The Time Of Trial

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The Time of Trial

Chapter 3 - The Dreamers

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.

Professor McGonagall looked up from her marking. Ron stood in front of the desk. "I'm ... I'm sure it's nothing," he said. "He's probably just in the Library or something ... it's just, the Invisibility Cloak hasn't been touched ..."

Professor McGonagall's head snapped up. "He uses the Cloak often?" she asked. "How often?"

"Not ... as such," said Ron, sensing he was treading in a minefield.

"If you think he's in the Library, then why don't you look there?" asked Professor McGonagall.

Ron made expansive movements with his hands and, for a second, seemed lost for words. "Um, Hermione's checking it now," he said.

"Then there's nothing to worry about," said Professor McGonagall. "He's probably just working late. Honestly, Weasley, if you are going to come hammering on my door at half past ten in a blind panic, I wish you'd think of something important to tell me."

"Yes, okay," said Ron, by now desperate to get out of there. Professor McGonagall's office smelled of Earl Grey and rubber Wellingtons. "I'll go now."

Professor McGonagall turned back to her work. "Capital idea," she said. She looked up again. "I'm sure he's fine, Weasley. I just haven't got the time to go chasing stray students all over the school. I suggest you go to bed."

Ron nodded, then tactfully withdrew from the office. As he stepped outside into the corridor, something collided with him ...

"Watch where you're going!" he snapped.

"Sorry ... sorry." It was a Second Year Gryffindor Ron did not recognise. The boy extracted himself from Ron's robes, and disappeared down the corridor.

"Lights went out half an hour ago!" Ron called at the boy's retreating back. Then he sighed, and turned, and headed off for the Library. He met Hermione coming the other way.

"Library's empty," she said. "Madam Pince was just locking it up."

"Well, where's he gone then?" asked Ron.

"I don't know!" moaned Hermione. "Did you speak to McGonagall?"

Ron nodded.

"What did she say?"

"She said, 'Go away and stop bothering me,'" said Ron. "I'm sorry, I'm useless."

"You aren't useless," said Hermione. "Look, we don't have to be in bed for another half hour. You take the east wing, and I'll take the rest of the castle. He can't have gone outside ... not in this weather. I'll meet you back in the Common Room at eleven o'clock."

They separated, Ron going one way, and Hermione the other. As he walked along the deserted corridors, a sense of worry was growing rapidly, gnawing at his insides. Despite Professor McGonagall's lack of anything approaching interest, he had noticed with unease that Harry had not been in his right mind lately. The things that had happened in Naxcivan had obviously had more of an effect on him than Ron had thought. He had noticed the changes in Harry's personality. He was constantly on edge, constantly snappy and rude and surly. He was getting into trouble, and he didn't seem nearly as happy as he had done. And whenever either Ron or Hermione tried to talk to him about it, he withdrew into himself, clamming up completely, and refused to speak to anybody. And his dreams were keeping the whole dormitory awake, so much so that Ron had overheard Dean talking to Seamus about whether or not they should ask for Harry to be transferred to another room.

Ron paused ... without being aware of where he was going, his footsteps had led him past the Astronomy Tower, and the door, which was usually shut fast and bolted, was slightly ajar.

Outside, the storm was growing in intensity. Lightning forked across the sky, and thunder followed it.

Nah, he thought, Harry wouldn't be up there. Not in this weather ... not in his right mind ...

He paused ... but of course, Harry was certainly not in his right mind.

Looking round to check there were no teachers in the corridor, he pushed open the door, and began to climb the spiral stairs to the top. It took whole minutes to climb, and by the time he reached the highest level, the muscles in his legs were aching. As he had suspected, the door out onto the rooftop was wide open, and rain was pouring into the room. Ron climbed the last few stairs and stepped out onto the roof.

There was a dark shape sitting huddled against a wall, thankfully in the lee of it, out of the worst of the storm. It took Ron a moment to realise that it was Harry, his soaked robes hanging limply off his shivering body, water dripping from his sodden hair, the lenses of his glasses steamed up.

"What the hell are you doing up here?" yelled Ron. He gathered his robes around him to prevent the wind using them as a sail and pitching him over the parapet, then walked over to Harry with difficulty ... the driving wind made it very hard to stand up properly. "You'll drown!"

Harry looked up.

"Leave me," he said.

Ron collapsed to the floor next to him. "Uh, no," he said. "Not a chance, mate."

Harry buried his face again. "Then don't talk to me ... I don't want to be talked to ..."

"Aren't you cold?"

Harry shrugged. "What difference do you think that makes?" he asked. "If I'm cold. Bugger off, Ron, you'll freeze to death ... I don't want you on my conscience."

"You'll die before me," said Ron. "And then guess who'll be sorry? Your choice," he added, nonchalantly, as if the matter was one of supreme indifference to him. Harry, surprised by his throwaway tone, looked up.

"What did you say?"

"Oh, now he's interested," said Ron. "Please come downstairs. Whatever it is ... I thought we talked about these things. I didn't think we went and hid on top of towers. Let me talk to you about it ..."

"No."

"You're soaking wet. Look, I'll get you some hot chocolate, or something ... just come downstairs. Go to bed ..."

"Can't go to bed anymore," whispered Harry, twisting his head the other way defiantly, so that he did not have to look Ron in the eye.

"Why not?"

"Dreams," said Harry, simply. Ron became aware that Harry's whole body was shivering violently. "Dreams will always come back. Always the same one ..."

"Not that again," said Ron. "Look, we don't mind. Really ... we don't," his teeth were chattering.

"No, sod it. I mustn't go to sleep," said Harry.

"You'll get hypothermia ..."

"Good!"

"No ... not good at all," said Ron. "My Great-Grandfather died from it ... falling off a Thames steamer ..."

"That's the point," said Harry. "That's the whole bloody point."

"You want to die?"

"Wouldn't mind, right now," said Harry. "No more dreams ... no more interfering busybodies. I wouldn't have to take any crap from anyone. And peaceful, too. Think about it, it would be so peaceful, being dead. I often think about it. Peace is good, peace is very good right now."

"I'll hex you if you don't get up," said Ron, who had actually left his wand down in the dormitory.

"No you won't," said Harry, correctly. "You'll let me do what I need to. You always were a good friend; you always did help me. Help me now. I'll recommend you to him, if I see him ... you'll get in, no worries."

"Who?"

"God," said Harry. "Ever wonder what he looks like?"

"Big bloke, white beard, sandals," said Ron, fully aware that Harry's speech had little coherence, and that really, he was just humouring him. "Why, is that important?"

"Maybe," said Harry. "God knows. Well, he probably has a mirror somewhere."

"Why would God need a mirror? He's omnivorous."

"I think you mean omniscient," said Harry. "I think he looks like Richard E. Grant."

"What about that hot chocolate, then?" asked Ron. "Come on, I'm soaked to the skin here. You need to dry off and all ..."

"Has it not occurred to you that I want to die?" said Harry shakily. "I've had enough of it. All your stupid expectations, all the newspapers, all of what everyone thinks ... they think I have to live up to them, to do what they want me to do, and as long as they think that, I can't be who I want to be. And I just want to be me. I don't want anything else, and I don't think I ever did. So maybe I can have that chance if I'm dead. Think about it ..."

"What if there's nothing?" asked Ron. "What if you just die? What if that's it? You'll look pretty stupid then."

"I'll have made my point," sobbed Harry, turning his head away again. The rainwater pouring down his face made it impossible to tell if he really was crying or not. "I just want to be normal."

Ron edged up closer to Harry, and took the other boy's hands in his own, rubbing them together to eke some warmth back into his frozen fingertips. "You are normal. You're bloody normal. You're just special, too."

"What are you doing?"

"Helping you," said Ron. "I know you don't want that."

"I want my Mum and Dad," choked Harry.

"You'll see them again ..."

"You just said there was no afterlife," Harry wrested his hands away from Ron's, ran them through his slick, black hair, which was now plastered to his forehead and sticking in his eyes. Then he leant his head back against the parapet, and looked up at the angry sky above, opening his mouth and letting the rain fall down his throat.

