The Time Of Trial

I am not frightened of dying,
Any time will do.
Why should I be frightened of dying? There is no reason for it.

Pink Floyd - Dark Side of the Moon.

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

Harry very diligently managed to avoid looking at Doctor Jones during the Potions lesson unfortunately scheduled for Thursday morning. He could sense, throughout the double period, that she was trying to catch his eye, but he resolutely looked the other way as she paraded up and down the laboratory, eyeing their bubbling cauldrons with something approaching disdain.

He was working on an empowerment solution with Ron and Hermione at the back of the classroom. But he was paying neither of them very much attention either. Ron's words to him the previous night had, truth to tell, chilled him to his bones. Sure, he did not believe for one second that he was actually going to kill somebody. As Ron said, it was an old wives' tale ... nothing at all to get worked up about. An urban myth.

But as Harry was increasingly coming to find out, myth and reality in the magical world were far more closely linked than anybody actually gave them credit for.

He tried to work out who he would most rather kill. A few short weeks ago, that choice would have been a very simple one: Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately, or fortunately, thought Harry, if you were looking at it from Draco's point of view, there was now no way on earth he could kill Draco. The events that had transpired during their brief sojourn away from Hogwarts only a few weeks previously made sure of that. Harry's eyes roved around the classroom now, seeking out Draco's familiar silvery blond hair. Draco was quartering leopards' eyes for use in the potion, and looking supremely bored as he did so. Next to him, Blaise Zabini was cleaning out the cauldron they were sharing. Crabbe and Goyle had both come down with Dragon Fever following their Care of Magical Creatures practical with Hogwarts' now resident dragons, Bellerophon and Hermes. Draco didn't seem to have noticed they'd gone.

True, though, he had not really spoken to Draco for some time. Not since that day in the woods, a couple of weeks back now, when Harry had found him sitting next to the small tarn in the Forbidden Forest that he himself often frequented during his darker moments. They had had an argument; Draco had run off. They had not spoken since. Indeed, Draco seemed to have withdrawn completely into himself and was not even speaking to Hermione any more. Harry itched to ask Hermione whether there still was anything between her and Draco, but knew that such a line of questioning would probably result in a knee in the groin, or at least a sharp slap around the face.

Ron was looking at him quizzically over their cauldron, which he was stirring with a solid silver stirring rod. The potion was emitting little puffs of black smoke, which dissipated rapidly in the dank air of the castle dungeons.

"You okay, Harry?" he asked.

Harry nodded. "I guess so," he lied. "Just thinking, really."

Ron smiled. "Nothing important?"

"Not really."

"Fair enough," said Ron, although the sly grin which spread across his face told Harry he considered the matter anything but closed. Indeed, a mere ten seconds had passed before he spoke again. "Hermione?"

"Yes," said Hermione, looking up.

"I was talking to Harry," said Ron firmly.

"But Harry's name is Harry," said Hermione.

"Oh shut up, Hermione," they both said at once.

Hermione scowled, and muttered something that sounded very much like, "Boys!"

Harry motioned at Ron. "Later," he hissed, over the cauldron.

"Something wrong, boys?" asked Doctor Jones, who had crept up on them silently, possibly using some magical variant of Stealth technology.

"Nothing," said Harry, fighting the urge to snap smartly to attention and throw a salute ... this woman couldn't possibly become his Mother ... not in a million years.

"You might," hinted Doctor Jones, "want to check that stirring rod."

Harry's eyes flicked instantly back to the cauldron. The rod was melting, disintegrating into a twisted mass of molten metal.

"Bugger!" swore Ron, fishing it out and flinging it to the work surface.

"Just a suggestion," smiled Doctor Jones, before bustling off to nag Neville Longbottom some more.

"Oh, that went well," said Ron, sarcastically. Harry was showing Doctor Jones his middle finger underneath the workbench.

"Bitch!" snarled Harry under his breath.

"Harry!"

"Well, she is," said Harry.

"She's a bitch who's going to become your legal Mother and guardian in a few months," hissed Hermione.

"That changes nothing," said Harry darkly. "I still hate her."

"You were the one who was entertaining fantasies of wild six in a bed romps with ..."

"I was not!" exclaimed Harry, blushing very, very red indeed. "Well, maybe ... once or twice. But you promised not to mention ..."

"I also promised not to mention the six back issues of Playwizard that you bought off Fred and George in the Third Year," said Hermione. "Don't look at me like that ... I know you've got them."

"So do I," admitted Ron, blushing.

"You're evil," said Harry. "You're working for Voldemort, or something."

Ron and Hermione both gave a start at the mention of the name.

"You're not?" asked Harry, misinterpreting the gesture.

They both shook their heads.

"So, Hermione," said Ron loudly, changing the subject before Harry had a chance to get himself worked up again. "Any chance of some help with our potion this century?"

"I thought," said Hermione snappily, glaring daggers at Ron, "that you had shunned my company ..."

"Well, whatever gave you that idea?" asked Ron. "Now help stir or something."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sinead sat nervously opposite Dumbledore's desk, the files open on her lap. Dumbledore perused the sheet of parchment he was holding up as if it held the secret of life itself. Eventually satisfied, he returned it to the desk.

There was an awkward pause.

"You think this is true?" asked Dumbledore, making a steeple out of his fingers and staring at her over the tops of his glasses. Sinead, for all her medical training, could not shake the feeling that she was back at Hogwarts, being reprimanded for something trivial, like that thing with Keith.

"With respect, sir ..."

"Albus," said Dumbledore, the syllables tripping gently off his tongue.

"Albus," Sinead corrected herself. "With respect, Albus, yes."

"I see," said Dumbledore. He said nothing further, as if silently bidding Sinead to explain herself. It was quite unnerving.

"Well," she said, flustered, after a few brief seconds had passed. "Judging by their, um, past history, and other stuff like that. I think the conclusions are, well, perfectly adequate and speak for themselves. We could nail those bloody Dursleys," Dumbledore raised a finger to calm her. "Sorry, be objective, objective," she repeated to herself like a mantra. "We could get Harry's family on at least twenty counts of neglect and mental abuse. Um, as for Draco. Well, that's a difficult case, and it was altogether more systematic. The Dursleys just used abuse to justify their hatred of Harry, sending them into a negative shame cycle ..."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

"A ... um, a thing where, they don't feel very good," said Sinead. It was all right when she was with a client. Why did Dumbledore put her off so? She couldn't shake the mental picture she now had of Keith, who had shown up at the Leavers' Ball in a kilt. "So, um, with Draco, abuse was used as a means to an end, to show the boy that the parents maintained dominance in their relationship, and also to terrify him into submission."

"I see. What about the Weasleys, and Hermione?"

"They have very stable backgrounds," said Sinead ... here she felt on more familiar ground. "It was just a case of running them back through their stories. As witnessed by the brevity of their reports."

"You had no problems with any of them?" asked Dumbledore.

Sinead shook her head. "I had to use tactics with Draco once," she said. "But apart from that, they all seemed quite willing to talk." Especially Harry, she thought. She had had difficulty shutting him up once or twice.

"All right then," said Dumbledore. "Now, what's the procedure from here?"

"I'd like to get them in for group therapy, maybe one or two sessions," said Sinead. "Talk through their experiences with one another. I get the feeling that would be especially helpful for Draco."

"In what way?"

"Harry and the others have an extensive support network built up around them," said Sinead, making the appropriate hand movements that she remembered from her university lectures. "They are very interdependent on one another for psychological support, especially Harry and Ron, who have an excellent relationship. I gather they've been friends since the First Year?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"It shows," said Sinead. "When you have a group of three children in this kind of relationship, two generally are closer than the third. I have no idea why this should be. Anyway, they have this network which they can fall back on. It means they won't come down quite so hard after any future traumatic death experiences, um."

"And Draco?"

"Draco does not. Draco has constructed an elaborate web of justifications and opinions around himself in order to account for being the way he is. Actually, he has very low self-esteem, which shows once you get through this outer shell that he projects around himself. He probably isn't aware he's even doing it. Draco's mental shields are lower, to put it simply. He cannot react in the same way as the others, simply because he is emotionally disadvantaged."

"As a result of his upbringing."

"Very probably. He also has no friends," said Sinead. "Which doesn't help ..."

"What do you recommend we do about that?" asked Dumbledore.

"Well, I'm keeping his notes on file, and if you ever need me again, then I'm only an owl away," said Sinead. "I suggest you monitor his progress closely. With the death of his parents, he's going to be feeling very insecure. I would encourage him to spend more time with Harry and Ron, although I appreciate that may be easier said than done."

"You're lodging a copy of the report here with us?" asked Dumbledore.

Sinead nodded. "That's standard procedure," she said. "I keep a copy for my permanent records, and two other copies go to St. Mungo's to be put on file, and in this case, copies of Harry and Draco's reports will be lodged with the Department of Magical Social Services in London."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "What about Harry?"

"Well, what about him?" asked Sinead.

"Your conclusions. What should we do?"

"Well," said Sinead, looking awkwardly about the study. The sessions with Harry had been amongst the hardest she had ever had to do. And having come into contact with several other children whose cases had been on a par with his, that was saying something.

Dumbledore was regarding her carefully. "Whatever you think best is what we will do," he prompted.

"Watch him," said Sinead. "Watch Harry like a hawk. He's ... well, he's lovely and all. But he's not right. He has a lot to get off his chest, a lot of mourning to get done that he never did before. The events of the last few weeks have kind of acted as a catalyst."

Dumbledore nodded.

"I think," Sinead continued, "that Harry was never like this beforehand, before the kidnapping, purely because he never really knew. Nobody had ever really told him, told him what happened. The enormity of it had never hit home before, and, well, now it has. That's what's causing the problems."

Dumbledore nodded again. "Very well," he said.

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

Sirius cast his eyes swiftly about the Staff Common Room, taking in the tableau before him. The room was furnished in an opulent 'Olde English' smoking room style, that existed probably nowhere else in reality save a Hollywood sound stage. The walls were of oak panelling, and scattered liberally about the room were any number of obscenely comfortable armchairs, banquettes and footstools. In one corner was a small bar, perpetually manned by two of the kitchen's more presentable House Elves, dispensing coffee and biscuits. One whole wall was lined with bookshelves containing ancient looking tomes, another held their pigeonholes, which were crammed full of post and bits of scrap paper, and a vast cupboard that held spare robes and cloaks. French windows opened out onto a balcony which overlooked Hogwarts' central courtyard, across which pupils were streaming outside to take advantage of the sunny weather. Several of them were whacking bewitched tennis balls with rounders bats, and watching them through the windows, Sirius remembered fondly the mass games of Quidditch they used to have on the lawns.

The room was not yet crowded. The bell for morning break had only just sounded, and presumably most of other professors were still tidying up after their lessons. Indeed, the room's only other occupants were Gwyneth and tiny Professor Flitwick.

Sirius favoured Professor Flitwick with a smile, and went over to sit down next to Gwyneth, who was reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. The headline was screaming about further turmoil within the ministry. Apparently there had been a high level internal coup, and the hard-line hawks had very nearly succeeded in ousting Fudge from power.

"Is all well with your world?" asked Sirius, sitting down in the armchair next to her.

Gwyneth jumped in surprise. "Dear Lord, Sirius. You shouldn't creep up on me like that!"

He leant forwards and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Well?" he asked. "What's new?"

Gwyneth folded her paper, and set it back down on the coffee table next to her. "I just had Potions with the Fifth Years," she said.

"That sounds ominous," began Sirius. "What did they do to you?"

Gwyneth sighed, and smacked her lips involuntarily. "It was Harry's class," she said softly. "Sirius. I know I said to you I'd try, but Harry seems so entrenched, so resentful of me ... I'm just not sure I can cope with having to live with him."

"Are you breaking up with me?" asked Sirius, lowering his voice to be sure Flitwick couldn't hear them.

Gwyneth shook her head hurriedly. "Heavens above ... no!" she exclaimed. "Sirius, I do love you, and I want to be able to love Harry desperately. God knows the kid needs it."

Sirius gave her a sympathetic look. "We've had this chat at least six times in the last week," he said. "Marriage is all about compromise, don't you think?"

"Hah!" snorted Gwyneth. "Don't you think the compromise here is coming mainly from me?"

"No, no, no, no," said Sirius, hurriedly. "That wasn't really what I meant at all. I meant Harry will have to compromise as well. I'm not going to stop being in love with you just because my kid doesn't like it."

"You're even calling him your kid," said Gwyneth glumly. "You've yet to tell anybody that I'm your fiancée."

"I thought," replied Sirius, "that we agreed to keep that a secret for a few weeks, until we've organised the feast and the catering."

"Well, nobody at school knows," said Gwyneth. "Who else?"

"I've told Remus," said Sirius. "He's coming up from Chudley later today. We're going to look for dress robes on Saturday ..."

"I'm glad to see you're being proactive," said Gwyneth.

Sirius nodded. "Proactive is my middle name ... although actually that isn't true, my middle name is Eamonn. But it sounds a bit like proactive ..."

