Harry Potter blinked his eyes several times as the room swam slowly into focus. His body ached everywhere – the after-effects, no doubt, of being hit with Voldemort's killing curse. Supposedly the curse obliterated the victim's soul, or so he'd heard, but evidently that was not the case. It still hurt like the very dickens.
It was a small price to pay, though, and one he'd pay over and over again if it meant that his friends had a chance at a life beyond the ravages of the Dark Lord Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle. He wished that he could have survived and settled down with a nice girl, maybe Ginny Weasley, and raised a family, but the fact that a piece of Voldemort's shattered soul was lodged inside the hated scar on his forehead had doomed him from the time he was an infant. In order for Voldemort to be vanquished once and for all, all of the containers housing the scattered pieces of his soul had to be destroyed – including Harry himself. It wasn't fair – not in the slightest – but it had had to be done.
The seventeen-year-old young man looked around the room uncertainly as he sat on an uncomfortable wooden bench. He hadn't ever really entertained many thoughts about the afterlife, but if he had he was pretty certain that this place – wherever it was – would never have been considered.
As best as he could tell it was some kind of waiting room, but if so, it was the shabbiest one he'd ever seen. The dingy walls were roughly constructed of unpainted lumber, as were the dusty floorboards. Overhead, cobwebs hung from naked rafters as the underside of the peaked roof lay hidden in the shadows. The late afternoon sun forced its way through grimy windows, forming tangible rays of light in the dusty air. A slowly revolving ceiling fan did little to dispel the sweltering heat.
If this was the afterlife, he was starting to feel a little nervous about it.
There were other people sitting on the benches around him, though no one spoke to each other. At the other end of his bench was a muscular white man in his late twenties or so, with a receding hairline, filthy tank top, dark pants, and bloody bare feet. Across the aisle on the next bench over sat a bald black man wearing a stylish suit and a pair of pince-nez style sunglasses perched on his nose, with a katana leaning against his knee. At the other end of that bench slouched a heavily tanned white man wearing a fedora pulled low over his face and a brown leather jacket. A satchel was slung crossways over one shoulder and a coiled whip could be seen peeking out from under the jacket. A Hispanic man sat on the bench in front of the black man. He had straight, shoulder-length hair and wore a black suit with a scorpion embroidered on the back of the coat and black cowboy boots. The white collar of his shirt was just visible above the collar of his coat, and a black guitar case rested on the floor beside him. Two redheaded women sat on the bench in front of Harry, but neither one turned around. Even so, he could see that one wore a tight black leather or vinyl jumpsuit of some kind, almost like a futuristic combat uniform, while the other wore a slim bright red dress and black knee-high combat boots. Other people sat further away, but his sense of unease was so high at this point that he sat back against the wooden slats of the bench and lowered his head, waiting for… he had no idea.
It could have been moments; it could have been years – time seemed to have no meaning in this perpetual late afternoon. The rays of light shining through the dirty windows had not shifted their angles a bit that he could tell, when a set of soft footsteps came to a halt beside him. He looked up to see an Asian lady standing beside him holding a clipboard. She wore something that looked like a combination of a black kimono with navy trim and a duster, along with black leather capri pants and black slippers. The front of the kimono was open in a narrow "V" down to the high-waisted belt she wore, barely revealing a red bra underneath. Harry blushed and quickly looked at her face, especially after noticing the katana she wore at her side. Her expression was inscrutable as she met his eyes.
"Yes, ma'am?" he answered.
She said nothing, just gestured for him to follow.
He got to his feet with a resigned sigh. At least this wait was over with. For good or ill, his fate awaited him.
She led him into a long, dimly lit corridor before stopping at a nondescript doorway. She gestured towards the door, began to turn away, hesitated, and looked back. Holding her right hand flat with thumb extended, she brought the tips of her fingers to her red lips, then brought her hand out, turning the palm towards him. As she turned her hand, she lowered her middle finger, keeping it straight while meeting the tip with her thumb. Her index finger stayed extended in its original position while her last two fingers curled against her palm.
He had no idea what she was trying to say, so he just nodded and waved politely, staring after her as she turned and hurried back the way they had come. "Well, here goes," Harry said to himself. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself against whatever was to come and knocked on the door.
"Come," a not-unpleasant baritone voice called out.
Harry blinked in surprise. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. He opened the door and stepped inside.
The office was small and cramped and was a perfect match for the rest of the building he'd seen so far. One side of the office held several planks that served as bookshelves for dozens of old, musty tomes that he was sure Hermione would give her eyeteeth to peruse. The other side held a row of battered metal filing cabinets. An old wooden desk sat in the middle of the office. The veneer was chipping off, and between the stacks of papers and folders, assorted pens, pencils, felt-tip markers, and paper clips, a rotary-dial telephone, and a black plastic ashtray, very little room remained. A black man wearing a black polyester suit, white shirt, and black tie sat behind the desk, going through an open file in front of him as he puffed on a cigarette. His hair was in small loose curls, and long sideburns were kept trimmed around the curve of his jaw. A long handlebar moustache completed his look.
"Go ahead and take a seat," he said, waving at several folding metal chairs leaning against the wall. "I'll be with you in just…" His voice trailed off as he looked up and saw Harry for the first time. His indifferent countenance melted into one of pure rage as his eyes turned as hard as granite. "Motherfucker," he growled.
Harry gulped and grabbed the nearest chair, flinging the seat down and sitting as quickly as he could.
Muttering under his breath, the man slapped the file shut and rolled his chair over to the filing cabinets. He yanked open one of the drawers, pulled out another file at least three inches thick, and slammed the drawer closed so hard that it actually bounced back open a couple of inches.
"Harrison James Potter," he growled again as he dropped the file on his desk. "You mind tellin me what the fuck you're doin back in my office? Again?"
"Wait, what? Again? I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've been here," he said.
"No it ain't," the other man insisted. "This is the third goddamn time you've been in my office, which means this is the thirteenth time you fucked up and got yourself killed before you should've. You done got your previous reaper fired cause you kept on makin the goddamnedest choices and getting killed, so your file got sent over here to our department with the rest of the hardcases. And now you're doin your goddamn best to get me fired too, boy! You've got one shot left, and if you fuck this one up too, well, you're gonna be in the shit with me. And motherfucker, if that happens you're gonna pay!"
"What happens if you get fired?"
"None of your goddamn business! Worry about your own ass! That's what we're here for!"
Harry's head was reeling from all the new information. "So… I've died thirteen times now? And I've only got one more chance to get it right? What's so special about fourteen?"
"How the fuck should I know? Did you see the sign outside my door that says Accounting and Numerology?"
"No…"
"That's cause it ain't there! This is Death Management (Probationary), and I am your reaper, not your goddamn calculator!" He leaned back and puffed angrily on his cigarette before crushing it out (even though there was still over half of it left) and lighting another. "I swear," he muttered, "I ain't had this much trouble on a job since that goddamn briefcase… never mind." He made a visible effort to calm himself, but with that feral glint still in his eye, Harry wasn't sure that he was altogether successful.
"Now," the reaper went on in an overly-calm voice, "why don't you tell me what transpired in such a way as to bring your sorry ass back to my office for the third time?"
"What…"
"How did you die this time, dumbass!"
His voice shaking, Harry explained about Voldemort's horcruxes and how they had to be destroyed, including the one he carried in his scar. All the while the reaper sat in menacing silence, a thin wisp of smoke wafting up from the tip of his cigarette. Harry finished up by sharing how he had gone out to face Voldemort and had let the madman kill him so that his friends would have a chance of killing him for good.
