SATURDAY, 7 MAY

Hermione suggested the trip into London over supper the night before, as though she'd read Harry's mind. Ron and Ginny agreed immediately, as had George, saying he wanted to check up on the Wheezes shop and see what could be salvaged. It was the first time he'd mentioned it since Fred's passing, but he had managed to sound nonchalant and unworried. Harry didn't know how he managed.

Hermione had insisted on dragging them through a few Muggle department stores first. She and Ginny had rushed off to the Women's clothing in high spirits, leaving Harry to keep the other two Weasleys from making a spectacle of themselves among the Muggle shoppers.

He was glad for the Muggle cash he'd kept stashed away in a pocket (charmed for more space and to prevent pick-pocketing, of course) for emergencies. He'd actually used very little of it over the past months and had enough to afford socks and underpants, a couple pairs of trousers and jeans and some rather basic, plain-looking shirts. It wasn't exactly an impressive wardrobe, but he was fed up having to either wear the same thing day after day or borrowing off of his friends. He'd had to make a couple rounds to the fitting rooms as nothing in his old sizes fit anymore.

Harry ended up seated between Ron and George on a bench near the doors of the department store after he'd made his purchase, waiting on Hermione and Ginny. He glanced out of the glass of the shopfront display between a few shop dummies, watching the foot traffic going past.

After a while it clouded over and a quick thunderstorm popped up. Muggles rushed back and forth, umbrellas popping out, or newspapers being spread over heads as they rushed under shop eaves. It didn't last long, though and perhaps twenty minutes later the sun returned and steam rose off the pavement as it began to dry.

The Leaky Cauldron was packed when they entered and the mood was boisterous. Drunken voices sang off-color songs about the death of Voldemort and many of his followers, the tawdry lyrics having no resemblance whatever to the actual events. Harry laughed into his sleeve as he and his friends wound their way through the press of the crowd into the back alley. He liked their version better, anyway.

Diagon Alley was less crowded with many of the shops still closed and boarded up. Possibly their owners had not survived. However, repairs on several of them were clearly underway.

Harry waved at Florean Fortescue, who was putting up an advertisement on a new ice cream flavor celebrating the recent victory on his re-opened ice cream parlor. The shopkeeper looked at him vaguely, waving back in a friendly but impersonal manner. Of course, he wouldn't recognize Harry anymore.

"Well, look who it is. I had hoped I might run into your lot."

Harry's light mood dissipated as he laid eyes on one Rita Skeeter. She ignored him, however, pinning her glare on Hermione and Ron instead. Harry ducked back, pulling down at his fringe and swiftly stashing his glasses in a pocket. Thank Merlin she had no idea who he was, he thought, although he felt bad for his friends.

"Your famous friend has been ducking me for a whole week, now. Just when is our hero Harry Potter going to stop hiding away in whatever corner he's got to? It wouldn't kill him to grant an interview, you know."

Hermione crossed her arms and looked down her nose at the bespectacled witch and her bothersome quick-quotes quill, already out in case she could wheedle something out of them.

"You know, I could still report you for you-know-what. The Ministry might be a shambles at the moment, but I happen to know Kingsly Shacklebolt personally. Got quite familiar with him during the war, you see. He's a great friend of Harry's also. I think he said something earlier about it being Harry's own business if he wants to talk to your lot?"

Harry coughed to cover a laugh. Skeeter looked at him, her eyes moving up and down over him as though trying to place him, but then turned back to Hermione.

"If he won't talk, we'll just have get the full story from other sources, you know. And the Ministry needs the press, even if some of them just haven't figured it out yet. But they will! And anyway, I thought perhaps he'd like to give his version of things, but if he's not interested... well."

The hack writer smiled nastily at Hermione, waved at Ron as though they were old friends, and turned on her heel. Ron shook his head at her retreating back.

"She just never gives up, does she? As if she'd actually write anything you said, Harry. She'll just make up a bunch of her usual rubbish and print it either way, I reckon. Good job she doesn't know what you look like now, right mate?"

Harry smiled at Ron but felt concerned. He'd had too much trouble from Skeeter's corner in the past to brush it off. She could be nastier and more vindictive than Snape himself when she felt like she'd been slighted, and had the whole community's ear to spread her particular brand of slander, libel and venom.

