Harry came in from his morning run and started immediately on a quick routine of lunges, squats, calf raises, sit ups, push-ups and arm circling. A few exercises had been learned on the Quidditch team, but most were remembered from muggle primary.
It wasn't that he thought he could've beaten Voldemort if only he'd been fitter, but he needed some sort of daily break from studying, and exercise was the only one he could justify.
"Boys should play more," said Euphemia, from her place on the wall.
Harry grinned up at his grandmother. Dobby had worked miracles getting the room looking good before he'd pulled them out of the trunk. As far as they knew, Harry's homelife was perfectly adequate, as this summer it nearly had been. His relatives were ignoring him as never before. Vernon had done nothing more than vaguely grunt at him, a fact Petunia didn't seem suspicious about, and even she never bothered him when he was in his room. He saw them at meals, and hardly anything more. Add the pies, and it was far and away the best time at the Dursleys he'd ever had.
So far at least. He'd only been there ten days, in which time he'd read several books, skimmed a lot more, started on regular occlumency exercises, and, he supposed, turned 18 if hadn't already. He wasn't sure when. They'd lost track of dates there at the end.
With his physical exercises done, Harry settled at his desk and opened Secrets of the Darkest Arts to where he'd left off the night before. Dobby had come through big time on the black market books, and now Harry had a small library of old, oddly stained books that made him feel clammy when he read them.
Secrets of the Darkest Arts was a thick book of cramped writing, and Harry had dark suspicions of the origin of the parchment. The tome didn't belong amid the nasty dullness of Privet Drive. And yet there, starting on page two-hundred and twenty-one, as his grandparents looked on, Harry found what he needed.
Horcruxes, in stunning, disgusting detail. It was enough to guess with high confidence that the Diary must've been a horcrux, and enough to make the intuitive leap that Harry himself just might be a Horcrux. It would've been shocking if he hadn't already known.
It was enough to contact Croaker with. Unfortunately, Hedwig was gone. Once she'd come back from dropping off the spectacles at the Weasley's, he'd set her off to see Sirius, with four wands from Harry's vault for him to choose from, packed into a featherlight post package. She wasn't back yet, and he had no idea when she would be — owls to and from Sirius had always taken forever, even when he'd been camped out an afternoon's walk away.
He could use a post owl to contact Croaker, but he wasn't sure how secure that was. His being a Horcrux was just about the only thing he cared about keeping secret, and his business with Croaker wasn't urgent, so he might as well wait on it until Hedwig was back.
He bookmarked it to show to Croaker when the time came, locked the foul book into his trunk, and stretched.
Euphemia said, "Inis dom nach bhfuil tú chun níos mó draíochta dorcha a léamh?"
Harry blinked. She had been teaching him as much Irish as he'd pay attention for every day, but even with the language potion she'd nagged him into having Dobby buy, he wasn't near ready to understand whatever that had been. "Céard?"
"Níl aon draíocht níos dorcha inniu," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully.
"Oh. Er, Ní hea. Na Staire." He picked up a book on the Four Founders to show her. "No more dark magic today. Er, Nílan draíocht níos dorcha inniu."
"Gan draíocht níos dorcha inniu," she corrected.
He repeated her correction and collapsed onto his bed for yet more reading. He didn't see much use in learning Irish, but it made her happy, and it was strange and nice all at once, thinking of himself as more than English. James, apparently, had been fluent.
He was just getting to Ravenclaw's storied career as an enchantress when Dobby popped into the room, wearing his tea towel.
"You're back late," Harry said. "It's nearly eleven in the morning."
"Dobby was not seen. It was foggy, and Dobby was being careful."
"And?"
"It is being finished," said the elf. "All of the parents, Aunts, Uncles, and Grandparents of Tom Riddles are out of their graves. They are burned, and their ashes are scattered in the sea. Dobby is replacing them with the bodies of pigs."
Harry let out a sigh of relief. "Brilliant. Dobby, you're the best. This could make a huge difference." The first thing Harry had researched was resurrection, just so he'd have an explanation handy. The knowledge he'd gained had made him feel a little more kindly toward Dumbledore. No one had ever used muggle relatives to rebuild a body before. It was supposed to be impossible. You had to use magicals. But Voldemort had been going to find a way, and now Harry could explain his actions away as paranoia if anyone ever asked.
"Is Harry Potter having more work for Dobby?"
