TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"

AUTHOR: sordid humor

AUTHOR E-MAIL: Adventure

SUB-CATEGORY: Humor; Romance; Drama

RATING: currently PG, but expect changes

DISCLAIMER:

"I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling."

- an old friend

Realistically, I think we all know by now who's making several billion euros a year off the boy who lived, and we all know that's not me. No copyright infringement intended, sorry-sorry, et cetera, et cetera. You know the drill.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Not all chapters are as lengthy as the first. I write most things out on paper and then type after two-to-three rounds of personal editing and revision, so it obviously takes a little more time to achieve a finished product. However, I'm paranoid and anal; so, don't expect deviation. When I was typing this chapter, I was about halfway through drafting chapter four. There's always something in the works. The entire plot should be more than twenty chapters, but not more than thirty—that's if I don't add anything, which I inevitably will. I greatly hope that my little take is enjoyable—and you'd better love it, you evil creatures you! You know who you are, namagomi mazokus that demanded I take your silly commission. 6200 words and counting. I hope you're bleeping happy.

OPENING SUMMARY:

So Dumbledore's dead, that's a big one. Obviously, we have one very distraught Harry Potter on our hands. As he decides to get on with the great adventure of his life, circumb to destiny, et cetera, Ron and Hermione vow to come along for the ride... but Harry works alone. Though he loves his friends, his love for them exceeds any desire for assistance or camaraderie. At the first possible chance, Harry strikes out on his own. He knows that Ron and Hermione and all of his friends will come after him—but if there's one thing his life has taught him, it's that the best place to hide is in the open. Harry uses the Dark Arts to perform a very complex curse, allowing himself to become everything he's not... with some limits, but no matter. And Harry sets out to find the remaining Horcruxes of his life-long nemesis, sets out on the ultimate adventure... in an unassuming form...

PART I

CHAPTER I:

NUDITY, SKULLS, TENDERNESS, & LIES

Orange sunshine sloshed about the cauldron as he gave two splashes left, one splash right, and two splashes left again. The sunshine thickened every time becoming brighter with each flick of the seven and a quarter inch willow wood salad fork with which he stirred it. He sighed and wiped his brow on his sleeve. He had been up all night with his Felix Felicis, which had yet to turn golden, despite the Prince's word that it should be fully gold and sloshing on its own by now... it was easier to think of Snape as the prince; as an equal. It was easier to believe than to remember... who could trust Snape's word now? Especially after...

Harry turned his head slightly, letting his tear fall onto the floor rather than anywhere near his potion brewing on the Dursley's new stove top. He held back a sniff and wiped his cheek before any of the Dursley's came into the kitchen and caught him crying again. But the only thing that would tear the Dursley's from their precious television and draw them into the kitchen would be the desire to demand that Harry speed up the production of tonight's feast: pot roast. Harry had put it in the oven an hour ago, and the light aroma of cooking meat now filling the kitchen only served to confirm his story.

He had been back at number four, Privet Drive for almost five weeks now: he had been brewing Felix Felicis for about as long. According to the "additions" to Advanced Potion Making, the difficult part was already over. As soon as the potion went gold and started sloshing on its own, it would require only a four-month boil in order to achieve full potency. Harry had arranged to have Dobby retrieve the potion from the Dursley's and bring it to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, where it would be watched over by Dobby, Kreacher, and Winky until it was complete. The more Harry thought about it, the more he realized he'd have to thank Ron for suggesting that he request Dobby and Winky from Professor McGonagall before Hogwarts—

Harry gulped and forced down a fresh wave of tears. He had come to the conclusion that crying would not do a thing... yet sometimes he couldn't manage to make himself stop. No matter how he tried, he always managed to be thinking about Hogwarts and magic and Dumbledore. At least Felix gave him something to do.

