Disclaimer: If I wanted to own Harry Potter...I wouldn't just write fan fiction. If I wanted to own anything else...I still wouldn't just write fan fiction.

AN: 1. Thank you, so much - in the last few days, I've gotten so many notifications of people favouriting my story and people reviewing - it makes me smile and want to write more, and more, and more, and more...
2. This chapter is very frustrating - it had to be done, though, so please bear with me :)

Chapter 19: Of Books and Blubbering Idiots

"Potter!" the oily but sharp voice cut through the silence of the back room.

"What?" Harry replied distractedly, not bothering to remove his eyes from the book in his hands.

"I've got somewhere to be – watch the shop."

"Sure."

"Everything better be in perfect order when I return, boy, and if Leda Goyle comes in, tell her we haven't got any pickled monks' hearts left."

Harry frowned. "We've got three jars here in the back."

"She'll demand I lower the price, and I'll not have that – and I don't want to be on her husband's bad side."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes sir."

"That's what I like to hear." A moment later, he heard the front door slam shut.

Harry sighed, sitting back. It was nearing the end of August, and he was starting to write up the summary for that month's inventory. He quite liked working in the back of the shop – though there were plenty of fascinating items on display in the front, and the customers were all a lot of fun, the back was where the really good stuff was. Each object (most of them cursed) on the shelves in the back had protective wards around them, and had detailed tags on them which detailed what sort of curse or enchantment was on it and how many people it had killed. The back room was also where the records were stored – at an unexplained urging, Harry had taken to reading through the old records and inventories. Despite the sort of business it dealt in, Borgin and Burke's shop had very few thefts and objects gone missing; most likely due to the impressive wards around the place and Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke's meticulous caution when dealing with customers and merchandise. However, during the late 1940s, Harry could not help but notice that two valuable items went missing: a locket which was supposed to have once belonged to Salazar Slytherin, right from the back of the shop, and also a cup passed down through the Hufflepuff line, which an unnamed employee was supposed to procure. The item never made it to the shop, though the previous owner was found dead, eventually, with no sign of the cup in her possession. For some reason, this struck Harry as very, very significant, though he had no idea why.

Suddenly, he was startled out of his musings when he heard the shop door opened, followed by the sound of a suspiciously familiar, whining voice, soon overcome by a deeper, smoother one calling out in a measured, aristocratic tone, "Mr. Borgin?"

Harry sighed and closed the record book, shoving it back on the shelf before he proceeded to the front counter. "I'm afraid Mr. Borgin isn't in right now – " He blinked, catching sight of a familiar blonde haired cousin of his. "Oh! Draco! How's my most favourite living cousin in the whole wide world!"

The blonde haired boy gaped at him incredulously. "Potter?" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"Why, I work here, of course," Harry replied, smirking as he leaned at the side of the counter, "But you should really start calling me by my first name, you know – seeing as we're family and all."

Draco grumbled something that sounded like, "never going to let me live that down…"

Suddenly, a steady, curt, questioning voice cut through their interaction. "Draco?"

Draco started, glancing up at the tall, regal looking man beside him who bore a distinct resemblance to him. "Oh, yes – father, this is my classmate, and…" he cringed slightly, "Cousin, Harry Potter."

Mr. Malfoy raised a delicate blonde eyebrow, glancing up and down Harry's relaxed posture. "Harry Potter? I have heard much about you," he said neutrally.

Harry smiled. "I'm afraid I can't say the same of you – but then again, not all of us can be in the modern history books, can we?"

While Mr. Malfoy's expression seemed to be somewhere between cold fury and absolute incredulity, Draco openly gaped, horrified at Harry, who burst out laughing.

"Oi, Draco! You should see the look on your face – come on, even I wouldn't be that rude right upon meeting someone. Sorry about that, Mr. Malfoy – your son is simply too easy to tease. It's actually a pleasure to meet you…and contrary to what I said, I have heard quite a bit about you."

Mr. Malfoy's stance seemed to relax slightly, and he smirked coldly. "Indeed, Mr. Potter – I am glad to see that my son has been making company with…one of such wit. You are a Ravenclaw, correct?"

Harry nodded. "Though I'm sure some of my house mates would like to deny it. Now! I assume you're not here to chat…might I interest you in some well-preserved hearts that once belonged to German Gregorian Monks? I think I'm allowed to sell them, anyway – as long as it's not to Mrs. Goyle."

