The Time Of Trial

Wave after wave rolls on
And the water falls and the line is drawn
Wave after wave rolls in
And the line is gone, where my feet have been
Hills that I know are there
Hidden from my view by the misty air
Light shining through the grey
Turns the water deep shades of lilac blue.

Iona.

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

Harry drifted in and out of consciousness for most of that morning. He felt too tired and weary to talk for very long to anybody. Even the twenty minutes he spent talking to Ron, Hermione and Draco exhausted his already feeble system, and he needed to take Gwyneth up on her kind offer to run them off with a mattock. The next time he woke up, the clock on the wall proclaimed it to be getting close to midday, and there was someone new sitting next to his bed. Professor Lupin.

Harry sat up at once, and almost sent his bedspread to the floor in the process.

"Calm down, Harry," said Professor Lupin, chuckling. He rearranged the bedclothes, and made Harry go very red.

"I didn't expect to see you, um, Professor," said Harry.

"My name is Remus," said Professor Lupin. "Call me that, would you?"

Harry nodded. "It'll feel odd," he said guardedly.

"I was only a teacher for one year," said Remus, pretending to look affronted at Harry's previous remark. "There really is no need. I'm only up here to help Sirius with the wedding plans."

"You couldn't do a spot of Defence Against the Dark Arts while you're here though?" asked Harry hopefully.

Remus shook his head. "I doubt very much Dumbledore would offer me a contract anymore, not after Professor Snape's little vendetta came off successfully," he said. "No, its back to the carefree life of a bachelor for me."

He caught the look on Harry's face. "Why, is the new bloke not up to much?"

"Winston-Smythe?" said Harry. "He's okay, I suppose. A bit dull."

"Dull is good, Harry," said Remus. "I'd be too much of a liability. All it takes is one night when I forget to take my potion ... and bang ... big hairy monster. You witnessed it yourself."

Harry nodded.

"Anyway, Winston-Smythe isn't a bad sort. I met him once or twice before. He's too dull to consider working for Voldemort. He's too dull for Voldemort to bother with. He's safe."

"Unlike any of the others," said Harry glumly.

"The others were all a bit of a let-down, I suppose," conceded Remus. "Hey ... wait a minute!"

"You were all right," said Harry quickly.

Remus smiled, and looked as though he was going to ruffle Harry's hair. Fortunately, for Harry at least, he didn't. "Flattery gets you nowhere, Harry."

He did look quite pleased, however.

"Where did you go after Hogwarts?" asked Harry.

"Back home," said Remus. "I have a house in a place called Chudley, in Devon. I spent a couple of weeks in the Black Forest ... International Lycanthrope Conference, and then I've been doing freelance work for the Ministry ever since."

"What sort of work?" asked Harry.

"Secret work," said Remus, tapping the side of his nose. "I'd tell if I could, or if I didn't think it would mean hastening my own death. Just kidding," he added, catching the expression that crossed Harry's face at the mention of death.

They both went very quiet.

"How are you bearing up?" asked Remus, after about thirty seconds had passed.

"I thought that was obvious," said Harry. "I've nearly died twice now."

Remus sighed awkwardly. "I can't pretend that I know how to make this any easier for you, Harry," he said. "I can tell you how sorry I am that things worked out the way they did until I'm blue in the face, but, um, I kind of doubt that's going to have much of an effect on you?"

"If only Sirius could put it like that," said Harry wistfully.

"Yeah, well, you'll get used to Padfoot, after a while," said Remus.

"He's just ... it's like he's saying he's going to marry Gwyneth whatever happens," said Harry inarticulately.

"How do you feel about that?"

"I still don't want him to," said Harry.

"The trouble with Sirius," said Remus, "is that he has a very egocentric personality. You need to get used to that. I know he adores you, Harry, I know that he thinks of himself as some kind of surrogate father. He ... he's just, well, he's spent, how long, twelve odd years, or thereabouts in the most indescribable place in the world, and frankly it's a miracle he's not completely insane. He's come out of Azkaban with a significantly different side to him; he's more nurturing. He cares more. I've not seen him for any significant amount of time since he got put away, but he's altered for the better. He's just still a bit of an egomaniac."

"He was saying it was my fault though," said Harry woefully.

Remus shook his head. "You, Harry, have nothing whatsoever to be sorry for. If he says it again, tell me, and I'll smack him," he said. "Look, I'm getting you all worked up. You should rest. I'll get Madam Pomfrey to mix something up for you. Need any more pillows?"

There were enough pillows already on the bed to keep a small 3rd World country supplied for years. Harry indicated no.

"Perhaps you ought to try and get some sleep then?" suggested Remus. He put his hand to Harry's forehead. "You're definitely warming up ... that's good."

Harry lay back amongst the pillows. Remus bent over him, and brushed a lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes out of the way.

"You really need a haircut," he said, not unkindly. "Try and rest, won't you. I expect they'll let Ron and Hermione up to see you later."

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

By that evening, Harry had recovered sufficiently to be allowed to go back to Gryffindor Tower, where he was told to go straight to bed and not to move for anything. His leg, having been mended successfully by Madam Pomfrey, was working fine again, although as he walked slowly back up to the Tower with Ron, he suddenly came over all woozy, and had to lean on his friend for a couple of minutes until the horrible giddy feeling went away again.

That night, he slept better than he had done in ages, and no dreams, at least, not ones violent or disturbing enough to be remembered come morning, troubled him.

He awoke on Saturday morning to find sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows of the dormitory, casting beautiful mosaics of colour on the hard stone floor. He checked his watch, but it was only half past seven, and as classes on Saturday began at the slightly more respectable hour of ten o'clock, decided it was well worth having a lie in. He closed the hangings again, and lay back down.

Harry lay in bed, drifting in and out of sleep for thirty minutes or so, before he heard the sound of footsteps outside, and then the sound of the dormitory door being unlatched.

Harry sat up, and wrenched back the hangings around his bed. Sirius was standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, yet already attired for the day in his plain black work robes. He was smiling, but to Harry, Sirius was the last person alive he wanted to see right now.

"Morning," said Sirius, upon catching sight of Harry. "I'm glad you're awake."

"What are you doing here?" asked Harry angrily. "I thought you weren't talking to me?"

Sirius walked over to the bed on tiptoe so as not to wake any of the other boys. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked, ignoring Harry's question completely.

"Knock yourself out," said Harry.

Sirius sat down tentatively on the foot of Harry's bed, causing the mattress to sag noticeably.

"Harry?"

Harry only glared at Sirius all the more.

"I'd ... I want to apologise to you. It was out of order, what I said yesterday. I ... I was tired and I was angry and I hadn't had enough sleep ..."

Harry could sense he was blushing, and he looked away hastily, and tried very hard to think of something else.

"We were just very, very worried about you."

Harry croaked a feeble reply that Sirius did not hear.

"And," Sirius went on, "Gwyneth's had a talk with me ... quite a, um, talk, actually, and please take some notice of me, Harry; stop looking the other way."

Harry turned to face Sirius again. "I have nothing to say to you," he said in a low voice.

Sirius' face fell, and he spread his arms wide in despair. "Harry ... please!"

He stopped, and froze suddenly, and Harry could sense his eyes moving slowly down to the cut on his neck; the cut he had not dared tell anybody about. Did Sirius know about it? He wasn't sure.

"Is your throat okay?" asked Sirius

"Nothing," said Harry, mishearing the question, and hastily tugging the bedclothes up around him so as to hide it.

Sirius put his hand on Harry's throat, and moved the duvet gently away. Harry could sense Sirius' eyes moving down his neck.

"Harry ... I ... I was talking to Dumbledore about this. I just ... want to know ... what you, why you did this. Why you tried to cut your own throat," said Sirius haltingly. "I can accept you walked off the cliff because it was dark and you couldn't see where you were going, but cutting your own throat ... what did you hope to achieve?" His voice had once again taken on that harsh, angry tone that he had done the previous day, and the day before, and Harry's face fell, and he started to blink to keep back the tears.

"If I tell," he whispered. "Promise not to tell anybody else?"

"I can't do that, Harry," said Sirius. "I'm responsible for you ..."

Harry chanced a glance over to the other beds in the dormitory ... the hangings were drawn very tightly about them, and the occupants were all snoring lightly.

"It happened in a dream," he said, aware even as he spoke how utterly ridiculous this sounded.

Sirius looked at Harry as if he was mad. "In a dream?"

Harry nodded. "I had some sort of hallucination, or dream, or something, I don't really know what it was. Draco was there, and he sort of metamorphosed into Vol ..." Harry choked, "into Voldemort. He did this ..."

Sirius looked dumbfounded. "But everyone knows that's impossible," he said. "I mean, we were working ... there was ..."

Harry looked away again.

"Oh bloody hellfire. Harry, this is very serious indeed. I'm going to have to tell Dumbledore about this. You do understand that?"

Harry shook his head. "Please, I asked not to?" he clamoured.

Sirius closed his eyes, and looked down at his hands, which were knotted intricately together. "Harry, if what you're saying is true, then this is very, very serious indeed. It has implications for all of us. I have to speak to Dumbledore."

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

Harry staggered through his Saturday morning lessons as best he could, the task made a little easier with the thought of a trip into Hogsmeade to sustain him. Ron and Hermione helped him out with the complicated potions they were making, Draco kept sneaking glances in their direction, as if he shared their concern, and even Doctor Jones, sorry, Gwyneth, seemed noticeably less hostile, not just to Harry but to the whole class as well.

The three of them were heading up to Gryffindor Tower, having planned to skip the option of taking lunch at Hogwarts, in favour of a pub lunch down at the Three Broomsticks, when they were waylaid by Sirius and Professor McGonagall, who were standing in the corridor outside the Portrait Hole, and looked as if they were waiting for something.

"Ah, Harry," said Professor McGonagall. Harry did a double take, as she had never been known to call a student by their Christian name before. "May we borrow you for a bit?"

"We were just about to go off to Hogsmeade, Professor," interjected Hermione, "but," she went on, taking note of Professor McGonagall's lips, which were thinning in anticipation of an outburst, "as you want to speak to him, I'm sure we can spare the time."

"Perhaps they'd better come along as well?" suggested Sirius, indicating Ron and Hermione.

Professor McGonagall nodded. "Very well," she said. "You'd better come with us then."

They were led through the school, until, not surprisingly, at least for Harry, they found themselves outside the door that lead up to Dumbledore's tower office. Neither Ron nor Hermione had ever been up here before and both of them looked rather excited.

"Pepper Imps," sighed Professor McGonagall, in a tone that suggested she found Dumbledore's method of selecting passwords somewhat frivolous. Needless to say, the door swung open, and they began to climb the stairs, Hermione and Ron staring at the portraits and tapestries that lined the walls.

Professor Dumbledore was waiting for them, sitting behind his desk, drumming his fingers on the wooden surface. He beamed as they filed in through the door, and with a wave of his wand, had produced five chairs in front of his desk.

"Take a seat," he said. "No need to look quite so frightened, Mr. Weasley; I've never bitten yet."

Ron went furiously red, but took his seat anyway, in between Harry and Hermione.

"Sirius told me about what happened, Harry," said Dumbledore softly. "You do realise what this means?"

Harry shook his head.

"I once told you that the Dark Lord never managed to conquer the secrets of sleep, but if he ever did ..." he trailed off, as if uncertain what to say next.

Sirius looked briefly at Harry, who was still looking confused.

"It means, well, it means we have no defence against him," said Sirius quietly.

Dumbledore looked very grave. "I'm afraid Sirius is right," he said. "And if what you have told us is true."