There was a series of cracks from the front room as though Dudley had sat on the glass-top coffee table. Harry winced and tapped the potion off of his wooden fork. There was a shriek from Aunt Petunia and a growl of wrath from Uncle Vernon, and Harry was then quite confident that the noise hadn't been Dudders and the coffee table. He put down his fork and went out to meet his elves, thinking, "where has the time gone? I couldn't have lost track of the date alrea—"

There were half a dozen wizards in the Dursley's living room.

"BOY!" Uncle Vernon roared, catching sight of Harry in the doorway, "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" and he jabbed a large fat finger at the crowd of people who had indeed Apparated on top of his new coffee table.

Four of five redheads grinned and waved enthusiastically. Three women blushed furiously and hit the nearest redheaded lunatic with varying levels of force.

Uncle Vernon's face went from beat red to puce.

"BOY!!!"

"Wh—" Harry stuttered, "wha' are you all doing here?"

"We came to rescue you!" exclaimed Fred, stepping out of the remnants of the coffee table.

"Again!" added George, likewise liberating himself.

"WHO IS THIS LOT?" Uncle Vernon demanded, standing up and unbuttoning his suit coat menacingly. Aunt Petunia and Dudley looked positively faint.

Fred and George pointed their wands haphazardly at Uncle Vernon, who paled but didn't back down. Harry resisted the temptation to cover his eyes and let it all be done.

"Oh, dear! This is rather ridiculous!" Hermione intervened; the only one sensible enough to wear muggle clothing, the only one sensible enough not to make matters worsen exponentially, and the only one sensible enough not to have apparated on the Dursley's coffee table. She pushed Fred and George's wands down and stepped between the twins and the overlarge puce bulldog of a man called Dursley.

"My name is Hermione Granger," she said, offering her hand. Dursley regarded it skeptically. "My parents are dentists," she said in a reassuring voice. Dursley took her hand and shook it curtly. "This is Ginny Weasley, Ron Weasley," she pointed, "Fred and George Weasley—" they made faces at Dudley when Uncle Vernon wasn't looking—"Bill Weasley and his fiancée Fleur Delacour." Dursley's narrowed eyes flashed around to each face in turn. "We were wondering, sir," Hermione smiled sweetly, "if we might borrow Harry for the engagement party this evening?"

Had time truly snuck up on him so quickly? Could it already be the first week of July? Could his birthday be in but a few weeks? He couldn't believe it. It had been too many days since he had slept, spending all of his time in the kitchen bottling various potions and looking up many complicated spells and making many very long lists. Could it already be time? He couldn't believe it.

Everyone was removing themselves from the remnants of the coffee table. Ron gave Harry a wave, Ginny gave him a small smile, and Hermione gave him a small jut of the head that communicated "get over here, dung brains!".

"So ... can I go, Uncle Vernon?" Harry asked tentatively, edging towards the raging bull.

There was a ding from the kitchen and everyone jumped.

"Get my dinner and get out," fumed Uncle Vernon, sitting back down in his armchair and changing the channel on the television angrily, a definite omen of the return to normalcy. Hermione set the table back to rights and then the coffee-table-breaking party followed Harry's trail, as he had scuttled back to the kitchen.

"Zey are not vehry nice," Fleur said plainly once in the kitchen.

"Didn't we tell you about the time they put bars on his window—" asked George.

"Good story, tha' one!" Fred chimed in, snatching Fleur's attention away and launching into the tale extensively, embellishing freely as he went along and giving Ron and Hermione a chance to approach Harry, who was coaxing a large roast from the oven. Ron's eyes bugged out at the sight of the meat.

"Harry!" Hermione squealed in displeasure.

"What? I figured out how to cook," Harry fanned the roast with his pot-mittened hands and looked over at Hermione. "It's not that bloody difficult."

"Not that—cooking, Harry—argh!" she spluttered, "THAT!" and she pointed angrily to Harry's Felix Felicis, which was sloshing of its own accord, brightest gold, and burbling merrily in the cauldron on the stove top ... with her hands on her hips, her hair pulled back tight, her lips pursed and her toe tapping for an explanation, she looked fiercer than Professor McGonagall. Harry pinkened around the ears.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"You used that book, didn't you?"