Mr. Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid not. I am here to sell, not buy."

Harry deflated slightly. "So I guess you wouldn't like an iron maiden that belonged to Emeric the Evil?"

"No."

"Right then. Well…I'm technically not allowed to buy stuff, well, most stuff, at least, but I can tell you whether or not Mr. Borgin might be interested – he should be back soon."

"And he left you in charge of the store?" Mr. Malfoy asked, with the slightest surprise tinting his voice.

"Well, yeah. I wouldn't really say that he trusts me….but the man knows better than to doubt me, I guess. Besides, most of the customers like me….well, except this one guy, who actually tried to crucio me…"

"He what?" Draco exclaimed, "What did you say to him?"

"I said that his hat looked like a pregnant vulture. I thought it was a compliment – but apparently, he didn't think so."

Draco just shook his head.

Mr. Malfoy glanced between the two of them with an unreadable expression, and then retrieved a roll of parchment from his robe, unrolling it and handing it to Harry. "These are the items I was hoping to sell."

Harry looked over the list eagerly, eyes widening at a few of the items. "A veela's preserved pituitary gland, sir? Would you really want to sell something like that? It could come in handy in several rarer potions, after all…"

A sneer curled on the man's lips. "You may or may not have heard, Mr. Potter, that the Ministry is conducting more raids –"

"They come into peoples' homes, and look for objects of questionable legality," Draco interjected in explanation.

Mr. Malfoy glared at his son slightly, but continued. "I have a few – ah – items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call…"

Harry's eyes widened. "They really do that?"

Mr. Malfoy's sneer grew more malicious, but he nodded, continuing curtly, "Do you think such a policy is reasonable, Mr. Potter?"

Harry shrugged. "As long as an object doesn't leave its owner's home, then I don't think it's any of the Ministry's business."

"Indeed," the man murmured.

"Anyway, I'd imagine Mr. Borgin would at least take a look at the first few. But the last seven…definitely no. It's simply not possible at this time."

"I see," Mr. Malfoy said distastefully.

"But," Harry said suddenly, though he had no idea why he would say what he was about to say, "I might be able to help."

Mr. Malfoy turned to him sharply, a scoff making it through his thin lips. "Oh?"

Harry nodded slowly, feeling rather confused with himself, though not confused enough to simply shut up. "I know of a place you could hide them, where the Ministry would never look."

"Oh really, Mr. Potter?" Mr. Malfoy drawled condescendingly.

Swallowing his ire at the man's tone, Harry continued, plastering a knowing look on his own face. "The Ministry doesn't conduct raids on the estates of dead people, does it?"

Mr. Malfoy only frowned at that.

Harry smirked slightly, noticing Draco's suspicious leer from the side. "Say, for instance, that I was made aware of a certain relative near death – a relative denied custody of me by the Ministry way back when. Now, imagine that this relative saw fit to grant me access to his or her heavily warded estate, even introducing me to the family house elf, who may have grown particularly fond of me. Now, were all this true, it's entirely possible that I could ask said house elf to hide your artifacts in this house, surrounded by ancient wards, where the Ministry would ever think to look, because, of course, its owner is now dead. I'd imagine that this would all work out quite well."

Mr. Malfoy's face was still, though some astonishment flickered in his eyes. "That would, indeed, be…very fortunate, Mr. Potter. I would be very interested in your offer –"

"For the appropriate price, of course," Harry interjected, glancing at Draco, who looked like he very much wanted to bang his head against a hard object.

"A price?" Mr. Malfoy asked blandly.

Harry full on grinned now. "Well, yeah, sort of – more of an 'I owe you,' really." He pulled out a small piece of parchment at a distinctively gilded pen from beneath the counter, pushing it toward Mr. Malfoy.

"A blood quill, Mr. Potter?" the man said distastefully.

"For magical contracts – a handy little thing, really. Once, Mr. Burke popped in, showed me how it's used and everything….that's the only time I've met him. He's an interesting man, really, far more tolerable than Mr. Borgin..."

Mr. Malfoy ignored Harry's tangent. "What would you expect me to write?"

"Hmm…just something general, really – that you'll do one thing for me…just one thing, that's all."

