Rating:: PG-13
House:: Schnoogle
Characters:: Draco Malfoy Harry Potter Hermione Granger Ron Weasley Sirius Black
Genres:: Angst Mystery
Era:: Multiple Eras
Spoilers:: Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire
Stats:: Published: 07/16/2001

Updated: 10/23/2001

Words: 172,582

Chapters: 9

Hits: 24,974

The Time Of Trial

Al

Story Summary:: The second part of the 'Dark Descending' story arc. Harry must finally begin to come to terms with his past, and his future, in this epic adventure, but Voldemort has returned, and the Light is fighting for survival ...

Chapter 06

Posted:: 07/16/2001

Hits:: 2,252

Author's Note:: A NOTE ON CONTINUITY

The Time of Trial

Chapter 6 - The Scarlet Pimpernel

"... and Mr Fuller denied that the use of the beach cabana in Hawaii and allegations of gross sexual misconduct had anything to do with his resignation. He merely wishes to spend more time at home with his wife and children."

"You're listening to WWN. It's coming up to five o'clock, on Thursday the 30th of November, 1995. Before we hand you over to Alan Titchmarsh and the team for 'Herbologist's Question Time', a recap on today's top stories. The Ministry of Magic continues to deny rumours that last night's explosion on Diagon Alley was anything to do with the resurgence of the Dark Side. Two people were injured in the blast, which occurred outside the packed 'Golden Snitch' club at the prestigious Home Park end of Diagon Alley. Witnesses claim to have seen the Dark Mark shot into the sky immediately afterwards. The MLES, (Magical Law Enforcement Service) have no leads at this time, and the investigation continues. Damage to property was minimal, although the clean-up operation may cost up to a million Galleons. Officers of the MCID, (Magical Criminal Investigation Department) moved against numerous targets across the United Kingdom in a series of dawn raids, codenamed Operation Quick Fire, this morning. Up to fifteen people have been arrested in connection with the Dark Lord. Meanwhile, Minister Fudge continues to stun the Magical community with his 'vaporise first, ask questions later' policy. Up to ten people have, in the last few days, been sentenced to Azkaban, and it is believed five of those have now been kissed. In a special report tonight at 8, Fergus McDonald looks at magical justice in Britain today, and asks, with the Dark Side on the rise again, are our courts going too far ..."

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

To Dumbledore's eternal credit, he managed to hush up the discovery of Frank Longbottom's body from the rest of the Hogwarts students. Harry found himself being summoned up to his study later that same day, where he was told in no uncertain terms that if he *did* tell anybody about what he had seen, the consequences would be as dire as it was within Dumbledore's power to make them. Harry, who had still been a bit dazed at the time, had allowed these words to go straight in one ear, and right out of the other. He excused himself from afternoon classes, and went up to his Dormitory to lie down. Nobody disturbed him at all.

After dinner (shepherd's pie followed by spotted dick and custard), Hermione caught him, and dragged him up to the Hospital Wing to visit Ron. Regrettably, Ron had not yet come round from his acromantula-enduced coma. He was lying stiffly in bed, his forehead slick with perspiration, his hands folded neatly across his chest, looking silly in the only pyjamas Madam Pomfrey had been able to find, which had fluttering golden snitches on them. There was a strange ... dip in the eiderdown where his left leg should have been. Someone ... Harry could only assume Fred and George, or maybe Ginny, had left him a large slab of Honeyduke's chocolate.

"I don't know why you want to see him," Madam Pomfrey fussed, as she rearranged Ron's bedclothes, tucking the boy in so tightly it was a miracle he was still able to breathe. "There really is no point in trying to talk to him, he can't hear you."

Hermione coughed awkwardly. "Um ... that isn't actually true," she said. "Medical evidence suggests it may well be possible for comatose people to be able to ..." she trailed off upon catching the expression on Madam Pomfrey's face.

"Can we just sit with him?" asked Harry. "Just for a minute or two. Please?"

Madam Pomfrey sighed. It was practically common knowledge amongst the students that she considered Harry one of those delicate specimens to be mothered and given hot chocolate and so on - she was never able to resist him for long.

"Just for a little while," she said. "I'll be in the office if you need me."

She bustled off, stopping as she went to take the temperature of a First Year Slytherin girl who had come down with something unsavoury. Harry approached the bed cautiously. He had never seen Ron quite like this before. Countless times *he*, Harry, had ended up in the hospital wing ... he had spent whole days up here, unconscious, being visited by his friends, but he could not recall Ron ever having been up there ... save a couple of times; once during the First Year, and again at the end of their Third Year It was a shock to the system to see him lying there, clearly in pain, clearly ill - looking, as most people do when they are dead to the world, unguarded and whole years younger.

"You probably can't hear me, eh?" said Harry quietly.

If Ron could, he obviously wasn't showing it.

"Sorry," he said.

He heard faint footsteps on the floor as Hermione tactfully withdrew a short distance away. Harry stood over the bed, looking down at Ron's face. He seemed thinner, more freckly than usual. Odd, he thought, that I never noticed that before.

"I keep thinking," said Harry. "That if I wasn't around, you wouldn't keep getting hurt by me. If you'd stumbled into somebody else's compartment that day, you might not even know me. Then you could have done what you wanted ... and you wouldn't be some stupid sidekick."

He wasn't sure if Hermione could hear him, and to be perfectly honest, he really didn't care. The words just seemed to be tumbling out.

"Actually, I'd have gone into Slytherin, and you could have hated my guts these last five years. That's ..." Harry realised what he was about to say before he actually said it ... he stopped and stuttered. "That's why I ran away. I guess. To give you guys a break. I mean, I'm basically pathetic, right?"

Ron didn't say anything. Well - had he honestly expected him to?

"You'd better go," Madam Pomfrey was back on the ward, wheeling before her a little trolley, balanced upon the top of which was an earthenware bowl, from which issued forth a strange, earthy, herbal smell. There was a large roll of bandage, and several sprigs of what looked like bracken, too. "I have to put this on him ... draw out the poison. You wouldn't want to watch."

Harry withdrew from the bed. "May we come up and see him tomorrow?"

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "Yes ... I dare say you *may*," she said. "Come along now, please. It's past your bedtime."

Harry looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eight. "Um ... okay," he said.

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

Upon arriving back in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, which seemed altogether empty without Ron's normal, pervasive presence, Harry was surprised to see Dumbledore himself standing next to the window, looking out over the darkened school grounds. He was holding a small, leather-bound notebook.

"Sir?" ventured Harry, stepping into the room, and allowing the door to fall shut behind him.

"Ah," Dumbledore turned round. The flickering candlelight danced and twinkled in his eyes. "Do have a seat, Harry. I was wanting to talk to you."

"You were waiting for me?" said Harry, moving to sit down on his bed, which he was painfully aware was untidy and unmade. He hastily smoothed out the covers.

"It's nice in here," said Dumbledore, almost wistfully. "Come, my boy. I want to speak with you about your friend."

"You mean Ron?" asked Harry.

Dumbledore nodded. "About Ron ... indeed," he said. "Do you mind if I sit down, Harry?"

"No," said Harry. Dumbledore sat down on the bed next to Harry.

"Get the weight off my feet," he grinned mischievously. "I'm not nearly as young as I used to be, Harry."

"About Ron?"

"Of course," said Dumbledore. "Sirius has, of course, told me what happened. Harry ... have you noticed anything strange about your friend?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really," he said. "He seems just like normal."

"Good ... that's good," said Dumbledore.

"Was there any particular reason, sir?" he asked.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Oh, not especially," he said. "No real reason at all, to be quite frank. I was very sorry to hear of his accident ..."

"What's going to be done?" asked Harry.

"I imagine a false leg will have to be fitted," said Dumbledore. "But that, my boy, is completely beside the point. Sirius tells me you might have something to show me ..."

Did he mean the diary? Harry wasn't sure.

"I don't think so," said Harry.

Dumbledore put his hands in his lap, and laced his gnarled, wrinkly fingers together. It looked painful, and Harry observed for the first time that his joints seemed knotted with arthritis. "He tells me you mentioned to him a diary."

"I wouldn't like to show it to you," said Harry. The diary was meant to be a secret. For someone who had gotten into so much trouble during his school days, Sirius didn't half act like a grownup sometimes. Babbling all his secrets. As if it wasn't bad enough that Gwyneth seemed to have memorised his timetable, and kept popping up to ask if he was okay.

"Don't be cheeky, boy," said Dumbledore. "May I please see it?"