Harry looked up suddenly.

"May I have a look?"

Harry sighed, nodded, then stood up, and walked forwards to the desk. "Just there," he said, indicating the small cut on his throat. Dumbledore pushed his spectacles down to the tip of his nose, and peered closer at Harry.

"Yes, I see," he said.

"It was a dream ... I think ..." Harry began, on the verge of launching into a long and complicated explanation. Dumbledore raised his hand, and Harry calmed down momentarily.

"Sirius has already told me what you said," he said. "I think, perhaps, the best thing for now would be for you to remain under our supervision."

"Sir?"

"I've already arranged for some Aurors to come up from London and fix the wards," said Dumbledore. "We'll need to keep you inside whilst they're operative, of course. Sirius, I'll need you to go down to Gringotts and bring me the papers from vault eight hundred and thirty two."

"Surely that's Frank ..." Sirius began.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, of course, you'll need a Power of Attorney. I'll sign it for you. Go down to London first thing on Monday ..."

"That wasn't what I meant," said Sirius. "We put them in my vault ... seven hundred and eleven ... Mozart and Elgar didn't want him to think ..."

"And I moved them," said Dumbledore calmly. "I assumed that the risk, at the time, of someone else finding them in your vault, Sirius, was too great."

Sirius paused. "Of course," he said. "I understand."

Dumbledore turned to Gwyneth. "You will need to go directly to Dublin, work out what you can, the equipment might still be there ... there could be any number of notes. Hopefully Mozart left us plenty to go on."

"Shouldn't I stay here?" asked Gwyneth. "I mean ... there are classes to teach."

"I'll ask Severus to cover for you," said Dumbledore. "I understand life in civvy street is hitting him hard."

"Very well then," said Gwyneth. "Monday it is. I'll, um, need ... clearance and stuff."

"I'll sort it out," said Dumbledore.

Harry, Ron and Hermione merely looked more confused than ever before.

"Um," ventured Harry after a brief second's pause.

Dumbledore turned to Harry, and tried very hard to smile in his usual genial manner. But Harry could tell he was putting it on.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said. "You ... I ... we ... that is to say, none of us can. One day we can tell you. But what has started to happen is dangerous, and highly secret, too. I would tell you if I could, or if I was allowed to ..."

"Perhaps we should send the children on their way, Albus," said Professor McGonagall pointedly.

"That might be for the best," said Dumbledore. "Harry, I hope I can tell you what is going on before very much longer. On the other hand ... " he trailed off again for a second or two, " ... I think it would be better if you all stayed up at the castle this afternoon."

To Harry's eternal relief, Sirius stepped in. "I hardly think that's fair," he said. "Most of the rest of the school will be there this afternoon. Remus and Gwyneth and I are all going in as well. I see no cause for concern."

Dumbledore regarded him frostily, but he turned to Harry anyway, and said, "Go then. But please be careful."

The three waited until they were back down at the bottom of the stairs and safely past the door, before anybody said anything. And when somebody did say something, it was Ron who said it.

"What the hell was all that about?"

Harry could only shrug in confusion.

"We'd better get into Hogsmeade, before they change their minds," Ron went on, seizing Harry by his upper arm. Hermione, on the other hand, grabbed his other arm, resulting in a bizarre tug of war situation.

"I really think we should just stay up in the Common Room," said Hermione firmly. "And Harry thinks the same, don't you, Harry?"

Harry was just about to say, 'Actually, I'd far rather go to Hogsmeade,' but he didn't have to, because Ron said it for him, a great deal more forcefully.

"Well be like that then!" shouted Hermione. "You're a couple of self-absorbed ninnies with no concept of personal safety!"

"Come on, Harry," said Ron, yanking his robes sharply. "We're going."

Not quite knowing what to do, Harry began to walk off with Ron. About a second later, they heard Hermione's breathless shout of, "Wait for me!"

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

Sirius regarded himself critically in the mirror. The assistant looked on, hardly daring to hope that this suit might be the one. The afternoon had so far been one long trawl through the vast Gladrags Wizardwear Collection in their arty boutique at the upmarket end of Hogsmeade, but aside from a snazzy pair of boxer shorts with fluttering snitches on them, Sirius and his long-suffering friend had found nothing.

"Far too sombre," said Sirius. "I like the style though. I think we can work with that."

The assistant smiled; that, at least, was something.

"Would sir care to try the same suit in navy blue, perhaps. We also have it in burgundy and bottle green."

"Bottle green is hardly appropriate for a wedding," said Sirius, turning sideways on to get a better look. "I'll try the navy blue."

"Very well sir," said the assistant. He backed cautiously out of the room.

Sirius turned to his long-suffering friend, who merely looked down at the floor and twiddled his thumbs.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Remus shrugged. "I can barely contain my indifference," he said. "The black one you tried before was nice."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" said Sirius huffily. "Honestly, I brought you along for a reason."

"Sorry," said Remus. "You can always ask to try it again."

But Sirius wasn't listening. Instead, he began to undo the fastenings on the front of the robe with extravagant care. "Sometimes," he said, as he undressed, "I stop and think; am I really ready for marriage?"

"How do you mean?" asked Remus. "You mean, having been inside all these years?"

"Not exactly," said Sirius, returning the rejected robes to their hanger. "I just can't seem to muster any enthusiasm for the concept, apart from the hours and hours of incredible sex ..."

"Steady on," said Remus.

"But Gwyneth seems so, up for it," said Sirius. "You only have to mention the 'W' word to her and she goes all gooey and starts talking about the band she wants to hire, and whether we should have a marquee, and what the bridesmaids should be wearing. It gets tiresome. And then there's the catering. You do realise, Moony, that we're having no less than five different types of bread rolls? I haven't even any idea what a ciabatta is. Fancy foreign muck, and wine costing twenty Galleons a bottle."

The assistant came back into the fitting room, bearing triumphantly a new set of dress robes in very dark navy blue.

"These are genuine Branfords, you know," he said.

"Isn't everything round here?" said Sirius wryly. "Let's try them on then. Sorry, Moony, you were about to say something?"

"I was going to say cancel," said Remus. "You obviously don't actually want to get married. Better make it quick though, otherwise you'll lose your catering deposit."

Sirius glared at him. The assistant helped him into the robes, and he began to fasten them up to the neck.

"Very suave," he said.

The assistant clapped his hands. "I can see it all now," he said, at which Sirius gave him a very funny look indeed. "You look divine, sir."

"It is rather flattering," said Sirius airily, doing a little twirl in front of the full length mirror. "What say you, Moony?"

Remus nodded. "It fits very well," he said. "A bit long in the leg maybe. You'll want to watch you don't walk through any muddy puddles."

"That can be fixed with a simple mud-repelling charm, sir," said the assistant, with the snooty air of a man telling another that one and one makes two.

"They might be taken up a wee bit," said Sirius uncertainly. The assistant, who had a more practiced eye when it came to this sort of thing, shook his head fervently.

"No, I think it should be fine," he said. "The colour really brings out your eyes. Subdued, formal, yet fun. I like it a lot."

Sirius nodded. "Okay then," he said. "How much?"

"Eight hundred Galleons," said the assistant, keeping a straight face throughout.

But not the slightest flicker of emotion crossed Sirius' face as he began to disrobe.

"I'll go through and wait for you, sir," said the assistant, disappearing through the door. As soon as he had gone, Remus leant forwards.

"What did you mean, Dumbledore's resurrecting the old Order?"

Sirius turned to him ... he was halfway out of the robes. "Ssh," he said, putting his finger to his mouth. "Walls have ears."

"Not these ones," said Remus.

"I meant exactly what I said," said Sirius. "That thing on Harry's neck must have spooked him sufficiently."

"Christ," said Remus. "Is anybody going to Dublin?"

Sirius nodded, as he hung the robes up on their hanger, he continued, "Gwyneth leaves on Monday. I have to go and get the papers out of the vault."

"Yeah ... we ... um, moved them," said Remus. "After you got arrested. We didn't know who might come across them in there. If the Ministry decided to search your vault. We thought, best put them in Haydn and Ravel's account."

"I'm not cross," said Sirius. "I'd have done the same myself."

"Haven't been back to Phoenix Park in years," said Remus, looking nostalgic. "Must have been 1983 when we shut up shop. Wonder how the labs are looking now?"

"That's what Gwyneth will have to work out," said Sirius, struggling back into his Muggle jeans.

"Someone will have to tell Harry."

"I'm rather worried *that* job will fall to me," said Sirius. He pulled on his shirt and began to do up the buttons.

"At least Dumbledore's reading the signs, even if nobody else is," said Remus. He had taken to walking in circles around the tiny room. "Christ, Sirius. It's happening again. It's happening again!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Gwyneth swilled the wine about in her mouth for a second or two, and then spat it into the little silver bucket provided for that purpose. She sipped from the small glass of water held out to her, and then looked up.

"What was that one?" she asked.

"Chateau Lafitte, 1978," said the man, holding the bottle up for her to review. "A fine vintage year."

Gwyneth took him at his word. After all, Keith Fraser & Co. was the most exclusive vintners in the wizarding world, and numbered amongst its patrons were Celestina Warbeck, and even Cornelius Fudge. And she had had the good fortune to be served by the great man himself, who, legend had it, knew his way around his vast underground cellar by heart, and owing to a peculiar quirk of space time physics, could locate within it any bottle of wine ever produced, even Liebfraumilch.

"It is thirty Galleons a bottle," hinted Keith, setting it down on a table.

"I did like it," said Gwyneth. "Chateau Lafitte is meant to be good, right?"

Keith nodded. "That, madam, is an understatement," he said.

Gwyneth, who had never seen a vintner in a kilt before, and was staring quite intently at Keith's socks, nodded.

"At thirty-five Galleons a bottle, we have a fine Australian red from 1996," Keith went on, uncorking the bottle. "This is grown from re-annual grapes."

"Re-annual grapes?"

"Grapes that exist backwards," said Keith, as if this had been perfectly obvious all along. "You plant the vines twelve months after you've harvested the crop, whereupon they grow backwards in time."

"That must be complicated," said Gwyneth.

Keith nodded. "Yes, a farmer who forgets to sow normal seeds loses merely his crop. A farmer who forgets to sow seeds of a crop that was harvested twelve months earlier risks disturbing the entire fabric of causality," he poured a little of the wine into a glass, "not to mention it's bloody embarrassing."

Gwyneth sipped the wine. It was surprisingly good.

"I like that one," she said.

Keith eyed her suspiciously. "That one is thirty five Galleons a bottle," he reiterated. "And you have already taken eighty bottles of that Chardonnay, and the same number of dessert wine. And forty bottles of Champagne."

"You're implying I should stick to sweet cider?" asked Gwyneth.

Keith looked shocked. "Not for an instant, madam," he said hurriedly. "I am merely pointing out a truth."

Gwyneth was not so sure. She wasn't exactly dressed for the occasion in rather shabby tweed robes, and Fraser's clientele *did* tend to be rather select.

"How much have I spent on the Chardonnay?" asked Gwyneth.

Keith quickly did the sums in his head. "It comes to two hundred and forty Galleons," he said, shortly. "At three Galleons a bottle."

"And this is?"

"Thirty five Galleons," said Keith. That was slightly more than a hundred and fifty Pounds in Muggle money.

"The same number of the Re-Annual Red would be ..."

"Two thousand, eight hundred Galleons exactly," said Keith. "That's fourteen thousand Pounds."

Gwyneth, who only earned four thousand, four hundred Galleons a year, paled visibly. "I don't think I've ever seen that much money in one place."

"I have," said Keith, not very helpfully.