Mr. Malfoy gritted his teeth. "That would be very unwise, on my part, Mr. Potter."

"You're right – sorry, I unintentionally underestimated your intelligence. I do that sometimes, I don't mean anything by it – well, either that, or I overestimate, which tends to irk people as well. Anyway, how about this – something that doesn't directly break the law, something that won't involve your family at all, won't endanger you, and won't embarrass you in any way, at least, not as much as the discovery of these artifacts would."

Mr. Malfoy hesitated. "Very well," he bit out. "That is acceptable." He snatched up the quill, quickly penning a statement down on the paper, and sliding it back to Harry, who glanced over it and signed it, stuffing it into his pocket.

"Lovely doing business with you Mr. Malfoy."

"Indeed," the man drawled.

Harry smiled brilliantly at him, before glancing at a very pale Draco. "I like your father, Draco." Now, he didn't really, like Mr. Malfoy at all – it was more of a curious fascination, like how one likes an exotic looking insect, before you pin it to a board and hang it on your wall.

Draco smiled confusedly. "…thanks."

Just then, Borgin marched into the shop, glancing between his young assistant and the two Malfoys.

"He ain't been causing trouble for you, has he Mr. Malfoy?" the oily man asked cautiously.

"Aw…Mr. Borgin, when do I ever cause trouble?"

"Too bloody much," the man pronounced distinctly, before turning expectantly to Mr. Malfoy.

"He caused no trouble, Mr. Borgin. I will be bringing in some items, tomorrow, that Mr. Potter thought you may be interested in, however."

Mr. Borgin glanced sharply at Harry, who nodded slightly at him. "Very well. I look forward to seeing them." He turned to Harry. "You'll be off, now?"

Harry nodded. "My shift ended five minutes ago – the summary's set up, and I can start cataloguing the August sales and inventory next week. It will all be done before I leave for school."

"It had better be," Borgin groused. "Now off you go!"

Harry nodded at him, turning to the Malfoys. "I'll walk you out, if there's nothing else you need."

As the three of them left the shop, strolling down the dark meandering of Knockturn Alley, Draco turned to Harry.

"Honestly! I can't imagine how you can stand working for that man! It's not as though you're short of money…"

Harry shrugged. "I'm looking for something there. And I've found it to be a fascinating pastime."

Draco frowned at him, and Harry noticed that Mr. Malfoy was discretely staring at him from the corner of his eye. "What could you possibly be looking for?" Draco asked, puzzled.

"I suppose you'd think I'm mad if I told you I'm not sure yet."

"Too late for that," Draco sneered.

"See, Draco, this is what I like about you – even though you're a Slytherin, you're so honest. With me, at least."

"Yes, you do tend to bring out the worst in people, don't you?" Draco snapped.

The two of them bantered back and forth as they made their way from Knockturn Alley into Diagon Alley, and Harry could have sworn he saw Mr. Malfoy's lip twitch on a few occasions as he pretended not to listen in. Eventually, weaving through the bustling afternoon crowd of shoppers, they stopped in front of Flourish and Blotts.

"Have you bought your books yet, Harry?" Draco asked as they approached the bookstore.

Harry shook his head, before crying out, alarming both of the Malfoys.

"What is it?" Draco asked urgently.

Harry pointed dramatically at a sign in the window, which read:

GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
today 12:30-4:30 P.M.

"It's that name again!" Harry cried frantically. "It's everywhere! It was all over my booklist too! It's giving me bad vibes…"

Draco sneered and smacked him over the head, rolling his eyes.

Harry was muttering something like, "what the hell is a gilderoy anyway?" as Draco grabbed his arm and dragged him into the bustling shop, Mr. Malfoy pointedly looking away from them as he went off into a different section of the store. The two boys tried very hard to remain outside the crowd that was flocked about a table in the middle of the store, at which a barely visible blonde man was sitting, grinning blindingly and signing books. Harry tried very hard to ignore the man, which was giving him the creeps, and the crowd surrounding him, which were far too loud and excited for his liking - but for the most part, he was unsuccessful.

As he and Draco, however, weaved through the shelves retrieving their school books (a disturbing amount of which had that strange name on their covers), they ran into someone – the short, antsy man who had been flitting about snapping pictures of the blonde, badly dressed smile-machine in the middle of the room.

