The Gunman Chapter 8: Talos, a harry potter fanfic

TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"

AUTHOR: sordid humor

CATEGORY: Adventure

SUB-CATEGORY: Humor; Romance; Drama

RATING: brought to you by the letter M: "M" is for mastectomy

DISCLAIMER:

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling

- lyrics from Aqueous Transmission by Incubus, "Morning View" Album -

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

count: 4,000 running count: 42,000

I share a birthday with Bill Weasley.

As I put it in my personal archive of notes on 10-5-05, "Harry expecting to become debonair, suave and intrinsically evil... and ending up with breasts." And later, 10-10-05: "Don't we all wish we could turn into random pieces of furniture at will? We know we do..." Boy, I had some great things to say in October of yesteryear... anyway.

Bippidy boppidy boo! I am your dancing monkey! Another chapter, special for you! Thanks to all those who read: Josie, Jules, Stephie-pooh the guinea pig beta, gabriel mortimer, the wonderful Wayne, Exiled Rain, EsperJones, MollyCoddles, drewmiller90, Voldemorts-understudy, bandgsecurtiyaw, LuciferIsDivine, lluvatar, slanno, EmlyC, Miles, cucullen, wolfowicz, assorted and sordid namagomi mazokus, und meine Zimmerkolleginnen wem ich liebe! You guys make the toil rewarding at the end of the day. Sorry it took me so long to figure that out!

- - -

-we demand telos

-we demand Pan-Slavism

(Look closely now... the Slavs are in there twice! Brownie points to whomever figures it out first!)

-we request some small piece of your Drew

-we demand that ever-mysterious, violet-wearing, top-hat-dropping little fellow known to you only as Dedalus Diggle

-we demand we demand P.C.T.G.

with the original sentence structure, or else...

-we demand that Ron get P.C.T.G.ed

-we demand that Ginny NOT do the P.C.T.G.-ing

aka: the bombarding

(( Talos, guardian of Crete in ancient Greek mythology for brownie points! ))

(( for Drew, who dug me out from the endless spirit ditch ))

(( and where would the world be without John Tavner? ))

PART II

CHAPTER VIII:

TALOS (ZEN)

I'm floating down a river
Oars freed from their holes long ago
Lying face up on the floor of my vessel
I marvel at the stars
And feel my heart overflow

Further down the river...

Two weeks without my lover
I'm in this boat alone
Floating down a river named emotion
Will I make it back to shore
Or drift into the unknown

Further down the river...

I'm building an antenna
Transmissions will be sent when I am through
Maybe we could meet again further down the river
And share what we both discovered
Then revel in the view

Further down the river...

I'm floating down a river...

There is only so far that a man may go.

There are some in this world who believe in destiny and still others who believe in predestination. Who is in the right has yet to be decided. And yet we may say that man appears transfixed upon his own future: and ultimately his own end. The young set out to seek their fortunes and the old ascribe to the ancient schools of fate. Call it what you will; it would seem that we can't leave the idea alone. Just what lies beyond the horizon? Do I deserve it? And however do I attain it?

There is only so far that a man may go.

There are some things which are best left alone. And yet man—being a curiously self-annihilating creature—must insert himself into such things because—clearly—there is some way he can make it worse before it begins to heal. Clearly, man must pick at a scab until he has created a scar rather than trust in the natural order of things. Just because some things are better left alone does not mean that man knows this.

There is only so far that a man may go.

There is a point at which man realizes where he ends and where something greater begins. It takes a certain man of mindfulness and humility to find this end. It is the end which every man seeks: the point where his body ends and his soul takes flight.

Arthur Weasley heaved a sigh. He was not the only one sighing in Diagon Alley. Indeed, he was hardly the only wizard exhaling in wonder and fear. The mass magical suicides still had the power to take a person's breath away.