"Perhaps we should try that South African one," she said. "That was nice."

"At two Galleons a bottle, madam," said Keith. "Very well."

"That would probably be best," said Gwyneth. "How much does, does it all come to, exactly?"

Keith walked round behind his counter, and rang up the numbers on an ancient, hand-cranked cash register, a look of supreme smugness etched across his face.

"Seven hundred and sixty Galleons exactly, madam," he said, at long last. As if to add insult to financial injury, the cash register proceeded to shoot the numbers in mid-air, where they sparkled in brilliant, shimmering gold writing for a moment, before fading to nothing.

"Well, you don't get married everyday," said Gwyneth.

"I'd say it was worth it," said Keith. "We will, of course, deliver free of charge, you're up at Hogwarts, yes?"

"For the foreseeable future," said Gwyneth.

"Staff wedding, eh? You want to watch the bairns don't talk," said Keith, bashing out her receipt on an ancient Muggle typewriter.

"I think they may already be," said Gwyneth. She fished in her handbag for her purse. "Do you take a Magical Express card?" she asked.

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

It was later that evening, after Harry had headed back into Hogsmeade for his dinner 'en famille', that Hermione's eye was caught by an advertisement in the Daily Prophet (which continued, despite the ongoing turmoil within the Ministry of Magic, to resolutely toe Fudge's line no matter what) purporting to promote a new kind of Cheering Charm.

They had covered Cheering Charms briefly in the Third Year (though Hermione had missed out, owing to her unnaturally complicated timetable), but this, according to the promotional blurb, and the large colour photo of a very happy looking fifty-something in brightly coloured robes that put her in mind of hippies, was a 'revolution in magical aids for the depressed witch or wizard.' It was manufactured in some town she'd never heard of in California and was, quite simply, a small gold chain, worn normally as a kind of necklace, to which was attached a small pendant, which appeared to be made of glass, inside which sparkled some ethereal red vapour that swirled aimlessly about its tiny prison; 'a permanent sense of well-being is yours for the taking with this attractive and provocative pendant. Yours for only 5 Galleons, 5 and 6 Knuts.' That was about twenty five Pounds in Muggle money, she worked out.

She was seriously considering sending off for one, perhaps as a Christmas present for poor Harry, and she probably would have filled in the reply slip on the spot, had her attention not been diverted by the article immediately above.

'... the escape of a patient from St. Mungo's Secure Asylum in Buckinghamshire continues to baffle Magical Authorities today. The patient, a thirty nine year old man, who cannot be identified within these pages for legal reasons, broke out of the centre, whose perimeter is patrolled twenty-four hours a day by officers of the well regarded Magical Security Agency, after overpowering two guards. He left behind all his possessions, except, say carers, his old diary, which he has allegedly kept resolutely at his side since being committed in 1981. Authorities describe the man as short; around five foot eight, clad most probably in a St. Mungo's issue nightgown, with mousy brown hair and a round face. He is not dangerous, but members of the public are advised to contact their nearest branch of the MLES should they see anything suspicious. It is known he has connections and family both in Hogsmeade, Northumberland, and in Lewes, East Sussex, and it is thought he may try to make for one or other of these places.'

Hermione shrugged, and set the paper aside. She wondered vaguely who the man could possibly be trying to contact, before wondering vaguely what was for dinner that evening ...

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

The Dragon Inn was crowded, but not offensively so, and they didn't find it too hard to get a table. The restaurant, which was just off Hogsmeade High Street, overlooking the river, took the words 'hearty fayre' to new heights. It was furnished in a pseudo-Victorian mock-Tudor mish-mash of styles; there were half timbered beams, which had been recycled from old railway sleepers, horse-brasses and Toby jugs decorated the high shelves. Here and there little corn dollies were hanging from the ceiling, and on the flock wallpapered walls hung assorted sporting oils, which showed old-time Quidditch matches instead of fox hunts, and reproduction Constables. There was also a roaring log fire. The waiter, whom Harry was certain he remembered from Hogwarts, handed them their menus before drifting off to deal with a rowdy party of warlocks who had inadvertently ordered gammon steak without meaning to.

"Well," said Gwyneth, in a tone of forced jollity. "This is nice, isn't it?"

Sirius regarded her suspiciously over the top of his menu. "What's your game?" he asked.

"Well, it is nice," said Gwyneth. "Very pleasant. I never knew there was a restaurant up here."

"Odd, it's been open for years," said Remus. "Can I order anything without horseradish sauce?"

Harry flipped his menu over, and began to read the pudding list.

"Are we having starters?" asked Gwyneth.

"Feel free," said Sirius.

"I bet you like it here," said Gwyneth, snuggling against Sirius' shoulder, causing Harry and Remus to shoot looks at one another over their menus.

"Why do you say that?" asked Sirius.

"There's no poncy food," said Gwyneth.

"My evening can be mercifully free of roquette lettuce, then," said Sirius. "And lollo rosso ... Christ, hate the stuff!"

"I fancy the breaded scampi tails with tartar sauce," said Gwyneth.

"They have pate with toast and Cumberland sauce," said Remus. "But the onion rings here are legendary!"

Harry wasn't sure. He didn't want to bring it up, but he was hardly familiar with restaurants, having been only to a handful during his lifetime, and none of them before he had started at Hogwarts. It felt very awkward, being the only kid at a table of adults who all knew each other very well. And to top it all, he was the only one of them who had noticed that Snape, together with a strange woman, had just been seated over by the window.

"Any ideas, Harry?" asked Gwyneth.

"Um," said Harry. He picked something at random. "Potato skins? Is that okay?"

"You don't need to ask me," said Gwyneth. "If you want them, then order them."

"Hmm," said Harry. "Or what's calamari?"

"Type of octopus," said Sirius.

"Yuck," said Harry. He looked over at Snape's table, and right on cue, Snape flashed him a glare across the restaurant. Harry looked hurriedly away.

"Something wrong?" asked Remus. The waiter, who Harry was now more certain than ever he recognised, led a youngish looking couple past, and sat them at the next table. The woman was wearing a rather striking red dress, and Harry could barely take his eyes off her.

"Harry," Sirius was saying. Harry took his eyes off the woman's legs, and turned to face Sirius, he could sense his face was red. Remus was struggling not to laugh behind his menu.

"Have you decided what you want to eat yet?" asked Sirius, struggling to keep a straight face. The waiter was standing behind him, looking supremely bored, and holding a tiny little notepad.

"Potato skins," Harry made up his mind quickly. "And, um, chops."

"I'll have a mixed grill," said Remus.

"Scampi, followed by chicken in a basket," said Gwyneth.

"And for me, prawn cocktail and rump steak, medium," said Sirius. "What are we drinking?"

"Butterbeer," said Harry automatically.

"Mine's a pint of large, please, Sirius?" said Remus.

"Likewise," said Gwyneth. "On second thoughts, make it a half."

"I'll have a Bearhugger's Old Peculiar," said Sirius.

"Right you are, sir," said the waiter, who, Harry noticed, kept shooting him odd looks. He definitely knew the man from somewhere. So ruminating, he leant surreptitiously sideways to stare at the woman in the red dress some more.

"Harry," said Gwyneth. "At least try not to make it obvious. Unless you want to be called a pervert in front of the whole restaurant."

Harry's looked quickly in the opposite direction, but was still able to eavesdrop on their conversation if he listened carefully.

" ... had to come up. They paid me to up at the school."

"But how long have you been here?" the man was asking.

"About three weeks. I'd have looked you up, but I always thought you went back to Scotland."

"I did for a bit."

"It was a very pleasant surprise, anyhow."

"Yes. Can I get you another drink, Sinead?"

Harry jumped in shock, and tried to blank out their conversation. Damn! All he needed now was for Voldemort to walk in on the arm of some strange date. He checked the door, just in case.

"Earth to Harry," someone was saying. Harry snapped out of whatever daydream he'd been having, and focused on Sirius.

"We have contact," said Sirius, not unkindly. "We're not that boring, are we?" he asked.

"I just thought I saw someone I know," said Harry.

"Yeah, Snape often comes here," said Remus. "Slimy old bugger. Probably only trying to get into that bird's knickers."

"That bird is Mrs. Snape," Sirius hissed. "I remember her from the Staff Coffee Morning and Whist Drive."

"Snape's married?" Harry exclaimed.

"You wouldn't have thought it, not from him," said Gwyneth. "But it would appear so."

"I heard his wife ran off with a street sweeper from Godalming," said Sirius.

"That was his first wife," said Remus. The waiter came and doled out crusty bread rolls with a pair of metal tongs. They all thanked him politely.

"Well, this is nice," said Gwyneth again.

"You already said that," said Sirius.

Harry broke his roll in half, and started to spread butter on it. The atmosphere in the restaurant was stifling, and heavy with the scent of food wafting up from the kitchens. Conversation did not seem to be coming naturally to any of them.

"So, Harry," said Sirius, trying very hard to be chummy. "You feeling any better today?"

Harry had spent all of Friday recuperating in the Hospital Wing, which had been very boring indeed, save for the couple of hours after lunch when Ron had bunked Divination to come up and sit with him for a while. He had been allowed to go back to Gryffindor Tower that evening.

He was about to come back with something along the lines of 'what would you care?' when he remembered that Sirius was, after all, trying to make it up to him. The part of his mind that was forever resident at Privet Drive kept repeating, 'I must be good, I must be good,' to him like a mantra.

"Fine," said Harry blankly.

"Super," said Sirius.

"Great," said Remus.

Harry couldn't help noticing that Sirius and Remus kept shooting each other knowing looks across the table.

Their starters arrived after twenty minutes. Conversation, if it had not been halting before, was halted entirely now. Everyone was hungry though.

"How're your potato skins?" asked Gwyneth.

"Lovely," said Harry. "But it needs more dip. How about your scampi?"

"As good as could be expected," said Gwyneth. "How's your prawn cocktail, Sirius?"

"Tastes like cardboard."

They finished the starters in silence.

"So," said Remus, as they waited for their main course to arrive. "Harry, Sirius tells me Gryffindor are leading for the Quidditch Cup."

"After one match," said Harry, brightening up. "Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw play in a couple of weeks or so."

"Who's fancied in Hufflepuff?" asked Remus, sipping his beer.

"They ... lost a captain last year," said Harry. "So the team's been a bit under-motivated. They found some Lower Sixth Year to do it, but nobody's seen him fly yet, so we don't know if they'll be any good."

"He must have some talent to get on the team," said Sirius. "That Cho girl you liked left didn't she?"

Harry nodded. "Her Dad got recalled to Hong Kong," he said.

Their main courses arrived. They all thanked the waiter politely, and began to eat.

"How're your chops, Harry?" asked Gwyneth, after a few minutes of noisy eating had passed.

"Lovely," said Harry. "But it needs more mustard," Remus passed the mustard. "How's your chicken?"

"As good as could be expected," said Gwyneth, watching Harry spoon a great dollop of mustard onto the side of his plate, where it dribbled down and started to mix into his gravy. "How's your mixed grill, Remus?"

"Meaty," said Remus, spearing a morsel of black pudding on his fork. "How's your rump steak, Sirius?"

"Tastes like cardboard."

They finished the main course in silence. The waiter came and took their plates away. The restaurant was getting very full, and very noisy.

Sirius said, "Well, that was nice. Cardboard cocktail was followed by medium-rare cardboard with sautéed cardboard and fresh garden cardboard, garnished with cardboard rings and half a grilled cardboard."

The waiter hovered near their table, holding more menus.

"May we see the cardboard list?"

"I'm sorry, sir?" the waiter raised his eyebrows.

