The Time Of Trial

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The Time of Trial

Chapter 2- Don't Look Back In Anger

Author: Al
Author email: [email protected]
Category: Drama Mystery Romance
Keywords: Harry Hermione Draco Ron Sirius Dracaena Fifth Year
Spoilers: For all four books
Rating: PG.

Summary: Sequel to Dracaena Draco, and the second story of three in the 'Dark Rising' arc. Harry must finally begin to come to terms with his past in this epic story. But the Dark Side is back ... with a vengeance, and soon the Light will be fighting for its life.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK 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. Other sources will be cited in the relevant chapters. In this chapter, there are hints, allusions to and lines from any number of the following; old Beatles hits, Red Dwarf, Blackadder, Discworld, Rob Rankin novels, Chris Morris' excellent The Day Today et autres, none of which I own.

"... section this evening. In other news, operatives of the Magical Law Enforcement Service continue their hunt for missing fashion designer Simon Branford, who disappeared from his Oxford home several weeks ago. Rumours of Branford's possible involvement in the so called Dracaena Affair have yet to be confirmed or denied. Meanwhile, crowds of fans and well wishers continue to besiege his home, and teenage witches up and down the land are said to be distraught. But we now can return you to our top story this morning ... now in its sixth day, the trial of Sirius Black once again dominates our headlines this morning. The trial is now entering what many commentators see as its crucial final stages, for it is today that Black's lawyer, Eoin Ó'Cíobháin will present to the High Court key evidence, including the testimony of a man now being referred to as Peter Pettigrew, long thought dead by Black's hand in the aftermath of the Dark Lord's downfall in 1981. We have with us in the studio now Doctor Brian Keating of the Department of Recent Affairs at the St Andrews Institute. Doctor Keating, nice to have you with us ... how likely do you believe it is that this is, in fact, the actual Peter Pettigrew, whom everyone still believes to be dead? And if it is him, what was his actual involvement in You-Know-Who's downfall?"

"Well, John ... this whole affair is still shrouded in mystery, and only very senior officials of the Ministry are a party to any specific information. It is suspected that Black betrayed those close to him ..."

"Meaning the Potters?"

"Yes, meaning the Potters, following the performance of the Fidelius Charm, a highly unorthodox and somewhat dangerous procedure. However, Black has stringently denied throughout the trial that he was ever the Potter's Secret Keeper, and has persistently pointed the finger at Pettigrew, who, as we now know, is rumoured to still be alive."

"How likely do you think this is? It looks to me like the last actions of a man desperate to save himself from the Dementor's Kiss."

"Well, John, in a word, yes, I do have to admit that that is how it appears. Of course, very little information about the trial is actually being released to the media at this time ..."

"Despite the large number of spectators?"

"Um, quite. But we do now have to factor in the news that Pettigrew may be alive and well."

"If he is Pettigrew?"

"There is that possibility ... that he might not be. But I believe we could be in for some disturbing revelations today. This case was never as clear-cut as the media and the Ministry made it out to be back in 1981. Remember, John, that Sirius Black was imprisoned without trial, and trials were granted to Death Eaters of considerably more infamy, in fairer circumstances. Someone, somewhere, has a lot to answer for, there may be allegations of corruption, of bribery, and of treachery reaching far into the Ministry."

"This could, in short, go all the way to the top?"

"I believe it could, yes. Many Ministry officials were involved at the time of Black's original imprisonment ... many of whom now occupy high positions. In the confusion following the Dark Lord's downfall, it is possible that corners were cut, that vital evidence was mislaid, and that things went wrong. It was, after all, a very hectic and traumatic time for everyone. I would be very surprised if we did not see a major inquiry following this trial, maybe even implications in Fudge's cabinet itself."

"This could bring down the Ministry of Magic, then?"

"That is a distinct possibility. It certainly looks that way from where I'm standing now. I may be wrong ..."

"You believe Cornelius Fudge himself may be involved?"

"Ah, now, I didn't actually say that. You're putting words in my mouth. I would refrain from commenting on that at this time."

"You would adopt a position if the evidence against Fudge were to come out?"

"I would have to."

"What position?"

"I cannot say at this time. The evidence hasn't come out yet."

"To summarise?"

"We're going to see some incredible claims being made in the High Court today, it's going to be big, whatever happens, there could be bad news in it for the Ministry if it goes Black's way, but I can say no more at this time."

"Thank you, Doctor. Just time for a quick look at today's papers before the weather forecast ... the Hull Aphrodite leads with 'Crazed Werewolves in Store a Bad Mistake Admits Mothercare,' and the Prophet goes with 'Black Trial Latest,' ..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Pettigrew shot Sirius a glance as he took the Witness stand ... though what kind of glance it was, Harry was unable to tell. It might have been hatred, it might have been solidarity ... it might even have been repentance. Sirius' response, on the other hand, left no doubt as to his feelings towards Pettigrew. His lip was curled up into an angry sneer, and his eyes narrowed to slits as he stared back. Pettigrew turned away hurriedly, and glanced briefly at Harry, Hermione and Dumbledore. Harry caught the man's eyes for a brief second, but then looked away, unable to watch.

He knew the man standing before the Court now would, in all probability, be tried for the same crimes as Sirius once the Grand Jury had found him not guilty, as they surely must do. He knew that in the same circumstances, he would have been shaking with terror ... screaming to get out, but not a flicker of emotion crossed Pettigrew's face. This man might be shortly executed, or subjected to the kiss, or a lifetime in Azkaban, which was almost as bad. His complete lack of emotion at his potentially awesome fate was disturbing.

The Judge, having gone through the standard preamble of swearing the witness in, turned the proceedings over to Ó'Cíobháin ...

"I warn you now, Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, that we are here only to establish Mr. Black's guilt, or innocence, not to charge Mr. Pettigrew with any crimes at this time. Do I make myself perfectly understood?"

Ó'Cíobháin looked up from his ledger. "Crystal clear, thank you, your Grace," he said, through gritted teeth ... obviously there were other things on his mind at that minute. Then he turned to Pettigrew, who was wringing his hands, beads of sweat standing out against his veined forehead, like minuscule jewels, a tic going in his left cheek.

"Will you confirm to me, Sir, your name, date of birth and place of residence?" asked Ó'Cíobháin.

Pettigrew nodded. "My name, Sir, is Peter Victor Pettigrew. My date of birth, the 15th of May, 1959. No fixed abode," he added. A low whisper of speculation travelled swiftly around the Spectators' Gallery.

"Can you confirm for us that you are testifying under the influence of Veritaserum, Class C, and that everything you say is therefore the truth?"

Pettigrew nodded. The Judge, however, was looking scandalised.

"Mr. Ó'Cíobháin ... I need hardly remind you that the use of Class C Veritaserum on a witness in a trial is a highly unorthodox procedure ... I hope you have a very good reason for having done this."

Ó'Cíobháin nodded. "Indeed I do," he said. "It is my belief that this man who stands before us is the one who should be standing in the Dock, instead of my Client ..."

"Objection, your Grace!" Trevithick, too, looked outraged. "Ó'Cíobháin would say that ... he gets more money if Mr. Black is found innocent."

The Judge snarled. "Mr. Trevithick ... during the last few days you have continued to amaze me with your baseless statements and slanderous lies to this Court. It is my opinion that you are unfit to try in the High Court of Magic, and rest assured that I will be making a full report on you to the Committee following this trial. You will refrain from questioning Mr. Ó'Cíobháin's motives so cynically."

"I seek the truth as much as everybody else in this Court," muttered Trevithick, but he took his seat anyway. The Judge glared at the Spectators' Gallery.

"The spectators will remain silent in this Court," he said. The backchat died away immediately. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin. This procedure is, as I have made clear, highly unorthodox. Nevertheless, such are the circumstances of this Trial that I am prepared to allow you to take Mr. Pettigrew's testimonial ..."

Ó'Cíobháin nodded thankfully. "Your Grace is too kind," he said. He leaned forwards over his lectern, and put his hands on the corners to steady himself, then he looked down at his notes, and then he looked up again, and started to slowly shake his head. After a few seconds, he spoke.

"Mr. Pettigrew ... confirm for me your address at the time of the Potters' death in 1981."

"I lived at 46, Glamorgan Street, Blackburn," said Pettigrew. "With my Mother, now deceased."

"Thank you ... Mr. Pettigrew. At what age were you approached by Lord Voldemort?"

The spectators drew breath collectively. Harry heard frenzied whispering.

"I was recruited into the cult of the Silver Serpent, also known as the Death Eaters in popular parlance, on the 16th of April, 1979. The initiation occurred at Ynys Enlii, off the coast of Gwynedd, in North Wales, at the hour of nine p.m. Present were the following Death Eaters; Bernard Crabbe, Thomas Goyle, Arthur McManus, Lucius Malfoy," Draco blanched at this point, "Robert Hammond, both Lestranges, Dimitri Karkaroff and his son. Severus Snape did not attend the ceremony due to illness, and remained unaware that I was a Death Eater ..."

"Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew. I would now like for you to explain to this Court how you came to be the Potters' Secret Keeper."

"Very well. The plan was for Mr. Black to become the Secret Keeper, as his testimonial has borne witness," said Pettigrew. "However, we ... that is to say they were very concerned that there was a traitor in their midst by this time. It was becoming obvious that Voldemort was being handed information by someone very close to the ... to the organisation."

"The traitor was you?"

Harry caught Pettigrew's eye again, and this time he looked away hurriedly, as though he could barely stand the sight of Harry. "I was the traitor," he said, finally, after a very long pause.

"What gave them cause to suspect?"

"The McKinnon family had recently been attacked. The Longbottoms had already gone into hiding, and the Weasleys were on the verge of performing the Fidelius Charm themselves. Arthur was most insistent. The last time I saw him was the group meeting on October 22nd, 1981. He was very agitated and clearly worried about his children, as were James and Lily In fact, it was Arthur who was pushing for James to perform the Charm. Dumbledore too. Anyway, at that meeting it was agreed publicly that Sirius would assume the role of Secret Keeper to test it out. Arthur Weasley put forward his nominees, and doubtless would have taken his family into hiding himself if events had not taken a turn. The meeting ended at half past eleven, and we returned home."

Harry had not known any of this previously. His brain was starting to whirl ... there was too much going on, too much new information to process. He closed his eyes, and took deep breaths.

"Then what happened?"

"The very next morning, James and Lily owled me," began Pettigrew. "They had spoken with Sirius and all three of them agreed it might be beneficial to them if Voldemort could be thrown off the scent ..."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning let him go after Sirius," said Pettigrew. "Sirius would sooner die than volunteer information. He was a man of great integrity. Who would suspect me? Whoever would think it was me?"

"Worthless rat!" snarled Sirius.

"The Defendant will remain silent throughout," prompted the Judge. "Continue, Mr. Ó'Cíobháin."

"We performed the Charm, Sirius was present, and James and Lily too. Nobody else was informed, although in hindsight, it might have been better for them if they had done," Harry wasn't sure, but he could almost have sworn Pettigrew's face twisted into a grin at that point. "Their reasons for telling nobody are really very simple. It was very difficult to know just who the traitor might be. If they went babbling about it to the rest of the group, then Voldemort could have been alerted within hours."