"I meant as an example," said Ron. "Look. Harry, believe me, you do not want to die, and you're not going to for a very long time. I'm going to make sure of that."

Harry gargled with the water in his mouth, and then swallowed it. Then he looked at Ron, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"I don't want to be here," he said. "I don't want to be here anymore."

"Shall I find someone? Do you want Hermione, or something?"

Harry nodded. "Just get me down from here. I'm finished, and I'm tired. I want to be somewhere warm."

Ron smiled at Harry, his whole body was shivering in the wet, freezing air, and he could see strands of matted red hair dangling in front of his eyes. Harry bit his bottom lip, and caught his friend's gaze.

"Come here then," said Ron. Harry choked again, and then wrapped his arms tightly around Ron, burying his head in the other boy's rain soaked robes.

Ron felt a hand on his shoulder, a light, gentle touch. He turned his head. Dumbledore and Hermione were standing behind them, Dumbledore sheltering them both with a large, black umbrella.

"I didn't see you there, sir," said Ron.

"Evidently," said Dumbledore. "Thank you, Ron. You did more than we could reasonably expect you to ..."

"I just found him," mumbled Ron, knowing that his cheeks were flushing bright pink, and thankful that it was dark, so nobody had to see him.

"You should go down to bed, both of you," said Dumbledore. "I'll take Harry down to the Hospital. He'll need to get looked at."

If Harry was aware of the conversation going on, he was showing no sign of it.

"I'd like to come with you," said Ron. "Just for a little while?"

Dumbledore looked slightly pained. "Very well," he said, after a moment's pause. "Hermione, will you hold my brolly for me? Thank you ..."

He stooped down next to Ron and Harry, and very slowly, reached out a gloved hand to prise Harry away from Ron. Harry did not react, but allowed his hand to be pulled gently away.

"Can he walk?" asked Ron.

Dumbledore tried his best to shrug. "We'd better give him a lift," he said. He put Harry's arm around his neck, and sliding his hands underneath the boy's body, lifted him up as easily as though he had been a bag of sugar. For such a frail and elderly man, he retained, clearly, a great deal of strength within. Ron looked up at him.

"Light as a feather," smiled Dumbledore, holding Harry tightly. The rain pattered on the umbrella Hermione was still holding above them. "Come on, Ron. We ought to get you looked at too."

Ron stumbled thankfully to his feet. "I'm fine," he sniffed. "I just need a towel or six."

Harry's eyes were shut fast, his face still, with pearly, translucent droplets of water quivering on his skin. Dumbledore lead them over to the door, and ushered them through ...

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

He was in the back of a car, driving along a rough, unmade road, past small stone cottages. He tried to hoist himself up into a more comfortable position, but the seatbelt was restraining his body tightly. Finally, he heard the car draw to a halt. The engine was turned off, and faces were peering at him through the gap in the front seats.

"Do you want to get him out? I'll take the beer round the back," the man was saying. The woman nodded her agreement.

Harry tried to speak, to ask where he was, but all that came out was a faint gurgling sound. He put his hand to his throat. He knew he should be absolutely terrified, but yet, somehow, he was not.

"Come on, you," the woman opened the back door of the car, and lifted him clean out of it, hoisting him over her shoulder, as one might do to an infant, and patting his back gently.

Harry burped. He was about to say, 'Pardon me,' but all that came out was, "Pwongs."

What the hell is going on?

"Yes, Prongs is coming," said the woman, calmly, carrying him through an open door. "Auntie Gwyneth too, and Padfoot."

"Padfoot," sighed Harry. He found himself being set down in some kind of bouncing chair contraption, which was carried out through another set of doors, and onto what looked like a patio. There was somebody standing there, with his back to them, cooking meat over a barbecue. Harry could smell chops, sausages and ribs.

His Mother set down the chair on the patio, where he had a good view of the proceedings.

"Do you want some orange juice, Harry?"

"Eck!"

"I'll get you some," said his Mother, turning and disappearing back into the house. Harry had a chance to observe his new surroundings more closely. The man tending the barbecue did not appear to have noticed him, until another woman, this one clad in a loose, flowing white dress, appeared through the French windows, carrying a large plate, which she set down on a wooden picnic table Harry had not previously observed.

Then she turned to kiss the man, who turned, revealing himself to be none other than Remus Lupin ...

"Moony!" shrieked Harry. The embracing couple broke apart in surprise.

"Not in front of Harry," said Remus. "You'll warp the poor little bugger."

"I'd say he's already warped," said the woman. "You'd have to be, living with James and Lily. It's enough to drive the most sensible toddler insane."

"He isn't a toddler," said Remus. "He's an in between. But James says he managed the sofa to the TV and back again the other day."

Lily Potter appeared out the doors again, holding a large jug of Pimms, and a plastic cup with teddy bears on it. Harry bounced up and down in his chair. This wasn't all that bad, though he had a feeling they probably wouldn't be sparing any of the chops for him.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Remus turned to Lily, and asked. "What's the kid having?"

"He's a mucky pup," said Lily, setting the jug down on the table. "We'll mash him up a little steak with some of the potato salad. If he stays awake, of course ..."

A butterfly settled on Harry's nose. He sneezed, and it flew off, alarmed. Potatoes and steak, eh? Brilliant. The delicious smell of grilling meat was wafting his way.

"None of those horrible hamburger things?" he heard the other woman saying. She had her arms wrapped tightly around Remus' waist, which was inconveniencing his cooking somewhat.

"No, Susanna. You know James won't have them in the house. Come on ... I need your help with that dessert."

"Anybody want a beer?"

"Me please," said Remus. James tossed him a can from the open box, and he cracked it open. Then his Father came over, sat down on the bench next to his chair, and ran his hand through Harry's hair. Harry giggled in pleasure.

"Shall I give Harry some?" his Father asked.

Beer? Yuck, no thanks, thought Harry.

"Lily would probably kill you, Prongs."

"Hmm, I guess you're right."

There was the sound of a motorcycle engine being revved outside, and then a loud hooting. James stood up. "Oh Lord, that'll be Sirius and Gwyneth," he disappeared from Harry's line of sight. Harry stared up at the sky, which was a pale blue, tinged with red as the summer sun set behind the house.

He heard Sirius' voice, loud, brash and confident, just as it always was. The two men, followed by Gwyneth, who was clutching a bottle of wine, stepped out onto the patio.

"Is that your new lady friend, Remus?" he heard Sirius say. "She's a bit of all right, isn't she?"

"She's wonderful," said Remus, without looking up from his barbecue.

"I'll say," said Sirius. "Top totty, thanks old man," he cracked open a can of beer.

"Not for me, ta," Gwyneth was saying.

"Ducks!" shouted Harry, before he could stop himself.

"Ooh, he's clever, isn't he?" Gwyneth cooed. "What new words has he learned lately?"

"Marmite," said James, bitterly. "And he also learned that he hates the stuff. He threw four slices of toast across the room today."

"Strong willed little sod?"

"They get that way," said James. "He'll be a year old next Friday. I trust you'll all be attending the party. Frank and Angie are bringing Neville along, and there'll be Weasleys by the bucket load."

"How many do they have now?" asked Gwyneth.

"Six," said James. "And another due before very much longer. Between you and me, I think they're praying for a little girl this time round. Still ... feel weird, having my boss at Harry's party."

"What about those God awful Dursley creatures?"

"Not invited," said James, a note of glee creeping into his voice. "We'll have quite enough on our hands with those Weasleys. Last time they came, Harry got flushed down the toilet."

Harry grinned. He suspected he knew by whom.

" ... gave them a good smack," James was saying. "Poor little buggers were bawling their eyes out all afternoon. Ron seemed to find it amusing. Mind you, he's not got over his biting phase yet ... it'll be all out war. God forbid we should have any others. Harry's quite enough on his own."

"Oh, come now, I know he's a handful ..."

"Handful ... he's a crawling disaster zone," said James, laughing. "We have to issue the Four Minute Warning whenever we take him out, so people go running to their bomb shelters. Rumour has it the government are printing Protect And Survive leaflets."