"Aren't you tired?"
"I is having my day off already, and I is wanting work."
Harry had been afraid of this, but he'd thought of a solution. "Change back into your real clothes if you like and pop over to the Weasleys. Tell them I sent you and you'd like to help out. If you don't want to do anything, don't do it, but after you've done everything you want there, you can find where Remus Lupin lives and do the same for him. Anytime I don't have enough work for you, just do work for them. And if you still don't have enough work somehow, just help out any witches or wizards who seem like they need it, but only if you feel safe and they're polite. Best to be careful with that."
He trusted Dobby there. His instinct for danger was better than Harry's own, and it ought to keep the elf occupied, not to mention getting more people used to the idea of an employed house-elf who wore a suit.
After changing, Dobby popped away, and Harry put the portraits to sleep. Then he collapsed on his bed and shook, laughing hysterically. It was done then. Riddle's graveyard plot was dead twice over before it was begun, and it might just be that with what he'd done so far, Voldemort was finally and totally defeated, never to return.
Or maybe not. He shouldn't get complacent. There were other steps to take, and Sirius to worry about. But for now, he could celebrate.
Harry put in an order to Porkiss, and a few minutes later, the box knocked and the flag went up. He pulled a peach pie from the box, fresh and steaming, and, back in control of himself, woke the portraits so he could have a little company for his impromptu party.
He allowed himself to spend the afternoon chattering with his grandparents about their house in the Irish countryside or Fleamont's success in both the hair business and the dueling circuit, listening to the wizarding wireless, and perusing one of James' old school journals.
Both his parents had been regular journalers, but of very different styles. Lily summarized her day in a rational way anyone could follow, and she dwelt at length on whatever magical concepts she was struggling with. There was an uncomfortable amount of 'Sev' in the early years.
James was a different animal:
April 14th -
I saw a tiny flower growing up amid a crack in the cobblestones outside the Great Hall. Ten of them could've fit on the pad of my thumb, but it was as bright a pink as any rose, and its edges were hard and sharp as a goblin-cut diamond. It will be stepped on soon, or else pulled out by Hagrid if it persists, but I would have it grow and grow, ten feet, a hundred, towering above the astronomy tower, the flower still sharp and pink. We could take lessons there, and sleep in its petals like lost bees, and have meals in the shade of its leaves.
I'll talk to Sirius about the Growth Potion.
April 15th -
We made Dorian Lord's shoes attack him. One of them went up his ass. Sirius laughed until noodles came out his nostrils. I peed my robes a bit, meself.
April 16th -
The wildflowers of the Forbidden Forest are in full bloom. I heaped them into my arms and made a full bouquet of them. Lily said, "Sod off, you toerag," when I gave her the bushel, but her eyes were soft and she took it upstairs with her.
April 17th -
The sky was broader today. It covered more than the world. I could've flown to Pluto and established a palace on its icy slopes.
Alas, I cursed Snivelus instead.
And on and on like that. Harry's last hopes that James Potter hadn't really been a bully had died, but there was a love of beauty that he hadn't had any idea of at all, and it had left him in disbelief though the first few pages.
His father was that? Fifty percent of him was a man who would notice a ray of light on a bead of dew and call the dewdrop a diamond and the shimmer a rainbow, a man who spun ordinary days into tall tales where you couldn't what was real and wasn't and didn't care, a man who made poetry as easily as others did small talk and joked and laughed and saw himself from outside and mentioned flowers at least once a page?
It didn't compute, and Harry loved it.
But Harry couldn't spend a whole day on a journal, not even on a day of celebration. When Dobby popped back into the room that evening, happily reporting that Mrs Weezy had given him the whole attic to clean, Harry was hard at work on occlumency exercises.
#
The next morning, Harry had his usual uncomfortable breakfast with the Dursleys, which Harry tolerated purely because he hoped it would get the wards up to snuff faster. He ate quickly and hurried to his room before Aunt Petunia could mention the garden. With the door shut, they couldn't think of him until he next ventured out.
Over a slice of shepherd's pie to top up his meager breakfast, he opened the day's edition of The Daily Prophet.
He spat out a bite of pie.
Conspiracy in the Courts!
by Rita Skeeter
A shadow has fallen across our courts of law. Peter Pettigrew, Order of Merlin, First Class, accuses himself of the crimes of the notorious Sirius Black, still a fugitive from justice.
