Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: And another chapter for your reading pleasure. Have fun, I know I sure did!

Shades of Gray

Chapter Eleven: The Firebolt Snidget

It was rapidly approaching lunchtime when Severus finally reappeared at the Order safe house. He found Potter in the kitchen, angrily stirring a tin of soup on the stove. There were a small pile of dishes in the sink and the table bore evidence of having been scrubbed to within an inch of its life just a short while ago. "Might I inquire as to just what offense a tin of mushroom soup has leveled against you?"

Potter glared at him before returning his attention to his lunch. "It wasn't the soup, Snape."

Severus barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Of course not."

The teen stepped away from the stove and grabbed a bowl from the cupboard. "It was those two brainless twats you brought here. Neither one seems to know how to clean up after themselves – they left crumbs enough to feed an army of mice spread all over the table, along with the bread and peanut butter and the raspberry jam from the icebox! And who uses spoons for jam, for crying out loud!" It had taken him nearly ten minutes to pry the spoon off of the tabletop – the jam had somehow managed to dry to a tacky consistency in what had been, at most, only a couple of hours. Potter turned off the stove and tipped the pan of soup into his bowl. As angry as he appeared to be, Severus was impressed that he'd not spilled any. Potter slammed the bowl down on the table, again without spilling a drop. "I'm not a bloody house elf and today is the first, last, and only time I will clean up after them."

Severus left Potter to his meal and set about finding his own lunch. "I will have a word with them," he said, rummaging around in the cabinets. All-in-all, the scene he'd just witnessed reminded him altogether too much of that night Potter had confronted him in Hogwarts' kitchen and the last thing he wanted right then was to have Potter's ire directed at him once again.

"Hah!" Potter nearly shouted it. "I doubt that very much. From what the short one said, the blonde is some sort of cousin of yours."

Severus paused his perusal of the cupboard and turned to face Potter with an unopened jar of green olives in his hand. "I would assume, Potter, given your own situation, you would understand that it is not a requirement to express familial loyalty. If they cannot abide by my rules, I will simply send them home."

A trace of the tension in Potter's shoulders faded. "Yeah, I suppose there is that. She's Fleur's little sister, isn't she?"

Severus nodded and returned to his efforts at cobbling together something remotely edible. "She is. My mother and her father were cousins – their respective fathers were brothers."

Potter let out a little huff of amusement. "Obviously not the veela side of the family."

"That is her mother's side." Snape finally spotted what he was looking for – a tin of kippers – and pulled it out of the depths of the cabinet. Next, he helped himself to a couple of slices of bread and assembled a sandwich, all the while marveling at the fact that he was having a reasonably civil conversation with the Potter brat.

Said brat had lapsed into silence and was now morosely toying with his lunch. Severus tolerated it for longer than he felt reasonable before finally breaking the silence. "Now what, Potter?"

The youth shook his head and reluctantly met Severus' gaze. "Nothing important. I was just curious as to whether or not I was allowed outside."

Severus shrugged. "I fail to see why not. This house is rather secluded, surrounded by mild muggle-repelling charms, and appears to those not permitted to be here by its owner to be a dilapidated ruin, not unlike the Shrieking Shack. If you exercise caution, I see no need to exile yourself to within these walls."

More tension leaked from the boy's frame. "Ah, good then."

"The floo in the library is hooked up, as well. It is warded to require a password for return journeys, however." As Severus had been given no instructions pertaining to the care and feeding of one Harry James Potter, he felt well within his rights to allow the frustrating brat to come and go as he pleased. It would certainly provide him with a bit of peace every now and then.

"What's the password?" Potter blinked and amended his question, "And how do I use it? Just attach it to the floo address?"

Severus finished chewing his mouthful of kipper sandwich before replying. "The address itself is 'Bolt Hole'. Once you've provided the floo with the address, you will be stopped at the grate itself, where you give the password. It is 'blubberdeen'," he said the last with a scowl.

Potter wrinkled his nose and reached up to rub lightly at his temples. "Dumbledore owns this place, then." It wasn't a question.

"Indeed," Severus replied. He was about to finish the last of his own lunch when his Mark began to flare. A general summons. It's a bit early in the day for such, but no one ever accused him of being logical. He wolfed down the last of his sandwich and stood. "I will return later," he said, then disapparated.

Harry was left looking at a crumb-strewn bit of table, with more crumbs on the counter, next to the still-open jar of spicy mustard and half of an onion. "I'm not a damn house elf," he grumbled. He finished his soup and washed only those dishes which he had used, then retreated back to his room long enough to retrieve the stack of letters he'd written and the sack of galleons he kept in his trunk, then headed for the floo.