Remus put on a fake voice. "What to do if the Russians drop Harry Potter on you. Do not attempt to leave your home. Make sure you have plentiful supplies of tinned food. Be prepared for fallout ..."

"And that squint isn't getting any better," James went on. "He'll need glasses before very much longer."

"Let's not talk kids," said Sirius, suddenly and very firmly. "So, Remus, tell us about your new shag ..."

"Well," said Remus. "She's a Buddhist."

"That doesn't mean she's a veggie?" began Sirius, sounding absolutely horrified at the prospect. "Remus Lupin, the world's one and only vegetarian werewolf."

"She believes in the sanctity of all living creatures, if that's what you mean," said Remus, sounding a little hurt.

"And does she enjoy riding your broomstick?"

Gwyneth glared at Sirius. "Sorry ... anyway, did I say I'd been thinking of getting into Buddhism?"

"What are you more interested in getting into, Sirius?" asked Gwyneth. "Buddhism or Buddhists?"

"But she's so unbearably sexy," groaned Sirius in mock ecstasy.

Gwyneth snorted, and came over to sit down next to Harry. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.

"Want a swing?" she asked.

'Not especially, thanks,' Harry was about to say. What he actually said was. "Yes!"

Before he could stop her, he found himself being lifted clean out of the rocking chair. She smelled of some perfume he could not identify, but it was lovely all the same. She held onto both his hands, and started to swing him around. He could hear himself screaming in glee, and see the blurry shapes whizzing round, hear the alcohol-fuelled laughter of the others, and then he felt something soft covering his body, and he opened his eyes.

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Welcome back."

Harry struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, but Dumbledore pushed him back down into the covers. He allowed his head to rest on the fluffy pillows, and stared up at the ceiling. His whole body felt as though it had been frozen to the very core. He had been stripped of his clothes, changed into a pair of pyjama bottoms several sizes too big, and covered with two very thick eiderdowns. He could feel the comforting, slippery rubber bulk of a hot water bottle nestling by his feet.

"Am I okay?" he asked, his voice sounded croaky, and not altogether there.

Dumbledore did not reply.

"Where's Ron?" asked Harry, looking around the deserted ward.

"I sent Mr. Weasley off to bed," said Dumbledore. "He sat with you for at least two hours ..."

Harry glanced over to the large clock on the wall. It had just gone one o'clock in the morning.

"I had a dream," he began.

"Was it like the others?" asked Dumbledore.

Harry was puzzled. "How do you know about those?" he asked.

"I know," said Dumbledore. "I have ways of finding out things it might be beneficial to me to know. Tell me what happened in that dream."

"I was a baby," said Harry, dreamily, looking up at Dumbledore, who was sitting on the edge of his bed. "I think I was, anyhow. And we were at some kind of party, with my Mum and Dad, and Sirius, and Remus, and Gwyneth, and they were talking about my birthday. It ... it was," it was the best dream he'd had for a very long time. "It was wonderful," his voice trailed off.

"Better than the others?"

Harry nodded. "The others were nightmares," he said. "What am I doing in here, anyway?"

"We found you hiding on top of the Astronomy Tower," said Dumbledore. "You ran away ... you were in quite a state, too. Ron was trying to talk you down."

"Am I okay?"

"Most definitely not," said Dumbledore. "You have mild hypothermia. That's all. You'll be okay by the morning. That's why we charmed those blankets to give off extra heat. And Madam Pomfrey is just whipping up some Pepper-Up Potion. She won't be a minute. Then, I suggest you rest ..."

"What about the dreams?" asked Harry. "Will they stop too?"

"The dreams are bothering you?" asked Dumbledore, his eyes filled with concern.

Harry nodded. "Very much so," he said.

"Well, I can't do anything about that," said Dumbledore. "Dreams are an essential part of your body's routine. They are a way of mulling over the day's events, sifting off what was interesting, or difficult, and coming up with a solution. Of course, the solution is never immediately obvious. Many people, Harry, both Wizard and Muggle have tried to interpret their dreams. Very few ever came close."

"But they hurt me," said Harry, he sat up again, and pointed to his chest. "Here," he added.

Dumbledore smiled again. "You cannot be hurt in your dreams," he said. "Nobody can be physically hurt by his or her subconscious mind. Many have tried to do that as well. Imagine the power you could wield if it was possible to attack people in their dreams. The science of sleep was one of great interest to Lord Voldemort, and he never conquered its secrets ... thank God," he said.

Harry shivered again, and snuggled back down underneath the bedclothes, drawing them tight around his neck to seal himself in. "Can't you do something?" he asked. "Just for tonight?"

Dumbledore looked around. Then he turned back to Harry. "I'll see what I can do," he said. "There is a potion, for deep, dreamless sleep. You've had it before, I believe ..."

"Yes," said Harry. "Some of that?"

"I'll see what I can do," he said. "Meantime, Harry, rest, and get warm, and don't try and kill yourself again."

Harry leant his head back on the pillow, and drew his legs up to his chest ... the brushed cotton material felt smooth and comforting against the bare skin. He rolled over onto his side, and closed his eyes. Dumbledore stood up slowly, keeping one eye on him, and then walked off, closing the curtains around the bed with a swish and a flourish.

But I didn't try to kill myself, Harry thought.

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

"Name of Black ... table for, uh, two," said Sirius, leaning casually on the wooden lectern holding the reservations book, as though requesting a table in the most exclusive restaurant in wizarding London was something he did everyday.

The maitre d', who was a snooty man with a moustache straight out of Magnum P.I., and was possibly the most blatant homosexual either of them had ever encountered, peered down his nose at them. By the look on his face, he appeared to be trying to locate an offensive odour, lurking somewhere within the restaurant.

"Black," he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue in a brief and violent expectoration. "Let me see," he managed to draw out the single syllable of see, making the word almost five seconds long. Then he began to trace his quill, agonisingly slowly down the lines of names.

"I don't see a Black here, monsieur," said the maitre d', tapping his quill on the open page of the book.

"But I can see it, there, upside down, between Austin and Bull," said Sirius, pointing to what was clearly his name, written in a florid, copperplate hand.

"That says Block, it's a German name," said the maitre d'. "There are no Blacks on my list. I'm sorry sir. If you would care to wait, we might have a cancellation."

"Yeah, when the Blocks don't show up, I would imagine," said Sirius. He made sure Gwyneth was looking the other way, and then reached into one of the inside pockets of his dress robes, and withdrew a brown leather bag. "Look," he said. "There's fifteen Galleons in here says I'm Mr. Black, or Block, or whatever the hell his name is. And this is the most important evening of my life; I have not eaten out since 1981, I have just been absolved of a multiple murder, and most importantly of all, I am about to propose to the woman I have loved for fifteen years, and nothing, repeat, nothing that you can do is going to stop me from wining and dining her in the most exquisite, opulent and downright decadent style you can possibly bear to bring yourself to imagine. Got that?"

The maitre d' looked from Sirius to the small leather bag, and back to Sirius again. Then he sighed. "Very well, monsieur," he said. "Table number seven, please, Michelle?"

They were shown into the restaurant, and seated in a very secluded spot by the window, where they could look out over Diagon Alley. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were still a lot of people hurrying about, and the bars and clubs were all open, of course.

"Would Monsieur care for drinks, at all?" asked their waitress.

"Ogden's Old Firewhisky, on the rocks," said Sirius, barely taking his eyes off the menu, which he was dismayed to see was in French.

"Madame?"

"I'll have a small glass of the house white," said Gwyneth. "May we see the wine list as well?"

"Certainly."

"Any idea what the hell this is?" asked Sirius, pointing to an indecipherable item.

Gwyneth shrugged. "I was never much good with languages, though I can speak Welsh. I know how to say 'Welcome to Wales' in Welsh, which I can honestly say has never come in useful at all."

"Say it, then," said Sirius.

"Croeso y Cymru," said Gwyneth. "You spell it Cymru, with a 'u' on the end, but you pronounce it 'coom-ri,' with the inflection on the last syllable ..."

"Cymru," repeated Sirius. "Excellent. Now, say something else ..."