The reaper stared at him for several long moments before speaking. "That's the stupidest shit I've ever heard," he opined.
"What? No!" Harry protested. "It was the only way, don't you see? I had to get rid of that monster's soul shard before he could die, so I had to die first!"
"Do I look like a bitch?" the Reaper asked.
"What?"
"Do I. Look like. A. Bitch."
"No!"
"Then why you tryin to hustle me like one?"
"What do…"
The reaper lunged to his feet, yanking a chrome-plated pistol with pearl grips out from under a stack of papers, toppling them to the floor. "Goddamn it, say what again!" he roared. "I dare you, motherfucker! I double-dare you! Say what one more time!"
Terrified, Harry dove to the floor. "What the hell…"
The pistol blasted its reply and a bolt of fire shot through Harry's knee. He grabbed his knee as he rolled on the floor screaming in agony. "Why'd you do that, you crazy bastard!" he yelled.
"Cause you're pissin me the fuck off!" the reaper answered. "I can think of half a dozen ways to get rid of that fuckin hitchhiker in your head without killin you, but your dumb ass has to go out and suicide to deal with it!"
"You didn't have to shoot me, though!"
"You ain't shot, boy, you're just thinkin you are. This ain't the mortal world, and this ain't that kind of gun." He placed the pistol back on the desk as an incredulous Harry Potter examined his knee, only to find it whole.
"Now," the reaper continued, "if you would kindly quit fuckin around, get your skinny ass off my floor and back into your chair, maybe we can find a way to salvage this clusterfuck you call a life."
Harry glared at his reaper before limping back to his chair. "Still hurts, though," he grumbled.
"Good, cause it's supposed to."
"Was it really necessary?" the young man snapped, rubbing his aching knee. It no longer felt like he'd been shot, but his knee still throbbed uncomfortably.
"Well, it made me feel better," the reaper said. "It's up to you, I suppose, but do you really want a pissed-off Grim Reaper ridin your ass over what you should've done?"
"Does it really matter?" Harry shot back. "You told me I've been killed several times now…"
"Thirteen."
"…thirteen times now, but I don't remember you, this place, or anything else, which means that someone has been wiping my memory. You also said I've got one more chance to get it right, which means you're sending me back, which means I'm probably going to have my memory wiped again – though if it's all-fired important that I do this right – whatever the hell that means – I don't see how making me forget everything is going to help me succeed!"
A smile slowly spread across the reaper's face as he began a slow clap. "Well, goddamn! The boy can think after all. After readin through your file here…" He smacked the thick folder he'd just removed from the cabinet. "…I was really beginning to wonder."
Harry gave him a wary look but said nothing.
The reaper nodded in approval. "You're learnin already, boy. There may be hope for you yet. Now listen here. This bein your last chance, you'll get to go back with your knowledge intact – plus maybe a little more. Cause Mr Potter, you ain't gonna fuck this up."
He opened the file and started flipping through the pages. "Alright, let's get you squared away on what you're supposed to be doin but failin spectacularly at actually accomplishin."
Harry sighed. "Look, Mr Reaper, do you really have to keep up the constant abuse?"
The man looked up, a hint of that mad gleam still in his eyes. "Boy, you ain't got no say in it, and if you knew all the work involved in getting you back down there you'd keep your goddamn mouth shut! Now any more dumbass questions outta your hole and I'm gonna shoot you in the ass next time so you can understand what I feel like every time you show up here before you're supposed to!" He fixed Harry with a glare that caused him to scoot his chair back a few inches.
"Now, as I was sayin. Your first job is to kill that snake-faced motherfucker that's made your life such a shit-show up to now. We don't much care how you do it, just get it done. Those soul fragments gotta get taken care of first, like you said, but you might wanna talk to the goblins if you don't wanna hack up a bunch of priceless artifacts. They'd've been a good choice to take care of that piece of shit in your head too, but we ain't sendin it back with you this time."
"Really?" For the first time Harry felt a glimmer of hope. That alone would be worth returning for.
"Yeah, bein your last chance and all I figured we could stack the deck in your favor a bit. Just don't do somethin retarded like getting hit with a killin curse again." He gave Harry a significant glare. "Now, when you're tryin to kill that motherfucker don't be a pussy about it and don't be stupid. First chance you get, bust a cap in his ass and be done with it. None of this duelin and fightin fair bullshit – he's already got decades of experience on you and you ain't never gonna catch up, so go ahead and get that thought right outta your noggin. You try to play by the rules and you're gonna get dead again before your time. Then you'll get to see me really pissed off."
"What about the Death Eaters?"
"What about em? You get a chance, you put em down too. The sooner the better. The less there are, the easier it'll be to put that motherfucker down for good."
"But Dumbledore said…"
"Fuck that old man!" the reaper exploded. "That white-bearded old goat fucker's one of the chief reasons you're in this mess to begin with. Goddamn, he pisses me off more than you do." He took a long drag from his cigarette. "He's been dickin around with your life since before you were born, settin you up so you walk in front of a goddamn killin curse and wind up back in my office. He set up a bullshit prophecy, steered that asshole Snape to deliver it to Tom fuckin Riddle, sent your mama and daddy into hidin but made sure the fuckin secret keeper wasn't the one who'd take that secret to his grave, and then when ol snakehead attacks your home and kills your folks, the goat fucker steals you from the arms of your oath-sworn godfather, and instead of droppin you off with your oath-sworn godmother, leaves you on the goddamn doorstep of the worst people to raise you right, in fuckin November!" He finished off that cigarette and lit another. He looked at Harry for a moment, considering, then tapped another cigarette out of the pack. "Want one?" he offered.
Harry looked at him in surprise, then shrugged and accepted it. His reaper leaned forward and lit it with a battered Zippo lighter before leaning back again and breathing out a long plume of smoke. The young man took an experimental puff and immediately began coughing.
The reaper smirked at him. "Dumbass," he observed before taking another drag.
"Piss off," Harry muttered as he took another puff, a look of defiance on his face.
The other man actually laughed, but Harry had the oddest feeling that this reaction was one of legitimate approval. "Goddamn, there is some fire in you yet, boy! I think we might just come out on top after all."
They smoked in silence for a few minutes, and Harry began to feel himself relax for the first time in longer than he could remember.
"Alright, Harry – you mind if I call you Harry?"
He shook his head. "It's fine. What should I call you? Reaper or Mr Reaper is rather awkward."
"That's fair. You can call me Shepherd for now. If you do it right this time and don't show up in my office before your appointed time I'll tell you my real name over a beer or twelve. Now listen up. It is evident that you are beset on all sides by evil – you got the snakehead on one side, those pieces of shit you live with on another, the goddamn Ministry of Magic on another, and finally the old goat fucker on yet another. Listen to me, Harry – Dumbledore ain't your friend. You better get that straight in your head right the fuck now. He don't give a shit about you or anyone else. Only thang matters to him is puttin Tom Riddle down and takin the credit for it. Fuckin hypocrite. He's the goddamn reason Riddle turned bad to begin with, only he won't fess up and take responsibility for it. He just uses folks up, throwin them into the goddamn meat grinder like they was game pieces. That's all it is to him anyways – a motherfuckin game. And you, Harry, are one of his most important pieces – but still one to be tossed away after servin your purpose. And that is why I'm gonna shepherd your ass through the Valley of the Shadow – cause that goat fucker's purposes ain't ours. Any questions at this point?"