Arthur had been reassigned to an emergency task force, on-call twenty four hours a day in order to mask further wizardly deaths from the muggle public. Scrimgeour and the muggle Prime Minister were able to blame most of the suicides on post-traumatic stress disorder from the recent London bombing disasters... and a Pan-Slavist backlash from the Albanian terrorists, of course.

But this one had been big. So what if the muggles hadn't actually seen it; one doesn't need eyes in order to feel utter despair washing over one's body until it penetrates the soul.

He had somehow known that this would happen. He had been praying it wouldn't happen so soon. Someone had burned Dementors' blood—they had actually gone and done it. The fumes from burning Dementors' blood—a Ministry of Magic banned substance—could cause anyone who breathed it to die of utter despair on the spot. Hundreds if not thousands of people could be killed by it on a sunny day. Diagon Alley was filled with corpses—sprawled out in the streets, piled high as the street signs on the corner, dangling from windows. Arthur hadn't seen such a large cloud of despair and misery hovering over Diagon Alley since before Fred and George were born... since the days of Albus Dumbledore and You-Know-Who.

There was a pernicious sense of unease coating England: the muggles blamed it on a contaminated water supply, which they subsequently blamed on their poor minster; the wizards blamed it on the death of Albus Dumbledore, and subsequently You-Know-Who... although they were all too afraid to actually say it. Minister Scrimgeour had gone so far as to issue a proclamation stating that any publication propagating news about-concerning-or-in-any-way-in-relation-to You-Know-Who or his followers would be subject to a ten thousand galleon fine and would have their publication rights suspended indefinitely. Now, Arthur sighed, the public was frightened and uninformed.

Arthur looked up from the bloodstreaked pavingstones to see the oddest pair picking their way through the corpses toward him: Casimir Jennings from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement accompanied by Hestia Jones of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. At first Arthur merely saw Jennings—as poor Hestia was well hidden by Jennings' corpulence—but as they neared him Arthur could see her dark head peeking around the man's sides like a little bird in those silly clocks that muggles called "cuckoo." Arthur skirted a mound of bodies as he went up to meet them.

"Weasley! Good thing we found you!" Jennings called robustly. It was a surprise to see that he had dispensed with his pipe... possibly due to the levity of the situation—or the lingering Dementors blood—but that was only a guess on Arthur's part. He merely nodded. "Bit of a war-zone, this is, eh?"

"Indeed," Mr. Weasley said serenely. "I haven't been able to look around much..." And he was thankful.

"It's about the same everywhere, Arthur," Hestia Jones told him, blowing on her fingers and rubbing them together to fight the cold and the abject misery and fear. The color was gone from her young cheeks and her eyes were darkened from lack of sleep. "What's the count so far?"

She was referring to the body count—for that was Arthur's job. He stood in the middle of the wreckage and made records of the destruction. He bore a clipboard full of numbers; some of them crossed out and doubled, others crossed and tripled. It was a sad day in the war against You-Know-Who.

"So far, Knockturn is at 84. Diagon just broke 1,000."

"Merlin save us..." Hestia whispered, clutching her small, cold hands to her chest.

"And how many blocks have reported in?" Jennings asked, pulling a flask from within his robes.

"Let's see..." Arthur muttered, consulting the clipboard once more. "One through forty five, sixty through seventy five, one hundred twenty through one ninety, and now the two of you with seventy six through...?" He wondered what the scene was like outside number ninety three, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He had to remain stationary due to that blasted clipboard, waiting for information... praying...

"We made it down to one twenty," Jennings said pompously, puffing out his overlarge stomach as though counting vast numbers of corpses was something to be proud of.

"And..." Arthur steeled himself, "how many?"

"Thirteen," Hestia said. Arthur spluttered.

"Those boys of yours, Arthur," Hestia whispered as Jennings busied himself with his flask once more. "From what people have been saying, they set off half the fireworks in their shop! Anyone who hadn't taken refuge in one of the other shops was saved—Arthur, the firecrackers had cheering potions in them!"

