Bah." Sighing a martyred sigh, he turned his gaze out the window.

"Want to see Ginny, do you?" asked Ron meaningfully. He'd always hoped Harry would hook up with his sister for reasons that he had never fully explained and were probably immensely silly anyway. Anyone possessing a quarter inch of brain would realize that having Harry for a brother-in-law would be nothing short of a nightmare - especially for someone as jealous and insecure as Ron. But then, a quarter inch of brain was exactly what Ron was lacking.

"I hope not," muttered Dean with a frown. Ginny was currently his girlfriend, after all, and he was quite certain Harry would make a moist and spiteful rival. But Harry had missed the import of Ron's question entirely and was amusing himself by breaking wind in Neville's face.

Reassured that the Boy Who Lived didn't intend to put a crimp in his love life, Dean started the conversation again: "Kind of strange to think this is our last year at Hogwarts, isn't it?" he commented. "Next year we'll all be off on our own. Working at real jobs. Exciting, but kind of scary too, you know?"

"I can hardly wait, actually," said Hermione, coming through the door with Ginny Weasley. Her tail peeped out from under the hem of a little black cloak embroidered with the Hogwarts crest.

"Oh, shoot, she's wearing clothes!" exclaimed Fred.

Due to an unfortunate combination of circumstances the year before, Hermione had been transformed into a talking black-and-white cat. She'd adjusted well to her condition, all things told, especially since her boyfriend, Viktor Krum, had joined her in her felinity. Being sensible, she knew there was really no point in a cat bothering with clothes of any type. Being smart, she knew there was no point in trying to use sense or logic around the Weasley twins. "Yes, I'm wearing clothes," she told Fred primly. "I got tired of you crouching down to take a look at my bottom."

Seamus, Dean, and Ginny passed around an expression of disgust. Not of surprise, however. Very little of the twins' behavior surprised anyone who knew them.

"I wish wizards had universities," Hermione continued, turning around a few times before settling on a cushion, because that was what all proper cats did. "I'm sure there's a great deal more training we could use before actually getting jobs."

"There is an apprenticeship for the more demanding jobs, like Healers," Ginny reminded her.

"Well, yes, and that's a good thing. But I still feel there are a lot of magical theory we could study. And there's no way we could easily get into a Muggly uni, is there? Not after attending Hogwarts for seven years and completely missed out on math and literature and that sort of thing."

"If anyone could get into university, you could, Hermione," said Seamus, mostly to shut her up. "So, what are you going to do?"

"I want to go into law, I think. Which reminds me, Dean, could you do me a favor?"

"What is that, Hermione?" inquired Dean warily.

"You're good at art. Could you draw me a picture of a sexy house elf?"

This request was met with the appalled silence it deserved.

"Err. . . Hermione," began Seamus, searching for a tactful way to break the terrible truth to her, "I think you've been spending too much time thinking about this house elf thing."

"No, no, no! Not for me!" exclaimed Hermione, lashing her tail impatiently. "I want to set out leaflets. For propaganda, don't you see?"

"Err. . . like, 'free yourselves and this sexy elf will want to snog you'?" asked Dean after another pause.

"Exactly!"

Seamus made a face. "You know, I don't really want to think that my dinner might be being made by a horny house elf, Hermione."

"If the house elves were freed, it wouldn't be," she pointed out.

Everyone thought about that. Then they thought about house elves' habits of wiping their noses on their tea towels and the general uncleanness of house elf hands. "Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea after all," decided Seamus.

"I don't know how much it'll help," said Dean dubiously, "nor am I sure it's possible to make a house elf look sexy. But I'll give it a try."

Harry burped. "Well, I hope you don't succeed until we're out of Hogwarts at least," he said, "I don't want to make my own bed or clean the common room."

"So you'd rather exploit house elves?" Hermione bristled.

"Why not? They seem to rather like it. I bet Dobby would clean out my potty with his tongue if I asked him."

"Don't you dare!"

"Bah-hah-hah-hah-hah!"