Harry shook his head. The look on Shepherd's face suggested that it might be wiser not to ask any, especially one that might be considered stupid. "Nope, sounds straightforward to me. My primary mission is to kill Voldemort without getting killed in the process. His soul pieces need to be dealt with first, and the goblins can help with that. Any Death Eater…"
"Goddamn stupid fuckin name. The fuck was he thinkin?"
"…Death Eaters are fair game. Take them out quickly and don't worry about fighting fair. And don't trust Dumbledore."
Shepherd nodded. "That's about right. And for the record, we don't much care what happens to him either. If he should find himself on his Next Great Adventure a little sooner, that's quite alright with us. We'll adventure his ass down to his reserved spot in the fuckin brimstone again, alright.
"Now, your second job. Through no fault of your own, you've had a shit life so far – though you haven't helped it any, what with makin stupid fuckin decisions all the time. Anyways, the folks over in the Predestination department figured you needed a soulmate." He started flipping through the pages in Harry's file. "Some Granger gal – goddamn it, I never can remember her name. Helen? Henrietta? Hildegarde?"
"Hermione?" Harry squeaked, his face turning red.
"Yeah, that's it. The hell was her folks thinkin, saddling that poor gal with a name like that anyways? I guaran-damn-tee you she caught all kinds of hell all through school for it – fuckin kids are evil like that."
"Oi! Hermione is a beautiful name," Harry leapt to her defence.
"Never said it wasn't, but there's no gettin around that it's pretty goddamn unusual – and you should know better'n anyone that kids jump on anythang unusual like they're a pack of rabid fuckin hyenas."
Harry nodded reluctantly. "I guess you're right," he admitted.
"Of course I am. I didn't get this job on account of my good looks, you know. Anyways, sounds to me like you got a special place in your heart for this gal. So tell me – how come you ain't put the moves on her yet?"
He shook his head in protest. "It's not like that, we're just friends. Besides, she likes Ron."
"Who the fuck is Ron?"
Harry blinked in surprise. "Uh, Ronald Weasley. My best friend."
"Weasley?" Shepherd's expression shifted into a curious mixture of worry and anger, and that was enough to make Harry start worrying again. At his reluctant nod, the Reaper flipped through several pages before pulling out a single sheet of paper. "You mean this motherfucker right here?" He slapped the page down, revealing the familiar red hair, freckled face, and vacant expression of his best friend, Ronald Bilius Weasley.
"Uh, yeah. That's him."
"Goddamn it, this is worse than we thought," Shepherd muttered. He picked up the telephone receiver and dialled 0. "Hey, Miho, I need you to find the manager of the Weasley account, W-E-A-S-L-E-Y, universe JY22TFLXJG3S6Y9LHSBG, and get them to my office, pronto. We've got a Delta-level violation that needs to be fixed immediately, and we'll need the Granger gal's reaper too – that's for Hermione Jane Granger, same universe. Contact the arbiters too – I betcha the entire Weasley account is goin to their office soon. We'll also need someone from Medical. Thank you dear, you're the best."
Harry couldn't ignore the icy feeling in his gut. "Uh, Shepherd, do you mind telling me what's going on?"
The reaper sighed. "Look, Harry, what you done told me just now is a major problem on so many levels I barely know where to start. Part of every person's file, includin your own, is a list of potential and probable friends, acquaintances, and enemies. Now, this list is ordered by behavior, personality profiles, compatibility algorithms, and a lot of other high-falutin technobabble I don't understand. All I know is that when the machine is done crunchin the numbers and spits out the result, it's fuckin gold, man. It'll even predict how long a marriage'll last with each of a list of most suited partners, who your best candidates for best friend'll be, all kinda shit.
"Now, here's what alerted me – not only does it list your three best friends – the Granger gal, a fella named Longbottom, and another gal named Lovegood – who, incidentally, is the best prospect of a wife for you after your designated soulmate – it specifically does not have anyone in the Weasley clan listed as bein all that close to you. In fact, there are several, includin your so-called best friend, that have almost as many red-flag warnins on their sheets as snakehead and the goat fucker themselves."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that left to your own devices, you never woulda had anythang to do with em. If you're claimin one with this many warnins about him as your best friend, and sayin that the gal that was created to be a perfect match for you is interested in him instead, that can mean only one thang: someone's fuckin with your mind and hers."
"What? How?"
"Well, given your universe, could be any number of thangs, but I personally suspect potions, maybe a combination with compulsion charms or some shit. We won't know for certain til Medical looks at you, but that's my guess. Your gal's undoubtedly in the same fix."
Harry slumped back in his chair, his entire body numb. If this was true it was a betrayal every bit as horrible as Peter Pettigrew's, his parents' friend and secret-keeper who had sold them out to Voldemort. His thoughts did seem a little clearer for some reason, so he started to examine his relationship with the Weasleys with a more critical eye. He quickly discovered that he didn't like what he saw.
To begin with, Ron was not a nice person. Harry had always thought his friend had a great sense of humour, but looking at it dispassionately he could see that Ron's particular brand of humour consisted primarily of sarcastic insults and put-downs – and Hermione was too often on the receiving end. And when his jokes weren't mean, they tended to be more gross and scatological in nature. He could not for the life of him recall a genuinely funny, inspired witticism that the boy had ever made – not even a clever pun.
And speaking of Hermione being on the receiving end, Ron had always been nothing short of vicious to her ever since he'd known both of them. He mocked her mercilessly, for everything from her study habits to her looks to her muggle heritage. In fact, he realised as a chill ran down his spine, Ron treated Hermione exactly as his cousin Dudley Dursley used to treat him – without the physical abuse. And given that he more often than not sided with Ron, that meant that he himself was just like one of the thugs in Dudley's gang. A wave of shame swept over him at that realisation. Why the hell did she even stay friends with them?
"Cause she loves you, man," Shepherd said quietly, and it was then Harry realised that he'd spoken aloud. The reaper continued. "She'll overlook a helluva lot of character flaws of yours because of that, just like I'm sure you overlook hers." He held up another page from the file, one that had a picture of her on it. "Says here she tends to be opinionated, a bit overbearing, somewhat bossy, and a downright terror when it comes to studyin, but I betcha already know that, don'tcha? I also betcha that if you've ever been asked to describe her, there ain't a one of those items that ever makes your list."
The young man considered for a moment before nodding. "True on both accounts."
"Well, consider yourself in luck, my young friend, cause you're bein given an opportunity few people ever get. You get to go back and fix thangs up right, now that you're startin to see what's goin wrong. And don't worry – by the time we send you back, we're gonna turn you into the baddest motherfucker in Britain and have you ready to kick so much ass and take so many names that everyone'll be wonderin what the fuck just happened. So long as you don't fuck this up again – and we're gonna stack the deck so heavily in your favour that a retarded chimpanzee could pull this off – I don't see any reason why you won't be able to destroy all the motherfuckers, save the goddamn world, and get your gal. You just leave all that to me."
Harry nodded and accepted another cigarette. He had barely taken a puff when there came a knock at the door.
"Come," Shepherd called out, lighting another smoke of his own.
The door opened and a slender man with hair as dark as Harry's strolled in. He wore an old-style olive-green Army uniform with the blouse casually unbuttoned like a coat, revealing his tan undershirt over which hung a set of military dog tags. He was clean-shaven, but a five o'clock shadow was plainly visible through the fair skin of his face. A stethoscope was draped around his neck and an olive canvas bag was slung over one shoulder. The red cross over white circle emblazoned on the sides of the bag indicated that it carried medical supplies. Incongruously, the man carried a half-full martini glass in one hand.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the newcomer said in a bright, chipper voice. "Did someone order a doctor?"
"Good to see you, Doc!" Shepherd exclaimed. "Goddamn, I'm glad it was you on call today! We've got a doozy here, believe me."