"Er mwyn atal lledaeniad clwyr traed a'r genau; cadwch oddi wrth dir fferm a thir pori."

"There is something altogether very sexy about the way your lips move when you speak in tongues," said Sirius, smiling at her. "Even though I can't understand what you're saying."

"Are you coming on to me, Sirius Black?"

Sirius shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. Now, tell me what the hell coulis is ..."

Gwyneth shrugged. "I've no bloody idea," she said. "I live in Llandudno ... my idea of a gourmet night out is fish and chips on the sea front, my people think exotic food begins and ends with spaghetti out of tins. You have to remember that where England is vibrant and multicultural and forward looking, Wales is dull, wet, and closed on Sundays."

"I remember," said Sirius. "Back in the Eighties, when you knew that wherever you went for a meal in this country, you could rest secure in the knowledge that whatever you ordered would turn out to be overpriced, flavourless crap. And now I get out of gaol after thirteen years, I find the whole bloody place has gone gourmet on me. Noisettes of this and roulades of that in a sauce of God only knows what. I mean, what happened to Beef Wellington with chips and peas you could use as lead shot? There's even a vegetarian option. I remember when vegetarians had to scrape off the meat and try to look excited about potatoes ..."

"Do you remember when Remus nearly went vegetarian?" asked Gwyneth.

"Yes," said Sirius. "What did happen to Susanna, in the end?"

"She turned out to be a militant communist lesbian and defected to Yugoslavia with a gas fitter from Huddersfield," said Gwyneth. "Renounced Buddhism. I believe she sells real estate to the Bosnians now."

The waitress brought them their drinks, and a wine list, off which Sirius ordered a bottle of something South African with a silly name, and a bottle of Dom Perignon. Then they returned to consulting their pretentious menus.

"I absolutely dread inadvertently ordering liver," snickered Gwyneth, after a couple of minutes had passed.

"I know a funny story about liver," said Sirius. No! Not that! This is the woman you are planning to spend the rest of your life with, damn it!

"I should like to hear it," said Gwyneth.

The waitress returned to their table. "May I take your orders?"

Sirius nodded. "Oh, Christ, yes, do. Um, I'll have the asparagus to start, followed by the chasseur of thingy with wild mushrooms ... champignons are mushrooms, right? Good, with champignons sauvages ... vicious mushrooms eh. Would they be vicious, cold blooded mushrooms?" he smiled.

"And for Madame?"

"Um, oh. Right, okay. I'll have the asparagus too, to start, followed by that ... that looks familiar. What is it?"

"It's a Provencal stew," said the waitress. "Beef, bacon, beans. Good with red wine, you ordered red wine, yes?"

Sirius nodded. Gwyneth smiled. "That sounds unexpectedly hearty for a French restaurant. I'll try that."

"Bread?"

"On the side, yes, please. And can you get us a bottle of mineral water? Thanks."

The waitress smiled at them, and went away again. Gwyneth said. "So, tell me your liver story."

"I'm not sure I ought to," said Sirius. "There are some things that were not intended to be heard by the ears of women ..."

"You're talking to the woman who once climbed Snowdon with her knickers on full view to a party of ten year old Cub Scouts," said Gwyneth. "Believe me, I can cope. I used to sex dragons for a living ... you ought to see that, it gets complicated."

"Yes, how do you ... um, tell the difference?"

"With difficulty," said Gwyneth. "Nothing's actually visible with dragons. Anyway. I'm not here to talk about dragons."

The food, when it came, was excellent, and to Sirius' great and eternal relief, went very nicely with the wine. In conversational terms, they covered ground ranging from where and under what circumstances Gwyneth drifted from dragon sexing to teaching, Quidditch, emulsion paint, why they both loved the Seventies and children (Gwyneth had always wanted three, a boy, a girl, and one for luck). By the time dessert rolled around, both of them were decidedly tipsy. Sirius opened the bottle of Champagne, and they toasted each other, sipping from one another's glasses, Gwyneth giggling like crazy throughout.

"It's been a wonderful evening," said Gwyneth. "Thank you, Sirius."

"My pleasure," he said. "You need spoiling. You're very easy to spoil, and I like doing it ..."

"You corrupter of lost souls, you," sniggered Gwyneth. "Are you trying to get me drunk for a reason?" she added.

"Well," said Sirius. "I haven't had sex for fourteen years. And so, possibly, at some point, I might have wanted to ... but then I thought there were rather more important things ..."

"I could not understand you saying that if you've just been celibate half your life," said Gwyneth. "There is something that you are hiding from me, isn't there?"

Sirius nodded. "There is something I am hiding from you ... a very large something indeed."

"This better not have anything to do with sex," said Gwyneth. "I have my wand in my handbag, and my Father will kill you if he finds us snogging on the doorstep."

"He'll burst out of the bushes, armed to the teeth, face blacked out," said Sirius.

"State your name, rank, serial number and intentions!" giggled Gwyneth. "What was the very large important thing you were going to tell me about?"

"It's a very nice thing," said Sirius, hiccupping. "Perhaps it ought to wait for another day, when we're less drunk."

"I'm not drunk at all," said Gwyneth. "I am merry, that's what it is. Decidedly merry, that's as maybe, but certainly not drunk by any means ..."

"Bully for you. I am," said Sirius. "I am also an incurable romantic, which is why I brought you here this evening ..."

"Get on with it!" said Gwyneth, dissolving into fresh fits of giggles.

Sirius delved once more into one of his many pockets, and withdrew the tiny, velvet covered box he had shown to Harry the previous day. He set it down in the middle of the table.

"Now," he said. "Only one person actually already knows about this. Two, if you count me, and I've sworn the other one to keep his trap shut on pain of me removing his testicles with a large pair of pliers ... and at his age, that's a big threat."

"Are you threatening pupils with castration again?" asked Gwyneth. "Is that what's in the box?"

Sirius shook his head. "No, listen to me a minute. This is, not something I've ever had to do before, to anybody, in my entire life. And I hesitated a lot ... for a long time, before I decided to take the plunge."

"Are you coming out, or something?"

"Please ... this is important," snapped Sirius. The whole thing was not going quite the way he had planned, and he was beginning to regret having ordered quite so much wine as he had done. Nevertheless, he soldiered on.

"Gwyneth. I know we've lost a good few years in the meantime, and I know we probably neither of us feel like we know each other as well as we once did, but the truth is, I was planning this when events overtook us, and I had been planning it for quite some time. And then, well, bad things our way came, and we lost touch. And, since we've met up again, and I think we've been getting on great, and I still think we have that spark, like we did back then. Well, all this is a rather roundabout and hesitant way of asking, in a sort of pseudo Hugh Grant style that you'd find very endearing if you were a Yank, if, if, if you could spare the time, and were that way inclined, whether you'd mind ... oh ..."

His mind had gone completely blank.

"Oh, bugger it. Go to Plan B. Gwyneth. Will you marry me?"

He flipped the lid on the little box, and nudged it gently across the tablecloth towards her. Her face was reflected in the curvature of his spoon, making it all distorted and funny looking, but he wasn't paying attention to the reflection.

Gwyneth, to put it mildly, seemed to be absolutely lost for words. Her mouth opened and shut a few times, like a fish out of water.

"I'm ... Sirius," she took the ring out of the box, and held it up before her eyes, where it sparkled. "It's beautiful. Last time anybody asked me to marry him, I was at Primary School, and then it was a trick. That rotten Jack Evans put a frog down my cardigan. Are you ... you're for real, aren't you?"

Sirius nodded. "I'm as real as I'll ever be," he said.

"Well ... stone the crows. Um, I'll have to think," she turned the ring over and over in her hand. "Sirius ... I don't know. God, I just don't know ..."

Sirius' face fell a minute amount.

"God, oh my. Um. Sirius. I would be honoured, absolutely honoured to ... so, I suppose, yes."

"You're not having me on?"

Gwyneth slid the ring onto her finger. "Perfect fit," she grinned. "And of course I'm not having you on. When's the big day?"

"Sooner, rather than later," said Sirius. "I'm too excited to wait ..."