"It's highly unnatural," says acclaimed expert Millgrew Rectum, "For any criminal to hide themselves like he is alleged to have. I don't believe it. Peter Pettigrew is obviously a victim of powerful mind magic."
Is Peter Pettigrew merely a patsy, a decent man altered by dark magic to help Death Eater and prominent pureblood Sirius Black escape justice? Are those old-family purebloods secretly supportive of You-Know-Who now acting to protect one of their own? Many prominent citizens fear so.
"I remember Black," says Maximus Guyle, businessman, "He was one of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's chief Lieutenants, stood right next to him. I know, I was Imperiused, not Obliviated."
"Sirius Black was one of Voldemort's Death Eaters, you may be sure of that," says Lord Lucius Malfoy, currently donating the sum of four thousand galleons to Saint Mungo's.
Many on London's streets fear that Black's return to fortune and the Wizengamot would empower the Wizarding World's least savory elements. "It won't be safe to step off your front step if he's let off," says Alexis Carro, Diagon Alley beautician. "They'll be letting Lestrange out next, just you watch."
The article continued on B1. The front page also featured an article on the spate of donations by Malfoy, Nott, Avery, Parkinson and others. Saint Mungo's was getting two new wings, and Parks and Magical Sports and Recreation were both on the hunt for new projects with the largesse.
Harry shook. The same old tripe, misspelled names and all. Goyle and Carrow, he'd bet. He threw the paper to the floor with a curse, and it hit the floor with a slap.
Dobby, who had been on the rug next to the bed, shining Harry's boots, jumped and cowered, a small nose of fear escaping his lips as he did.
Dobby stopped, catching himself, and looked a little shamefaced. He would've blushed if he could've.
Harry picked up the paper. "Here," he said, proffering it carefully. "I'm mad about this, that's all. Read it."
Dobby leaned over the paper. He could practically use it as a bed if he liked, but he studied it intently. After a minute, he said, "Dobby's old master's name is here. What is Dobby's old master's saying?"
Harry put two and two together. "But I've seen you read at shops?" he said.
"Dobby can be reading simple things, because Dobby was teaching himself, but no one was teaching Dobby."
Of course. "I'm sorry, that was stupid, I was stupid, I mean, I should've known. Do you want to learn to read?"
The house-elf nodded sharply, saying nothing. Harry sat down next to him, as slow and careful as if he were trying to befriend a neighbor's cat. Pointing to the article, he said, "This first letter is called 'A.'"
"Dobby is knowing the alphabet. Dobby is spying when former Master Draco Malfoy was learning his letters, but the same letters are making many different sounds, and the same sounds are being made by many different letters."
"How about I read this to you slowly then, and I'll point to each word as I read it?"
That was precisely what Harry did. He even turned to B1 and finished the article.
"They are being liars," Dobby said angrily. "Dobby is hearing them talk about Sirius Black being in Azkaban. They are laughing and laughing."
Harry stared. With those words, a whole new world of action opened up before him. "Dobby," he said, working to keep his voice level. "You know lots of secrets about the Malfoys and their friends, don't you, illegal things they did, even?"
"Dobby is knowing, yes."
"And you're not bound to keep their secrets either."
"Dobby is not," said the elf, his eyes widening past their normal gargantuan size. "But Dobby couldn't, no, Dobby could, but to tell the Malfoy secrets…" His hands were gathered tightly around the newspaper. If it had been a chicken, Dobby would've wrung its neck. Harry worried he might punish himself or hyperventilate, but Dobby drew himself up and looked in the mirror instead, adjusting his suit, which was lilac that day.
"Dobby could do it," he said bravely. "Dobby could tell. Dobby will tell."
"Could you tell Amelia Bones?"
#
Fleamont Potter had grown up in the very same cottage in Godric's Hollow where Harry's parents had been killed, but when he'd struck it rich on hair care, he and Euphemia had happily built a large house on a hill in County Clare, near the west coast of Ireland, and they'd lived most of their lives there.
The house wasn't a mansion, to judge from the burned out ruins, trees poking through the broken dome, but it had surely had been large, with more rooms than a single couple needed. Looking around, he could well believe Fleamont's explanation that they'd moved here for the scenery. Everything was green, and he owned all the land up to the stone walls, which themselves were blocked from view by a thick lines of trees.