"So what?"

"It's perfect," Ron mewed over the potion, his eyes just a little glazed over.

"And just what are you planning to do with a half-made potion when we leave next week, Harry?"

"Actually," Harry retorted, "I already have a plan." He turned and called, "Kreacher!" Ron flinched involuntarily. "Dobby, Winky!" Hermione fixed Harry with a look. "What? I bought Winky from McGonagall; I'm paying Dobby, and Kreacher's mine. What?"

CRACK!

Dobby and Winky appeared dragging Kreacher between them. Winky looked better for having something to do. Dobby was wearing one of Harry's very old T-shirts. Following their appearance, Dursley bellowed something about breaking dishes and breaking necks, but no one was listening...

"Hello, Harry Potter, sir!" the two bearing Kreacher chimed. Dobby shook Kreacher's arm.

"Nasty mudblood—" Dobby slapped a hand over Kreacher's mouth.

"It's fine, Dobby," Harry said, grabbing the Felix off the stove with his oven mitts and bringing it to Dobby and Winky. "You remember what to do?" he asked.

"Yes, sir!" Winky squeaked happily, twisting Kreacher's other arm with a subdued vengeance. Harry heard Ron chuckling behind him. Harry wondered if he and Ron were still technically members of SPEW ...

"Good luck, then," Harry said casually. "I doubt I'll be back before it's ready ..."

"We'll be ready, Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squeaked and, with a wave from Winky and muffled curses from Kreacher, all three Disapparated.

"My dinner, boy!" Uncle Vernon roared from the living room. Everyone in the kitchen either jumped or flinched. Harry headed for the pot roast.

"Oh, let us get that for you, Harry!" Bill said quickly, flicking his wand at the roast. It rose a foot out of the pan and began slicing itself. Harry made to get plates and silverware, but Fred, George, Fleur, Ron, and Hermione were all getting things done splendidly. Ginny tapped Harry on the shoulder and he started. Ginny blushed and laughed a little.

"Harry, why don't you go get changed? We've got everything under control ..." she smiled. Fleur was carrying plates of food towards the front room, muttering, "ze zings I do for you, 'Arry!" Bill was helping her with the plates, beaming. Ron was helping himself to Harry's pot roast with his fingers until Hermione hit him on the hand with the willow wood salad fork. Harry let himself smile for the first time in weeks.

-

Rather than remain in the kitchen and endure the mutterings of Phlegm, Ginny followed Harry out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room. She hadn't worked out her words completely, but she needed to talk to him, and this had the potential to be their only time away from the others for the rest of the evening.

Harry—completely unaware of his pursuer—threw open the door to his room and stripped himself of his sweater and t-shirt respectively; tossing his glasses onto his bed. Scratching his neck, he wondered where he might find a clean shirt. He stretched his sore arms and back while he thought, feeling tired muscles curl and contract. He scratched his neck with one hand and unzipped his jeans with the other, yawning. He remembered where he had hidden a clean shirt and moved to get it when he heard a sound behind him and spun around, drawing his wand from the jeans that were presently sliding down his backside.

Ginny turned near as red as the Quaffles on Harry's boxers. Her hand flew up to cover her open mouth yet her eyes continually roved the sights before her ... Harry tugged his jeans back up with an indignant huff. He gestured Ginny toward the empty chair at his desk and she sat down without a word.

Harry folded his arms over his chest and regarded the beautiful, blushing redheaded regarding him, traversing him over the tips of her fingers. She appeared far more embarrassed than he felt, but continued roving blatantly over him. He leaned against his bed frame and continued to watch her as she finally closed her eyes and put her head down, testing the heat of her cheeks on the delicate back side of her hand. Moments passed between them in near silence, the muffled voices of the evening news drifting natantly from the rooms below.