Gwyneth put her hand over her heart. "Thank God ... I was afraid you wanted one of those awful three year engagements. End of the year? Christmastime?"

"I'll check my diary," said Sirius. "Oh ... I can't begin to tell you how happy this makes me," he poured more Champagne into their glasses.

"Tell me," said Gwyneth. "Do you believe in sex before marriage?"

"With all my heart."

"Good, me too," said Gwyneth, draining her glass in one gulp. "What say we stay in London? Make a night of it? No school tomorrow."

"Room at the Royale," said Sirius. "I took the liberty of booking."

"The Royale? Oh my ... you did plan this out, didn't you?" asked Gwyneth. "And there was me thinking we were just going for a meal and a moan about the pupils! Isn't the Royale a hundred Galleons a night?"

"Someone got a nice big cheque paid into their bank account yesterday," said Sirius. "Wrongful arrest, imprisonment without trial, wrongful imprisonment. It adds up to a tidy amount," he finished. "I thought I should splash out ..."

Gwyneth leant across the table, moving the candelabra out of the way, and before Sirius could carry on, had put her hand on the nape of his neck, and kissed him, relishing the feel of his stubble against her cheek. Sirius responded in kind, putting his arms round her, and melting into her delicate touch, he didn't think there could be any man alive happier than he.

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

"Do you feel like talking about that today, Harry?" asked Sinead, crossing her legs, and pretending to take notes on her little pad. Harry relaxed a little in his armchair, though his hands were still gripping the actual arms very tightly, making his knuckles go white. He looked like he was on a particularly scary roller coaster.

"Not especially," said Harry.

"Okay, so no Dursleys today. That's all right. What about your Mum and Dad?"

"Dead," said Harry.

"Yeah, obviously," said Sinead, quite forgetting that she was meant to be being a psychiatrist ... practical and understanding ... a woman who gets things done. Harry did not seem to have noticed her gaffe.

"Do you remember anything of them?" she asked. Harry shook his head in response.

"Not really," he said. "There was a time, during the Third Year, when the Dementors were around. Then I'd hear them, whenever they got near. And dreams, of course. I see them a lot in dreams."

"Your reaction to Dementors is really very common," said Sinead. "It would surprise me greatly if you didn't experience some kind of temporal flashback whenever they came near ..."

"What's a temporal flashback?" asked Harry, leaning forwards in his chair.

"Posh term for a sudden reliving of events long past," said Sinead. "It happens to lots of people who've been through stressful or harrowing situations. Veterans of Muggle wars are particularly at risk. But I'd like to ask you a few questions about your dreams. What are they like?"

"I can't remember most of them," said Harry.

"Very well, but tell me about the ones you do remember, what's happening in them?" asked Sinead, drumming her pen on her clipboard.

"Usually they're brief," said Harry. "They don't last very long, and I'm not usually aware of what's going on ..."

"How do you mean?"

"I think I'm dreaming about the actual," he faltered, and wiped his arm across his eyes, and Sinead was very nearly tempted to stop him there, as she sensed they were treading on very fragile eggshells indeed. However, she let him continue, "about the ... actual attack."

Harry looked up, but Sinead looked hastily away, avoiding eye contact. "I see," she said. "Is that all?"

Harry shook his head. "Oh no, there's been another kind of dream, very recently, where I think I'm dreaming about what it was like before the attack. I'm usually me, actually in my body, and I can think and stuff, and see what's going on around me ... but I'm still a baby, so I can't do anything about it ..." he paused.

"I see. Are these frequent?"

"Most nights," conceded Harry.

"Okay. Well, are these dreams troubling you?" she asked him.

"Not ... as such," said Harry. "I mean, the ones where I can hear my parents screaming ... I've had them so often I don't notice them anymore. The others ... actually, I quite like the others."

"But these others have only started recently?" prompted Sinead.

Harry nodded. "Last week or so," he said.

"That's interesting. Okay, we're going to come back to that. I'd like you to do a little exercise for me now, Harry ..."

"Like that breathing one?" asked Harry. One of the things she had been asking him to do since their last session was to take time out every so often, to lie on the floor, and breathe properly and deeply, though to what purpose, she did not say. Harry suspected it was to calm him down ... and to his surprise, for by nature he was sceptical, he had actually felt a lot better afterwards ...

"A little like the breathing exercise," said Sinead. "Now, Harry, this might be very painful for you, and you might want to stop, and if you do, then I'll understand that, and we'll stop. And I won't ask you to do it again. If it gets like that, if you start feeling uncomfortable or too upset, then tell me, instantly, and I'll stop it at that. Okay?"

"Um, okay," said Harry.

"Right, this is an exercise in what I like to call 'Trousers of Time Fantasy,'" said Sinead.

Harry raised his eyebrows quizzically. "Sorry?"

"Trousers of Time," said Sinead. "Okay, here's an example. A messenger leaves a castle on horseback, carrying vital orders for his King's army to retreat from battle. On the journey, he gets waylaid by some men with sticks and a cash-flow problem, and so he doesn't get there on time, and the two armies fight, and hundreds of innocent men are killed. But what if the bandits hadn't been there, or had missed him by two minutes, or had decided to stay home with a cup of tea? The messenger would have got through, and the battle would have been averted. You see, an alternate scenario, or another leg of the Trousers of Time is created at that point, with one set of events diverging off down one leg, and the other set down the other leg."

Harry still looked suitably baffled ...

"And this doesn't apply to battles ... it applies to each tiniest little quirk of fate. For every decision you ever make, you create a new pair of Trousers. If you choose the chicken instead of the lamb, an alternate reality exists where you chose the lamb, and in the lamb was lurking a nasty virus which made you very ill, but in the chicken reality, you just ate the chicken, and nothing happened. Got that?"

Harry nodded.

"So what I'm going to ask you to do, is imagine the pair of Trousers that was created when Volde ... sorry, You-Know-Who attacked your Mum and Dad, where they didn't die. I want you to close your eyes, and you can lie on the floor, if you'd like ..."

"I'll stay sitting," said Harry.

"Okay, up to you ... and I want you to tell me what's happening to you. What happened in this alternate universe scenario. Okay?"

Harry nodded. He closed his eyes ...

Almost immediately, he saw images floating before his closed eyelids. There were people walking across a field ... several of them, two boys running ahead of the adults ...

"I think I can see me," he said.

"That's good ... describe everything ... describe what's happening," he heard Sinead's voice. "I want to know how it turned out for you. I want to know how happy you are ..."

"We're walking across some field, somewhere. The grass is about knee high, it might be a meadow actually, I can see flowers, and there are hills too, nearby. I don't think we're too far from home. And there's seven people ... four adults and three kids. I think I'm one of the kids. The grownups look like my parents, and there's a little girl holding my Mum's hand. She looks about six or seven years old. And I'm running ahead. There's another boy with me, but I don't recognise him. Oh wait, I do. He has red hair. I think that's Ron ..."

"Very good ... keep going."

"I think I'm about nine or ten. There's a massive bruise on my leg, and I can hear stuff happening. There are birds ... and people talking to one another, and the sound of ..."

... a tractor, driving down the lane outside. It was a blisteringly hot day, and the air was thick with the scent of the flowers, and the buzzing of insects and the chirruping of crickets and grasshoppers ... the kind of summer's day that never happens in reality. They had been walking for about twenty minutes, just in a circuit through the fields near the cottage ... the farmers never seemed to mind. Then they climbed down to where the infant stream gurgled through the cool, shady woods, the green canopy of leaves casting dappled light over the forest floor, and while Harry and Ron peeled off their T-shirts and splashed in the stream, the adults sat on the mossy banks and Lily opened the flask of wine she had brought from the cottage, a souvenir of their last trip to France ...

"Did Harry get the letter yet?" asked Sirius, relaxing and watching the children. Ron jumped at Harry, and knocked him over, the other boy falling, shrieking into the water. Neither James nor Lily seemed to notice.

"Yeah," said James, sipping the wine from one of the plastic cups, and holding Rosie tight around the waist. The girl did not, apparently, want to join in the decidedly rough game Harry and Ron were playing. "September 1st, Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Same as always. You know they don't allow kids to have their own brooms in the First Year anymore?"

