Death (And Other Temporary Problems)

A take on reptilia28's challenge, issued some years ago. This first chapter is a result of two years of long-form notebook hand-written frustration, computer editing, pregnancy (and all of that condition's lovely complications and rewards), boredom, and a few tears, be it from me or my poor husband who was denied the good stuff when I had a brilliant idea stirring in my head.

This first chapter is for my love. October 6, 2013, was our four-year wedding anniversary and, despite my snark, he loves me enough to stay.

'Thank you' is simply not enough.

Signed, TheLoyalExecutioner

Disclaimer, Warnings and Author's Notice:

Unfortunately, I am not Joanne Rowling in disguise and I make no money, profit or otherwise, from this story. Any ideas that are borrowed from other stories will be acknowledged, presuming I can recall who I am borrowing from or I wrote it in my notes. If I fail to recall, please feel free to claim your idea and cite your story. I will acknowledge any reasonable claim in my next Author's Notice.

Thank you to the website 'The Very Best of British: The American's Guide to Speaking British' for posting slang words and general information.

Warnings: AU regarding canon and tech. I simply was lazy and didn't wish to go back and try to remember how tech worked in '91... Not to mention I was... er... five?... in 1991? My memory is simply not that good.

Final Note: Don't like H/Hr? Don't read. If you can tolerate it, I promise there will be occasional doses of crack humour, a slashy (if you tilt your head, squint, and play 'Stairway to Heaven' backwards) couple, and NO Super!Harry, Super!Hermione, unreasonable Weasley bashing. (Let's just assume that parts of DH never happened and go from there, mkay?)

Chapter One- A Conditional Solution

"Number ninety-two, Ninety-two. Please proceed to Station Five. I repeat: number ninety-two, please proceed to Station Five. Thank you," chirped a cheerful, feminine voice with a lovely English accent before, Harry presumed, repeating the same information in rapid-fire Spanish, and then again in dulcet-toned, melodic French. Harry sighed. Hearing the few common terms he could recognize in French (Vernon did not approve, at all, of the 'cowardly Frogs' and had constantly reminded Madame Beauchamp that the French had rolled over for the Germans 'not once, but twice and needed good, wholesome British boys to rescue your Froggy arses.') made Harry think of Hermione, who said she'd vacationed there several times and Harry remembered her speaking with Fleur in her mother tongue.

The shake of a head made Harry focus on where he was and how he had come to be in this lovely lilac room. He had been smiling at the memory of Hermione, but he now wore a confused frown. It wasn't really fair that the room smelled of treacle tart (his favourite dessert) due to well-placed candles. Even Molly Weasley's treacle tart didn't smell that good! The crust smelled perfectly baked- that wonderful combination of crispiness and flakiness-, the lemon sharper, the vanilla sweeter... The fact that the smell came from a candle did not make the growling of Harry's stomach any less insistent.

A gentle male voice chuckled. "Oh, I agree, youngling. Only a woman could make something smell that durned good and it not be real. Vicious creatures, them women are."

Harry looked up from his stomach and saw an old, worn, heavily-tanned face with snapping jade eyes and hair that had been bleached whiter than Dumbledore's beard by the sun. He was smiling with laugh lines that were so deep that Father Christmas would be envious. Dumbledore had never, in seven years, smiled at him like that. It warmed his heart, filled it almost unto bursting, made it ache...

"Where are we?"

"Well...," the stranger drawled, much like those old John Wayne westerns that Aunt Petunia hid from Uncle Vernon. (Americans were just upstarts and rebels who needed to be brought back under the command of the Empire, after all. One couldn't trust an American further than they could throw the poor bastards.) "I don't rightly know, youngling. The last thing I rightly recall was arguin' with my missus over breakfast. She wasn't wantin' to fix any more bacon. High cholesterol and high blood pressure, you know. Then... I just woke up here."

Harry nodded slightly. Bacon was an addiction for just about everyone, wizard, Muggle, or owl... It transcended barriers like nothing else.

The difference was that the innate magic of a witch or wizard prevented the ravages of heart disease, asthma, and several sexually transmitted diseases. (And that had been a highly awkward conversation with Mr. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, and Ron... Goddess above, was it too late for an Obliviate? He could live a lifetime without Mr. Weasley explaining the birds and the bees to him!) For many other ailments, all it took was a quick swallow of various potions or a bit of spellcraft to correct the problem. High blood pressure? A series of Calming Draughts would fix you right up. Cancer? A specialized Banishing Spell.