"Yet this did happen," prompted Ó'Cíobháin.

Pettigrew smiled. "Yes, deeply ironic, really. They chose to confide in the traitor himself. Had they gone to Arthur, or Remus, or Gwyneth, or even remained with Sirius, all would very probably have been well. It was the greatest day of my life. Voldemort had been displeased with me for some time, and when I found him that evening back at Ynys Enlii, I was so proud, so unimaginably proud."

People were talking quite clearly to one another in the Spectators' Gallery up above. The Judge did nothing to stop them. One or two people were booing.

"From that moment on, it was a matter of time before Voldemort got to them," said Pettigrew.

"Very well," said Ó'Cíobháin. "Mr. Pettigrew. Confirm for us your actions and whereabouts on the night of October 31st, 1981."

Pettigrew answered immediately. "I woke up at about seven thirty. I packed my things in my suitcases and trunks, and made sure my flat was locked before driving them down to London ..."

"You drove to London?"

Pettigrew nodded. "Indeed," he said. He looked thoughtful. "My vehicle was a 1978 Ford Transit, white, rented from Budget, the registration number as follows: TGK 462 T."

"Why did you drive? Why did you not Apparate?"

Pettigrew hung his head. "I have no Apparition licence, and I never have possessed one," he said. "I failed my test once, in 1977, when I left my spleen in Haverfordwest, and never tried again ..."

Trevithick was on his feet again. "Your Grace, I find Ó'Cíobháin's line of questioning bafflingly irrelevant to the case ..."

"Proceed, Mr. Ó'Cíobháin," said the Judge. "Mr. Trevithick, if I have to reprimand you again you will be charged with contempt of the High Court of Magic. I need hardly remind you that this carries a statutory two week penalty in Azkaban?"

"I withdraw my statement forthwith," said Trevithick, bitterly. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin may continue."

"I shall say if he may continue," snapped the Judge. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, you may continue."

"Thank you, your Grace," Ó'Cíobháin shot a triumphant glare at Trevithick, who was now scowling. Ó'Cíobháin turned back to Pettigrew, who was staring blankly ahead of himself, and still appeared to be showing no discernible trace of emotion.

"You drove to London. Where did you go?"

"There is a Muggle self-storage firm with offices near the Leaky Cauldron," said Pettigrew, his voice curiously expressionless, which Harry rightly took to be a symptom of the truth serum administered to him. "I left items of value to me there. It cost forty pounds, although I did not keep the receipt."

"And from there, you went?"

"I went to the Leaky Cauldron," said Pettigrew. "I had several beers and a plate of chips with coleslaw, the whole coming to just under one Galleon ..."

"We are not here to learn of your financial transactions, or dietary habits, Mr. Pettigrew," the Judge intervened. "Please supply only the information that Mr. Ó'Cíobháin requests of you."

Harry could not see the spectators looking on, but he had the feeling they were probably all on the edge of their seats. He looked around himself. Dumbledore was sitting to his immediate right, his hands folded neatly in his lap. On his left was Hermione, who was paying the proceedings rapt attention, and sitting next to her, Draco. He caught Draco's eye.

"You okay?" the other boy mouthed. Harry nodded. Despite what was going on, the sheer gravity of the moment, he felt weirdly calm.

"Fine," he whispered back. Draco smiled at this, and leant backwards in his seat.

" ... no apparent reason why you should remain in London beyond two p.m. that day?" Ó'Cíobháin was saying.

Pettigrew shook his head. "Certainly," he said. "I had several appointments to keep with old friends. And I would have kept them too, had not Voldemort's plans gone quite so agley."

"From Knockturn Alley. Where did you go afterwards?"

"Back to the Leaky Cauldron ... I had another drink before setting off for Godric's Hollow, where I arrived at about six thirty."

"Six thirty, this now being the evening of the 31st?" said Ó'Cíobháin. Pettigrew nodded. "You took Floo Powder?"

Pettigrew nodded again. "Indeed I did. Upon arriving in Godric's Hollow, I took a room at the Duke's Wand under an assumed name ..."

"What name?" asked Ó'Cíobháin.

"The name I used was Walter Parker," said Pettigrew. "I thought it unlikely I would be recognised. James and Lily had lived there only two or three months, and I had only visited a handful of times since. I had another drink in the bar, and waited. At about ten thirty, it began to rain, and I left the hotel, and headed down the road to the cottage. There I found a place to stand in the spinney opposite, where nobody could see me. I had with me a quantity of cheese and pickle sandwiches, which I ate as I waited. It was a stormy Halloween, but there were still a lot of local kids out trick-or-treating. At eleven thirty, after they had left and gone to bed, I ... the thunderstorm broke over us. And at about that time I could have sworn I saw figures, two children, creeping about in the Potter's front garden. I'm sure I saw their shadows ..."

"You are sure you saw people?"

Pettigrew shook his head. "By no means am I sure," he said. "It was probably just a rabbit or something. At eleven thirty five, James arrived home. He was He left the car outside, and went into the house, he was carrying ... I remember so clearly, chocolates and flowers. Shortly afterwards, a young boy emerged from the woods ... I was ... I was alarmed ... to say the least. But I don't know what happened to him ... Voldemort summoned me at that point ..."

Harry coughed, loudly, and for a second, all eyes in the Courtroom were on him. Mrs Weasley, sitting in the front row of the Spectators' Gallery, was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, and Mr. Weasley had his arm around her. Harry had never known before that they had even been acquainted with his parents, and it galled slightly that they had never had the courage to tell him that. But he could understand why, too. The memory was still painful for everyone, after all ...

Pettigrew now continued to speak. "I stood in the rain, getting sopping wet for a good minute or so, talking to Voldemort. We prepared ourselves, and then I followed him up the garden path to the front door of the cottage."

The images he was describing were suddenly hauntingly real. Harry could feel the sting of cold rain dripping down on him ... hear the claps of thunder as angry clouds boiled across the sky. He could see the cottage, with lights burning at the window and two cloaked men striding purposefully up to the front door ...

"What did Voldemort say to you?" asked Ó'Cíobháin.

"He told me I had done well," said Pettigrew. "He told me I would be rewarded for my service beyond my wildest dreams. I thanked him. That is all we said to one another. Well ... we blew the door in, and Voldemort led me into the house. I could ... I could hear screaming. The ground," he stopped, faltered, and for one second, Harry caught the slightest hint of a sob. "The ground floor of the cottage had small hallway, with stairs leading up ... a kitchen and scullery round to the right, and on the left, a doorway to the living room, a dining room, and James' office, when he was working at home. Voldemort told me to cover the kitchen, as he was concerned they might try to escape. I went into the kitchen, and I heard him slamming the door."

Harry concentrated very hard on his shoelaces.

"I could hear someone shouting. I couldn't hear what they were shouting ... the thunderclaps were becoming very frequent, the storm was right overhead at that point, then screams, and then green light flickering underneath the door, and I knew what he had done."

"He had killed them?"

Harry coughed again. Hermione had her arm around his shoulders ...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"... will be convening this morning to hear the final verdict in the trial of Sirius Black. Whether or not a guilty verdict is returned, what remains certain is that this trial has opened the cupboard, and more skeletons than anyone could have imagined are tumbling out. The implications of Black's innocence would, of course, be far reaching, and potentially very damaging for the Ministry of Magic, which is already reeling from the double whammy dealt it by the collapse of investors Malfoy International Industries, which forced the Head of Magical Trade and Industry from his post only yesterday, and the news that the State Department of Magic in the US has finally bowed to public pressure following nearly a solid week of rioting, and granted retrials to forty men currently being held in Alcatraz. The Ministry has yet to decide whether or not to yield to American demands for the release of six US citizens currently held in Azkaban on charges of Dark Activity committed within the jurisdiction of the British and Irish governments. As the Ministry continues to demand the extradition of Jack and Maureen Silvermann to face charges of Dark Activity, this looks like it could easily degenerate into a full scale diplomatic war, which the Ministry seems unable to cope with. In Dublin, the Celtic Magical Council refuses to relent to British demands for access to the sacred runes held within Dun Aonghusa on the Isle of Inishmore, which would be instrumental in decoding ..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Order please. This Session of the High Court of Magic is now opened."

The gavel cracked down on the lectern once more, and a murmur of voices, the babbling of interested chatter filled the room as the onlookers stood up.

"We are called upon at his ungodly hour to hear the verdict of the Grand Jury in the case of the Ministry of Magic versus Sirius Eamonn Black. The presiding Judge is Sir Winterbourne Strickland, the Clerk is Mr. Jackson Fyffe, the Warden of the Court is Sir Thomas Bloxham, and the High Wizard is Lord Aengus O'Docherty of Inis Fionnchuire. All Men present in this Court are bound by oath and blood to the Book of Magical Law. This is a place of truth. No lies can be told here, no falsehood can be uttered, no travesty perpetrated. This Court's decision cannot be overturned. This Court's decision is final. There can be no appeal, there can be no re-trial, and there can be no mistrial, for under the terms of the Book of Magical Law the High Court of Magic cannot be wrong. Before we advance the proceedings this morning, I must ask that anybody who questions or takes issue with these conditions be gone from this Chamber until today's proceedings close. Your name will be taken by the Law Keeper and held in the Book of Dissent ... no further admittance will be granted."

A terrible, oppressive silence filled the Chamber. Nobody moved. Nobody uttered a sound.

"I will take this silence as a sign that all present comply with the conditions laid forth by the Book of Magical Lore. Ladies and Gentlemen. Grand Jurors, Spectators, I bid you welcome, and I bid you take your seats."

There was a rumbling sound as two thousand people sat down at once. Dumbledore had told him as they entered, not five minutes earlier, that he had never known a single session of the High Court be so crowded. Harry scanned the crowd, as had become his custom, for the Weasleys, but they did not appear to be there. And then he remembered ... today was the day Ginny was having her plasters taken off, they would be over at St. Mungo's.

"Will the Foreman of the Grand Jury please make himself known to this Court?"

A lone man stood up ... a short and stocky wizard with a bristling moustache and bushy beard, wearing the Juror's robes of deep purple, trimmed with gold leaf, the whole topped off with a pointed hat of truly epic proportions.

"I am the Foreman of the Grand Jury."

"What is your name."

"Your Grace, my name is Mr. David Peabody. I am a Member of this Court, an initiate of the Circle of the Purple Star, and a merchant banker on behalf of the Gringotts Corporation."

"Mr. Peabody. Please confirm to this Court that you have been selected by an impartial source."

"My name was drawn from the Fountain of Truth, ten days prior to the commencement of this trial," said Peabody. "As is set down in the Book of Magical Lore, page sixteen, paragraph eight, clause two."

"Thank you Mr. Peabody. This Court is now ready to hear the verdict."