"Out of the way, there," snarled the man, shoving Draco out of the way. "This is for the Daily Prophet –"

Draco glared furiously at the man. "You think I care? When my father hears about this, the least of your troubles will be your job at the Prophet!"

Harry rolled his eyes at Draco's loud, angry tone, but froze when he saw the blonde thing – a Gilderoy Lockhart, he reminded himself – staring straight at them, all of a sudden leaping to his feet and exclaiming loudly, "It can't be, Harry Potter?"

"Oh god," Harry moaned, "It spotted us."

Draco grimaced as the crowd before them parted, whispering among themselves animatedly as though something magnificent or startling had just happened. Suddenly, Lockhart dived through the parted crowd, though, seizing Harry's arm.

He tried to pull Harry forward, but the small boy's footing was sure, and he was able to rip his arm away from the blonde-haired, fake-smiling, garishly-clothed nightmare, before glaring up at him, hissing maliciously, "Touch me again and I'll forego having you arrested for sexual harassment and just curse you myself!"

The Lockhart-thing didn't seem to register the meaning of that particular statement, however, and just continued to smile, diving forward at Harry again – but Harry was prepared this time, and stepped forward and to the side, maneuvering his legs against Lockhart's so as to trip him, causing him to go hurtling forward into one of the bookshelves, whilst Harry slunk off, unnoticed amidst all the chaos.

Somehow, through the bustle of the store, intensified by his actions, Harry managed to make it to the counter to pay, discretely making his way back to the store entrance. He would have made a clean getaway, were it not for,

"Harry! I saw what you did!"

Harry spun around, cringing when he saw a furious-looking Hermione approaching. "Hermione. How are you this fine –"

"How could you be so awful? Attacking the poor man like that!"

"The poor man?" Harry echoed incredulously, "It attacked me!"

Before Hermione could retort, however, Harry's attention was drawn to four read-headed figures approaching behind her. "Why, hello – Weasley, Weasley, Weasley, and Weasley." His gaze drifted from Fred and George to Ron, but then remained fixed on the single girl among them. "Well, I'm assuming you're a Weasley, anyway – you sort of fit the profile."

The girl blushed a crimson as bright as her hair.

"Yes," George piped up.

"She's our sister Ginny," said Fred.

"And she's madly in love with you," they finished together, ignoring the poor girl's vicious glare.

Harry blinked. "Oh."

"Well if it isn't the Weasel Family," a sneering voice said from behind.

Harry sighed, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder. "Draco, can't you just –"

"Oh, it's you," Ron interrupted with disgust, glaring at Draco, "I'm surprised to see you here – would have thought you'd be doing your shopping in some filthy hole down in Knockturn Alley."

"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," Draco retorted haughtily, "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those." He glanced at the brand-new Lockhart books in the Weasley children's cauldrons.

Harry stepped nimbly out of the way as Ron dropped his books and lunged at Draco, watching with amusement as both boys tumbled to the ground. Ron got a few clean shots at the shell-shocked blonde boy, before he started to fight back as well. To his disappointment, however, Ron was promptly pulled away by a taller, older, but equally red-haired man. Fred and George looked rather disappointed too.

"Ron!" scolded the man who Harry assumed was Mr. Weasley, as Draco scrambled to his feet, attempting to brush himself off in a dignified manner. "What on earth? What are you doing –"

"Well, well, well – Arthur Weasley," Lucius Malfoy's icy voice suddenly drifted over them all like a dousing of cold water.

"Lucius," Mr. Weasley greeted coldly.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," said Mr. Malfoy musingly. "All those raids…I hope they're paying you overtime?" He reached into the female Weasley's cauldron and picked out a battered hand-me-down copy of the first year transfiguration text. "Obviously not. Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Harry watched with grim interest as Mr. Weasley's face rapidly turned an angry shade of red. "We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy."

"Clearly," Mr. Malfoy replied, as his grey eyes pointedly fixed themselves upon Mr. and Mrs. Granger (who seemed to be accompanying the Weasleys for some reason or another), causing Harry to narrow his eyes at him, "The company you keep, Weasley…and I thought your family could sink no lower."

Ginny Weasley's cauldron clattered to the ground as Mr. Weasley threw himself at Mr. Malfoy, both flying into a pile of books, both wrestling at each other as they hit the ground; Mr. Weasley trying to get a good shot at Mr. Malfoy's head whilst Mr. Malfoy attempted to throw the furious man off.