"In what language? Serbo-Croatian? I suppose Harry knows," said Gwyneth.

Sirius nodded again. "Oh, of course, I couldn't really get away without telling him, could I?" he reasoned. "After all, I thought we wanted him to be a page boy."

"Best man, wasn't it?" asked Gwyneth. "I'm not sure Harry will take to kindly to being my page ..." her words trailed off, and she began to conduct an intensive survey of her fingernails.

"Remus is best man. I asked him the other day by owl. Anyway, I would assume Harry has told Ron and Hermione, too," said Sirius.

"So the whole bloody school knows," said Gwyneth, smiling to show that despite this, she was not really very angry. "And yet I'm forbidden to owl my own father and break the news to him."

"Not for a while, eh?" said Sirius. "Let's make sure we really want this, to go through with it, before we start mailing out invitations to all and sundry."

"But I already do know I want it," said Gwyneth. "I've never wanted anything so much. It's just the Harry Factor ..."

"Huh, that's quite a good name for it, actually."

Gwyneth nodded. "Sounds like a Tom Clancy novel ..."

"Tom's done what now?"

Gwyneth smiled at the object of her affections. It was very easy to forget just how much time he had spent in prison, how much of life he had missed out on, both wizarding and Muggle. Indeed, she did it with surprising regularity.

"Forget it," she said. "Sirius, would it be worth us all having a sit down and a talk with Harry?"

"You mean like a family counselling session?" suggested Sirius. "I guess that might work. We could ask Sinead, if she's still here ..."

Gwyneth raised her eyebrows inquisitively. "Sinead?"

"The psychiatrist," said Sirius. "You'll have seen her round. Dumbledore says she used to go to Hogwarts, a few years after we did. Anyway. She was telling me she wanted to fix up some kind of group therapy session for the kids. Perhaps we could sit in, eh?"

"I'd hardly feel comfortable spilling out the inner secrets of my psyche in front of Draco Malfoy, now," said Gwyneth.

"Hmm, maybe not," said Sirius. The Common Room was beginning to fill up as the other Professors drifted in from their far flung classes. Only Dumbledore was conspicuously absent. "Look," he went on, "I'll go and have a word with Harry. He has Care of Magical Creatures next. I'll see if I can get Hagrid to let me take him away for a minute or two."

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

Hagrid was standing by the edge of the paddock he had had erected at the side of his hut, and squelching about within the paddock itself were five giant slug-like creatures. Atop their heads were perched two beady yellow eyes, and their mouths were filled with row upon row of short, pointy fangs. From their lips dripped vile, chocolate coloured drool, and tiny, useless, stubby arms waved frantically in the air. A foul smell; a mixture of rotting flesh and overcooked cabbage was emanating from them. Without exception, all the children recoiled in disgust. Hermione was suddenly put in mind of Jabba the Hutt.

"What the hell are those ugly things?" Draco drawled. He was leaning over the paddock fence.

Hagrid ignored him. Harry put his foot up on the fence to be better able to see.

"I wouldn't do that!" Hagrid yelled. There was a sudden flurry of movement, and one of the strange beasts surged forward and clamped its teeth onto the sleeve of Harry's robe, slobbering horribly. Harry shrieked and fell backwards. There was a ripping sound, and a roar of laughter from the Slytherins, and then Harry landed on his back in the grass.

"They're hungry," said Hagrid, as Harry picked himself up. The sleeve of his shirt was covered in saliva. "You okay?"

Harry nodded.

"Nice look," said Ron.

"The one armed robe? Of course, I was planning it all along," said Harry in a hurt tone of voice.

"These are Bugblatter Beasts," said Hagrid, looking immensely proud of his new charges.

"What?" exclaimed Draco.

"Bugblatter Beasts," repeated Hagrid, looking downcast.

"And what," began Draco, "do we do with these creatures? Take them for walks?"

"They're hungry," began Hagrid, uncertainly, his eyes roving about the class, looking for support. Hermione gave him a grin.

"Ravenous Bugblatter Beasts, eh?" asked Draco. Smirks were creeping across the faces of the Slytherins.

"And you're going to be feeding them," said Hagrid.

"Feeding them!" exclaimed Draco. "Oh, why didn't I guess?"

There was a time a few weeks earlier when Hermione would have jumped down Draco's throat for saying that. However, on this occasion she limited herself to a nasty glare, which seemed to do the trick, for Draco shut up instantly. Hagrid, who of course had not been present for the first few weeks of term, could only look completely stunned.

"Um ... what exactly are we going to be feeding them?" Seamus Finnegan asked.

Hagrid smiled through his bushy expanse of beard, and gestured to the large barrel which was standing beside them. The stench of rotten meat was almost overpowering. To the collective horror of the class, he reached in, and pulled out a whole boar's head, tusks and all.

"Scottish Blueblood," he said. "A fearsome pig, if ever there was one. A rutting Scottish Blueblood could disembowel any one of you, if he got angry enough, and he probably would. They're also a bugger to catch ..."

"Why not feed them ordinary pigs then?" asked Dean Thomas.

"Bugblatter Beasts are very proud creatures," said Hermione, her eyes taking on that glazed look that they always did when she began reciting chunks of the textbook. "They'd perceive it as an insult to be fed anything else ..."

"No Economy Value Sausages for them, then," joked Harry. Dean, Hermione and the other Muggle born pupils smiled. The witches and wizards just looked confused.

"Boo! Get off!" heckled Draco.

Harry gave Draco a patronising look, which was returned in kind. Hagrid, looking more confused than ever, held the boar's head, which was covered in caked blood, just out of range of the grip of the creatures' spindly little hands.

"Anybody want to have a go?" asked Hagrid. Both Draco and Harry started forwards at the same moment. Harry, spotting the look on Draco's face, veered off and backed down.

"Or both of you at once," said Hagrid. "I ain't complaining."

Draco gave Harry a sly grin, and clambered over the fence in a single, fluid motion. Harry followed, a little more clumsily.

"Now," Hagrid said, stepping in between the two boys as if not entirely certain they weren't about to hex one another. "I want you both to take a boar's head, and hold in clearly in front of the beasties so that they can see what you're doing."

"After you, Potter," smirked Draco

Harry rolled up the remaining sleeve of his robes diligently, and looking the other way, plunged his hand into the giant barrel. The stench emanating from within was very nearly overpowering; it was that of rotting meat, decaying flesh mixed with something else, something strong and alcoholic that made Harry suspect the barrel had once been used for storing beer.

He closed his eyes, and grimaced, much to the amusement of the Slytherins, as his fingers made contact with something greasy and slimy. Gingerly, he closed his hand around the offending object, and withdrew it from the barrel. At this action, he heard the sound of the Bugblatter Beasts slobbering at him. He opened his eyes to see a rush of green heading towards him across the grass. Hagrid let out a roar.

"Back, little bugger!"

There was a noise like a sock filled with custard hitting a wall, and the Bugblatter Beast withdrew to the other end of the paddock, where it continued to slobber noisily in the company of its own kind.

Harry chanced a peek at what he was holding, and was shocked to the core to discover that he had picked out what appeared to be a bony white skull, with only a few remnants of putrid flesh clinging to it in bloody strips. The eye sockets appeared to be staring at him, and he almost dropped it on the spot.

"Watch the professionals do it, Potter," sneered Draco, reaching into the barrel without even bothering to roll up his sleeves. He came up with a head that was still largely intact, the greasy eyeballs were most unsettling.

"Okay," said Hagrid. "So, you've got your boars' heads, and now you need to feed the Bugblatter Beasts. Harry, want to go first?"

Harry shook his head, but stepped forwards anyway. The Bugblatter Beasts eyed him hungrily, and he got the feeling they would sooner nibble on him than on the disgusting appendage that dangled from his hand.

"Hey ... Harry!"

He stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the voice, and turned around, still clutching the boar's head. Sirius was approaching the paddock at a trot, his long, tangled black hair bouncing up and down as he came.

"Can I borrow him for a minute?" he called to Hagrid, who sighed, and nodded reluctantly.

"Cheers!"

Harry replaced the boar's head in the barrel, and throwing a last look back at the Bugblatter Beasts, scrambled back over the fence, and started to walk up the hill towards Sirius. The others watched him go. It wouldn't normally have bothered him, but he could sense everybody looking at him, wondering what on earth could possibly have happened to Harry Potter now. In the background, he could hear Hagrid giving Draco and the others instructions.

Sirius stopped on a low rise a little way from the paddock, and as Harry reached him, clapped his hand on his shoulder in a gesture Harry supposed he must interpret as a friendly one.

"You okay, kid?"

"I'm *not* a kid," Harry said firmly, feeling his ears burning.

"Very well," said Sirius, absent-mindedly. "Look, I was wondering if I could take up a few minutes of your time to have a little chat?"

"Clearly," said Harry, reasoning he probably had little choice in the matter.

Sirius smiled. "That's good," he said. "Is there anywhere we could sit down ..."

"I know a spot in the Forest," began Harry, before catching himself. The Forbidden Forest was out of bounds for a reason, and he did not want Sirius to know he had been going there. Thankfully, Sirius did not appear to have heard him. Instead, he continued to lead Harry away from Hagrid's class, up the hill towards the castle, then veering off to the left by the lake.

"I thought," said Sirius, "it might be nice if we all went out for dinner, or something, at the weekend. It's Hogsmeade again on Saturday, we could take a trip in en famille."

"Which family?" Harry asked through gritted teeth.

"Well, me, you and Gwyn," said Sirius. "We kind of are ... don't you think?"

Harry shook his head.

"Wouldn't you like to be?" asked Sirius.

Harry shrugged. Sirius went on. "Well, I'd like you to be. I really, really would. And I know you don't think there's anything that can replace your proper family, and in a way, you're quite right, there isn't. But I'd quite like to think ..."

"Stop babbling, Sirius," said Harry unkindly, wrestling free of his Godfather's grip. He did *not* need this at all. He got enough annoying psychobabble from Sinead.

"Come on, Harry," said Sirius, dropping back to walk a couple of paces behind the boy.

"It isn't that," said Harry, a little tearfully. "It really isn't that. I do want that, but I don't think I can get that from you and Gwyneth, Doctor Jones, I mean ..."

"You can call her Gwyneth if you'd like," said Sirius. "I think she'd draw the line at Auntie."

"That's okay then," said Harry sarcastically, he had not been intending to call Gwyneth anything of the sort.

"Harry," said Sirius. "I don't know what I can say that's going to make you feel any better about this."

"Maybe I want to be miserable," sniffed Harry.

"Bet you don't," said Sirius playfully. "Bet you a Galleon you don't."

Harry shrugged.

"Okay, so you're not in the mood for light-heartedness, that's okay too," said Sirius. He noted with alarm that Harry seemed to be picking up his pace, and he was having to walk quite fast to keep up with the boy.

"You think?" snapped Harry, whirling round to face him. Even Sirius, who was not very good at reading people's emotions from their faces, could tell from Harry's expression that he was on the verge of blowing a major tantrum, or something very similar.

"Look," said Sirius, "I can't make you like Gwyneth."

"Damn right you can't."

"Harry!" shouted Sirius, losing his rag at long last.

Harry, who had been mooching along the path a few feet ahead of Sirius, dragging his shoes in the mud and staring intently at his laces, snapped his head up. There was fire in his eyes.

"Piss off and leave me alone!"

Sirius spread his arms in submission. "Harry, please, kid, give me a break ..."

"I'm not a damn kid!" yelled Harry.

Sirius tried to take a step closer. "I just want to help," he said imploringly. "Look, Sinead's asked us for another session."

"Us?"

"Yeah, all of us," said Sirius, taking a step closer. This time Harry didn't back away or anything, and Sirius began to feel relieved that he seemed to be calming down.

"What for?" Harry's robes were ruffling about him in the wind.

"Just to talk," said Sirius. "She asked me if I would like to sit in, and Gwyneth will be there, and Draco. And I just thought we ought all to have a chat. See if we can't all get over this thing."

"You sound like a movie trailer," said Harry, although his mouth cracked into its usual, familiar toothy smile.

"About seven," Sirius went on. "As soon as dinner is over? We might as well have something to eat beforehand."

Harry twisted his foot awkwardly in the mud. "Okay."

Sirius smiled. "That's okay then," he said. "I know you'll like Gwyneth really. She's a super girl, and you already know how much I ..." he stopped. Harry glared.

"Let's get one thing straight, if you guys want to play at being doting parents, I'm having none of it," said Harry. "And I don't care how much you're head over heels in love with her."

"Come now, Harry. That's a bit harsh," said Sirius.

"No harsher than what I'm used to," began Harry, hanging his head. Sirius realised what he meant.

"Harry, if I could change the last fourteen years around, then believe me I would. If I could have a time turner, just to go back and persuade your Mum and Dad to stick with me instead of that yellow rat Pettigrew. I'd love to be able to do that. But you know yourself, changing time is a big no-no."

Harry looked up again. His eyes appeared to be filling with tears, and against all reason, Sirius fleetingly thought, 'oh bugger, here we go again.'