"Your Grace. I would presume to start my speech this morning by saying that this Jury has spent not less than sixteen hours, twenty five minutes and sixteen seconds in isolation in the Debating Chamber beneath this Court, deliberating the evidence that has been lain at our feet this past few days. The task before us has been a daunting one, for the evidence dates back fourteen years. However, such is the overwhelming balance of the evidence presented to us, that our conclusion, and thus our verdicts are clear, and unanimous. I am now in a position to deliver to you the verdict upon this most important of Trials."

They watched, mouths agape as the Foreman of the Jury opened the buff coloured envelope into which the verdict had been magically sealed. The only sound in the packed Chamber was that of the rustling of the small piece of paper that he removed. He held it up to the light, as if determined to prove that it was a forgery. The Judge nodded his head.

"You may proceed."

Peabody took a deep breath, and coughed. From his seat in between Dumbledore and Hermione, Harry could see Sirius moving his lips frantically. It looked almost as if he was praying.

"By the power vested in me as Foreman of the Grand Jury of the High Court of Magic, upon this, the 9th day of October in the year 1995, I hereby pronounce the following. In the case of the Ministry of Magic versus Sirius Eamonn Black, the Defendant was charged with the following crimes, which we shall read out in order, together with our verdicts upon them ... "

Sirius closed his eyes, and gripped the bars of his cage.

"Upon the charge of breaking the security of the Fidelius Charm. We find the Defendant ... not guilty."

A collective sigh seemed to sweep around the Chamber. One or two people whooped, and punched the air with their arms. Peabody continued to read from his roll of parchment ...

"Upon the charge of supplying information to the Dark Forces. We find the Defendant not guilty."

"Upon the charge of acting to betray agents of the Ministry of Magic. We find the Defendant not guilty."

"Upon the charge of acting under the influence of the Dark Lord. We find the Defendant not guilty."

"Upon the charge of illegally charming a Muggle motorbike. We find the Defendant guilty as charged."

"Upon the charge of the cold blooded murder of no less than twelve unarmed and unidentified Muggles. We find the Defendant not guilty."

"Upon the charge of the cold blooded murder of Peter Victor Pettigrew. We find the Defendant not guilty."

"Upon the charge of absconding from gaol. We find the Defendant guilty as charged."

"Upon the charge of breach of the Court Order of August 26th 1993, forbidding the Defendant from human contact with Mr. Harry James Potter. We find the Defendant guilty as charged."

"Upon the charge of abducting minors. We find the Defendant not guilty. That is the full verdict of this Jury. We also make the following recommendations."

Harry could hear people whispering to one another in the gallery above. Sirius was leaning forwards against the bars of his cage, weeping uncontrollably. Harry felt a lump rising in his throat. He turned away, and Hermione, sensing his discomfort and relief, took him in her arms, and allowed him to bury his face in her hair.

"Proceed," said the Judge.

"We recommend the immediate arrest and trial of Peter Victor Pettigrew, upon listed charges one through four, and listed charge six. Effective immediately."

The gallery above erupted into cheers, whoops and hollers. Harry, sitting down below, could not see what was going on. But it was obvious that Sirius could. He was beaming from ear to ear, giving people in the crowd thumbs up signs. He looked happier than Harry had ever seen him before. Several people were shouting something, and the guardsmen moved closer around the Dock, as though sensing trouble.

"The Spectators will remain composed," said the Judge. "This is not a fringe theatre, and we do not encourage audience participation. Mr. Peabody, continue, if you please?"

"Thank you your Grace. We recommend that Sirius Eamonn Black be released without charge or punishment for the charges upon which we find him guilty. This Jury believes that the time he has spent in Azkaban already fully warrants his actions up to this point. This Jury also indicts posthumously Mr. Bartemius Crouch, on charges of Gross and Indecent Corruption before the Court. This Jury recommends a full inquiry into the miscarriage of justice we have seen before us. This Jury recommends Sirius Eamonn Black receive adequate recompense for his time in gaol. Finally, this Jury recommends the immediate release of Sirius Eamonn Black from custody of this Court, the immediate removal of his name from the Wanted List, and the immediate striking of all offences on his criminal record committed after Friday October the 30th, 1981. That is all."

The Judge consulted his notes. "By the power vested in me as Judge Presiding over the High Court of Magic, on this, the 9th day of October in the year 1995. I hereby declare the following ..."

The Court held its breath.

"I declare that Sirius Eamonn Black is, effective immediately, that is seven a.m. precisely, innocent of all charges. Mr. Black, you are free to leave this Court at any time you wish, without a stain on your character. I hereby declare you absolved of all charges and all blame for the events of October 31st and November 1st, 1981. I hereby grant the Jury's recommendations, and recommend that the trial of Peter Victor Pettigrew begins as soon as is possible. That is the decision of this Court, this Judge, and this Jury. On a personal note, I must thank you all for your attendance today, despite the earliness of the hour, and for your kind attendance and attention throughout the process of this trial. I hope and believe that the verdict reached is of satisfaction to a greater part of you than not. I would also like to add that it is my firm belief that a vile and calculated miscarriage of justice was perpetrated by this Court. There can be no excuse for what happened here in 1981. There can never be any excuse for the failure of a Court of Law to exact the truth and to hand down fair and just sanction to the guilty parties. It is to my sadness and dismay that it has taken so long for this miscarriage to be righted. It also gives me great pleasure to say I believe this miscarriage has now been righted in the eyes of the Law. Ladies and Gentlemen. The date is October the 9th, 1995. The time is precisely one minute past seven. I hereby declare the High Court of Magic closed. Justice has been done."

The gavel struck down ... but nobody heard it strike the lectern ...

The cheering was too loud ... and nobody noticed the scene unfolding on the courtroom floor either.

"Peter Pettigrew, I hereby declare you under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court ..."

Harry did not see the handcuffs go on, and he did not see Pettigrew's face as he was led from the Court to begin the journey north to Azkaban.

This was probably just as well ...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"... it's coming up to half past seven, you're listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network. The headlines this morning. Chanting crowds continue to surround the Ministry building in London today, demanding the immediate resignation of Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. And we can now return you to that breaking news story reported at the top of the hour; the High Court of Magic, convened under the Emergency Justice Act of 1977, today announced that Sirius Black, believed guilty of the murder of thirteen people in 1981, is in fact, innocent.

The shock decision was made following an all-night session, during which the Grand Jury debated the evidence before them, much of which was intentionally hidden at the time of Black's imprisonment. The Jury returned its verdict this morning, confirming to the packed courtroom that a gross miscarriage of justice had occurred. The court not only released Mr. Black without a stain on his character, but also indicted posthumously Bartemius Crouch, on charges of corruption and bribery, and ordered the immediate trial of Peter Pettigrew, believed dead by Black's hand, but in fact merely in hiding, on the same charges Black was imprisoned for.

It can now be revealed that it was Pettigrew who betrayed top flight Ministry employees James and Lily Potter to the Dark Lord in October 1981, thus inadvertently precipitating his downfall. Black, rearrested two weeks ago at Hogwarts, was released from Azkaban at dawn this morning, and has now returned home. We'll have more on that story as news continues to come in.

News now of last night's mid-week Quidditch fixtures, played ahead of England's European Championship Qualifier against Austria on Saturday. In the English Premiership, the Brighton Regents maintain their ten point lead at the top of the table following last nights clash with third place team, the Chudley Cannons. The Stratford Minotaurs lost away to Hogsmeade Town, and in the Irish League, the Cork Comets beat Belfast City by three hundred and eighty points to ten ... this defeat now puts Belfast out of contention for promotion to the Pan-Britannic League next season. It was also confirmed that bottom placed team in the Welsh League; the Holyhead Angels will be relegated. In the transfer market, the Wabznasm Wanderers have now signed a two million transfer fee for Chudley Seeker Eochaid Ánchenn ..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As the weeks following their return from Naxcivan slipped by, Harry's life seemed as though it was not entirely his to control. It was like being in a dream. They were all swept along by the tidal wave of controversy that greeted them upon their arrival, unable to stop themselves from drowning. It was very, very confusing. Some people believed them, and some people did not. Some newspapers wrote nice things, and some vilified them. Dumbledore, to his credit, did his utmost to protect the school and its pupils from unwarranted intrusion. But Harry still read the papers ...

Perhaps some people could have made out that Harry was being naïve for not twigging sooner that there was more going on with Draco's Father than he had ever had cause to previously suspect. From the articles in the papers, the whole picture suddenly became a lot clearer to his eyes. Malfoy had been an extremely powerful man ... in the Muggle world, as well as in the Magical one ... bigotry, of course, is always transcended by the power of international commerce. Malfoy had had connections ... some of them going back a long while, stakes in gun running, oil, gambling, even prostitution. If a name could be given to it, chances were that Lucius Malfoy had had a finger in that particular pie at some time or another. Nevertheless, a great many men had wanted him dead, and were no doubt gratefully relieved that he was.

Of course, isolated from the furore enveloping the outside world, neither Harry, nor Draco, nor Hermione, nor Ron, had much idea of the enormous constitutional crisis they had provoked. So deeply involved with Malfoy had the Ministry been, that his loss precipitated massive political upheavals. A lot of men were forced from office ... good men, hard working men, whose only fault had been to believe Malfoy had been a legitimate businessman. Others simply walked out, unable to cope with the stress. Daily, the mob surrounded the Ministry building in Diagon Alley ...

Harry had been having counselling sessions with a pleasant young Irishwoman from Saint Mungo's, whom Dumbledore had brought in especially for that purpose. Their first few sessions had not been a success at all, and Harry was feeling unusually depressed and mean spirited as he pounded the corridors of Hogwarts, heading for Gryffindor Tower.

Winter was now very definitely setting in, and the first snowfalls had been reported by travellers up on the moors and fells. Nightly a chill and bitter wind blew across the mountains from the sea. Harry was thankful someone had had the foresight to light a fire in the Common Room.

He flopped gratefully down into one of the huge armchairs, and slipped off his black school shoes, toasting his feet in the warm glow. There was a substantial hole in his right sock, through which his big toe was peeping.

The Common Room was not especially crowded. There were a few people left, but most of them were either having dinner, or were in the Library. Harry's 'counselling' had left him tired and drained and certainly in no mood to eat.

Somebody, probably Hermione, as she was the only one who bothered to keep up with the news on a regular basis, had left the morning edition of the Daily Prophet lying on the small, wooden table at Harry's side. For want of something to do, he picked it up, unfolded it, and started to read ...

" ... has been in turmoil since the return of exonerated felon, Sirius Black, and his Godson, Harry Potter, from Naxcivan two weeks ago. The revelation that Sirius Black was not responsible for the murder of James and Lily Potter in October, 1981 has rocked the magical community to its foundations, and called into question some of the sentences handed down in the aftermath of the Dark Lord's downfall. Black, who is in line for up to two million Galleons worth of compensation should his lawsuit against the Ministry be successful, spent thirteen years wrongly incarcerated in Azkaban. The case may open the floodgates for anti-ministry litigation ... "

Harry turned the page.

"... and could cost Fudge's beleaguered administration more than thirty million Galleons in total."

He flicked through the paper.

