False Prophets

TanninTele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

NEIL: "So, does everyone come back as a ghost?"

NORMAN: "No. My grandma told me it's usually people that still have stuff to figure out,

or sometimes it's the ones who died suddenly or in a bad way."

- Paranorman, Focus Features

II:

"Not another one, Ron," an exasperated voice echoed through the street.

"Oh, there's no harm in it, really."

Harry felt the ghost's energy before the door's bell even began to jingle. He nearly groaned aloud, entirely fed up with poltergeists and their antics. But, despite this spirit's mischievous demeanor, he was not a poltergeist. The medium turned around, feeling cold breath on his neck, and came face-to-face with a red-haired demon.

Green eyes widened in surprise.

"He's a real one!" the ghost exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Oh, god, you don't know how long we've been searching for someone like you."

Harry peered into the shop, spotting a lanky, red-haired boy. He had an iron-clad grip on his girlfriend, a stern-faced, dark-skinned girl with hair messier than even Harry's. "Ron, honestly," the girl hissed. "I don't know why you persist in this. A psychic isn't going to help George. He needs therapy and closure, not a charlatan spouting half-hearted consolations and lies."

"That's Hermione," the ghost informed, flitting about the room. "My baby brother finally got himself a girl with a backbone. I haven't been able to congratulate him, though, since - well - " he gestured to himself. He nudged Harry forward, his hand going straight through Harry's spine. "Do it. Tell him."

Harry cleared his throat. "Hello. Can I help you?"

The ginger looked up with a jolt, clearly having not heard Harry's entrance. His face flushed in embarrassment. "Er, yeah. I'm Ron, and this is my girlfriend, Hermione." She was looking intently at the portraits on the walls, ignoring Harry's presence all together. "This is a psychic shop, right? It doesn't really look like the ones we've been to."

Harry gave a shy smile. "I'm not much for scented candles and beaded curtains."

It was then that Hermione looked at him, highly dubious. "You aren't a real psychic, are you? I mean, it's all just pseudoscience and psychology."

"Expecting an old lady in shawls, were you?" Harry arched a dark brow. "We're not all shams, you know."

The girl huffed, sending a glance to her boyfriend.

Harry moved around to sit as his desk. "Sit down, please. Lemon drop?" he pushed forward a bowl of candies. He'd gotten the treats at Honeydukes, his friend Albus' candy shop. "You're here for a reason, obviously."

"What? Did you predict our arrival?" Hermione sneered, refusing to sit.

"No," Harry said calmly. "But I did, however, overhear you speaking about 'closure'."

Ron perked up, his cheeks puckered from the candy. "Yeah! Closure, for my brother, George. He's been a horrid sulk since Fred died."

The ghost nodded furiously, crossing his arms. "Poor sod can't seem to go on without me."

"A very noble pursuit," Harry said. "Were Fred and George twins?"

Hermione's head snapped up.

Looking incredibly pleased, Ron passed forward a folded picture. Fred peered over Harry's shoulder, smiling sadly. It was of his entire family; all of them red-headed and freckle-faced, smiling broadly at the camera. Behind them were the Great Pyramids of Egypt. In the picture, Fred and George were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, wearing matching white shawls around their heads. The two were perfectly identical, with the same rogish smirks and lively brown eyes. Fred would've grown into a handsome adult if he'd made it past adolescence.

"That was the last picture we took of him," Ron's lips tightened. "Before . . . "

Hermione clenched his hand, showing a firm support. Harry's gaze flickered up to Fred, who stared at the couple with an indescribable look. Perhaps it was envy, for a close relationship he'd never have again. Harry released a long sigh, bringing his shields down slowly, just enough for Fred to notice. The ghost looked down, strength flooding through his grey, tired presence.

"I hope you can help me," the man said. "But - don't let me pass on just yet. I've got to say goodbye to George, first."

Harry nodded in understanding, clearing his throat. "Perhaps it would be best if your brother was here, too," he said lowly. "Why wasn't he with you today?"

"We've been to so many people," Hermione spoke up. "Therapists, priests, other so-called 'spiritual healers'," the girl rolled her eyes. "After a while, it felt like a waste of time. George would get his hopes up, only for them to be dashed. No one could help him. No one could really . . . connect with him in the way Fred could."

Fred released a pained, mournful noise.

"Twins share a special bond." Harry said softly. "He likely feels like he's missing a piece of himself."

"That's . . . almost exactly how George described it." Ron stared at Harry in poorly-veiled appreciation. "I think . . . I think we'll come back. With him, next time, if we can get him to move from his couch. Just, swear to me - " Ron's blue eyes blazed suddenly, with a fierce protectiveness and tentative hope. "That you won't break his heart. If you're a fraud, just admit to it now, and we'll never speak again. Just . . . "

"I promise," Harry said firmly.

"Say you solemnly swear it," Fred said insistently.

"I solemnly swear."

Their eyes went huge. A grin, just as large, split across Ron's face. He grabbed Hermione's wrist, whispering furiously. "See, I told you it would be worth it - "

Just before they left, Harry spoke up once more. "Oh, Ron? Your brother . . . he says," the boy smirked. "That he's proud you found a girl just as stubborn as you are." Fred's laughter and Ron's excited chatter soon faded away.

Harry leaned his head back, shaking it in amusement. As he did, the backfire of a car shot through the alley. Harry blinked, sitting up from his desk chair.

A moving van was parked in the narrow street, black rubber tires bobbing up and down as the driver stepped out. Harry didn't recognize the man, seeing only his dark head of hair and tall form. The man moved swiftly, unlatching the truck's roll-up door. With a clang, it opened, and a ramp was soon brought out.