"The dessert list. I should like to see it," said Sirius pleasantly.

Remus, Gwyneth and Harry pretended to be looking at the reproduction Constables.

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

The cancellation of Care of Magical Creatures on Monday morning, due to a spate of illness amongst the staff, served Harry's purpose well, which was, namely, to seek the solace and comfort he so desired. There were very few places within Hogwarts Castle itself where he could hide, bang his head against a wall, and if he wanted, have a good cry, or a scream, and so, illegal as it was, he had taken to returning more and more often to the crystal clear tarn in the Forbidden Forest where he had found Draco skulking by the water. Needless to say, he had not seen Draco in the same place since, though he was grateful for the privacy.

As soon as he was safely obscured by the thick trees, the gorse bushes and the dense, prickly undergrowth that grew rampant inside the Forest, he slipped his Invisibility Cloak off his head, the better to be able to walk, and continued on his way.

So well trodden was his little secret path down to the tarn that he could have found his way blindfolded. Eventually, he reached his destination, and despite the coldness of the air, he cleared the snow off a mossy boulder at the water's edge and sat down upon it, staring at his reflection. There, looking up at him, was the face he had to live with, and the face whose connotations he was beginning to despise. There was no escaping the facts of his identity. He was Harry Potter, and would be until he died.

He must have sat there, staring at his reflection in the quietly rippling waters, for at least an hour, when a rustling in the undergrowth disturbed his reverie. He looked up quickly, reaching half-heartedly for his wand, which he had placed on the earthy ground next to him.

The quivering visage of a badger, white and black stripes on a lengthy snout with twitching whiskers and beady eyes stared back at him. It snuffled slightly, and then disappeared again. Harry had always thought badgers were nocturnal, and he wondered what that one was doing awake so early in the day. Perhaps, he reasoned, it has something to do with there being so much magic around these parts.

The magic associated with Hogwarts itself was very ancient, and dated at least as far back as the time of the Founders, perhaps further. In those days the site; the granite outcrop that the castle perched upon had been a sacred site to the Celtic druids, and the magic was much stronger within the Forbidden Forest.

This was allegedly, at least, according to 'Hogwarts: A History,' or more specifically, according to Hermione, because the forest had sprung up to cover the battlefield after two great giants had fought each other for the land, tearing the very earth from the ground and throwing it around to create the moors and mountains.

Before that, the site had been one of the Five Cities of Magic Britain; Ogma, (from which the word Hogsmeade was presumably derived) and it was said that far below the lake were the ruined towers of the city itself, though as the lake was ornamental, and had been dug in the late 1870's, this was probably rubbish. The other cities, as Harry remembered them from History of Magic classes, were called Lludesgata, Llyrcestre, Caer Sarrlog and Camelot; only one of which remained a wholly magical settlement.

Anyway, whatever the Forbidden Forest was hiding, and as long as you glossed over the fact that it was home to creatures who ate first and didn't ask any questions later, an encounter with some of which Harry and Ron had only narrowly escaped in their Second Year, it was really very pleasant. It was a bright and blustery day; the sort that comes very rarely to that part of the country, and shafts of bright sunlight were falling through the black branches of the trees overhead, casting the leaf litter in dappled patterns. Here, in the lee of the small cliff face on the other side of the tarn, Harry was protected from the worst of the wind.

He noticed, for the first time, that there was a small waterfall feeding the tiny lake; a steady stream of water was splashing from the overhanging rocks overhead, which, if you put your mind to it, looked kind of like a simulacrum; a human face.

Indeed, looking around now, Harry was certain he saw other signs of human life. One of the giant boulders on the other side of the tarn looked like it had symbols carved into it. His curiosity aroused, and for wont of anything better to do, he picked his way round to the other side, snaring the hem of his robes on a thorn bush.

The symbols, for that was certainly what they were, were much faded by time, and had clearly been carved a thousand years ago if not more. They looked vaguely like Egyptian hieroglyphs ... certainly they were pictograms, left by a culture with no written alphabet to call their own. Probably they were runes. Ancient Runes was a study not covered by the Hogwarts curriculum at the lower levels of the school, though it was taught as a NEWT Level subject by a very aged woman called Professor Basset, whom nobody ever saw, as she tended to stay in her room with her ancient texts; school rumour had it she was translating Homer's Iliad into Gaelic.

Harry traced the runes with his fingers, and it would have been fitting if a chill had run down his spine, or he had felt a kind of electricity in the air as his fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the boulder. But these things did not happen. Instead, his eye was suddenly caught by another movement in the bushes.

"Who's there?" he said, suddenly afraid, standing up.

There was no answer. Whatever was in the bushes had stopped moving around. Harry was about to turn his attention back to the rune stone, when he heard the noise again, this time slightly closer.

He straightened up again. "Is there someone there? Who are you?"

This time, Harry saw quite plainly what looked like a man standing in the undergrowth a short way off, staring intently at him. He had brown hair, and a round face that greatly resembled that of Neville Longbottom, he was clad in what looked like a flowing gown, which had been white, but was now dirtied by mud. His face was scratched and bleeding, and he looked as though he had been crawling through brier, or something of the sort.

"Are you okay?" asked Harry.

The man simply stared back at him, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water.

"Do you speak English?" asked Harry, it being always a possibility in the wizarding world that you didn't; Gaelic and Welsh still being very conversant amongst witches and wizards.

The man did not reply. It looked almost as if he was trying to, but the power of speech seemed to have left him. He made expansive grabbing motions with his hands, as if trying to communicate something of vital importance to Harry.

"I don't understand," called back Harry. He took a step closer. The man looked suddenly alarmed, and drew back.

"It's okay!" he called. "I don't want to hurt you. Can I just see if you're okay? There's a castle nearby ... we can help ..."

But the man had turned, and was off, haring through the undergrowth, into the depths of the forest itself. It did not even occur to Harry to go in pursuit of him. He just stood there for a couple of moments, letting the sweat dry on his body, feeling himself shaking. It was all he could do to keep telling himself that nothing had happened, the man, whoever he was, had not hurt him.

All the same, he was greatly spooked. After about five more minutes had passed, he turned away from the rune stone, and stared back across the tarn to the boulder where he usually sat. It looked different, somehow, though whether or not that was because he was seeing it from a different angle, he was not sure.

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

The next couple of days passed more pleasantly. Harry was kept very busy with schoolwork, and Quidditch practice, and the teachers, perhaps anticipating the flood of revision for the mock exams that was going to be taking place immediately after the Christmas holidays, had set an inordinate amount of homework. So by the time Harry had finished all that, even with Ron to help him and Hermione to offer advice, it was usually well after ten o'clock, and he did not feel much like talking about the strange man he had seen in the Forbidden Forest.

The dreams, too, had ceased coming with such alarming frequency. At least; the nightmares had. Now his sleep was disturbed only by the most beautiful visions of his parents, and how his life had been, and heaven, and another, more lovely place that he could not recognise, nor recall any detail of when he awoke.

One dream stood out in particular, and it was one that kept recurring. In it he was a baby again, and it was summertime, but it was not sweltering hot; it was cool and pleasant and refreshing, and there were always small, fluffy, white clouds scudding across the sky, which was without fail a deep aquamarine blue. His parents were in it, and they were striding across a scene so bleak as to be beautiful, empty moors, gentle hills rolling away before them, stretching away to the distant Pennine peaks, green grass, knee length, heather and gorse, fragrances wafting through the air.

In his dream, he was being cradled in his Mother's arms, and he could feel the blankets wrapped tightly around his body, and the feel of her hands supporting him, and the feel of her arm as he rested his head on it, seemed so real. She was wearing a long, dark green dress that almost covered her shoes, and her red hair was held back behind a torc band, intricately shaped into a knot pattern, the whole completed by a Celtic cross on a chain around her neck. To Harry, she was the prettiest living creature in the world.

His Father was walking alongside them, one hand protectively on his Mother's shoulder, beaming down at the both of them, his face and jaw square set, yet still retaining a mere hint of childish roundness, and his glasses were perched on his nose, and in the glasses was reflected the pupils of his grey eyes. His unruly black hair was blowing in the afternoon wind.

Both of them were laughing; they were so happy. And so was he.

They came down from the moors, walking across a pasture containing a flock of sheep whose bleating followed them on the breeze, only making his parents laugh even more. Then they were walking down a street that Harry did not recognise. There were small, stone cottages and shops, and in the middle of it, a tiny church with a graveyard, shaded by ancient elm trees. And there was a pub, the sign swinging and the hinges that held it creaking, into which they went for drinks. His Father had a pint of Guinness, and his Mother a gin and tonic, and there were salty bar snacks; crisps, and orange juice for him. They sat down in a window overlooking the street outside, and through the leaded window pains, the glass distorted by age, Harry could see young children playing outside in the street.

There was a band in the pub, playing lilting, haunting melodies that he did not recognise. The instruments looked eons old; harps, drums, uilleann pipes and violins. The music soared and quavered, it brought with it echoes of the sea, of saltwater waves crashing on distant beaches, of horses galloping through the surf, of offshore islands, stacks of rock teeming with seabirds; gannets and gulls, of long walks over desolate moors, standing stones, ruined castles, waterfalls, and secluded, wooded valleys, places of legend where dwelt the ancients, the druids, the fairy folk. Beautiful places in which you could lose yourself forever if you wanted. And in his dream, Harry could see all of these places, from that distant beach with the horses galloping into the distance, to that valley, to that thundering waterfall, and in all of them he could see himself with his parents.

And at first, when he saw these visions, he was a baby, being held in his parents' arms, then a young child, and then an older child. Then he could see himself walking along that same beach, clad in a rough woollen shirt and capacious trousers, his hair whipped by the breeze, his bare toes digging into the damp sand as the water rushed up and over his feet. On his arm was a girl whose face his dreams did not allow him to see. She had long hair, and wore a dress like his Mother's, but Harry was looking out to sea, and did not look at her. But he could feel her, walking so close they were touching, their arms interlinked, her head resting on his shoulder, and he felt older, stronger, happier.

He saw himself again, this time standing on a cliff top, wrapped in a black cloak, and fastened across the front with a brass clasp in the shape of a Gryffindor lion. And again the girl was with him, the very same one, and he could see her face now. She looked like Hermione, just ... older, in some way. He tried to speak to her, but the words would not come. But he didn't mind, for they just stood there, on the very edge of England, looking down at the birds flocking around the cliff, at the white topped breakers hurling themselves at its base, and far away, in the distance, the sun, rising over the horizon, casting the sky in a beautiful light, shimmering on the sea.

Now he was an old man, still standing on the cliff, this time a staff, gnarled and twisted bearing his weight, and now it was night-time, but it was clear and the sea was calm, and in his free hand he held a lantern that cast light over the scene, and he could sense the presence of others, children, close by him. The moon was riding high above them in the sky, and the stars were twinkling, and he was showing the children the constellations ...

And then he woke up, and every time he wanted so badly to hold onto the images in his mind, to capture them, but he knew that he could not, and then as the days wore on, the images faded, and he knew he would have to wait until next the dream recurred to recapture the moments. And for a minute or two, he sat in bed, crying in frustration and happiness. The dream seemed so calm, and the people in it so at ease. He wanted to live there, and to never come back.

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

Another week passed, and the weather grew perceptibly colder. The night of Monday, November the 27th was so cold that Hogwarts woke up on Monday morning to find a blanket of snow two feet deep covering the grounds and castle. That morning, at breakfast, there was a palpable sense of excitement in the Great Hall, and even Harry felt himself getting caught up in it too. The teachers obviously sensed the excitement, for their lessons that day all seemed to overrun a bit, and there was very nearly a mutiny when Hagrid, despite the perfect conditions, (it was gloriously sunny) moved their Care of Magical Creatures Class inside.