"Your boys are handing out tea." Jennings seemed unsure whether he liked this idea or not.

"It's amazing! Simply amazing..." Hestia trailed off, gazing down Diagon Alley with a wistful expression lighting up her eyes for a fleeting moment.

"Weasley," Jennings interrupted Arthur's reverie of glowing pride. "Any idea what's caused all this? Has there been any word?"

"I've been hearing rumors about a leak from the Prophet," Arthur said, his mind elsewhere. "No one seems to know what the leak was about. There hasn't been any official word as of yet..."

" Of course; it's too soon. In the morning, I think, Weasley," Jennings replied. "No need to cover anything up unless the Prophet tries to print it."

"Let me take that clipboard for you, Arthur," Hestia put in. She pulled the board from his cold fingers and gave him a knowing smile beyond her years. "I'm sure you'd like to head down to number ninety three."

"Yes," Arthur's voice came breathlessly. "Thank you," he called over his shoulder, already rushing down Diagon Alley.

"Dad!" Fred and George shouted, careening down the alley towards their father, leaping over pygmy puffs and ducking so as not to spill the drinks of their patrons. Indeed, Fred and George and their entire staff had set up a table in the middle of the street in order to distribute free cheering potions, tea and fire whiskey. The pygmy puffs were treated to a "free range" experience while fireworks and patented day-dreams were displayed on tables outside the shop, bearing brightly colored sale banners. The atmosphere around number ninety three was convivial and infectious. Several witches and wizards began to applaud as Fred and George knocked their father over with the force of their dual embrace. From the bloodstreaked pavingstones Arthur Weasley held fast to his boys, tears running down his face in sheer joy.

Very early that following morning, Ginny Weasley was standing at the Burrow's kitchen stove, making a cup of tea. She nearly dropped the tea kettle when her father apparated into the room, shortly followed by her brothers, Fred and George. Her Quiddich

reflexes were solely responsible for the kettle remaining in her hands rather than crashing to the floor.

"Ah! So sorry Ginny, dear," Mr. Weasley said quickly, rushing towards his only daughter. "Let me help you with that," and he commenced making tea for all of them.

"So what's wrong?" Ginny asked of Fred and George as they stood with their hands in their pockets beside the kitchen table.

"Who says anything's wrong?" George responded a little too quickly. Ginny simply rolled her eyes.

"Let's see here..." she said in mock thought, putting a finger to her chin and gazing pensively at the ceiling. "Fred and George Weasley, entrepreneurs extraordinare, creators of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes—and undoubtedly greatly sought-after bachelors—standing in their mother's kitchen at four o'clock in the morning, wearing yesterday's robes and clinging to their father like a pair of toddlers... Let me see, did I get everything?" She glanced at the pair of them and noted that she was not getting much of a rise out of them. "Oh, and you two suddenly can't take a joke. Something's definitely wrong," Ginny concluded. Mr. Weasley placed four cups of tea on the table along with milk, sugar, and a bottle of firewhiskey.

"Dad," Ginny said firmly, "what on earth is going on?"

Mr. Weasley sat down slowly, as though he had been looking forward to resting his bones the entire night. He patted the seat next to himself wearily. "Come and sit down, Ginny." As soon as she had seated herself beside him, he put an arm around her and swiftly kissed her forehead. Still holding her close he told her, "You sound exactly like your mother back when we were young..."

"Dad!" Ginny rolled her eyes. "That's very sweet of you but it still leaves me clueless as to what's happened!" Her father sighed and squeezed her shoulder affectionately.

"The truth is, Ginny, no one's quite sure what it is that's happened—or, more directly, what actually caused it. This is just a hunch... but I think everything will be explained as soon as yesterday's prophet arrives."