"I didn't mean to," Ginny said at last, her voice quiet and almost awkward in what was quickly becoming a very small, confined space. "I didn't want to be nosy or ..." Harry lunged for the shirt he had been looking for, slipping it on and doing up a few buttons in her silence. "Harry, I'm really sorry! I didn't mean to upset you, I just wanted to talk to you—"

"It's fine, Ginny. I'm not upset." Harry had stopped buttoning his shirt and gazed at her. Her green eyes nearly melted something inside him... nearly. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, resigning himself to fate and the conversation he had seen coming since the day he left Hogwarts. Harry sat down on his bed and asked, "You wanted to talk to me about something?"

"Yes," Ginny said more solidly, looking up from the floor and fixing him square in the eye, "but I don't know if we have the time now..." she glanced at the still-open door through which the gentle hum of voices could be discerned. Harry, too, knew that the others shouldn't be kept waiting... but he had to give Ginny the closure that he knew she would want.

"It's alright, Ginny. Best to have this out now; besides..." Harry cast a quick Muffliato towards the door. He abandoned buttoning his shirt and left it hanging half open as he rearranged himself on the bedspread. He kept his eyes on Ginny's soft face, watching for... anything. "I don't know when we'll be alone again."

"Harry," she said, fixing him with a Mrs. Weasley-esque glare to evoke symptoms of guilt from sordid and clean alike, "that's partially what I wanted to discuss—all of this talk about going off and chasing You-Know-Who. Harry!" The look worsened, if that's even possible, and preventing Harry's protests before they began. "I'm not asking you to stay because I know that's something you can't do. By all means, go! Harry, I'll wish you luck because I believe in you, and because I know you'll always do the right thing ..." she stopped, looking deep into his eyes.

"Thanks, Ginny," Harry was able to mutter awkwardly, not knowing what else to say, "that... er, means a lot."

She smiled at him, large green eyes like pools calling all the light of the room to themselves. Harry was so easily taken in—she could control him with a phrase or a look... or just her presence. He was mesmerized.

"Harry," she said softly, her lashes fluttering as she drank him in, and he was drawn further and farther still, "I know you have to go after him, but let me come with you... you and Hermione and Ron. We could all go together; you can find You Know Who, and I can be there for you. You wouldn't have to worry about me," she assured him, reading the expression on his face all too clearly, "I can hold my own and you know it! Please, Harry, let me come with you..."

"I..." Harry's lips had gone mysteriously slack as Ginny spoke; he couldn't conjure a response for the life of him. Her eyes and her hair, her lips, her smile—they were drawing him in. He couldn't say no, he couldn't possibly refuse her, he just couldn't ...

"You ready, Harry?" Ron called up the stairs, breaking the aching silence and tearing Harry away from Ginny's eyes and back into reality.

"Yeah, just about, mate!" Harry called back. He turned to Ginny, "We'll talk about this later, alright?" She gave no response except to make a somewhat skeptical noise. "Really, Ginny, I'll think on it, okay? We've got to get going..." She nodded curtly and stood up. Harry returned to buttoning his shirt, giving himself an excuse not to look at her, an excuse to regain his senses before he lost his mind in her eyes.

"It was nice," Ginny said sweetly as he stood.

"Wha' was?" he asked, realizing that he had skipped a button and undoing half his work to correct it.

"It was nice," she repeated slowly, fixing him with a beautiful, sorrowful expression, "being alone with you."

And she was coming towards him... or was he going towards her? It was all too fuzzy. It was all too close and soft, warm, and somehow disorienting. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself wrapping his arms around her, feeling her hot breath on his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. He pulled her flesh against him, thrilled by the shape and feel of her body against his. He exalted in the feel of her lips and tongue and teeth. She shuddered against him as he pressed up to her; her breath caught, her chest hitched tightly on his ribs. She seemed to moan against him and yet he found the power to tear himself away from her at last.

She makes me crazy, he realized.