"Rotten spoilsports," said Sirius. "Did you get around to replacing the Nimbus yet?"

James shook his head. "Harry was bloody angry with me about that," he smiled at the memory. "He still thinks he's going to seek for England one day ..."

"Perhaps he will," said Sirius.

"Nah ... he's a hyperactive little bugger. He doesn't have the patience to stay on a broomstick for more than ten minutes ..."

The adults watched as the boys scrambled up the opposite side of the bank, Harry clutching at tree roots to haul himself up, Ron following, a little more gingerly. He was an altogether more sensible child, whereas Harry had spent most of his ten (nearly eleven) years hurling himself off furniture and other high places, of which there was a plentiful supply around the Sussex village in which they lived. They had moved south a few years earlier, mainly to be nearer James' work in London ...

"He has Gryffindor stamped all over him," James remarked, as the boys disappeared into the dense thickets on the other side.

"Don't go far!" called Lily. "Do you think we should make them put shoes on?"

"Wouldn't bother. Harry's feet are as tough as old boots anyhow," said James. "Apparently dear old Godric himself used to spend most of his time running at things and screaming himself silly. It must be a character trait ... Gryffindor equals insane screaming bastard," he went on. "I wouldn't be surprised if Harry ended up there. And I'd bloody kill someone if he got into Slytherin."

"What about that friend of his?" asked Sirius. "Ron?"

James shrugged. "Too close to call," he said. "All the others were Gryffindors ... three of them still are ... Second Years, and a Fourth Year, I think. Usually depends on what kind of mood the Sorting Hat is in."

Harry reappeared from behind a bush. Physically, a very slight boy, his body was thin, bony and wiry, and tanned very brown through too much sun. His face was grubby and flushed, the lenses of his glasses dirty and smeared with fingerprints. His hair, as usual, was a mess. There was a piece of sticky plaster on his left knee, and on his right ankle was a livid, yellow bruise. Adorning his forehead, partially obscured by a curl of hair was his scar, a relic of the broomstick accident that had nearly killed him as a baby. He waved at them, and then disappeared back into the woods, yelling.

"Don't kill anything!" James hollered after him ...

" ... they're all sitting there, and I'm off God knows where, and ... "

Now Harry found himself walking along a roughly laid stone path ... he could still feel the soft leather armchair up in the office beneath him, but it seemed to be not entirely there. The sky was a shade of dark blue, almost grey. Away to his left was a field, with wheat waving in a light breeze.

"What is this place?"

There was no answer forthcoming. He glanced over to the right. There was a whitewashed wall, which also appeared grey in the dim light. Set into the wall at intervals were tiny alcoves, each containing a statuette.

He was walking towards a gateway set into the wall. It was made of wrought iron, and on the other side he could see a garden. It was a classical garden, it looked almost Roman, and there were fake temples and columns and statues hidden amongst the winding paths and the topiary and the smooth, well kept lawns.

And the garden was colourful, a Babylonian riot of greens and reds and purples and yellows and God knew what else. Harry put his hands up to the gate, and peered through. Now he could see there were people in the garden ... sitting on benches under the shade of the cypress trees, or wondering in pairs, or threes or fours along the paths, talking. They seemed very happy to be there, and Harry wished for a moment he could join them. He tried pushing at the gate, but nothing happened. It was stuck fast.

"You don't want to go in there yet," said a voice from behind him.

Harry spun round. There were two people standing behind him, a man and a woman, clothed in flowing white robes, that rustled in the breeze ...

"You don't really want to. Imagine all the things still to come for you. Imagine the good times."

Harry recognised who was talking to him ... his parents.

"It may seem bad now, Harry. But you can't come in here with us. This is a place just for us. You'll come one day, but not now."

"So don't try," said his Father. "And try to give Sirius and Gwyneth a chance. They both need to learn too. You can all learn together. But now, this is our time, this is our place."

"But I want to come with you," quavered Harry, his knees shaking.

The wheat was swaying from side to side with increased vigour, the wind was picking up.

"You mustn't," said his Father. "It's time for you to go, almost. But there is one more thing you need to see ..."

A white light seemed to be coming out of nowhere ... sweeping across the landscape, blinding and burning hot, and it enveloped Harry, and he was about to scream in pain, when he found himself in a room ... his dormitory, up in Gryffindor Tower. It was early in the morning; nobody was awake yet, and the hangings were drawn around all the beds.

Harry looked around for any sign of his parents, but they seemed to have vanished. He sat down on the rug in the middle of the floor, and looked around the room.

Then he saw what was unmistakably blood, so dark it appeared almost black in the dawn light, pooling on the floor of the dormitory and collecting in the cracks between the stones. Harry stood up, his heart suddenly gripped with terror.

The blood was coming from his bed ... the hangings were draped in a pool of dark, viscous liquid; the sheets were drenched.

Harry was across the room in two strides, wrenching back the hangings around his bed, not caring if he woke the other, sleeping boys.

He screamed, then clapped his hand over his mouth. For what he saw was a more terrible thing than anything he had ever seen before in his life. His body was lying on top of the covers, his hands crossed over his bared chest, and there were two thin cuts across his wrists. The knife that had done it ... his own pocket knife, the one Sirius gave him, was clutched in the lifeless fingers of his left hand.

The Harry lying on the bed looked no older than he did now, in fact ...

Harry dropped to his knees beside the bed, feeling the blood soaking his robes, and put his fingers to his throat. There was no pulse, no heartbeat ... no gentle rising and falling of the chest to indicate that any life at all remained there.

"Harry?" he heard someone say. He turned around at the sound of Ron's voice. Ron was sitting up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his hair tousled.

"Ron ... I don't know what happened ... I just found him. I'm not even meant to be ..." he blurted out. It occurred to him that Ron was looking straight through him, not even acknowledging his presence in the dormitory.

"Oh, hell!" he heard Ron breathe.

In an instant the other boy was out of bed, and at Harry's bedside. Harry watched as Ron clasped Harry's hands, ripped them away from his body.

"No, no, no, no, no, no!"

Ron put his fingers, as Harry had done, against Harry's neck, feeling for a pulse, feeling for anything. But there was nothing.

"No, not now! Not now!"

Harry peered closer, tears were rolling down Ron's face ... he looked like he was choking.

"Not now, you selfish bastard! We need you now! We need ... you!" he coughed loudly, his breathing seemed to be coming in short, ragged gasps, his shoulders were shaking, and he clasped Harry's hands even tighter, resting his head on the corpse's bloodstained form, his sobs echoing round the room ...

"Not now."

Harry wanted to step forwards, to reach out and touch his friend and comfort him, but there was something, something very strong holding him back. Ron's cries still echoed in his head as the room turned to black, and he opened his eyes. His whole body was shaking violently, and he was drenched in sweat.

He was also in his bed, up in the dormitory. He looked around, suddenly startled ...

Sirius was sitting on a hard, upright wooden chair by the side of his bed. "You okay now?" he asked, leaning over to peer at Harry.

"I think ... fine, I guess," muttered Harry, putting his hand to his forehead. "Very hot," he said.

"You passed out," Sirius said, arranging the bedclothes, and tucking him in at the sides. "You were having your therapy session with Sinead, and she said you were doing some kind of visualisation exercise, and you just passed out on the floor ..."

"It was horrible," said Harry. "I saw me dead."

Sirius looked concerned. "That's serious," he said. "What had happened?"

Harry breathed deeply ... he was still shivering. He shut his eyes briefly, and then said. "I think I'd killed myself. I think I'd slit my own wrists."

He turned to look up at Sirius. "That's bad, isn't it?" he said.

Sirius was nodding. "Harry, I want you to promise me you won't try and do anything stupid," he said, after a moment's thought.

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Harry. "Why would I want to do myself in?"

Sirius gave him a pained look. "I spoke to Dumbledore, yesterday morning," he said. "He told me about what happened up on the Astronomy Tower. I don't know if you meant what you were saying, or not, but you must never even consider suicide, Harry. It's very dangerous."