Muscles of his arm tensing, the man collected a few boxes, stacking them on top of each other. He approached the door of Borgin & Burkes', sticking a key into the lock. It swung open, and the man disappeared into the shop.

Harry sat back in amazement.

Borgin just died a few weeks ago, and someone was already taking over his shop.

The man moved between the truck and the house a few times, carting along crates of home appliances and clothing. It became clear that he was moving into the space above Borgin's. Until now, the rooms had been used for storage. Every shop on Knockturn had a second level equipped with plumbing and gas; most of the shop-owners had their own houses outside of London, but not Harry.

It seemed he would be getting a new neighbor.

Lockhart's words pried at him, a cruel reminder of Harry's bitter lonesomeness. 'You need some friends outside those ghouls of yours'. Harry wasn't one to bring over casseroles, but he supposed he could try and make friends.

But . . . tomorrow, maybe. Once things had settled.

A week passed.

"Hadrian, please," Helena begged, her ethereal form drifting into the bathroom with him. Glittering like moonlight, her dress was long and flowing. Her hair was plaited back in dark curls, though something seemed to be missing. Helena Ravenclaw was a ghost of an Albanian heiress; a queen without her crown. That fact made her angrier than a rattlesnake, with a poisonous sting to go with.

Harry glared at her through the mirror, spitting out his toothpaste. "Privacy, Helena, we've talked about this," he shoved the drawer closed. "You're lucky I'm not using the loo."

The ghost waved a negligent hand. "You are not attracted to me, nor I to you. I see no problem."

"What a relief," he said wryly. "All I'm asking is for a bit of space."

Pouting, the ghost faded away. Clenching the sink, Harry visualized a noose around his throat. It seemed this month would never end. Carding his fingers through his hair, Harry deemed himself ready.

"Now, to the crux of the matter," Helena reappeared, following him downstairs. "You must speak to the new shopkeeper. He has nearly sold my diadem twice. I've been able to stall him by dropping a few things," her plump lips stretched into a sly smile.

"Nothing priceless, I hope."

In a manner of seconds, her pretty features contorted into an ugly scowl. "He takes little care for my priceless heirlooms, so why should I care for his, hmm?"

Harry sighed. As the boy opened up shop, he noticed a dark green flyer taped to the window. Reading it backwards, disbelief flooded through him. Borgin & Burkes' was having a Grand Re-Opening sale. In all the years Harry'd been at Knockturn, the antiquity had never sold an item for anything less than market value. Borgin would feel disgraced; but Harry couldn't deny the sale had garnered a crowd. "See!" Helena crowed. "He is giving away relics at random. It's disrespectful, careless, outrageous!"

"You go on ahead," Harry said idly, pushing open the door. "I will try and speak with the shopkeep. What's his name?"

Helena snarled. "Tom Riddle."

Overcome by curiosity, it wasn't until he stepped into the shop that Harry realized the sale wasn't what attracted such a mob. It was the shopkeeper, himself.

Riddle was single-handedly manning the counter, sorting out change in a matter of instants, deftly wrapping the purchases in white tissue paper. Barely flinching as some child knocked over a glass vase, he swept up the shattered bits and graciously accepted the mother's apologies and monetary reimbursement. The man was a natural; much like Severus had once been.

Not to mention he was gorgeous.

Borgin & Burkes' looked much the same, but the haphazard disorder had a sort of charm to it, now. A record player warbled some tune Harry vaguely recognized. The relics had been thoroughly dusted, with only the best on display - beautiful jewels, pearl necklaces, a thick gold locket and a silver diadem sparkled in their display cases. They were placed purposefully near the entrance, causing client's eyes to light up greedily as they passed, wistful fingers gliding over the display glass.

Harry carefully stepped around the shelf full of porcelain tea-cups, designed with lavender, ivy and all manner of painstakingly miniscule works of art. Overlarge milk jugs were used as containers for old toys, a shelf above them holding faded, mismatched building blocks. They were positioned to read 'WELCOME'. In the corner, a suit of armor was decorated with a faux-fur shawl, a feathery hat and a checkered apron. Model aeroplanes dangled from the ceiling, a group of children gaping at the toy train whistling around a metal track.

It was a museum of lost things, ghosts of memories wisping around Harry with a liveliness they'd never had before. The Grey Lady, haunting her silver diadem, stood protectively next to the display case. Her glare was frigid.

Helena was very adamant against passing on. She'd died protecting her mother's crown and would gladly sacrifice her afterlife for the same cause. With Harry's intervention, Borgin had come to an agreement with Helena. He tried, once, to sell it to a collector, but the man returned it not a day later, looking frazzled and frightened, claiming Borgin sold cursed items.

So the diadem stayed and Helena with it.

She wanted it to go to her closest descendant, but Harry had no damn idea who that was. For now, perhaps Harry could convince the new manager to take the diadem off the market. With every lingering glance at the diadem, Helena was becoming steadily more agitated, the floorboards rattling ever so imperceptibly.

"I love shops like these. They're so . . . quaint!" A dark haired girl gushed. Riddle smiled tightly, wrapping her vintage perfume bottle. The tissue paper looked delicate in his long, elegant hands. In the dark lantern light, his features were cast into shadow, showing only a hint of sharp cheekbones and gleaming eyes.

He waved the woman off with an idle, "Enjoy," and turned to the next customer.

Helena's vitriolic gaze on his back, Harry waited until Riddle had a free moment. "Sir?" he started warily.

When Riddle noticed his empty hands, the man nodded towards a back hall. "Bathroom's that way."

"I know," Harry's lips quirked. "I've been here before. Mister Borgin was a friend of mine. I'm Harry Prince." He hadn't given anyone his real name in years, and wasn't about to start now.

The man's back straightened, allowing him to go to his full height. Harry felt like a midget in comparison. "I wasn't aware my uncle had any friends. Noteworthy ones, at least." He said this with a hint of sarcasm.

