I own nothing.

Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

-Omake Five: Let Sleeping Dogs Lay

Draco finished tying his letter to his owl's leg. "There you go Scorpius." The large eagle owl nodded and turned towards the window. Draco frowned as he noticed the owl's sluggish movement. The bird had been in almost constant flight for the entire day relaying all of Draco's correspondence. "Scorpius?"

The owl turned back.

"How about tomorrow, I use the family owl?"

Scorpius's beak dropped open at the audacity. The offer was an affront to his work ethic and sensibilities. Draco had to think quick.

"I reward such dedicated service," he stated. "Without reward, how would a worker know how valued they are?"

Scorpius's beak closed as the owl contemplated that.

"To make sure you feel as appreciated as you should, you will take tomorrow off and you will receive your body weight in the meat of your choice."

Scorpius nodded happily and took flight.

Draco smiled and rose from his desk. He had always known that correspondence would play a huge part in his life, but ever since he had decided to turn his allies into friends, correspondence had become, dare he say, fun.

Draco turned out the lights in his room and set his wand on the bedside table as he laid down.

He was just on the cusp of sleep when a voice that would haunt him for years to come whispered in his ear.

"I'm watching you."

Draco shot upright and snatched up his wand.

"Lumos!" Draco glanced around his room, but found it empty. He fumbled about for a moment and turned the light back on. As his racing heartbeat slowed and he managed to control his breathing, he pondered if he had even heard anything at all. He glanced around his room again and slowly laid back on his bed. This time the lights stayed on and his wand rested against his pillow. "Potter, if I look under my bed, you aren't there, right?"

He received no answered. At least, he didn't until he was almost asleep again.


Draco's eyes shot open again and he eyed his room for a second without rising.

Finally, he just pulled the blankets over his head.

At least if Potter was lurking about, he didn't have to worry about any other threats.


Author's quickie drunken rambling. Ah, yes. The moment you realize that you're safe because the biggest threat to you isn't going to just kill you, but it will kill anything that tries to kill you because it will confuse attempts on your life to be attempts on its life.

You know?

Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

-Omake Six: The Ending You Probably Expected From Me

"See you this summer?" Amalie turned and made a break for it. She was halted as Fleur snagged her by her collar and caused her feet to run out from under her, dumping her on top of Harry and a very annoyed Gabrielle.

"Not bad," Fleur stated. "Rather amateurish, but the passion is there and that's the important part. After all, you can practice the physical portion. Observe." Her lips crashed into Harry's and his mind immediately went blank. After a moment the part-Veela pulled back. "See?"

"What?" Amalie managed to sputter, her face a rather enraged-looking crimson color.

"Ah, I suppose you always have learned best by doing, not observing," Fleur mused. "I can work with that." She snagged the other blonde by the front of her robes and pulled her into a searing kiss. She pulled away and nodded to herself. "There we go. See how much better that is?"

Harry and Amalie both stared at her blankly. In spite of her less than attentive audience, Fleur still managed to snag Gabrielle by her collar as the young girl lunged at Harry.


"It's legal for Veela!" Gabby countered.

"And yet we are all human by majority," Fleur stated. Her younger sister pouted and ground her heel against the stairs grumpily as she crossed her arms for a proper sulk. Fleur stroked her chin for a moment and nodded to herself. "Actually, we have a little time. Let me show you both a little fun you can practice," Fleur said as she rose to her feet and seized a hand of each. "Above the clothes of course. At least, for a couple of years. Then I'll show you two some real fun."

The rest of them watched as Fleur dragged Harry and Amalie down the stairs.

"Did Harry just get offered a threesome with two hot French blondes when he turns legal?" Cedric asked.

"Including one who is magically hot? I think so," Ron said. He let out an appreciative whistle and picked up the flask Harry had dropped when Gabrielle tackled him. "To Harry Potter. I can't call him a lucky bastard because, you know, he's an orphan and suffered most of his life, but he's doing okay now."

"Other than the attempts on his life," Cedric pointed out.

"We're working on that," Hermione countered.


Author's quickie drunken rambling. Yeah, most of my stories do kind of end in multiple partner sex. Just not the graphic sex type. Is it weird that most of the time that is used as a gag? I guess sex is just another source of jokes for me.