Morag Isabel MacDougal followed her mother at a distance. Imogene MacDougal, nee Nutcombe, was too busy chatting with her sister to chastise the girl. Even though summer had barely begun, Morag intended to get her school things. One instance of tripping across classmates in late August had been more than enough. I'd just like to know what I ever did to them. Seeing that her mother and Aunt Irene had apparently decided to stop and have tea at a small café, Morag ducked into Flourish and Blotts.

Within ten minutes, she had her books purchased and was busy leafing through Advanced Potion-Making while heading for the door. Without looking up, she absently exited the shop and was immediately plowed over and knocked clean off her feet.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" The voice was vaguely familiar, but Morag couldn't place it just then. Unwelcome hands helped her to her feet and picked up her dropped book. The bag containing her other purchases was still slung over her elbow, though it now looked slightly worse for wear. "Seriously," the voice continued as she methodically brushed dust off her robes, "I didn't see you. I'm sorry."

Morag took her book back from her assailant and finally realized who he was. "Don't worry about it, Potter," she said. "Nothing's bruised except my pride." She dropped Advanced Potion-Making into the bag with her other books and started to step around him. He moved to block her way. She finally met his gaze and sighed in exasperation. "Is there something else you wanted?"

"You sure you're okay?" He seemed honestly worried.

Morag shrugged. "Yeah. I am."

"Let me buy you an ice cream to make up for it. I really do feel like an arse for not watching where I was going." He finally moved aside, but it left her aimed towards Fortescue's.

Who am I to turn down a free ice cream cone? "Fine," she replied and began threading her way through the light midday traffic. Glancing at her mother and aunt, she could tell they were going to be at least a couple of hours – her aunt was making the grandiose hand gestures which meant they'd devolved into discussing politics.

Harry simply stared after her for a moment before following her. Not really chatty, is she? Since Morag hadn't been in the DA, and Gryffindor had few classes with Ravenclaw, he didn't know much about the girl, aside from rumors that he knew better than to believe. Just about all he did know about her was that she was in his year, pureblooded, and had won an achievement award for something to do with Potions class in their third year, but he couldn't quite remember what the award had actually been for. Everything else he knew about her was simply her physical description. She stood at about two inches shorter than Harry, was skeletally thin, and possessed a face that, on a man, could have been considered ruggedly handsome, but on a woman simply seemed disconcerting and out-of-place. Her hair was a mouse-brown color, which hung in spiral curls to the middle of her back, and her eyes were an equally unimpressive muddy hazel.

He jogged a little to catch up with her just in time to open the door to the ice cream shop. After obtaining their treats, they sat at an outside table. Though Morag seemed content to eat her mint-and-lime concoction without speaking, after only a few moments, the silence felt like it was a living thing pressing down on Harry. He cleared his throat and searched for a topic. "Um… Sorry again about knocking you down. Were you getting your school books?"

Morag frowned and nodded. "Yes," she said. How astute, he actually noticed what store he was running past. The thought was overly-sarcastic to even her own inner ear.

"Oh," Harry replied. "So, um…"

"You needn't talk if it vexes you so," Morag forcibly restrained the urge to give vent to the caustic tone that wanted to flavor her words. I think I've spent too long in Professor Snape's company; his sense of humor is leaching into me.

Harry laughed a little. "Just trying to figure out something we can talk about. I mean, I don't really know you, but I do know that you'd probably get up and storm away if I tried talking quidditch."

The corners of Morag's thin lips quirked upwards in the tiniest of smiles. "I do not, for your information, 'storm' anywhere. Though you are correct that I cannot conceive of a more boring topic of conversation than sports of any sort."

"If that's the case," Harry paused to lick his cone, "then what sorts of stuff do you like? Other than potions, I mean. I know you got an award for that a couple of years ago."

Morag shook her head. "I doubt it would interest you."

Harry shrugged. "Won't know that until I hear what it is."

"Genetics," Morag said, her tone and body-language enough that she was clearly expecting to have to explain the meaning of the word.

"Odd choice for a witch."

Morag managed to subdue her surprise at Harry's nonchalant reaction. "My father was a bleeder – the muggles call it hemophilia – and when I was eight, I found out that the disease runs in families, but couldn't find much information on it from wizarding resources. Aunt Ines – my mother's oldest sister, she has four – married a muggleborn, and her husband suggested I try checking in muggle libraries."

"Where I'd imagine you had far better luck."