Only a few diseases- syphilis, tuberculosis, AIDS/HIV, and Brittle-Bone Syndrome, for example- were regarded as 'incurable' in the wizarding world. It was frightening to realize that almost half of the 'incurable' diseases in the wizarding world had cures or treatments in the Muggle world. Frightening and somewhat ironic, knowing that most Purebloods would never seek treatment from the Muggles...

Harry tuned back in to the man right as he asked, "And what about you, youngling? Who are you? Who's your kin? Where do you hail from?"

"Harry Potter of Little Whinging in Surrey. I'd rather not claim my kin. Nasty folk."

Another number was called and the two males ignored it. "Fraiser McKenna from Absaroka County, Wyoming. God's own country, that. Wide open skies, mountains that reach almost into space... It shows you how small you are in the world."

Harry smiled at the reverent passion in Fraiser's voice. It could not be faked. It emerged from a life-long tie to a place, the knowledge that you belonged somewhere... "I'd love to see it someday, Mr. McKenna. It sounds like a slice of heaven."

"Call me Fraiser. Mr. McKenna was my daddy." Harry took the offered hand and they shook. "So, youngling, what's the last thing you remember?"

Harry frowned as he tried to focus. The memories were like grains of sand in his hand with the way they slipped...

"Queen's Knight to G-7," Ron declared smugly. Blue eyes watched him with a startling coldness. "Check..."

Blue eyes and red hair attacked him at the same time ivory fists beat at his chest. "You filthy, half-blooded, delusional, psycho-fucked dimwit! Moronic shame upon the Potter line! I'm up the duff! Pregnant! Being required to breed your spawn was never part of the deal! How am I supposed to get a respectable marriage offer now with your bastard in my belly? I can't marry if I'm heavy with half-blooded filth!"

Bodies were everywhere... Screams from every corner as rain poured through the shattered skylight of the Great Hall... Brilliant washes of acidic green from the encroaching and soon-to-be victorious Death Eaters while students fell back to preplanned escape routes, abandoning the fight for another day, and the Order of the Phoenix fired burgundy bolts... He fell to his knees in unexpected agony as Hermione was back lit with green... Unable to breathe as a merciful soul whispered "Sectumsempra!" and his head began to roll... His final gasp as Bellatrix LeStrange cruelly laughed, a high-pitched sound of defeat...

"I was... playing chess with a friend? My best mate, I think. I'm pretty sure he won. Right chuffed, he'll be. Then again, he usually wins." Harry shook his head, trying to clear the nightmare images from his head... Especially the one of Hermione falling to Bellatrix's wand. "It's all muddled, Fraiser. Must've hit my head or something."

Fraiser just smiled. "Probably 'or something.' Maybe it has something to do with your last moments. Something like Post-Traumatic Amnesia?"

"Number ninety-seven. Ninety-seven. Please proceed to Station Two. I repeat: number ninety-seven, please proceed to Station Two," chimed the feminine voice. Again, it proceeded into Spanish, French, and then languages Harry didn't have a snowball's chance of recognizing.

Fraiser's smile got wide enough to make Harry briefly wonder if the American was a Metamorph like Tonks. Crow's feet widened into canyons beside his eyes. "I'll be! That's me! I'll see you later, Harry. Maybe we can get together later for some coffee?"

Harry shook Fraiser's hand again, smiling widely. "I'd like that, Fraiser. Maybe we can have some chocolate biscuits and a bit of whiskey."

Fraiser walked off laughing merrily. "Only if you're twenty-one, Harry. I don't care what you Brits say or if it's true that your government lets you drink as soon as you can see over the bar. In the United States, you have to be twenty-one! And they aren't biscuits. They're cookies!"

Harry laughed, shaking his head. He had to admit, he liked Fraiser, Muggle or Metamorph or whatever he was. He probably would have won over even Draco Malfoy with his warmth and laughter. Fraiser was something most people weren't.

Fraiser McKenna was genuine...

Which brought to mind those impossible 'memories' of Ginevra attacking him, physically and verbally. Ginny had loved him... right? He loved Ginny... right? The usual rush of good feelings that was associated with positive thoughts of Ginny failed to come to him now. All he felt was a deep-seated sense of betrayal and hurt.

Troubled, he settled back in his seat, wriggling until he found that one comfortable position in which to 'rest his eyes' until his number was called...