Still, if Harry had been looking forward to messing about in the snow, he got his chance that afternoon when school was over. Quidditch practice.

Harry came down from the castle at about twenty past four. Darkness had already fallen, but the floodlights had been switched on, and the light around the arena was so bright it looked like daylight.

He found the rest of the team, save Ron, having an energetic snowball fight on the touchline. They were all already changed into their robes, clutching their brooms, and despite the fact that it was minus four degrees, looked very warm indeed. They yelled at Harry to get a move on, and he ducked into the changing rooms as several very large snowballs came winging his way.

Ron was sitting on the long, wooden bench that ran all the way around the boys' changing room, pulling on several pairs of socks. Quidditch players normally wore a pair of shorts and if it was particularly chilly, a T-shirt under their robes, but Ron, who normally was very good at withstanding the cold, had put on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, and a large orange Chudley Cannons fleece under his.

"What kept you?" he asked, as Harry dumped his kitbag down on one of the benches, and began to peel off his school robes.

"Had to see McGonagall about the Transfiguration essay," said Harry, which was only a white lie ... actually he had been talking to Ginny, who had returned to Hogwarts from her convalescence only a week earlier, and was having trouble readjusting. He had completely lost track of time.

Ron raised his eyebrows suspiciously, but said nothing. "Well, hurry up then," he said. "Want me to wait?"

It was Harry's turn to raise his eyebrows.

"Uh ... in case you want company," added Ron, hastily.

"No, it's fine," said Harry. "Aren't you going to have difficulty flying in that lot?" he asked Ron, pulling on his shorts.

"Well, if somebody had had the forethought to cancel practice tonight," said Ron, jokingly. "And yes, it's going to be bloody impossible ... but at least I won't be up there freezing my nuts off."

"Yeah, I suppose," agreed Harry, feeling goose pimples rising across his chest and back as he delved inside his kit bag for a long-sleeved T-shirt. The changing rooms were heated, but somebody had apparently turned off the radiators. Harry struggled into his T-shirt, then picked up his robes, and pulled them on. He fastened the belt across the front, and adjusted them so that the Gryffindor badge was showing properly, shouldered his Firebolt and followed Ron out onto the pitch.

The others were already pelting up and down the pitch in a desperate attempt to keep warm. Upon sighting Harry, they slowed their broomsticks to a halt, and descended gracefully to the ground where he and Ron were standing.

"Evening, Boss," chirped Katie Bell, rubbing her gloved hands together gleefully.

"All right," said Harry. "Um ... I think we need to do defensive flying tonight. That was something Ron said after the Slytherin match. We're not working as a team where it counts; stopping the other team from having a sporting chance to make the score line respectable."

The other team members smiled respectfully at his joke. The match against Slytherin had been a walkover, but that had been primarily because Draco Malfoy hadn't been the best choice for Captain ... and his line up left a lot to be desired.

Colin Creevey, the new Gryffindor Keeper, spoke up. "Um, Harry. Can I try taking some penalty shots, too? I wasn't too good when we gave away that foul to Slytherin," he glared at Fred and George, whose fault it had been. They'd flown into one of the Slytherin Chasers, a burly Lower Sixth Year called Quentin Montague-Blythe from both sides, on purpose ... in their own goal area.

"Fair enough," said Harry. "Oh, Fred, we reckon you need to work on cobbing people without making it look *that* obvious."

There was a loud guffaw from Alicia Spinnet at that point. Fred gave her a very hurt look, and she shut up.

"Okay," said Harry. "Let's start up ..." his words trailed off into the ether.

"What's up, Harry?" asked George.

Harry shook his head. He hadn't actually thought about that strange man he had seen for the briefest of instants, over at the tarn in the Forbidden Forest the previous week, for a couple of days, and for a moment, he wasn't entirely sure whether or not he was imagining things.

"Harry?"

Harry blinked again, and rubbed his eyes just to make sure. Sure enough, standing at the far end of the pitch was the brown haired man again. He appeared to be watching them with interest.

"Who's he?" asked Katie, spotting him as well.

"I don't know," said Harry.

"Perhaps he's some pervert up from the village," said Alicia. "Ew, yuck," she added, at the very thought.

"There're wards up to stop that kind of thing," said Ron, absent-mindedly, sounding for a moment eerily like Hermione.

The man was clad in the same flowing gown, his arms were folded, and his feet and ankles were blue from the cold. The wind whipped at his clothes. He looked oddly like some kind of prophet, on the verge of delivering a sermon that would change the course of history. He seemed to be aware that the entire team was looking at him, but this did not faze him in the slightest. He merely stood there. Watching. Waiting for something.

"We'd better shoo him off," said George, talking common-sense. "Dumbledore will do his nut if he finds out there's weird people wandering round the grounds."

He started off across the pitch. At the sudden flurry of movement, the man took fright, and disappeared into the darkness at speed. George stopped dead in his tracks.

"He seems to have got the message," he said, turning round to face the team again. "We can carry on."

A strange chill swept down Harry's spine.

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

Harry was not especially worried by the sudden reappearance of the strange man. He figured he was probably not a threat to him. After all, Harry reasoned, if he had been out to kill him, he had missed two chances, and on one of those occasions, he, Harry, had been unarmed and alone. Probably, he thought, he was just a harmless nutter.

After practice was over, Ron and Harry wandered back up to the castle via the stable blocks. Once, these large, solid stone walled buildings had housed the horses and other creatures, back when Hogwarts had been a working castle, before it's scholarly days. Since then, they had become largely defunct, although Hagrid had been doing them up in his spare time to house some of the more impressive magical creatures, and although still quite run down, they were not nearly as bad as they were rumoured to have been in the past.

Upon their return from Naxcivan, riding the dragons Bellerophon and Hermes, the two specimens had been living in the large, central part of the stable complex that had once been a grain store. Harry and Ron quite regularly came up to see them, partly because they knew neither dragon got to fly as often as they would like, and partly because both boys were absolutely fascinated with them.

As they approached, they could hear the sound of wheezing and coughing coming from one of the blocks. It was the sound of a dragon in distress, or at least, a dragon with a nasty cold.

They rounded the corner, and pushed open the heavy oak doors. Bellerophon the dragon was lying, curled up on the straw covered floor, his breathing raspy, his scaly skin, normally a silvery black colour, from which his species, the Caucasian Black, got its name, was discoloured. He looked ill. As Harry and Ron shut the door, he opened one beady eye and looked at them.

Then he coughed. His breath stank of rotting meat. Harry wondered what on earth Hagrid had been feeding the poor beasts.

"Greetings, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley," said Bellerophon, lazily. His normal gruff and noble tone muted and croaky.

"Hello," said Harry. "Are you not feeling well?"

Bellerophon shook his head ... his forked tongue shot out, and tasted the air, and he slowly unfurled and ruffled his vast wings.

"No," he growled. "I have a horrible cold. The English weather does not suit me. I need the sun on my body, dry air in my lungs. It is too humid here, too cold and too humid."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Harry, gingerly.

"It isn't your fault," said Bellerophon. "Tell me, how is Draco?"

"Hasn't he been to see you?" asked Harry. "That's odd."

"Not for a week or more," said Bellerophon. "I was enquiring after his health. Perhaps he is ill too. If the Dragon Rider becomes ill, it is often not unusual for the dragon to fall ill too."

"I hadn't noticed anything," said Harry. "Perhaps he's feeling a bit bunged up as well."

Bellerophon nodded slowly and gracefully. Then he stretched out one of his forelegs, and pawed the air, his claws, so sharp and so large they could have easily disembowelled you, swishing. Harry and Ron drew back.

"It is possible he too is ill," growled Bellerophon. "We must wish for a speedy recovery," he added.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, of course," he said, distractedly.

"You sound, distracted, Harry Potter," growled Bellerophon, right on cue. "Something troubles you, I think?"

Harry looked up, caught Bellerophon's bright yellow eye, and nodded. "Yes," he said. "There were a couple of things," he said.

"Dumbledore has hired you a psychiatrist," said Bellerophon. "Have you sought her counsel?"

"Sinead?" asked Harry. "Yes ... she's okay. She has some funny ideas though. I've been seeing her once a week since we got back."

"Nothing useful has come of these talks?" demanded Bellerophon, pawing once more at the air. He let out a loud, foghorn like moan that caused both Ron and Harry to clutch their hands to their ears. "My wings hurt," he grumbled.

"Some useful things," said Harry. "I suppose. But I still don't feel any better, if you see what I mean?"

Bellerophon nodded. "Often the counsel of the wise is no more valuable than the counsel of the fool," he said. "You are wise, I think, to seek the counsel of dragons, Harry Potter."

"Not especially," answered Harry. "I mean, I wasn't asking you to work everything out for me ..."

"Nor should you expect me to," growled Bellerophon, the faintest hint of a chuckle creeping into his voice. "When humans become sick within their minds, as I think you have done, there is little a dragon's counsel can bring that is of benefit to the situation. Nevertheless, if you want to talk to me about it, I will listen ..."

"That's very kind of you," said Harry. "Thanks, I mean."

"I have nothing better to do," said Bellerophon. "As I said, Draco does not seem to make the time to fly us any more. I rather suspect he has become bored with his new toys. Though wise in many ways, Draco retains the ways of the human child."

Ron snickered.

"Can't you just fly yourself?" asked Harry.

"If I were a wild dragon, then yes," said Bellerophon. "But I was hatched from an egg, and have known naught but the company of humans my entire life. It would not feel right."

Harry knew, and so did Ron from bitter experience, that dragons maintained a very noble outlook on life. They were very chivalrous beasts, with well developed senses of right and wrong, and though capable of acts of great evil, they were not in themselves bad creatures. The fact that Bellerophon thought flying himself would not feel right made perfect sense to both the boys.

"I should like to see Draco soon," said Bellerophon. "Tell him, if you seek him, that I enquired after him."

"Of course," said Harry. He hesitated for a minute, then said. "Bellerophon ... can I ask you something?"

"Evidently, you just have," said Bellerophon, his manner at times irritatingly like that of certain teachers Harry knew. "You may ask me another question if you so desire."

"Um ... you know how you can, sort of, see stuff. See who's bad, and who's not, and stuff, and sense things?"

"I know," said Bellerophon. "You seek to know your enemies before they know you, Harry Potter? I knew you were wise, but that displays sensible foresight. Who do you desire me to pass judgment on?"

"Well, there's this man," said Harry. "I've seen him a couple of times. Once he was in the Forbidden Forest, and he was watching me, and when I tried to speak to him, he ran off ..."

"Why didn't you tell me that?" asked Ron. Harry waved him into silence.

"Then he showed up again at Quidditch practice just now," said Harry, ignoring Ron. "Well, about two hours ago now. He doesn't speak, and when we tried to get close to him, he ran away."

"The man you speak of," began Bellerophon, sounding pensive. "He has a sickness, a great sickness of the mind. Many years ago he was tortured, tortured unimaginably by those who sought to destroy your Ministry of Magic," he growled.

"You mean Voldemort?" asked Harry. Ron flinched and looked away

"Don't say that name," he snarled, through gritted teeth.

"Not by Voldemort himself," growled Bellerophon, causing Ron to grimace again. "But the torture drove him insane. He has not spoken for more than ten harvests, and nor will he speak. However, he means no harm. He is looking for you, Harry Potter."

Harry froze to the spot. Whenever people went looking for him, it was generally a bad thing. "What does he want?"