Harry ignored the slight jab. "Uncle?"

"Evidently," he agreed. "Tom Riddle. It's a pleasure," the man stuck out a hand, his handshake rigid.

"My condolences about Balthazar. I'm sure his store is in good hands," Harry was laying it on quite thick.

"Get on with it," Helena snapped. The lights flickered and Tom glanced up, frowning.

Harry took in a deep breath and began haltingly. "I'm sorry if this is horribly straight forward, but Mister Borgin had an . . . arrangement with another friend of mine. In exchange for Balthazar keeping that diadem," Harry tapped the display case lightly. Helena released a warning hiss. "Borgin wasn't to sell it until the right proprietor came around. With the new management, my friend is very insistent that Balthazar's side of the bargain be upheld."

Riddle arched a tall brow, looking vaguely affronted. "I'd be happy to speak with your friend on this matter, but you must understand that I have a business to run. That diadem has garnered many potential buyers. I'm doing all I can to follow my Uncle's will, but I've also got a business to manage. Waiting for the 'right collector' isn't exactly a priority." He spoke coldly, his politeness menacing.

Wincing away, Harry covered his ears as Helena snarled. She slammed her hand onto the counter, a spider web of cracks spreading. "You stubborn fool," she screeched, her voice vibrating through the shop. A flood of gasps resounded as the shelf of tea cups leaned forward precariously. "I've tried being nice."

The floor quaked and the porcelain cups fell in a shower of white. Riddle's charming facade faltered, confusion clouding his dark eyes. "Helena," Harry whispered in warning. Her long hair was splayed, tangling midair. The tattered remains of her dress fluttered and whirled in a tornado of smoky tendrils. Harry leaned forward, trying not to alert the startled crowd. "If you know what's good for you, you'll hide that damn crown."

Riddle's brow furrowed to a fork. About to protest, his words were cut off as the shop went dark. Screams filled their ears; the ceiling shuddered, shelves rattling violently. "Alright, alright!" Riddle's fingers scrambled for a ring of keys, swiftly opening the case and stuffing the diadem beneath the pile of tissue paper.

Everything went silent.

By the time the lights returned - Tom having to go fix the circuit breaker - Harry was long gone.

It was nine in the evening, and Harry was usually not open for business so late. He debated ignoring the man's arrival but, as the man's hand raised to rap at the door again, Harry decided it wouldn't do well for him to get off on the wrong foot with any potential business. In one swift movement, Harry unlocked the door and held it open only a crack, the chain catching. A single green eye peered outside, quickly scrutinizing the solicitor. "Good day," he murmured, voice tremulous. "Is there something I can do for you?"

There was a long pause, before he spoke, the tenor deep. "I'm sure there is, lad. Are you Hadrian Prince?" The man was dressed fastidiously in a dark blue suit, his blonde hair tied to the back of his scalp. He was intimidatingly tall, though he seemed to be lacking when it came to bulk. Harry pursed his lips for a moment before nudging the door shut so he could fully unlatch it.

"I am," Harry acknowledged. "And you are?"

"Lucius Malfoy," he purred, extending a gloved hand. "I was a friend of Severus."

Harry's lips parted in a delicious 'o'. The man took his chance, stepping in with a single large step. A thin eyebrow arched as he inspected the shop. "I daresay I never thought I'd see the day this old place would be fixed up. You living here alone, boy?"

Harry blinked. "I do."

"Hm. You're very much like your former employer. No wonder Severus was fond of you."

Mister Malfoy found his one way to the desk, settling himself atop the chair. "I'd like to extend my condolences. Severus was a very loyal, commendable man. We attended school together."

"Did you?" Harry asked in surprise.

"Yes, indeed. I gave him his first down payment for this very shop," Lucius ran a finger across the table top. "I'm very glad to see you've maintained it, although your services are very different from Severus'. Those particular skills are, in fact, what I'm interested in today."

"You - " Harry looked the man up and down. "Really?"

Lucius smirked. "Really. My son has recently suffered a loss that has rendered him . . . prone to rebellious thoughts. His fiancee was struck ill, and he feels guilty for some odd reason. I would like you to speak with him, and assuage these ridiculous notions of his." The man's nose crinkled with distaste. "I will pay you quite handsomely, of course."

"Grieving is not ridiculous."

"Perhaps not, but my son is heir to a very prestigious corporation. If he is to follow in my place and become chief executive, he must learn to place his emotions aside in favor of duty."

"For duty?" Harry shook his head. "You are a cruel man, Mister Malfoy. Some claim that psychics thrive off the exploitation of others, but what you do is far worse. Pain is all you're bound to cause if you continue to torture your own son like this."

Lucius stood with a furious expression. "I will not be spoken to like this. I'll just have to take my services elsewhere. There is a Madame Sybill Trelawney in London, is there not?" he goaded.

"A match made in heaven; an insensitive father and an incompetent Seer," Harry got to his feet, heading toward the door. "Her fatalistic prophecies will traumatize your son to the point he'd rather die a horrific death than be anything like you, Mister Malfoy."

Fuming, Malfoy's clicked across the shop, his hands balled into tight fists. "In that case," he stated tightly. "I suppose my welcome has been overstayed. If I were you," his voice went dark. "I would learn to curb my tongue before someone gets the urge to cut it off." Malfoy locked his shoulders back. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

He left in his sleek black mobile, the engine rumbling away, leaving a nimbus of dust in its wake. Scowling, Harry slammed the door behind him.

He didn't take men like Malfoy seriously. They were all bravado and flash, using big words to cut others down. Lesson learned; never trust a man with that blonde of hair.