The Room of Requirement was currently configured to be an eerie mish-mash of all four Common Rooms. Students from various Houses- even a few Slytherins!- were milling about, conversing quietly. Tension ran rampant and a few minor scuffles broke out and were quickly and quietly broke up. Some students were in corners, struggling valiantly to ignore the coming conflict that would squarely place them in opposition to friends, family, lovers, and, perhaps most importantly, the Dark Lord himself.

Hermione and a few Seventh Years, mostly Ravenclaws, were tutoring younger students in Disarming Spells, Stunners, Reenervates, basic Healing spells, and how basic jinxes could be offensive. (After all, a well-placed Bat-Bogey Hex didn't care if you were an annoying sibling or Bellatrix LeStrange, now did it? Then, there was the fortunate benefit of concussions not being magically curable. Even in the Wizarding World, head injuries were tricky business.)

Fred and George were busy plotting various escape routes for students under Fourth Year, despite them being tutored in 'Basic Self-defence and Emergency Aid,' as Hermione had titled it. Third Years were to be lead through the Chamber of Secrets to the edge of the Forbidden Forest where Charlie Weasley was waiting with his fellow dragon handlers to lead them to the safety of Normandy's shores. Second Years were to evacuate to the Shrieking Shack where Bulgarian Aurors, bolstered by their best War Mages and Unspeakables, were waiting to Portkey the students to the refugee camps. The few First Years- and most, if not all of the Muggleborns and Muggle-familiar Half-Bloods- were already being Portkeyed back to their homes and meeting at Heathrow and private airstrips in a few precious hours for flights to the United States.

Harry watched, expression shuttered as he silently damned Dumbledore yet again for placing him in this situation. The past two years since the Ministry had finally acknowledged Voldemort's return had led to numerous skirmishes- mostly embarrassing defeats thanks to Dumbledore's tendency to hoard information like a Niffler hoarded shiny objects-, too many deaths- Wizarding and Muggle-, and, surprisingly, unexpected romances.

Cho Chang, his first kiss, was pregnant and she claimed that Blaise Zabini- now two months dead for trying to remain Neutral- was the father. Zacharias Smith, the pompous Hufflepuff who claimed Helga's bloodline, was deeply smitten with Slytherin's Ice Princess, Daphne Greengrass, despite his alleged adherence to the Old Ways, and her family disowning her for the romance. Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson were both pregnant and no one quite knew which Weasley twin was which Chaser's child's father.

It was looking at these women who bloomed with life and, incidentally, magical power, that Harry came to a decision. While he knew he needed their magical power, which had been heightened due to their magical children's cores, he knew he could not countenance their being on the field of battle and endangering the future.

"Excuse me! Might I have your attention?"

All activity stopped and Harry stepped forth from his dark corner where he had been, admittedly, brooding. It was a tough decision to willingly lose all of that extra magical power, to rip apart budding families, but it couldn't be helped. The next generation of the Light had to survive.

"Before we engage the enemy- and do not mistake, Voldemort, his Dark Creatures, and his Death Eaters are truly our enemy-, I must request that all witches present undergo a pregnancy test. Should it show positive, I must request that you evacuate with the younger students. Muggleborn and Muggle-familiar students should evacuate with the First Years. Everyone else will go to France...

"While I cannot force you to evacuate, I will ask that you consider the child you carry. These precious cells within your body that will soon be a full-fledged wizard or witch and, thus, our future, our legacy. These precious children who are why we fight. To know that there can be a future where it doesn't matter who one's parents are... They are the future of magic and are too valuable to sacrifice to the megalomaniac who, even now, is pounding at the wards of Hogwarts!

"If you choose to go into battle, do not count on bloodlines to save you! Do not count on mercy or quarter to be given! There will be no mercy for us! Riddle will destroy us indiscriminately for daring to oppose his elitist regime, built on innocent blood and terror. He is no better than Al-Qaeda or the IRA! He is a terrorist and terrorists do not care who they hurt!

"Riddle is a murderer, a terrorist, a fear-mongering coward hiding behind masked storm troopers and a pseudonym! He spouts the Pureblood agenda whilst a half-blood. He would eradicate those that Magic Herself has chosen for Her Gift simply because they are different! This is not the actions of a cunning Heir to Salazar Slytherin!"

That said, he watched in silence as twenty witches were proven to be pregnant and nineteen chose to evacuate. One- a pretty, petite brunette who couldn't have been on the right side of sixteen- stood beside a Seventh Year, clutching his hands with tears in her eyes as he whispered frantically and she shook her head and stated simply, "Life or death, I'll not be separate from you."

That kind of deep, desperate love was heart-wrenching to witness and he had to force himself to ignore Ginny's conspicuous absence. It hurt to realize that she did not love him...