"It couldn't hurt," he said wistfully.

Sirius shook his head. "It can't be done," he said. "You know the risks as well as the next man. Harry, you have to believe me when I say that I'm as sorry as anyone that you ended up with those bloody Dursleys. I only met them once, mind. They turned up to your Mum and Dad's wedding ... your Uncle was wearing a hideous kipper tie. No? Bad joke?"

Harry nodded. "Course," he said, "you know how come I ended up at the Dursleys', don't you?"

"What d'you mean?" asked Sirius.

Harry took a step closer. "You swapped Secret Keepers without telling anybody. You could have told Dumbledore, or someone. You didn't even have to do it ..."

"Come on, Harry. That's a bit below the belt."

"So sue me," snarled Harry. "No, *don't* come any closer to me. You remember the day we first met?"

Sirius did. He remembered it very well; as if it had been yesterday, to coin a cliché.

"You said that you as good as murdered my parents," said Harry. "Well, now I believe you. Now I know what you were. I can see you for what you are."

"Harry," began Sirius, "please stop! You don't need to do this to either of us!"

"Shut up!" yelled Harry. "You're a stinking coward. You were just afraid for you and Gwyneth! You weren't being honourable, or anything like that. You were just saving your own rotten hide!"

Harry ducked nimbly out of the way as Sirius lunged at him.

"How dare you!" Sirius was yelling.

Harry began to walk backwards away from Sirius. The boy's face was showing a mixture of sadness, pain and worry, the corners of his mouth turned down, his eyes red and bloodshot.

"Come back here!" snapped Sirius.

"Everyone's done this to me!" Harry managed to stammer out, though he wasn't sure how, for his throat was constricted, his head ached through shouting, and he was blinking to keep back the tears that he knew were coming, try as he might to stop them. "Every single one of you. Every bloody adult who's ever known me! You're all as bad as each other. It's quite all right for you to lecture us all about having principles and not lying and not snitching on anyone and not being a coward but you're all free to do whatever you bloody well like! I'm sick of it. I've had enough of you all. You can all go screw yourselves, as far as I'm concerned."

Sirius made another grab at Harry, and this time succeeded in grabbing him by his shirtfront. Harry felt himself being pulled upright until he was looking into Sirius' eyes, and he had never seen him look so angry before. Instinctively, the skill honed through years of living with the Dursleys, Harry flung his arm up to shield his face from the blow he thought was coming, but nothing happened.

"Get out of my sight!" snarled Sirius, their faces so close they were almost touching. He let go of Harry's collar suddenly. "Never, ever insult anybody like that again! You think the whole fucking world revolves around you, don't you?"

"That's not true!" Harry blurted out.

"Oh shut up!" said Sirius. "It's all one big arrogant ego trip for you, isn't it? Nobody else is allowed to have any feelings or any opinions, and everyone has to defer to precious little Harry Potter! Take a long, hard look at yourself, Harry. You're not going to like what you see! Now piss off!"

Harry did not need telling twice, with a final muffled curse at Sirius, he turned abruptly on his heels, and ran back to the castle as fast as his legs would carry him. He charged across the hall and up the main marble staircases, his footfall thudding loudly as he went. So lost was he in his anger that he barely noticed when he ran straight into Professor McGonagall, who was heading the other way, holding a load of exercise books and looking flustered about something. Nor did he stop to help her pick them up, and by the time she had gotten around to taking five points away from Gryffindor, he had turned the corner into the next corridor and was out of earshot.

The Fat Lady was off visiting, it being during lessons, but thankfully for Harry the last person out had forgotten to close the door properly, and it swung open easily under his touch. He ran straight across the Common Room and up the stairs to his dormitory, where he flung himself onto his bed and wrenched shut the hangings.

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

Ron detached himself from Hermione, who, frankly, was being very annoying about something to do with their Transfiguration homework, as soon as was politely possible, and having finished lunch (shepherd's pie) headed up to Gryffindor Tower to see if he couldn't find Harry. From what he had seen, Sirius had taken him away for a chat, which sounded in itself rather ominous, during the Care of Magical Creatures lesson with Hagrid. About ten or fifteen minutes later, Sirius had appeared without Harry, walked straight past the rest of them and disappeared into Hagrid's hut, slamming the door behind him. Naturally, Ron was more than a little alarmed at this.

His worst fears were, thankfully, not confirmed as soon as he entered the dormitory and heard what sounded suspiciously like a low pitched moaning sound coming from Harry's bed. Surmising that this was Harry, he tiptoed over to the bedside. The bed's occupant was evidently unaware of his presence, for he sniffed loudly.

"Harry?" ventured Ron.

"Go away!"

"It's me," said Ron. "Can I come in?"

"Knock yourself out," snapped Harry. Ron sensibly took this as a yes, and opened the hangings a fraction.

Harry was lying on his stomach on top of the covers, his face buried in his pillows, his glasses askew.

"What's up?" asked Ron.

Silence.

"Bad question?"

There was the faintest of affirmative grunts from Harry.

"Want to talk?"

Harry issued a muffled squeak that sounded like it might have been a 'no,' but could very easily have been a 'yes' as well.

"Gwyneth or Sirius?"

Harry looked up at this, and Ron was, for a moment, shocked to see what had happened to his face. He was gaunt and pale and blotchy. His eyes were red and puffy and still moist with tears.

"Both," he said curtly. "They're both as bad as each other."

Ron didn't know what to say to this. "What happened?" he asked, after a considerable pause.

"Sirius," said Harry presently. "I think he hates me."

Ron nearly snorted with laughter. "He doesn't hate you at all," he said. "But I'd say whatever you said to him, it cut him up some."

"How d'you know what I said?" Harry asked, pulling himself into a sitting position, and regarding Ron over the tops of slanted spectacles.

"Sirius went straight into Hagrid's hut afterwards," said Ron, "and he wouldn't come out. Hagrid was banging on the door to get let in after we left. Hermione saw him."

"I told him the truth," said Harry. "That's all I told him."

"No, you hurt him," said Ron.

"Oh, sod this," Harry's tone suddenly became one of anger. "I'm not going to sit around taking this from my friend."

He made as if to get up, but Ron blocked him in.

"Move, Weasley."

"If you don't sit there and talk to me about this I'll tell the entire school I saw you and Draco getting off behind the broomshed," said Ron, without compassion.

"Heartless git!" snapped Harry.

"Self-centred little wanker!" retorted Ron.

Harry's face fell visibly.

"Sorry," said Ron hurriedly. "You know I didn't mean that, surely."

Harry sniffed again.

"Want a tissue?"

Harry shook his head. After a minute or so had passed, during which both boys just sat on Harry's bed and didn't do much of anything, Harry finally spoke. "What's wrong with me?"

Ron looked awkwardly around. He had a very bad feeling he should not be having this conversation. This was a matter for that psychiatrist woman. "I don't think there's anything wrong with you," he said, finally. "I think you're staggeringly normal."

"Like that helps," said Harry.

"You asked for my opinion and I gave it to you," Ron said, flustered. "Why ask if you don't want to know what I think?"

"Yeah, sorry," said Harry quietly.

"Perhaps you ought to go and talk to Sirius," said Ron.

Harry shook his head so violently that his glasses fell off. He picked them up again, and jammed them clumsily back onto his face. "Couldn't do that," he said.

"Why not?"

"I'm not nearly sensible enough for that yet," said Harry. This made Ron smile. "I'd only end up biting his head off or something."

"Okay," said Ron. "But you aren't sitting up here all day feeling sorry for yourself. I won't allow it. You've already missed lunch."

Harry looked surprised at this intelligence. "Oh well," he said, finally, "I wasn't exactly hungry anyway."

"That's the spirit," said Ron, without really meaning it at all. "Look, I reckon you should maybe give them a chance. They're as new to this happy families game as you are. You can learn together."

Harry looked disgusted. "Sorry, bit of a schmaltz overload there," he said. "What are you trying to do? Turn me into a living, breathing episode of Leave It To Beaver?"

"Maybe not then, eh?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't want to be part of that family anyway," he said. "I just wanted to live with Sirius, and for everything to be okay. But now there are moments when I just wonder why I don't go back to Privet Drive and be thankful for what I've got."

"You'll regret saying that."

"Hard to see why," snorted Harry.

"It'll come true. Better to live in some weird, clapped out sitcom than with those raving Muggle lunatics," said Ron, expectorating the last three words violently, as if disgusted by merely pronouncing them.

"Sirius wants us to have a group chat," Harry went on. "With Draco and that Irish shrink. What do you think of that?"

"It can only help," ventured Ron, who was increasingly coming to terms with the fact that the best way to calm Harry down was to tell him what he wanted to hear, rather than what he didn't.

"You're invited," Harry cut into Ron's train of thought, and sent it plunging down an embankment.

"I'd rather not," said Ron. "That woman scares me."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"The way she plays with her biro between each question," said Ron. "And that funny thing she does with her eyes. It's weird."

"Are you coming then?" asked Harry, changing the subject.

"Maybe," said Ron, noncommittally.

They sat in awkward silence for another couple of minutes. Downstairs, Ron could hear people chatting happily to one another in the Common Room, and he cursed fate for having landed him with the one friend who managed to get himself into these irresolvable situations. He could have been downstairs, just kidding around with Dean, or Seamus or Neville. He shouldn't have to be up here, playing confidante to Harry. He should be doing normal teenage things. He stopped, and looked at Harry, and for a moment in his eyes he caught a glimpse of the boy who had been sitting, huddled in a corner of his compartment, that first day on the Hogwarts Express. Very lost, very alone, very ignorant, and very new.

Wasn't that why they were friends?

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Knut for your thoughts," he said.

"Nothing important," said Ron. "I'll come to your silly group therapy session, okay?"

From the look of happiness that spread across Harry's, up until that moment forlorn face, he could tell he had made the 'right' decision in his friend's eyes.

"Thanks," said Harry huskily. "That means a lot to me."

"Your voice is changing," said Ron.

Harry nodded. "I know, you aren't the first one to have commented," he said.

The dormitory door swung open, and Neville came in, accompanied by Seamus.

"We were just about to take our Potions essays down to the lab," said Neville, who looked, as always, very flustered indeed. "Do you want us to take yours?"

Harry nodded. He reached into his cupboard, and pulled out the crumpled sheets of parchment upon which his essay was written. He handed it over to Neville. Ron got up, and went to collect his parchment from his satchel, telling the others he'd left it in the Common Room.

"You okay, Harry?" asked Neville.

"Bollocks, you've been crying again," said Seamus. "I mean ... um, not that it matters, or anything, but you're not okay, are you, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "Afraid not," he said.

Neville tucked the essays into his rucksack. For a moment Harry debated asking for his back, but decided against it. He had burned that particular boat. His mind was made up, and no amount of cajoling or comforting from Ron could stop him. He would do it that evening.

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

But when the time came to actually do it, Harry nearly had second thoughts, nearly got cold feet, nearly turned back. He knew he was being stupid, he knew he was being selfish and arrogant and priggish, but the little voice of reason in his mind that normally tells such things seemed oddly subdued as, looking as innocent as possible, he slipped out of the castle following the last lesson of the day, shook off Ron, who had been keeping an unusually close eye on him all afternoon, and headed vaguely in the direction of Hagrid's little hut. Smoke was pouring from the chimney, and bright candlelight was flickering in the windows. Normally, Harry might have stopped for a chat or a cup of tea or something, but today he walked with a more definite purpose in mind. He passed Hagrid's hut without being spotted, and walked slowly along the fringes of the Forbidden Forest, occasionally tripping on obscured roots and things, until he reached the school's boundary fence, nominally little more than a couple of strands of barbed wire held up between wooden stakes. Beyond here he was free.

Harry took a deep breath, and scrambled over the fence, snaring, as he did so, his robes upon the jagged barbed wire. There was a frightful ripping sound, and he collapsed face first to the boggy ground with a splat.

"Bugger," he breathed, picking himself up. His face was still red and slick with tears, there were dark rings around both his eyes.

He kicked the fencepost viciously, swore at it. Then looked back up the way he had come. Hogwarts castle was sitting, solidly as ever, atop the hill, lights blazing in the twilit sky, looking like some kind of Christmas tree, or maybe a space ship. Behind it, silhouetted against the setting sun were the peaks. Hog's Head, the Cheviot, and several others whose names escaped Harry, such was his present mood.

In any normal circumstances, Harry's heart would have been filled with something approaching joy at that altogether singular sight. To approach a lighted building after dark, and to know that inside that building is hot food and friends, people who care for you, is arguably one of the best feelings a person can have, and certainly is up there with ice cream and cake mix. But, he thought, as he turned away from the castle, these were hardly normal circumstances. Indeed, had there ever been any normal circumstances? Harry knew for sure that he was not normal, at all. No semblance of anything approaching a childhood; it was frankly a miracle he wasn't overcome with blind insanity.

And then he considered his plans, and Sirius' face loomed large in his mind, and he thought; perhaps I just have gone insane, after all.