And as Mr. Weasley spoke, a tawny owl and a great horned landed on the windowsill outside the Weasley's kitchen window. Fred jumped up to open the window and let the owls in. They swooped through the open window, causing Fred to duck in order to avoid being clobbered by them. They landed swiftly on the table before Mr. Weasley, jostling one another and spilling his tea in the process, each attempting to get his attention first. The Daily Prophet tawny held an unusually large special edition of the newspaper: the great horned was clearly Ministry, as it went so far as to bite the other owl's wing just to get to "Mr. Arthur Weasley."

Mr. Weasley scooped up the irate Ministry bird, removing a piece of parchment from its leg and shooing it out the window.

"Fred, George, would you mind paying the Prophet for me?" He asked, unfolding the parchment and speed reading his way through a hastily scribbled memo. Fred and George paid the owl out of their pockets as Ginny unfurled the paper. She rolled her eyes and heaved a mighty sigh before she slammed the Prophet onto the table with an almighty harrumph.

"Oh, Lord..." she fumed.

"HARRY POTTER: MISSING!!" blared the headline in undoubtedly the largest text the editors of The Daily Prophet could find on such short notice.

"That would do it," Fred said knowingly. He poured some firewhiskey into his tea.

"No wonder," George echoed eerily. His eyes seemed fixed on something only he could see. He accepted a cup of tea wearily from his brother, still deep in thought.

"What?!" Ginny insisted, gesticulating in exasperation with her fingertips.

"Looks like it's back to the Ministry for me, kids," Mr. Weasley said with a heavy heart. "Fred, George, tell Ginny what happened... and your Mother as well. I don't know if I'll be home for dinner tonight but please tell her that I will try my hardest."

"It's ok, Dad," Fred said, moving closer to his father. "Mom'll understand."

"Yes, of course..." Mr. Weasley drained his tea cup and prepared to leave. Yet before he took a single step toward the door he turned again to face his children.

"... family hug?" he said weakly.

Fred, George and Ginny all came at him in a rush. It was the best feeling Arthur Weasley could ever recall.

"'Arrests in London Bridge Bombing, Ministry Scandal,'" Ron read aloud from yesterday's Daily Prophet over breakfast much later that same morning. He was reading yesterday's Prophet because that's what had come in the mail that day. With Scrimgeour's new proclamation, it took at least a day for the Ministry to clear the papers for publication.

"That one sounds interesting," Mrs. Weasley put in sarcastically, buttering toast.

"Since the murderous explosions two (more like three) days ago in which over 300 muggles (blah, blah, blah), the Ministry of Magic has finally made their first arrests. It is exclusively reported to you—the deserving magical public—that one Mr. Stan Shunpike, 22, has been forceably returned to the Ministry (because who in their right mind would go willingly?) on charges of conspiracy. This is Mr. Shunpike's second arrest under very serious charges (wonder if they ever let him out after the first one, eh?). You may recall—not one year ago—Mr. Shunpike was held for questioning in relation—"

"Alright, that's enough, Ronald," Mrs. Weasley put in. "I think that poor boy has gone through enough without our reading about his misfortunes over breakfast..." she trailed off, filling her children's plates with pieces of toast barely visible through all the butter.

"Here, here," said Fred and George in unison between large bites of butter/toast.

"That paper's all rubbish, anyway." Mrs. Weasley scowled. She pulled the pages from Ron's fingers, replacing them with several pieces of slimy toast. Ginny edged the Prophet from her mother's hands with a smile and began to flip through it once more. Her eyes settled on a column she had not noticed until just then.

"Ooh, look!" Ginny squealed in mock joy. "Rita Skeeter is back. 'Me, Myself & I: Celebrity Sightings.'"

"Oh, goodness," Mrs. Weasley tutted, now distributing second helpings of sausage and eggs.

"Anyone we know?" Fred asked, leaning closer to Ginny in order to get a better look at the page. He paused to take a heaping bite of toast just as George did the same. Ron flashed the twins a rather bemused expression from his place directly across the table.