As a woman who seemed to be Mr. Weasley's wife, along with the shopkeeper, attempted to separate the two men, whilst Fred and George cheered their father on, Harry casually strode over to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, looking up at them and saying, "Don't take it to heart – what he said. In the wizarding world, there's a horrendously large gap between cultural and social ethics. It's mostly ignorance, pitiful really."

The Grangers blinked, surprised, but nodded anyway, seemingly understanding the gesture. They had become used to Harry's …odd way of saying things after having him over for dinner but a few times.

By then, Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Weasley had been pulled apart by Hagrid, who had just entered the store.

"Hullo, Hagrid!" Harry called, upon seeing the friendly half-giant.

"Blimey! Harry! Yer here too!"

Harry nodded. "I was just about to leave, actually, but I wanted to say – thanks again for the photo album; I look at it every night before I go to bed."

Hagrid smiled bashfully, shifting his weight. "I just, yeh know, thought it'd be nice fer yeh teh have…"

"It is." Harry turned to Mr. Malfoy, who was trying to straighten out his robes with an extremely distasteful sneer on his face. "Would you mind, Mr. Malfoy, if I picked them up now?"

The man started only slightly, glancing down at Harry. "That would be best. Come, Draco, we're leaving."

Harry, ignoring the incredulous stares from the others in the shop, followed the two Malfoys to the door, calling happily behind him, "Bye, Weasleys, Grangers, and Hagrid! Nice seeing you all!"

But as he left, he couldn't help but frown and pause at the strange observation that Ginny Weasley's cauldron now held one more book than before. Blinking and shaking his head, he slipped through the door, his mind on other things.

Once outside the shop, Mr. Malfoy instructed Draco to find his mother – Draco said a quick goodbye to Harry, and then obeyed promptly. Mr. Malfoy then took Harry's arm and apparated with him to Malfoy Manor, Harry cringing at the familiar, unpleasant sensation, struggling to remain upright when they arrived at their destination. They appeared in a vast, spacious entrance hall, made of finely crafted marble, ostentatious silk and gold tapestries hanging on the walls, bright with the light emitted by two large windows.

He looked over at Harry. "I will be back momentarily with the items."

Harry nodded, smiling slightly. "Alright – if you wouldn't mind, could you shrink them and put them in a box, or something? It would be easier to keep them contained."

The man nodded curtly, sweeping out of the room.

As he waited, Harry tapped his foot impatiently, eyes sweeping about the regal looking manor – the entrance alone was probably larger than the Dursley's house. And certainly far more interesting; though it had a similar pristine cleanliness, the manor entrance was decorated with all manners of curious object such as sculptures and various vases and figurines on pedestals. But suddenly, a small, moving figure in an adjacent room caught his eye.

"Bloody hell…"

The figure froze, glancing over at him with wide eyes. It was Dobby, the house elf. Harry felt like bashing his head into the expensive looking sculpture beside him. Dobby belonged to the Malfoys – that was just…wrong, on so many levels.

"Fancy seeing you here," Harry finally managed.

The house elf started trembling – though whether it was from fear or ecstasy, Harry couldn't tell. "Mr. H-Harry P-Potter, sir…"

At that moment, Lucius Malfoy re-entered the hall, eyes immediately snapping to where Harry's were fixed. "Dobby!" he snapped, "You know better than to bother the guests!"

Dobby whimpered fearfully, and then snapped his fingers, disappearing.

"I apologize," said Mr. Malfoy, not sounding very sorry at all, "For the elf. It is a rather troublesome one."

Harry nodded, steadying himself. You don't say. "Not at all." Trying very hard not to betray the turbulence washing through his chest with the thousands of possibilities that had just sprung to mind, he took the box from Mr. Malfoy. "They'll be safe until you need them next," he said shortly, "I'll see myself out."