" ... students at branches of the British Institute of Magic in Saint Andrews, and at Saint Nicholas' College, Oxford continued their occupation of University property in protest at Fudge's refusal to resign in the wake of what is now being termed the Dracaena Affair. Spokesmen for the students allege that Fudge was aware of the activities of Malfoy International Industries, which include drug dealing, and practicing the Dark Arts, and has been aware of this for some time, but consistently refused to act on information supplied by the IBME (International Bureau of Magical Espionage). All the assets of the Malfoy family have now been frozen, and the family's property seized by bailiffs. The Azerbaijani State Dept. of Magic continues to demand the extradition of remaining members of the Malfoy family to answer charges of Gross Corruption in Baku. It is also alleged that sixth form students at both Hogwarts and the Tipperary Academy in Eire walked out of classes in solidarity with the universities, though both schools have refused to confirm these rumours. Hogwarts is, of course, the school currently attended by Harry Potter, whose involvement in this sorry affair must surely indicate ... "

Harry turned the page hurriedly. There was an 'Opinions' column on the next page ...

"This sad state of affairs now marks the fifth time that the peace of this era has been disturbed by the one boy who brought the last one to its sudden and violent end, fourteen years ago. Sources close to Hogwarts claim that Harry Potter is increasingly disturbed and dangerous, both to himself and to others. Whilst cynics may claim that this is no more than the usual trauma of adolescence, the fact remains that each time it has been claimed that the Dark Lord is once more on the march, the claimants have been none other than Potter, and aged Hogwarts Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. I for one consider it a gross misjudgement that Dumbledore has not been removed from his post before. Dumbledore and Potter have, between them, an unsurpassed flair for fabricating stories , each one ever more ludicrous than the last, claiming that the Dark Lord is indeed, returning to power. Such stories are dangerous and subversive, and must be quashed. So agrees the Head of Archives at the Ministry of Magic, who has archived full reports on the activities of Harry Potter, provisionally entitled Philosopher's Stone, Chamber of Secrets, Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire, each written by a noted half-blood author who wishes to remain anonymous. The archives make disturbing reading. Based on Potter's (alleged) accounts of the events that transpired during the Third Task of last year's ill-fated Triwizard Tournament, it is painfully clear, even when the author has been laudably impartial, that Potter's real intention was, throughout, to sabotage the Tournament and murder the other Champions in the process. One wonders what Potter's parents would make of their son's dastardly deeds ..."

"Harry?"

Harry almost dropped the paper in shock. He had not noticed anybody else in the Common Room. He turned, and looked over his shoulder.

"I didn't mean for you to find that," said Hermione. "You shouldn't have read it. You know they're saying horrible things ... horrible lies about you."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I. I, um, read some of them," he said, his voice quavering slightly, for he was frankly, numb with disbelief that anybody could write such cruel things, when four years ago, they would have queued around the block for a two minute interview. It was sickening.

"Want me to get rid of it?" asked Hermione. Without waiting for a reply, she stepped around the side of the armchair, picked the newspaper off the floor, and threw it onto the fire, where it set to burning with a satisfactory flame.

"Perhaps I should write a letter," said Harry, fully aware he was trying to make a joke out of a bad situation. "That's what Muggles do. Dear Sir, bugger off! Yours, Disgusted of Hogsmeade."

"How do you mean?" asked Hermione.

"Write angry letters to newspapers," said Harry. "Come on, Hermione. You're more of a Muggle than I'll ever be. You must know what I mean."

"I suppose so," said Hermione. "I doubt it would do any good. Besides, more press coverage is just what you don't need right now."

Harry nodded his agreement. The pages of the Daily Prophet were crinkling and blackening as the flames licked at the newsprint.

"You need a press officer," she said, sitting down companionably on the arm of his chair. "Someone who can issue statements and bully reporters for you. Is the post vacant?"

"I think you already got it," said Harry. He wiggled his toes in his socks.

"I'd chase off the paparazzi for you," said Hermione, conveniently forgetting that Harry had had eleven years experience of running very fast indeed, and had spent the last four playing Quidditch, and would therefore be more than capable of seeing off a few overweight hacks with cameras round their necks. However, she was clearly enjoying the fantasy, and so Harry didn't bother to disillusion her.

Instead he said. "Thank you."

"There's a hole in your sock too by the way. Did you know?"

"Yeah, thanks," said Harry. "Look, I'm going to bed ..."

Hermione's face fell. "You're not having any supper? I was rather hoping we could go down together ..."

"I'm tired, and I'm not hungry," said Harry. "Reason enough?"

"It's toad in the hole. Your favourite ..."

Harry shook his head. "Toad in the hole is not my favourite, and anyway, I want to stay here," he said. "They'll start talking if I go downstairs again. They always do. I can hear them."

Hermione sighed. "So, that's it, is it?" she asked. "You're scared of that bunch of ninnies talking about you? What are you, man or mouse?"

"Right now? I'd rather be a mouse, thank you," said Harry, looking obstinately the other way.

"Harry, you can't mope around upstairs all day. You hardly ever come out for walks with us, and you missed the last Hogsmeade weekend completely. And I understand completely why you've been bunking Divination, but Ron said Professor Trelawney has started giving you detentions for classes you haven't even cut yet ..."

She was stopped in mid-flow as Harry got to his feet, and rounded on her. "Just leave me alone, okay? I'm not good company at the minute. And I want to go to bed!"

He glowered at her, daring her to try and stop him, though in secret he would have liked it if she had, and then stalked off, slamming the door on his way up to the dormitory. Hermione watched him go. She knew it was a lost cause trying to talk to him when he got like this, and he had been in these moods with increasing frequency over the last couple of weeks. A terrible sadness seemed to have engulfed his body, and nobody had a clue what to do about it. Sighing, she sat down in the armchair Harry had vacated, and put her feet up in front of the fire.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"It's ten o'clock. This is the news. Following the sentencing of Peter Pettigrew last night by the High Court of Magic, officers of the Magical Law Enforcement Service this morning staged dawn raids on addresses up and down the United Kingdom, based on information supplied by Pettigrew in his testimony. A total of fifty wizards are now in custody, and await interrogation. Also seized during the raids were up to fifty million Galleons worth of illegal potions and spell books, an amount which represents, say the MLES, only a tiny proportion of the amount of Dark Material currently in circulation in the UK.

Pettigrew himself, found guilty on twenty charges, has been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss, which will be administered at Azkaban within the week, ending the fourteen year run of one of the wizarding world's most dangerous men.

In other news today, the inquiry into the recent collapse of Malfoy International Industries continues in London, amidst the startling revelations that Lucius Malfoy, who died three weeks ago on his estates in Azerbaijan, used illegal narcotics distilled from the sap of the Dracaena Draco plant to control the conscious actions of his late wife, Narcissa ..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a dreary autumnal Thursday, the air heavy with the scent of decaying leaves and earth, and moist with the rain that had been falling ceaselessly, as if trying to make up for the sweltering summer.

Droplets of water trickled down the windows of the office. Draco sat, slumped in a squishy leather armchair, staring out at the distant bulk of the Astronomy Tower. There was what seemed like a permanent glare etched across his face ... he was not in the mood to be talked to.

The therapist, a young Irish woman called Sinead, whom Dumbledore had had brought up from London to see both Harry and Draco, checked the file that was open on her lap. She appeared to be reading medical notes. Draco had no idea what his medical notes had in them ... he had wound up in hospital a few times ... usually after one of his Father's punishments had got out of hand. As he watched Sinead poring over the text, he could see her face falling. Whatever was there did not look like appealing reading ...

"What's the matter?" asked Draco. "You look upset."

Sinead wiped her brow. The notes made somewhat disturbing reading. There had been over twenty admissions to casualty, most times with bad bruising, once or twice with broken bones. And each time the doctors had overlooked it. The excuses the parents had fabricated had been all too plausible, and each time the boy had backed them up. He had fallen, or he had been fighting at school, or he had banged his head in the shower. Probably the parents had been bribing him with toys, though more likely they had simply threatened him with more.

"Just, reading your file," she said. Each time she came across something like this, it made her want to strangle the perpetrators. This kid should be in foster care.

Draco nodded. "I see," he said, quietly.

"Draco?"

"What?"

"I know," Sinead began, "that you don't want to be here. I know you'd much rather be somewhere else. But the fact is we want to help you. There is a lot of stuff, you have a lot of issues in your life, that ... well, they need sorting out, Draco. I can help you, but only if you talk to me."

Draco was idly picking dirt from behind his fingernails. He had fallen from his broom during a particularly wet Quidditch practice, and had not had time to get properly showered afterwards.

"Draco? Please, I would like it if you'd talk to me."

"Maybe," said Draco. He was holding a biro, and taking the lid on and off repeatedly, displacement activity ... always a bad sign.

"Well, I'm not going to sit here for the whole thirty minutes now, am I?" asked Sinead, trying in vain to make eye contact with Draco, who seemed to be infinitely happier staring blankly into space.

"Perhaps," said Draco, his voice still irritatingly blank. Sinead sighed. This one was going to be tough. She checked her notes again, and pretended to be doing something, pretended to ignore Draco completely. It was an old trick she used when talking to kids.

After about seven or eight minutes had passed, she heard the boy shifting his weight uncomfortably in the chair, and then, out of the corner of her eye, saw him lean forwards.

"What you doing?"

She looked up. "Like I said, reading your notes. They're quite interesting, you know."

Draco squirmed, and blushed slightly.

"Um, what do they say?" he asked.

"They say interesting things about your Father. Why don't you tell me about your Father, Draco?"

Draco picked his nails idly. "Well," he said, looking up, and at long last, making eye contact with Sinead.

"There isn't much to say," he said. "I know what you want me to say. I'm not stupid."

"What do you think I want you to say?" asked Sinead.

"You want me to tell you that he used to beat me up," said Draco. "So as then you can be all sympathetic and make me tell you more stuff. Well, I'll tell you now, he did. That's what he did. That's how I'll remember him."

"Can you tell me why you got onto that line of, well, of conversation?" asked Sinead. "I hadn't actually asked you anything."

Draco shrugged.

"I don't want you to tell me things that you think I want to hear," said Sinead. "It does neither of us any favours. If the conversation had got onto that topic, yeah, sure I'd have asked you more questions about it. As it is, you're being quite resistant. Would you like to tell me why you think that is?"

"Father always said it was silly," said Draco.

"What was?"

"Talking to shrinks, talking about what I feel. He said it was silly and stupid and childish and weak," said Draco, barely pausing for breath.

"Not weak at all," said Sinead. "You've already proven to me that you're a very brave and courageous boy," she caught the look on his face, " ... young man, sorry, for coming in here and agreeing to talk to me in the first place. You know you didn't have to. You had the choice. And both of you came ..."

"Both of us?"

"You and Harry, I've been talking to Harry too ..."

"What about?" asked Draco.