The doctor took a sip from his drink before setting the glass down on the top of the filing cabinets. Unslinging the medical bag, he dropped it to the floor before leaning back against Shepherd's desk, his arms folded across his chest. "Glad I could help out, then," he said, examining Harry with a critical eye. "What seems to be the problem?"
Harry glanced at the martini glass before giving his reaper a worried look. Shepherd laughed when he noticed. "Don't you fret, son," he said. "You're lookin at the single best battlefield surgeon in the entire United States Army during the Korean War. I'm tellin you, Doc here is ten times the physician drunk than any other I've seen sober. You're in the best of hands here, I promise."
"And I won't even make you turn your head and cough," Doc said with a smirk.
"So I believe that Mr Potter here has been under the influence of mind alterin substances of some kind, possibly some spells as well," Shepherd said.
"Ah, yes. You're from one of those universes, aren't you? That means we'll need some special diagnostics." Leaning over, he grabbed the shoulder strap of the medical bag and pulled it up, placing it on the desk beside him. He opened the bag and rummaged around inside for a minute before removing a small hand-held device. From where he sat, Harry could see several switches, dials, and a small LCD screen on the face of the device. A thick Y-shaped attachment protruded from the end. When Doc pressed a button on the side a thin violet arc travelled up between the two arms slanting out and away from each other. When the arc reached the ends of the arms it sputtered out, only for a new one to form where the arms joined the stem. Doc noticed Harry's apprehensive expression and smiled. "Don't worry," he said, "This won't hurt me a bit, I promise."
Harry gave him a truly filthy look, causing him and Shepherd to laugh.
"Seriously though, this little gadget will detect the arcane residue from anything magical that's ever happened to you – spells, potions, it doesn't matter. We'll have a complete record and be able to tweak your recovery plan accordingly. And the best part is, it won't even touch you! I just wave it like so… and there! You're all scanned. We'll see just what's happened to you and when in a moment."
The phone on Shepherd's desk rang suddenly, causing Harry to jump. The reaper shook his head mirthfully as he answered the phone, ignoring the obscene gesture Harry made in his general direction. "Yeah. Speaking. Yeah, we've got a Delta-level violation that looks like it's gonna involve your charge. No shit? Well I'll be damned! No, y'all can come over, Doc's already here. See you in a bit!" He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair looking inordinately pleased. "Well goddamn if thangs didn't just get a lot easier!" he said.
"What happened?" Harry asked.
"You'll see," Shepherd said, waving a negligent hand. "Now, let's see what Doc's figured out."
Doc's playful demeanour had vanished as if it had never been. He turned deadly-serious eyes to Harry. "I assume you were already aware of a soul fragment embedded in your head since you were a year old?" he queried.
"Yes sir," Harry replied.
Doc nodded. "There's not much else from that time that's unusual for a child born into a magical household, though two things do stand out. There is a burst of energy from a spell I've never seen before that hit you moments before the soul fragment leeched onto you, then an unnecessarily strong binding was placed on you the next day."
The young man looked up at the doctor in confusion. "There was no killing curse?"
"Not at that time, no. The only residue from a killing curse is from right before you arrived here."
"Huh." Harry was honestly surprised at this. "I wonder why everyone thinks I got hit with the killing curse then?"
"Most likely because of the old goat fucker," Shepherd growled. "It suited his purposes to make a goddamn hero out of you, so why not have you survive the impossible? I told you he's been fuckin around with your life since before you were born, and I'll give you three guesses who probably put that bindin on you – and the first two don't count."
"So why me?" Harry burst out in anger. "I never wanted anything to do with this mess, you know. All I wanted was to be left alone."
"I get it," Shepherd said. "Problem is, the goat fucker's sole obsession was beatin Riddle. He was gonna use somebody, and it just happened to be you. Like I said, he never gave a shit about you or anyone else. The only reason you had any value to him at all was that you were his chosen sacrifice." He shook his head. "Motherfucker's the same as all the other megalomaniacs in history – he has no idea that the only sacrifice that means anythang is the willin sacrifice of self. I have no doubt that if all had gone accordin to his plans we could expect to see some dramatic bullshit of him weepin over your dead body and callin the pain he was sufferin of seein you die a fuckin sacrifice." Shepherd snorted uncharitably, then laughed. "Motherfucker sure found out otherwise once he got here, that's for damn sure. We don't give a fuck what he calls it, we call it premeditated murder. Anyways, don't worry about it, we've got your back." He turned to the doctor, who had been waiting patiently. "Sorry Doc, carry on please."
The doctor took another sip from his martini. "Not at all, sir. You were on quite the roll there." He gestured vaguely with the device, serious once more. "There's nothing at all for the next decade or so, then, besides the standard residue you can expect from being in a magical school, we have a steady dosage of multiple loyalty potions all the way up to this year. There was a break this winter, but then they resumed until the end."
"Did your gadget tell who they were keyed to?" the reaper broke in.
"Yeah, the oldest and most powerful was keyed to Albus Dumbledore. The next two are almost as old but not quite as potent, and they're keyed to Ronald Weasley specifically and the entire Weasley family in general. Another one was added a couple of years later for Ginevra Weasley."
Shepherd began shaking his head. "Hold on a minute, Doc. Sorry for interruptin again, but this doesn't make any goddamn sense to me. Okay, I can see how those potions could override the compatibility profile, but I still don't understand why he'd be chummin around with a Weasley close enough to get dosed in the first place. You know those potions require a fresh sample to key to, right? A hair works best, but you gotta use it pretty quick or the potion'll go stale and useless." He turned to Harry. "How did you meet the Weasleys anyways?"
"Well, they showed me how to get onto Platform 9 3/4," Harry answered.
"The hell you say!" the reaper yelled, leaping to his feet. "I know for fact that McGonagall tells all the nonmagical-born and -raised how to get on that goddamn platform when she collects them for orientation!"
"She didn't collect me, it was Hagrid."
The heat from his glare could have melted steel. "Are you tellin me that your introduction to the magical world was not in fact handled by the deputy headmistress of that fuckin school, as is required by law, but by the fuckin groundskeeper?"
"Oi, Hagrid's a smashing good bloke!" Harry snapped.
"I don't doubt that, but that's not the fuckin point, Harry! No matter how great of a person he is, a groundskeeper just ain't qualified to give a proper introduction to the magical world! Why, I betcha he didn't really answer any of your goddamn questions either, did he!"
Harry blushed. "Well no, not really," he admitted. He'd forgotten how frustrating it had been to keep hearing that "Perfessor Dumbledore" would explain things later.
Shepherd spread his arms wide in a there you have it gesture. "And one of those questions that this fella doesn't answer, who just happens to have utter blind devotion to the ol goat fucker, is just how to get onto the goddamn platform. And along come the Weasleys, the most fanatically loyal family to that same ol goat fucker, who find a lost little sacrificial lamb at the train station and help him get onto the goddamn platform." He fixed Harry with a searching gaze. "How'd you know they were a magical family anyways?"
Harry thought back to that first day of his first year at Hogwarts. "I overheard Mrs Weasley say something about muggles, then she asked the platform number and Ginny said it was 9 3/4."