"He has vital information to pass on to you," growled Bellerophon. "Seek him, Harry Potter, for he can help you greatly in these troubled times."

"I ... see," said Harry, vaguely, for he was feeling rather strange all of a sudden.

"It is not he you should be worried about," growled Bellerophon. "There is another, closer to you than this man, whose company you should avoid, for he brings naught but trouble, and he tells you naught but lies."

"Who is he?" asked Harry, who had had enough bizarre coded warnings in his lifetime to last him a ... well, a lifetime.

"That I cannot say," growled Bellerophon, in reply. "But you must be on your guard against false friends, and those who bring the means of escape will also bring destruction and sorrow upon you. Be warned, Harry Potter."

Harry suddenly felt funny inside, and wanted nothing more than to leave the stables behind and go back to the castle, where it was safe and bright and warm. The stables were suddenly cold and oppressive and full of bad things ... things with teeth, and such. He felt dizzy, his head seemed to be spinning round and round, and his vision was distorted. He turned to look at Ron, but it was like looking at a reflection on the back of a polished spoon. Ron's face seemed to lengthen before his very eyes.

"You okay, Harry?" he heard Ron say, a voice that seemed distant, as though it was not altogether there ... coming from another time, and a far off place.

"Yeah, fine," said Harry. He was not especially surprised to hear that his voice sounded exactly the same.

"Take him to the castle," growled Bellerophon. "He is weak, and he must sleep. Troubled times are upon us, Ron Weasley. You too should be on your guard. As things stand, you have a mortal enemy."

Ron ignored Bellerophon's warning, and gently clasped Harry round the shoulders. "Come on," he whispered in Harry's ear. "We'll put you to bed. You're freezing."

He began to walk Harry slowly out of the stable, Harry's footsteps faltering on the rough stone floor, Ron's hands around him, guiding his steps. As they reached the door, Ron turned.

"Thanks, Bellerophon," he smiled, but it was a forced smile, an unnatural smile. Harry did not notice it.

"A pleasure. Guard your friend well, Ron Weasley," growled Bellerophon, misreading the smile on Ron's face. "He needs guarding. He too is sick, and this sickness cannot be easily alleviated."

Ron nodded. "We'll come down and see you some other time. We'll try and bring Draco."

"That would be nice," growled Bellerophon. "Goodbye, human boys."

Ron propped Harry, now pale and sweating, up against the wall outside, and closed the door. Snow was once again falling from the sky, white, fluffy flakes drifting lazily down from on high.

"Come on, you," said Ron, seizing Harry, who was listing badly to port, and propelling him upright again, the two boys set off for the castle.

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

Perhaps it was the cold, perhaps it was being outside for so long, or the snow, or perhaps just the flu that was rumoured to be going around, but Harry's condition was so bad by the time they reached Gryffindor Tower that Ron ordered him to skip his homework, and helped him upstairs to bed. Then he went back downstairs to fetch hot chocolate, leaving Harry on his own, in his pyjamas at half past six, staring at the ceiling and listening to the noise coming from the Common Room.

He didn't know what had come over him. He had suddenly felt very sick, very cold, and very scared all over. Even now, back in bed with a 'Herbert's All Night Long Hot Water Bottle' at his feet, he was shivering uncontrollably. His throat felt dry, his vision seemed blurred, and his head was pounding. He looked at his hands. The palms looked like bits of salami sausage; all white dappled bits on red. He fell asleep before Ron came back with the drinks, and that night was the first night for some time that his dream did not come back to him.

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

Come morning, Harry decamped to the bathroom, where he spent twenty minutes evacuating the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl, whilst all the time little black spots danced in front of his eyes. Then he went back to bed, where he stayed for the rest of the day. Madam Pomfrey was fetched up from the Hospital Wing, and diagnosed nothing more than a mild case of Dragon Fever, which was caught through contact with infected specimens, and was a very fast acting bacteria. She left him some kind of preparation made from the bark of a yew tree, which Harry was meant to pour boiling water over, and then to drink the resultant brew, which wasn't very nice. Actually, he vomited it straight back up again.

However, it did mean that by the evening, he was up and walking around Gryffindor Tower in his dressing gown. Fred and George tried to cheer him up by showing off their signed contracts, which they were hiding from Mrs. Weasley on pain of decapitation, or at the very least, withdrawal of bathroom privileges. Harry waved them aside, preferring to sit on his own in his favourite armchair, rather, his new favourite armchair, as his old favourite armchair had been appropriated by First Years, and he didn't really have the heart to tell them to sod off.

He was mildly surprised when, at about six o'clock, just as he was debating whether or not to get dressed and go down for dinner, or to mope about upstairs being pathetic, Hermione dashed into the Common Room, wrapped up like some kind of Arctic explorer, took the stairs up to the girls' dormitories two at a time, and then reappeared two minutes later holding a notebook. She gave him a smile, before running out again. Harry merely assumed that she had had one of her sudden flashes of inspiration ... which generally involved a hurried movement in the general direction of the Library.

It became obvious that she had not been going to the Library when she returned with Draco, two minutes later. They both sought Harry out immediately, and came over to sit with him.

"Um, hello," said Draco, quietly. He looked, thought Harry, a lot meeker, quieter, altogether more subdued than he usually did.

"What do you want?" asked Harry bitterly, finding it hard to be cold with Draco anymore, which was annoying, because he badly wanted to be. What had transpired in Naxcivan may have brought them closer together, or, better put, got them talking like civilised human beings, but it hadn't stopped him from finding Draco very, very irritating indeed.

"Got something here for you," said Draco.

"Oh, goody," said Harry, without enthusiasm. "You're always bringing me presents. First the Christening Mug and now this."

If Draco saw the joke, he didn't show it.

"Nah, it's a diary," he said.

"Yes, I can see that. Thank you, Malfoy," said Harry sarcastically. It was indeed a diary, bound in red leather, with a ribbon to mark the page you were on. He turned it over and over in his hands. "Um, what do I want with it exactly?"

"It isn't yours then?" asked Hermione.

"Never seen it before in my life," he said truthfully. "I don't keep a diary," he lied.

"But it has your name in it," said Draco.

Harry opened the diary. Inside the front cover was a list of names and addresses, scribbled down in someone's untidy scrawl. They were names and addresses of people in London, and none of the names meant anything to him.

"That isn't even my writing," he said in an annoyed tone. "Why did you bring me this?"

Draco took the diary back from Harry, and took out a piece of yellowing paper. There was writing on it. It looked like a set of instructions. "I meant here," he said, as though that had been obvious all along.

"Don't forget Time Turner, leave dud in Charles P's top left drawer for Dumbledore to find. Harry will be at St. Mungo's visiting the boy. Do not speak to the boy (this is important). House Elf will bring you back when finished," he read selected bits of it out loud. "Does this make any sense to either of you?"

Hermione and Draco both shook their heads at the same time.

"Means nothing to me," said Harry. He turned it over. "Look, there's a letter on the back."

"How come I didn't spot that?" asked Draco bitterly.

"Read it, Harry," said Hermione.

Harry coughed, took a deep breath, and began. "Dear Albus, Aberforth, Algernon, Emeritus, Charles and Mary. We're going home now. We just thought we should leave you a note to say thank you for everything you did for us," he read. "If it wasn't for you, we'd be stuck here. God speed to you all, best of luck, and maybe we'll see you all again someday. Yours, the Gang."

"Make any sense?" asked Draco.

Harry shook his head. "Why should it do?" he asked. "It's just a note ... looks like someone was writing to Dumbledore and some other people."

Hermione took it from him. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd swear that was my handwriting."

"It can't be," said Draco.

"Of course it bloody can't," said Hermione, frustrated. "I didn't sodding write it, did I?"

"No," said Draco. "Look at the date. December 26th, 1941."

"What's it doing in this diary then?" asked Hermione. Harry flicked through the pages. There were scrawled comments, notes and appointments in a hand he did not recognise.

"Well, the fact that this is a diary for 1941 might have something to do with that," said Harry.

Hermione seized it from him. "Let me see that," she said. She opened a page at random. "December 6th, 1941," she read. "Moved Charles' files to new office in Ministry. Charles off to Europe again tomorrow. Told him to be bloody careful, and he told me not to be a miserable bastard. On the other hand, I get his broomstick if he doesn't come back this time. Charming," she added. Then she went on. "December 7th , 1941. Emeritus rang to say something bloody odd happening in Alnwick but we got cut off due to bombing. More spies caught on the news. Saw Charles off to France from Kenley aerodrome. I know it's a living but I worry about the poor sod. Still, he gets well paid for it. Got home to find Hortense waving Evening Prophet at me and babbling about the Americans. Seems they've been bombed into the war at long last. Perhaps we'll get some of those new wands the Ministry is on about off the Lend Lease mob. Would be damn useful. Listened to Churchill and Roosevelt on wireless. Bed. No bombers tonight so didn't have to use Andersen for a change. Hurray!"

"Where did you get this?" asked Harry.

"Found it," shrugged Draco.

"And where did you find it?" prompted Harry.

"Woods," said Draco. "I sat on it. I went back to that little lake in the forest to contemplate the serene mysteries of life ..."

"Spare me the sodding love and peace mantras," snapped Harry. Hermione handed him the diary.

"Okay, I sat down on a rock, and I sat on that. It has reinforced metal corners, you see. Very painful when they get stuck up your ..."

Hermione coughed loudly.

"And why," asked Harry, setting it down on the arm of his chair, "did you bring it to us?"

"Ugh?" went Draco, looking rather confused at this.

"Why bring it to us?" asked Harry. "Why not show it to one of your Slytherin pals? You could have had a good laugh at it and then burned it ceremoniously. That's what your type is into, isn't it, book burnings?"

Draco looked surprised at this sudden outburst. So did Hermione.

"What do ... what do you mean, my type?"

Harry sneered. "I saw those books back in your castle, Malfoy. What was that one Hermione said? Mein Kampf?" Anger was beginning to boil up inside him.

"That wasn't mine!" retorted Draco. "My ... my Father ..." he broke off.

"Draco?"

Hermione gave Harry a very disapproving look. Harry looked up at the other boy, and could suddenly tell that what he was about to say was causing him great pain.

"My Father wasn't a very nice man," Draco stammered. "I told you all those things about him, and neither of you believed me?"

"I didn't think ..." began Harry.

"It's okay," said Draco. "People forget stuff. And I saw those books too. Discourses on Inherent Magical Racial Superiority. Vile, hateful tracts. But they weren't mine. That wasn't me you saw there. That was my Father."

"I'm sorry," Harry stuttered gently. Draco looked up. His hair was once more in need of a cut, and strands of it were falling across his face.

"It's very hard to lose both your parents at once, you know," Draco said.

"Um, I know."

"No, with all due respect, Harry," said Draco calmly, "you don't know. You can never know, because you never really knew your parents. I knew mine, and ... and horrible as they were, I still can't stand losing them. I still need them, and you've learned to live without yours. I'm sorry, but that's the truth from where I see it. And I don't need people telling me they're sorry ... I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I shouldn't have bothered you. I should just have left the diary where I found it. I just thought you'd be interested in it. And the Slytherins would have burned it. I didn't think that was right. Didn't seem right. Probably never seemed right," Draco looked up again. He was clasping the leather bound tome in his hand, and holding it out to Harry.

Harry took it.

"It didn't seem right to burn it," repeated Draco.

"Did you see anybody else?" asked Harry, his thoughts drawn inexorably back to the strange man who had been hanging around their Quidditch practice.

Hermione cottoned on immediately. "Ooh, Harry ... you don't think it has anything to do with that weirdo Ron told me about do you?"