"I don't know, Ron. I have a feeling we haven't heard the last from her."

Hermione turned back to look at Harry, his worries reflected in her expression as well. Ginny just reached over to squeeze his hand, then took the lead in the opposite direction from the one Skeeter had taken.

Harry went into Gringotts alone as his friends waited outside. The gold in his parents—his mother's and James Potter's vault no longer pleased him. He felt like a thief as he scooped up a few galleons and sickles, and shoved them into a charmed bag to stuff into his pocket.

He loved you enough to protect you with his life, Mrs. Weasley had said. Yea, but did he ever even suspect? Harry thought to himself. Had Lily ever planned on even telling him? If they had survived, would they even still be married? He'd certainly spent enough time as a child daydreaming about his parents turning up alive and taking him away from the Dursleys, of having a loving home with the two of them. Maybe there had never been any real chance of that.

He'd thought briefly of using Sirius's key and going into the Black family vault instead, but it had caused acid guilt to burn in the pit of his stomach. Sirius had known him and not just as an infant. He'd gone on and on about how much like James he was. He'd even called him James, mistakenly, one time. Harry knew that on some level, Sirius had considered him to be James Potter, in a way, his best friend returned to him from out of the past. Harry had wanted so badly at the time to go live with his godfather, to have someone who could be like real family, who loved him.

Would he ever stop feeling like he had done something wrong? Or feeling that he was the butt of some grand joke played by the universe? His rational mind kept telling him, just push it all aside. They're all dead, every last one of them. They can't say anything. They can't take anything away from him, now, either. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. Even Remus was gone. A whole generation, dead before its time.

All except Snape, that was. That greasy git was officially the last man standing. And I sure as hell don't want to talk to him. If he couldn't bring himself to blame his mother for his situation, he could jolly well blame Snape, who apparently couldn't keep it in his trousers for one sorry night, the lousy bastard.

And if he had done, then Harry would have been James Potter's son for real. And probably born on a different day. Then it would have been Neville Longbottom after all, wouldn't it? Could he really wish it all away and onto Neville? He'd proven himself in the end, a true Gryffindor after all, but Harry imagined Neville as a first year, standing in front of the Mirror of Erised with Professor Quirrell. As a second year in the Chamber of Secrets with Tom Riddle and a basilisk. He felt ashamed of himself all over again.

The Gringotts goblin began tapping its foot at the door of the vault, impatient with Harry's wool-gathering. He gave the vault one last look and turned his back on it.

Eeylops Owl Emporium had re-opened, although half the merchandise shelves were bare and the number of owls was much reduced from what they'd been before. Harry looked through the windows at the owls sleeping in their cages.

He wasn't sure if he wanted another owl yet, although he knew the usefulness of them. The Weasleys didn't mind lending him Pigwidgeon or Errol, but he couldn't stay with them forever.

"You wanna go in, Harry? We've got time. I should get Pig some owl treats, anyway."

Harry shrugged at Ron. He wouldn't really mind having his own owl again.

"Maybe we can just look around?"

A bell over the door tinkled as they walked in. Most of the birds paid no mind, their heads tucked up under a wing as it was the middle of the day. Harry glanced around at the cages. None of them were a snowy owl, but the thought of getting another made him sad, anyway. Hedwig had been more than a mere pet, she'd been a friend, and the only one he'd had during his summers with the Dursleys.

He walked up to one cage where the owl was awake. The large, handsome barn owl looked at him calmly from her perch. He reached up to the bars of the cage with a knuckle to see if it took an interest in him. The bird looked at him and fluffed up its feathers a little, but did not attempt to bite him. The head swiveled as Ginny walked up beside him and it made a soft twittering noise at her.

"She seems friendly."

"Yeah, she does."

Harry looked at the tag on the cage. Ten Galleons for the bird itself, another two for the cage. He reached up and unhooked it, carrying it carefully over to the till, setting it on the counter for a moment as he turned back to pick up a few owl treats and care supplies.

They made their way back to Fortescue's for ice creams as the day warmed up. Harry set his new owl's cage down beside his seat. Ron glanced down at the bird as it gobbled up the the owl treats Harry had tossed into its dish before settling back down to sleep.

"What are you going to name her?"

"Hadn't thought about it. I sort of picked Hedwig's at random, out of our first year History of Magic book. I guess I'll think of something sooner or later."