It'd explain a hell of a lot.

He'd be doing Sirius a favour, surely. His Godfather was unable to see past the end of his own nose. As he had once heard Draco say; 'the old man has his head rammed so far up his arse it's a bloody miracle he hasn't turned himself inside out.' Well, if Sirius was unable to choose between him and Gwyneth, then he, Harry, would choose for him. And Gwyneth would be the one to make him happy. Harry, whilst useful around the house, couldn't make his Godfather happy in every respect. Yeah, Sirius would be better off, surely. He'd be able to live the life he should have been granted ... if his own parents hadn't been so bloody selfish to take it away from him ...

The moor was wet and boggy, and Harry could feel the hem of his robes dragging in the mud, and water seeping through the seems of his patent leather school shoes. But he no longer cared. A niggling little voice at the back of his mind was telling him that it was blind insanity, coming out here with no food in thin work robes, with no protection against the elements. Harry mentally told himself to shut up.

They could have that little cottage all to themselves. More space for the bouncy babies they would no doubt be having in droves. A happy little family. Without Harry to clutter up their lives. He'd cluttered up enough lives as it was. He even, at that moment, felt a pang of sympathy for the Dursleys, forced to take in a child they did not want and barely knew. How he must have turned their orderly little lives upside down. Well, they'd at least be glad to know he'd run away.

What about Ron and Hermione? Harry tried very hard to shrug the mental picture of his friends out of his head, tried desperately to think of a good reason why they would be better off without him. Ron ... Ron could shine for what he really was. He had been right, the previous year, about always being in the shadows, always playing second fiddle, like a faithful bloodhound. Of course, Harry thought ... I can see that now. Well, now was his chance to give Ron a little something back after having taken so much.

And Hermione. He stumbled as he thought, but maintained his balance, and continued walking eastwards across the moor, a solitary figure, barely visible in the gathering darkness of an autumn night. Hermione, Hermione.

Harry stopped, paused, as he tried to think of a single reason for Hermione to be glad of his running away. A month or so ago, that would have been a very easy question to answer; she could merely have run off with Draco Malfoy, and never have to bother with him again. Now, he was not so sure.

Don't be silly, his mind told him. You'd be doing them all a favour. Everyone who lied, who pointed or taunted. You'll show them, Harry.

He looked around him. He had covered a fair distance, and aside from the fact that he was very high up, on a very bleak and very windswept piece of moor land, had very little conception of where he was. He turned back. The castle was still visible, though very distant now. It dawned on Harry how very badly he knew the area he preferred to call his home. After all, save a few visits to Hogsmeade, and that one trip up to visit Sirius and Buckbeak in their cave, when had he actually been off school property? His life seemed to revolve around these three locations; Privet Drive, Diagon Alley, Hogwarts. Everywhere else might as well have been a mere dot on the map, for all Harry knew. It was like living life as a character in a book. Well, he thought. This is the last chapter. Finished, done.

No sequel.

As he watched the castle from afar, he half-expected to see people toiling down the hill in his direction, searching from him. And in one desperate moment he realised that probably, he didn't really want to run at all.

And then it dawned on Harry that because there were no people searching for him, that nobody did care.

He turned, and stepped forwards, and the next thing he knew, the ground seemed to have disappeared, and he was falling, and he hit the ground with a force so strong that something snapped loudly, a bolt of searing pain raced through his body, everything went black, and his whole life didn't flash before his eyes.

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

Gwyneth was worried. Despite the proposal, and despite the knowledge that she ... she, Gwyneth Jones, once voted 'Employee Least Likely To Get Her Leg Over At The Christmas Party' back at the IAMR in Llandudno, was getting married, and despite the very firm and enjoyable knowledge that Sirius was, indeed, dead sexy, she couldn't help feeling, as she sat at her desk with a cup of tea, a chocolate digestive and a pile of Fifth Year essays to mark, that the relationship lacked something.

Something very fundamental.

She picked up the first essay, and read the name at the top. Mildly gratified to discover it was Harry's she read on, paying scant regard to his impossibly neat copperplate hand.

Something missing, something missing.

Well, she thought. The relationship just ... isn't quite up to the hot and horny stage yet. Maybe we got over hot and horny back in the 1980s ... nauseating pet names and chewing each other's ears off in crowded pubs where anyone and everyone could see. Hideous, quite frankly. And really, she was thankful that that was behind her. But was she really? With a pang of longing, she thought of Sirius as he had been, with hair like a cross between Bob Geldof and Shaft, and faded Levis, shrunk to fit. Yummy. She seemed to remember a gold medallion and chest hair that could have suffocated Liverpool, though maybe she'd just been watching too many Starsky and Hutch re-runs on Muggle TV.

Yes, Sirius as he had been, all motorbikes and leather trousers, the kind of guy who thought that 'Charlie' was a romantic name for a perfume. The kind of guy who bought novelty records, and told fart jokes without wincing, and thought Zen Buddhism was right on ... and didn't like Margaret Thatcher one little bit.

So why can't he be like that now?

Unconsciously, she reached the end of Harry's essay without even reading it, without even writing any comments on it. She turned the paper over, and on account of not being bothered to go through it again, gave him a B, and wrote 'nice effort' in chunky red marker pen. She toyed with the idea of using one of her smiley face stickers, but didn't.

Then she picked up the next paper. She was just putting all thoughts of Sirius in leather from her mind, when the door opened, and the last person she needed to see came through it.

"Hello, Sirius."

Sirius was wearing another one of his hideous jumpers. The things seemed to breed in his wardrobe. She was seriously considering hunting down his source and using 'Avada Kedavra' on them ... as far as she was aware the Ministry didn't have a Fashion Police department.

"Remus just arrived. They're putting him in one of the guest bedrooms now."

"Oh, that's nice," said Gwyneth. "Is he coming with us to dinner on Saturday?"

Sirius nodded. "And he's taking me shopping. He has a debonair werewolf's idea of what makes a good set of dress robes. I'll look suave and dashing for the wedding now."

"I'll have to go and speak to him," said Gwyneth. "Haven't seen him in so long ..." she trailed off, became aware that Sirius was looking at her as though he had something more important to say than that.

"Was there anything else?"

Sirius nodded. "Um. Seen Harry?"

She looked up, glanced again at his essay. "Not recently, why?"

"He was meant to turn up for a group therapy session," explained Sirius. "Sinead set it up - she wanted to help Harry and Draco work through some of their anger towards each other, and their parents, and life in general."

"A kind of therapeutic china smashing session?" asked Gwyneth. "Damn ... I was meant to be there too, wasn't I? Sorry, I just got carried away with all my marking," and daydreaming about you, sex god.

Sirius nodded. "But don't worry," he said. "It's broken down in disarray. Only me, Ron, Hermione and Draco turned up, and I think Sinead might have had a nervous breakdown. She kept going on about someone called Keith, and then she said 'the Time of Madness is upon us,' or something."

"And Harry didn't turn up either?"

Sirius nodded. "I spoke to Harry earlier," he said. "He said he thought it sounded like a good idea. I thought that meant he was going to turn up, but evidently something more important grabbed his attention. I was just wondering if ..."

Gwyneth shook her head. "I'm awfully sorry, darling," she said. "I've seen not hide nor hair of him since Potions this morning. He was awfully sullen in the lesson ... kept flicking 'v' signs at me under the table."

Sirius looked shocked. "I'll have words with him ..."

"That'll only make it worse," said Gwyneth. "Whenever we have words with him, he goes and half drowns himself. He's spending so much time in the Hospital Wing they're thinking of dedicating a park bench to him."

Sirius gave her a 'that was uncalled for,' look. "I wouldn't really be worried," he said. "It's just, I spoke to him earlier in the day. And I think I upset him. Actually, I know I upset him."

Gwyneth put the top back on her pen; clearly no more marking was going to be done here for a while. "Carry on."

"After you spoke with me this morning, I tried to talk to him, to get him to calm down. And I'm horribly afraid I've made things worse."

"Well, what happened?" asked Gwyneth.

Sirius looked awkward. "Well, he walked out on me. He told me where I could put my opinions. He told me where I could put my marriage ... hell, he told me to perform the anatomically impossible. We both said some horrible things to one another."

"He's probably just locked himself in his dormitory," said Gwyneth. "Did you try there?"

Sirius shook his head. "Perhaps I should go have a look," he suggested.

Gwyneth nodded. "Rampant sex later?" she asked, as he turned to head for the door.

"I'll be waiting for you," said Sirius, flashing her a grin.

"Without the jumper?"

Sirius nodded.

"Very well. See you later."

He closed the door softly, and a moment later she heard the sound of his footfall receding down the passage outside. Absent-mindedly, she picked up Harry's essay, and read the last paragraph.

Harry had not written a Potions essay.

"Oh bugger," she said.

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

Ron and Hermione were sitting together up in the Gryffindor Common Room when Sirius and Gwyneth came tearing in through the Portrait Hole. It being very rare for teachers to venture into the House Common Rooms, every single head in the place swivelled round to look at the both of them, and Fred and George, who had been working on something that they would let nobody else see over at a secluded table, disappeared upstairs.

Sirius sought out the pair, and he and Gwyneth came over.

"Ron, Hermione. We were wondering if we ... er, collectively that is," said Sirius.

"... could have a word," Gwyneth finished his sentence for him.

"Have a seat," said Hermione. Ron gave Gwyneth a frosty look. He had still not forgiven her for many things, including the loss of Harry's sterling silver stirring rod earlier in the day. Gwyneth pretended to ignore him.

"Is this about what I think it might be about?" asked Ron, his eyes darting from Sirius to Gwyneth, and then back again. Sirius nodded.

"Probably," said Sirius, he sat down, and there was a loud yowling noise as the cushion on his armchair turned out to be Crookshanks, who wriggled free and fled across the Common Room, hissing. For once, Hermione did not follow her pet.

"Harry?"

Sirius nodded. "I've been worried about him ever since he stormed off at lunchtime ..."

"He stormed off?" asked Hermione. "Where to?"

"We were, well," began Sirius, "hoping that you would have some kind of an idea about that. Clearly you were as in the dark as we were."

Hermione nodded. "You mean he's run away or something?"

Sirius nodded. "We think he might have done," he said. "We were wondering if he'd been saying anything to you? Anything at all ..."

"We know he's been unhappy," Gwyneth cut in. She handed Hermione Harry's Potions essay. Hermione unfolded it diligently.

"At the back," Sirius prompted.

Hermione scanned the back page of the essay. Underneath his conclusion (shrinking solutions definitely do have a place in modern society) Harry had added an extra paragraph.

"By the time you read this," Hermione read, "I will probably be long gone. I don't suppose you ever realised how much you've ruined my life. Take it from me - you have, you've made it a complete misery ... he's spelt misery wrong ... and now you're marrying Sirius. You just can't keep your nose out, can you?" Gwyneth had turned a bright shade of red. "Don't bother looking for me. I don't want to be found. I just want the satisfaction ... oh, he's misspelled satisfaction too ... of knowing that you know it's your fault. Die soon," the last word was 'bitch' but she spared Gwyneth's feelings, and didn't read it in front of Ron, who probably would have agreed.

"Where's he gone then?" asked Ron. "We thought he just chickened out of that therapy session."

"That's just it," said Sirius. "We think it might be a suicide note."

"Harry's not that warped," began Hermione. Sirius and Ron both gave her a look.

"Well, actually," began Ron. "He was saying he wanted to die when I got him down off the top of the Astronomy Tower. And there've been those awful dreams. Really bad ones too," he paused. "Not that I think Harry's stupid enough to top himself."

"We just want your help," said Sirius impassively. "We want you to try and help us by helping Harry. Now, I'm sure this is just a plea for help. He wants to be found if I know my own Godson ..."

"That's just it," Hermione cut in. "How long have you actually known Harry?"

"All his life, why?" said Sirius.

Hermione merely shook her head at him. "Ah, no," she said. "That's where you're wrong. Harry is fifteen years, three months and two days old. Out of all that time, how much of it would you say you have spent in his company?"

Sirius suddenly looked very crestfallen. "Not long," he admitted, after a very pregnant pause.

"Couple of months, if that," said Hermione. "You hardly know him at all. Now, we're his friends. He talks to us ... we know him better than either of you."

Sirius and Gwyneth were both looking at her like small children.

"Harry doesn't fool people like this," said Hermione. "He is without the shadow of a doubt, the most honest, loyal and good person I've ever known. This is below him. I'd say it was a trick ..."

Gwyneth looked very puzzled. "But Hermione, surely," she began.

"Oh, this is his handwriting," said Hermione. "There's no doubt Harry wrote this note, or whatever it's meant to be. But he's not in his right mind now, is he? Ever heard of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?"

Ron shook his head. Sirius looked up. "Isn't that a Muggle thing?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. "Yeah," she said. "But it's what Harry has. I'm sure of it."

"What is it?" asked Ron.

"A psychiatric thing," said Hermione. "Where someone reacts badly to a traumatic and stressful situation. Well, the last couple of months have been nothing if not traumatic and stressful," she finished.