"Fourth Years will cover the evacuation of the younger students and our lovely witches, so please divide yourselves into three groups based on the size of your assigned year. Fifth through Seventh Years will proceed through the passageway to the Great Hall where we will make our first stand in the Kitchens Corridor. I have been assured by Fred and George Weasley that the Entrance Hall is somewhere we do not desire to be and should be avoided at all costs. Hermione Granger has acquired and placed numerous Muggle devices called 'landmines' that are activated when someone steps on them. Think of a pressure-triggered Blasting Hex if you are not familiar with landmines. Ultraviolet lights have been enchanted to cause Voldemort's vampires- if there are any- as much pain as possible. Gotta love that UVA/UVB rays!

"Furthermore, aerosol cans have been rigged and will be distributed as an added protection against werewolves. These aerosol cans have liquid silver in them. Use them carefully, witches and wizards."

Here, Harry sighed, trying not to sound despondent and hopeless. "I cannot guarantee victory. We are one hundred forty-one students, three master pranksters, and roughly thirty-seven adults of various affiliations taking on an unnumbered army of Death Eaters, Dark Creatures, and Ministry lackeys. Some of these creatures had no choice, due to a culture of allowing one individual leadership of a familial group. Some are merely following the trends of power.

"A few, though, are evil. Fenrir Greyback is one of these few. During the first war, he would deliberately attack the children of those who opposed Riddle. Remus Lupin, one of our master pranksters, is a survivor of such an attack.

"In closing, we did not ask for this fight. It is a fight that should have been finished nearly twenty years ago when my parents were murdered in their own home and I was almost assassinated. The people in power should have punished those who had committed the war crimes we all read about. The people in power then, the Fudges, the Crouches, the Bagnolds of the ensuing years... They bred this war, but are no longer around to feel the consequences of their actions.

"That said... Riddle has brought their fight to us. Hopefully, we'll all come home tonight. That is all."

"Number one hundred four. One hundred four. Please proceed to Station One. I repeat: number one hundred four, please proceed to Station One." This time, instead of proceeding into the other languages, a bell-like tone was heard and the voice continued, "Code Grey. I repeat: Code Grey. All service agents, please stand by."

Harry eyed his ticket- a ticket he didn't remember acquiring- and saw a bold 104 printed on it. He hadn't noticed the door on the other side of the room previously. On the other side of that door lay uncertainty.

He was sick and tired of uncertainty! All he had ever wanted in life was to leave the Dursleys, marry a nice girl, have a few kids... Was that too much to ask for? It seemed like everyone else got to have the lives they wanted, but why couldn't he?

It took every bit of his Gryffindor courage to open that door and walk through it.

The hall was long and an eggshell-white colour, doors were a rich oak-like wood. He paused to watch as people milled about. Some were talking in hushed whispers, others a jubilant noise. Some were lead quietly away and still others were screaming hysterically, restrained to dollies, and being carted off. In fact...

Isn't that Bella LeStrange on that dolly? The bite-guard makes it hard to be sure... Actually, she resembles a female Hannibal Lecter... Hermione always did like her boots, though. 'Very witchy,' she said... Wonder where she got them?

He shook his head hard and entered the door labelled 'Service Station Number One.' A deep breath settled his nerves as an unearthly shriek filled the halls, decidedly feminine in its pitch.

Yup, definitely mad Bella. May that mad... er... witch?... get everything she deserves!

"Name, date of birth, date of death, and cause of death," barked a no-nonsense voice.

"Er... Harry James Potter, born thirty-one July of nineteen-eighty. I don't know when I died, but I think someone beheaded me with a Severing Curse."

The woman- a heavy-set blonde with a double-chin, but kind violet eyes- looked up from her computer screen, seemingly stunned before anger overtook her expression. She began speaking in a language that might have been the bastard child of ancient Gaelic and Latin. Whatever she was saying, Harry doubted the general societal acceptability of it and was positive that it was liberally peppered with curses. She didn't seem angry at him, though. Instead, it seemed like she was angry on his behalf, a novel situation.

"So... er... I'm dead?" he queried.

"Yes. Again, I might add! Not that I can actually discuss any of that mess with you without Rowen present. Oh, she's going to be positively brassed about this! She just lost four days' vacation time to Celeste Lovegood," the woman babbled, dialling an extension on her phone and speaking into the receiver. "Rowen, it's Betty in Receiving... Yes, it's Mr. Potter... Yes, again..."