Harry sighed, and leant over to his nightstand, pulling open one of the drawers - thankful he had had the foresight not to pack the diary in with the things in the secret drawer, which probably would not have stood up well to scrutiny by the headmaster. He had taken the dust jacket off the notebook he used as his own journal, and hidden Frank Longbottom's diary within that. He picked it up, and handed it over.

"I see," said Dumbledore. He carefully removed the dust jacket, and handed it back to Harry. "Do you object at all if I ..."

Harry shook his head. What choice did he have?

Dumbledore flicked through the pages. He appeared to be scanning them as he went. "As I thought," he said. "This is just what I suspected it would be. Harry, you do realise how important this document is?"

Harry shook his head again. "I thought it was just a diary, sir."

Dumbledore smiled. "Oh no, very much the opposite," he said. "Well ... I say that ... of course it *is* a diary. But it's a very important one. This belonged to a man called Algernon Longbottom. He was a friend of mine, many years ago ... haven't seen him for ages. I imagine Frank ... the man you found was looking after it for him, or rather ... for you."

Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"You mean to say you haven't worked this out yet?" asked Dumbledore.

"I've only even read it a couple of times," said Harry in his defence.

Dumbledore smiled. "I see," he said. "I imagine you have shown it to Hermione?"

Harry nodded.

"Very wise ... she's a sensible girl," said Dumbledore. He handed the diary back to Harry. "I think, perhaps, it might be polite if you were to show it to Neville too."

Harry looked up. "Sir, does, um, Neville know about his Dad yet?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I told him myself not an hour ago," he said. "He's being comforted by Professor McGonagall now. I *don't* advise you to talk to him tonight. He's very upset ... and he needs time to calm down, to get his head in order."

"Very well, sir," said Harry.

Dumbledore looked at the diary again. "Harry ... open that book to December."

Harry did so.

"December 26th. If I remember correctly, there should be a note. It's addressed to me, and a couple of other people," said Dumbledore.

Harry unfolded the crinkled, yellowing note from within the pages of the diary once more, and opened it out. "Albus, Aberforth, Algernon, Emeritus, Charles and Mary," he read.

"Any idea who those people are?" asked Dumbledore.

"Albus is you, sir," said Harry. "I know you have a brother called Aberforth. Algernon must be Algie Longbottom. I've never heard of Emeritus or Mary ... but the instructions on the back say Charles P. Does that mean Charles Potter?"

Dumbledore smiled. "You are almost spot on," he said. "I needn't have been worried. You are evidently quite capable of working this out for yourself. Emeritus was your Great-Uncle. Charles was indeed your paternal Grandfather, and Mary was his wife, your Grandmother."

"What ... happened to them?" asked Harry. "I never knew?"

"Your Grandfather died of cancer," said Dumbledore softly. "Lung cancer. He smoked fifty cigarettes a day for nearly seventy years, after all. Your Grandmother followed, I am sad to say, soon afterwards. It was the year after your parents left school, but that is by the by. Do you know what the instructions are? Do you have any idea what they might be?"

Harry shook his head. "There's someone called Harry mentioned."

Dumbledore nodded. "They are instructions for a very sensitive mission," he said simply.

"It would do me no good at all to know about it?" ventured Harry.

Dumbledore smiled. "Not at this precise moment in time," he said. "Come now, Harry. You're doing very well. Allow me to tell you a little story. It may seem irrelevant ... but believe me, it is anything but. Back in the autumn of 1941, Britain had no friends. Europe was occupied by a hostile power ... we were fighting, alone and for our lives. And the magical community was getting worried. There was a threat to us even greater than that presented by the Nazi hordes ..."

"Grindelwald?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes ... indeed, Harry ..."

"You defeated him, didn't you ..." he broke off as Dumbledore raised his hand for silence.

"I did," said Dumbledore. "But that was to come later, and in 1941, the wizarding world was running very scared. Nobody knew what was what, and there was a great confusion arising as to where things really were, and what was really happening. There were many people who were of the opinion that the man Grindelwald and Hitler were one and the same person, and that we would do best by throwing in our lot with the Muggles. As it turned out, this was not true, they were separate entities and had nothing to do with one another. It was merely fate that dictated they arose at the same time. However, at the time, the Ministry of Magic was taking these claims very seriously, and my brother Aberforth, not being very bright, bless him, was sent to investigate them. During 1941, he travelled the length and breadth of Britain, wheedling out information. In early December, he was working in London."

The Headmaster paused, and for a second, Harry got the feeling he was communicating with something far off ... in a far off place and a far off time.

"One day, December 7th, to be exact, a young boy was brought into a hospital nearby. Aberforth, got wind of the fact that this boy was something rather unusual," said Dumbledore. "The boy was, apparently predicting things. He was predicting the outcome of the War, atom bombs. Aberforth claimed he even predicted the Berlin Wall. And the doctors, being doctors, and being Muggles, thought this boy to be merely insane, and would have locked him away, but for one prediction. On December 7th, 1941, America was bombed into the War at Pearl Harbour. The boy predicted this event ... just ten minutes before the news came through on the wireless. The doctors were intrigued. Come morning time, Aberforth, arrived, posing as a relative, and noticed something altogether weird. The boy was indubitably a wizard. Though he had no wand, he was definitely causing magic to occur when stressed or angry. Aberforth was in contact immediately with Emeritus Potter, your Great-Uncle, who was well positioned as the local Ministry representative, and was told to bring the boy to Hogwarts post haste."

Dumbledore stopped. "I fear," he went on. "I have probably already told you too much. Nevertheless, the boy was returned to his family ..."

"I don't see what this has to do with me," said Harry.

"Hmm," said Dumbledore ... he appeared to be in some sort of a daze. "Well," he went on. "I have a feeling there are questions that need to be answered, Harry."

Harry nodded. "Who was the boy?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "That, Harry, I cannot tell you. It would cause too much complication."

"This may seem irrelevant ... but there was *one* other thing," said Harry. "Have you ever heard of something called the OOTP."

"The Order of the Phoenix?" said Dumbledore. "Of course. I ran it."

"I knew that," said Harry. "Sirius told me a bit about it ... but not what it was."

"An organisation," said Dumbledore. "Of which your parents were a part. They were a dedicated bunch. The Order worked against Voldemort during the fight against him. Harry ... my boy, I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot. This is one of those things," he looked awkward. "When you are ready to know, you will find out," he said. "That I can guarantee."

"You always say that," said Harry grumpily. Dumbledore ruffled his hair affectionately.

"I know," he said. "I think perhaps you should get some rest, Harry. I have to go and talk to Sirius."

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

Gwyneth was piling books into a very battered old suitcase when the knock came. Annoyed at the interruption, for she was very busy indeed, she barked, "Yes!"

The door opened slightly, revealing Sirius, looking apologetic, and holding a fresh bouquet of flowers.

"If this is a bad time," he said, "I can always come back later."

Gwyneth smiled. "No, come in," she said. "Always a pleasure to see you, my darling."

Sirius stepped carefully into the room, noting as he did so that the floor, the bed, indeed, every available space was littered with books.

"I'll put these in water. Did a bomb go off in here?" he asked.

Gwyneth shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm just putting some stuff together to send down to the new house in Wabznasm," she said. "I thought it'd make it easier than moving everything in one go when we finally get married."

"Sensible," said Sirius, he placed the flowers in a rather handsome cut glass vase, and set it down on the windowsill, amongst Gwyneth's collection of china animal figurines. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Go ahead," said Gwyneth. "Wait! Not there!" she squeaked, rushing to rescue a pile of first edition Brontes from the bed.

"I never knew you had so many books," said Sirius, looking around. "It's quite a little library you've got going here."

Gwyneth blushed. "I have been collecting for a very long time," she said. "Muggle books, a lot of them, but very interesting ones, all the same," she lifted down from a high shelf a folio edition of Shakespeare, treating it as though it were a priceless religious relic.

Sirius picked up a book lying at his feet. "Ge Fordge's Compendyum of Sex Majick?" he said. "Gwyneth?"

"Ah, thanks, I was looking for that," she said. "Now ... have you seen Nosehinger's Laws of Contract Bridge."

Sirius scanned the bookshelves. "Yup," he said. "Right there ... in between Practical Dragon Breeding for the Wary, and Belgium: A History."

"Thanks," said Gwyneth.

Sirius smiled up at her. "What say we abandon the packing for tonight, my Welsh rare bit?"

"*That* was quite hideously corny," said Gwyneth, chuckling.