Sirius, Gwyneth and Ron exchanged haunted looks.

"That's why I think this note is genuine," said Hermione, in a soft voice. "He doesn't want to be found. And I think it may be a matter of time before he does something very stupid indeed, if he hasn't," her words trailed off into the ether. "If he hasn't already ..."

Sirius swore loudly, causing the other Gryffindors present to look up in alarm. He looked up at the ceiling.

"Sometimes, Prongs, I think you just like to sit up there and have a good laugh at me, don't you? I bet it's just your idea of a joke; landing me with a goddamn psycho kid! Dead bastard!"

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

Hagrid was sitting at the rough wooden table in his hut, an oil lamp burning, a half eaten loaf of bread with a knife stuck upright in it lay between him and the other occupant of the room, who was twiddling his thumbs.

"I'm sure he'll be back in a minute," said the other man, regarding Hagrid with something approaching concern. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Hagrid looked at Remus Lupin. "I'll be fine," he sniffed. Upon finding out about Harry's latest crisis, he had got through a grand total of fifty handkerchiefs, and cried enough to drown Middlesex. And there was not a damn thing Remus could think of to do to stop him. Hagrid, for all his brute strength, had always been the first one to be overcome by sentimentality and raw emotion. He remembered with something approaching fondness how the vicar in Godric's Hollow had been forced to hold up James and Lily's wedding service because Hagrid had been making so much noise.

This, however, this was something much more serious.

The two men sat in silence for a few moments longer, and then, finally, heard the sound of footsteps in the wet mud outside, and the sounds of two men talking very loudly and quite angrily to one another.

Remus got up, and went to open the door. It was Sirius and another man, this one wrapped in a large woollen travelling cloak with a hood.

"What's he doing here?" asked the other man, in tones that could have cut through diamond. Remus realised instantly who the other man was.

"He was all I could find," sighed Sirius, addressing this remark to Remus and Hagrid, who had got up from the table and was standing behind him in the doorway.

"Watch your tongue, Black, or you might find I don't help you at all," said the other man fiercely. "Honestly, I only come in to school to check if I've had any letters, and I get shanghaied into precious Potter's latest crisis."

"Do be quiet, Snape," said Sirius.

Snape lowered the hood of his cloak. "Well, honestly," he said. "You might have asked Professor Flitwick, or somebody of that ilk."

"Professor Flitwick is attending salsa dance classes at the Three Broomsticks," said Sirius. "It would not be fair to interrupt him."

"And I should be sitting at home, partaking of a glass of Madeira and a slice of Battenburg with Mrs. Snape whilst listening to 'A Book At Bedtime' on the wireless," said Snape.

"There's a Mrs. Snape now?" asked Sirius, smiling. "Who's the unlucky woman? Moaning Myrtle?"

"Hello, Lupin," said Snape, in tones suggesting that he was not pleased to see any of them. "Hagrid."

"Evening, Professor," said Hagrid, stiffly and formally.

"Let it be known I am here out of no personal interest whatsoever," said Snape. "I am here only to fulfil my duty as a man in loco parentis should do. There is a missing child, and I consider it my ..."

"What does loco parentis actually mean?" asked Remus, looking at Sirius.

"I think he's trying to say his mum and dad have gone mad in Spanish," said Sirius, clapping Snape on the shoulder. "Now, come on, let's put our heads together. We've got a kid out on the moors somewhere. And we have to find him."

"And the weather forecast calls for blizzards tonight," said Snape, in a tone of immense satisfaction.

"Well that's good," said Sirius sarcastically. "We can have a snowball fight."

Hagrid was looking angrier and angrier at every passing snipe.

"How you three can stand there making out like schoolboys when little Harry's lost somewhere, and might even be dead!" he exclaimed. "You properly ought to be ashamed of yourselves!"

The other three men stopped, and looked at him.

"You're right, of course," said Remus. "Okay, Sirius. Battle plan?"

Sirius nodded. He delved into the pocket of his overcoat, and pulled out a sheepskin Quidditch glove.

"This belongs to Harry," he said.

"Bravo," said Snape, sarcastically. "You do realise he's probably just hiding in the castle somewhere? He'll come out as soon as he gets hungry."

"I will feed you to my hippogriff if you aren't careful," said Sirius darkly. "We did, of course, check the Marauders Map for any sign of him in the castle, and it came up blank. He is not on school property."

"How did you find the Map?" asked Remus and Snape at the same time.

Sirius gave them both an extremely annoyed look. "That is not important," he said. "Now, Hagrid, we'll need Fang to get the scent."

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

Gwyneth finished pacing the floor of Dumbledore's study, sat down, and then stood up again, and continued pacing for a further five minutes. The other occupant of the room watched her go.

After ten minutes had passed, Dumbledore, who was sitting behind his desk feeding Fawkes the phoenix sunflower seeds out of the palm of his hand, looked up and said. "For heaven's sake, Gwyneth. You'll wear out my carpet."

Gwyneth stopped, and walked over to the window. "Sorry, headmaster," she said softly. "I just can't keep still. I'm that worried."

Dumbledore regarded her over the rims of his spectacles. "Of course," he said. "I do understand."

Professor McGonagall checked her watch. It was coming up to eight o'clock. The search party had been gone nearly a full hour.

Gwyneth turned away from the window, and came back over to sit down. "It is my fault. Harry deserves so much better than what we can give him. We'd have been good Godparents, but lousy parents."

"Don't say that," said Dumbledore sternly. "There is no way of knowing how things might have turned out. Sinead was telling me about her Trousers of Time earlier."

Professor McGonagall looked up, alarmed. "I'm sorry, Albus? I did hear you correctly?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I can assure you that you did, Minerva. The Trousers of Time ... a little theory to which many people happen to subscribe. However, here it remains irrelevant."

Gwyneth took her seat again. "You know, I'm seriously considering breaking off the engagement."

Professor McGonagall shifted her weight uncomfortably.

"It just seems so pointless," Gwyneth went on. "I mean, look, Harry's going to be set against us whatever happens. It kind of makes me wish I'd never agreed to marry Sirius in the first place. How easier it would have been for both of us."

Dumbledore regarded her sadly. "I'm truly sorry you feel that way," he said. "Believe me, I have no qualms in saying that I believe you are perfect for Sirius. You balance him out, you bring him down if he gets too hyperactive, and he brings you up if the opposite happens. To be able to find someone with whom you click so instantaneously ... that's a rare thing, Gwyneth. Both you and Sirius are extremely fortunate. And not just for that reason ..."

Gwyneth looked up. "What's the other reason, then?"

"You are blessed," said Dumbledore simply. "Not only do you have each other, but you have Harry, and he's one of the most beautiful, affectionate, good natured, bright young things you could ever hope to be acquainted with."

Gwyneth bit her lip sullenly.

"You have to appreciate Harry," said Dumbledore. "Appreciate him for what he is. I believe he makes you both complete."

Gwyneth nodded. "I don't know, Albus. When somebody hates you that much. There's a limit to how much you are prepared to give."

"Harry doesn't hate you," said Dumbledore. "You just got off to a tricky start. That's fixable. There's nothing there a sensible chat and plenty of give and take can't solve."

"Harry's all take and no give," said Gwyneth, running a hand swiftly through her blonde hair. Dumbledore almost looked shocked.

"I agree he is most discriminatory with his affections," he said. "But there is a reason for that. Harry has hardly been the victim of progressive parenting. Truth to tell, he has had a miserable childhood, and I for one regret the incidents that led me to believe a life amongst Muggle relatives would be better for him. He's not had a whole lot of love, as Led Zeppelin once sang."

Gwyneth smiled.

"And equally, he does not know how to love indiscriminately," said Dumbledore. "That's no bad thing in itself, but it does mean that it takes time to get to know him."

"So how come Sirius and Harry have such an excellent relationship, straight off?" asked Gwyneth.

Dumbledore's mouth curled upwards into a slight smile. "Sirius is the only link Harry has to his past. His real past, his heritage. They are also extraordinarily alike. What did Sirius give him at birth?"

Gwyneth thought back to that sultry September day ... Harry's Naming Day, when they had crowded into the tiny church at Godric's Hollow. The closest friends of the family had touched him lightly on the forehead with their wands, and bestowed their gifts upon the baby.

"Personality, or charisma, I think," said Gwyneth. She had forgotten all about that.

"A wise choice," said Dumbledore. "And of course, you are quite right. There's a bit of Sirius in Harry. He's a complex composite of all that is best about the people who loved him. That's why you need to be the one to love him. For that love to be truly expressed. It may seem unfair, but it is you who must do the work here. And I can't promise it will be easy, but when a boy such as Harry bestows his trust and affection upon you, that is a wonderful feeling."

Gwyneth sighed. Dumbledore was, of course, quite right.

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

The lantern borne by Hagrid swinging gently from side to side before them, the party cut a treacherous path along the ridge-way. The Hog's Back was a large ridge, almost sheer on one side, that ran in an east west direction for about three miles not far from the school, and completely coincidentally marked the border between England and Scotland. It was the remains of an ancient glacial valley, and if you did not know it was there, it would be very easy to fall off it. Many had done in the past. For this reason the four men chose their footsteps very carefully.

"How far is it around?" asked Remus, having to shout over the rising wind. "Is it even worth trying to go down to see the bottom?"

"Put it this way!" roared Sirius. "We'd be looking for a dead body if we did!"

Remus shuddered inwardly. "We'd better not then!" he shouted. "We should keep looking ... we need to keep looking."

After they had gone a few hundred more yards, Hagrid brought them up short before a giant, monolithic black rock that was poking up from the ground. It was an erratic, left over from the days when ice covered northern Britain, although legend said that it had been put there by a local wizard as a marker so he could land his broomstick safely. It said something about the nature of reality in an area of such high magical concentration that both these stories were in fact, true.

"Why have we stopped?" asked Snape impatiently.

Hagrid produced from inside his haversack a greasy paper package. "Rations!" he said. None of the others had thought to bring any food, and so they were all suddenly extremely hungry indeed. They moved around into the lee of the erratic, and Sirius conjured up a tarpaulin groundsheet to keep them from getting too wet. They sat down gratefully. They had not come far from Hogwarts, but the trek was uphill, and arduous after dark, even with the aid of Hagrid's enormous storm lantern, and the combined effect of the wandlight. They were all tired.

Hagrid's rations turned out to be four rounds each of egg mayonnaise sandwiches. Snape regarded his with suspicion, but Sirius and Remus ate hungrily and gratefully. Hagrid fed Fang with dog biscuits, whilst taking great swigs from a silver hip flask.

The wind was coming in great gusts now, and clouds were being blown rapidly across the pitch black sky. There were not even any stars to be seen on high.

"What are our chances, realistically?" asked Remus, finishing off his sandwiches.

Snape looked up. "Well, people have been known to survive on the moors for days at a time," he said. "We don't even know that Harry has come this way, except for the vague leadings of that dog," he gestured to Fang, whose nose they had been following.

"But not in the middle of a storm like this," said Remus darkly.

Snape nodded. "I very much doubt Potter was carrying a tent and rations," he said. "In a storm, his chances of survival would be very dramatically cut. These moors are very exposed. He could die within a few hours. If it snows, then he will freeze to death."

Sirius looked pale by the wandlight. "Is there no hope?" he asked.

Snape shrugged. "Personally, I don't believe that walking around these moors and by implication endangering our own lives is going to help the situation. The trouble is, based on the scant information you and Lupin have deemed fit to enlighten me with, I cannot tell whether Potter has merely run away, or has tried to kill himself."

"The note was unclear on that point," said Sirius. "It could have been taken either way."

"Nevertheless," said Snape, "you fear the worst?"

Sirius nodded. "You haven't been at school over the past few weeks. He's a changed boy. He's not right."

"So likely, Potter is merely crying for help," said Snape. "I suspected as much. Most suicides are cries for help, according to statistics. That is why so few are successful - people very rarely actually want to kill themselves. Of course, Potter may be the exception."

"And will you stop calling him Potter?" snapped Sirius.

Snape shrugged, and took a bite out of his sandwich. "You asked for my counsel, Black, and I gave it to you. If you don't like the way I speak, then there is a two hundred foot high ridge to our immediate left. Feel free to walk off the edge ... anytime is good."

Sirius scowled at Snape.

"If Potter is still alive, his best chance is to make it to an area where he might be seen by Muggle Mountain Rescue Teams," Snape went on. "The area immediately west of here is a Muggle National Park. There are plenty of hikers and farmers who would spot him if he wandered across their land. There is also," he added, a tone of sarcastic satisfaction creeping once more into his voice, "a firing range, belonging to the Ministry of Defence ..."

"You seem well versed on Muggles, for a Slytherin," observed Remus.

"I deem it fit to find out what I can about my environs," said Snape. "If such investigations include Muggles, then I do not complain," he finished the last of his sandwiches, and accepted a swig of Firewhisky from Hagrid's hip flask. "Besides, I actually happen to find Muggles interesting."