The reaper snorted as he held up a paper with Molly Weasley's blotchy red face on it. "Overheard, you say. If she was usin her normal voice, I'm sure they overheard that loudmouth bitch down on the Normandy coast. And as many times as she's been to that goddamn platform durin her school years as well as those of her kids, how the fuck does she not know what fuckin number it is? For that matter, what the fuck is she doin on the nonmagical side in the first place? They could've taken the goddamn floo straight to the platform, but noooo, we've got to do it the nonmagical way instead. Harry, my young friend, you've been played like a fiddle. Her hollerin about muggles and shit is a blatant violation of the Statute of Secrecy, one of the most important laws in the entire magical world. I reckon the only reason she'd do somethin that fuckin stupid is if the ol goat fucker told her she wouldn't get in trouble for it."
Before anyone could reply, another knock sounded at the door.
"Come," Shepherd called out.
Harry stared in surprise as a tall blonde woman came into the office. She wore a bright yellow leather motorcycle jacket with black stripes running down each sleeve and side, matching yellow leather pants, and carried a sheathed katana in her left hand. She moved with the grace and poise of a cobra and looked twice as deadly.
"Right on time," Shepherd said with a smile. "Harry, please allow me to introduce you to the Grim Reaper of your…"
It was then Harry saw the figure that shuffled in behind the terrifying woman. "Hermione?" he yelled, leaping to his feet.
Her head jerked up when she heard his voice and met his eyes with her own. As her mouth dropped open in shock, he could tell that she'd been crying heavily, very recently too. He closed the gap between them, and she suddenly found her voice. "Harry!" she screamed, leaping into his arms and wrapping herself around him like a limpet. She burst into tears once more, her shoulders quaking in great, heaving sobs as she held onto him as if her life depended on it.
Everything else seemed to melt away. The only thing that Harry was aware of was the weeping young woman in his arms, and he was suddenly struck by how… right it felt. He considered their relationship in that light, from the time they had first met, and realised that from the beginning through the end of their fifth year they had been naturally progressing towards a more intimate relationship that could only have ended in marriage. Sixth year, though, something strange had happened – their behaviour had suddenly, inexplicably become more distant, almost as if they were strangers, while they both became infatuated, even obsessed, with the two youngest Weasleys – almost at the same time. He pondered about what that could mean and was unable to deny the obvious conclusion. His arms tightened protectively around the girl he now realised he loved with all his heart – and not as a sister.
"It's so good to see you," he whispered in her ear, "but what are you doing here?"
"I got hit with a killing curse from Bellatrix Lestrange," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. "After Vol… Voldemort showed us that you were dead I just didn't care anymore. I kept attacking until she hit me." Her shoulders began shaking again as her arms tightened around him. He just held her close until her sobs abated.
"Sorry about that," he told the others, gently stroking her hair. "Shepherd, you were about to introduce me to Hermione's reaper?" There was a different tone in his voice, one that caused Shepherd to come out from behind his desk and clap him on the shoulder in approval.
"There it is, boy. Don't let go of it, and you'll have this in the bag." There was genuine warmth, pride, and even affection on Shepherd's face now. All vestiges of his earlier wrath had disappeared. The grin on Doc's face reminded Harry of a cat that had gotten into the cream, and even the tall woman had a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "So yes – introductions. As you have correctly deduced, this is your gal's reaper – you can call her Valkyrie for now." He turned to face the other reaper. "And this here's Harry James Potter, soulmate of your charge."
"A pleasure to finally meet you," she said in a warm alto voice. "I must admit, Mr Potter, that I had every intention of hunting you down sometime and… punishing you for the aggravation you have caused through your soulmate there."
His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't say anything.
She smiled as she sauntered towards him, her fingers tapping the scabbard of her sword. "Like you, she has a task that is inextricably intertwined with your own. And like you, she is a hardcase due to her several untimely deaths. Unlike you, most of her deaths have been the direct result of her association with you and your… misadventures and are therefore not her fault. She can hardly be blamed for helping out her soulmate, can she? You, on the other hand…" Her smile was downright predatory at this point. Harry gulped nervously but refused to look away. "Like I said, I was ready to chastise you for your idiotic behavior, but it seems that even that is not entirely your fault. I am quite eager to hear what Doc's diagnosis might be. But Harry…" Her hand shot out and painfully grabbed his ear, drawing his face inches from her own. "…do try not to let it happen again, okay? I would hate to have to add this…" She squeezed his ear hard enough to make him yelp. "…to my trophy case, understand?" Her voice was as sweet as could be, and that just made the deadly undertone all the more ominous.
"Yes ma'am!" he enthusiastically agreed.
"Good." She kissed his forehead and let him go, turning to the doctor. "I believe we interrupted your diagnosis, my friend. Please continue."
Harry led his bushy-haired best friend back to his chair. He was about to unfold another one for her when she stopped him and wordlessly pushed him back into his seat before sitting across his lap and burying her face in his shoulder. Her arms resumed their place around his neck as his own encircled her trim waist, keeping her from sliding off his lap.
Doc gave them a bemused glance as he continued his diagnosis. "Okay, we've confirmed residue from three loyalty potions from the fall of 1991 keyed to Dumbledore, Ron Weasley, and the Weasley family, and a fourth keyed to Ginny Weasley from the fall of 1993. We also have evidence of some minor compulsion charms administered shortly before each of the potions went into effect, each with Dumbledore's signature. Now, here is where it gets interesting. In the late fall of 1994, a revulsion potion was administered, keyed to Hermione Granger. The dosage level was increased on a weekly basis to near-toxic levels by the time he reached the fall of 1996. If Miss Granger has been dosed in a similar manner, which I strongly suspect, then they both had enough potion in them that if they had not been a soulmated couple, they in all likelihood would have been actively trying to murder each other by this time."
Hermione's arms tightened around him as she recalled their disaster of a sixth year. "I am so sorry for how I treated you," she whispered.
"It's okay," Harry replied, stroking her back. "I'm sure it was the potions. That would make more sense than anything else."
"I hope so," she sniffled before lightly kissing his neck. A jolt of electricity shot down to his feet and his arms tightened convulsively around her waist. Fortunately, she did nothing else at the moment other than snuggling closer to him, but every breath she took sent another light and pleasant chill down his neck.
"Now, last but certainly not least, there is an obsession potion that was begun in the late summer of 1996, keyed to Ginny Weasley. Again, this one was increased weekly to near-toxic levels towards the late winter at the beginning of 1997. As with the loyalty potions, there was a break this past winter in their administration before resuming up until his latest death."
"Obsession potion?" Harry asked. "Is that like a love potion?"
Doc laughed. "Young man, there is no such thing as a love potion. Love is inherently self-sacrificing, with a genuine care and concern for the well-being of the other person. Those are not traits that can be faked or aroused through a potion, regardless of what the ignorant call it. Feelings of lust, desire, jealousy, and obsession can be inflamed through potions, often to devastating effect, but as those feelings are selfish in nature, and the attempt to utilise such potions is an unbelievably selfish act in its own right, true love can never arise from the usage of them. As far as we are concerned, using them is no different than rape, and users will be judged accordingly."
Harry winced as he recalled an overheard conversation in which Molly Weasley joked about getting Arthur's attention with a love potion. If true, he suspected that she had as much to look forward to in the afterlife as Dumbledore.
"Okay," Shepherd said. "So you're sayin my charge here has been doped up with this shit for practically the entire time he's been back in the magical world, right?"
"On a weekly basis, with several doses regularly increasing."
"Goddamn, son. No wonder you were makin stupid fuckin choices every time you turned around. I'm beginning to realise it was a goddamn miracle you did as well as you did."
"Thanks, I think," Harry said. "Do we know who was responsible for making them and giving them to me?"
"We'll need to do a little more analysis before we can pinpoint it," Doc replied, "but don't worry. They will all be identified and dealt with accordingly."
"What I don't understand is how this could've been goin on for so fuckin long without anyone up here sayin anythang," Shepherd observed.