"I was thinking," said Sirius, "that we need to start planning our honeymoon. Any ideas on where you want to go?"

"None whatsoever," said Gwyneth, stacking yet more books into an empty cardboard box that had once held wine.

Sirius clearly *had* been thinking, for he pulled from within his robes a rolled up travel brochure, the page in question book-marked with a browning banana skin.

"How do you fancy a Caribbean Cruise?" he asked, opening the brochure to the right description.

"Describe it to me," said Gwyneth. "Are there heavenly beaches and scuba diving and things like that?"

Sirius coughed. "Okay then ... travelling by Floo Powder to Barbados, you will spend two days just relaxing on the beach, or being pampered at our five star luxury spa and aromatherapy centre. Once you have eased away the aches and pains of a British winter, and settled into our gentle island rhythm, you will transfer to our five star luxury cruise liner, the MS Sunshine Zenith, where you can relax on deck, by any one of our three pools, work out in the gym, socialise in the bar, enjoy a gourmet feast in our five star luxury restaurant, or enjoy being pampered at our on-board five star luxury spa and aromatherapy centre ..."

"Sounds ghastly so far," said Gwyneth. "Carry on."

"After watching the sun set over the beautiful Caribbean Sea, retire to the ballroom and dance to the sounds of Jack 'The Glove' Rimmer and his Rhythm and Blues Orchestra, or enjoy the cabaret of Mademoiselle Jeanette le Bourget and the French Follies. Two days at sea brings us to the island of Cuba, where you will have a whole day free to explore the delights of the Muggle city of Havana, designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Sailing again in the evening, the following morning we dock in Key West, where you can relax on shore, relishing the Bohemian atmosphere. Why not treat yourself to a pampering session at the five star luxury spa and aromatherapy centre? Or for the more adventurous, explore the house of the wizard writer, Ernest Hemingway, now maintained by a dedicated team of animagi, cunningly disguised as cats. Back on board the MS Sunshine Zenith, it's American Theme Night. Why not treat yourself to grilled lobster and clam chowder in our five star luxury restaurant? Or for the truly adventurous, sup on our giant Texan T-Bone. The entertainment tonight is provided by Ryan McVitie, acclaimed New Orleans jazz musician, followed by the comic stylings of New Yorker Deira Donahue, who will regale you with her hilarious accounts of life as a freelance funeral director in Perth Amboy, New Jersey ..."

"It doesn't really say that, does it?" asked Gwyneth.

"No, I made that last bit up," said Sirius. "In the morning, we sail for the beautiful Bahamas ..."

"I've heard enough," said Gwyneth. "Tempt me with something else ... please."

Sirius flicked through the brochure some more. "Okay," he said. "How about an Egyptian Expedition. Joining the luxury five star Nile cruise liner Star of Giza in Cairo, sail past the Pyramids, the ancient City of the Dead at Luxor, and the engineering miracle of the Aswan High Dam ..."

"Is there cabaret?"

Sirius nodded. "Let Fatima and her troupe of dancing girls show you the mysteries of the East. Fancy dress is a must for a night of hilarious fun. There's a photo here of a pasty fat bloke dressed as a Roman legionary."

"Hideous," said Gwyneth. "Why don't we book a walking holiday in the Yorkshire Dales?"

"Transfer to Sharm-el-Sheikh, where you can scuba dive in the Red Sea, or be pampered at the five star luxury spa and aromatherapy centre," Sirius went on.

"Scotland ... North Wales is lovely ... we could visit Portmeirion," said Gwyneth hopefully.

"An Aussie Adventure," said Sirius. "The ancient rock of Uluru, sacred to the aboriginal people ..."

"If we *must* go abroad, then let's just have a dirty weekend in Paris," said Gwyneth. "Or we could do a pub crawl in Dublin."

"The cabaret is four pissed up blokes in hats with corks on singing Waltzing Matilda," said Sirius. "We can take an option to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge, if you'd like ..."

"Cornwall? Brussels is meant to be lovely for gastronomes like you. Maybe even Vienna. We could go to the opera! I love opera."

A grin spread across Sirius' face. "Bike Route 66 on a Harley Davidson," he said. "Chicago to Los Angeles ..."

Gwyneth seized the brochure. "Why don't we book a golfing break at Gleneagles?" she asked.

"You don't play golf ..."

"I'll learn," said Gwyneth, firmly.

"Safari in the big game parks of Zimbabwe?"

"No!"

A knock on the door disturbed them both. They stopped arguing immediately.

"Come in!" Gwyneth called.

The door opened a fraction, and Dumbledore came in, albeit apologetically.

"Sorry ...were you busy?"

"Not at all," said Gwyneth. "We were just discussing where to go on our honeymoon."

Dumbledore smiled. "I always fancied Minorca. But that's by the by. I have some things I would like to talk with you about. May I sit down?"

"Sure ... hang on, clear some of this clutter," said Gwyneth, removing a pile of Mills & Boons off an armchair. "Sorry it's a bit of a mess, I have removal men coming tomorrow to take most of it away."

"Probably fortunate," said Dumbledore, sitting down. "Nice to take the weight off my feet these days, see?"

Sirius nodded. "I quite understand, sir."

Dumbledore eyed Sirius over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. "Sirius ... how many times do I have to tell you that my name is Albus? Call me that."

"Was it anything, specific, um, Albus?" asked Sirius, aware as he said it how ridiculous and stilted he sounded. There was something about Dumbledore's mere presence in the room that gave him the strongest, and the strangest urge to fess up immediately ... tell the man everything, he thought, and maybe you might just get away with a detention.

"It's about Harry," said Dumbledore. "I just spoke with him about the diary ..."

"The one I told you about?" asked Sirius, he had slipped one shoe off and was waggling his toes.

Dumbledore nodded. "That one ... exactly," he said. "It would appear to be of some importance. For a start, it is no ordinary diary."

"What's extraordinary about it, then?" asked Gwyneth, who had ceased packing away her vast book collection, and was perched awkwardly on the windowsill.

"You remember Frank Longbottom," Dumbledore caught himself. "What am I saying ... of course you do. This diary belonged to his Uncle ... Algernon."

"Wasn't he ..." began Gwyneth.

"Yes, he was," said Dumbledore. "I haven't told Harry of course. I don't think he quite understands how much he is mixed up in all this brouhaha."

"What brouhaha?" asked Sirius, who had not been previously aware that there was one ... a brouhaha, that is ... whatever one of those is.

"This brouhaha," said Dumbledore. "This whole ... thing. I mean, he *knows* he's in it up to his neck - and God knows I've tried to shield him as best I can ... and even my shields aren't infallible. There must come a time when Harry fights on his own."

"It isn't coming yet, is it?" asked Sirius.

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "It is coming sooner than you think," he said. "Sirius ... I am not as young as I used to be ..."

"This isn't some sort of bestowing thing, is it?" asked Sirius, cutting off the Headmaster in mid-flow. "Because I don't want you to bequeath me the Headship of this school, or any kind of golden key."

"Oh, no," said Dumbledore. "The succession is all worked out. The Governors have all agreed - it's been arranged for years. My successor here is all worked out ... what I want is for you to act as a kind of steward for Harry."

"I *already* do," said Sirius, with feeling.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Of course, of course," he said. "Harry is going to need indoctrinating," he said. "He must be told about the Order of the Phoenix. He must be told what it was ... what it was all about. Eventually, we're going to need to resurrect it ..."

"I think that's a bit of a tall order," scoffed Gwyneth.

Dumbledore looked at her. "I'm surprised that you ... of all people, Gwyneth, have not been keeping up with the news."

"I have," said Gwyneth. "It's just a load of second rate hacks at the Prophet overreacting. Nobody on that paper has a clue. I don't know what you expect from a Murdoch tabloid ..."

"Nevertheless," said Dumbledore. "The Prophet isn't lying. For all its faults, it has remained an organ of the Light, no matter what happened. There've been disappearances, Gwyneth. Officers of the IBME Circle have vanished on operations. An executive of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, walking his kneazle on Wimbledon Common - vanished ... just like that."

"But the need to resurrect the Order is not yet paramount," said Gwyneth.

Dumbledore looked shocked. "I hardly think that is the correct way to speak of it," he said. "If it can be described as anything, then paramount is the word to use ... indubitably. Gwyneth - you must remember first time round. This is just like living through the Seventies again. The same things are happening ... the same things. It's been going on since June. Trouble is Fudge can't see further than the end of his own nose. Otherwise things would be happening. It makes me mad just to think of that man ..." he trailed off, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"I haven't even spoken to him for a month," said Dumbledore, quietly. "I always knew he was a self-absorbed nincompoop ... but his level of idiocy knows no bounds."