Sinead tapped the side of her nose. "There is such a thing as a doctor patient code," she said. "Telling you what Harry said to me would violate that, and it would violate his confidence, and the trust he placed in me by talking. And you've placed that trust in me as well. Harry was very happy to talk, he's a very brave kid. I enjoyed talking to him. I'd like to enjoy talking to you too, because I think you have interesting things to say to me. But we can talk about whatever comes up ... if you're thinking about, oh, a new broomstick or something, I'm quite happy to talk about that, and equally if you want to delve into the inner recesses of your psyche, and discuss Freud and Jung, that's okay too," she leant forwards, then added conspiratorially. "In fact, I'd be happy to, Dumbledore's paying me by the hour."

"Who's Freud then?" asked Draco.

"Famous shrink," said Sinead. "Austrian, he's been dead about fifty five years now, but he had some good ideas. Not ones I necessarily subscribe to, but interesting ones, nonetheless."

"Like?"

"There's a thing called the Oedipus complex," she said, and then thought, but did not say aloud, 'And if I tell you what it is, you might just kill yourself.'

"Oh," said Draco. "That sounds nice."

"Depends how you look at it," said Sinead, who had met Narcissa Malfoy at the 'Midnight in the Garden' charity fundraiser for Saint Mungo's earlier in the year, and was trying very hard not to laugh at the thought.

"Anyway, your old Dad was evidently quite an influence on your life," she said. "Now, you must be able to remember some good times ..."

Draco smiled. "He used to take me riding," he said. "All round the estate, we went for miles, we had lots of little bridleways, and winged horses too. He used to talk to me then. Tell me about how the business was going, tell me I ought to be keeping up with my studies."

"You liked horse riding?"

Draco nodded. "Don't suppose I'll be able to do it anymore," he said.

"Why not? There are horses here, at Hogwarts ..."

"I liked my horse," said Draco. "His name was Nero ... but the Ministry took him back, when they took everything else."

"Can you think of anything else?" asked Sinead.

Draco nodded. "He taught me to row," he said. "And he taught me to play the piano too. I was never any good at it. My hands aren't right," he added. "That was good ... till I got something wrong."

"Carry on."

"If I got things wrong, he'd punish me. If I did one little thing, one note out of place while I was playing, or if I caught a crab in the boat, or if Nero threw a shoe when we were riding," he paused. Even reliving the memory was too much. He could still feel every blow, every shouted threat, he was still living through every moment of deprivation.

"How did he punish you then?" asked Sinead. "Are we talking a rap on the knuckles here?" she stopped, catching the expression on Draco's face. "We're talking more than that, aren't we?"

Draco nodded. Sinead bit her bottom lip, and grimaced. It was always very hard for kids in Draco's situation to admit what had happened to them, that was understandable. She was still, technically, a complete stranger. But it was always the same, whenever they got onto this, and she had seen it with Harry too, the previous night, the child always went pink round the ears, or hung their head or looked away, and this was what Draco did now. It made her want to throttle somebody.

"How often?"

Draco looked up slightly. "Not often," he said. "But often enough. Often enough for it to matter."

"And what did he do? Did he just hit you, or did he use things ..."

"Things," repeated Draco, staring very hard at his brightly polished shoes. "And a bit of both. He used to carry a whip around with him."

"A whip? He used that?"

Draco nodded. "Or a riding crop ... he'd have this thing, ten with the crop, or five with the whip. I'd usually go for the whip ... quicker," he added.

"I see," Sinead scribbled something down on her notepad, and tried to keep smiling, remembering how very important it was for Draco not to feel pressured at this point. "Did anybody ever see him do this to you?"

Draco shook his head. "Not usually," he sniffed, grimacing. "He'd usually send Mother out of the room first. I think she was scared of him too. Once or twice somebody walked in ..."

"Tell me what happened ..."

"I don't remember what I'd done," said Draco. "I must have been about ten, about a year or so before I went to Hogwarts. But we were in the study, and he was giving me a lecture, and I must have said something wrong, and he hit me round the face, and I fell over backwards, and banged my head on the desk ... he ... he was standing over me, and he kicked me in the stomach. Then some other guy came in, one of the dinner guests or something, and he saw us, but my Father made like he was just tickling me."

He looked away.

Sinead said. "I can see from your notes that you were taken to hospital several times. It says here you claimed you fell over ... that wasn't true, was it?"

"He said he'd do it again if I told," whined Draco. "I didn't want that stuff to keep happening to me, so I did as he said. And he used to buy me stuff, like sweets and new brooms if I kept quiet."

"Did he punish you in any other ways?" asked Sinead. A sudden burst of noise ... chairs scraping across floors interrupted their talk as the entire school decamped to the Great Hall for lunch.

Draco was nodding. "He used to lock me in my room, not give me food," he said, his eyes burning up through the sheer effort of not crying.

"I see," said Sinead. She raised her hand to stop Draco from speaking further ... even she could tell they had gone far enough for one day, and she said so. "You need to go get some lunch ... and I think we've had enough for our first session."

Draco looked up. "You do?"

"We could carry on."

"No ... no, it's okay," said Draco, forcing a smile.

"Draco ... I know, I've spoken to lots of other children, and what you have been through isn't as rare as you might think. There are plenty of other people who endured just what you did, maybe worse, and they turned out fine, Wizards and Muggles alike. That's the whole point of therapy, to sort out this kind of thing. I've spoken to so many abused kids, that I know all about this kind of thing. Nothing you can say can shock me, Draco," she lied, slightly, but it was a white lie, so Draco didn't kill her. "So ... I want you to feel like you can tell me whatever you want. You already know I won't tell anybody anything of what you've said without your permission first."

Draco nodded. "I understand," he said.

"So ... I'd, well, I think you've been very honest with me today, and I also think you've been very brave, and so I want to thank you for speaking with me, and for letting me try to help you."

They both stood up ... Draco was staring at his feet ... his shoes were so brightly polished that his face was reflected quite clearly in them. For a moment, he looked at her. Sinead had a feeling she knew what was going to happen ... she had seen it so many other times. The first session was always an emotional marathon, and more often than not, they left drained. She had been silently waiting for it to happen for the last hour ... she had suspected that Draco was merely projecting his confident air. A tear trickled down one of his flushed cheeks.

"It's okay," she said. "It's not your fault."

She could tell he was trying desperately not to let himself cry, and she wished he would stop trying.

"It's not your fault. Nothing is your fault."

Draco choked, slightly.

"It is not your fault."

Draco sniffed again, then he started to cry properly, and the floodgates opened, and Sinead suspected he had never cried with such bitterness and conviction. She knew the thing to do, took him in her arms, and let him let out as much as he wanted to. He buried his face in the fluffy material of her cardigan.

"Doesn't this violate the doctor patient code?" he sniffed, as she rubbed his back.

"Only if you try and touch my bottom," she whispered back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Draco walked. He did not know where it was he was going, and nor did he have the remotest idea what he was going to do when he got there. The only thought in his mind was to get as far away from the castle as possible. The stone walls seemed to close in on him as he moved swiftly through the corridors. He crossed the courtyard, cobbles slick with rain, just as the clock tower struck one, and then he broke into a run. He could feel the wind whipping at his hair, and the sting of the rain on his face. His robes billowed out behind him as he went, his feet crunching on the gravel driveway.

He was weak; he was a stupid, weak baby! He couldn't even bring himself to tell a bloody shrink how he was feeling, how much it hurt merely to be him, merely to have had to live his life over the past few weeks. He couldn't even tell her a basic truth without breaking down and mewling like a newborn.

His tears mingled with the rain on his face ... and the wind cut through his skin like a knife. He slowed his place, and slouched through the wet grass ... down the path leading to the Quidditch pitch. The Gryffindors were meant to be practicing there that lunchtime, but there was no sign of them yet. Perhaps the weather had forced Harry to cancel it. Whatever the reason was, the stadium was deserted. Draco tried to imagine it full of people, baying for blood, for victory, as it had been two weeks ago, during the Quidditch game.

He remembered with a shiver of fright, the letters he had written to his Father, explaining why he had not beaten Harry, explaining how desperately sorry he was, and how much better he would do next time. Now he did not have a Father's expectations to live up to any more ... he could win or lose at his leisure. So why did he care more now about winning, than he had done before? To beat Harry ... just once, might make it all seem more worthwhile. But he had not beaten Harry, ... the Gryffindors had won, and it was even worse now than before.

He remembered the letter his Father had sent him on the awful, awful day in the Third Year when he, Crabbe and Goyle had dressed as Dementors in an attempt to sabotage Harry's flying ... it had been horrible ... and even now, nearly two years later, those words were imprinted on his mind. And when he had got home for the Easter break, his Father had been waiting for him on the steps to the mansion, holding his whip in his hands, and Draco knew what that meant ...

He continued walking, leaving the rickety wooden stands far behind him, he barely noticed his footsteps were leading him in the direction of the Forbidden Forest, indeed, the fact only registered as he was about to step inside it. The Forest was out of bounds to all students, without exception, and the only person who went in there with anything approaching regularity was Hagrid, but he was likely to be inside his hut, staying out of the cold, on a day like today. Draco took a deep breath, and stepped into the woods.

He leant against the trunk of one of the trees ... remembering the last time he had come into the forest. He had been on a detention, McGonagall had caught him wondering around the school at midnight, trying to get Harry and Hermione into trouble. He had succeeded, he thought, maliciously ...

The forest looked harmless enough. What harm could come through walking a little way inside? Draco pressed on, scrambling over the branches, thrashing through the dense and prickly undergrowth, squeezing between the trunks of the trees, which seemed to grow very close together indeed. This was not, he soon realised, a normal, pleasant wood, like the one back on the estate at home. This was forestry as God intended, harsh, spiky, and dark.

Eventually, after picking his way through the thorns and brambles for some minutes, he stumbled into a small clearing, in the centre of which was a tarn, enclosed on three sides by steep rock walls ... the beginnings of an ancient glacier. He sat down beside it. The water was crystal clear ... he could see all the way down to the bottom. Slowly, he dipped his hand in. The water was icy cold.

Much as his Father had always insisted that such pristine resources were only put there for mankind to exploit, Draco had always thought otherwise, and would probably, if events had not conspired against him, have become a fervent ecologist. This place he had found was beautiful beyond compare, and tranquil. The rain had eased off, and had left behind that pleasant, sodden, earthy smell, and the air felt fresh and cool. Draco felt able to relax a little, and for some minutes he sat beside the tarn, watching the ripples as small insects darted to the surface.

As he stared at his reflection in the cool, calm waters, Draco thought back to the day that stuck in his memory the most. It had been such a trivial offence ... one most parents would have smiled indulgently at. Not his Father, however. Actually, come to think about it, he was not sure he could remember what he had done.

Yes he could ... he had done something to irritate him. He had appeared to be in a good mood that day, and Draco had been playing with his brooms underneath the dining room table, after lunch. It was a few days after Christmas, and they were finishing off the remains of the turkey. He must have made too much noise, or something, or maybe his Father had been feeling particularly vindictive ...

He had been hauled out from under the table by his hair, screaming ...

"What do you think you're doing, boy?"

Draco wrung his hands. "Nothing, Father," he moaned. "I wasn't doing nothing."

"I was not doing anything," corrected his Father, yanking sharply on Draco's long hair. Draco yelped again. "That is a lie for a start. Does your insolence know no bounds?"