"There're weirdoes running about in the Forbidden Forest?" said Draco. "Why was I not informed?"

"Aren't there always?" said Harry darkly. "I just ... saw this bloke in the forest about a week ago, but when I tried to talk to him, he ran off. He showed up again at Quidditch practice yesterday evening, and George chased him off. That's all. Perhaps it's his. We should go and find him, maybe."

"Not now," said Hermione. "It's far too late. Besides, it's pitch black outside, you won't get ten yards once you're in the forest."

Harry sighed. "Obviously," he said through gritted teeth, "I was not talking about dropping everything and going now, any fool could have spotted that," he was wondering also whether or not he should tell Hermione what he had been told by the dragon, Bellerophon

Hermione looked slightly hurt, but said nothing.

"Why did Ron tell you anyway?" asked Harry, all of a sudden.

"Ron has a right to tell me what he wants," said Hermione, imperiously. "I don't see why it's such a big deal. Anyway, I notice *you* didn't tell me. I *thought* I was your friend, as well."

To which poor Harry could think of nothing to say.

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

The next afternoon, during their lunch break, Harry and Hermione, having left Ron, who had managed to get himself a detention (at long last) from Professor Trelawney for laughing too much at something Harry had said, headed down towards the Lake. Neither of them had any real intention of going anywhere, Harry just said he felt like walking, and Hermione had agreed to accompany him, secretly thinking she should be on her guard should Harry try to run away again. It was quite fun being his chaperone, she thought, as Harry strode ahead, kicking up fallen leaves and talking animatedly about Quidditch. It appeared Chudley were finally breaking their century's run of bad luck, and had just moved up to second place in the League Table after beating the Wimbourne Wasps.

Hermione's interest in Quidditch was about as minimal as you could get living amongst people who were all so bloody obsessed with it. But it was nice to see Harry pleased about something. Indeed, it was just nice to see him grinning for a change.

It dawned on her that she had been asked a question.

"Sorry, Harry?"

Harry turned to face her, his face flushed red with cold; he looked healthy, more like his normal self. Hermione had her fingers crossed that they were finally getting over all the upsets of the past few weeks.

"If you're not going to listen to me," began Harry.

"No, no, fire away. I was lost in my thoughts," said Hermione.

"Evidently. I asked if you thought our chances were good for Saturday?"

"What's happening Saturday?" asked Hermione. "Gryffindor aren't playing anybody, are they?"

"We already played this term's match," said Harry in an annoyed tone of voice. "It's Ravenclaw against Hufflepuff in a couple of weeks. I was asking if you thought the Cannons had any chance against Wigtown."

"I've never even ... Wigtown are meant to be good, right?" asked Hermione.

"Fifteenth in the League," said Harry.

"Shouldn't it be a walkover then?" asked Hermione, unsure of what to say.

Harry huffed. "Oh, you're useless," he said without malice.

Hermione grinned. "Thanks a lot," she said, scurrying to catch up with him. Harry misinterpreted this as an attack, turned on his heels and fled.

For a few seconds, Hermione just stood there, hands on hips, watching him run. Eventually, after he had stopped, a couple of hundred yards or so away, she called out. "Don't dare make me chase you, Harry Potter!"

Harry shouted something back, and continued running. With a muffled curse, Hermione gave chase, her robes dragging in the snow.

"You've done it this time, midget!"

Harry darted behind one of the trees in the Forbidden Forest. Hermione stopped just short of it. No way was she going in there. Creepy things dwell within, she thought.

"Harry! Say you didn't just run into the woods!"

There was no reply. Cautiously, Hermione took a step nearer the tree. As she approached, she thought she heard something rustling. Gingerly, she reached out, and lightly touched the trunk. Then she peered round it.

Harry had gone.

"Harry!"

Feeling slightly panicked now, Hermione walked round the entire tree. The rustling sound came again.

"Where are you? Is this a trick?"

Rustle, rustle.

She walked round the tree again. Again, the rustling could be heard.

And then someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

Hermione let out a shriek of terror, jumped a foot in the air, and turned round.

"You evil little bastard!" she yelled.

Harry grinned, and then, before Hermione could grab him and hang him up from something, like a low branch, he had disappeared again, this time running off into the forest.

He probably thinks he'll get a kiss if he's obnoxious enough, Hermione thought to herself. "I'm not following you into those woods, Harry!"

No reply.

"Come out now, you great dimmock!"

And then, the most bloodcurdling, piercing scream she had ever heard hit her ears. It was coming from within the forest.

"Oh Christ. Harry!"

Mere seconds later, there was a crashing sound, footsteps thudding on roots and then Harry emerged from the gloom, his face scratched by a low branch and bleeding slightly. He was hyperventilating.

Hermione lunged forwards. "Oh God, Harry. Breathe, breathe, okay. Don't breathe quite like that. Breathe more calmly. Calmer than that."

Harry nodded, coughed and spluttered as Hermione took him round the shoulders and lowered him to the ground at the base of one of the trees. He sat down gratefully on the ground. His breathing began to calm down, and he was able to say. "Body ... dead ... in the woods ..."

"There's a body?"

"S'what I said," gasped Harry, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly.

"W ... who?" stammered Hermione quickly.

"Don't ... don't ... don't know," breathed Harry. "But dead."

"I'd better go take a look," said Hermione. But Harry was on his feet immediately, blocking her way.

"Don't. I don't want you to see it. Go and get Sirius, or someone. Get anybody!"

"You'll be okay?" asked Hermione.

Harry nodded quickly. "I'll stay here ... mark spot," he said. "*Go* ... find someone!"

Hermione sat him down again, and made sure he was okay. "I'll send someone down," she said. "Be a couple of minutes. Be right back. Okay?"

Harry nodded his agreement. "Hurry."

Hermione turned, and started to run back up to the castle. She hadn't gone far when, quite by chance, she passed Ron and Sirius, who were walking briskly towards her. Sirius raised his hand.

"Hey, Hermione!"

She stopped running, and waited as they came over.

"Thought you were with Harry," said Sirius meaningfully. Each of them had agreed, in confidence to the others, or rather more accurately, Sirius had ordered them both to keep a close eye on Harry.

"I ... I was," said Hermione, struggling to breathe as her heart rate returned to normal.

"Why'd you leave him ..." Ron began, but Sirius silenced him.

"We found something ..." Hermione began. "There's something in the woods. Harry says it's a body."

"Dead?"

Hermione nodded.

"Oh Christ. Did you see it?" Sirius asked.

Hermione shook her head. "Harry wouldn't let me," she said. "And I didn't want to see it anyway. He came out of the forest all shaking and pale."

"Okay, okay," Sirius was saying. "Hermione, go back up to the castle. Get someone, I don't care who ... as long as it isn't Snape or Filch. Find Dumbledore, he'll know what to do. Ron, come with me, I may need some help."

Sirius and Ron continued down towards the Forbidden Forest. As they approached, Sirius spotted Harry, who was crouched at the foot of a tree, hugging his knees to his chest. They dropped down next to him.

"Are you okay?" Sirius asked. "What happened?"

Harry pointed wordlessly into the forest.

"Stay here with him," said Sirius. "I'll go check it out."

He started to walk off into the forest. For a minute or so, Ron just stood there, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, regarding Harry closely.

Then Harry said, "Sod this, I'm going to see what he's up to."

He got to his feet, and before Ron could do anything to stop him, had followed the path Sirius had taken in between the trees. Ron sighed, and walked off after him. Dead bodies in the woods indeed!

Keeping Harry in sight, he clambered carefully over the twisted mass of brambles and hawthorn that seemed to grow in great clumps round about knee height. He heard a ripping sound as something snared on the hem of his robes, then the sound of Harry's voice, drifting between the dark, forbidding tree trunks.

"Have you found it?"

And Sirius' reply of, "I thought I told you to stay outside!"

Ron lost concentration, tripped on a tree root, and went flat on his face, wincing with pain as he whacked his elbow on the offending plant. He looked up to find himself on the fringes of a small clearing, by the look of the surrounding trees, quite deep inside the forest. Harry and Sirius were standing there, and something was lying on the floor, shrouded in what looked like a white robe.

Ron clambered to his feet. "I thought you might need some help," he said, by way of explanation.

"We probably do," said Sirius. "Take a look."

Sirius leant over the body. Now that the corpse had been moved into the meagre light afforded by a break in the tree cover, and turned the right way up, it was immediately obvious to both Harry and Ron just who it was.

"That bloke who was hanging around the Quidditch pitch," said Ron, staring at the lifeless, mangled form of what had once been a human man. Harry realised, with a jolt that this was the second truly dead body he had ever seen. He felt his stomach turning over.

And the body was mangled too ... almost beyond recognition. The white robe was bespattered with caked blood. It had been torn in several places, and as Sirius brushed the robes aside, Harry and Ron stepped back in horror.

Where his stomach should have been was an empty, gaping hole ... bits of bone were poking into it, splintered clean in half. He had been disembowelled ... eviscerated completely, and the cause of death was sticking upright in the putrefying flesh like a dagger; a long, sharp pincer, that had broken off when the spiders had attacked him.

Ron turned away, and Harry heard his footsteps rustling in the leaves, and then the sound of him being very sick indeed.

Sirius grimaced, seized the mandible, or the pincer, or whatever it was around the top end, and pulled it out.

"Poor bastard," he said.

Harry could only stare in abject horror. Nothing he had ever seen before had been quite so disgusting, quite so putrid or foul. He heard Ron retching again.

"I knew there were spiders in the Forest," said Sirius coldly. "But I never thought they'd kill a man."

"I wonder who he was," said Harry.

Sirius put his arm companionably around Harry's shoulders. "They'll probably want to do a post-mortem," he said. "We may find out then. He'll have dental records and stuff."

Harry shook his head. He was wondering if he should tell Sirius about the diary he had found. The funny thing was, this man did not look nearly old enough to have written it himself. Indeed, he looked as though he had been in his mid to late thirties; like Sirius.

Sirius dropped to his knees next to the corpse, and brushed the flimsy white material of the robes aside.

"Seen something?" asked Harry, taking a step closer.

Sirius nodded. Closing his eyes, he stuck his hand into the man's pockets, and withdrew a wad of paper, held together with a shiny metal clasp, upon which was engraved the acronym 'OOTP' in florid script

"OOTP?" read Harry. "What's that all about."

Sirius nodded grimly. "It's an acronym," he said. "We all had one of these. It was standard issue. Like having an inkpot with a Hogwarts crest on it."

"You all had one what?" asked Harry. Sirius was turning the clasp over and over in his hands, regarding it as one might regard a long lost friend who had just turned up in a very unexpected place.

"One of these," repeated Sirius. "It was just to keep money and papers in order, like a bulldog clip. MOMPL. It was ... a very select group of trained men and women, working on behalf of the Ministry during the Troubles. I believe it was disbanded some years ago; Fudge thought there was no use for it, as I understand ... the service managed to discredit itself."

"How did it manage that?" asked Harry.

"One of its members betrayed two of the others," said Sirius, quietly. "And an innocent man spent twelve years in Azkaban because of it."

Harry understood. "Ah ... I see," he said. "My Mum and Dad were spies, then?"

"Spying barely figured ... it was ... something rather different," said Sirius, his voice taking on a far off tone. "But it means this man was one of them. And I think I know who. If I'm not mistaken," he pulled the wad of papers free from the silver clasp, which he pocketed. "These are his WIPs."

"His whips?" asked Harry. "You are completely out of your tree now, aren't you?"