"Thanks for the ride, Albus," Harry said gratefully, sliding into the passenger seat of Albus' heavily painted Volkswagen.

The old beamed at him, yellow teeth glinting in the sunlight. "Your presence has never been an inconvenience, my boy." A bony hand patted his leg. Albus' age was undefinable. Though his hair was a shade of pure white and his tan skin was wrinkled with callouses and smile lines, the man wore it with a youthful countenance. His hair was in beaded braids going down to the midst of his back. Matching his eyes, Albus was dress in a vivid, sky blue blouse with billowing sleeves. His feet were confined in brown leather boots, the laces undone. Just as tasteful, a roaring lion was painted onto the side of his van, the mane an array of technicolor flames. It was a relic from the 60s, when Albus was teaching culture and arts at a nearby college. His students took it upon themselves to decorate his car, and Albus never looked back.

Dumbledore began to chatter on about his new line of every-flavor jelly beans that Harry was in no hurry to taste-test.

Severus had absolutely hated Dumbledore, though he never gave a reason. Albus had taught the apothecarian once-upon-a-time, but Dumbledore wasn't fit to be a teacher. After his teaching license was suspended for 'unfounded' allegations, the man set up shop only a few blocks away. He gleefully discovered that he could enable his insatiable sweet-tooth and make a living. The two men became rivals, Severus selling herbs and mixtures that healed people, while Albus' craft rotted teeth and made people feel good.

They were such opposites that Harry's attachment to them both seemed outlandish. Albus was the grandfather figure Harry'd never known.

When Severus died, Albus dragged Harry to Pandora's Recovery Center twice each month for grief support. "I think, you more than anyone, needs support from the living. Clairvoyancy or not, you're still as human as the rest of us," Albus had told him, gently wiping Harry's tears. "Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. It's alright to grieve."

Luna Lovegood and her father started the organization, in honor of their mother and wife, to help other grieving souls with recovery and closure. Luna, especially, had been an angel. She was empathetic almost to the point of supernatural ability. Dean, Hestia and Albus were all struggling with their own loses, but welcomed Harry with open arms. It was a neutral, soothing place where Harry didn't feel obligated to alleviate a spirit's unfinished business. When he did help, it was for his friends, people that he knew would benefit from a few parting words with their loved ones. Harry was able to feel selfish for once, to focus on his own grieving.

" - the moral of the story is that change is inevitable. Except from a vending machine, of course."

Harry stared. " . . . what?"

Albus glanced at him, laughing. "You dozed off, my boy. How's your blood sugar?" Not taking his eyes off the crowded road, Albus reached back and fondled for a plastic bag. The candies toppled into Harry's lap, Albus' hand lingering a minute to grab a lolly. Tearing the package off with his teeth, he spoke around the cherry orb. "You really do look peaky, Harry. Try the dark chocolate, it's imported from Peru."

Harry eyed the chocolate warily. He never developed much of a taste for sweets, really, having grown up on day-old leftovers scavenged from rubbish bins, or dry bread, courtesy of his aunt Pulling into a small, unmarked building, Harry tried to relax. Luna could always sense if he was stressed, and Harry didn't like drawing attention to himself. "Finish the bar," Albus warned, nodding as Harry stuffed the rest into his mouth.

Exiting the van, Harry's nose crinkled as he stepped out into a trail of green fluid. It smelled sickeningly sweet, much like the Honeydukes products, which was likely why neither of them identified it before. "Albus, you've got a leak."

The older man sighed. With his arms full of candy, Albus pushed open the front door with his back. "Life is just like that, isn't it?"

"Like what?" A soft, dreamy voice spoke up. Sitting cross-legged atop a beanbag, Luna's clear, crystalline eyes fixated on the two men.

Albus grinned. He took off his shoes and vibrant wool socks, burying his toes into the soft rug. "Full of leaks. Here you are, dear," he pressed a pudding-flavored lolly into her hands. "Something nearly as sweet as you."

Luna held it reverently to her chest. "Very sweet of you, professor."

"Not professor anymore," he tsked. "'Candy connoisseur.'"

"Is that what we're calling it?" Dean Thomas asked in bemusement, sticking a paintbrush behind his ear. "I was certain you were some sort of demon, nefariously spreading goodwill and cheer among us weak mortals, only to leech off our joy."

"That too." Albus admitted.

Pandora's was really quite homey, with gentle music playing and the walls painted a cool blue. Drawings twined across the walls, names signed in swooping paint next to faded hand prints. Quotes and symbols were drawn, each encouraging or meaningful to a patient. The centerpiece of it all was a mural that spanned several meters. It was of the late Pandora Lovegood in a field of poppies, head thrown back in laughter, sunlight filtering through her flaxen hair. Dean was an amazing artist, his art less of a facsimile and more of a memory, eerie in it's likeness. He wasn't quite finished with it, jars of paint surrounding him.

Luna seemed inordinately pleased with the mural. She was strikingly like her mother, her blonde hair free flowing and her soft features needing no makeup. She wore a white sundress, flowers stitched into the hemline. Her small smile sent a wave of fondness through Harry. "Sit down, Harry. Let me fix your hair." Rolling his eyes, Harry sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. Nimble fingers carded his hair, putting it in a short braid. "We've invited a friend of yours to join us today She's become quite a fan of your work."

"Oh?" Harry murmured. He picked at a speckle of paint in the carpet.

Soon enough, Hestia Jones stepped in with Padma Patil in tow, the younger dressed in her usual glasses and blouse. The girl smiled shyly at Albus, declining his swooping gesture toward the table of provided food.

"Hello, Mister Prince," she said, sitting tentatively beside him.