Sirius nodded. "Well," he said. "The Order is ready ... what's left of it. You *do* only have to give the word."

"I still say we should wait," said Gwyneth.

Dumbledore rounded on her. "And be forced to live with the fact that we were the people who did nothing when we could still do *something*?"

"We're biding our time," said Gwyneth.

"Arthur Weasley has a whole network of contacts in place at the Ministry," said Sirius. "They *almost* had some success already. The administration is wobbling. If any of our allies go ... then our government will go, too ... no doubt about it ..."

"My concern wasn't for Arthur Weasley," said Dumbledore.

"We've dragged Arabella out of retirement," Sirius went on. "Half of north-east Surrey has been warded off for Harry should the need arise. We've got Vernon bloody Dursley bending over backwards to keep us from turning his wife into a toadstool again. Mundungus says he needs a couple more days to get ready. Remus is already here. We're ready, Albus. Just give the word."

"My concern isn't for them," said Dumbledore. "My concern is for Harry. After I'm gone, what will happen?"

"You aren't going anywhere," said Sirius.

"But if I do," said Dumbledore.

"Well ... your successor isn't exactly going to take it lying down, is he?"

Dumbledore looked up. "Snape?" he asked. "Voldemort is *not* scared of Severus Snape. Snape is a worthy successor, but even his loyalties are not set in concrete ..."

"And we all said that about Peter," agreed Sirius. "Too dull to work for Voldemort ... too stupid. It'd never be him ..."

Dumbledore looked up. "Exactly," he said. "Exactly right. Who can tell where our loyalties really lie? We were hours away from arresting Remus Lupin at one time. He would have been interrogated, then handed over to the Dementors. All because we thought Peter Pettigrew couldn't *possibly* be working for Voldemort ..." he stopped again.

"Harry *must* be told," he said, rising to his feet. "There are no two ways about it."

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

"... on Friday, December the 1st. I'm Godfrey Wayzgoose. The Ministry of Magic today declared a State of Emergency, following the deaths of up to sixteen people in the worst atrocity perpetrated in the Magical community since 1981. Today, in Wigtown, a community is in mourning; families have been torn asunder following the tragic derailment of the Edinburgh Flyer, heading north out of Hogsmeade. A huge blast detonated in the early hours of the morning caused the train to roll down an embankment and onto houses situated nearby. MLES operatives have sealed off the town in the hope of catching the perpetrators. Once again, eyewitnesses report seeing the Dark Mark shot into the sky. There can now be absolutely no question of the Dark Side's involvement. This atrocity will not go unpunished ... those at fault will be caught, is the Ministry's line to a shocked nation on this, bleakest of days. And we're getting reports now of further deaths in that tragedy ... the toll has now risen to twenty; that's within the last few minutes. We're going to break now for a weather update."

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

The next morning, Harry came downstairs to breakfast later than usual to find most of the rest of the student body, with the conspicuous exceptions of Ron and Hermione, were already there. Subconsciously, he slid into the nearest vacant seat at the Gryffindor table, which he realised too late was next to Neville Longbottom, the last person he wanted to sit next to.

Neville was reading a long letter from his Gran, which was propped up against a teapot so that he could concentrate on his toast at the same time. He looked up at Harry and smiled. Harry, who was just heaping sausages onto his plate, nearly dropped his plate on the floor.

"Something up?" he asked Harry.

Harry was barely able to speak; his throat was dry.

"Not ... really," said Harry slowly, choosing his words. "Should I assume ..."

Neville nodded. Then he sighed. "Dumbledore told me yesterday evening," he said.

"I'm sorry, Neville," Harry began. "I'm really sorry ..."

Neville, to Harry's surprise, actually smiled. "Don't be," he said presently. "I was upset when I heard ... but, I mean. He was practically a vegetable all my life. It isn't as if I ever knew him, or anything. I'm sorry he's dead ... but really, I don't feel a thing."

He broke off.

"I already lost him," said Neville. "Actually ... I'm more worried about Ron."

Harry did not really know what to say to that. To agree with Neville ... of course he was more worried about Ron than the inadvertent death of Neville's father ... but wouldn't that be insulting? Harry didn't know. To disagree ... well ...

Thankfully for Harry, Neville saved him from having to say anything. "Didn't you go up and see him last night?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah ... actually," he said. "I was going to ... again, go ... today I mean," the power of logical conversation in English seemed to be rapidly failing him. "You can, um, come if you'd like."

Neville nodded. "Only if you want me to," he said. "You might want some privacy, or something ..."

Harry poured himself a cup of tea, and swilled the bag round and round. "He'll probably be unconscious anyway," he said. "But ... well, it's up to you," he said.

Neville smiled. "Maybe," he said. He folded up the letter from his Gran, and tucked it back into the pocket of his trousers. For a moment, both boys looked at one another, and to Harry it seemed as if, all too briefly, some kind of emotion passed between them. Something like ... solidarity.

Harry wondered vaguely all the way through the first class of the morning whether or not he should show Neville the diary. He had kept it after Hermione and Draco had brought it to show him two days earlier ... and he had been reading it as well. Interesting things were contained within ... things that might even have relevance to Neville.

The morning Transfiguration lesson soon rolled around and put all thoughts of diaries from Harry's mind. The class of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were set to work trying out an advanced mineral to vegetable transformation. Each student had been supplied with a single red house brick, and told to turn it into a marrow.

It was about halfway through the lesson, when he chanced to sneak a glance out of the window, and spotted Dumbledore, walking down in the snow covered rose garden, a falconer's glove on one hand, exercising Fawkes, his phoenix, that he recalled something.

"Hermione," he said, looking up suddenly. Hermione, who was tapping her brick with her wand to no avail, looked at him.

"What is it?" she asked him.

"Have you ... um, ever heard of something called the Order of the Phoenix?" asked Harry.

"Concentrate please, Potter, Granger," said Professor McGonagall, dashing past on a flying visit before hastening off to the other side of the classroom, where poor Justin Finch-Fletchley had somehow managed to transfigure his brick into a small aubergine.

"No," said Hermione, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Why ... is it something important?"

"Have you any idea what it might have done?" asked Harry.

"Yes, but it isn't a marrow, Finch-Fletchley," they heard Professor McGonagall saying loudly.

Justin's reply was inaudible.

"But I don't *want* to make a nice risotto, Finch-Fletchley," she replied.

"No," said Hermione. "It sounds like some sort of weird cult. Like the Silver Serpent. Please say you aren't thinking of joining the Death Eaters, Harry."

Harry gave her a withering look, but Hermione ignored it and went on. "I reckon you should try looking in the library," she said. This was her standard reaction, and could usually fairly sensibly be ignored - although, Harry thought - maybe, just this once, she's onto something. He resolved to go and check out the Library at lunch break.

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

However, more pressing on Harry's mind at that precise moment was the need to go up to the Hospital Wing and see if Ron had come round yet. As soon as the bell for morning break had rung, Harry made his escape from the transfiguration class as quickly as possible, and clean forgetting his promise to Neville, headed up the stairs in the direction of Madam Pomfrey's domain.

He was mildly surprised, upon entering the Hospital Wing, to see that Ron did not appear to be on the ward. He needn't have been worried, for seconds later, Ron appeared at the other end of the room, hobbling on crutches. He was, against all odds, grinning.

"Morning," he said, brightly, flopping down on his bed and propping his crutches up against the bedside table. Harry couldn't help but notice that the chocolate he had spotted there the previous night was all gone. However, what was more intriguing to him was Ron's non-existent limb. The leg of his jeans had been rolled up to accommodate it ... or rather ... not to accommodate it.

"Um ... does it ... is it?" Harry asked, aware even as he spoke how ridiculous he must sound.

"Actually, no," said Ron. "Madam Pomfrey put some kind of herbal stuff on it to draw out the poison, and then she put a poultice on," he rolled up his trousers further to demonstrate. Sure enough, a thick, white bandage smelling very strongly of bracken and gorse had been wrapped round his ... his ... well, it could only really be described as a stump.

Ron wiggled the stump about a bit. "Madam Pomfrey said I ought to exercise it as much as possible," he said. "To prevent the muscles from atrophying before she gets a chance to fix a false leg on."

"Can she not just grow one for you?" asked Harry, who had once had all the bones in his arm re-grown overnight after an imbecilic idiot (Gilderoy Lockhart - to be exact) had inadvertently removed them all.