Harriet had spent the night at a muggle hotel inside London. Waking up before him that morning—a truly odd sensation that would take Harry some time to get used to—she had taken a walk to some muggle shop to buy a pair of sandals and a package of hair ties. Harry had woken up that morning to find her body freshly showered, sitting by the window, sipping a cup of tea and holding a copy of The Daily Prophet.

Anyone we know? Harry asked, a distinct feeling of deja vu choosing that particular moment to wash over him. But then Harriet reminded him why the phrase seemed familiar—anyone we know was what Hogwarts students would ask one another each time the Daily Prophet arrived in the Great Hall: has "anyone we know" become "someone we knew"? It was a chilling thought.

"Let's see..." Harriet muttered aloud, scanning Me, Myself & I and the tiny pictures that accompanied each lengthy paragraph. "The Weird Sisters were spotted in Diagon Alley what would have been four days ago, now. When accosted by Rita Skeeter they said it was a shame about Floreen Fortescue's Ice Cream Shop being closed down as it was always their favorite stop in Diagon Alley, followed by... mindless drivel written by Rita Skeeter, I think your friend Hermione might say?"

Yeah, Harry replied. I really miss her...

--And not your friend Ron? Is there anything particular about this Hermione that you miss? Fine eyes, perhaps? If Harry had been sitting next to her she would have been elbowing him in the ribs, he thought.

NOT like that! I mean, I care about Hermione but... I don't like her that way... not that she's ugly or anything! She just... Harry was getting tongue-tied and embarrassed in front of the darker half of his own soul.

She has a very endearing personality, Harriet interpreted from the jumbled mess that was Harry's part-of-the-brain at that moment. I understand, Harry. I merely take pleasure in watching you squirm from time to time.

Harry wondered where this eloquent, slightly vindictive portion of his soul had come from. Was this a rare side effect of a Half Horcrux? Or a sliver of the darkest side of Severus Snape within him? Salazar Slytherin seeping in? Or even some fragment of Lord Voldemort himself fused within Harry's very soul?

"Can't we have a peaceful breakfast without his getting involved?"she fumed aloud.

Sorry. She was very firm about not wanting to hear a word concerning Lord Voldemort. She was almost as zealous about it as Scrimgeour—almost. At the back of his mind—the part she had reserved for him to dwell—Harry almost didn't want to hear anymore about Voldemort either. Almost. What else is in the paper?

She allowed him to use her eyes while she drank tea—another awkward sensation. She had begun relinquishing control of portions of the body from time to time, allowing Harry to turn their head if he wanted to show her something or even to humm along should he hear a familiar tune. "It's like this: either we choose to get along with one another or we both die trying," she had told him.

There was a photograph of Ludo Bagman and Dedalus Diggle against an unfamiliar cityscape. The article said that Diggle and Bagman had run into one another by accident in a part of New York City known as the lower-west side of Manhattan Island. Diggle, the article reported, was on vacation with several members of his extended family when he literally ran into the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Bagman's rotundness beamed out from the moving photograph in a pinstriped suit. The tiny Bagman in the picture threw his paunchy arm around Diggle's shoulder in a friendly manner which caused Diggle to lurch forward and drop his hat. A little old witch scurried into the picture to straighten Diggle's violet jumper and pose strategically with Bagman before the events of the photograph repeated themselves. Harry chuckled to himself before moving on to the next picture.

It was a good thing that Harriet was in charge of drinking the tea and not himself as he might have choked on it.

The picture was of Hermione. And Victor Krum. He was handing her what appeared to be a glass of lemonade while whispering something in her ear. Her hair was being swept away from her face by an ocean breeze and she was laughing. The blue sea sparkled happily in the background.

"She looks well," Harriet commented. "I don't know why you were so worried about her." Harriet continued to drink tea, reading him the article about Hermione and Krum. "'Victor Krum, 20, Seeker for the Bulgarian National Team, put in an appearance at the Bulgarian National Junior Professional League Quiddich Finals yesterday outside Odessos. Attending with him was Hermione Granger, 17, currently entering her 7th year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The two have remained close after attending the Yule Ball together during the Triwizard Tournament back in 1994.'"