"Something off the cart, dears?" asked the plump witch with the trolley, sticking her head in the compartment. Harry rushed over to her and bought everything she had so there was nothing left for anyone else, which was something he'd been planning to do for almost a year. Hermione, Ginny, Dean, and Seamus watched him with amazed disgust while Fred, George and Ron stared enviously. Neville couldn't figure out how he felt about it, so he pretended he was a chicken, which was what he generally did under such circumstances. Everyone ignored him.

"You can't eat all that, Harry," Hermione told him disapprovingly as he came back to his seat with his pile of loot.

"Don't have to. It's mine to do with as I please." Harry stuffed a pumpkin pasty in his mouth and dropped another one down the front of his pants - no one knew why and no one asked. Ron reached for a Cauldron Cake only to have his hand slapped away. "I bought them!" Harry shrieked, spraying crumbs all over the compartment. He huddled possessively over the food.

"I guess I'll just have a sandwich, then," said Ron mournfully, brining out a bag of squashed and lumpy whatsits. It may have been the same sack of corned beef sandwiches his mother had given him when he was a first year. The Weasleys didn't waste food, no matter how nasty it got.

"Really, Harry, you're being very childish -- "

"I don't care," Harry interrupted. Indeed, he was enjoying the sight of a line of starved little faces pressing against the glass of their compartment. He fondled a pumpkin pasty thoroughly, sticking his fingers deep into the crust before passing it on to Ron. "Here, you can have this one," he offered, dripping with generosity.

"Gee, thanks." Ron ate it. Seamus, Dean, and Ginny looked faintly ill. Hermione harrumphed. Neville was slightly jealous.

To make an effort to change the conversation - and take attention away from Harry - Ginny turned to Dean. "So what do you intend to do once you graduate?" she asked.

"I'd like to keep on drawing," he replied. "Maybe I could become a portrait artist or something like that. I think I'll get a job - nothing fancy, just something to pay the rent - and meanwhile take art classes and -- "

Harry belched. Loudly. Ginny shot him a dirty look.

"That would be super," said Hermione, choosing to overlook Harry's rudeness. "Would you prefer to be a portrait artist or maybe a cartoonist? You do fine caricatures."

Harry took off his shoes and rested his feet on the bench opposite. The smell of his damp, unwashed toes began to fill the compartment.

"I'm not sure," replied Dean, gagging a bit. "Maybe a bit of both. Cartooning would probably pay better, but fine art would be more, I dunno, satisfying."

Harry began choking on a Cauldron Cake. The conversation halted as everyone watched hopefully, thinking that maybe this was the day the Boy Who Lived would cash in his chips. But Harry pounded himself on the chest a couple times and a squishy chunk of cake flew out of his mouth and stuck to the wall opposite, a couple inches above Dean's head. Satisfied, Harry resumed munching.

"And what about you, Seamus?" asked Ginny, determined to press on.

"I'd like to help invent new potions," said Seamus.

"Potions?" Harry laughed airily. "That's Slytherin stuff." Ron and the twins dutifully echoed his scorn.

"Why should the Slytherins have a monopoly on one of the best subjects? Potions are very useful." Seamus had always gotten high marks in Potions, not that Harry had ever cared to notice.

"They certainly are," agreed Hermione. "One of the most important classes we took, I believe."

"Bah." Harry began working up to a fine fart, just to show his opinion of that comment.

"And you, Neville?"

"Oh. . . " Neville squirmed around so he could get a better look at his friends. "Something to do with Herbology, I fancy. I really like working with plants -- "

"Because he's actually smarter than a few of them," remarked Harry. Ron and the twins rocked with laughter.

Hermione had had enough. "And what are you going to do when you graduate?" she demanded, turning on him.

"Oh, I'm going to take over. . . " Harry was momentarily caught off-guard. "Err, take over Mad-Eye Moody's position as top Auror," he finished quickly. He didn't want to let slip his Pig Eater plan just yet.

"Voldemort's gone. There aren't many evil wizards around anymore," Dean reminded him.

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?" Harry smiled with inward satisfaction.

"Well, even so, you need top marks to become an Auror," said Hermione. She could make a guess at Harry's grades and they did not impress her.

"They'll pass me," said Harry. "I'm Harry Potter. I defeated Voldemort. They'll take me on."