Harry smiled in surprise. "You're not my client, Padma. This is a safe place. Call me Harry, please," his words seemed to settle her nerves. "I'm glad to see you're doing well. How do you know Hestia?" Harry's eyes darted to the tall, lean woman inspecting Dean's work. The dark-skinned man looked thrilled at the attention; it was well-known that he had a fierce crush on the unmarried woman. Dean was bisexual, in an on-again, off-again relationship with a flighty, combative Irishman. Things seemed to be 'off' at the moment; this made Dean mercurial with his emotions, cheerful one second and sulking the next. As Hestia turned away, Dean threw himself back into his work with a single-minded fervor. The older woman had tan skin and hair dyed a shade of warm scarlet. She was a secretary at a police station, with a keen eye for people in need.

"Her associate, Officer Diggle was working on Parvati's case."

"Did they find Flint?" Harry asked Padma lowly.

She grinned broadly. "That fucker is behind bars. Diggle caught him at one of his old haunts," the word made Harry flinch. "They matched his DNA to traces of . . . semen in her body."

"I'm glad. The less perverts wandering free, the better. Makes my job easier, certainly," Harry sighed, world-weary. He nudged her lightly. "Your sister's passed on. You did good, Padma."

Her eyes welled and she rubbed them fiercely. "I'd never have done it without you." Her gratitude was genuine. Harry remembered that night in the bathroom, and - seeing Padma's watery smile - knew that the violation was well worth the pain.

The moment Harry stepped into The Hut, he could sense something was awry.

Riddle was here.

His familiar head of dark brown hair was hunched over a cup of tea, expression unreadable as Gilderoy chatted him up. Pomona was gleefully tearing into her bagel, for the first time able to eat in peace. Madam Hooch was snickering over her cup of Earl Grey (containing more gin than tea), blatantly eyeing up the newest customer. Harry felt that dark gaze on his back as he walked to the counter. It wasn't like he was avoiding Tom Riddle; he was merely making a tactical evasion.

"I'll take my breakfast to go, Olympe," he murmured to the woman.

"Why can't you stay a while, 'arry?" she asked, her accent purring. "Have you met our newest neighbor? "

"We've met," Harry said, his eyes shadowed from a lack of sleep. "While I'd love to stay, I've got an appointment this morning with a grieving family," his lips tugged downward. "I've already met the mother; her youngest son fell out of a tree while playing with his brother. The brother is . . . distraught." The mother's exact words were 'hellish and hysterical'. Being a teenager himself, Harry distinctly remembered the sort of hell a thirteen year old could raise when they felt slighted by the world.

Olympe covered her mouth. "How horrid. That poor child."

"Speaking of 'children', Where is your husband?"

Olympe laughed. "Hagrid is on a camping trip with his brother. Grawp is . . . quite a bad influence on him, I must say." Harry fought a laugh, trying to be sympathetic, but she pronounced the name 'Greppur' poorly. It was an Icelandic name Fridwulfa had bestowed to her favorite son; the man was large and childish, a less sensible version of Hagrid.

"He'll be fine," His gaze flickered to the kitchen, where a girl named Tonks - a temp - was wildly trying to extinguish a billow of black smoke. "Perhaps you should be more worried about your replacement chef. . ." Olympe swiveled around, her expression enraged. She swore in rapid French, darting in back with a red fire retardant.

"You idiotic girl!"

Sensing his breakfast would be delayed, Harry simply shook his head and sat at a stool. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Simply ignoring Riddle seemed to be an impossibility. Harry's cheeks tinged pink as their gazes met for a spell, green against a dark, bottom-of-the-ocean blue.

He was grateful when Olympe returned, features tight with exasperation. Harry's toast and eggs were crisp around the edges - alright, less crisp and more burnt black, smelling of ash - but Harry chose not to comment beyond a knowing smirk.

Olympe scowled at him. "Just eat your damned food, boy. Nearly burnt down my shop for those eggs, let me tell you."

"I don't want to!"

Harry winced as the boy, Colin, loudly argued with his poor mother. Missus Creevey was at her wit's end, her curly, straw-like hair going grey at the roots and frizzing at the tips. "Please, Colin," she begged. "Just try - "

"Fine," he hissed, just to shut her up. "I'll try. But let it be known that this is utter bullshite." He zipped up his black hoodie in an attempt to curl into himself, blue eyes blaring. "I know that you're into all this spiritual stuff, but there's no such thing as ghosts. He's dead, and that's the end of it. He's not coming back, and you'd be bloody crazy to think Dennis would want to stick around after hitching the quickest ride out of this hellhole."

"Colin," his little brother whispered. "Don't be mean to mum." The spirit wrung his flannel shirt, revealing, underneath, a blue Superman t-shirt. Dennis was around eight, with bright blonde hair that was filtered with white light, like a halo. His features were soft and young, but Harry could see - and smell, distinctly so - the blood and dirt caked onto his skin.

Missus Creevey was close to tears, staring despondently at her eldest.

Harry decided to step in. "If she's insane, then I must be too. Clinically so."

The boy jolted at Harry's sudden entrance. His mouth fell open. "You're the nut that mum hired?"

"He'll warm up to you," Dennis whispered, tugging experimentally at Harry's hair. "Colin doesn't like anyone, anymore."

"The nut?" Harry smiled, moving to his desk. "Yes. I'm the spirit communicator. And I'm well aware how crazy that sounds, but it's been my reality since I was a child. Now, sit down and stop yelling at your mother. She doesn't deserve that sort of treatment."

Colin plopped into the adjacent seat, almost against his own will. Whether it be Harry's young age that endeared him to Colin, or his free admittance of potential insanity, Harry was grateful. Missus Creevey, looking small in an overlarge sweater, sat shakily beside him. Despite his earlier comments, Colin instinctively leaned towards his mother, seeking her reassurance. They looked strikingly alike, although Colin's hair was more honey-colored and his eyes a shade of fierce, determined sky blue.