Maybe that's a healthy stance to have. Instead of trying to make sex this ultimate experience or the difference between childhood and adulthood or a horrible taboo or some kind of attempt to assert dominance or the motivation for life, sex is just a shared experience that a lot of people have and some don't. Not that there's anything wrong with dominance games if you're all into that.

Maybe that would get rid of the stigma and let people just fucking chill about that shit and admit that sex is kind of funny and messy and if you think too much, it's kind of gross. And fun! When done right it really is a lot of fun.

Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

-Omake Seven: Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time. Seriously. Please Go Away.

Neville yawned and stretched as consciousness came back to him. He cracked an eye open and then both eyes shot open as he found himself staring into a manic pair of green eyes that were far too close to his own.

"Wake the fuck up Neville. We have a world to burn."

"Harry?" Neville managed to squeak. A quick glance around him confirmed that, yes, this was his bedroom which meant that he was on summer vacation and the last Potter should be somewhere else, bothering someone else, preferably far away.

"Get dressed. We have much to do and little time to do it in."

"Why are you in my bedroom?" Neville managed.

"No stupid questions, only proof that you are my friend," Harry stated. "I will teach you that I value you and I am a worthwhile friend."

"I am very scared," Neville admitted.

"Don't worry," Harry replied. "That's normal. Now get dressed and wear something nice. The world is our oyster."


Augusta glanced up as she heard the door open. Her grandson shuffled into the room and flopped himself down in an easy chair. After a moment, she pushed a rocks glass of scotch across the table towards him. He took it and emptied it in one.

"Did you have fun with Harry?" she asked.

"I just went partying across four countries on three continents in seventy-two hours," Neville stated, his blank face suggesting that sleep hadn't been part of the festivities.

"Did you meet any nice girls?" Augusta demanded.

"A few," Neville admitted as he adjusted his collar, inadvertently revealing a few interesting bruises on his neck.

"You know, I think you should be more friendly with the last Potter."

"I'm very friendly with Harry!" Neville argued. "It's just that death and mayhem follow in his wake."

"Does death follow those who are friendly to him?" Augusta demanded. Her grandson pondered that for a few long moments.

"No, but mayhem does."

"Of course, mayhem does!" Augusta announced. "The boy is Lily's spawn. Now, let's talk about how being around Harry increases my chances of being a great grandmother."

"I haven't even graduated yet!" Neville protested.

"And I'm not getting any younger!"


Author's quickie drunken rambling. I'm kind of digging my Neville. I'm not going to lie. In the books, Neville kind of suddenly became a badass based solely on the fact that he went balls out in the first book and then they skipped to the last before showcasing had badass cred again.

You may think that's a joke, but standing up to your friends is hard as fuck and Neville is hard as fuck for doing it at age pre-puberty.

I respect that. I aspire to that.

Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

-Omake Eight: Anime Protagonist Dense

"So, what's their deal?" Fleur asked as she watched Harry and Amalie window shopping. "They're dating, right?"

"Of course," Sophie replied.

"Are you asking if they're dating, or if they know they're dating?" Hermione asked.

"My sister isn't that dense," Sophie countered. She received an interesting array of looks from Amalie's closest Hogwarts friends. "She's not."

"Bet you a galleon she is," Hermione said quickly.

"Deal!" Sophie's mind caught up with her mouth just a second too slow to save her money. "Damn it." The unknowing couple returned to the rest, hand in hand.

"Hey," Harry began, "Don Giovanni is at the opera. Me and Amalie were thinking about going. Is anyone else interested?"

"We're good," Ron said automatically, already too used to shutting down any third wheel invitations.

"Actually," Viktor began, "I've always wanted to see Don Giovanni." He glanced at Hermione. "Be my date?"

"Should I be worried about you wanting to see an opera about a womanizer?" Hermione teased.

"If I remember correctly, that ends poorly for him," Viktor countered. "I would expect an even worse ending for myself if I sought out such past times."

"As you should," Hermione grumbled, but there was a touch of color on her cheeks.

"He's good," Cedric commented.

"Wait till you see him put a stop to her when she's on a role," Ron said. "One sentence or less and she goes from fire and brimstone to blushing maiden. Well, when he isn't mesmerized like a moth about to get burnt to a crisp."