"I ... I don't know ... I don't know that word yet!"

"Then you should," snarled his Father. "Look it up, in the dictionary," Draco, who was now sitting on the polished wooden floor, tried to scramble away. "Afterwards, stupid child. Narcissa ... leave us."

Draco watched as his Mother stood up, giving her son not even a casual glance, and swept out of the room.

"Sorry, Father," said Draco.

"Do stop snivelling, boy," his Father said. "I will not tolerate insolence under my roof, and I will not tolerate pathetic children, either."

"What did I do?" asked Draco.

His Father ignored the question ... of course, he had never needed a reason.

"Your behaviour this Christmas has been reprehensible. You have been continuously rude and churlish towards our guests. If you are not careful, I shall take away your presents."

Draco grabbed onto his Father's trouser legs. "No ... don't do that," he sniffed. "I'm sorry."

"What is more, you have been stealing food again. When I expressly forbade you should have any."

Draco played his cute card ... the one that worked very well if he wanted biscuits from the servants. He curled himself up, and did a mournful look. It did not work. His Father raged. "You persist in this stupidity!" he yelled. "If I am punishing you, I do not expect you to deliberately flout the sanctions I have laid down against you!"

"Daddy ... I ... I was hungry."

He was struck, hard, across the face. "Never, ever call me that!" his Father roared. Draco cowered suitably.

"Sorry, Father."

"That's better. However, the fact remains that your normal punishments are evidently not deterrent enough. How old are you now, Draco?"

"Six?"

"I suppose I should at least be grateful you can count higher than five," said his Father. Draco smiled, assuming this meant he was off the hook. It did not. He looked up ... his Father was wrapping something around his hand. Draco's heart sank.

"Stand up."

"Please don't, Father. I said sorry. I won't never do it again."

It was too late. Draco found himself being hauled to his feet. He had a runny nose and his new green robes were hanging limply from his shoulders. He closed his eyes so that he did not have to see the blow coming. And then the next one, and the next. Draco screamed, and his Father clamped his hand over his mouth to stop him.

"Be quiet, damn you! Can't you just keep your mouth shut."

Draco snarled, and tried to bite his hand, but his Father moved it away in time. "How dare you even think about hitting back!"

"Leave me alone!" yelled Draco, his chest and back burning where the whip had struck home. He tried to kick him in the shins, but his Father put his hand calmly on the child's head to restrain him.

"You disgust me, Draco. I do this not out of hatred for you, but that you might learn to be a better person!"

"Father ... I don't like it," sniffed Draco, dropping to his knees, and trying to grab his Father round the knees. "Please stop!"

His Father roared, and flung him halfway across the room, striking the back of his head against one of the legs of the dining table. Draco picked himself up. He could see his Father advancing on him, winding the whip around his hand again. He tried to scramble away, beneath the table, but he could feel his hand on the back of his robes ... dragging him backwards ... he tried to grab at the floor, but there was nothing to grab onto. He screamed again.

"How dare you defy me? After all I have done for you!"

The whip cracked again, and Draco, who was curled up on the floor, quaking through floods of repressed tears which kept threatening to assert themselves, as his Father went to work.

He had not known that two of the maids and the cook had been listening outside the doors. They turned away, wringing their hands in despair. There was nothing they could do if they valued their positions.

Draco dug his fingers into the soggy earth, and he scooped up a handful, and flung it away into the bushes.

"Damn," swore Draco. "Stop thinking about it, you silly arse."

Somewhere amongst the trees, a twig snapped in half, as if someone had broken it. Draco jumped. Was somebody watching him? He had heard rumours about the things that lived in the forest; troupes of horrible man eating spiders, centaurs, and classic cars running wild.

He turned to see who it was. But could see nobody. He went back to staring at his reflection. There was a mole just below his right eye that he had not really ever had cause to notice it, and so absorbed was he in staring at it, that he barely noticed the other person who sat down next to him.

"Draco?"

Draco looked over. A second face was reflected in the waters of the tarn. A crimson leaf dropped into the water, and through the ripples he caught a fleeting glimpse of dark, untidy hair, framing a pale face with green eyes ...

"What do you want?" he huffed.

Harry's reflection looked offended. "Oh," he said. "I quite often come down here these days ..."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Oh yeah?" he said.

The reflection nodded. "Yeah," said Harry. "It's nice, peaceful. I like peaceful things."

"You didn't follow me?" asked Draco. Reflection Harry brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and then he shook his head, slowly.

"Course not," he said. "I had to cancel Quidditch practice ... the pitch is all waterlogged. So I thought I'd go for a walk ..."

"And you really came down here to talk Quidditch?" asked Draco quietly.

Harry shook his head again. "No," he said. "But since you asked what I was doing, I told you the truth ..."

"Wish it was that simple ..."

"Come again?"

"Telling the truth," said Draco, picking up a small stone, and hurling it into the water, where it startled some fish. "I just spent half an hour telling that bloody shrink the truth, so why do I still feel like crap?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. You think there's so little truth to tell about you that you would feel better after half an hour?"

Draco glanced up and around at Harry, who was sitting on a mossy boulder just behind him, his hands wrapped around his knees, hugging them to his chest. He was wearing his Quidditch robes, and looked quite cold. There were goose pimples rising all over his bare shins. "You taking the piss?"

Harry shook his head. "Nope," he said.

"I think I see what you meant, anyway," said Draco. "Too much stuff has happened."

"Yes, that's about the shape of it," said Harry. "What did you think of her? Are you going back?"

Draco nodded. "She gave me another appointment on Thursday," he said. "What about you?"

"Yeah, the same," said Harry, idly. "Um, if you don't mind me asking, what did she ask you about?"

"That violates the patient doctor code," said Draco, haughtily.

"I'm not a doctor," answered Harry. "Look, it's just, I was all depressed after I spoke to her last night. We went over some stuff that I thought was dead and buried. I want to know if I can help you ..."

"Why would you want to help me?" asked Draco, looking up into Harry's eyes.

"Because you helped us," said Harry. "You do know the easy thing, the soft option would have been to kill Ron, back in that castle, and turn your life over to Voldemort. You didn't take that option. You put your arse on the ..."

"Spare me the sodding heroics!" snapped Draco, turning his face away. If there was one thing he did not want to hear, it was people trying to tell him how brave he had been.

"You'll need to get used to the hero business," began Harry, toying with a broken willow stick lying on the ground. Draco sensed what he was going to say next, and jumped in before he could say it.

"If you dig any deeper into that hole, you'll end up in Australia. Don't be bigheaded, Potter. People don't think you're a hero, not any more. I read the papers as well, you know."

"I don't bother," said Harry. "Same old same old, if you see what I mean."

"You sound different," said Draco, in a mildly interested tone of voice. He stretched out his hands on either side of them, running his fingertips through the mossy carpet. "I wonder why that should be?"

"Don't change the subject," said Harry airily.

"Oh, no, I wasn't," said Draco, snickering slightly. "You sound huskier. That's all."

"Fine time to bring it up," said Harry. "Hey, perhaps it means I'll have more of a chance with Hermione."

Draco scowled. Even though the few brief moments he and Hermione had shared together were now in the past, a day did not go by when he did not relive them in the cinema of his imagination. Whatever had happened in Naxcivan to drive a wedge between them, however much he tried to kid himself that there had ever been anything more than a few brief, stolen kisses, the fact remained that since their return she had not been nearly as keen on him as she had been before. Nevertheless, he still felt obligated to say something ...

"Says you," he muttered. No! Damn it! Arsehole! His conscience waved at him, and stomped its feet in anger.

"Sorry?" said Harry. "Are you two still ... um?"

Draco shook his head, and his conscience gave up on him, and started banging its head repeatedly against the inside of Draco's skull. "No, no," he said. "Over, I think. I tried to talk to her this morning, she seems to switch off whenever she gets near me. Probably a girl thing."

Harry understood. "Oh well," he said. "Sorry," he added, though he made it perfectly clear in his tone and the expression on his face, which Draco could see clearly reflected in the pond, that he was not sorry at all. In the slightest.

"Treat her well, Potter. She deserves the world," said Draco, getting to his feet. Harry followed suit.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, dunderhead, that she deserves more than I can give her. Even though I am damn good looking, and have very sexy hair, I can't give her anything anymore."

"What do you mean?" repeated Harry.

"You've got money," said Draco, bitterly. Harry chortled.

"Is that it?" he said. "And what about all the loot you've got stashed away in private bank accounts?"

Draco turned to face Harry. "No," he said. "No ... I don't have any account anymore. They're not letting us keep a Knut of it. Not even the trust funds."

"Trust funds ... whose done what now?" asked Harry.

"The Ministry have confiscated everything," said Draco. "All the money, all the land, the house has been sequestered ... all my stuff is gone. I've got absolutely bugger all to my name. Technically, I can't even afford to go to Hogwarts anymore," he paused, frowning at Harry for all he was worth. "Happy now? I'm as poor as a Weasley, if you'll pardon the crap simile. I'm in a bad mood. Will you leave me alone now?"

He made as if to walk out of the clearing, but Harry blocked his way, standing in front of him and drawing himself up to his full height, which from where Draco was standing, was not especially impressive.

"Let me tell you something first," he said.

"Out of the way, Potter," snarled Draco.

Harry shook his head. "Uh, no," he said. "No, no, no. You're not walking out of here, until I make a few things clear about me. I would instantly ... I mean instantly go halves on that money in my vault with Ron, if he'd let me. This isn't about who has what, or who has how much of what. This is about something we all went through, something that nearly killed us all. If Hermione chose between her suitors based on who had the most cash ... that'd reflect pretty poorly on her, don't you think?"

Draco shrugged. "I really don't care for this," he drawled. "Out of my way, please ..."

"Just let me get that straight ..." began Harry, but Draco lashed out and shoved him rudely against a tree trunk. "Wait a minute!"

"I know you just came out here to taunt me," snapped Draco. "I know you feel absolutely nothing, Potter. I've read those articles, and God help me I know they aren't true, I know they're a pile of unadulterated dragon dung from start to finish. But you know something? I'm really starting to believe them. Time to wake up, Potter. Not everybody wants to toe your nice little line ... not everybody wants to be your friend. And not everybody wants to worship the ground you walk on. Now I'd leave yourself five minutes before coming after me, otherwise I'll hex you, so help me I will!"

Harry watched him go, disappearing into the dense thickets. And then he stomped his foot.

"Damn!" he yelled. Somewhere in the trees overhead, a starling took fright and flew off. Harry turned round, and walked back to the pool, kicking up clods of earth and decaying leaves with his feet. He sat down on his patch of moss again, and looked at his reflection in the pool.

"Damn."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry's bad mood did not lift for the rest of the day. He went through his afternoon classes paying the bare minimum of attention necessary to get through the lessons, and afterwards, wolfed his dinner alone at the Gryffindor table, not talking to anybody, not even Ron or Hermione. Then he disappeared to the Library for a couple of hours, and then he went to bed, a lot earlier than usual, pleading tiredness.