"Relax!" said Harry. "I'm not that warped. I could use a drink though," he hinted.

"Ron's just gone to get some tea," said Sirius. "He should be back up any second. That's a dutiful friend you have there, Harry," he added, leaning forwards to brush Harry's hair out of his eyes. Harry did not reply.

"Anyway," Sirius went on. "I'd rather know you were safe. Is there anything in this room that you could use to hurt yourself with?"

"I'm not going to hurt myself!" snapped Harry, trying to sit up in bed. "You're over-reacting."

"Harry, is there anything in here you could use?" asked Sirius.

"Sure, shoelaces ..."

"I meant weapons."

Harry made a pained face. "Only my knife," he said.

"You have a knife? Where did you get that from?"

"Uh, actually, you gave it to me," said Harry. "It was a Christmas present."

"Where do you keep it?" asked Sirius, standing up.

"Bottom drawer," said Harry. He threw the covers off ... some of the things in the bottom drawer were very private indeed ... things he did not necessarily want Sirius to see or know about. "I'll get it for you."

"I think I can find a drawer ..." began Sirius.

"I said, I'll get it for you," said Harry, swinging his legs out of bed, and trying to stand up. He pulled open the drawer a fraction, so that Sirius wouldn't be able to see what was inside it, and took out the knife. It looked, to all intents and purposes, like a Muggle Swiss Army knife. Reluctantly, he handed it over.

"It's nice, this," said Sirius, pocketing it. "I can't imagine why I spent that much money on you ... relax, just a joke!" he added, hastily, as Harry turned to glare at him. "You should get back in bed. You need rest."

"I'm fine," said Harry, kicking the drawer shut. "Anyway, I promised to help Ron with his Charms essay this afternoon ..."

"As a teacher, I feel I must register my disapproval at that last statement," said Sirius, blankly. "Anyway, you still need rest, and I say so."

"Why are you so anxious about me all of a sudden?" asked Harry. "I'm not a little kid anymore. I can take care of myself ..."

He clambered back into bed, and drew the covers up around his body. Then he relaxed back on his pillow.

"But you see, you are and you can't," said Sirius. "I'm sorry, Harry. But technically and legally I'm your official guardian. That means I have full parental rights and responsibility for you ... for the next three years ..."

"What does that have to do with it?" asked Harry.

"Everything," said Sirius. "Your Father asked me, specifically."

"Deathbed plea, was it?" sniped Harry bitterly, a feeling of resentment rising inside him at this man, who purported to be his Godfather, but who seemed intent on razing his life to the ground.

"You know as well as I do that's not what it was," said Sirius. "We made it all legal and binding and such. I'll show you the papers one day."

"I don't want to see the papers," said Harry. "That isn't it. That isn't it at all."

"I think I know what it is," said Sirius. "Look ... I'm sorry, I'm upsetting you. I just care about you, that's all. We all do. There's going to be some very dark times coming our way soon, and we want to help you through them."

"You and Gwyneth?" asked Harry.

Sirius sat back down on his chair. "Well," he said. "About Gwyneth. I spoke to her, about the little chat you and she had? And I explained why I thought she hadn't said the right things, and she agrees with me, and she told me she regrets saying what she said. She wants to help too, Harry."

"I don't want any help."

"Ah, well, that isn't the issue here. I'm afraid you need help. After what's happened recently, and after what's happened in the past, it would be stupid of us not to give you help ..."

"Dumbledore said I was up to it," said Harry.

"You nearly weren't," said Sirius. "But I'm not here to dig up that night again. You were asking about Gwyneth. Well, I won't deny she finds it difficult to accept you. But we can get around that. You used to love her so much ... your Mum and Dad used to tell me how you bawled your eyes out whenever she left the house. She thought that was ever so cute ..."

"So why does she hate me so much now?" asked Harry. "Is it that ... is it because of the attack?"

Sirius wrung his hands. "I think she may have a point," he said. "But look, we've discussed it. We're going to give it a go, and we'd be very flattered if you'd give us a go too. I'm sure we can make it okay."

Harry snorted. "So you're tying the knot then?"

Sirius face cracked into a broad grin. "As of last night," he said. "It's official ..."

"I won't say I'm happy," said Harry. "But I guess ... congratulations."

Sirius smiled. "Thanks," he said. "I know she can find it in her heart to like you again," he said.

"Would it make any difference if I told you why I don't want you to marry her?" asked Harry, looking up at Sirius.

"Probably not, but if you want to get it off your chest."

"Promise not to tell another soul?"

"On my own life," said Sirius gravely.

"I wanted it to be just us," said Harry. "You're the closest thing I have ... the closest link I have to them, and I don't think I ever told you this before ... but I really, really like it when you tell me about how it was. It makes me feel ... better. I just think she's going to spoil it."

"You're worried I love her more than you?"

"I wouldn't put it like that ... it sounds wrong," said Harry.

"Then, you're worried she'll get in the way?" suggested Sirius.

Harry nodded. "I suppose," he muttered.

"Oh Lord ... bloody issues," grinned Sirius. "Well ... I can't say that she won't ... and if you're expecting a life of carefree bachelorhood, then think again, because she used to have a thing about keeping the flat tidy ..."

"That too," said Harry. "I just, wanted it to be us, and maybe Ron, sometimes, during the holidays. That's why I liked the cottage so much. It seemed right, my room was just like Ron's ... I always wanted a room like his ..."

Sirius nodded. "I understand," he said. "Well ... Gwyneth isn't going to stop you having friends to stay ... if that's what's worrying you."

"She might put Ron off," smirked Harry.

Sirius gave a triumphant snort. "See ... you're smiling! You're happy really! Ha!"

Harry, despite himself, found he was grinning. "Okay," he conceded. "But please believe me that I won't try and kill myself. I'm not that bad," he said.

"I have every confidence in you, Harry," said Sirius, although his voice did not sound as though he meant it. "I'll leave you be ... go and see where Ron has got to with those drinks."

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

He was being lead down a long, narrow passageway. The only light was cast by flickering torches, hanging in brackets from the walls, occasionally flaring angrily at the little group as it passed. The passage itself was dank and dingy, with a low, vaulted ceiling.

"Keep moving there, boy."

Harry did as he was told. He could feel the tip of somebody's wand pushing into the small of his back. His hands were cuffed together behind his back, and he could feel, but not see the tight, cold iron choke that had been clamped around his neck, forcing him to look forwards and up. His feet were bare; he could feel the freezing cold flagstones underneath their soles, and occasionally he trod in a puddle of what he prayed was only water. He was clad in a dirty brown tunic, which appeared to be made out of sackcloth ... it was certainly very scratchy, fastened at the waist by a piece of string. His hair and body felt dingy and unwashed.

"Keep moving."

Harry tried to respond, but the power of conscious speech seemed to have left him. He was forced rudely up a short flight of stairs, and out into the familiar Chamber of the High Court of Magic. He blinked in the sudden light, and now he could see just how packed the Chamber was. There was a gallery running all the way around the edge of it, which was crammed full of people, each and every one of them craning to get a better view of him. Harry strained to see anybody he knew, and to his relief and delight, spotted Mrs. Weasley, standing in the front row. He tried to open his mouth to talk to her, but she turned away, burying her head in her husband's arms.

"Up to the stand now, come on."

A great hush had descended across the Chamber. Harry found himself being forced up another flight of steps, and into the dock.

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

A lone man stood up ... and Harry immediately recognised him as Sirius, 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. Sirius Black. I am a Member of this Court, and a Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Mr. Black. 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 Sirius. There was not a flicker of emotion on his face. "As is set down in the Book of Magical Lore, page sixteen, paragraph eight, clause two."

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

"Your Grace. In reaching our verdict today, the Grand Jury has deliberated upon the evidence laid down before it for six hours and ten minutes, in isolation in the Debating Chamber beneath this Court. Our conclusion, and thus our verdict, is unanimous. I am now in a position to deliver to you the verdict upon the Trial of Harry James Potter."