"Very laudable," said Sirius, without actually meaning it.

"So what do we do?" asked Remus. "Keep going, head on home? What?"

"My immediate inclination would be to head for Hogwarts," said Snape. "I do not anticipate there is much we can do tonight. Maybe in daylight we could fly overhead, but I do not suspect Potter will survive that long. This wind is really picking up."

"He could be in the lee of something," said Remus, trying his best to sound hopeful, even though he was increasingly agreeing with Snape. "He might have found shelter. He isn't a stupid kid."

Snape looked up, he had been staring at his shoes. "Maybe," he said. "Of course, what Potter knows about all terrain survival techniques could be written on a grain of rice. I doubt very much he has the aptitude to construct himself a bivouac."

There was a pregnant pause while Sirius and Remus wondered what a bivouac was, and decided not to ask Snape for fear of looking too stupid.

"Of course," Snape went on. "If we were Muggles we could have flights of helicopters scouring the land, with powerful searchlights. Unfortunately, the last time someone tried to fly a Muggle machine around here, the residual local magic turned a twenty million pound Tornado fighter jet into a sperm whale and a small vase of petunias."

"I heard about that," said Remus. "They say the whale met a very sticky end."

"Falling to earth from four thousand feet does that to you," said Sirius glumly, tracing his name in the air with his wand. Remus noticed that he misspelled Black. The characters hung in the frosty air, before fading into nothing. Sirius placed his wand down on the ground and sighed.

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

Harry opened one eye cautiously. He appeared to be lying on a patch of very soft, mossy grass. Somewhere, wind was blowing very loudly, but wherever it was that he was, he seemed to be relatively sheltered from it, which was an immediate relief, for it certainly sounded as if a fierce storm was brewing.

He could feel a strange pressure on his chest. Carefully, for his body was aching all over, he propped himself up on his elbows, and reached out with his hand. He touched something small and furry, yelled in horror, and recoiled.

There was a creature sitting on his stomach, sniffling at him.

He tugged his wand free of his robes, and whispered, "Lumos."

Instantly, the small hollow he had landed in was filled with the strange, blue wandlight. And Harry saw that the creature sitting on his stomach was a small, spherical creature, covered in fur the colour of custard.

"A puffskein," he breathed. He had never actually seen one in the flesh before. They were too tame for Hagrid to bother bringing to Care of Magical Creatures classes, although Ron claimed to have once had one for a pet, and it had met a very sticky end indeed. At least it meant he wasn't in any danger. Puffskeins were very tame creatures.

The one sitting on his stomach regarded the boy with interest. Occasionally a small pink tongue would flick out, and it would slurp noisily, as if hungry.

It dawned on Harry that he was utterly exhausted, very hungry, very, very thirsty, and that every bone in his body seemed to be crying out in protest. He made as if to sit up, and the puffskein obligingly hopped off its perch to afford him better mobility, though it remained crouched at his side, making little slurping noises.

Now Harry could see just how dire his predicament was. His leg was broken, twisted backwards at a hideous, repulsive angle. Fighting the sudden urge to vomit, he leaned forwards, and very gingerly rolled up his trouser leg. The ankle was bruised and battered. Harry tried to move it, but was met with only a terrifying numbness.

And this time, he remembered exactly what he had been planning to do.

"Well, that didn't work," he said out loud. The puffskein hopped up and down and gibbered at him. Harry, feeling utterly exhausted, flopped down onto his back, resting his head on what appeared to be a particularly thick patch of moss. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the sound of water dripping, and the air seemed moist, as if it was just on the verge of raining. There was a pleasant, earthy smell, clean air and heather mingling in the freezing night air. Harry's breath condensed before his very eyes.

He tried a very weak, "Hello!" and waved his wand about a bit. The puffskein, alarmed, jumped backwards.

"Hello!"

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

"What's the time now?" asked Sirius, hugging himself to keep warm. Even though he was clad in very thick, fur lined boots, an enormous fluffy overcoat, and one of those funny Russian hats with the earflaps, the biting wind was still getting to him.

"Quarter past eleven!" yelled Remus.

"How far have we gone?"

"Not far!" came the reply. The promised snow was falling quite rapidly now, cascading from the sky. Overhead the clouds raced, blown along by the fearsome wind that was rapidly becoming a fully fledged gale. And every now and then, a distant rumbling echoed through the night, and lightning forked across the sky. Sirius had never seen lightning in a snowstorm before, and the effect was very scary indeed.

Only Snape looked completely unperturbed. With renewed energy and vigour, he was walking ahead of the other men, clasping Fang's lead in his right hand, whilst Fang sniffed cautiously at the ground.

"This is getting silly!" said Sirius. They had been toiling uphill, following the line of the Hog's Back for hours now, and they had still found no way down, and still there was no sign of Harry. "We should have put a Locator Charm on him!"

"You had no way of knowing he was going to do something so bloody stupid!" said Snape fiercely. "You mustn't blame yourself, Black. If Potter's lost his marbles, there's nothing any of us could have done. I always said the boy was a liability."

"Watch it, short-arse!" snapped Sirius.

Remus was looking around anxiously. He appeared agitated about something.

"Anyway, this is the kind of night when witches are abroad," said Snape.

"Hope they went somewhere nice and warm," said Sirius sarcastically. "Honestly, how archaic does this man get?"

"I can range from anything between five and five hundred arcs on the scale," said Snape, "and right now, you are making me very angry indeed, Black. So if you value your ability to reproduce, I suggest you shut up."

"I suggest you shut up!" Sirius repeated in a low, mocking whisper at Snape's back. Snape did not turn around. "Sad little wanker. No wonder I hated him at school."

"You went beyond hate. It was outright loathing," said Snape, who had heard his previous remark.

"But it was so much fun ..."

"Itching powder, Black," said Snape darkly. "I never ever forgave you for that. Even I didn't think you would stoop so low."

Sirius tried to look innocent. Snape whirled around to face him, levelling his glowing wand at the other man. "Itching powder in my cornflakes," he hissed. "Do you have any idea how impossible it is to scratch the lining of your stomach without eviscerating yourself?"

"No," said Sirius flatly.

"Then rest assured, Black, that I hate you more. The words have not been coined that could describe the depth of my loathing for every sinew of your body. I hate you so much I would gladly feed you to any number of nasty creatures with sharp, pointy teeth. I tell you now that the day they put you in Azkaban was the happiest day of my life. I hate you with a burning passion that will echo down through the ages and be recorded by scribes in the far distant future as they struggle to prove that I hate you more than anything, anybody, I have ever encountered."

"Snape's having issues," said Sirius, in a mocking tone of voice.

"I am having issues with you," said Snape. "Because I loathe you."

"I would never have guessed. Well, Severus," said Sirius, enunciating every syllable of the word as though he was pronouncing the name of a particularly vile and unpleasant bacteria, "let me state for the record that from the moment I first set eyes upon you, when you put the Sorting Hat on, and I saw the expression on your face from where I was sitting, I knew that there, there is a worthless, scheming, conniving little turd with all the tact and delicacy of an especially violent kick to the groin!"

Snape did not look offended. Instead, he looked satisfied. Then, after a few brief seconds during which it snowed a bit more, he said. "I'm glad you got that off your chest. Now that we have established just how much we hate each other, perhaps we can concentrate on the matter in hand."

He turned around, and began to walk away from them. Sirius and Remus scurried to catch up.

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

Meanwhile, having run out of constructive things to do, owing mainly to the fact that more of his bones seemed to be broken, or contorted in various interesting ways than he had initially suspected, Harry was taking stock of his situation.

The first thought that sprang to mind was that he was going to die. And the second was that even though a few hours before he had wanted to die, indeed, he had had the intention of killing himself, now he did not, and the third, by implication was that since he was going to die anyway, he was rather buggered. This did not, in Harry's estimation, amount to an especially constructive appraisal of the situation, but then there you go.

Oh bugger, he thought.

Even the puffskein had gone away somewhere. He could hear it rooting around in a nearby clump of gorse, searching for little winter bugs to feast upon, having exhausted all Harry's food supplies whilst he was unconscious.

And on top of it all, it looks like I'm going to become a snow boy before very much longer. Fluffy white flakes that in more auspicious circumstances would have delighted him were cascading from the sky, and every so often thunder roared. It was the kind of night that belonged to the darkness, when humans should properly tuck themselves away and wait to reclaim their world by day. And here he was, stuck in the middle of it, with a broken everything.

A terrifying numbness, which Harry was not altogether sure was down to the cold, or to more serious internal damage to his body, seemed to be creeping slowly up his legs. At least, he thought, it dulled the pain a bit. If he was going to die, he would rather not die in extreme pain.

After a while, sheer tiredness and exhaustion overcame him, and his eyes closed, and his body stopped shivering as hypothermia finally set in, and he began to drift in and out of consciousness, until he was not sure how much time had passed; he estimated several hours, or whether he was sleeping, wakeful, dreaming or hallucinating. Time and time again he heard voices calling his name, drifting across the moors, saw people walking along in the middle distance, following their lighted wands, and he tried to call out to them, but they did not reply, and they did not heed his presence, and he collapsed again onto his mossy bed, and drifted again into sleep ... or had he woken up again? For now he was still lying in the same place, and the people were drawing closer to him, and he could see that there were three of them ... three men, wearing black cloaks that dragged in the snow as they came.

The first man crouched down next to Harry, and began to gently caress his hair, speaking softly.

"Dad?"

The man shook his head, and took down his hood. Harry could not see his face very well, but the wand light was reflected in a pair of round glasses not unlike his own.

"I have something very important to tell you, Harry," said the man. He leant in closer over Harry, and brushed a lock of hair out of his green eyes, and Harry caught a fleeting glimpse of a lightning bolt scar on the man's forehead.

"Are you me?" asked Harry, his voice croaky. "Am I awake, or is this a dream?"

"Neither," said Harry, smiling. "Your eyebrows have frozen, by the way."

"I can't help that," said Harry. "Why don't I hurt anymore?"

Harry shrugged. "This is important," he began. "There is someone nearby who you must not trust one little bit. You have a mortal enemy ..."

"Everyone knows that."

"A different one," said Harry, looking at him tenderly. "There is an impostor. Someone is not who he seems."

"That's a very cryptic warning," said Harry.

"Cryptic warnings are all you get in dream states," said Harry. "It's just one of those things, I suppose. I could tell you to beware the Ides of March, if you want."

"Should I? What is the Ides of March?" asked Harry.

"You probably ought to beware of it," said Harry.

Harry gingerly stretched out a hand. He was not altogether surprised to discover that his hand went right through his other self.

"What are you?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "One of those phenomena, I expect. Ron wants a word ..."

Harry faded into the distance, and the other men were approaching, taking down their hoods. Harry found himself staring into the faces of Ron and Draco, but both of them were older ... not by much, only a few years or so. It was unnerving quite how much grown-up Ron looked like Percy.

"I wish you wouldn't think that, Harry," said Ron.

"You can read my mind?"

"I am your mind," said Ron.

"How come Harry didn't tell me that?" asked Harry.

Ron mimed drinking. "He's had a bit too much," he said. "Look. There're some people nearby who can help you. They're nearby, but you're going to need to stay awake, and shout for all you're worth, otherwise they'll pass by ..."

"Who are they?"

"Some kind of phenomenon, I'll be bound," said Ron. "You know, there is unusually high residual magic here. You weren't around for the bit in Naxcivan when Lucius Malfoy revealed his evil plans, but there's some sort of very magic thing near here, some kind of big rock, and something else called a diagonal ley that connects you to something else that's very important but whose name I can't tell you right now. Mainly because I don't actually know what it is. But in case you were wondering, that's what's causing this. That and something your Grandfather once did."

"That?"

"That and you're freezing to death, and this is really a hallucination, at the end of the day," said Ron kindly. "But I shouldn't really tell you that. Oh, and take note of what Harry told you. He knows where he's coming from. He's a big shot where I come from."

"Where's that?"

"England, I think," said Ron, grinning mischievously.

Ron waved his wand in the air, and promptly vanished. Harry's eyes drifted over to Draco.

Draco merely grinned at him.

"Watch my face very closely, Potter," he said, winking.

Harry opened his eyes, and Draco instantly vanished. A rush of coldness sweeping over his body told him that in all likelihood he was probably awake again. He stared up at the sky, across which clouds were racing at full pelt.

There was light moving, hundreds of feet above him! He could see it!

"Hey!"

"Hey what?" asked Draco, looking affronted. "I told you to watch my face, damn it."

"Piss off, Malfoy," said Harry bitterly. "I don't need these bloody hallucinations."

"Who said this was a hallucination?" asked Draco. "Now watch my face."

Harry fixed his own eyes on Draco's pale grey ones, and watched. Draco's lips seemed to be getting thinner. The skin across his face was growing tighter, the eyes receding into their sockets, the cheekbones becoming higher and more defined, the sleek blond hair crumbling to the dust from whence it came.

"Draco?"