"I'm coming, Ron!" he shouted as he snatched up his cloak from a knob on the dresser. He kept his eyes to the carpet, feeling rather than seeing her gaze hotly on him as she strode slowly to the doorway and turned out the light. He informed himself that he had just kissed Ginny Weasley goodbye.

He threw his cloak about his shoulders, fastening it tightly. His cloak billowed out behind him as he went out the door.

-

-

-

Dust kicked up from the floor as Harry and Hermione landed squarely in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron's storage room. When Harry had taken Hermione's proffered arm, Ron had smiled and said that he would rather keep his eyebrows too, should he have a choice in the matter. Hermione had remained indignant, warning Ron that whatever inevitably went wrong was ultimately his fault for Apparating without a license, and so on...

She released Harry's arm to brush dust from his shoulders. As she was running her fingers through his hair—to get rid of the dust, naturally—Fred, George, and Ginny Apparated by the door way, followed by Bill and then Fleur. Ginny looked blankly from Harry to Hermione and then left .. along with the bottom of Harry's stomach. He felt horrible... and he didn't even like Hermione that way, besides! He turned to follow Ginny, but Hermione turned him back to face her, rubbing at a smudge on his nose invisible to him. She fluffed his ever-messy hair and tutted softly. They were the only ones in the dusty storeroom.

"Hermione, honestly!" Harry said hotly, disengaging himself from Hermione's grasp before she could finish doing up the last few buttons of his shirt. He let out steam in the form of a firm exhalation and finished his shirt himself.

After a loud thump and liquid crashings, Ron's panicked "sorry's" could be heard from the dining area of the Leaky Cauldron. "C'mon, Ron" and "sorry, Tom" could be distinguished as coming from Fred and George as they undoubtedly dragged Ron off to the party in Diagon Alley.

"Harry, you're a mess," Hermione said bluntly, fixing him squarely with yet another pointed look and redirecting his attention.

Harry realized he was buttoning his shirt awfully crooked. He surrendered, dropping his arms at his sides and watching over Hermione's shoulder as she did up his shirt. She made several more tutting sounds.

"This is about Ginny, isn't it." She gestured to his right eye, which was twitching of its own accord every two to three seconds. Her voice made the question a statement, silently daring Harry to try and contradict it. Harry simply nodded, his lips numb for the second time in a matter of minutes. "I'll bet," Hermione mused knowingly, "she wants to come with us, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, but she can't." Hermione cocked her head to one side, listening intently, expectantly awaiting his pending line of reason. Her expression said "this better be good."

"If Voldemort found out how I feel about her, he'd take her and use her to lure me into another trap... I can't put her in that kind of danger, you see?"

"Yes, Harry, I do," Hermione sighed and put a consoling hand on his shoulder.

"Plus," he added, blushing, "my brain kind of... turns to mush when she looks at me, you know?"

Hermione smiled. "Yes, I do."

"We should get going," Harry said, coming to his senses, "or pretty soon everyone will start worrying..."

"Shall we?" Hermione had offered her arm. Harry took it with a grin.

"Let's go!"

-

Ginny was much farther up Diagon Alley, talking loudly to Fred and George, gesticulating wildly, manically. Harry felt like dragon dung. Bill and Fleur were walking in a lip-lock behind the irate Ginny. Hermione rolled her eyes at the happy couple. The party at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes could be heard from Gringotts. Harry marveled at the happy noise of people, music, and free Weasley's samples—Fred and George's patented fireworks shot relentlessly, one after another into the evening sky.

"Wait 'til you see everyone, Harry!" Hermione said happily. "You'll never believe who's all come!"

There was a loud crash—something that wasn't meant to be broken—followed by panicked, nearly familiar frightened screams, and Fred and George set off at a run in the distance. With a look, Harry and Hermione started running, too.

-

Human skulls had been thrown through the storefront windows; glass littered the floor and fear littered the faces of the party guests. Familiar faces hung out of the upstairs windows; Mrs. Weasley wanted to know what had happened and if everyone was alright; Mr. Weasley wanted to know if he should alert the Ministry ...