"Your mum tells me that you've suffered a loss," Harry began gently.

The boy snorted, looking disgusted. "I hate when people say that; that I've 'suffered a loss', like you're afraid to say his name."

"Dennis, then. Your brother. He died."

Colin paused, before nodding.

"I've had many people claim that they don't believe in spirits," Harry started again. "I understand it completely. Skepticism is important in daily live, but overt skepticism - the kind that drives a person to be distrustful of everything and of everyone - can originate from anger, or fear, or grief. With you, it's all three, I can bet."

The boy let out an insulted noise. "I'm not scared - "

"Everyone's scared of death, Colin," Harry said plainly.

But Dennis was fearless. Humming a hearty little tune as he hiked up the trail, he absentmindedly stepped over a thick brown limb that lay on the forest floor. Belatedly, he glanced over his shoulder, and shot out a quick warning. 'Watch out for that -' His warning came a moment too late, however. A strangled grunt was heard, shortly followed by a painful-sounding thump against the hard soil. His brother had been lagging behind for so long that Dennis had almost forgotten Colin was following him. Colin groaned loudly as Dennis peered over his fallen body, giggling to himself.

"Before your brother died, I bet the idea of death never even crossed your mind. But it can happen to anyone, at any point in their lives. To the old . . . and to the young. Your brother didn't deserve to die," Harry's voice went soft. "But me saying that still doesn't change anything."

'Wipe that bloody look off your face,' Colin muttered darkly, grabbing onto Dennis' hand. Shoulders hunched in exhaustion, Colin shook off his backpack and let out a relieved sigh at the release of pressure. The bag probably wasn't easy to carry, not with the amount of camera equipment he had packed

'You're taking forever,' Dennis informed him. 'Do you want to see the waterfall or not?' He flicked the hair from his eyes. There was a slight chill in the air, the wind making the towering trees wave and shed their golden leaves. Autumn was upon them, with winter approaching rapidly. Dennis was determined to spend all his time outside before a heavy snowfall could trap them inside. Colin only tagged along for his digital photography class. Colin was practically attached to his camera, the device like a second limb. Dennis didn't mind; after all, he was one of Colin's favorite subjects.

"I'm not here to tell you that you can't be angry, that you can't grieve. I'm here to help you realize that you're not alone. Your mother is grieving," Harry nodded at her. "And your brother . . . Dennis is sad, too."

Colin's bravado melted away, leaving behind a bewildered expression. "What do you mean?"

"Dennis hasn't left you, Colin," Harry tilted his head. "Somehow, he knew that you'd be affected the worse by his death. He knew that you'd be angry - at the world, at him, at your mother . . . at yourself. He stayed behind, unable to help, but desperately wanting to."

Colin lifted his chin, glancing around angrily. "Prove it. If he's here, prove it."

"I'm here, Collie," Dennis sniffled, moving around to whisper into his brother's ear. "I should have listened to you. You told me to be careful, but I didn't listen. I didn't mean to fall. My shoelace got caught on a branch, and I just . . . " He shrugged helplessly.

Boots clomping against the muddy earth, Dennis stared up at the sky, seeing a distant billow of clouds. He concentrated hard, convinced that he could control clouds with his mind. By sheer force of will, he split one in half and created a gaping hole in another.

Colin merely rolled his eyes at Dennis' antics. His gaze suddenly caught on an outcrop of wildflowers, sitting in a field of grass. The sun peeked through the tree branches, casting a golden glow over them. He dropped his backpack excitedly, pulling out his camera. 'I'll be right back, Dennis. Don't do anything stupid.'

"You're a photographer," Harry said, biting his lip. "You and Dennis went onto a hike, because you wanted to photograph a waterfall."

"We never did make it," Colin muttered beneath his breath. "But mum probably told you that."

Harry took a deep breath. "When you thought Dennis would be distracted cloud watching, you went off to take a picture of some flowers. You told him not to be stupid, but he didn't listen."

Dennis played with a low-hanging branch, leaping wildly to grasp it. His feet left the ground, bouncing up and down as the branch bent under his weight. Letting out a huff, Dennis stared at the tree, considering.

"I have his camera," Missus Creevey blurted, reaching for her purse. "He hasn't taken any pictures since that day."

Colin turned betrayed, confused eyes onto his mother. In her hands was an expensive black camera, the lens carefully protected and the neck strap well-worn. He snatched it from her hands. "Mum! I've told you not to touch my stuff!"

"May I see the pictures?" Harry asked softly.

Colin, his blue eyes distrusting, reluctantly passed over the camera. Harry handled it carefully, pressing the Play button. A slideshow of film slid past on the screen. Blonde hair and toothy grins greeted Harry, intermixed with a few sunsets and close-ups of bugs. Harry swallowed tightly as a grassy trail was shown, a lens flare giving the photo a white glow. "These are really good," he informed Colin, smiling at a monarch butterfly caught mid-flap. "I have a friend, Dean Thomas, who's a painter - but he's got a few contacts at a school for creative arts." Harry handed back the camera and scribbled out a number. "Here. If you're interested."

Taking in a few deep breaths, Dennis leapt again, sneakers scrambling against the bark. Brown chunks crumbled away. Dennis hoisted himself onto another tree limb, the rough texture cutting into his palms. Though the soft skin stung and burned red, Dennis persisted. A proud grin stretched across his cheeks. His white shoelaces dangled a foot or so, tangling with the branches. 'Colin!' he shouted. Colin's figure was but a distant silhouette, crouched in front of a purple wildflower. 'Colin!' Dennis pulled himself to the highest branches. He brushed back his hair, sweat dripping into his smile.