Morag nodded. Almost against her will, she was actually beginning to enjoy the conversation. "Inordinately. In delving into getting that one question answered, I managed to acquire a vast and unyielding interest in the science. That award you mentioned was simply one of my pet projects into combining the science with magic."

Their conversation managed to stick to its topic over the next several hours, unknowingly lead by Harry's gentle questions, until their ice cream was gone and Morag's mother had come looking for her. Before following her mother back towards The Leaky Cauldron, Morag paused by Harry's side. "This was more fun than I'd thought it might be, Potter. Mum meets up with Aunt Irene every week and usually drags me along. Be here next week, same time, and I'll buy the ice cream. If you manage not to knock me down again, I'll consider allowing you to prattle on about one of your own interests for a bit."

Harry chuckled. "I'll keep it in mind, Morag. See you later."

Amelia took a moment's break from the never-ending pile of paperwork mounded on her desk to stretch and work a kink out of her neck. Checking her watch, she found that it was half an hour past teatime, so she decided to head over to the break room. On reaching the cluttered, tiled room which was half-lounge and half-kitchen, she found that – wonder of wonders – someone had actually remembered to refill the tea kettle. Someone had also brought in a box of homemade baked goods, of which there were only a couple remaining. She helped herself to an apple tart and a steaming cup of strong tea while filling in a couple of the answers to the Prophet's crossword and then headed back to her desk.

While she'd been out, the mail had arrived. She tossed the adverts, few though there were, directly in the trash without so much as a cursory glance. There were a couple of letters from aurors on leave that she read through, including one from an auror out on maternity leave that included pictures of the witch's newborn. Amelia sat it aside to post to the notice board in the break room. At the very bottom of the stack was a letter she'd not been expecting – the seal in the wax was one she'd not seen in nearly seventeen years.

Amelia broke the seal and withdrew the letter. Tension she was unaware she'd possessed leaked from her spine as she read it.

Madam Bones;

Thank you for your helpful information regarding tutors – I will endeavor to put it to good use this summer. The fact that the wizarding world lacks anything like an estate manager is somewhat disheartening, but I suppose I will have to 'learn on the fly' as it were. Are there any reputable solicitors you could recommend who would be willing to help me wade through the legalistic side of things? Does the wizarding world even have solicitors, or is that just a muggle thing? I would be appreciative of any assistance you could offer. Thank you in advance.

As to your request to meet to discuss the events in the Dept. of Mysteries, I would be willing, provided that I could have a few of my companions from that night with me and that the meeting take place on neutral ground, so-to-speak. My confidence in the Ministry is not very high; though I trust you to hold to your word, I find myself unable to trust the Ministry as a whole. I'm sure you can understand.

Sincerely,
Harry J. Potter

Amelia sighed and reread the letter again before coming to a decision. She exited her office and headed to level six. Antoine Harper owed her a favor, and would be quite willing to look the other way while Amelia made a quick unauthorized call on the miniature floo on his desk.

She chit-chatted with Harper for a few minutes, and was correct in her assumption that he would be willing to let her use his floo. She connected with her house and waited for Susan to answer. She didn't have to wait long before Susan ran into their sitting room from the direction of the kitchen. "Aunt! Is something wrong?"

"No, sweetheart. Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to let you know that I was going to be late getting home tonight."

"Oh," Susan visibly relaxed. "Hannah was wondering if I could go over to her place for dinner."

Amelia smiled. "Certainly. If it's alright with her mum, you can even spend the night."

Susan grinned. "Thanks! I'm sure it'll be okay."

"I need to go now, sweetie. Have fun at Hannah's."

"I will," Susan replied. "See you tomorrow."

Amelia disconnected the call just as Antoine returned. "Did you get what you needed, Amelia?"

She nodded. "I did indeed. Thank you, Antoine." They continued their chit-chat for another few minutes before Amelia made her excuses and headed to her desk. She dashed off a quick reply to Harry's letter and sealed it into an 'urgent' internal memo origami swan to send up to the owlery. With luck, Potter would get it in time.

With his numerous letters mailed – the one to Neville carried by Hedwig, all the others handled by for-hire postal owls – and Morag's unexpected company now in the past, Harry figured the Ravenclaw had a good idea and visited the bookstore long enough to get the books he figured he'd need for the upcoming school year. Granted, he wouldn't know with certainty what classes he'd qualify for until the OWL results were released, but he knew which topics he hoped to be able to continue. Granted, he probably already had copies of each book he purchased hidden within his computer's memory, but he couldn't underline important bits or make margin-notes in the digital copies. Besides, I don't think the professors would be all that open to me pulling out the palmtop when they tell us to 'open your books to page three-ninty-eight'.