"Not at all," said Sirius, quietly. "WIPs are Wizarding Identity Papers. We all had to carry them. Photo ID, name and address and two references."

"You needed identity papers?" asked Harry, incredulously.

Sirius nodded. "Of course," he said. "For about four years from 1977 onwards, the Ministry, any Aurors, any MLES Officers had the right to stop and search any wizard or witch they wanted. It was supposed to make sure Voldemort's activities could be kept in check. The Ministry was keeping tabs on everyone, monitoring movement and so on. If anybody tried to move around Britain without their papers, it was a week in Azkaban. So you damn well made sure you were carrying your papers. Of course, the Death Eaters carried their papers too, so it kind of rendered the system useless."

He unfolded the papers with the air of a man uncovering a priceless archaeological treasure.

"As I thought," he said. "Harry, this man's name is Frank Longbottom."

He showed Harry the papers. There was a photo of a young looking man on it ... very obviously the round faced man who was lying on the muddy ground at their feet. Could that really be Neville's Father?

"That must be his diary I have," said Harry, without realising it. Sirius raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"I'm sorry?"

"They ... Hermione and Draco, I mean, brought me a diary Draco found out here ... the other day," said Harry. "It must have belonged to him." He read the printed details on the papers. "Date of birth, August 3rd 1960, North Riding County Hospital, Harrogate, Yorkshire. Spouse and dependants ..." he trailed off. The name he was reading was, indeed, Neville's. "March 15th 1980," he read.

"Look at the bottom," said Sirius.

Two witnesses had signed and dated the papers. One of them was a name Harry had not heard of; Eric McKinnon, the other was his Father's; James Potter. The date was September 8th 1981.

"Perhaps I should tell you the truth," said Sirius. He crouched down again by the corpse, removed his robe, and used them as a shroud to cover up Frank Longbottom's lifeless form. Then, Harry still clutching the yellowed identity papers, he led him away from the scene, and sat him down on a tree stump about twenty yards away. Ron followed them over, looking curious.

"What is it?" asked Harry.

"We left school in 1977," said Sirius. "There was a whole gang of us, and we were young, and full of ourselves, and we thought we could take on the world, and win. We thought we had a chance against Voldemort," Ron flinched, as he always did, at the sound of the name. Sirius was the only person Harry knew, aside from Dumbledore, who could say it without having palpitations. "We all knew there was going to be a war, and we were all eager to do our bit."

His voice trailed off. "There were ten of us," he said, after a brief pause. "Ten in our year. Myself, your parents, Peter, Remus, a woman called Arabella Figg, two Ravenclaws, called Eric and Val McKinnon, they died. A Hufflepuff, whose name was Fred Burns, so did he, and another Gryffindor whom none of us knew that well. Her name was Anthea Spiggs. We all signed up for this thing. Dumbledore had had his eye on all of us, and he wanted to headhunt us for this new division he was setting up."

"This OOTP thing, or MOMPL, or whatever it's called?" asked Ron.

"Correct," said Sirius. "Utterly secret, highly confidential. The Last Line of Defence, they called us. We even had code names; we thought that was brilliant, we thought we were the mutt's nuts. I was Handel, your Dad was Elgar, your Mum was Mozart, and Remus was Bach. I think Peter was Puccini. Fred Burns was definitely Tchaikovsky ... Arabella was Beethoven, Anthea was Gershwin and Eric and Val were Gilbert and Sullivan. Dumbledore got to be Schubert."

There was a pregnant pause ... during which the wind seemed to whip at the trees just a bit harder.

"But there were several others. Gwyneth was one of us. Her code was Rachmaninov, and the next year Frank and Anne Longbottom joined us. They were Haydn and Ravel. And there was one other ... you might have heard him spoken of during my trial."

He looked at Ron.

"My Dad," whispered Ron. "Pettigrew was talking about him performing the Fidelius Charm too ..."

"Did you ask him about it afterwards?" asked Sirius.

Ron nodded. "Yeah, actually," he said, his voice sounding suddenly hollow and strained. "He didn't want to talk about it."

Sirius smiled. "Arthur Weasley was the fifteenth, and the oldest. He was Wagner."

"Dad always did like Wagner," said Ron to himself.

"Oh yeah, we all got to choose our composers," said Sirius. "James went for Elgar because of 'Pomp and Circumstance' ... he was Head Boy, see? Lily wanted Mozart because she was a good piano player. Eric and Val took Gilbert and Sullivan because they were already married ... wanted a good double act. Gershwin we chose because Anthea was American and liked show tunes, so it seemed to fit."

He became aware that both Harry and Ron were looking at him with an air of intense interest, and not having been the subject of such intense scrutiny since ... well, since his trial really, he found himself kind of enjoying himself.

"Can I ask a question about my Dad?" asked Ron.

Sirius nodded. "Um, yeah, fire away."

"How come ... he never talks ... he never told me, or us, or anybody? Surely I'd have known if my Dad was some kind of James Bond hangover."

"I already said it wasn't spying, it was something very different, something altogether far more dangerous," said Sirius. "Your Father um ... stayed in the office and dealt with the paperwork ..."

Ron, who had no doubt been imagining some daring feats of heroism; aerial broomstick chases, death defying leaps from cliffs, abseiling down dams and hanging out in seedy Monegasque bars drinking Pernod amongst a hundred smoking Frenchmen waiting for a contact in a beige raincoat to show up, looked disappointed.

"That's why," said Sirius. "That's why Voldemort wanted your parents, Harry. They were too much of a threat ... ordinary wizards didn't know about the MOMPL, and we weren't allowed to tell them about it; which is why everyone thinks it's still a case of straightforward murder, which of course, it was, in a way ..."

Harry interrupted. "You mean he was looking for them for a reason?"

Sirius nodded. "Well, strictly speaking they had something he wanted. Only thing is, they weren't keeping it at the house in Godric's Hollow."

"What was it?" asked Harry.

"You wouldn't want to know," said Sirius airily. "He never found it, of course ... the reason being James and Lily had had the foresight to lock it in my vault at Gringott's. It's what Dumbledore sent me to ..."

He stopped, his body frozen, his muscles tense. He looked as though he was about to fight someone.

"What's the matter?" asked Harry.

"Shush, hold it a minute," whispered Sirius. "Keep your voices down low, and be ready to run for it when I give you the word."

This time, whatever Sirius had heard sounded again, closer, like twigs were being broken under the weight of something, something big.

Ron had gone as white as a sheet again. "I don't like the sound of this," he breathed.

"Walk out of here, now," said Sirius, still clutching Frank Longbottom's ID papers. "Go ... whatever it is ... just go, and don't stop till you get back to the school. I'll cover you."

"Don't be stupid, Sirius," began Harry, only to be cut off by a strangled squawk from Ron. He was pointing at something, and backing away. His mouth was opening and shutting like a goldfish on speed.

Instantly, Harry whirled around. The thing that had been making the noise was advancing towards them across the clearing, clicking its mandibles in anticipation of the feast.

It was an acromantula.

Ron let out a faint squeak, and then was gone, haring off through the trees. Harry took one look at Sirius ...

"Go!" hissed Sirius, slowly withdrawing his wand from inside his robe.

Harry tore himself away, and next thing he knew, was running out of the clearing, feeling the brambles tearing at his robes, twigs clawing viciously at the skin of his face, his feet thudding on the bare earth. Behind him, he could hear shouts, but he did not dare look back. The only thought fixed in his mind was to get far away from the Forbidden Forest; as far away as possible.

The hem of his robe snagged on a tree root, and for a brief second, he felt himself flying through the air, landing headfirst on a patch of earthy ground. He felt something give inside him, and winced in pain as he rolled over onto his side, shuddering. He could feel his heart beating nineteen to the dozen.

The pain in his arm was terrible. He struggled up into a sitting position, and chanced a look around. There was no sign of Aragog, or any of the other spiders, although for that matter, neither was there any sign of Sirius.

"Hello," he ventured.

A snidget was watching him from a high branch. It flew off as soon as he spotted it, tiny wings beating against the air.

With his good arm, Harry heaved himself upright, and clambered to his feet, leaning on the trunk of the tree he had tripped over to support himself.

"Damn," he swore. A dull, throbbing ache was spreading through his skull to accompany the fierce, stabbing pain in his left arm, which he could now see was bent forwards at an ugly angle. Tentatively, Harry put his other hand to his forehead, and it came away bloody. There was a cut inches below his hairline, right over his scar.

"Damn," he said again.

A sudden scream echoed through the forest. It sounded too far off to be any danger to him, yet at the same time it sounded like Sirius was in trouble. Big trouble. Harry was momentarily torn between continuing his flight from the forest, or going back to try and render assistance to his Godfather.

His worries were confirmed mere seconds later by a sudden, ear-piercing howl of terror ... coming from somewhere very close, and sounding like Ron. It was somewhere over to his right. Harry spun round. Dark shapes were moving quickly between the thick trunks of the trees, but they were going far too fast for him to be able to make out exactly what they were.

"Ron?"

The yell came again. That was Ron! Adrenaline surging through his bloodstream, Harry reached into his robe, and extracted his wand, which he held out in front of him, like a gun. He took a step forwards, misjudged the position of the tree root again, and went sprawling on his face.

Almost immediately, he heard crashing, someone forcing their way through the thorny undergrowth, and then hands he recognised as Sirius' had seized him under the arms, and he was being hauled once more to his feet. Harry looked up. Blood was pouring from Sirius' nose, but his expression was one of triumph.

"I stunned the bugger," he said. "But it won't stay down for long. We'd better get out of here quickly."

"Ron's somewhere over there," breathed Harry. "I think he might be in trouble too."

"Come on, then."

Picking his way carefully through the bushes, Sirius led Harry in the direction of where Harry thought he had heard Ron's cries. As they neared the spot, Harry fancied he could hear ragged breathing and muffled moaning. Sure enough, as they forced their way between two very large, very dark old oak trees, Sirius put his hands out for Harry to stop.

"Oh hell," he said.

Harry craned to see. Sirius stepped forwards. They were standing on the edge of another clearing that Harry did not recognise. Sprawled on the forest floor, his body half covered with dried leaf litter and humus, was Ron.

"Stay where you are," Sirius barked, walking slowly over to the body, and dropping to his knees next to it.

Harry ignored him, and surged forwards himself, not caring whether his arm was broken or not.

"Is he ..." he began.

Sirius rose from his inspection of the bloodstained, battered body, and shook his head. "He's very much alive," he said. He seemed to be moving to block something from Harry's view.

"He's very badly hurt though," said Sirius. "We'll need to get him up to the Hospital Wing ... double quick. He's lost a lot of blood."

He shifted sideways to tend to the boy's injuries, and in an instant Harry saw what had happened. One of the spiders had bitten him in the left leg ... the pincer responsible was still sticking out of the wound it had created, and the flesh around it was turning a vile shade of greenish yellow, and smelled horrible. Furthermore, the acromantula in question had actually bitten the entire leg off below the knee. There was nothing there but a bloody, ragged stump, with the top end of the ankle bone protruding, pearly white against the dark flesh.

"He put a tourniquet on," said Sirius. "That'll have stopped the poison spreading too much," he gestured to the top of Ron's leg ... he had taken the belt off his trousers, and secured it tightly around himself. "It constricts the blood vessels," Sirius went on.

"He'll be okay?" Harry ventured, feeling physically sick at the sight of his grievously wounded friend.

"If we move fast," said Sirius. He waved his wind over Ron's prone form. "Mobilicorpus," he said.

The body rose up a foot or so above the forest floor, and under Sirius' direction, they moved him slowly out of the Forbidden Forest, and back up the hill towards the castle.