Harry could feel bile rising in his stomach. He looked down, put his hands on the Dock to steady himself, for he was beginning to sway, and tried very hard not to vomit all down his front. He barely heard the Judge speak.

"You may proceed."

Sirius took a deep breath, coughed loudly to clear his throat, and glanced swiftly around the Courtroom.

"By the power vested in me as Foreman of the Grand Jury of the High Court of Magic, upon this, the 13th day of December in the year 1995, I hereby pronounce the following. In the case of the Ministry of Magic versus Harry James Potter, the Defendant was charged with the following crime, which I shall now deliver my verdict upon ... "

Sirius paused. His eyes flitted across the room, alighting on Harry, who suddenly felt very exposed indeed. Harry looked up, trying desperately to make eye contact with his Godfather, but Sirius stared straight through him, his face showing absolutely no trace of discernible emotion.

Harry could take it no longer. Rising to his feet, he cried. "What? What did I do? What's going on?"

"You will remain silent, Potter, until you are bidden to speak by this Court," said the Judge, banging his gavel on the lectern in front of him.

"But I don't understand ..." began Harry ... but before he could get any further, one of the guards flanking him on either side had delivered a crippling rabbit punch to the kidneys, and Harry collapsed against the front of the Dock, wheezing. He could hear a whisper of concern rushing around the Chamber.

"Any further interruptions and you will be held in contempt," said the Judge. "Harry James Potter, you stand before the High Court of Magic on this, the 13th day of December, in the year 1995, charged with the premeditated and unprovoked murder ..."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Harry again heard the murmuring from the Spectators' Gallery.

"... the murder of one Harry James Potter on the night of the 20th of November."

The crowd sighed as one unit.

"But that's impossible!" cried Harry. "I couldn't have done ... are you all mad?"

"I repeat that any further disruption to the proceedings will result in a charge of Contempt of Court being laid at you. This will automatically add a sentence of two years to whatever gaol term I decide, in my leniency, that you must serve. I strongly suggest, Potter, that you remain silent."

Harry gritted his teeth.

Now Sirius spoke. "The verdict of the Grand Jury is as follows ..."

"Sirius!" cried Harry. "I didn't ... I couldn't have ..."

"Silence! Black ... you will speak now."

Sirius nodded. "We find the Accused guilty on one count of murder, and recommend he serve not less than the minimum term."

What sounded like a sigh of relief rushed around the chamber. One or two of the spectators whooped and threw their arms in the air.

"Order, if you please," the Judge went on. "Harry James Potter. You have been found guilty on one count of murder of the highest degree. It is the recommendation of the Grand Jury of Magic that you serve not less than the minimum term, without possibility of parole."

"Throughout this trial you have demonstrated complete contempt for the Justice system of this country, and have shown absolutely no remorse for having killed the boy who remains, to us, a hero of great renown. In your grossly selfish and despicable actions, you have succeeded in ridding us of our one hope in the fight against Darkness, and condemned us all to a time of great trial. It is my belief that you are a highly dangerous criminal, and that you are without hope of reform or redemption."

"I therefore sentence you to the maximum, life term in Azkaban, without possibility of parole. You will be taken from this Court to the Isle of Azkaban immediately, where you will be incarcerated, permanently. Do you understand the terms of this sentence?"

Harry found himself nodding. He was numb with disbelief, with shock beyond compare.

"Guards, remove Potter forthwith, and hand him over to the Dementors."

Harry screamed as the guards took him again around the arms, and began to drag him backwards out of the dock. He could hear laughter, see the spectators pointing and jeering at him ... he could recognise Hermione, and Ron, and Draco ... he kicked out in vain, wave after wave of cold, blinding terror sweeping through his tired, ragged body.

"Don't make it harder on yourself," snarled one of the guards.

"I didn't do it!" Harry screamed, as he was lead through the doorway, and into some kind of holding room. "It wasn't me ... how could it have been me?"

The guards did not reply, and flung him harshly to the floor. And instantly, Harry's entire being was filled with a coldness so extreme and so horrible that he almost passed out. Slowly, he looked up. The Dementors were standing over him. He felt himself falling ...

"Nooooooooo!"

A bone jarring jolt hit his body, and instantly, his eyes snapped open. He was lying on the floor of the dormitory, the bedclothes wrapped around him. It was still dark outside, and he could hear the soft, reassuring tick of Ron's alarm clock, and Neville's snores. He checked his watch. It was twenty past three in the morning.

"What a God awful dream," he said. Slowly, for his back was aching where he had struck the hard stone floor, he picked himself up, and rearranged the covers on his bed. He was just about to slide between the sheets again, and try and get back to sleep, when he happened to glance over at Ron's bed, and noticed it was empty.

Ron was usually a pretty sound sleeper ... he rarely, if ever woke up in the middle of the night, and Harry had never known him get up before. But clearly, he had done, for the covers were thrown back, and his slippers and dressing gown, which he usually threw in a crumpled heap at the foot of his bed, were both gone.

Harry wasn't immediately alarmed by this ... probably, he thought, Ron had just gone to get a glass of water, or use the toilet, or something. Thinking no more of it, he climbed back into bed, and tucked himself in. He was just about to settle back and close his eyes, when the door opened, and Ron stumbled back in. He was holding a glass of water, and he noticed Harry staring at him immediately.

"You awake too?" he asked, tiptoeing across the room, and setting the glass down on his bedside table.

Harry nodded. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Yeah, that's it," said Ron, sipping from his glass. "I got thirsty ... I needed a drink."

"You never usually get up in the middle of the night," whispered Harry.

Ron looked defensive. "First time for everything," he grinned, slightly. "Why are you awake then?" he pulled off his slippers, and untied the cord on his dressing gown, throwing it to the floor. Then he leaned back, and buried his head in the pillows.

"Bad dream," said Harry.

Ron sat up again. "What about?"

"Just ... stuff," said Harry. "Why so interested?"

Ron looked away. "No particular reason," he said.

Harry sighed. "It's Sirius, isn't it?" he asked.

"What about him?"

"He's asking you to keep an eye on me, isn't he?" said Harry. "God, Ron, can't you work out I don't want people looking after me?"

"He just said to let him know," said Ron. "Come on, I'm still your friend, aren't I?"

"I guess."

"Then tell us about it," repeated Ron.

Harry gave him a withering look.

"Tell me, or I'll marmalise you," said Ron.

"Okay," sighed Harry. "I was in some sort of court ... and it was me they were trying. They said I'd killed me, and then they sent me to Azkaban," it sounded so silly, so very, very trivial when he put it like that. "It's nothing, really," he added, in defence. Then he looked up, to see that Ron wasn't looking at him with an expression of ridicule on his face. He looked very concerned.

"What's the matter?"

"You know what they say about dreams like that," said Ron. "I mean ... it's probably nothing ... actually, it is nothing. Forget I spoke. Forget I even exist, if you want ..."

"You are not getting out of it that easily," said Harry. "What does that kind of dream mean?"

"A dream where you've killed yourself?" said Ron. "It means you're going to kill somebody close to you, somebody very close to you."

"You'd better drag out your bullet proof armour, then," said Harry. "We don't want you taking any risks ..."

"Nah, it's an old wives' tale," said Ron. "Made up load of bollocks to frighten the kids, oh, and Harry ..."

"What?"

"How many times do I have to tell you? Muggle weapons don't work at Hogwarts," he crowed, in a cruel yet uncannily accurate impression of Hermione. "So you'd need to kill me with a wand, or knock me off my broom during Quidditch, or something," he added, his voice returning to its customary tone and pitch.

"I shouldn't have bothered you," said Harry. "It was a stupid dream."

"Don't worry. I had one the other night where I was lying naked in a vat of warm custard, and Professor Snape went cycling past singing the Chimney Sweep Song."

"What, the one about the enormous broom?" asked Harry.

"That's the one," said Ron, smiling. Neville turned over at that point, and snorted loudly. "Speak to you in the morning," he hissed, lying down again rapidly. Harry did the same, and as he drifted off to sleep again, he couldn't help but hear Ron's words running over and over in his head; 'you're going to kill somebody close to you.'

Nah ... load of pants, he thought.

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