Ron shook his head. "No, she can't," he said. "Magic's good for some things ... but even *we* can't create new legs out of thin air. No ... I'll be like this forever."

Harry felt very awkward. This was *his* fault.

Ron, however, seemed completely unperturbed. "Did you ever hear of Douglas Bader?" he asked. Harry wondered why he was changing the subject.

"Er, no."

"He was Muggle ... a trainee pilot," said Ron. "But he crashed, and they had to remove both his legs. For a while, he had to get about on a wooden leg and crutches. The doctors told him he'd never walk properly again. But he wanted to prove them wrong, so he learned how to drive, and as soon as he'd got proper, fake metal legs fitted, he finished his training and got his private pilot's licence. They even let him join the Air Force ... and this happened sixty odd years ago ..."

Harry cut in. "What's your point?"

"My point is," said Ron. "That even with two false legs, he could still fly a plane. Well ... d'you think I could still fly a broomstick?"

Harry didn't know what to say. "Um ... I guess," he said. "I mean, they must be able to make these things better than they did sixty years ago."

Ron grinned. "Don't write me off the Quidditch team yet then!"

Harry, who hadn't even been thinking of Quidditch, gave a start. Ron's attitude was starting to get to him. He found it ... impossible to understand how Ron could be so bloody cheerful in the face of ... in the face of having had his life just ruined by his best friend. Why was he even still *talking* to him?

"Ron," he said.

"What?"

"Shouldn't you be ... tearing your hair out, or something?" asked Harry.

Ron gave him a funny look. "Why on earth would I want to do that?" he asked. "Have you gone bonkers in the nut?"

"Ron ... this is my fault," said Harry.

Ron gave him an 'as if' look. "No it isn't."

"Ron ... if you hadn't come into the Forest with us ... this wouldn't have happened ..."

"Then it was bloody stupid of me to go into the Forest, especially when it's Forbidden" said Ron. "Harry, if there's one thing that this is not, it's your fault."

Harry looked down and conducted an intensive study of Ron's vile, pink candlewick bedspread. "I just, think," he began, "that if it wasn't for me. If you weren't my friend, you wouldn't keep getting hurt by me."

Ron cocked his head to one side. "Harry, don't be a silly arse. You're only saying that because secretly, you want me to tell you that it doesn't matter. You want me to tell you that you're my best friend and ... stuff. Well, I'm not going to give you that satisfaction. Would it help if I said something really horrible to you?"

"Try me," said Harry, uncertainly.

"You have terrible halitosis," said Ron.

"Yeah, like that helped," said Harry, putting his hand to his mouth and breathing on it, just to check.

"Harry," said Ron, looking serious. "Seriously. You are a really good friend to me. You always have been, and I don't regret a single moment of time I've spent with you. I don't regret a single thing we've done ..." he trailed off into the ether. Harry looked at him oddly.

Ron changed the subject hurriedly. "Look ... Mum and Dad are coming up from Devon tomorrow to see me. I think Dad wants to take us out to dinner ... and, well, you're very welcome to come."

"I don't think I should," said Harry.

Ron shook his head. "Don't be daft, you silly arse," he said. "They like you. They really do. Mum's sort of adopted you already. And I think they want to marry Ginny off to you."

Harry blushed furiously. "Ron!"

"Well, it's true. Mum's been planning Ginny's wedding since the day she was born," said Ron. "Imagine how chuffed she'd be," he raised his voice to a pitch that was eerily reminiscent of Mrs Weasley. "My daughter you know ... married to the famous Harry Potter."

Harry blushed even more. "Shut up."

"You should see how Ginny goes when she gets near you," said Ron. "All gooey eyed ... frankly, it's sickening."

"Ron!"

"Just don't go getting any ideas," Ron went on, "you aren't old enough yet. Ouch!" He clutched his thigh.

"Something up?"

"Cramp," gasped Ron. "Give me a minute."

"Ron," ventured Harry when the pain appeared to have subsided somewhat.

"Yeah ... what?" asked Ron.

"Have ... have you ... this thing ..."

"Spit it out, Potter."

"This Order of the Phoenix thing," said Harry.

"That is?"

Harry explained what he already knew to Ron - about the finding of the diary, what was contained within it, and the conversation he had had the previous evening with the Headmaster, when Ron had still been unconscious in the Hospital Wing. Ron, to his credit, listened with rapt attention.

"Sounds like a Chinese takeaway," said Ron, when Harry had finished. "Chilli phoenix with noodles and egg fried rice ... perhaps your parents were in the catering business."

Harry grinned. "Could be an avant-garde comedy revue group," he said.

"Or some weird sect ... with apron twirling and stuff. Or maybe it's a burlesque house ..."

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"It's what my Mum calls them," said Ron defensively, blushing furiously. "With Sirius as a male stripper ..."

Harry raised his eyebrows even further.

"Ugh, sorry, you didn't hear me then," said Ron. "And my Dad was in charge of this thing?"

Harry nodded. "Looks like it," he said.

"May I see the diary?"

Harry had left the diary up in his Dormitory. He shook his head. "No, sorry."

"Pity," said Ron. "Harry ... I think you should go and look in the Library."

"Are you feeling okay?" asked Harry.

Ron furrowed his brow in a vain attempt to understand. "What ... I feel fine. Why?"

"You're taking on Hermione's character traits," said Harry. "Has she put a Confundus Charm on you - or is this all just an evil plot to trick me into going to the Library?"

"Nothing of the kind," said Ron. "I just can't help you. I don't know what it was. Dad ... Dad's never said anything about it. I mean, wasn't Sirius saying it was all top secret?"

"I think so," said Harry.

But he went to the Library anyway ...

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

"The Order of the Phoenix. 1975-1983 ... are you listening to me?"

Hermione coughed. "Yeah ... uh, sorry, Harry."

Harry turned the page in the large, dusty looking volume that lay open across his lap. It was later that afternoon; lessons had just finished ... there were a good two hours to go until dinner, and they were up in the boys' dormitory. Ron had been released from the Hospital Wing, and with the aid of his new crutches, transferred back up to his normal bed on the condition (according to Madam Pomfrey) that he did not get overexcited. So they were all three sitting on Ron's bed, taking care to avoid sitting on his non-existent leg, with the hangings drawn around them to ensure some privacy.

"Carry on," Ron said.

Harry gave a small cough, and flicked the page lightly over. Then he continued reading. "A name that the Ministry of Magic does not want you to hear. An organisation that the powers that be do not want you to be aware of. But we can now reveal, in this, the first part of the elaborate and unique 'Mysteries of the Magical World' Part-Work that you and your family will want to treasure for ever, the thrilling secrets behind this most mysterious of names. Our investigative reporters have been undercover for nearly six months, digging through the most restricted sections of the Ministry's London archive, travelling the length and breadth of Britain and Ireland, seeking out the truth. In the coming weeks, we will be investigating other great unsolved mysteries of our community; Noah's Ark, where all that water actually went, Atlantis ... why this secretive nation of witches and wizards has chosen to remain hidden for millennia ..."

"Harry," Hermione cut in. "What exactly are you reading from? It sounds like the Daily Prophet ..."

Harry nodded affirmatively. "That's, er, because it is," he said, lifting the cover for Hermione to see. In letters of embossed gold across the front of the book were the words 'Daily Prophet. Newspaper Archive 1986-1990.'

"Harry, that book isn't meant to be taken out of the Library," said Hermione.

"It's okay," said Harry. "I transfigured it into a copy of Maleficio's Discouverie of Demonologie. Madam Pince never even noticed."

"Ooh ... clever," said Hermione, in admiration.

"You couldn't find any other references?" asked Ron.

Harry shook his head. "Not anywhere in the entire Library," he said. "I ran a search through the system ... everything. Not a sausage."

"Did you try the Restricted Section?" asked Hermione. The more dangerous books that Hogwarts' vast Library was possessed of were housed here ... many of them in vats of crushed ice in order to prevent damage to neighbouring volumes.

"They'd closed it off," said Harry. "Some of the Dark Magic volumes got loose and ate a whole bunch of spell books. Can I carry on now?"

"Yeah, sorry," said Ron, hauling himself upright in bed.