Afterward, Harry trailed behind his friends with no particular destination in mind, letting them set their path. George got impatient and left them while Hermione was flipping through the stacks at yet another a second-hand book shop. A few copies of the Skeeter-penned biography of Albus Dumbledore were stacked on a table. Harry considered buying them all just to burn them later.

He glanced through the shop window across the street at a second-hand broom shop, but decided against it. There'd be time to play with broomsticks some other day. He knew as he thought about it that he would not return to Hogwarts in the fall, although Hermione seemed bent on it. It was tempting, in a way, to go back and play Quidditch on the Gryffindor team, worry about losing house points (instead of lives), to wander down to Hogsmeade on weekends... In short, to let himself be a child again for just one more year.

It wouldn't be the same, though. Albus Dumbledore was dead. For all his scheming and secrets, Harry couldn't bring himself to hate the man. In a way, Dumbledore's decisions had been just as constrained as Harry's, as soon as Voldemort had decided that the prophecy meant Harry Potter and not something else. Voldemort had to die, at any cost, or the war could have gone on for decades.

It might never have ended, until Voldemort had achieved his aim of creating his pure-blood society, through killing or enslaving everyone else. And if he'd gone after the Muggles... Harry shuddered at the thought. The damage would have been immense. And if the Muggles had gotten desperate... he'd seen enough war documentaries and news snaps as a child to know they possessed their own weapons, some of them with truly terrifying destructive potential.

Maybe he'd remind Mr. Weasley of his offer to ask around at the Ministry about applying for Auror training. If he needed N.E.W.T.s he'd have to go back (and try to get used to being treated like a teenage boy again), but if they were willing to take him on his experience with horcruxes and with Death Eaters and with Voldemort, he knew he'd apply immediately. Who knows, maybe Ron would join him...

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor of what was left of Weasley Wizard Wheezes' old stock room, where they'd gone to catch up with George. Harry's as-yet-unnamed owl slept in her cage on the floor next to him along with his bag from the Muggle department store. Hermione and Ginny were sitting on crates next to the cold hearth.

George and Ron were dragging crates around the room, opening them one at a time and seeing what could be salvaged. Most of the leftover stock that Fred and George hadn't been able to take away with them had been broken into at some point or another, and the rest had been gnawed at by vermin and the layer of dust was thick over everything.

"Gonna take a while to get things up and running again, I guess," Harry remarked to the room in general.

George shrugged where he was bent over a crate of fireworks.

"Eh, I'll manage. I have a few things stashed in mum and dad's attic, they're still there. Guess the Death Eaters didn't have enough imagination to care about this sort of thing. Their loss, some of these 'jokes' are dead useful in the right situation. I think there might be a few things left at Aunt Muriel's too, I'll pop in later and take an inventory."

Harry thought about the extendable ears, the skiving snack boxes, the Peruvian instant darkness powder... he shuddered slightly at the last one, which Draco Malfoy had proven to be quite useful indeed, against Dumbledore's Army in any case. George was right, though. They were exactly the sort of "childish" thing that Voldemort and his followers had discounted and ignored, considering it all beneath them.

Harry was slumped over against a crate and dozing by the time George and Ron had finished making their list of remaining stock and noting the damage to the building that needed repairing. When they stepped back out onto the street, the sun had dipped below the buildings, painting an orange glow and long shadows across the alley. A few wizards and witches still milled about, but it was mostly quiet. They walked back to the Leaky Cauldron mostly in silence to use their floo, although Harry's new Barn Owl was now awake and shuffling about in her cage.

SUNDAY, 10 MAY

Harry found himself awake earlier than the rest of the house again. This time he simply dragged himself into the bathroom and stuck his head under the shower until it stopped aching. He couldn't believe it was nearly a full week, now, since he'd gone to Hogwarts to confront Voldemort with his friends. Somehow it seemed both like it had happened yesterday and like it had happened ages ago.

When would he get his life back?

The hot water was soothing as it cascaded over his back and surrounded him with steam. Had he ever really had a life of his own, though? Not since the day he'd gotten his Hogwarts letter, and before then it had really only been an illusion. He'd been marked from the time he was a year old, pushed headlong down a path that had been laid out before him by others. He'd never really had a choice before.