Charlie came gingerly out the open front door, putting pressure against a nasty gash on his forehead.

"What happened?" Fred asked, approaching Charlie at a run with George at his side.

"Death Eaters," Charlie said curtly, indicating the broken windows and the skulls inside. "Threw those skulls through the windows an' took off down Knocturn Alley."

"You sure they were the real thing, Charlie?" Bill asked, looking wary and worried.

"They were real," Charlie answered, "Dark Mark's on the skulls." Fred and George gaped.

"And there's more..." Tonks had stepped through the broken window pane carrying one of the skulls. "Look," she said, holding it up so Fred and George could get a better view of the skull in her hands.

Harry pulled out his wand and thought Lumos, and others quickly did the same in the gathering dark. Written on the back of the skull—in what appeared to be blood—the words "blood traitors."

Many more people were coming out of the shop to see what was happening; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Lee Jordan, Remus Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, Katie Bell, Oliver Wood, and still other people. They poured out through the doorway and the broken window panes. Expressions ranged from shocked and frightened to insulted and enraged. Fred and George were livid. Fleur was looking worried and clung to Bill, who was near murderous.

"Bit of a weak showing, if you ask me," said a gruff voice from behind Harry. He spun around to find Mad Eye Moody leaning on an old walking stick and breathing heavily. "I've owled the Ministry—fat lotta good it'll do, boys," Moody added to Fred and George in what was, for Moody, a consoling voice.

"Thanks, Moody," Mr. Weasley said—Mrs. Weasley was busy clutching Ginny and Ron to her bosom in what Ron's face claimed was a choke hold.

"Why don't we all head back inside?" Fred suggested, ushering Bill and Fleur towards the door.

"Can't let them spoil the party, right?" George said cheerfully, grabbing a bottle of mead from Lee Jordan and conjuring a large mug for himself out of thin air. People started filtering back into the shop—Moody, McGonagall and Shacklebolt were deep in conversation by the time they stepped through the broken window. Lupin held the door open for Tonks. Oliver Wood asked Katie Bell if she'd care to have a drink with him. Fred and George lingered back under the pretense of watching their guests filter back indoors. Harry hung low behind them, waiting for a word.

"Hey," Harry said quietly once the guests were out of sight and earshot—casting Muffliato and extinguishing his wand just to be sure.

"Hey," the twins said gloomily in turn, passing the bottle of mead between themselves.

"Are we still on for tonight?" Harry asked, his mien recondite. He was passed the bottle of mead and took a large enough swig to draw looks of questioning errancy from the twins. He had a second, equally unfastidious mouthful before passing the now three-quarters empty bottle.

"You still want to go?" Fred asked in disbelief, surveying his denigrated storefront with a bilious eye.

"Oh, yes," Harry muttered, "this settles it. I'm going."

"Right," said George before finishing the bottle.

"We've got everything hidden under the sink in the upstairs bathroom," Fred explained as George drank. "We'll meet you up there in two hours, alright?"

"Gotcha," Harry nodded.

"And be sure to bring a couple more bottles with you," Fred added in a portentous tone as he pointed his wand and refilled George's empty bottle.

"And what are you three talking about so secretively?" Bill called, leaning from an upstairs window.

"Why anybody would want to marry a prying, ugly git such as yourself!" George yelled back convivially, toasting Bill with his fresh bottle.

"I could understand if you were filthy rich, but ..." Fred added an exaggerated shrug. Bill laughed and disappeared from the window. Harry, Fred, and George—throwing their arms over one another's shoulders—shuffled towards the broken window wide enough to admit them. All three lifted a leg in unison ... only to be drenched as Bill and Fleur poured hard liquor on their heads from the upstairs window Bill had abandoned the minute before.

Laughing and dripping with Merlin-knows-what, they stumbled into the party.