Since he, most depressingly, probably had a point, Hermione heaved a sigh. "Well, first we have to get through an entire last year. Wonder what it will be like."

Before anyone had a chance to speculate, the compartment door opened. Colin Creevey stood on the threshold, looking slightly breathless. "Hey, Ron!" he squeaked. Then he spotted Harry, flushed pink, and began to giggle.

"What, Colin?" asked Ron, frowning disapprovingly. He was thinking about getting jealous of Harry again.

"Oh. . . hee-hee-hee! There's. . . hee-hee!. . . a package for you!" He looked with bright, shining eyes from one face to another.

Harry shot up, the fart slipping out with a flat, unimpressive tone. "A package for Ron?!" he demanded, thoroughly indignant. "Not for me?"

"No, sorry." Colin held up a largish rectangle, wrapped in paper. Rustling sounds emanated from inside. "Your mother sent it. Said you left it behind by mistake."

"Oh, Scibbers!" Ron exclaimed, snatching the box from Colin and entirely forgetting to say thank you.

"Scibbers?" asked Hermione. If she'd been human, she'd have raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, my new rat." Ron was eagerly tearing off the brown wrapping. "Got him just this summer. He reminded me of -- "

"Scabbers," finished Hermione. "Ron, you do remember that Scabbers turned out to be a traitor who sold Harry's parents out to Voldemort, don't you?"

"Err, yeah," said Ron vaguely.

"Well, why on earth would you want to relive those memories?"

"Oh, come on, 'Mione," Ron laughed condescendingly. "Not all rats are actually evil wizards who want to kill us all in our sleep. The last of the paper came off. Inside the cage sat a plumpish brown rat with seedy fur. Its right front paw looked rather strange. Silvery. Metallic, even.

Hermione, Ginny, Dean, and Seamus met each other's glance.

"Err, Ron. . . ."

* * * * *

Severus Snape walked past the staff room on his way to the dungeons. And paused. Remus Lupin was sitting in a chair, his arms folded across his chest. "Still sulking, are you?" Snape inquired.

"I just knew he'd find a way to make my early return unnecessary." Lupin glowered and pointed with his chin at the limp figure of Dumbledore, lying dead across the coffee table.

"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose."

"Oh, yes he did!" returned the werewolf with certainty. "I come back to find he's snuffed it only an hour before. That's spite, that is."

Snape studied the dead headmaster's face. It was frozen in a mildly befuddled expression. "Are we going to hold another funeral for him?"

"No. It's pointless. He'll just come back to life again."

"My, what a cynic we are."

"Bite me, Severus. I just have infinite faith in Dumbledore's capacity to be annoying."

"Well, we can't just leave him here. He'll start to stink." Lupin stared pointedly at Snape until he added: "More."

"Well, where should we put him, then?"

"The Forbidden Forest? It worked for Hagrid. Maybe something will eat him and he won't be able to come back to life."

Lupin considered. "All right. Worth a try."

They argued a bit over who had to carry which end until they realized that they were just prolonging the agony and got on with it. Panting a bit under the burden (Dumbledore's beard alone added thirty pounds to his weight) they reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest. "Right here, then?" suggested Snape, puffing.

"Fine," agreed Lupin. "It's close to where we left Hagrid's remains."

To show some respect to the ex-headmaster, they propped him up against a tree. Dumbledore drooped sadly as they prepared to leave him. "Don't look at me like that," Lupin snapped at the body. "You'll be hanging yourself on a hook again by morning."

"Lupin, he's dead. Don't be ridiculous."

"You think I'm being ridiculous? Just wait."

The voices faded as Lupin and Snape walked back towards the castle, still arguing. A gust of wind stirred Dumbledore's hair and set the ends of his beard to fluttering. A shadow fell over his face as three four-legged figures approached.

"Headmaster Dumbledore is dead," a voice intoned. Centaurs. One bay, one black, and one glowingly white.

"We should return him to the forest," agreed another.

Reverently, the third centaur, the one with the dazzlingly white fur, lifted the deceased codger in his arms and prepared to carry him gently off into the woods for a proper burial.

Another gust of wind shook the forest and a tree branch promptly fell on his head.