AN: Once again I am not JK Rowling.
Scrimgeour did not speak as we all passed through the messed kitchen and into the Burrow's sitting room. Although the garden had been full of soft golden evening light, it was already dark in here; Harry flicked his wand at the oil lamps as we entered and they illuminated the shabby but cozy room. Scrimgeour sat himself in the sagging armchair that Mr. Weasley normally occupied, leaving Harry, Ron, and I to squeeze side by side onto the sofa. Once we had done so, Scrimgeour spoke.
"I have some questions for the three of you, and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you two" – he pointed at Harry and I – "can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald."
"We're not going anywhere," Harry said, while I nodded vigorously. "You can speak to us together, or not at all."
Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold, appraising look. Harry and I stood tall and glared at the man who had given us so much grief in his short time in office. After a long moment he shook his head.
"Very well then, together," he said, shrugging. He cleared his throat. "I am here, as I'm sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."
Harry, Ron, and I looked at one another.
"A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you anything?"
"A-all of us?" Ron said, "Me and Hermione too?"
"Yes, all of –"
But Harry interrupted. "Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I said, before Scrimgeour could answer. "They wanted to examine whatever he's left us. You had no right to do that!" I said, and my voice trembled slightly.
"I had every right," Scrimgeour said dismissively. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power the confiscate the contents of a will–"
"That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark artifacts," I said quickly, "and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased's possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?" I glared at the man darkly, get out of that Scrimgeour!
"Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?" Scrimgeour asked. I glared at him angrily.
"No, I'm not," I retorted. "I'm hoping to do some good in the world!"
Ron laughed. Scrimgeour's eyes flickered toward him and away again as Harry spoke.
"So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can't think of a pretext to keep them?"
"No, it'll be because thirty-one days are up," I said at once. "They can't keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove they're dangerous. Right?"
"Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?" Scrimgeour asked, ignoring me. Ron looked startled.
"Me? Not – not really... It was always Harry who..."
Ron looked around at Harry and I, where I was giving him a stop-talking-now! sort of look, but the damage was done; Scrimgeour looked as though he had heard exactly what he had expected, and wanted, to hear. He swooped like a bird of prey upon Ron's answer.
"If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast majority of his possessions – his private library, his magical instruments, and other personal effects – were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?"
"I... dunno," Ron said nervously his eyes flicking to me. "I... when I say we weren't close... I mean, I think he liked me..."
"You're being modest, Ron," I said quickly "Dumbledore was very fond of you."
I was stretching the truth to the breaking point. However, Scrimgeour did not seem to be listening. He put his hand inside his cloak and drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the one Hagrid had given Harry. From it, he removed a scroll of parchment which he unrolled and read aloud.
"'The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore'... Yes, here we are... 'To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it.'"
Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that I had never seen before: It looked something like a silver cigarette lighter, but it had, I knew, the power to suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a simple click. Harry had told Ron and I about it before. Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and turned it over in the fingers looking stunned.
"That is a valuable object," Scrimgeour said, watching Ron. "It may even be unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore's own design. Why would he have left you and item so rare?"
Ron shook his head, looking bewildered.
"Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students," Scrimgeour persevered. "Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you three. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put to the Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?"
"Put out lights, I s'pose," Ron mumbled. "What else could I do with it?"
Evidently Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After squinting at Ron for a moment or tow, he turned back to Dumbledore's will.
"'To Mrs Hermione Jean Granger Black, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.'"
Scrimgeour now pulled out of the bag a small book that looked as ancient as my hidden copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art in my bag. Its binding was stained and peeling in places. I took it from Scrimgeour without a word. I held the book in my lap and gazed at it. The title was in faded runes, these things would help us in the hunt for Horcruxes. As I looked down at it a tear escaped and splashed onto the runes.
"Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Mrs Black?" Scrimgeour asked.
"He... he knew I liked books," I said in a thick voice, mopping my eyes with my sleeve. But it was more than that. This would help in hunt, I just knew it!
"But why that particular book?"
"I don't know. He must have thought I'd enjoy it."
"Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?"
"No, I didn't," I said, still wiping my eyes on my sleeve. "And if the Ministry hasn't found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt that I will."
I suppressed a sob. Harry and Ron both slipped their arms around me. Dumbledore thought of everything, even willing us different things that would somehow help us on the hunt. Scrimgeour turned back to the will.
"'To Harry James Potter,'" he read, and my insides contracted with a sudden excitement, "'I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.'"
As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly, and my stomach churned horribly. Flesh memories. If Harry touched it something might happen!
"Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?" Scrimgeour asked.