"Shut up!" Hermione sputtered, her face already approaching full tomato.


"Harry!" Sirius took a step to the side as his godson was tackled. It was a testament to the young man's martial prowess that he managed to intercept the airborne blonde and turn forward motion into a spin as they clung to each other. They slowed to a halt and both blushed at each other. "Hi."

"Hi," Harry returned. Sirius just shook his head at that and accepted a hug from his own girlfriend who had joined them at a much more moderate pace.

"Welcome to Lyon," the older witch stated.

"This place is beautiful," Harry said.

"It is," Sophie agreed. She glanced at her younger sister. "Why don't you show him around for a while? Just don't be late, mom and dad want to meet both of them for dinner."

"Right!" Amalie said excitedly. She hesitated for a moment before shyly holding out a hand. Harry took it and the two set off at a leisurely pace.

"Oh, my God. They actually didn't know they were dating," Sophie gasped in disbelief. "The way they're acting, I don't think they even know that this isn't the first time they've held hands. What a pair of dorks."

"I guess you owe Hermione a galleon," Sirius pointed out glibly. He glanced at the retreating forms. "I really don't get it though. James couldn't have been more confident and Lilly was. . .well. . .Lilly was. . .she was an existence outside of such petty things as social norms. How did he become such a dork?"

"Well. . .you are his only living family," Sophie commented slyly.

"I am not a dork!" Sirius insisted. "I am emotionally stunted by years of wrongful incarceration with only my festering rage to keep me sane in a world of mountrous. . ."

"Dork," Sophie cut in.

"I'm. . ."

"Doooooork," Sophie interrupted again. "That's okay, I like my men a little awkward."

"I was really cool once," Sirius grumbled petulantly.

"You were also not dating me once." The man felt an eyebrow raise at that. He glanced the woman up and down. She shot him a cheeky grin and stretched languidly, emphasizing her finest physical features, which, to be fair, was all of her.

"I am suddenly not too hung up on this."

"Good," the blonde replied as she held out her own hand. Sirius glanced at the offered appendage in confusion for a moment. Sophie blew out an annoyed breath and seized his hand with her own. "Such a dork."


Author's quickie drunken ramblings. Oh, how original. Uncle Jack went for Don Giovanni. The opera everyone knows. Well, that and Carmen I suppose.

Look here wise guy, I was thinking Faust originally, but I got hooked on the womanizer joke, okay?

Also, what the fuck France? I'm googling about looking for a French town that isn't Paris, Nice, Marceille or any other town that Hollywood shows to signify Frenchness and why does every French town that ain't Paris (too city) look so beautiful? Look, I know a good photographer can make a ten-pound bag of shit look good, but seriously, every town is amazing.

Just to show you how my brain words, I originally was going to go with Gordes, but then I remembered Sophie and Amalie's dad was an amputee and might have trouble with slopes and stairs.

It's obvious when you think about it after recalling the one mention I made of it somewhere towards the middle of the story.


Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

-Omake Nine: A Huge Steaming Bowl of Foreshadowing

Kingsley didn't bother knocking as he shoved his way into his boss's office. "Boss." The woman's quill dropped from her hand.

"You called me "Boss", not "Madame" or "Amelia"," she noted. "Give me one reason I shouldn't quit right now and walk out without ever having to hear what's gone wrong."

"You don't get your full pension for another two years," Kingsley stated. Amelia's eyes narrowed.

"I have savings. Give me another."

"You're a professional," Kingsley stated firmly. The woman let out a long, annoyed sigh.

"That's a cheap shot Shack."

"SPIE," the large man stated, poking a thumb into his chest for emphasis. "Cheap shots are ninety-nine percent of the job."

"What's the one?" Amelia asked despite herself.

"Playing eye spy on stakeouts." She closed her eyes as she tried to think of something, anything, to say in response to that. In the end, there was nothing.

"God damn it," Amelia grumbled. "Alright, what's on fire?"

"Peter Pettigrew has gone missing from Saint Mungo's," Kingsley stated. Amelia's head tilted at a curious angle.

"Peter Pettigrew is, for all intents and purposes, except morally, dead," she stated. "How can a dead man go missing from a hospital ward? Did he walk out?"