-

Harry couldn't believe how quickly two hours had passed! Everyone was having a wonderful time it seemed; Harry had won a year's worth of pocket money by slaughtering Bill's friends at muggle poker, a somewhat tipsy Fleur had mistaken Ron for Bill (and plastered a very passionate kiss on him before realizing her mistake), the Ministry's Response Team had been invited in for a drink, and Hagrid was currently dancing a hearty jig with Fleur's intoxicated grandmother. Even Professor McGonagall's hat was askew as she accepted yet another sherry from Mrs. Weasley. One highly intoxicated Oliver Wood had cornered Harry more than once to reminisce hiccupingly about "the good ole days."

Harry climbed up the heavily populated stairs, the happiest he'd been in a very long time ... also the closest he'd ever been to drunk, but nevertheless very happy, indeed. He was cradling an oblong package in his arms—a package which McGonagall had bestowed upon him long before her rounds with Mrs. Weasley began. She had been very somber in handing him that package, telling him that it contained some of Dumbledore's possessions that he had wished to go directly to Harry. Even while the closest he'd ever been to drunk, Harry clung to that package for dear life. It was an awkward shape, and he could hear some small item tinkeling as he navigated his way up the crowded stairwell. He had to get to Fred and George's bathroom ... and hopefully sober up once there ...

The door was closed, so he knocked.

"Someone's in here!" Fred's somewhat agitated voice echoed around the room, suggesting it was tiled.

"It's me," Harry whispered, as clandestine as he could given that he was whispering to a door in a somewhat inebriated state.

The door was wrenched open; Harry was grabbed, dragged in, and the door was slammed without further ceremony.

The room was tiled: in white and sage. George was perched on top of the toilet tank and Fred was leaning against the sink. There was a large collection of gadgets on the floor, and a pile of robes on the lip of the bathtub. Harry removed several bottles of mead and fire whiskey from the crook of his arm and set them on the floor.

"You ready?" George asked, standing up.

"Yeah. Let's do this," Harry moved to set down his package but found he couldn't manage to get it out of his hands.

"What's in the box?" Fred asked.

"Dunno."

"Well, where'd you get it?"

"McGonagall."

"She say anything about it?"

"Said it's some stuff ... from Dumbledore."

"Wow," George sat down again.

"You wanna open it?" Fred offered his pocket knife.

"Um," Harry paused. Something of Dumbledore's might help said a voice in his head, a voice that sounded like his father, or Sirius. Harry accepted the knife. "Sure. Wouldn't hurt to have a look ..."

Fred held the package while Harry sliced it open.

"Merlin's beard!" George whispered, peering over his brother's shoulder. "Gryffindor's sword!"

"Blimey, Harry," Fred's hands were shaking under the package. But the sword wasn't the first thing Harry saw ...

"What's that?"

Harry had recognized it instantly; the cracked black stone set in gold, bits of dust set deep inside the detailing. "It was Slytherin's. Voldemort was using it, so Dumbledore ... that's how he hurt his hand, I think ..."

There was also a letter (which Harry decided to leave for later) and an envelope labeled "office contents and personal effects" with a Gringotts key inside.

"What're you supposed to do with those?" George asked.

"Put them in my house, I guess," Harry said.

"Your house?" Fred questioned.

"Yeah," Harry admitted, "Grimmauld Place, you know?"

"Woah," the twins said in rare unison. Harry felt awkward.

"We should get on with this, though," he said. "What're the bottles for, then?"

"Well," Fred said after placing the package on the floor, for lack of a better place to put it, "we were going to dump one over you, but Bill already did that—you smell gorgeous," he added, sniffing Harry's head sarcastically.

"One you would take with you, for show as much as just in case things got ugly," George explained.

"And the rest are for us to drink while we wait for you to come back alive," Fred finished. "You're real sure about all this, Harry?" Both twins looked worried.

"You got the potions, I take it?" They nodded. "And the powder?" They nodded again. "Then let's do this."

-

"Was the punching telescope really necessary?" Harry muttered, his eye blackened, his lip cut and his jaw bruised.