Harry lay still on the cramped cot in his cupboard, motionless save for his fingers, which were sifting through his 78 tarot cards. Beside him the photo album from Hagrid was opened on the very last page, which featured a single picture – one of James Potter, smiling goofily between his beaming, red haired wife, and his messy haired, green-eyed son in her arms, all of them locked in an embrace. He had never seen his father's face, and his only memory of his mother's was it twisted with fear, and then cold and dead – the moving photograph was shocking for him to behold; while it filled him with some sort of inexplicable joy, knowing that his parents were such happy, hopeful people, it also made his insides churn with envy and bitterness, knowing that he would probably never see them again, and he, their son, was the only one in the photo album who never really got to share their happiness with them. But most shocking to him was his picture – giggling, carefree, a look of pure adulation and joy in his eyes as he was held tightly by his mother and father. He had never felt like that, as long as he could remember – and he could not help but wonder why he was allowed to remember that monster pointing his wand at his mother, and then at him, but not just one happy moment; one moment of clear, obvious love.

"You're getting good."

Harry's gaze left the photo album, and went over to Jean's portrait beside his bed. "I'd like to start putting them together, soon – both sets of cards."

Jean hummed noncommittally.

"What?"

"Well…have you noticed, as your abilities become more accurate, that you're – tired? Sort of sleepy afterward?"

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Sometimes it feels like when I was first learning how to levitate things wandlessly."

"Hmm…yeah. Well, if you mix the cards, then you'll need to do something to keep yourself from passing out afterward – since cartomancy is a very hands-on method of divination, and requires your consciousness to draw closer to the transcendent...that's why I couldn't perform a reading with both decks for the last few months of my life – but if you want to start, I'd recommend a blood sacrifice or burning incense or something…"

Harry nodded. "Huh…"

Jean frowned. "You alright? Usually you would insist on trying it for yourself first…"

"I'm fine...I'm just...thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself."

"I'd much rather hurt you at the moment."

"Hey! Dead guy, remember? At least show me a bit of respect!"

"I will when you start deserving it."

Jean snorted. "Seriously, what's on your mind?"

"Lots of things…"

"Well, like what?"

"Well…I was thinking about Dobby."

"The Malfoy's house elf?"

"Yeah – I'm just wondering, what could the Malfoys be planning that would put the students of Hogwarts in danger?"

"It's not so hard to imagine, brat – Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater."

"He said he was under the imperious curse the whole time."

Jean scoffed. "No one really believes that."

Harry nodded acquiescingly. "But still…I mean, he'd be putting his son, and his son's friends at risk. But even then, what could he be doing? I highly doubt he plans to gas us all, or set loose a bunch of dragons in the castle or something. It's a plot - plots accomplish something. Most likely, me and the rest of the students are probably just potential collateral damage…but even a man like Lucius Malfoy would have some scruples about harming children, having a son himself – he must have a very good reason."

"That's fine and dandy and everything, brat, but that still gives you no clue as to what he's up to."

"I know…I'm just being paranoid, or maybe not – I know there's nothing I can do about it right now, anyway."

"So, what else?"

"What?"

"You said you've got things on your mind – that means there's more."

"You're not my bloody therapist, Jean."

"Hah! So you've finally admitted that you need psychological help!"

"I've done no such thing!"

"Well, if you're not so disturbed, prove it – tell me what else's on your mind."

Harry gritted his teeth, but then seemingly lost the energy to argue. "I…I was wondering – will I see my parents again when I die?"

Jean grimaced. "Only you could go from being necrophobic to being suicidal."

"I'm not suicidal! I just…I was thinking about why I would be afraid of death, when my parents weren't and I thought that…if I got to see them, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad – if I knew I'd meet them, then maybe I wouldn't be so afraid…"

"Okay, first thing – your parents were scared, Harry…they wouldn't have gone into hiding if they weren't. Everyone has a desire to survive. But…I – I'd love to lie to you, kid, but…I don't know what happens to you when you die."

"But you're dead!"

Jean snorted. "I was painted before Jean Alliette died. I'm not really him, not completely, anyway - I didn't die."

"So all the time, when you use that 'I'm the dead guy excuse' …"

"Well, I'm a blob of paint – same difference."

"Right."

"So anyway, kiddo, it's getting late – you should probably hit the sack soon."

Harry scowled. "You're not my mother."

"Hell no. But someone has to make sure you don't shrivel up and die."

"Whatever," Harry sighed, closing the photo album and placing it beside his bed with his cards and his glasses. "Good night, Jean."

"G'night Harry. Sweet dreams."

"Yeah right."

If you don't review, I'll send Dobby after you.