To the suburban Harry, it seemed a vast expanse of land, at least twice the size of the Weasley's. Apparently they'd bought the holdings of a muggle farmer, and then used magic to expand it.
But that was all background. With Fleamont's help, he'd been able to take control of the wardstone, meaning he could let people in or keep them out even without the use of a wand, and he'd also found the key to the cottage house, still under the same rock where it had lain for 15 years, dirty and tarnished, but still sound.
The cottage house was the only structure still standing. It had been built for guests, in the days when the Potters had imagined a large family that would occupy the main house's rooms. It was cosy and cute, done in golden pine and light green. It had a parlor, a kitchen, a loo, two bedrooms, and a shed.
Harry and Dobby got the picnic table out of the shed and set it up with chairs, a blue tablecloth, and refreshments. Harry thought the whole thing was ridiculous, but Euphemia and Fleamont had insisted that this was how you welcomed a guest.
As agreed by post owl, Amelia Bones arrived at exactly three. She looked first at the burnt out house, then she stared at the table, laid out with biscuits, nuts, coffee, tea, butterbeer and sparkling water. After she'd catalogued that, she stared at Dobby, who was in maroon and sitting in a tall chair that he'd had to climb to get up on.
She said, "I've heard about the house-elf. I'm surprised he hasn't appeared in The Prophet yet. But refreshments isn't what I expected. I hope you don't intend this as a social visit."
"No," said Harry, gesturing to the chair he'd pulled out for her. "But we might be here a while. There's a lot to talk about."
"I'm already doing everything I can regarding the Black-Pettigrew case."
"And we're going to give you a little bit more. Up until 13 months ago, Dobby here was Lucius Malofy's house-elf, and he has no real desire to keep his secrets."
Amelia Bones's eyes narrowed, and she took the chair.
Dobby took a sip of butterbeer. Heady stuff, for a house-elf, but he needed it.
"Dobby has heard," the elf began, voice shaking, "Dobby has heard them say many things. Dobby has heard them laughing about Sirius Black. Many years ago, Dobby heard them discuss who to pay to keep him from ever being looked into. It was-
Dobby slammed his head into the table. The tablecloth was padded, and the brim of the hat took part of the blow, but Harry caught him around the shoulders before he could slam his head on the table again.
As if that hadn't just happened, Dobby continued. "Lucius Malfoy gave Avery 100 galleons for a bottle of wine, and then said how wonderful it would be if Mika Warrington made Sirius Black's annual reviews disappear."
Dobby jerked wildly against Harry's hold, trying to slam his head on the table again, slamming his fingers instead when he couldn't. "Dobby is a terrible elf!" he cried. "Dobby is betraying his master's family!"
"He's not your master! Dobby, listen to me, he's not your master, you're your own Master now, and I'm your boss." Harry glanced at Amelia Bones. Her eyes were wide, but she'd produced a large pad of parchment and a self-inking quill. Not a great start, but she didn't seem about to leave.
"Maybe this was the wrong way," said Harry. This was his first time hearing what Dobby had to say, since he hadn't wanted Dobby to have to say it twice. But maybe it would've been better to do it once for Harry, in the privacy of their own room, and then again for Amelia Bones.
"No, I is doing it, I is doing it. Dobby is wearing his stiff hat today."
"We could get you Veritaserum. Then it wouldn't bother you. It would just come out."
"No. Dobby can do it. Dobby will do it. Dobby will be speaking the truth. I will make the bad, horrible wizards be feeling justice."
"Perhaps you could start earlier," said Amelia Bones. "With the war, even."
Dobby met her gaze with the glistening tennis balls he called eyes. "You will be making them feel justice?" he asked.
"As much as I can."
Slowly, Dobby began to speak, interrupting himself now and then to bang his head or call himself a horrible house-elf, but he did those less and less the longer he talked.
He started with the war, when he'd been a young and less disobedient house-elf. Lucius Malfoy had hardly brought his house-elf into his confidence, and he had, due to cunning and paranoia, or simply through a desire for the ugly thing to get out of the sight of his important guests, often ordered him from the room for certain meetings. But still, Dobby had overhead, by chance and by guile, a very great deal. From Dobby's perspective, Voldemort's rise sounded less like an ideological war than a vast and brutal criminal conspiracy intent on stealing, through robbery, extortion, kidnapping or murder, all the wealth that muggleborns, half-bloods and blood traitors had managed to build.