Draco shook his head. "I'm not really Draco," he said. "I am your past, your present, and your future, Harry Potter."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Draco's pupils were becoming bloodshot, redder, and redder. The whole structure of his face seemed to be changing ... the eyes narrowed to slits, the nose altered beyond recognition.

But was it? As Harry witnessed Draco's disturbing transformation, the most horrible feeling that he knew into who's face he was looking suddenly overcame him.

"I think you thought you'd killed me," said Draco.

"Killed you?" asked Harry.

Draco flashed his new, red eyes at Harry, and then licked his lips, his tongue playing about his mouth like that of a snake, testing the air. When he next spoke, even his voice had changed, to that cold, high tone that Harry knew so well now.

"You thought you'd defeated me. You thought I stepped out of the Circle, and that that was my end. Moreover, you have cost me my servant, Potter."

"You're dead," breathed Harry.

Voldemort shook his head. "No," he said. "I was never really alive. My battle with the Snake Lord Slytherin was brief, but he was the loser. He was returned to the depths of hell, where he belongs. I ... on the other hand. I still have unfinished business to attend to."

"You're a dream," breathed Harry. "You can't hurt me. You can't hurt me. I'm imagining you. You can't do anything to me."

"Oh, is that so?" asked Voldemort. He produced from within his cloak, a small knife, with a blade that sparkled silver in the wandlight, and appeared so thin, so sharp that it was almost transparent. "As yet I am still weak, Harry Potter. And you will not be dying by my hand now. But I stand by what I said in Naxcivan. There will come a day when you lose. Every time we have met so far, there has been one thing I have not considered, one aspect, or quality, call it what you will, of your mortal existence that I have failed to take into account. But there will come a day when your luck runs out. There will come a day when I am a step ahead of you, Harry. On that day, I will finish what I started, all those years ago."

He leant in closer, and pressed the blade to Harry's neck. Harry felt a sharp pain, and hot blood flowing over the surface of his skin.

"It would seem, Harry Potter, that I have achieved the impossible," said Voldemort.

Harry put his hand to his neck. It came away crimson. He was definitely bleeding. His eyes travelled slowly upwards to meet Voldemort's.

"And Dumbledore said it couldn't be done," he hissed. "Well, really."

And with that, he vanished.

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

Dawn was breaking over the moors as the party, tired and weary through lack of sleep, trudged stiffly along the line of the ridge, their footprints now marking their path in the pristine blanket of snow that covered the scene, turning that picture of stark beauty into a sparkling winter wonderland.

The storm had moved off, and behind it had come clear, cold skies. Now the sun was beginning to creep up in the east, directly ahead of them, and tendrils of yellow light were cast across the vivid blue sky.

It was bitterly cold.

They stopped again to drink fresh coffee out of another of Hagrid's flasks. It was warm and most welcome, but more importantly it kept Sirius awake. Even though he knew that their chances of finding Harry alive were nigh on impossible, there was still the faintest hope in the back of his mind, the tiniest chink of light at the end of whatever horrendous tunnel it was they were all stuck in.

Remus sighed, and sat down on a rock looking out over the glacial valley below. There was no sign of any form of human habitation, save for a few sheep grazing on the far hillside. After a couple of moments sitting there, observing the tableau spread out before him, he was joined by Sirius, who was feeling similarly contemplative.

"This is all my fault, you know," he said, after a couple of minutes had passed during which neither man spoke.

Remus looked at him. "It would be a cliché of the highest order," he said, "for me to start comforting you and telling you that there was nothing you could have done. That explains why I'm not going to."

"You think it was my fault?" began Sirius, but Remus cut him off.

"And nor did I actually say that," he said mysteriously. "I'd just rather not surrender to every crude Muggle cliché in the book just yet."

Sirius plucked a blade of grass between his thumb and forefinger, and held it up to the light, watching it intensely, as if it might suddenly try to do something to him.

"I think I understand," he said. He took another sip of Hagrid's coffee, which tasted more like something else entirely, and then passed the flask over to Remus, who accepted in gratefully and clasped it between his hands, eking warmth back into his frozen digits.

Snape was on his feet, stomping around to keep warm, his arms wrapped tightly about himself, his vast woollen winter cloak seemingly no protection against the elements. His heavy boots were crunching on the frosty ground. As he watched him, Sirius had to smile at just how strange he looked without his normal, lank, greasy hair which had been shaved off for reasons nobody was entirely clear about, though bits of it were starting to grow back now.

He walked over to the edge of the ridge, and peered over the edge, as if determined to spot something down there. Remus and Sirius both looked on. Snape seemed to be looking worried about something, his brow was furrowed and his eyes narrowed to mere slits.

Finally he spoke, quietly. "Come and have a look at this."

Sirius and Remus were both on their feet in an instant, and hurried over to peer over the edge with Snape.

"What are we looking for?" asked Sirius. "Have you spotted Harry?"

Snape pointed dramatically. "That looks like something down there," he said.

Sirius did not reply to this; the reason being Snape was blatantly pointing at something that wasn't there. "I don't see a single thing," said Sirius coldly. "If you're having me on, Snape."

"I'm serious," said Snape, sneering at both the other men. "Look, down there. I think I can see something."

Sirius followed the line indicated by Snape's finger. There was a clump of bushes, gorse, by the looks of them, obscuring something from view.

"There's something there," Sirius conceded. "But it's impossible to tell what it is. It could be anything."

"It's black," said Snape in gritty tones. "What else could it be? A bin bag?"

"We'll soon see," said Remus, withdrawing from within the folds of his cloak a pair of Muggle binoculars. He held them up to his eyes, and twisted the little dial on top.

"What do you see?" asked Sirius.

Remus handed him the binoculars. Sirius looked through them. There was clearly something very wrong with Remus' eyes, for he had to twist the dial even further before whatever, whoever the object was swam into focus. It was still impossible to tell.

"Can these things zoom in at all?" asked Sirius.

Remus shook his head. "They're Muggle," he said. "I did have some omnioculars once, but somebody broke them," he gave Sirius a meaningful look.

"That was James," said Sirius blankly. "And anyway, you were asking for it. Chimera in the bushes, my arse. Anyway, we mended them for you."

"Yes, with spellotape and superglue. And then you enchanted them so that they played The Carpenters Greatest Hits whenever I tried to use them," said Remus bitterly.

"We can soon fix that anyway," said Sirius, ignoring his friend completely. He took his wand out, and tapped the binoculars, whispering a short incantation. "That's much better."

He gave the dial another little twist, and now the object was in very clear focus indeed. It looked a bit like it might be a person. He zoomed in further. Now he could tell it was ... there was a hand ...

"It's Harry," he said gravely.

"Is he ..." Snape began to ask, before shutting up.

"It looks like it," said Sirius. "He must have fallen."

"Or jumped," said Snape, in a tone that suggested, if anything, eminent satisfaction.

"It has to have been deliberate," Remus reasoned, taking his new, improved binoculars back off of Sirius, and focusing them on what was now unmistakably Harry's body. He was wrapped very tightly in his robes, and a shock of jet black hair was just visible sticking out. "People don't just walk off cliffs ..."

"He could've done," Hagrid cut in, running a hand contemplatively through his vast beard. "If he wasn't looking where he was going. Or perhaps it was dark, or something. Stranger things have happened, and I don't believe Harry would ever do anything like try and do himself in ... I won't believe it until Harry tells it to my lips."

"We ought to consider all avenues," said Sirius.

Snape gave a sarcastic cough. "And Mr. Black was the one who was certain his precious Godson had been done in."

"You just don't let up, do you?" sneered Sirius.

"He might not even be dead," said Remus, although the tone his voice had taken on as he stared at the limp and distant form through the binoculars suggested he was merely saying this so as not to cause Sirius some kind of breakdown.

"Equally, he might be," said Snape, who was not concerned with Sirius' mental stability at all.

"How are we supposed to get down there?" asked Remus, lowering the binoculars and turning to face the other three. Sirius looked to Hagrid.

Hagrid coughed. "Well," he began, scratching his chin ... his thought processes appeared to be moving at much the same speed as glaciers. "There is a path. About two miles east of here, that leads down the side of the ridge."

Sirius nodded. "Let's go for it ..."

"Or we could just go all the way around and down the other side," Hagrid went on. "That's be at least a ten mile walk. We wouldn't do it before twilight."

Sirius checked his watch. It was nine in the morning. "Not an option," he said, after a few second's thought. "We take the path ..."

"Or," said Snape, as if this had been obvious all the time, which, really, it had been, "we could Apparate down."

"You have to admit that's a better plan," said Remus thoughtfully.

Sirius conceded. "Very well ... but it still doesn't mean I like you, Snape. I still loathe you passionately ..."

"And rest assured that I feel exactly the same way," said Snape, with ice in his voice.

"One problem," said Remus. "How are we going to get Harry back up here. He can't Apparate, he doesn't have a licence."

Sirius looked triumphant. "Ha! Take that in your pipe and smoke it, baldy!"

Snape sighed a long-suffering sigh. "Really, considering that incident with the hallucinogenic drugs in my oatmeal - I am too good to you, Black."

"He, that was funny," said Sirius wistfully.

Snape pointed his wand at the clump of bushes, and in a very bored voice, said, "Accio Harry!"

Nothing happened.

"Maybe it doesn't work on humans," said Sirius hopefully.

"Of course it works on humans. Don't pretend to be more of an ignoramus than you already are," snapped Snape. "I just need to concentrate more power on the spell."

"Concentrate more power on the spell," Sirius mimicked cruelly. "Who does he think he is, David bleeding Copperfield?"

"He is a distant cousin of mine, actually," said Snape. "Accio Harry!"

This time, the bushes rustled, and something shot up into the air, and flew towards them. With a thump, Harry landed at their feet. Remus and Sirius instantly dropped to their knees beside him. Snape remained standing and Hagrid turned away, unable to contain himself any longer. They could hear him blowing his nose loudly.

"What do we do, what do we do?" asked Remus.

Sirius meanwhile, was staring, transfixed at a point on Harry's throat, where a long thin cut, that had stopped bleeding some time ago, was lying right across his windpipe.

"He tried to cut his throat," Sirius intoned, in a voice so low it was nothing more than the faintest whisper.

"First things first, is he breathing?" demanded Remus.

"I ... how do we find out?"

"Oh for God's sake!" snapped Remus. "Don't you even know the basics?"

Sirius shook his head. Remus put his hands to Harry's temple, feeling for a pulse. He took his hand away, and shook his head.

"I can't feel a pulse," he said.

"Should you be able to?"

Remus nodded. "I'll see if there's still one in his wrist. Perhaps he's just slowed down his metabolism."

"Would that be a good thing?" asked Sirius frantically.

"Yes," said Remus, feeling Harry's wrist with his fingers. Still nothing. "Wizards can do that sort of thing, you see. Gives them more chance of survival if they can cut their metabolic rate in half ..."

"How does this actually help?" asked Sirius, brushing hair frozen with ice off Harry's forehead. His scar had turned a funny shade of blue. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Remus suddenly shook his head. "No, he isn't," he said. "He's very definitely alive. He just ... doesn't seem to have a pulse right now."

"How can you tell?"

"I just know," said Remus. "I'm part wolf ... we have instinct for these things. I think we may need to thaw him out."

"Thaw him out?"

Remus nodded.

"You mean blankets, hot fires and stuff? Or were you planning to defrost him? Like a turkey?"

"A bit of both," said Remus slowly. "Sirius, give me your cloak."

Sirius struggled out of his cloak without even protesting, and handed it over. Very carefully, Remus wrapped it around Harry's freezing body, observing as he did so that one of his legs was quite badly broken. That would have to wait until they got back up to Hogwarts, there was no time for a quick fix whilst they were out here. They were wasting time as it was.

Sirius laid his hand on Harry's forehead. "He's freezing to the touch," he said. Remus nodded.

"I know," he said. "His body temperature has dropped below 32 degrees, considerably," he said.

"Is that dangerous?"

"Very, the optimum temperature for the human body is 37.5 centigrade exactly," said Remus. "Even a few degrees difference can mean life or death. If you go below a certain threshold, there is very little that can be done for you."

"Has Harry gone below it?"

Remus regarded the boy's form with pity. "Considerably," he said.

"Then we should get him back," said Sirius.

"It'd be a bit of a hike," said Remus. "We need to have him back immediately. You don't, by any incredible chance, know how to set up a portkey?"

Sirius shook his head. "I was ... in the hospital wing when we did that part."

"Bollocks, you were in a broom cupboard with Lily," said Remus. "Hey, Severus!"

Snape scowled. "What?" he asked with venom.

"Do you know how to set up a portkey? We need to get Harry back to the castle straight away ..."

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

Someone was wrapping something around his forehead. It was very warm, hot even, but very pleasant, all the same. Hands smoothed down the blankets that were covering his body, and then he heard retreating footsteps.

Harry tried to open his eyes, but couldn't. His eyelids would not part. He could hear voices, but they sounded somehow distant. He had the feeling that they were talking about him.

"... thought we'd never get back," someone who sounded like Sirius was saying. "Thankfully Professor Snape is a dab hand at a Summoning Charm."