Betty began to drum her fingers on her desk in agitation, a response to something Rowen said on the other end. "Rowen, it's not his fault and you know it... Yes, I am aware that you served during the Holocaust and the Black Plague..." Here, Betty's tone became sharp. "There is a reason Mr. Potter is your problem child, Rowen! All of the Potters have been your problem children of recent. Now, you will come and get him, NOW! Thank you."

Betty placed the receiver in it's cradle and smiled brightly at him. "Sorry about that, love. Rowen will be here to collect you in a few. Probably after she douses her hair. The whole flaming hair thing went out of style a few decades back, but it still comes in useful. You wouldn't believe how well it works with those religious fanatics! You would not believe what some of the Reapers go through with the misogynistic societies!"

It took several blinks to process all of the information that had just been thrown at him, willy-nilly, by the receptionist. Not only was he dead, but it wasn't even his first time in such a state! Someone named Rowen was coming to collect him after she put her hair out! This same Rowen, presumably, had just lost vacation time to Celeste Lovegood in a bet that concerned him!

It was enough to make his head hurt worse than a few of his Voldemort-induced, post-vision headaches.

"... You see, I don't understand why a man would want seventy-two virgins! I mean, seriously! The first time is always awkward and messy and sometimes painful! At least for women. You men have it easy. Still... would you want to go through deflowering seventy-two different women? Nah... I'd want seventy-two of the sluttiest slags one could find to put my John Thomas in..."

Harry prayed Rowen would hurry. It didn't matter how brassed off she was with him, it just couldn't be worse than listening to this blonde prattle about how she'd want her willy done- if she had one, of course.

Finally, mercifully, the door behind Betty opened and a tall brunette entered the room. She was patting her hair beside her ear as if putting out a lingering flame. Her other hand slid a pair of thin glasses up her small, fey-like nose. Black eyes smouldered above wide, bow-shaped lips painted a red that was probably named 'Wicked Witch's Apple' or 'Candyman Red' or 'Scarlett Woman.' Most of her hair was gathered behind her head in an elegant French braid while a few riotous curls had escaped confinement...

"Good evening, Mr. Potter. If you are quite through ogling my humanoid form, we can move along. You may call me Rowen. I have served as the Potter Family Grim Reaper for twenty-seven generations. I'll need you to follow me to see what can be done to repair the Tapestry of Fate now."

Betty waved as he followed Rowen. "See you later, love! Tell your mum and da to give me a bell, yeah?"

He nodded helplessly, jogging to catch up and keep up with Rowen's rapidly clicking heels. It was obvious that she was angry, especially when you added in her various mutterings and cursing of 'Grandpa Whiskers,' 'Voldie-Head-Up-His-Arse,' and 'Severus Shite-For-Brains.' Not to mention the frequency of these mutterings. There was more- something about red-headed Benedict Arnolds and Mata Haris-, but nothing beat the independent confirmation that Severus Snape had been sniffing too many of his own concoctions.

Once Rowen finally slowed down and showed him into a room that he could only presume was her office, Harry was able to catch his breath. He had thought that all of Wood's Quidditch practices (The man was nuts, truly!), amongst other things, would have kept him in better shape. Maybe Quidditch wasn't as strenuous as he had previously thought. In fact, looking back, he couldn't recall ever seeing an opposing Seeker sweat as hard as he did...

Rowen sat on the corner of her desk, one elegantly clad Mary Jane-esque high heel swinging to an unheard rhythm. "Mr. Potter, I am rapidly reaching the conclusion that you hate me. You see, it's either that or come to the conclusion that most male Potters are absolutely bat-shit insane, rushing forth to where angels and more than a few demons would fear to tread.

"You see, Mr. Potter, I am currently a very, very unhappy Grim Reaper. I have a client who has racked up an almost unheard of seven Unscheduled Arrivals and, as a consequence, I am this close-" Here, Rowen held up two fingers not even a hairsbreadth apart. "-to being demoted to Hellhounds Kennel Keeper and dreaming of a promotion to the Nightmares' Stable! Not as a trainer, no. As a groomer!

"Do you know what being in the Kennels will do to my shoes!? Do you?! Ferragamos and Manolo Blahniks are not meant for such harsh environments! And my poor feet! The abuse, the abuse!" A sniffle made her distress obvious. "All because one client has to be hard-headed and continuously disturb the weaving of the Tapestry of Fate!