So he should not have been surprised when Dobby's description of what Lucius Malfoy had done after the war sounded like a smaller version of the very same thing, directed this time mostly at muggles. There was all the dark magic, threats, blackmail, and shady business dealings Harry had expected, plus added extortion, robbery, kidnapping, rape, and murder, most aimed at rebuilding a fortune and reputation severely damaged by how the war had ended, though some, apparently, done just for jollies or spite.
The main feature, though, was mind magic. No castings of Imperius Curse that Dobby knew of, not after the war, but Obliviations, Confunduses, various Compulsions, and mood altering spells, means by which it became very easy to part muggles from their money.
And Dobby, in between tears and punishing himself, gave names, places, even dates. All the while, Amelia Bones asked occasional questions and took copious notes, filling pages of her pad of parchment. "If I can prove even a tenth of this..." she murmured.
If she could prove a tenth of it, it wouldn't be just Lucius Malfoy going to Azkaban. He had confederates. He had lackeys and co-conspirators, Crabbe and Goyle his most trusted minions, Avery and Parkinson the most senior of his many junior partners.
Harry had only been hoping to hit back at Malfoy, to give him and his a scandal of their own that would make them shut up about Sirius Black. But this could be everything. This could see half the free Death Eaters locked away.
Finally, Dobby was dry. He lay on the table in a piteous huddled ball, crying and heaving. His knuckles were bloody, cuts ran up and down his arms and sides where he'd plunged his nails in, and for all Harry's efforts, his head was a scratch-covered bruise. Blood trickled from his nose.
Amelia Bones disappeared her parchment and quill and looked Harry in the eyes. She was wearing her monocle, and Harry wondered what it did.
"You understand," she said, "that his testimony wouldn't be any good before the Wizengamot? If I tried to bring him forward as a witness, we'd be laughed out. His words might lead me to evidence against Malfoy, but it isn't evidence by itself."
"Right," said Harry, though a part of him had been hoping madly that it was otherwise.
"And Malfoy is slippery. It's not as if we didn't already know he's crooked; it's just devilishly hard to prove. He's practiced at covering his tracks. Even by your house-elf's account, he never explicitly ordered any crimes committed. He just commented that it would be nice if so-and-so learned respect or never caused a problem ever again. That's plausible deniability. And a lot of what was done wasn't even a crime at the time, not before that new Muggle Protection Act passed.
"We'll see where this information leads, but doing this sort of investigation properly takes months. Even if things go swimmingly, don't expect to hear anything about it before summer's end. In the meantime, not a word about this to anyone. We don't want it getting back to Malfoy."
"I get that," said Harry. "Listen, could you cast Healing Charms on Dobby?"
"Oh, of course," she said, taken aback. Without another word, she drew her wand and began to cast, Dobby half opening one eyelid to peek at her as she did. Quickly, cuts healed, tears mended, and bruises faded. Dobby would still be sore, but that was all.
"Are you planning to make any public statements in support of Black?" she asked.
"Er, I reckon so, but..." But he wasn't sure how, or who to talk to. Fred and George were still just students, and he'd rather not go to The Daily Prophet, and especially not to Rita Skeeter, but the Quibbler might be even worse.
"Get on the Wireless," Amelia said. "Let the people hear you — not your elf, and don't say a word about Malfoy, just you sticking up for Black. Whatever you say will be written up in the papers anyway, though you might owl in an editorial to boot. Don't do it too soon — let Malfoy and his lot stick their feet further down their mouths — but don't wait too long either. Before the World Cup, at least."
She stood up, shook his hand and turned to the burned out ruin, looking contemplatively at the greenery rising through charred wood and ashy shingles.
"That was a beautiful house once, and the closest thing Magical Britain had to a lending library. I admired your grandparents for running it. But if you plan to spend much time here, get the wards fixed. They're rickety as an old boat, and blasted full of holes beside. Go to Gringotts for it, if you can afford their fees.
"Right." He wondered what the right price would be, how to arrange it, whether it was even worth doing.
"You're an impressive young wizard, Mr Potter. Be careful with that. Success breeds arrogance, and arrogance breeds catastrophic failure. When people fall all over themselves to tell you how great you are, view it as an attack."
Amelia Bones spun on her heel and disapparated with a crack.
Harry stared at the spot where she'd been. No need to worry there. He'd had failures enough to last a lifetime. Glancing at Dobby, who was still huddled, he gathered all the refreshments into his expanded bag. He set Dobby carefully down on his chair, folded the tablecloth, and manhandled the picnic table into the dusty shed.