"I'm also curious as to why there is a gap in his dosage this past winter," Valkyrie interjected. "Is there any explanation for that in your diagnosis?"
"Nope," Doc replied. "Harry?"
The young man considered. "I've got an idea, but I'd like you to check Hermione first if you don't mind." He poked her gently in the side, causing her to look up at him. Her watery eyes were red and puffy, and he could not recall when he'd ever seen a more beautiful young lady. "Doc's going to do a quick scan on you, love," he whispered.
Her eyes widened for a moment at his endearment, but she nodded and stood up. The doctor quickly scanned her with his device and she turned back to Harry. "Did you mean that?" she asked softly.
"Did I mean what?"
"Love." Her voice remained steady but her cheeks flushed.
He smiled at her, not breaking eye contact for a moment. "With all my heart," he said. "My only regret is not realising it sooner."
A smile lit up her face like the rising sun after a long stormy night. She sat down in his lap again, this time straddling his legs, and without a moment's hesitation pressed her lips firmly to his own. It took him by surprise, to be sure, but he immediately responded, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, returning her kiss as ardently as she.
A gentle clearing of the throat reminded the teens that they had an audience. Blushing, they broke their kiss but Hermione refused to leave his lap.
"Well, goddamn!" Shepherd said. "Looks like we won't have to worry about Objective Number Two at all, will we!"
Hermione's reaper also had a large smile on her face, and Harry could tell that she was as relieved as his own reaper. "Let's see what the diagnosis is for my charge first, and then we'll work on a plan," she said, looking at the doctor expectantly.
"The first eleven, almost twelve years show no signs of mind-altering substances," Doc obliged. "She too shows that she received loyalty potions in the fall of 1991, although her dosage was a little smaller and did not start until late fall."
"After the incident with the troll, it sounds like," Harry observed.
Hermione, who had swung around to sit across his lap so she could see everyone else, agreed. "That's when I became friends with Harry and Ron," she said, absently twirling her finger through his hair.
"That makes sense," Doc nodded. "The potions are the same, keyed to Dumbledore, Ron Weasley, and the Weasley family. In fact, all the rest of the potions – and time frames – are virtually the same, except that the revulsion potion is keyed to Harry and the obsession potion is keyed to Ron."
"But all the potions are completely out of our system now, right?" Hermione wanted to know.
"Yeah, the effects were removed when you crossed over. Only residual psychic traces remain."
"And the gap this past winter?" Valkyrie asked.
"It's the same," Doc confirmed. "What's your idea, Harry?"
He met Hermione's eyes and gave her a resigned look. Her eyes widened for a moment in realisation before she too sighed dejectedly. "Ron," they said in unison.
"Come again?" Shepherd asked.
"It was when Ron left us on the horcrux hunt," Harry said. "He was gone for several weeks while we were freezing, starving, and looking for clues."
"He indicated that he was frustrated by our lack of progress," Hermione continued, "but I always suspected that he was more frustrated about our lack of food and comfortable beds."
"Interestingly enough, as I look back on that time it seems like our thoughts felt a little clearer," Harry said.
"That's right," she agreed. "And you asked me to dance one evening, too. I don't mind saying that that was the best night of my life, Harry. It was more special than the Yule Ball, even." She paused, giving him a tender smile. "I remember hoping that you would kiss me after that," she admitted.
Harry returned her smile with a wistful one of his own. "I really wanted to," he said. "I think I would have worked up my courage to do so over the next couple of days, too."
"So why the hell didn't you?" his reaper asked.
"Ron came back."
Shepherd groaned. "Motherfucker," he grumbled. "And let me guess: you welcomed back the desertin piece of shit with open arms."
"Yeah, pretty much," a chagrined Harry Potter confirmed.
"Goddamn, those motherfuckers did a number on you."
Hermione poked her "chair" in the ribs. "So if you wanted to kiss me, what was that nonsense about loving me like a sister?"
Harry blushed. "Well, Ron was back and I thought you liked him. I just wanted you to be happy, and if he was the one then I would step back."
She gave him a surprised look before wrapping her arms around him. "Oh Harry," she sighed. "I believe that's one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me. I do wish that you'd talked about it with me first, though. When you said that it made me so sad, but I figured that even if you didn't like me that way, if I was with Ron I could still be part of your life."
Shepherd shook his head at this exchange and traded a meaningful look with his fellow reaper. "These two have it bad for each other," he said. "I'd laugh if it wasn't so goddamned serious, and I'd probably tear his fuckin head off if I didn't know how bad he's been fucked up."
Valkyrie nodded in agreement. "I may have intimated a similar level of frustration with Hermione as well," she allowed. "Fortunately, the girl is a quick study. I think they will be fine so long as they improve their communication with each other."
"Well, it looks like they're off to a bangin start," Shepherd said, gesturing to the couple who now appeared to be inspecting each other's tonsils with their tongues. "Or they will be soon at this rate."
The lady reaper groaned. "Knock it off, kids," she groused. "I'm not ready to be a grandmother just yet, and we've still got work to do."
"Just making up for lost time," Harry quipped, red-faced but wearing a cheeky grin. An equally-blushing Hermione giggled – something he'd never heard from her before, and as far as he was concerned was infinitely more delightful than the ones their classmate Lavender Brown was known for – and smacked his shoulder.
"Be that as it may," Shepherd said, "and while I absolutely agree with your mindset, I assure you that there will be plenty of time for all that – but do it on your own time, and preferably not in public." Still smirking, he turned to the doctor, who was refilling his martini glass from a metal Army-issued canteen he pulled from the medical kit. "Doc, you said the heavy-duty potioning didn't really start until Fall, 1994, right?"
"That's right," Doc said as he screwed the cap back onto the canteen and dropped it back into the bag. He next removed a small jar of olives and a small canister from which he took a single toothpick. Spearing an olive, he dropped it into his freshened drink before replacing the jar and canister back into the bag. "That was when they had to start increasing the dosages to maintain any effectiveness."
"Right," Shepherd said. "So I'm thinkin we can send em back to July 31, 1994, right before their fourth year. That'll give em some time before school starts so they can start dealin with the snakehead's soul fragments, and also to hook up with the goblins."
Harry's heart leapt when he heard the idea. If he went back to that date, that would mean he'd have a chance to save the life of Cedric Diggory, one of the first victims of the madman's second attempt to rise to power. Then he groaned.
"What's the matter?" Shepherd said.
"That's also before the quidditch World Cup," he said. "I don't know if I can tolerate being with the Weasleys again for that. I'm liable to murder Ron at the least, considering he's the only one who could have been dosing us this past year, and possibly ever since our first year as well."
Hermione stared off into space with a frown. "Harry, when did the Weasleys pick you up that year?" she asked.
"Um, mid-August, I think," he said.
"Did you receive any communication from them before then?"
"Not that I remember."
She smiled at him, stroking his cheek with the backs of her fingers. "What if we decided to try dating that summer?" she suggested. "I'm sure you remember flying on Buckbeak with me," she said, her cheeks pinking. "It was ever so romantic, even though we were focused on rescuing Sirius at the time. Maybe you could even come on holiday with me. Then when the Weasleys try to get you, you could beg off instead, as you and I already have plans."
"That could work," Harry agreed after a moment's consideration. "Wouldn't Dumbledore object though?"
"Undoubtedly," she answered. "That's why we can go to the French Riviera. He won't be able to do anything without creating an international incident then."
"Somehow, I doubt that will stop him for long," Harry snarked.