Harry coughed again. "The Order of the Phoenix was an organisation founded during one of the greatest eras of trial for our people. In 1975, as the Dark Lord grew ever more strong, the decision was taken to inaugurate an organisation that would be able to work against him, to fabricate new methods of attack, new spells, even more lethal versions of the Killing Curse, more dangerous potions. The Order planned within its elite and select membership, garnered from the best and brightest minds of their time, the entire course of, what would have become, in time, an all out war, prevented only by the heroic sacrifice of ... oh, crap, I'm skipping this bit ... it reads like a bad novel," said Harry. "Um ... okay, where was I? Right, strategists, scientists, tacticians, all people brought together under the auspices of the Order."

"With its headquarters located, fittingly, in Phoenix Park in Dublin, the Irish capital, it was left to the founder and head of the Order, who was no less than Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, to recruit his team of select operatives. The Order, at its peak in 1981, had nearly a hundred members, all of whom were sworn to absolute secrecy. Indeed, we at the Prophet do not even have access to their real names, for the members adopted code names ... those of famous musicians and artists," the story seemed to be gelling so far ... Harry was relieved.

"Carry on," said Ron idly.

"The building chosen as the headquarters of the Order was a large, redbrick Edwardian structure at the Park's centre, disguised from Muggles as a clump of trees. Built in 1905 to house the Anglo-Irish Magical Archive, the building was extensively damaged during the Easter Uprising in 1916, and fell into disrepair following Irish independence. During the War years, it was renovated, and with the permission of the Celtic Council of Magic, used by the British Ministry as a reception centre for refugees. Between 1945 and 1960, the building reverted to the control of the Celtic Council, and was used to house the Council's archive and museum. During this time, the building's vast underground vaults were constructed. However, in 1960, this operation was removed to new premises on the left bank of the River Liffey, in the Temple Bar area of the city, and the building again was neglected. In 1973 it was acquired by a group of trustees based in London and Hogsmeade, including unreal estate magnate Albus Dumbledore. When the Ministry created the Order in 1975, Dumbledore was first to volunteer the use of Phoenix House as a base for the organisation. Despite popular perception, the Order of the Phoenix was not named after the building or the park. The term 'Phoenix' was selected by the then Minister of Magic, as symbolising the wizarding community rising from the ashes of the war against You-Know-Who."

"During the eight years during which Phoenix House was used in this capacity, considerable improvements and changes were made to the structure of the building. To increase anti-Muggle security, it was made unplottable. The structure was strengthened tenfold, and vast wards were placed around it. The above-ground facility was converted into living quarters for the members to use when working on site, and offices. The underground vaults were enlarged considerably. However, we know nothing of what these vaults contained. It is known that the thaum was first split here, possibly as early as 1976, which surely indicates the presence of a thaumic accelerator, a highly dangerous device that contains within it the power to destroy the fabric of the known universe. As to the other spells, curses and charms created by the Order's members, very little is known. Some of the spells are only now reaching us as evidence of a trickle-down effect, although why on earth the Order was working on Non-Choke Gobstones remains a blessed mystery."

"It was a laboratory then?" asked Ron.

"More than that," said Harry. "It looks like the entire operation against Voldemort was based there ..."

There was an awkward silence. Harry looked at Ron, and gestured.

"What?" asked Ron, looking startled. "Have I done something wrong?"

"S'just *usually*," began Harry, "when I say Voldemort, you cringe and go pale and have a right go at me ..."

"Oh ... right ... sorry," said Ron.

He shifted his weight awkwardly, and Hermione gave him a funny look, as if unsure of something.

Harry continued reading. "Other projects that the Order is alleged to have worked on venture into the realms of what we now know to be impossible. Perhaps the greatest secret of the Order was recently leaked to the Daily Prophet by an undisclosed source. Although our source refused to reveal his source, claiming that the source wished to remain anonymous to protect his source, we can now exclusively reveal within these pages that the Order of the Phoenix was working on a complicated and immensely dangerous magical process which would, if it had ever been perfected, have given the witch or wizard who made him or herself the subject of the spell, the ability to infiltrate the dreams of ... of ot ... of others ..." Harry's voice trailed off. The next part of the sentence read, 'and cause them actual bodily harm.'

"Is everything okay?" asked Hermione.

It was all becoming clear in Harry's mind. The hallucination he had had ... when he had been freezing to death at the foot of the Hog's Back Ridge ... when older versions of himself, Ron and Draco had visited him, each to deliver some kind of cryptic message. The adult version of Draco had morphed, before Harry's very eyes, into his nemesis, Lord Voldemort, who had then proceeded to cut Harry, very lightly, across the throat. Harry felt his fingers going slowly to his throat ... he could feel the ghost of a scar - even now.

Then, when he had told Sirius about it ... shown him, Sirius had become very worried. There had been that meeting with Dumbledore, during which Sirius had been told to retrieve something from a vault at Gringotts and Gwyneth had been dispatched to Ireland.

Was it possible Dumbledore was resurrecting the Order? Had Sirius been looking for the information the members ... his parents ... had left behind?

"Harry?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," said Harry weakly. And with that, he toppled sideways and fell off the bed.

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

Someone was kissing him ... quite passionately too, but he was unsure just who it might be. He let out a slight moan, and opened his eyes.

Ron and Hermione were bending over him, looking into his eyes with expressions of deep concern on their faces.

"Are you okay, Harry?"

"We thought you'd fainted."

Harry pulled himself up into a sitting position. "I think that's what I did do," he said. "Was one of you snogging me just then?"

Both of them shook their heads vehemently.

"I should go for a walk ... get some air," said Harry.

"That's probably a good idea," said Hermione.

Ron remained in the dormitory, but Hermione decided to go with him, presumably, Harry thought, so that he didn't try and do anything stupid. It was long since dark outside; their feet crunched in the snow, the hems of their robes dragged through it. They proceeded slowly round to the walled gardens near the Great Hall.

"Harry," said Hermione, after a few moments' silence had passed between them.

"Mmph ... what?"

"Are you quite cut up about this Order thing?" she asked.

"Not really," said Harry. "It's just ... something that that book said - kind of made me put two and two together."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not on your nelly!" exclaimed Harry.

"Fair enough," Hermione stopped walking for a second, and then scurried forward to catch up with him. They were promenading leisurely through what was, in summer, a rather pleasant Tudor knot garden, all knee high privet hedges and fancy topiary. Except that being magical topiary, it moved around.

"Your Mum and Dad were part of it, weren't they?" asked Hermione.

Harry nodded. "Remember when we were in Dumbledore's office?"

"Yeah, why?"

"He said the name, Mozart, remember?"

Hermione shook her head. She'd forgotten all about that. "Was that your Dad's codename?" she asked.

"My Mum's," said Harry. "My Dad was Elgar. That bloke who died - Frank, Neville's Dad, he was in it too ... and Sirius, and Gwyneth, and Remus, and even Pettigrew."

Hermione did not say anything to this.

"All these people knew my parents," said Harry. He suppressed a slight chuckle. "Seems weird that, doesn't it?"

He bent, picked up a twig that was lying prone on the gravel path, and hurled it into the distance.

"I mean ... they all knew each other," Harry went on.

They were approaching a bench.

"Why don't we sit down."

"Mmph," said Harry again. "Okay."

They both sat down on it. Harry recognised it immediately as the bench upon which Draco had found him, when he had thought Ron was dead. It was only a couple of months ago, yet already it seemed like an absolute eternity. A wave of emotion burst over him. Life seemed to be moving so fast now ... everything was going so quickly. Blink, Harry thought, and you'll miss it.

Hermione put her arm casually around his shoulders; a friendly gesture, nothing more, thought Harry. More's the pity, his brain added. *Another* thing he could remember was something Hermione had said to him back at the start of term ... something he continued to drag up and torture himself with when he was feeling down, even though he hadn't told anybody about this ... those words, 'sorry Harry, but I don't go for short guys in glasses.'

Bah ... humbug.

"You're freezing," she said, breaking his train of thought.

"I'll be fine," said Harry, idly looking at Hermione's hair out of the corner of his eye.

"If you do want to talk," Hermione said, "we're all here, and stuff."

"I know."

"Don't go running away," said Hermione.

"I don't think I was in entirely my right mind," said Harry. "You needn't worry ... I think things are getting easier now. What day is it?"

"Um, Friday," said Hermione, a little thrown by Harry's strange request. "December 1st, I think. Hogsmeade weekend tomorrow. You coming?"

"That's two months ... give or take," said Harry, ignoring the question. "I should really have got over it by now, don't you think?"

Hermione was, truth to tell, somewhat alarmed by Harry's abrupt brushing off of his problems ... even though she supposed it was something she should be seeing as a good development.