Colin finally stood, turning around. Camera to his face, his flash went off - a vivid flash of white. Waving a hand, Dennis lost his grasp. His foot slid, shoelaces stuck beneath his soles.

"I don't know if I can find the passion for it again," Colin murmured, crinkling the note.

"Your brother needs you to be strong," Harry leaned forward. "For him to pass on, he needs to know that you'll be alright; that you'll keep taking pictures, and you won't push away the people that love you."

Missus Creevey gave him a watery smile.

The fall was both exhilarating and terrifying. His arms and legs flailed in the air. Colin jolted forward as if to catch him, his shouts intermixing with the wind whistling in Dennis' ears. The last thing he saw before hitting the ground was a cloud above him, a gaping hole filling it's white fluff before dissipating into the air.

Fingers tightening on his camera, a tear slipped, as if in slow motion, onto the screen. Colin stared at the digital photo of his brother, while behind him, Dennis' ethereal figure was finally relaxing. He brushed his fingers against Colin's shoulder, a shiver going down the boy's spine. Colin looked up at his mother, nodding determinedly. "Can we go, mum?" he brought the camera's strap around his neck. "I want to get these pictures developed. So . . . so I can take new ones."

Missus Creevey lit up, dragging her son's head of blonde hair to her bosom. "Of course we can." She kissed his forehead briefly, letting him go before Colin could protest. Missus Creevey collected her bag, handing Harry a roll of notes. "A tip for you, Mister Prince." They made to leave.

"Missus Creevey?" he called out, their departure causing a frenzied rush through him. "Your son loved you, you know?"

The woman began to tear up once more, her arm moving to wind around Colin's shoulders. "Tell him that I love him, too."

"He knows. He always did."

Though the door banged shut behind them, Dennis' business wasn't finished. He drifted over to Harry, his body fading, like a drifting cloud. "It hurts to cry," he whispered, kneeling before the medium. "I didn't want to do it in front of them. It makes me feel like a baby."

Harry ran his hand down Dennis' cheek. "It's alright to cry."

Dennis turned his imploring eyes upward, and Harry gave a resigned nod.

Unlike with Parvati, Dennis was gentle with his possession. The feelings of despondency and helplessness flooded him slowly, streaming in like the murky waters of a river delta. Tears began to spill, trickling down pale cheeks. Dennis stuffed a fist in his mouth, the pain from his teeth tearing into his fist. Harry's body was too big for him; taller than his eight-year-old body, wired with lean muscles.

But he felt human again. The emotions were stifling, but it was far better than the all-consuming numbness that death caused. Dennis slid from his desk chair, stumbling toward the backroom. He didn't want to risk the chance of someone wandering in and eavesdropping. Warring childhood memories fought for dominance; his body was torn between remembering Missus Creevey's warm embrace and Colin's eye rolls, intermixed with the Dursley's rough treatment.

Hunkering down in the empty, dark, cold storage room, memories flickered past like film from a strip.

Harry truly felt like a child again.

As such, he napped.

When Harry was too young to realize the visions of the dead were abnormal, he genuinely tried to help them.

He's attempted to ask for help, gathering enough courage to briefly question his Aunt about the strange, greyish figures that followed him everywhere. Petunia had stared at him like he was insane, and Harry never asked again.

No one but Harry could see the spirits.

The boys at school thought him strange, speaking to no one in times of strife and bursting into pained tears when a haunted spirit crept too close. He could feel their despair, their phantom pains like it was his own, hitting him hard when he least expected it. The shadowy spiders that scuttled at his feet were easy to ignore for the most part. But then there was Missus Figg's scruffy, rotting pet cat, Mister Tibbles, who'd choked on a plastic wrapper - after burying the tabby in the back guardian, Missus Figg didn't believe him when Harry said Whiskers was sitting beside him, wheezing slightly and scratching at it's wiry fur. Of course, she quickly changed her tune when the cat began to haunt her, tripping her as she descended the stairs. When Mister Tibbles brushed against him, Harry could somehow feel a lodge in his throat, as if he was the one choking. He didn't mind it. It was all in his head, after all.

Running his fingers across Whisker's spine and feeling the faint tickle of fur against his skin, Harry would remember his mother's last words.

'I'll do anything.'

'I'll do anything.'

'I'll do anything!'

Tears stained her pale cheeks, dead eyes glinting like a shattered mirror every time their gazes met, accidental or not. Her skin wasn't soft, much less warm; the expanse of flesh was sallow and grey, her hollow cheeks framed by lank hair. From what little Petunia had told him, Lily had died praying. Harry - being only a toddler at the time - barely remembered the car crash. If he concentrated, he could recall a flash of green from the stoplights and a woman's screams. His father died first, his forehead smacking into the steering wheel, blood and glass spraying everywhere. Lily was still conscious, her legs crushed as the hood crunched against a tree. Harry was in back, his smooth, small forehead impaled with a glass shard. It was bleeding profusely and he was wailing, cheeks stained with silver tears. Lily met his watery gaze in the rearview mirror and sobbed, the blood loss hitting her hard.

Perhaps she made a wish to fate, asking to save her son's life. She desperately hoped for Harry to survive - against all odds - and her wish was granted. Harry's brush with death made him special, made him something not normal.

Harry was grateful for his life, but sometimes wondered if it was worth the pain.

"Prince," a hand tapped his cheek lightly, the voice becoming louder as Harry woke. He shivered on the cold floor, his eyelashes sticking together. Harry bit back a pained moan, pulling his head away. "Don't move," the voice murmured. "You're not well."

Harry didn't doubt this. Despite Dennis' best efforts, his tender graces left Harry feeling entirely drained.

Harry batted the foreign hands away drowsily. Vision blurry and shadowy around the edges, he murmured "Glasses?" After a pause, cold metal frames were gently placed onto his nose. Disoriented green eyes blinked, his sight clearing.