"You leave that to us," Shepherd said. "When you go back you both will be completely purged of that shit they've been givin you, you'll be immune to any other potions they try to give you, and you'll have impenetrable occlumency shields in your minds, so no one will be able to read em. And like I said earlier, Harry, you won't have that piece of shit in your head either."
"So what do we say if anyone asks about any of that?" Hermione wanted to know.
Harry's reaper casually waved his hand. "Ah, just tell em the truth. First time you kissed each other there was glowin light all around, a heavenly chorus, and Harry's scar started oozin black gunk. Everythang else is likely because of your soul bond or whatever. They'll love that shit, especially after they find your names in the Book of Souls. Hell, fuckin Dumbledore should know about that already – and that'll just be one more goddamn thang to charge him with."
The office door opened without warning and an unkempt white man shuffled in. Everyone looked at him incredulously as he stopped in the doorway for a moment before continuing inside. His shoulder-length brown hair was messy, tangled, and looked as if it hadn't been washed in quite some time. Neither had his salt-and-pepper goatee been trimmed in a while. He wore a stained V-neck undershirt and plaid shorts, over which he wore an open, threadbare bathrobe that might have once been brown, grey, or even purple. The only distinguishing feature about it now was the numerous pinhole burns down the front. His outfit was completed by a pair of cheap supermarket sunglasses perched low on the end of his nose as well as a pair of ratty slippers on his bare feet. He carried a thick file folder under one arm and a short glass filled with a dirty white liquid in that same hand. After closing the door behind him he slipped his free hand into his bathrobe's pocket. As he shuffled across the wooden floor, the clinking of ice cubes in his drink was clearly audible.
Without saying a word to anyone, he used his free hand to grab one of the folding chairs and open it in front of Shepherd's desk, sitting beside Harry and Hermione as he leaned back nonchalantly and kicked his feet up to rest on the desktop. He pulled the file out from under his arm and placed it in his lap as he took a sip from his drink and belched contentedly.
Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust as the faint sour odour of his unwashed body wafted over when he shifted in his seat.
Shepherd was the first to recover. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded.
The newcomer glanced around the office at everyone with bleary eyes from over the top of his sunglasses. "Uh, yeah, man. I'm like, the, uh, Weasel's account manager," he mumbled.
Harry's reaper blinked. Twice. "Of course you are," he sighed. "Goddamn it, that answers most of my fuckin questions already." He gestured to the teens, where Harry sat with his arms protectively around Hermione's waist. Both of them glared daggers at the newcomer. "This is Harry Potter and his soulmate, Hermione Granger," Shepherd said.
The newcomer looked at them and raised his glass to them in greeting, but otherwise said nothing.
"Were you aware," Shepherd continued through gritted teeth, "that your clients were dopin them up with illegal potions?"
"Well, uh, yeah," the account manager said. At everyone's dumbfounded and/or borderline murderous looks, he took on a defensive tone. "Hey, man, the Weasels aren't so bad, y'know? They're just, like, a little down on their luck, y'know? I figured they just needed, like, a helping hand or something. I mean, it's not, uh, Randall's fault he's dumb as a brick. I figured a smart girl like Harmony there would do him a world of good, y'know? And, uh, Ginger Weasel liked Harold there since she was, like, a little girl, and I thought he could take good care of her, what with his money and all, man. So they, like, used a couple of love potions, just to, like, get their attention, y'know? I thought adding those two to the Weasel's family would, like, really tie things together, man."
Valkyrie shook her head in disgust. "Ronald and Ginevra Weasley are the absolute worst matches for these two in the entirety of magical Britain," she said.
The account manager just shrugged. "Yeah, well, that's like just your opinion, man." He didn't see the blonde reaper's lips purse in anger, nor did he see her hand tighten around the hilt of her sword.
Shepherd didn't say a word throughout the entirety of the Weasley manager's rambling, but Harry could tell he was getting more and more upset. "Wait for it," he whispered so that only Hermione could hear.
She gave him a curious glance just as Shepherd snatched up his pistol and started blasting away at the man. She actually jumped in Harry's lap at the sudden noise but barely managed to suppress a squeak of surprise.
"Ow!" the man complained. "Watch it, man! There's a beverage here! What's with the hostility, man?"
"You goddamn stupid fuckin moron!" Shepherd raged. "What part of These two are Soul! Mates! did you not fuckin understand?" He squeezed off another round for good measure. "Harry, I changed my mind. You are officially off of my shit list. If this go-around winds up gettin fucked and I get fired, I'm takin it out on this motherfucker right here!"
"I may just help you," Harry growled, "but if that happens, I promise you it won't be for lack of effort on my part."
"Our part, sweetie," Hermione corrected.
"Sorry, our part," Harry agreed.
"You sure they're, like, soulmates, man?" the Weasley manager mumbled as he gave them a dubious look. "I don't really remember them, like, going for each other, y'know?"
"That's cause your goddamn clients have been fuckin with their heads for so long they barely know which end is up!" Shepherd roared as he walked around the desk. "There must have been somethin in their records tellin you that gettin them involved with our clients was a bad fuckin idea! Gimme that goddamn file!" He snatched the folder off the man's lap, barely missing his glass. "And get your feet off my goddamn desk!"
The reaper immediately opened the folder and began flipping through the pages. "There!" he said, tearing a page out and waving it under the man's nose. "That's Ronald Weasley's personality matrix! Left to his natural fuckin devices, there are exactly three people that even qualify as casual friends: Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Millicent Bulstrode! You'll also note that his list of best friends is precisely zero, while his list of enemies is practically everyone that knows the motherfucker! Did you even read this fuckin thang?"
"I might've, like, glanced over it," came the reply. "It really wasn't all that, y'know, interesting, man. And who the hell is Crabs, Boil, and Bullfrog? I don't remember them, man."
"I'll tell you who they aren't, motherfucker. They aren't that couple sittin next to you, that couple right there that your fuckin incompetence has allowed some of the worst people to manipulate and abuse, resultin in their untimely deaths. I know my client has just the one chance left, how bout yours?" he asked Valkyrie.
"No, she still has a couple of chances left," the blonde reaper replied. She gave the Weasley manager a baleful look. "Of course, I find myself in agreement that this fool holds the lion's share of responsibility for this situation."
"Exactly." Shepherd shook his head in disgust. "A single timely warnin would've been sufficient, but no! We've gotta let folks fuck around with substances that shouldn't even be allowed to exist, startin a chain reaction that ultimately causes the entire fuckin universe to collapse!"
Another knock sounded at the door. "What!" Shepherd bellowed.
Yet another man entered the cramped office. Harry noticed that even though the office hadn't been that large to begin with, the five extra people did not fill it up the way he thought it would. He never saw the walls move or anything, yet somehow it was always just big enough.
The new man also had longish black hair, though shorter and much neater, not to mention cleaner, than the previous arrival's. A thin beard was kept neatly trimmed. He wore a black suit, simple in style yet perfection in fit. Two dogs entered the office with him – an outgoing female beagle whose tail never seemed to stop wagging, and a grey male pit bull with deep, soulful eyes.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, politely shaking everyone's hand. "I'm from Arbitration. When I found out what was going on, I decided to contact Personnel and see what I could dig up." He smiled down at the Weasley manager. "You, my friend, were never supposed to be an account manager. You were supposed to be running the bar at our bowling alley, but somehow Personnel got you mixed up with another gentleman who shares the same name as you."
"Again?" the (ex)manager complained. "Man, why the hell does this keep happening to me?"
"No idea," the Arbiter said. "Why don't you head over to the bowling alley and get settled in. I'll take the Weasley file with me to Arbitration and make sure they are… dealt with."