"'After the match the two were spotted spending quality time against a stunning view of the Black Sea; a time when this reporter took the chance to catch up with the pair.'"

Harry wasn't really listening to Harriet's somewhat bored voice reading the article. He had been staring at the picture. He knew that muggles had ways of doctoring pictures to show things that weren't there and he began to wonder if Rita Skeeter's camera man had done something like that. Krum was difficult to recognize—but that could have been due to the fact that he was wearing a muggle t-shirt, shorts and trainers. Hermione on the other hand... he couldn't recall ever seeing her look the way she did. He had never seen her so tan. He had never seen her in yellow, let alone in a yellow sun dress as short as the one she wore now. He had never seen her so carefree. He couldn't remember the last time she had looked that happy.

It was too bad that both Fred and George had bitten into their toast before they looked at the newspaper. It was also too bad that Ron was sitting directly across from them when they saw Hermione's picture. And it was all together too bad for everyone concerned when the miniature Krum in the picture planted a kiss on Hermione's cheek.

"Wha'?" Ron asked innocently, picking up his toast. Fred and George had stopped chewing their food and Ginny looked constipated. Mrs. Weasley leaned over to get a better look at the paper.

The little Krum kissed Hermione again.

"Oh, dear..." Mrs. Weasley said mildly. That's when Fred, George and Ginny lost it.

The paper fluttered to the floor as Ginny let out a raucous giggle. Fred and George merely looked at the blank expression on Ron's face and exploded in laughter, accidentally bombarding him in an avalanche of Pre Chewed Toast Goo.

Dripping in Fred and George's partially digested breakfast as they continued to laugh hysterically, Ron's eyes fell to the floor. Even as his mother bellowed at Fred and George, even as a slightly disgusted Fleur entered the room and pointed her wand at his face saying Scourgify, Ron could not take his eyes from the smiling picture of Hermione that lay at his feet.

"I'm going to ask you a question," Harriet said aloud, inspecting her face in the bathroom mirror that night, "but you must promise not to let it go to your head: I only want your opinion this once."

Sure. Ask away...

"Do you think it's better to walk into a situation knowing nothing, or knowing all-together too much?" She paused, and when he did not answer her directly she continued. "If you're overly familiar with your surroundings and circumstances, you run the risk of missing something; however, complete obscurity is just as risky, as you lack certain basic facts that would otherwise be considered common knowledge: knowledge," she growled in frustration as she turned out the bathroom light and closed the door with a harrumph. "I just don't know anymore..."

I suppose you have to know just the right amount... Harry said at last, not knowing what else to say. He had always known he was not the most articulate wizard in all of Great Britain. Her philosophizing was far over his head and he accepted it with an unseen grin.

"Some mysterious measurement entangled somewhere in the middle ground, I suppose..." She was muttering to herself again.

You sound like Snape, Harry mused.

"Of course I do." And with that she returned to bed.

Rufus Scrimgeour felt as though every last Beater who had ever played for the Falmouth Falcons had mistaken his head for a Bludger. He lay sprawled out on a cold floor, the side of his face smashed awkwardly against something hard and damp. Owing to the tinkling sound of water very near by, he judged himself to be crumpled in a heap against some sort of fountain. Warily, he opened his eyes to mere slits and lifted his head from the ground.

Light poured into his eyes, temporarily blinding him—but in that instant he knew where he was: the entryway to the Ministry of Magic. The hard wood floors, the echoing of the fountain, the barely audible whooshing of the fires lining the walls... it was all so familiar—he could picture it again with his eyes closed. In the darkness of his mind, he rose to his feet with the aid of the fountain he had been huddled against. His head was still spinning but he managed to stagger to his feet, using the side of the fountain as a sort of guide rail. With measured strength he was able to limp around the fountain. There was something wrong with his foot so that he could barely move without considerable pain, yet something deep within him was crying out. He staggered, unprepared for battle on unsteady feet.