"It's not as though his fate is overly difficult either! Kill one Tom Riddle- alias Lord Voldemort-, marry his soul mate..." Rowen flipped open a file on her desk and nodded slightly as a manicured nail ran down the page. "Yes, that's right. The Granger girl. And sweet, merciful Lord Destiny! She's about as fertile as that Molly Weasley witch!"

Harry had been called a bit thick before, but he wasn't Crabbe and Goyle thick. "I'm starting to believe you're referring to me as your client and when you call Molly Weasley a witch you're not referring to her ability to cast spells."

"Ha! I told Charlus you weren't mentally deficit, just misguided!" Rowen smiled at him. "Still, Mr. Potter, I don't think you could have messed up your lives any more if you had tried... Which is really sad, because you were doing the best you could under the circumstances. Still... What were you thinking!?"

She threw several sheets of paper from the folder at him and each headline made Harry pale further. They were obviously Daily Prophet articles no one had ever shown him, or he simply hadn't lived long enough to see.

"Potter Declared Traitor By Ministry!"

"Potter Plans Power-Play! Headed For Hogwarts!"

"Potter Beheaded By Aurors! Rebellion Quelled!"

"Potter Found Guilty of Line Theft!"

Here, Harry froze. Line theft? That was impossible! He had promised to marry Ginevra! The contract was signed in Gringott's, awaiting them at the end of the war! It took a moment to control the chaos in his stomach to read the article.

Rita Skeeter, reporting

Miss Ginevra Weasley of House Weasley filed suit last week against the estate of declared traitor, Harry Potter. (Originally it was reported that she was doing so in order to prevent the distribution of reparations to the victims of Potter's insurrectionist group. This report was in error.) Today, Miss Weasley's bravery has been vindicated by the quickly convened Wizengamot.

While the pregnancy of Miss Weasley is indisputable, the controversy stems from her own brothers, Misters Frederick and George Weasley of No 93 Diagon Alley, who testified that Mr. Potter had actually pledged troth to Miss Weasley and that there was a contract, signed by their father and Head of House, Mr. Arthur Weasley, in Gringott's. (Other witnesses concerning the betrothal included Michael Corner, heir to Wiz-Hard Publishing, Lady Luna Lovegood, Lord Neville Longbottom, and various other members of Potter's insurrectionist group, Dumbledore's Army.) Given the Goblin policy of non-interference in Wizarding affair, no evidence from Gringott's of a contract was provided.

Percival Weasley, Miss Weasley's Head of House after the demise of Arthur Weasley in the Battle for Hogwarts, stated: "It is unfortunate that Frederick and George fell victim to Mr. Potter's dangerous lies. There is no way that my father- may Magic give him rest- would have agreed to a betrothal contract between House Weasley and House Potter. Even if he had, I would have immediately dissolved such a travesty upon receiving the Head Ring!

"Mister Potter's madness was evident as far back as his First Year at Hogwarts. While Dumbledore was as mad as the proverbial hatter, there is absolutely no way he would have permitted the grounds keeper to hatch a dragon or have a Cerberus housed in a third floor corridor. And don't get me started on that Philosopher's Stone nonsense!

"Despite the pleas of the general public, several prefects, and professors, Headmaster Dumbledore refused to realize the danger Mister Potter presented. His only concession was to not removed the magical core bindings that were placed on the developing criminal as an infant. Thank Merlin for small mercies!"

Lucius Malfoy, Chief Warlock, released the following statement today following the verdict: "Young Miss Weasley has the full backing of this office during this traumatic ordeal. Due to my predecessor, this office has intimate knowledge of Mister Potter's misdeeds and lawlessness. My predecessor permitted Mister Potter's criminal behaviour and this is the result. He sullied the bloodline of one of Britain's purest Families.

"We are fortunate that Miss Weasley had the courage to come forth when many other witches would have sought the solace of her ancestors. Few witches of her genteel upbringing would have had her sheer determination to see to justice."

In an unrelated press release from the Chief Warlock's office, it was revealed that Lord and Lady Malfoy would take custody of the last of the Potter line, freeing Miss Ginevra Weasley to wed the Scion of House Malfoy, Draco Abraxus, next summer.

Harry couldn't hold in the contents of his stomach, meagre though they were, any longer. Rowen patted his back sympathetically as he retched violently into her rubbish bin.

"Magic is not supposed to be pretty. That sort of foolish wand waving

is for entertaining children. The most powerful wizard I know never cast

anything more complicated than a Stunner."

-Alastor Moody, Master Auror

'Advanced Auror Techniques'

Chapter Seventeen: Constant Vigilance