Shepherd handed the file to the arbiter without any protest. Even he was somewhat taken aback at the steely tone the latest newcomer's voice had taken.
The now-demoted former Weasley account manager rose unsteadily to his feet and took a sip of his drink before shuffling out of the office, muttering under his breath about psychos with guns, people with his same name, and something about a soiled rug that Harry wasn't sure had anything to do with them.
"Trust me, he'll be a lot better off working a bar than working as a Death Management Account Manager," the arbiter said.
"I'm still gonna shoot the motherfucker next time I see his ass," Shepherd growled. "Just on general fuckin principle. Goddamn aggravatin…" He trailed off, looking at the teens.
The arbiter checked his wristwatch, a Bucherer Manero that he wore on the inside of his wrist. "I really need to get going," he said. "Doc, if you don't mind, I'd like to see you in my office when you get the deeper results of the scans for these two. I'm quite interested specifically on who was responsible for making the potions forced on these two."
Doc raised his glass in salute. "Soon as I have em, you'll be the first to know," he said.
"Spasiba. Have a good evening." With that, he turned and exited, whistling for his dogs to follow.
"I really should be heading back to the lab myself," Doc said. "I'll make sure you both get a copy of all the results as well."
"Appreciate it," Shepherd said. Valkyrie nodded her thanks as well, and the doctor soon had his bag slung and was leaving the office. When the door closed behind him, it was just Harry and Hermione along with their reapers.
Something had been bothering Hermione for several minutes, and now that it was just them she spoke up. "Valkyrie, you said I still had a couple of attempts left, correct?"
"That's right."
"If we're only allowed to retain our memories on our last attempt, why are you telling me anything at all since I'm not going to remember anything?"
Shepherd chuckled. "Damn, this gal's good! You better not let her get away, Harry."
His arms tightened around her. "I won't, but she's right. Don't wipe her memory, please! I need her too goddamn much." His face reddened as he realised that he had just cursed in front of the most straightlaced person he knew. His girl, though, simply turned to look at him and gave him a mysterious smile, but otherwise said nothing.
"Don't y'all worry about it, Harry. Given the importance of your mission, we're gonna bend some rules, break some others, and flat out ignore the rest. We know how important she is to you, so she'll be goin back with her memories intact as well. Hell, I doubt you'll be able to do your third job without her."
"And that is?"
He smiled. "Not showin up in my fuckin office until you die of old age when you're a hundred whatever."
Harry nodded in agreement. "I'm sure I would've muffed my last chance long ago without her."
"So when do we go back?" Hermione wanted to know.
"Well, there's some official paperwork that still needs to be filled out for the both of you, includin memory retention forms, but we'll hold off on that yet. Like I said before, we're about to stack the deck in your favour. And that's gonna include trainin and conditionin." He gave them an evil smirk. "And I've got just the fella to help us out."
***FTR***
Shepherd and Valkyrie led the two teens out of the Death Management (Probationary) offices and into a dusty street. The exterior of the office building was as decrepit as the interior, complete with a faded sign hanging over the door naming the department.
Harry looked around at the surrounding buildings. This whole area looked run-down and falling apart, though there was no litter in the gutters or streets. All in all, not at all the kind of place he'd want to get caught in after dark. "Um, Shepherd," he said, "I really don't want to complain, but I've got to say that this is not how I pictured the afterlife."
His reaper chuckled. "What, you thought it'd be just a buncha folks layin around on clouds and playin harps all day, or maybe standin around in a burnin lake gettin poked in the ass by pitchforks toted by little red devils? We're right on the edge of Purgatory, actually - and if y'all hadn't been doped up on fuckin potions like you were, it's a damn near certainty y'all woulda wound up there for a bit after failin to fulfill your goddamn purposes."
"So what's Heaven like?" Hermione asked.
"Nope, ain't gonna tell you. You're gonna have to find that out on your own. I will say that Hell is pure fuckin void, the outer darkness where there is wailin and gnashin of teeth."
"Imagine experiencing complete sensory deprivation," Valkyrie added. "No light, no sound, just absolute darkness. No point of reference of any kind. Just you, totally alone, with only your thoughts and memories for company, for all eternity."
Hermione shivered as she clutched Harry's arm. "That may be the most terrifying thing I've ever heard," she whispered.
He nodded his head in agreement but looked at his Reaper quizzically. "So what was that bit about the brimstone earlier?" he asked.
"That's just the holdin tank for the damned," Shepherd replied. "Hell ain't actually open yet - the gates don't get unlocked until after the End of Days, and then the tank will be emptied out."
The reapers led them to a gymnasium that Hermione thought looked like a twin to the one in that Stallone film her parents had rented a couple of years ago. The exterior was dingy brick, and the few windows had long ago been painted over and barred up. An accordion-style metal gate was compressed to one side, allowing access to the metal door with chipped grey paint that served as the entrance to the gym.
Shepherd opened the door and led the way inside. The interior was largely cinderblocks painted light grey, with wood-panelled partitions designating locker room and office areas. The main floor had a large area in the centre covered with thick blue training mats. Several battered exercise machines were scattered around the perimeter, including a free-weight bench, punching bag, speed bag, stationary bicycle, and others. The walls were covered with posters showing numerous exercise forms and techniques, except for one wall that held a smudged floor-to-ceiling mirror.
The reapers led the teens across the room to where a muscular, tattoo-covered Hispanic man with long, lank black hair was bench-pressing over three hundred pounds on the free-weight bench. Sensing their presence, the man racked the bar and sat up, grabbing a towel off the floor beside him.
He was easily the most intimidating figure Harry had ever seen. The teen could easily see this man staring down Mad-Eye Moody himself. His craggy face seemed permanently frozen in a scowl, his frowning mouth framed by a thick handlebar moustache. After wiping the sweat from his face and torso, he grabbed a black leather motorcycle vest from the bench next to him and slid it on, leaving the front open and the tattoo of a Mexican señorita wearing a sombrero plainly visible on his chest. His outfit was completed by faded jeans and scuffed, dusty motorcycle boots.
"What's up, my brother?" Shepherd greeted, shaking his hand.
"Keepin busy, ese," came the reply. He nodded towards Harry and Hermione. "What's with the niños?"
"Well, the young man here has a given purpose that keeps gettin fucked up before he can get it done. Fortunately, it ain't really his fault, so we're dealin with it in a different way than normal. The young lady here is his soulmate - they realize it now, so that's a major part of his job already squared away. Anyway, as their Reapers we decided that we're gonna whip their asses into shape, and I figured you'd be the best hombre to help with that."
"You got that right," the man said. His expression never changed, yet Harry got the distinct impression that the man was actually smiling inside. "Yeah, I'll give you a hand."
"Excellent!" Shepherd turned to the teens. "Kids, you can call this fine gentleman Chopper. He's quite handy with a blade - in fact, he's the only motherfucker I know who can take a knife to a gunfight and come out on top every time." He turned back to the man he called Chopper. "And this here's Harry Potter, the so-called Boy-Who-Lived, and his lovely girlfriend and soulmate, Hermione Granger. When we send them back they will have practically the entirety of magical fuckin Britain arrayed against them. It is our job to ensure that these kids are tough enough to withstand the trials that are about to befall them. When we are done with them, they will indeed walk through the Valley of the Shadow, but they will not be afraid for they will be the meanest motherfuckers in the whole goddamn valley!"
Valkyrie and Chopper both openly smiled with Shepherd at this, and Harry and Hermione both agreed, with trepidation in their hearts, that they had never before seen such a terrifying sight.