A quick stop in Eyelops had Hedwig's treats restocked for the foreseeable future, and then he moved on to the stationary store to replenish his stockpile of parchment and envelopes. He paused in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies long enough to gaze with longing at the latest release of the 'fastest broom ever' – a title which kept switching from broom to broom with each passing year. This year's model was sleek and streamlined, with the foot stirrups angled back along the bristles. It was an odd, metallic, dark red with bronze-colored bristles and, engraved on a slightly longer-than-normal handle in bronze letters, was the legend Firebolt Snidget. Below the display was a hovering bit of advertisement for the broom that cycled through three different statements: Naught to 200 miles per hour in an eyeblink! Change directions instantly, even at full speed! For pricing, see store manager. A phantom itch, localized in Harry's palms, intensified the longer he looked at the broom. It truly was a work of art, even if it didn't manage to perform to the specifications claimed.

Without quite knowing how he got there, Harry found himself inside the shop and speaking to the cashier, who ducked into a back room to locate the manager. What the hell are you doing, Potter? Your current broom is fantastic. Why do you need a new one? Just as the manager appeared, the other side of his brain chimed in with, Yeah, I've got the Firebolt Sirius gave me. It was a gift. I don't want anything to happen to it. While the cashier resumed his post, the manager smiled broadly at Harry and strode up to him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter! I understand you're interested in the latest Firebolt model?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I might be. Any chance I could take it for a test-flight? I'd like to see if it lives up to expectations before actually buying it."

The man's smile flickered out for a split-second, but he nodded. "Certainly, Mr. Potter. Normally, we don't allow such for the racing brooms – liability, you understand – but I don't think it'll be a problem for you. I saw the fancy flying you did during the TriWizard Tournament, after all." He strode over to the window display and carefully extracted the broom as though he were handling the most delicate and precious of treasures from King Tut's tomb. "If you would follow me?" He lead the way to the back of the shop. A rear door opened on to a small yard, no bigger than a half-dozen meters to each side and roughly rectangular; the sides of other buildings formed walls all around it. The manager conjured a chamois on the ground and gently laid the broom on it.

Smiling faintly as he remembered his first-ever flying lesson, Harry stepped up next to the broom and held out his hand. "Up," he commanded. The broom seemed to apparate into his palm, but didn't slap into it like the old school broom had. He wondered briefly if it was because he now had flying experience or if it was unique to the broom. Harry resolved to test it on the broom Sirius had given him later. The new Firebolt thrummed pleasantly in his hand, hovering rock-steady at the perfect mounting height.

He swung a leg over the handle and settled his feet in the redesigned stirrups. Taking a moment to get used to the slightly different position – his feet were far closer together than he was used to – he began putting the broom through its paces.

Well, the maneuverability is certainly not an exaggeration. It seemed to respond to his thoughts; indeed, a time or two, it seemed as though it was anticipating Harry's desires. Once he was satisfied with rocketing around the tiny yard, he adjusted his feet, pulled the broom vertical, and shot upwards. He was moving fast enough that his eyes were watering from the wind. Harry was pretty sure he was going faster than the advertised 200 MPH, particularly when, after only a couple of seconds, he halted his upward motion and simply hovered for a moment.

He was extremely high. Looking around, he swore he could make out just the barest hint of the curvature of the earth, particularly where the ocean stretched beyond London. He glanced straight down and grinned. I can barely see Diagon any more. If it weren't for Gringotts, I don't think I'd be able to. Concluding his thoughts, he tipped the broom straight down and plummeted.

Harry didn't notice the expression on the manager's face when he pulled out of the dive a mere eight inches from the gravel lot, he was too busy grinning at the broom. Dismounting, he gave it a fond caress, then finally looked over to the manager of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The man had managed to school his expression to one of vague interest, but his complexion was noticeably more pale than it had been when Harry'd first seen him. "Are you okay?" he asked.

The man nodded. Color was slowly coming back into his face. "Yes, Mr. Potter. And you? How did the Firebolt Snidget hold up to its advertising?"

The grin on Harry's face was answer enough for the man, but Harry asked, "How much?"

The manager named a number. Harry countered with a much lower number. The man offered to take twenty-five percent off the sticker price if Harry consented to allow QQS to claim him as endorsing the store. Harry countered with thirty percent and a time-limit of six months. "I am sorry, Mr. Potter, but I simply cannot lower the price more than twenty-five percent. The wholesale cost of the broom is only ten galleons below that mark, and if you figure in my overhead, twenty-five percent is my break-even mark."