"Sorry," Fred mumbled, smearing more of the dried-blood-and-mud mixture on the ripped shirt Harry now wore. "Couldn't bear to hit you ourselves."

"Thanks," Harry said through his fat lip. "George, I'll need the Felix and the Eagle Eye soon."

"First we've got to take care of that voice," Fred said, riffing through the gadgets now strewn about the inside of the bathtub.

"Is my voice really that bad?" Harry asked, unconsciously stroking his Adam's apple and listening intently to the sound of his own voice.

"Nah," George shook his head. "It ... sorta announces 'My voice just changed last year and I still lose my nerve around pretty girls!' That's all." George returned to grinding powdered snake's venom into the rustier spaces of an old dagger.

"Oh, ace!" Harry said sarcastically.

"Quit yer whining and breathe into this," Fred held up what looked like an ancient harmonica.

"What is it?"

"It's a prototype we're working on for the Aurors at the Ministry—you're not the only one interested in disguising yourself ..." George said while tipping a second dagger.

"We call it our Vocal Assimilator—reconstruct the sound of yer voice and put it back again." Fred held the Assimilator up to Harry's mouth. "We've got Youth and Age: this one's Age. Now hold this and breathe," and without further ado, Fred shoved the Age Assimilator into Harry's mouth and started tapping on various tiny levers jammed and wedged into the holes that once would have controlled the pitch of the harmonica. One lever on the top would slide from side to side and Harry could make out scratches labeled 'higher' and 'lower.' Fred slid the lever all the way towards 'lower' and told Harry to talk.

"What should ..." Harry stopped because he sounded something like James Earl Jones.

"Too deep," George commented. "Try half way." Fred corrected the depth and asked Harry to speak again.

"What are these other pieces here?" he asked, indicating the other levers.

"Cough, Wheeze, Nasal, Rumble, Rasp," George listed off.

"And Smoker," Fred added, "my favorite. Thought it would be good on you."

"How do you control it?" Harry asked, marveling at the difference in his voice already.

"Higher to lower slides along the top, here," Fred demonstrated. "The other attributes lock into four different strengths, creatively entitled numbers one, two, three, and four," he droned playfully.

"How about a number three smoker?" George suggested.

"Yeah, ok," Harry said. "Mind if I try?"

"Knock yourself out," Fred smiled.

After a surprisingly short amount of time, Harry found himself vastly pleased by the effects of a number three smoker, number two rumble, and number ones in rasp and wheeze. Harry decided he sounded more than middle-aged; weathered, hollow and tired. He said a few syllables in Parseltongue and reveled in the sinister sound.

George shivered and passed Harry two small tubes, one filled with murky blue and the other with liquid gold.

"That's all the Eagle's Eye you could get?" Harry whined.

"On such short notice, yeah! That stuff's not cheap," George answered, handing Harry the poison-tipped daggers. "Drink up. You're gunna need it."

Harry slipped the daggers into their notches on his belt and downed the potions. After a somewhat dry-eyed, nauseating sensation, Harry found he wouldn't be needing his glasses after all. He handed Fred his glasses, watch, trainers, and old trousers, slipping into black pants and a pair of dragon hide boots with matching gloves—all of which caked in blood ... it was mainly garden gnome, but who had to know? George handed him a black hat. Harry thought it was a joke: with a ridiculous, cartoonishly-wide brim, pinned up on one side with a red phoenix feather, and an over-all muggle "three musketeers" look about it ... it couldn't have been anything other than a joke.

"You're kidding," Harry said blatantly.

"It's the best we could do to hide your face," Fred explained hastily. "Just put it on and get going Harry."

Harry sighed and put it on. He felt ridiculous. No one in their right mind would buy his disguise. He looked in the mirror ...

... and felt Felix tell him to tip it forward over his left eye.

"Perfect," he hissed in Parseltongue. And, with a tip of his hat and a swish of his cloak, he leapt out the window