"No idea," Harry said his face scrunched up in confusion. "For the reasons you just read out, I suppose... to remind me what you can get if you... persevere and whatever it was."
"You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?"
"I suppose so," Harry said. "What else could it be?"
"I'm asking the questions," Scrimgeour said, shifting his chair a little closer to the sofa. Dusk was really falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows towered ghostly white over the hedge.
"I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch," Scrimgeour said to Harry. "Why is that?"
I laughed derisively. "Oh, it can't be a reference to the fact Harry's a great Seeker, that's way too obvious," I said. "There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing!"
"I don't think there's anything hidden in the icing," Scrimgeour said, "but a Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I'm sure?"
"Because Snitches have flesh memories," I said automatically.
"What?" Harry and Ron said together. Just because I didn't like the sport didn't mean I knew nothing about it.
"Correct," Scrimgeour said. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch" – he held up the tiny golden ball – "will remember your touch, Potter.
"It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you."
Harry was pale and staring at the snitch.
"You don't say anything," Scrimgeour said. "Perhaps you already know what the Snitch contains?"
"No," Harry said trying to conceal his thoughts.
"Take it," said Scrimgeour quietly.
Harry met the Minister's yellow eyes and held out his hand. Scrimgeour leaned forward again and placed the Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into Harry's palm.
Nothing happened. As Harry's fingers closed around the Snitch, its tired wings fluttered and were still. Scrimgeour, Ron, and I continued to gaze avidly at the now partially concealed ball, as if still hoping it might transform in some way.
"That was dramatic," Harry said coolly. Both Ron and I snorted with laughter.
"That's all, then, is it?" I asked slowly standing from the sofa.
"Not quite," Scrimgeour said, who looked bad tempered now. "Dumbledore left you a second bequest, Potter."
"What is it?" Harry asked his face brightening.
Scrimgeour did not bother to read from the will this time.
"The sword of Godric Gryffindor," he said. Ron and I both stiffened. Harry looked around for a the sword but it wasn't in the room.
"So where is it?" Harry asked suspiciously.
"Unfortunately," Scrimgeour said, "that sword was not Dumbledore's to give away. The sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as such, belongs–"
"It belongs to Harry!" I said hotly unable to curb my tongue. "It chose him, he was the one who found it, it came to him out of the Sorting Hat–"
"According to reliable historical sources, the sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor," Scrimgeour sneered. "That does not make it the exclusive property of Mr. Potter, whatever Dumbledore may have decided." Scrimgeour scratched his badly shaven cheek, scrutinizing Harry. "Why do you think–?"
"–Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?" Harry asked, struggling to keep his temper. "Maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall."
"This is not a joke, Potter!" Scrimgeour growled his eyes flashing. "Was it because Dumbledore believed that only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did he wish to give you that sword, Potter, because he believed, as do many, that you are the one destined to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"
"Interesting theory," Harry said his face. "Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So this is what you've been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying – I was nearly one of them – Voldemort chased me across three countries, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, George lost an ear and Hermione can't have kids! But there's no word about any of that from the Ministry, has there? And you still expect us to cooperate with you!" Tears were streaming down my face and I swiped furiously at them.
"You go too far!" Scrimgeour shouted, standing up: Harry jumped to his feet too. Scrimgeour limped toward Harry and jabbed him hard in the chest with the point of his wand; It singed a hole in Harry's T-shirt like a lit cigarette.
"Oi!" Ron yelled glaring at him, jumping up and raising his own wand, but Harry said, "No! D'you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?"
"Remembered you're not at school, have you?" said Scrimgeour breathing hard into Harry's face. "Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence and insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It's time you learned some respect!"
"It's time you earned it." Harry yelled his eyes flashing red. My stomach swooped horribly and I felt sick.
The floor trembled; there was a sound of running footsteps, then the door to the sitting room burst open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ran in followed by Sirius who was fuming.
"We – we thought we heard –" Mr. Weasley began, looking thoroughly alarmed at the sight of Harry and the Minister virtually nose to nose. Sirius pushed past him and rushed to my side pulling me into his arms.
"–raised voices," panted Mrs. Weasley.
Sirius glared darkly at Scrimgeour as he rubbed his hand up and down my arm. He took a couple of steps back from Harry, glancing at the hole he had made in Harry's T-shirt. He seemed to regret his loss of temper.
"It – it was nothing," he growled. "I... regret your attitude," he said, looking Harry full in the face once more. "You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you – what Dumbledore – desired. We ought to work together."
"I don't like your methods, Minister," Harry said. "Remember?"
Harry held out his hand that still had the scars written into the back. We all had seen them. We all knew what they said. I must not tell lies.
AN: Please Review!