"I guess," she said. "How about Ron?"

"What about Ron?" replied Harry.

Hermione considered this. "Well," she said. "Don't *you* think he's not entirely himself?"

"He's just had his leg bitten off," said Harry. "I'd say he's not entirely himself ... but that'd be a bad joke, and in very poor taste. Besides, he'll never walk properly again. I'd think that's be a pretty good excuse for a spot of mental anguish ... say not?"

"Why are you speaking like that?" asked Hermione.

"Like what? Discomfort from you I sense, mmm? But force is strong within Ron," squeaked Harry. "Vague my worries are."

"He seems to have changed," said Hermione, giggling. "He's different. Have you not noticed the way he looks at people?"

"How do you mean?"

"Probably not ... you're a bloke," said Hermione, answering her own question in the process.

"Hey, come on now!"

"Look," said Hermione. "It's a well known fact that women are better at sensing things. People give off signals ... I can tell what people are doing, thinking sometimes. It's the reason why men get caught ogling women so much ..."

"How do you know that?" asked Harry.

"Have you ever caught a woman staring at another man?" asked Hermione.

"I haven't been looking," said Harry.

"But when you look at me ... it's blatantly obvious," said Hermione. "You give off all these funny signals. Mainly of the teenage hormone driven variety."

"I do *not* look at you!" protested Harry.

Hermione chuckled. "Harry, you in particular are very inept at hiding it. I can read you like a book."

Harry made a face at her.

"How does Ron fit into all this?" he asked.

Hermione smiled awkwardly. "Lets just say ... he seems different."

"How?" asked Harry.

"Has he seemed ... funny?" asked Hermione. "Has he been dropping hints?"

"About what?"

"You mean to say you haven't noticed?" she asked incredulously

"Noticed what?" asked Harry, confused.

"Harry ... I think Ron might ... I don't know ... it's probably nothing."

Harry scooted closer. "Tell me what you think he might be doing."

"It's nothing."

"You think he's ..." Harry coughed. "Do you?"

"No ... stupid lummox ... you mean he's ... um, more interested in this than this?" she made appropriate hand gestures.

"Hermione! That's vulgar," said Harry. "And I certainly don't think Ron is at all like that. Neither should you do."

"That isn't what I meant. I can be vulgar if I want," said Hermione. "I know just as much about sex as you do, Harry. If not more."

Harry blushed. "Please ... you're being weird! I'm not meant to talk about sex with you ..."

"Why ever not?" asked Hermione, primly.

"Well," Harry coughed and spluttered indignantly ... "You're ... you're a ... you're a ..."

"Sloth?" suggested Hermione. "Pogrebin? Patagonian hopping aardvark?"

Harry coughed again. "You're a *girl*," he said, his voice fading to an almost imperceptible squeak.

"I didn't catch that," said Hermione brightly. "Could you repeat yourself, please, Harry?"

"You'reagirl," said Harry, very quickly. Hermione couldn't help but snicker as his pale face went a funny shade of red.

"I know," said Hermione. "How astute of you to have spotted that. And just think, you only took a year longer than Ron. You're improving. Now ... I know all too well that you're still at that delicate age when sex is still something that you talk about after lights out. You need to develop a more mature attitude towards these things, Harry."

"Mumblewumble," said Harry.

"So you admit you *do* talk about it after lights out," said Hermione, who was enjoying herself immensely.

"Wrstfgl," said Harry.

"Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Gryffindor boys' dorm," sighed Hermione, sarcastically. "What *do* you do then? Discuss Wittgenstein and Jean-Paul Sartre over a snifter of port and a game of backgammon?"

"No," said Harry, who had never even heard of Wittgenstein, and had the strangest feeling that Sartre was a type of Vauxhall.

"Then you do talk about sex. Come on, Harry. Grow up," said Hermione. "You need to be able to discuss these issues with platonic friends of the ... um ..."

"Female persuasion?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "You're very sweet when you're being evasive, you know ..."

Harry looked up hopefully; a loud rustling in the bushes behind them caused him to almost leap out of his skin. Hermione jumped in surprise, and turned round.

"You haven't seen me, right?" said someone, in a drawling voice they both recognised.

"Show yourself, Draco," said Hermione resignedly.

Draco popped up from behind a bush. "Um ... hi," he said. He was evidently trying to look innocent, but was not succeeding in this task. The fact that there was a twig in his hair didn't help matters at all.

"How long have you been eavesdropping on us, Malfoy?" asked Harry, angrily.

Draco squirmed. "A minute or so," he said. "I'm meant to be hiding ..."

"Who from?" asked Hermione.

"The Slytherins," said Draco, as if this had been obvious all along. "I got wind they were planning to ... um ... play a trick on me."

"What kind of trick?" asked Harry, guardedly.

"If you must know, *Potter*," said Draco haughtily. "They were going to play a juvenile prank which involved ... um ... me ... being naked, somewhere public. In this case, the Great Hall during dinner. A minor thing, but I thought I'd better save myself the embarrassment."

"You don't have much luck with the Slytherins, do you?" said Hermione.

"*I* think it would be quite funny," said Harry.

"You would ... now shut up," snapped Draco. "It's that whole ... me snogging you thing, you see?"

"I see," said Hermione. "Not much we can do about that, is there?"

"We could kiss again!" suggested Draco, perking up at the thought. Harry made 'I want to vomit' motions with his fingers.

"I think not," said Hermione.

"You said I was cute," said Draco grumpily.

"I ... don't actually remember saying that," said Hermione hurriedly, wishing earnestly that the ground would just open up and swallow her ... or possibly Harry. Either would be good.

"Of course, I could have ended up in Ravenclaw," said Draco. "Then it wouldn't matter. Trouble is, Father threatened to beat me to within an inch of my life if I got into Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, and if I got into Gryffindor, I think I was due to be cut out of my inheritance and disowned. Not that there is *any* inheritance any more," he added sadly.

There was a very sullen silence.

"I can just imagine Malfoy in Ravenclaw," smirked Harry.

"If you must know, I was so terrified ... I ... um ... tricked the Sorting Hat," said Draco.

Harry froze. "How did you manage ... I mean ... how?" he asked, his voice faltering.

"Oh, the Sorting Hat isn't especially bright," drawled Draco airily. "It's very good at sensing what's in your head, and stuff like that, but if you don't like where it's going, all you have to do is you have to think very hard at it, and it gets confused and puts you in a different house. That's the only reason I got into Slytherin. It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw. Why, Potter," he added, "are you planning on transferring to Hufflepuff?"

"Not exactly," said Harry.

"So," Draco went on. "Are you guys any further on with that diary?"

"What business is it of yours?" snapped Harry.

Draco scrambled out of the bushes, and sat down on the bench in between Harry and Hermione. "Look," he said. "I found it ... I gave it to you. I think that gives me a right to know exactly what's going on. Yeah?"

Harry seethed.

Draco went on. "You can't go on hiding from me forever, Potter. You can't brush me off every time we pass by each other. You can't deal me a curt 'piss off.' And I'll tell you why that is. You're scared. You're scared of me ..."

"Am not!"

"Draco," interjected Hermione. "Please ..."

"I saved your damn life in Naxcivan, Potter. If anyone owes me, then its you. And I'll be expecting you to be buying the drinks at school reunions when we're sixty to make up for it."

Harry was flabbergasted. "But I thought you didn't want ..." he began.

Draco cut in. "Ah, not true, Potter," he said. "Remember that day when you spoke to me in the woods? Can't have been long after we got back. Must have been almost smack bang in the middle of your little suicidal episode. Well, guess what; I wasn't feeling too hot that day myself. I'd just spent a good half hour reliving some of the most horrible memories of my life with that shrink, Sinead. I was pissed off, and there you were, trying to get through to me ... trying to make peace ... trying to be nice."

"And?"

"Wasn't it obvious that that wasn't the time to do that?" asked Draco. "Didn't you work it out yourself?"

"Not really," said Harry, who was too stunned by Draco's arguments to come up with much of a response of his own. "You just walked out of there. You nearly pushed me in the bloody tarn, if I remember correctly."

"God, you're so dim we could use you as an energy saving light-bulb," said Draco. "I want to make peace. I don't ... I ... you caught me at a bad time, and we've spent the last two months biting each other's heads off because of it. I don't want to fight with you, Harry. I don't want to be your friend, but after I saved your sodding life, I think I have a right to expect a little common courtesy."

Harry stared, dumbstruck, at his shoes. Hermione said nothing.

"I'm sorry," said Draco, hurriedly. "You didn't need to hear it."