Sirius had planned to take the next day, which was a Friday, off, so that he could take Harry house hunting. Dumbledore had at first been sceptical about giving him permission for this. He thought it would probably be best for Harry to re-establish himself in a workaday routine as quickly as possible, without pressures or problems from the outside world getting to him, and for this reason, had cancelled Harry's subscription to the Prophet, which meant he had to read Hermione's copy. He believed it would be best for the boy to have some semblance of order back in his life. He had been observing Harry very closely ever since their return from Naxcivan, and to him, it looked as though the boy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was uppity, rude and surly in lessons, and seemed to be getting into a lot more trouble. Three detentions in the space of a week ... and none of them from Snape. It couldn't be normal.

Nevertheless, there was something in the very unique way that Sirius was able to do puppy dog eyes that made him relent, and so Tuesday morning found Sirius and Harry in the small Surrey village of Wabznasm, having travelled down via Floo Powder.

Wabznasm was little more than a few dots on the map, just off the main road between London and Portsmouth, not far from the little town of Leatherhead. It was distinctive, however, in that it was one of only six wholly magical communities in Britain, and what was more, it was the village in which Sirius had grown up. He had not seen it in nearly fifteen years.

The clouds of the past few days had lifted, and the sunshine had returned, though it was still cold. They had drinks in a secluded pub down a side street to warm up, before heading over to meet the owners of the house Sirius was interested in.

The house in question turned out to be a ramshackle old tied cottage in the grounds of the local manor, which was owned by a prominent member of wizard society. However, the cottage was occupied by an elderly artist couple; a Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, who now wanted to sell it.

They were waiting by the front gate as Sirius and Harry toiled up the hill towards the cottage.

"Morning," they greeted each other formally, and Harry found himself shaking hands with two very old people who smelled somewhat of camphor oil. They were ushered into the house, and plied with tea and biscuits.

"You'll like it here," Mr. Shaw said, as Sirius drained his second cup of Lapsang Souchong. "It's very peaceful, and the price isn't exactly extortionate. We just want to be able to get a little place down on the coast, nothing fancy."

"You're certainly not asking much," said Sirius. "That's ... um, partly why I decided to have a look at it. That and I used to live in these parts myself."

Mr. Shaw showed not a hint of surprise at this. "Well," he said, after a short pause. "It's a prime piece of unreal estate, and we're very handy for the shops, and London as well."

"It's a lovely old building. It used to be part of the manor ... in fact, legend has it that there's a tunnel connecting it to the big house ..." Mrs. Shaw cut in.

"Is there?" asked Sirius.

Mrs. Shaw shook her head, and tidied away a pile of pewter cauldrons. She was going blind in her old age, so this was more difficult than it sounded. There were buns baking in the oven. "We lived here sixty years," she said. "And we never found it. The legend goes that the Lord of the manor kept a ... " she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone " ... kept a mistress here. All that is known is that one day, just before Christmas, in the year 1782, he took his own life. There is a priest hole upstairs though."

"What's a priest hole?" asked Harry.

Mrs. Shaw looked grateful to have someone to talk to. "Back, many hundreds of years ago, when we went from being a Catholic nation to a Protestant one, there was a lot of confusion, with people being told to be Catholic one day, and Protestant the next. A lot of the Catholic priests who didn't want to convert had to go into hiding, and many houses and churches have priest holes, where they hid for months on end. For whatever reason, the Lord of the Manor thought the Catholics would win, and so he had hiding places built in this cottage," she paused, the slightly distant look on her face giving the impression that she had been there when it happened. "They say the army came one night, late it was, and found two priests hiding in the cottage. They were taken away, and nobody knows what became of them ..."

Harry tried to imagine soldiers beating down the solid oak door, turning over tables and chairs, and waking whichever poor souls had lived there. It seemed very far off when he was sitting at the kitchen table, with a clock ticking loudly somewhere else in the building.

He became aware that Mrs. Shaw was looking at Sirius strangely. Finally, she said. "You're that man in the newspapers, aren't you?"

Sirius nodded. "Ah ... yes, you've rumbled us," he said. "Sorry," he added.

Mrs. Shaw did not seem to mind at all. "It's lovely to meet you, Mr. Fudge. Is this your son?"

Sirius looked at Harry, and then at Mrs. Shaw, and then he nodded. "Yes, I suppose he is," he said.

"Now, he looks familiar too. He has a familiar face."

Harry hastily smoothed his hair down, obscuring his forehead. "Yes ... um, very familiar indeed," he said. "Ought we to see the rest of the house now?"

"Capital idea," said Mr. Shaw, who had been leaning against the doorframe, whittling something with a vicious looking knife. He gave Harry and Sirius a sly grin as he led the way.

They followed the Shaws out of the kitchen, and down the narrow, tiled hallway. There was an old Silver Arrow leaning up against the wall, as well as several other broomsticks, that looked as though they were used for more mundane tasks ... like sweeping. Harry had heard the Silver Arrow referred to in hushed tones of awe.

"Did you used to fly?" he asked, as they climbed the creaky wooden staircase.

Mr. Shaw nodded. "Yes," he said. "Still do, of an afternoon. I used to play Quidditch for the Winchester Harriers. I won the League on that broom, back in 1956. You play at all?"

Harry nodded. Sirius said. "He's excellent ... house team at Hogwarts ..."

"Really, which house?"

"Gryffindor," said Sirius. "Like me."

Mr. Shaw nodded, and turned around, and Harry could have sworn he winked at him. Then he said. "I was a Hufflepuff, myself. You'd better watch your head. Low beam. And I'm thinking of selling the broom on, so if you know anybody who'd be interested in buying. That's practically an antique. Would fetch a lot, if I got it repaired and such, new twigs, new handle ..." his words trailed off into the ether.

They ducked under the beam, which had horse brasses nailed to it. The staircase bent round to the left, before opening onto a tiny landing, with barely enough room to turn around. It reminded Harry of the Burrow.

There were four doors, one of which opened onto another staircase, another of which opened onto a tiny bathroom, and two bedrooms. Harry opened one of the doors, and stepped inside, ducking again to avoid the low lintel ... Elizabethans had plainly been much shorter people, and he found himself in a small, round room, with windows looking out over the back garden. There was a little pond, a small lawn, still with a table and chairs on it, and large weeping willows providing shade. The room itself was being used to store trunks and tea chests full of dusty books.

"I call this room," said Harry.

"I doubt you'd get much competition," said Sirius.

Mr. Shaw winked. "Wait till you see the attic room," he said. "Come upstairs, I'll show you."

Mrs. Shaw excused herself to go and put the kettle on for more tea, while Mr. Shaw led them both up the second flight of stairs. There was a single alcove set into the wall, containing one tallow candle, which burst into flame as they passed it. There was a single door, right at the top of the stairs, which Mr. Shaw pushed open.

"It used to be our boy's room," he said. "But he ... um, moved out many years ago. We didn't like to move his things, just in case he came back."

Harry got the feeling Mr. Shaw was not telling them the whole story, but the old man's eyes were filling with tears, so he decided not to press the point, and stepped up into the room.

It was not large, but it was jammed packed full of amazing things. There was a bed in one corner, with a faded purple bedspread draped over it. Tacked to the walls were Quidditch posters, dating back to the Sixties and Seventies. The gasp Sirius gave told Harry that those alone were collectors items, and hanging from the ceiling was an entire Quidditch team, dangling on bits of string, all seven players bent forwards, flying into a headwind. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the model aeroplanes; Spitfires and Messerschmitts doing battle with one another.

There were two small, grimy windows, through which shafts of sunlight were falling, and ranged about the room were more cardboard boxes, containing hundreds of books, some of which Harry recognised as Muggle ones. He picked up a battered copy of The Hobbit ... Mr. Shaw smiled.

"He always did like Muggle things," he said. "Wait till you see this ..."

He strode across the room, leaving a trail of footprints in the thick dust, the bare boards creaking under his feet, and removed a canvas sheet from something standing in the corner of the room. Harry gasped.

"It was his pride and joy. He used to spend all day up here, when he was home from Hogwarts, just playing with it."

It was a model railway. But what a model! It had everything ... tiny villages, lovingly built, with roads linking them, and tiny Matchbox cars on the roads. There were hills and fields with little plastic cows in them, even a lake, made out of blue cellophane. And winding through it all was the railway. Harry had never had a model railway, although Dudley had, and he was entranced by it.

"He used to like crashing the trains," said Mr. Shaw. Harry could imagine it. "Well," he said. "I'll leave you two to talk it over. I'll give you a shout when the tea's brewed."

He turned, and walked over to the door. Harry looked up from the railway, and said. "What did happen to your son?"

Mr. Shaw turned. "Well," he said. "Bernie has been with God now ... for about fifteen years."

He left the room, and they heard his thumping footsteps receding down the stairs.

"You shouldn't have asked that," scolded Sirius. "That was rude."

Harry didn't reply, he had turned his attention back to the railway. "I wonder if it still works?" he asked.

"You'll have plenty of time to find out," said Sirius.

Harry looked up, a grin spreading across his face for the first time in ages. "You mean you're going to buy it?"

Sirius nodded. "But of course," he said. "It's just big enough for the two of us ... with room for expansion if more come along. Why, you don't like it?"

"I love it," said Harry, almost choking with excitement. He had been waiting for this moment since that brief, glorious hour eighteen months earlier, when he had believed with all his heart than he would be going to live with Sirius, and finally escape the clutches of the Dursleys. For a moment, he just stood there, and Sirius evidently sensed the happiness pouring off him, for he smiled indulgently.

"Can this be my room?"

"If you want," said Sirius. "I fell in love with this house the moment I first saw it," he went on. "And now I don't think I want anything more."

Harry cast his eyes about the room again. He fancied he could hear another boy shouting, a boy long forgotten by everyone ... playing with his friends, on the railway, smashing trains, curled up under the eiderdown with a book and a bag of sweets, reading by the light of a wand. For a moment, his eyes met Sirius' and his Godfather looked hurriedly away.

"What's up?"

"Nothing," said Sirius. He sat down on the bed, and beckoned for Harry to join him. Harry crossed the room, and sat down. The bedsprings sagged under their combined weight.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," he said. Harry raised his eyebrows.

"What?" he asked.

"Perhaps I should show you," said Sirius. He delved into one of the inner pockets of his robes, and withdrew a small box, which looked like it was covered in red velvet. "You can tell me what you think."

"What is it?" repeated Harry.

Sirius merely grinned at him, and flicked open the lid. Then he handed the box to Harry. Inside was an engagement ring. A band of shining gold, with a small diamond set into it. It sparkled in the light.

"It's beautiful," said Harry. "Is that a real ..."

"Diamond? Yes," said Sirius. "So, what do you think."

"Well," said Harry, closing the box. "I'm flattered, and all. But I really don't think it would work out, what with the age gap ... and the same sex thing ..."

"Don't be a silly arse," said Sirius. "It's for Gwyneth ..."

Harry's face fell. "Oh."

"Is there something wrong?" asked Sirius, looking at Harry with something approaching concern in his eyes.