"Okay, I suppose I can see that," Harry allowed. "I'm willing to help you out with endorsing, but I would prefer a time-limit on how long you can claim such."

"Standard," the manager said. "The normal timeframe is two years, but this isn't a formal arrangement. Shall we cut that in half?"

Harry considered it for a moment, then held out his hand. "Done."

Severus glared at Pettigrew. Unfortunately, it wasn't as effective on someone who'd once seen him dangling by his ankles and displaying his grundies to the world as it was on first year students. The rat animagus motioned for Severus to go on in and returned to compiling an updated budget for Voldemort – Pettigrew might have his faults, many in fact, but he could stretch a knut until the acorn depicted on the back grew leaves. Severus took a deep breath and steeled himself for the presence of the Dark Lord.

He entered the office and bowed to Voldemort, then inclined his head in greeting to Rowle and Bellatrix. "How may I serve, milord?"

"Have a seat, Severus," Voldemort replied, conjuring an additional utilitarian wooden chair between Bellatrix's and Thorfinn's. "Tonight, Thorfinn will be leading an attack against Azkaban. Though many of its dementors have escaped the Ministry's control, there are still a handful residing on the island, in addition to the two companies of aurors on duty. I require you to check the medicinals we've in stock, particularly liquid laughter, and bring the stores back up to an acceptable level."

"As you will, milord," Severus replied. "Do you expect casualties enough to warrant bringing a healer in?"

Voldemort shook his head. "No," he said, then grew thoughtful for a moment. "However, it would be best to be prepared."

"If I may, milord," Thorfinn interrupted. At Voldemort's gesture, he continued, "It may behoove us to capture a healer and keep them here for the duration."

Bellatrix scowled at the burly blonde. "And just how do you propose to control them? A healer can't heal while under the imperius."

Thorfinn nodded. "Yes, that's correct. The biggest problem with healing magic is that it all must be willing, true. But I've a target in mind who will be altogether too happy to assist us… Provided we give her the proper motivation, of course."

Bellatrix opened her mouth to argue, but snapped it shut again at a small gesture from her lord. Voldemort looked exceptionally interested in Thorfinn's proposed course. "Just whom did you have in mind?"

"Joanna Caidin, milord. She's second-generation pureblood – her grandfather on her mother's side was muggleborn – but is a very talented healer, particularly with curse and hex damage."

Severus remembered the woman in question; she'd been a first year in his first year of teaching. "Why her and not someone else?" he asked.

Thorfinn glanced at the potion master. "She had some sort of falling-out with her family not long after she left Hogwarts, her husband died two years ago, and she's got a six year old son we can use as leverage."

"Essentially, she won't be immediately missed, is skilled at the type of healing we are most likely to need, and can be controlled," Voldemort's voice gave Thorfinn's idea his stamp of approval. "Excellent notion, Thorfinn. Make sure she and her son are brought here before the attack tonight. Have Selwynn prepare two of our 'guest suites' – I do not want them housed together. If she behaves herself and does as she's told, we can move her later, but for now I want her desperate to do our bidding."

"Yes, milord," Thorfinn replied and settled back against his chair.

"Now, Severus," Voldemort once again turned his attention to Snape. "What can you tell me of Dumbledore and Potter?"

"As to Potter, milord, I'm afraid I can't say much. He left on the train with the rest of the students, though it was no secret that his muggle relations are currently away on an extended holiday. I do not know where Dumbledore has hidden the boy, but I do know he isn't staying with any of his little friends. However, I did finally manage to discern something I know you have wished to possess for quite some time."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at Severus. "And what might that be?"

"The address of the muggle house where Potter lives, milord." The Dark Lord snatched a self-inking quill and a scrap of parchment, then pierced Severus with an expectant look. "It's number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."

Voldemort wrote it down and smiled.

Severus suppressed a shudder.

A/N2: I'm sick of seeing incompetent bad guys in my fictional pursuits, hence why I'm making Voldemort and his Death Eaters rather more intelligent than they're usually portrayed in fanfiction. What's the point in making a really strong Harry if his nemesis is a bumbling idiot? It's far more satisfying – in my opinion, be it ever so humble – to see a strong White Hat facing off against an equally strong Black Hat (so well-matched they should be that the reader/watcher should be uncertain as to whom will win in the end), don't you agree?

Thanks for reading, and to all my reviewers, a second thanks and digital baked goods for your opinions!