And then he heard the rushing of the fireplaces and footsteps coming from every hearth. With his eyes closed he could see their black cloaks billowing out as they stormed him. He raised a shaky hand bearing his wand, ready to fight; ready to throw fire and wind and his own life in their path, that they might not reach that fountain...

Palms sweaty, fingers trembling, he raised his wand and his eyes to meet them. Yet there were only three: Stanley Shunpike, Albus Dumbledore, and cousin Seväg. He gaped at them—his betrayers—those sent to destroy him, wands at the ready.

"We meet again," he said at last, staring evenly at each of them. They in turn said nothing but began to circle the fountain in a predatory fashion. He limped along the inner circle, feeling only the pain in his feet and the damp at the back of his robes. They circled him slowly as he staggered, each step more labored than the last, waiting to strike. And it was he who slipped on the hem of his robes, sliding across the floor, bracing himself against the fountain, exposing his heels to the enemy. And they struck.

With a solemn bow, they waved their wands as one and his blood began to drain away, mingling with the fountain to overflow its barriers and flood the hall. The fires hissed as blood and water hit them in a rush. Blood poured forth from the statue's noble figures, from the centaur's arrows, the goblin's pointed hat and the house elf's ears.

They stood before him, close as friends at his deathbed, benevolent and kind. They looked down upon his death.

"In thunder, lightning, or in rain," Stan whispered.

"When the battle's lost and won." Cousin Seväg leaned near.

"Fair is foul and foul is fair," Dumbledore said at last, softly, smiling. "Come now, Rufus," he said gaily, bracingly, "surely you know the rest?"

Rufus Scrimgeour choked. His thoughts were becoming thick and his breathing labored. He could not for the life of him remember the lines from that stupid muggle play Dumbledore had been so fond of. He could never understand the way Dumbledore thought, the reasons he had for the actions he had taken. Rufus Scrimgeour realized with a jolt that he never understood much of anything in his sad little life. None of it had seemed important enough to remember, anyways. Here one minute and gone the next... was he really dying? Was this it? Had he accomplished nothing?...

Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic, sat up with considerable force—a stray piece of parchment from his desk stuck to the side of his face. He was very much alive, whole, full of blood and sitting behind his desk at the Ministry where he had undoubtedly fallen asleep after another late night of work had kept him at the office. Judging by the magical windows it was close to sunrise, a pretty pinkish tinge lighting the edges of an otherwise miserable gray sky.

He snatched the piece of paper off of his face where it had been held fast by a thin, drying line of spit. He squinted at it, his eyes still adjusting to his awakened state.

Seeing the report of exactly what leaked out in yesterday's Daily Prophet, he let out an almighty yell that must have frightened half the cleaning staff on his floor. He lept to his feet with a roar. Someone was going to pay for this—most likely the first person he could lay hands on at this hour of the morning... and then it came to him: that Junior Assistant is usually here through the night...

And, in a towering rage, Rufus Scrimgeour tore from his desk, bellowing, "I'm going to rip that Weasley a new arse hole!"

ADDENDUM:

Please note that this is now all of chapter 8. I've taken a few liberties and moved a few things to the next chapter, which is now titled and dragging its feet to the finish line. Things are moving far slower now, thanks to a few alternative projects (namely: work, a wedding, and figuring out my life). I hope to keep "The Gunman" alive. I never expected to be finished before Deathly Hallows was released. Pffft! I don't expect to read Deathly Hallows at all, no matter how quickly "The Gunman" or any of my other projects finish themselves. I could walk you through the cyclic nature of my arguments but I wouldn't want to waste your time! Feel free and welcome to peruse my other authurial investments in the absense of chapter 9, "Adventures in Alcoholism."

your sordid humor