Harry wanted to say yes ... there is something wrong. She's all wrong for you, he thought. She just cares about her job, and she's mean spirited, and grouchy, and I can't stand her, and if you two got married and lived together, I might just as well stay with the Dursleys. However, he kept quiet.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, nothing," said Harry blankly. "Congratulations."

Sirius smiled, and took back the ring, slipping it into his pocket again. "I'm glad you approve," he said. "I wouldn't want you to feel threatened, or anything. You know I wouldn't ask her if you weren't happy with the idea of us living together ..."

"No, it's fine," lied Harry. Up until a moment ago, he had thought that he and Sirius would live happily in this tiny cottage, a life of bachelordom, with nobody to get them to clear up ... and now that illusion was shattered into a million tiny pieces.

"When are you going to ..."

"Spring the surprise on her?" asked Sirius. "I was going to take her out for a meal in London tomorrow night," he said. "My compensation came through yesterday, so I thought I'd push the boat out a bit. We'll Apparate down to Zucchabar's, and then dancing, maybe. I thought," he added, "you might like to come along."

Harry shook his head. "No," he said. "It's a private moment. I'd get in the way."

"Hmm," said Sirius. "You're probably right. It needs to be something I do alone. Think of it ... fine wines, fine food ... I thought, maybe after the dessert, or how about in between courses ..."

"I'm not really the right person to ask," said Harry. "When's the wedding?"

"No point in putting it off for long," said Sirius. "Depending on whether or not she says yes, of course ..." his words trailed off. "When do you think we should have it."

"Whenever," said Harry, without enthusiasm.

"I thought, roundabout Christmas time," said Sirius, grinning inanely to himself.

"Lovely," said Harry, even though he didn't mean it.

The Shaws called them down for more tea at that point, and so they stood up, and, Harry trailing behind Sirius, scuffing his shoes purposefully across the floor, went back downstairs.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It may have been sunny down south, but by the time they both returned to Hogwarts, later that day, the clouds had moved in again, and another rainstorm was lashing the castle. Harry reluctantly cancelled that evening's Quidditch practice, and was wandering aimlessly around, with the vague intention of heading up to Gryffindor Tower, when he turned a corner and ran straight into somebody heading the other wary, carrying a pile of papers and books, which cascaded to the floor.

"Oh damn ... watch where you're going, boy!" yelled Gwyneth, stooping to pick up the books.

Harry crouched down to help. "Sorry," he said. "I was a million miles away ..."

Gwyneth looked up at him upon hearing the sound of his voice. "Oh, Harry," she said. "I didn't realise it was you. Quidditch practice not on, is it?"

Harry was a little disturbed that the Head of Slytherin House, albeit the temporary one, seemed to know exactly when he had scheduled his practices for.

"Nobody wants to fly in this weather," he said. He picked up some scattered First Year Potions assignments, and added them to the pile. He noticed, as he did so, that she had been marking very assiduously ... the essays were covered with crossings out and scrawled comments in vivid red ink.

"It's a difficult class," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "We have some troublemakers in there ... damn Slytherins," she looked around conspiratorially.

"You weren't a Slytherin, were you?" said Harry.

Gwyneth shook her head. "No ... I thought you knew that. I was a Gryffindor. Look, are you okay? You look very washed out."

"I'll be fine," said Harry. "Just need an early night ... tired."

"You couldn't spare me a few minutes, could you?" said Gwyneth. "I wanted to have a word with you as it was ..."

Harry was a little perturbed by this, and wondered what on earth she could possibly want, but he nodded anyway. "Okay," he said.

He followed her back round the corner, the way he had come, out across the hall, and down the flight of stairs that led to the dungeons where Potions was taught. Gwyneth had commandeered Snape's office during his absence, and even though he was now back, albeit earlier than expected, he would not be making a return to teaching until after Christmas. Harry was relieved by this ... Gwyneth's teaching style did not make every lesson a picnic, but it was an improvement on Snape. Of course, the students had been told he had gone on an extended holiday, and was taking a sabbatical ... Harry knew from snatches of a conversation he had overheard whilst recovering in the Hospital Wing at the end of last term, that he had been sent to try and contact Voldemort by Dumbledore, having been a successful spy many years earlier ...

Harry gave a start of surprise as she opened the door, and ushered him inside. The last time he had had any cause to visit Snape's office, he had been in very big trouble indeed, but now it seemed altogether more ... pleasant. Gone were the nasty bell jars full of preserved floating things, gone the large aquarium with ugly creatures swimming about in it, gone the boxes of dried nastiness, preserved octopi, boomslang skin and shrivelfigs. They had been replaced with Gwyneth's enormous, leather bound textbooks. A school photo from 1975 hung over the fireplace, the familiarity of the setting (the lawn down by the lake) offset by the voluminous hairstyles and the flared robes. Only Professor McGonagall, who was sitting in the front row with her handbag in her lap, did not appear to have changed a bit. Snape was standing at the back, his hair as lank and greasy as ever. Harry's eyes roved about the picture, looking for the Marauders.

"Front row," said Gwyneth, sensing what he was doing. "Over by the left hand side. Here ... I'll take it down for you."

She stepped round from behind the desk, and took the photograph off the wall, handing it to Harry. He set it down on the desk, and scanned it. Sirius was standing at the front, looking extremely bored, and running a hand through his ... hair. Harry snorted with laughter.

"Rather bad, isn't it," said Gwyneth, peering over his shoulder. "That's your Dad, next to him, and there's Remus, and Peter," the other three were standing on Sirius' left. His Father beaming all over his face, Peter fiddling nervously with his robes, and Remus looking very pleased about something.

"Have a seat."

Harry sat down, and pushed the photo away.

"What did you want?" asked Harry.

"I just wanted to talk to you," said Gwyneth. "See how you are and such. I get worried."

"What about?"

"You, mainly," said Gwyneth. "The things they're writing in the papers ... but you wouldn't know what I mean, of course," Harry did not bother to correct her, "I wondered ... if I could help at all?"

"How do you want to help?" asked Harry.

Gwyneth sat down on the opposite side of the desk. "I don't know if you know," she said. "But I used to know your parents well. I was ... well, I was one of your Mum's friends at school."

"Sirius told me," said Harry. "I knew that ..."

Gwyneth looked slightly surprised. "Oh, right," she said. "Yes, well, I suppose he would have done. Listen, about Sirius ..."

"You were together, I knew that too," said Harry, smiling inwardly at what he knew Sirius was planning.

"I know he's been looking around for houses for you two, now that he's not on the most wanted list anymore. It's just, well, I think he might want us to get back together ..."

Harry nodded. "Do you want that?"

Gwyneth smiled. "Well, yes, of course," she said. "I was very much in love with Sirius, for a long time. I just, wouldn't want to do it without you being happy with the situation ..."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I know we didn't see eye to eye at first," she went on, wringing her hands and making Harry feel even more awkward than he was already feeling. "And that was my fault. There were, I was ... there were some issues that I needed to resolve."

"Like what?" asked Harry.

"Can I be brutally honest?" asked Gwyneth.

Harry nodded. "Everyone else is," he said, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice.

"Yes, quite," said Gwyneth. "Harry, after your ... after your ..."

"Mum and Dad?"

Gwyneth nodded. "Yes, after they ... um, after they ..."

"Died?"

"Yes ... well ... after that thing happened. I was, well, very angry for quite some time. I didn't know what I was going to do. I was very upset, and I was very depressed, and the way I coped with that was to throw myself into my work. I was angry with your parents, and I was very angry with you ..."

Harry looked up, he had been staring at his shoes. "Why?" he asked.

Gwyneth shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know," she said. "I shouldn't have been. It was wrong of me to think that ... but I didn't want to know. I was angry with you for surviving when your parents were dead ..."

Harry scraped his chair across the floor, and made as if to get up. Gwyneth raised a hand to calm him.

"Please, Harry ... don't run out on me. I don't believe that's what your parents would have wanted ..."

Harry's face cracked into a fierce scowl. "Is that it?" he asked. "Is that all this is? You're trying to lay some guilt trip on me. Why does everyone always give me this crap about what my parents would have wanted? What does anybody know what they would have wanted? They only people who could ever have known that were my Mum and Dad ... and they're gone, they're not here ... they're dead, aren't they, they're dead, and dead ... as is my understanding, means you cannot want anything any longer, because you are dead!"

Gwyneth, mistakenly assuming he was finished, tried to cut in. "Harry ... please ..."

Harry shook his head. "No, oh no, I'm not done. My Mum and Dad are the only people who knew ... the only people who ever knew what they wanted, you ... you try to hijack their memories, and make me do things because ... because that's what you want me to do ... and you try and blackmail me with this what my parents would have wanted ... and this ... this is a load of unadulterated rubbish. I'm sick of it. Just because it's my parents who are dead ... you all think I have to conform to what you expect out of me ... I have to live my life by your rules. Well I haven't got anybody to answer to, and maybe that's a good thing, as I have the freedom to live as I choose, and there is nobody who can stop me. I've had enough of this. I'm finished with it!"

He turned, and stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him. Then he broke into a run, not caring, and hardly noticing where his footsteps were taking him. He pushed his way past a gang of Slytherins, heading down to their Common Room, and took the stairs back up to the hall two at a time. He was barely conscious of where he was, until he stopped, breathless from running, at the top of the Astronomy Tower. He pushed open the door, and stepped outside.

He leant back against the rough stone wall. He had half expected Gwyneth to try and come out and find him, but she did not. He would probably have liked it if she had. He would even have liked to be shouted at, to get in trouble. Perversely, the thought seemed to create a sense of warmth and well being within him.

"Perhaps I do need somebody to answer to," he breathed, his exhalation condensing before his eyes. "Perhaps that's the whole point. Perhaps that's what she meant."

He found himself biting his lip ... had he ruined it ... the whole thing? Gwyneth could be in tears right now, and that would be his fault. He had no wish to ruin the wedding ... no wish at all.

... if I had someone to answer to, I'd be answering to them now ... then, maybe it'd be better. I want somebody to tell me off ... properly ... not like a teacher. And that isn't going to happen. So where does that leave me?

Maybe being an orphan isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Since returning from Naxcivan, his dreams were increasingly haunted by that last, fleeting glimpse of his parents he had ... sitting on the back of Bellerophon. And now even that image seemed to be fading. That few, brief hours that he had spent in the company of the spirits seemed less like a tangible event now, more as though, itself was a dream, or a hallucination. And these disturbing dreams had grown in frequency and intensity, so much so that more than one time in the past two weeks, he had woken up, his pyjamas and bedclothes clammy with sweat, with Ron looking over him, concerned. Harry had woken him up screaming. And every time, it was the same dream. That moment in Naxcivan, when he had opened his eyes, and found himself looking into those of a woman whom he had presumed to be dead, who, indeed, was dead ... those of his Mother, repeated itself over and over

You cannot possibly know how much I need you. You cannot possibly know how much pain you have caused me. You cannot know anything about me ... for you are there, and I am here ... we cannot be together. Until I die.

Maybe that's it ...

It was raining again. Harry sank back against the wall, and sat down on the cold stone floor, burying his head in his arms.

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