Harry did not hear the other person's reply properly.

"Oh yes," Possibly-Sirius was saying. "I think perhaps it would be best if we didn't let them see him right away."

"They are quite keen to," the second voice said, more clearly this time. Harry could hear footsteps approaching him across a tiled floor.

He opened his mouth. "I can't see anything."

Whoever was standing near him let out a slight expectoration of surprise. "Harry?"

That was a Welsh accent. Doctor Jones?

"Who is that?"

"It's me, Harry, Gwyneth," said the voice. "Sirius is here as well."

Harry was feeling too fretful to be pissed off that Gwyneth was there. "I can't see anything," he repeated, his voice going slightly whiny. "Why can't I see?"

"One moment," said Gwyneth. "Sirius, pass me the flannels."

There was the sound of activity, and of something being sloshed in water. A second later, Harry felt something very warm and soft dabbing at his eyelids.

"I just have to ... melt the ice," he heard Gwyneth say. "Don't move too much, I don't want to get your bedclothes wet. I'm going to melt your eyelids."

"Why am I in bed?" asked Harry. Gwyneth continued to dab at his eyelids, and ignored his question. So did Sirius.

"There," she said, after a minute had passed. "Try now."

Harry opened one eye, very cautiously, let out a slight squeak of surprise as blinding light flooded in, and closed his eyes again. Gwyneth swore, and there was the sound of something being hastily adjusted.

"Sorry, Harry, that was a candle," she said.

Harry was becoming increasingly aware of just how cold he was. He could tell that enough bedclothes to smother an elephant had been piled on top of him, and by the feel of things, he was wearing not only his pyjamas, but also his thick, camel hair dressing gown, and big socks on his feet.

"Is it okay?" he asked.

"Yes, open your eyes now," said Gwyneth softly. Harry did.

He was in the Hospital Wing, and the curtains, which had humorous bunny rabbits on them, were drawn about his bed. Sirius was sitting in a chair at his left hand side, looking worried, and Gwyneth was leaning over him.

Harry felt very groggy.

"Drink this," said Sirius, forcing a silver goblet into Harry's hands. There were delicious smelling vapours issuing from the tepid purplish liquid within.

"What is it?" asked Harry.

"Pepper-Up Potion," Sirius said. "Madam Pomfrey's added some blackcurrant to make it taste nicer."

Harry was just about to ask why on earth they thought he needed Pepper-Up Potion, but did not; he was very cold, after all. He raised the goblet to his lips and drank deeply, feeling the sweet tasting liquid trickling down his parched throat, and warmth spreading through his frozen insides.

He looked over at Sirius. His Godfather was regarding him with an attitude that Harry could not remember having seen before from anybody close to him. It was, he realised with a start, the exact same look as had been plastered across Mrs. Weasley's face when they had arrived back from the Quidditch World Cup, the summer before last, a look of ... there was no other way to accurately describe it, parental concern.

Something was very badly wrong.

Harry could feel himself beginning to shiver violently, he really was very cold indeed. His teeth began to chatter.

"How did I get back here?" he stuttered.

Sirius leant forwards. "We found you," he said. "We realised you'd run away when you didn't turn up to your group therapy session yesterday evening. But, Harry, running away is one thing. Throwing yourself off a cliff is quite another ..."

Harry nearly spat out his mouthful of blackcurrant all over the covers. "Throw myself off a cliff? Sirius?"

"Harry, let's not play silly games here," said Sirius.

"I'm not playing games ... I ... I ..."

He got no further, Sirius leant forwards, and grabbed him roughly around the shoulders, hoisting him partway out of bed. "Harry! Don't do this to us! Not anymore! Just stop it. You didn't even think of what we were going through. You didn't even think about how everyone would feel. You just decided to go ahead and take the selfish option ... everyone else can go screw themselves, as far as you're concerned ... eh?"

"Sirius!" snapped Gwyneth. "Let the boy alone."

Harry glanced swiftly over to her, his eyes filling with tears as he did so.

"I don't understand," he faltered.

Sirius released Harry, who flopped back down amongst the covers, and returned to his chair. He was breathing hard, his eyes narrowed, his face contorted into an ugly scowl.

"I don't understand you," Harry repeated. "You're making out like ... like I tried to kill myself. Why would I do that?"

Gwyneth reprimanded Sirius. "After all that, Sirius Black. I expected more compassion from you, of all people. Sometimes I think it's no wonder we're in this mess."

Harry looked again at Gwyneth, whose normally perfect blonde hair was uncombed and straggly looking. Was she sticking up for him?

"Perhaps you should come back later?" she went on.

Sirius looked at his lap, and twiddled his thumbs. He looked, thought Harry, like a particularly angry teenager.

"I said, perhaps you should come back later," Gwyneth said again.

Sirius, trying very hard not to scowl, got up, opened the curtains and stalked out of the ward, banging the door behind him. Harry watched him go, and turned back to Gwyneth.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that, Harry," said Gwyneth. "Are you feeling any better now?"

Harry wasn't ... he was still shivering all over.

"Drink that all up; it'll help," she went on.

"I don't understand anymore," said Harry weakly. He sipped from the goblet, and once again felt the warmth spreading all the way down his body to his toes.

Gwyneth sighed, and sat down next to him on one of the chairs. "God knows, Harry, I never thought I'd have to do this," she said.

"Do what?"

"We don't understand it either, Harry," Gwyneth went on. "Nobody understands anything anymore. I think that might partly be the problem."

"How come?"

"Everything's just gone topsy-turvy again," said Gwyneth. "It's getting like it was back in the olden days, when You-Know-Who was last powerful. Nobody knows who to trust, nobody knows what's going on anymore. It was in the papers the other day that a load of workers at the Ministry got sacked by Fudge for plotting to get rid of him, people are going missing."

"What does this have to do with me ..."

Gwyneth was about to say, 'everything,' but decided that that was probably a very bad idea indeed. "Harry, you can't run away from this. You can't hide from it."

Harry looked hurriedly away.

"I guess you went looking, then," he said.

Gwyneth nodded. "We found the note you left. Harry, we had no idea what it meant. We were so worried, so bloody worried about you."

Harry blinked owlishly. Gwyneth almost burst into tears on the spot. "They spent all night out on the moors looking for you."

"I remember falling," started Harry.

"You walked off the edge of the Hog's Back ... it's a ridge not far from here. But if it's dark, you could easily have missed it. But that's what happened."

"I remember falling," Harry repeated uncertainly. "I didn't mean to fall."

"I know you didn't," said Gwyneth, sincerely. "But that note you left. Harry, we didn't know what might have happened to you. We didn't know if it meant you were running away. We didn't know if it meant you were about to jump off the Astronomy Tower, or what."

Harry stared at his lap intently. After a brief pause, he croaked. "I'm, sorry."

"Don't," said Gwyneth sharply. "Harry, you of all people have nothing to be sorry for right now. Have you finished that drink?"

Harry nodded, and felt her hands gently prising his fingers off the goblet's stem. "I'll get rid of this silly old thing for you then."

Harry was feeling increasingly awkward. He was getting the feeling that Gwyneth was trying to mother him, or something.

He was just about to say something to that effect, when the doors at the far end of the ward burst open suddenly, and Ron, Hermione and, of all the people he least expected to see, Draco, came into the room. Hermione was holding a small cardboard box covered in red tissue paper, and Ron had brought grapes for some reason. Only Draco, who looked supremely nonchalant, had not brought anything with him.

Gwyneth rose from her chair. "I expect you'll be wanting to see your friends," she said to Harry. "I'll go see if I can find Sirius anywhere."

"I don't want to see Sirius," said Harry firmly.

"How about Dumbledore?" suggested Gwyneth.

Harry shook his head. "Dumbledore will just get all philosophical on me," he said.

"Anybody?" asked Gwyneth, a hint of desperation creeping into her erstwhile calm voice.

"No," said Harry.

The others were approaching him cautiously. Gwyneth got up, and immediately, Ron jumped backwards.

"I honestly don't bite," she said, grinning. "Look, Harry. I'll be in the next room. If they get too rough with you, then holler and I'll run them off with a mattock."

She leant down, and did something she had never done before, and something Harry had certainly not been expecting; delivered a little kiss to his forehead, before smiling, and tactfully withdrawing.

Harry could feel himself blushing.

It was Draco who spoke first. "The whole school is saying you walked off a cliff in the dark, Potter. Is it true?"

Hermione gave Draco a fierce scowl.

"It's true," said Harry, weakly, grinning at Ron, who looked away, shaking his head.

"What?" asked Harry. "What's with you? At least Malfoy, who is hardly the master of put downs, has come up with *something* entertaining to say."

Draco snorted indignantly.

Ron sat down on the end of the bed, narrowly missing Harry's broken leg. Then he fixed Harry with an angry glare.

"Do you have any bloody idea," he began, "how worried we were?"

"Sorry?" suggested Harry. Draco was muttering something about showing people put downs. The others ignored him.

"I thought," said Ron, "that our chat yesterday helped. I thought that meant something. I thought we were getting somewhere. I didn't think you were going to run off immediately and hurl yourself off of high places."

"Ron," said Hermione angrily.

"I thought we were friends. I thought we talked about these things," said Ron, looking away, defeated. Harry immediately felt his heart sink. Of all the consequences he had imagined ... for of course, hadn't he secretly known he would be brought back to Hogwarts, ashamed and humiliated ... this was the one he had not foreseen. He had not even dared imagine that there could be any way Ron would *not* believe him. And that hurt.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, feeling another wave of shivering overcome his weak frame. "I wasn't thinking."

"We were out of our minds!" Ron went on. "Sirius came up to the Common Room. They found your little note. They thought it meant you'd topped yourself. They were beside themselves ... so were we. If Professor Lupin hadn't been here they'd have held your funeral straight away."

"Lupin's here?" asked Harry excitedly, sitting up in bed. He hadn't spoken to Remus Lupin, who had been his favourite Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, since the end of his Third Year. Lupin had resigned after Snape had 'let slip' in a fit of impotent rage that he was a werewolf. He had *seen* him at Sirius' Trial, of course, but being key witnesses, Magical Law prevented them from having any contact.

"Can I see him?" Harry asked.

"He's having coffee with Dumbledore," said Hermione. "He promised to come up and see you after lunch. Anyway, he persuaded Sirius to search the moors. And they found you out there, them and Snape and Hagrid."

Harry felt oddly subdued.

"Why did you do it?" asked Hermione.

Harry almost felt like shrugging, but then he realised that in truth, he knew the answer to that particular question. "I thought you'd be better off without me," he said, falteringly, knowing as he said it how ridiculous he must sound. That must surely rank as the most difficult thing he had ever had to say to anybody.

But this did not get the reaction he was expecting. Instead, Hermione flung her arms about him and knocked him back amongst the pillows.

"Oh, Harry!"

"Of course we wouldn't," said Ron, glaring at Draco, as though daring him to make a wisecrack. Draco merely kept his hands in his pockets, and looked innocent. This took the wind out of Ron's sails somewhat. "Harry, we'd have been ... it almost was. There was almost a wake. They were going to break out the black drapes for the Great Hall."

"Everyone wants you here," said Hermione. "Even us. Even the ones you might not think ..."

"Like him?"

Hermione looked at Draco, then nodded. "Exactly like Draco," she said.

"Um ... small personality issue here," Draco said in a quiet voice.

Hermione released Harry from her bear-like grip, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"We brought you some presents too," said Ron. "But you mustn't think this is going to happen every time you nearly die. So don't use it as an excuse."

Harry grinned.

"It isn't much," said Hermione, handing him the box. "I got it in Hogsmeade last time we went in. I was saving it for Christmas, but I thought, what the hell?"

Harry looked at her, and grinned widely again. Then he tore the tissue paper off the cardboard box, and opened it.

Inside was a small wizarding photo in a silver frame. It showed Harry, Ron and Hermione, all of whom were waving vigorously at the camera. Harry didn't ask when it had been taken, but it looked like some time during the Second Year.

"Turn it over," said Hermione.

Harry flipped the frame over. On the back, someone had very carefully engraved a message in rather florid script.

'Summer 1992. To the best friend we ever had. All our love. R&H.'

"That must have cost you," was all Harry could think of to say. "It's lovely," he added, turning it back over to look at the smiling children waving back at them. Ron had his arm around their shoulders, and was laughing at something.

"I brought some grapes," said Ron. "I'll put them in a bowl, or something."

"Thanks," said Harry, who had gone bright red again. "Thanks a lot."

Draco was scrabbling around in the pockets of his robes. "I ... um, feel a bit silly," he said.

"You didn't have to get anything," said Harry. Draco looked even more flustered.

"Uh, no, I should do," he said. He fished out a small bag of Every-Flavour Beans. "I sorted the strawberry ones out, I'm afraid," he said.

"I'm touched," said Harry, meaning it. He opened the top of the bag, and popped one of the sweets into his mouth. "Hmm, onion bhaji."

He got no further, for this time, both Hermione and Ron hugged him.