"Peter Pettigrew did not walk out," Kingsley replied.

"Then, did someone sneak in and apparate or transfigure him?" Amelia continued.

"No, no one entered the long-term ward," Kingsley replied. "There are wards against apparition in place and there was no recorded magic."

"Invisibility cloak?" Amelia pressed.

"Aurors maintain a ceremonial vigil at the ward," Kingsley said solemnly, "for Frank and Alice. I spoke with both of the guys who were on duty. They were both carrying their revealers even though it's a show job. They also didn't see any unknown persons go in and the hospital's log book confirms that there were no visitors, staff or otherwise."

"Did anyone come out?" Amelia asked.

"That's the rub," Kingsley stated. "It was near the end of their shift and anyone that comes out of the room, must have meant to be in there because no unknown persons went in."

"Confirmation bias and complacency," Amelia groaned. The banes of all investigations. The tall man nodded. "He couldn't have walked out. He didn't have a soul."

"He did not have a soul," Kingsley confirmed.

"Then how did he disappear?" Amelia growled.

"Peter Pettigrew the man, did not walk out," Kingsley stated.

"The man?" Amelia repeated.

"Peter Pettigrew the man was his soul and his soul is gone; therefore, Peter Pettigrew the man did not walk out."

"Then his body did?" Amelia demanded. "A soulless body got up and walked out?"

"Obviously not. A soulless body can't do anything more than breathe," Kingsley replied. "Peter Pettigrew's soulless body did not walk out."

"What are you saying Shack?" Amelia asked.

"Just the facts, Madame Bones," Kingsley replied.

"What are you implying?" she tried again, scowling at his cageyness. The bastards always got very slippery when voicing his thoughts on. . .unusual happenings, never saying or writing down anything that could cause awkward questions for himself.

"I'm implying nothing," Kingsley answered. "I'm just stating the facts. Pettigrew's body is missing. Pettigrew the man is dead, his soul is gone. Pettigrew's body did not get up and leave without a soul." Amelia took a deep breath at that.

"Go find me every Unspeakable you can," she ordered.

"Right away Madame Bones."

"And Shack?" The tall man glanced back, her office door already open. "How did you know when my full pension kicks in?"

"Sorrygottagohuntspooks!" With that he was gone, leaving multiple related and unrelated questions in his wake.


Author's quickie drunken rambles. Ooooooooooh Shit! You know, I need a little signal to throw up to show which of these are cannon and which of these aren't.

I'd love to tell you that that should be obvious, but I'm proud to say that it probably isn't.

Also, still not sure if this is the right place to throw this up, but it seemed about right.

-Author's end of the chapter drunken rambling. Happy Saint Patrick's. The day when all Americans are Irish, instead of the usual nine point seven percent. And here's to my grandma who married a strapping American man while working in Britain during the war and left the Emerald Isles behind to start my family. Well, half of it anyway.

Guess I'll celebrate the other half on Saint David's day. Eh? Eh? Word up to any Catholic readers who had to google that one like the rest of us.

Also, before I get ahead of myself and to make my position clear: Slava Ukraine.

I've already donated cash to both military and civilian. If I could figure out how to ship off my plate carrier, Kevlar and a couple rifles for the cause, I would. Hell, if I was younger, skinnier, and not partially robotic, I would probably be looking up ways to send myself. As it is, yes I'm a veteran and yes I would absolutely get in the way. Which is a hard pill to swallow in the annals of getting older.

Like the songs says: I'm not as good as I once was, but I was good once and that just ain't enough to physically do anything to help. So, not exactly like the song.

With that said, how the hell do I have a plate carrier and Kevlar you ask. Well, it's a funny story involving my Uncle Sam not asking for the plate carrier back and a New Zealand SF guy I was sharing a MOUT town with mistaking my ruck for his and taking my jerky while leaving me a Kevlar. To be fair, the only way we had the same ruck was that he had to have stolen a USMC issue 3 day pack. Moral of the story: if they don't ask for it back, they don't want it back. To be fair, the NZ guy was gone the next day so I couldn't actually give his Kevlar and stolen ruck back.

Twice stolen is legally retrieved damn it!

-Uncle Jack