He recognized the handsome features of Tom Riddle, currently etched in the very definition of concern. "Do you remember me?" Riddle asked, leaning back on his haunches. "How many fingers am I holding?"

"Three. But I'm not concussed." Harry sat up, his body burning and sweat-soaked as though he'd been dunked in a vat of cooking oil. Grasping onto a dusty shelf for leverage, he stood. Riddle hovered nearby, ready to catch him if he fell. "And you're Borgin's nephew."

"Tom," the man insisted. Ignoring him, Harry stumbled over the door's threshold. Warm fingers clasped his elbow, the touch light enough not to be suffocating. "And what else am I supposed to think, people don't just fall asleep on the floor of their storeroom. Let's sit you down."

Harry was led to his desk. He sat heavily, and held his head in one hand, peering distrustfully at the antiquarian. "What're you doing here?"

"Your shop is still open, you know," the man informed, arching a sculpted brow. "It's my lunch break. I came to say hello - as our first impressions were made under duress - when I heard a noise from your storeroom," his lips pressed into a delicate frown. "It looked as though you were having a seizure."

Shaking his head, black curls bounced and fell into Harry's face. "Nothing so common," he hesitated. "Just a bit of backlash from a reading."

Riddle stilled, looking around the shop as though seeing it for the first time.

At initial glance, the shop was largely barren, with several empty shelves and little to no decoration. On closer inspection, Tom saw several books haphazardly shoved into corners, a pile of papers on the desk and a few small paintings nailed to the wall. Most were of landscapes or even just flowers, but the most intricate portrait was of an Asian man. He wore a dour expression and had his long black hair tied at the nape. A silver plaque beneath it read: Severus Prince 1960-1997. Tom hid his surprise. Despite their shared surname, Harry and the man looked nothing alike.

Out front, a neon sign simply reading Psychic Readings flickered on and off - the only indication of Harry's profession. "I hadn't pegged you for a medium," Tom mused. "But I suppose that explains the paranormal activity at my shop. Lockhart said you were a bit of an hermit, so the fact you took the time to visit my little shop intrigued me."

"Don't believe a thing Lockhart tells you. He's a horrid gossip."

Tom laughed, the sound dark and sweet like chocolate. "I gleaned that impression myself, thanks. To be fair, he did give me accurate directions here." Beyond that, Lockhart had been useless in his assessment of the Prince boy. He'd made consistent inappropriate comments regarding Harry's figure and something about lace panties that made Tom's blood boil. He had no patience for perverts.

"The Hut is only a block away. And Borgin's shop - "

"Is right next door," Tom smirked. "I fully intend to abuse that fact."

Harry stared at him blankly. "We've spoken once. That doesn't make us friends."

"Were you born this candid, or did ghost-speaking make you a horrible cynic?"

Guilt crept into Harry's face. "God, I'm sorry," The boy moaned, burying his head in his hands. "I just feel terrible. I don't mean to take it out on you."

Tom eyed him, as if considering. "If you really want to make up for your rudeness, can you - I don't know - read me? That is, I'm asking . . . if I have any ghosts?"

Harry need only concentrate for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Your uncle's passed on, if that's who you're thinking of."

Blue eyes blinked before he latched onto the excuse. "Yes. Well, good for him," his words lacked enthusiasm.

"If that's not it," Harry offered. "There is a chance that your 'ghosts' have resolved their unfinished business. Or they died happy, with no reason to stick around."

Tom was quick to change the subject. "So, is my shop haunted?"

Harry ruffled his hair, trying to dispel his minor headache. "Very," he said wryly.

"Great. What should I expect, then?"

"Well, except for Helena, the spirits are mostly benign. Some spirits latch onto family heirlooms or other objects - the reason for that isn't always clear. However, once they've latched on, they're stuck with barely enough power to create a physical manifestation."

"Helena? Is that the spirit that wrecked my shop on my first day of work?" he asked pointedly. "If you haven't noticed, my sales have dropped dramatically because customers think my bloody teacups are possessed."

"Er, yes," Harry said awkwardly. "Before her death in the 1800s, Helena was tasked with protecting the diadem - her mother's crown. Rumor said it was made by faeries and could grant boundless intelligence. Helena was relentlessly pursued by thieves, and she hid the diadem just before being stabbed through the heart. Her devotion was so intense that it surpassed the afterlife. The only way she'd be willing to pass on would be relinquishing the diadem to her closest descendant - but, trust me, it's impossible," Harry grimaced. "Balthazar and I searched for a very long time, but Helena's family name died out several centuries ago. Eventually, Balthazar gave up and compromised with Helena - via me, of course - to never sell the diadem. This, at least, assured it's safety; better in the hands of a man that worshipped antiques than a total stranger."

Tom accepted this easily. "Perhaps she and I can strike a new deal. Would you help me with this? After you've rested, of course."

"Helena would appreciate that."

"I certainly hope so - I can't afford to break anymore teacups."

Despite the pleasantness of his company, Harry was dead tired. Sensing the weariness in those green eyes, Tom checked his watch, the golden face polished. "My lunch break is over. I'd best get back," he stood, pausing. "When you feel better, I hope you can find the time to stop by. I'd certainly appreciate the company."

"I'll try," Harry forced a smile. "Goodbye, Riddle."

Dark eyes glinted with amusement. "Tom."

"Goodbye, Tom. Would you flip the closed sign for me?" Being his own employer was quite fantastic, as he could close up shop any damn day of the week.

Tom gave a blank-faced salute, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. This affection that swelled inside Harry - it wasn't good. As soon as the door shut behind Tom, Harry lowered his head back to the table, heaving a resigned sigh.

To be continued . . .