When Dobby's chair was the only thing left, he put a hand hesitantly on the elf's shoulder. "You were great today, Dobby, really fantastic. I know it took a lot of courage, and you did it."
Dobby's little hand crept out and up, and took hold of Harry's fingers.
Harry swallowed, and mist came to his eyes. He wanted them both to be back in his room, a sanctuary this summer, where his books were stacked and his grandparents hung on the wall, where he and Dobby talked and the Dursleys never, ever came.
He sat on the ground at the base of chair, keeping hold of Dobby's hand. "Tell me when you're ready, and we'll go home."
#
#
They'd been very careful arranging it, hiding it behind ward after ward, and even so, they'd agreed it would last only a few minutes, and they'd all accepted the risks.
"And Potterwatch welcomes-
"Our most special guest-
"Our very own namesake-
"Harry Potter!" they said together.
"Damned stupid name," Harry replied, his voice a bucket of icewater on their manufactured cheer.
"Well," said George, "We know it's the not the most clever and creative-"
"But it gets the point across, doesn't it?"
"No," said Harry. "The opposite. It makes me sound like a miraculous savior who's going to rescue everyone."
There was a great depth to the silence that followed, for that was exactly what everyone listening hoped he was.
Harry leaned deep into the microphone. He spoke not to the twins, but to the listeners. "I'm not going to save you. I wish I could, but I don't have that power. I'm a seventeen year-old screw-up who's had precisely two special things about him — Hermione Granger for a friend, and a belief beggaring ability to not die. But now Hermione Granger's dead and a lot of other people too, I don't know who. No Fred, don't tell me. I don't want to know. But I'm killing some of the dead people too, just not the ones you're sad about.
"You want a savior, magical Britain? Here's what I have. A talent for survival, and the fact that I'm modestly quick with a Curse. Only modestly. If Bellatrix Lestrange and I fought straight up, I'd die quick, never mind old snake-face. So stop waiting for me to save you, if that's what you're doing. Save yourselves. No more of this namby-pambying about with Stunning Charms and Petrifying Curses, or even with only casting lethal spells when they're cast at you first. No. This is war. Kill the bastards every vile, treacherous, devious way you can. If our hands are stained with blood at the end, at least we'll still have hands, and we'll have won, whichever of us are left."
Fred and George were stupefied. Whatever they'd been expecting, it wasn't this. There was no hope in his words, only a dreadful conviction.
"Dumbledo-" began George.
"Dumbledore was a great man, but he wasn't realistic. He sent three seventh-years off to hunt You-Know-Who's Horcruxes with hardly a clue and no preparation. Horcruxes are horribly evil dark magic that can keep people alive, by the way. You-Know-Who — I'd call him by his proper name if not for this taboo — made six. At least two are destroyed. Of the ones left, one is Slytherin's Locket, one is probably his snake. Don't know about the others. They can be destroyed with Fiendfyre, basilisk fangs, and maybe other ways I don't know.
"Dear Potterwatch listeners. If you tuned in wanting to know what Harry Potter's thinking of every second of every day, that's it. Killing Death Eaters and destroying Horcruxes. Please, get to it. I'd focus on the Death Eaters if I were you.
"And to any Death Eaters out there... I'll do everything I can to ensure you get a full pardon if you destroy one of his Horcruxes."
#
#
To anyone who speaks it, I apologize for the Irish. I don't know a word of it. I'm mainly using Microsoft Translate. If this story were in a book store, I'm sure we'd find an Irish speaker to help. As it's fanfiction, please suspend your disbelief. Euphemia was supposed to be telling him something like, "No more dark magic today," and he was supposed to be agreeing.
(And yes, though Irish is part of the Gaelic family, it seems to be called "Irish," or perhaps "Gaelige," not Gaelic — that refers to Scottish Gaelic, which is not at all the same thing as Scots. Or so I gather from Bing. If any natives want to correct me or expand, I'd love to be enlightened.)
This is, I suppose, the kind of chapter that sheds readers, lacking what many readers are looking for, and having what many don't like.
Yes, flashback Harry is being hard on himself.
This current Harry has learned the power of widely disseminating knowledge. It's a relatively new trick for him, and like anyone enamored of a new trick, he may use it even when it doesn't suit.