His plan of becoming an Auror seemed like a distant, flimsy thing. He wouldn't be able to apply before August and wouldn't know if he'd even been accepted until September. He wouldn't know if he could apply at all, until he spoke to someone at the Ministry, or waited for Mr. Weasley to do so.

Maybe he'd see if his new owl would deliver a letter to the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, later. He wondered who was in the position, now that Shacklebolt had been promoted to Minister of Magic.

Finally shutting off the taps, he dragged himself out and used his wand to dry himself off. His reflection looked somewhat haggard, an effect only heightened by the sharpness of his new cheekbones and a few days' growth of beard. His fringe was almost long enough now to sweep back behind his ears and the rest nearly reached halfway down his neck. He could see why Mrs. Weasley was bent on feeding him, his collarbones showed prominently under his pale skin.

Eyes aside, he looked more than enough like the boy in the pensieve now... how could he have ever not realized it? A voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Professor McGonagall whispered that he should, at some point, at least speak to the man, but the thought made him feel angry and hot all over. Snape was still at Hogwarts, he supposed, maybe dying. He'd not thought to ask after him at all, but if he had died, no doubt McGonagall would have sent word.

Why did it have to be him, anyway? He wished he could just hate the man and be done with it, but for all of his anger, if he were honest with himself, he actually didn't. He owed his life to Severus Snape, and not just because of the circumstances of his conception. He thought of the hexed broom in his very first Quidditch match, how he'd been so sure that Snape had been the one doing it, rather than Quirrell.

For all his ranting, raving and insulting, for all the detentions he'd had Harry spend scrubbing out cauldrons by hand, he'd never actually sought to do real harm to Harry. He had, in fact, done everything he could to keep Harry alive, right up until the very end.

Snape had been outraged and sickened at what Dumbledore had told him about the horcrux hidden in Harry's scar. He'd been absolutely livid at the knowledge that Harry had to die, in a way that even Dumbledore had just more or less been resigned to, what ever his insistence that it was only ever about Lily.

Then Snape gave Harry the information he'd needed – not any half-truth to guide or manipulate him, but to grant him what nobody else ever had: the absolute, unadorned truth, and therefore a real choice.

Harry pushed aside his conflicted emotions and pulled his clothes on. At least he had something that fit, now. Ginny's teasing aside, he really did need to find out what that charm was to get rid of the stubble; he looked like he'd been sleeping under a bridge somewhere.

The Sunday morning edition of the Daily Prophet sat on the table like a cursed thing. Mr. Weasely had thrown it down in front of him like it like it had bitten him.

"You'd just better take a look, Harry."

The photograph splashed across the front page had to be the work of Rita Skeeter.

There was Harry, as he looked now, walking out of the Wheezes shop into Diagon Alley the evening before with the barn owl in one hand and his shopping in the other, trailing after his friends.

Harry Potter's Darkest Secret, Revealed! screamed the headline.

Sources which prefer to remain anonymous have shared with the Daily Prophet new revelations about The Slayer of Voldemort, who has been found alive and well, but with a startling new appearance. Or perhaps an old one, might be a better term. The anonymous informant stated that the very same day the young Hero brought down Lord Voldemort, six days ago, curses used against him in that dreadful battle dispelled a powerful, forbidden charm used to conceal the true ancestry of the Boy Who Lived. In a shock revelation, it seems that Harry Potter is not a Potter at all, but the son of a Death Eater, Severus Snape, who still stands accused of murdering Albus Dumbledore...

Harry felt a coldness seeping into his body, a rage that went beyond anger. She had no right. She had no right.

He did not need to ask how she'd found out. The unregistered animagus need only have loitered about at Hogwarts long enough, probably buzzing after Professor McGonagall. Hermione's threats had not been enough to restrain the unrepentant gossip; this story had been just far too much temptation for her to resist.

Harry dropped the paper back to the table, trying to master himself and breathe evenly.

An owl dropped the newspaper next to her tea, swooping off without even slowing. She paid no mind to it, until something in the photograph caught her attention. She took a sip of her tea as she picked it up, shaking it out to unroll it. The teacup smashed onto the table. Flitwick jumped in his seat next to her.

"My word, Minerva!"

She shoved the paper in front of him and he understood.

She brought the paper up to Severus. He read for a moment, then flung it straight into the fireplace without a word.