But to his surprise, when Harry next looked up, a smile was spreading across his gaunt features. "No," he said, after a momentary pause. "I'm sorry. I needed to be told that. Thanks, Malfoy."

"My name is Draco," said Draco. He stuck out his hand, and Harry shook it.

"About the diary?"

Draco nodded. "Please?"

Harry grinned again. "I don't know," he said. "It is kind of private, and Dumbledore did say I was to give it straight to Neville ..."

"It's Neville's?" asked Draco.

Harry nodded. "Yeah ... sort of, by rights and all," he said. "It belonged to Algernon Longbottom ... he's a relative of Neville's Dad ... I'm not sure, I think an Uncle or something. He wrote it during the War."

Draco listened with rapt attention as Harry told him the story as he knew it, through what Sirius had said the previous day, to Dumbledore's mysterious tale about the boy in the hospital, and finishing off with his discovery of the precise function of the Order of the Phoenix.

When he had finished, Harry looked up. The moonlight was casting his face in shadows, and his eyes seemed to be pleading with Draco to believe what he was saying. It was all too confusing.

"Good story," said Draco, at length. "And he was trying to get to you, Harry?"

Harry nodded. "That's what Bellerophon said."

Draco nodded. "I ought to go and see Bellerophon," he said. "I just ... I just worry that the other Slytherins will follow me, and be nasty to *him* too. He's my dragon - I don't need him to get upset."

"He's upset already," said Harry. "I spoke to him a few nights ago ... on Tuesday. He thinks you've gotten bored with him ..."

"No way!" exclaimed Draco. "No way. I just ... haven't seen him for ages. I was hoping we could go on holiday somewhere over Christmas."

"What?"

"Well, I haven't got any money anymore," said Draco. "And Bellerophon was always grumbling about how much he hates the weather. I thought I could take him somewhere warm for a week or two. Africa, maybe. No air fares, you see."

"Sounds a good idea," said Hermione, who had been keeping quiet up until then, and watching the two boys talking with an air of the utmost satisfaction on her face.

"Thanks," said Draco. He turned his attention back to Harry.

"Bellerophon also said I had a mortal enemy," said Harry.

"I would have thought that was obvious," said Draco, somewhat sarcastically.

"A different mortal enemy to *that* one," said Harry.

"Oh," said Draco. "Well ... it ... um ... it isn't me."

"I wasn't accusing you," said Harry.

Draco coughed and glanced swiftly around the garden ... as though he was watching out for something. Probably, he was just looking out for Slytherins ... but it was an ill-timed move, none the less.

"Still," he went on, after about twenty-five seconds' pause. "What *about* that diary then, Harry?"

Harry looked uncertain. "I'm not sure," he said. "It just, kind of freaked me out, if you see what I mean."

Draco nodded. He did. Enough things had freaked him out just lately to last him a lifetime.

"Is there anybody else we can ask?"

"Dumbledore won't talk," said Harry. "Sirius ... Gwyneth ..."

"Remus Lupin," said Hermione, softly.

All three of them looked at one another.

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

Harry opened his eyes ... was this a dream? It had become so difficult to distinguish. He had always been one of those lucky people who can tell when they are dreaming ... but in this case, he was not so sure.

He too a look around himself. Considering the salient fact that, usually, he did *not* float around somewhere near the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, looking down on what appeared to be one of Hogwarts' numerable feasts ... he correctly surmised that he was ... indeed, dreaming. It was Halloween ... he thought ... the tables were laden with glowing Jack-o-Lanterns.

That's good ... he thought. I'm upstairs, in the dorm ... in my bed. Ron's right next door. Nothing can hurt me ... he stopped.

Except, of course, if the hunch he had was correct, things could hurt him.

The Hall looked different. Harry couldn't quite tell exactly *what* was different about it. It just looked ... strange. Newer.

He blinked, and in a flash, was sitting at what was clearly the Gryffindor table, in between two boys ... one of whom he didn't recognise, and the other one of who was ... was ...

It was Ron.

Harry glanced around the table. He didn't see a single face he recognised. Everyone was different. He looked for Hermione ... Neville, Fred and George. There was no sign of anybody. Even Lee Jordan's dreadlocks were conspicuously absent.

Harry tapped Ron on the shoulder, and the other boy turned quickly around.

"Ron?"

The other boy was *not* Ron. Definitely not. His face was thinner ... different. His eyes were slightly closer together ... his hair was redder, and his cheeks more freckly.

"Charlie," said the boy.

Harry goggled. "You're Charlie Weasley, right?"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Well, duh," he said.

"What year are you in?" asked Harry.

"Fifth," said Charlie. "Look ... who they hell are you? I don't recall seeing you around here before."

Harry, however, was doing the calculations in his head, and wasn't listening.

"I said, what's your name?" Charlie said.

Harry broke off. "What ... oh, Harry Potter ... good to meet you," he said.

Charlie looked at him even more strangely.

"No you're not," he said. "Harry Potter is a ... oh look, there's Professor Trelawney. Wonder what she's doing down here?"

Harry turned to look. Sure enough, the woolly-minded Divination Professor was making one of her rare appearances outside of her stifling classroom. She was gliding across the floor towards the teachers' table, looking somewhat like a Dalek as she went.

Dumbledore was on his feet. "Sybil ... welcome ... what a pleasant surprise."

Professor Trelawney did not appear to share the Headmaster's enthusiasm.

"I am not here for my health, Headmaster," she was saying in a low, quiet whisper. "I was crystal gazing ..."

Professor McGonagall, who was sitting two places further along, next to what looked like a younger version of Severus Snape, rolled her eyes.

"Were you, indeed?" Dumbledore went on. "What did you see? Sybil ... you're very pale, are you all right?"

Professor Trelawney glanced swiftly around the Hall, but all the students apart from Charlie Weasley and Harry were too busy with the feast to notice how agitated she appeared to be. Nevertheless, when she next spoke, her voice was whispered and hushed, and Harry couldn't hear a word of what she was saying. However, it looked like it was quite possibly very bad news indeed, for Dumbledore frowned.

"Thank you, Sybil," he said, after a moment had passed.

"I should return to my crystal ball, Headmaster," Trelawney said. "I have no need to trouble you further."

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "Yes ... thank you, Sybil. You've given us plenty to go on."

Professor Trelawney glided away from the table. Harry observed that Professor McGonagall and Snape were both leaning in close. Dumbledore was talking to them about something.

"Looks serious," said Charlie to Harry. "I hope nothing awful has happened."

Dumbledore got to his feet, and, following a whispered consultation with Snape, swept from the room.

"Erm ... what year, might it be?" Harry asked, a thought suddenly striking him: a most unpleasant thought, as well.

"1981, why?" asked Charlie.

Harry felt a distinct lurch in the pit of his stomach. "Excuse me," he said. "I think I might be in the wrong timeframe. It was nice to meet you, Charlie. I'll see you for the Quidditch World Cup ..."

He got to his feet.

"But that isn't till next summer ..." Charlie was saying. "England haven't even qualified yet."

But Harry was gone.

Dumbledore and Snape were standing out in the relative peace and calm of the Entrance Hall, having a whispered conversation. Harry, who wasn't entirely sure if they could see him or not, stood behind a suit of armour.

"... might not be correct," Snape was saying.

"We can't take that chance," said Dumbledore. "Who knows, Severus ... this could very easily be her first correct prediction in the sixty odd years she's been here."

"I have very little patience with Divination," Snape replied testily.

Dumbledore nodded. "But do you honestly believe we can take this chance? If the security of the Order is at stake ... Severus ... they may already be dead."

"And they may not," said Snape, frostily.

"Strange things are afoot," said Dumbledore. "There's been no end of trouble down in London ... more attacks. People are dying. Innocent people, Severus. I want to protect the people who can help us defeat him."

Snape nodded. "I quite understand your concern, Headmaster," he said. "But surely ... the Fidelius Charm ... "

Dumbledore shook his head. "It could be breached," he said. "Sirius may be James' best friend, but he's hardly a model citizen ..."

Snape scowled at the mention of Sirius' name. Harry could feel his knees knocking together.

"We already know there's a spy somewhere in the works," said Dumbledore. "My fear is that he might already have made his move. Check mate ... so to speak. If Harry is really what we think he is, then it is even more vital ..."

"The blood tests proved nothing conclusive," said Snape. "Harry could be a perfectly normal boy."

"That's why I submitted them to be re-analysed. Severus, to show such magic potential so early in life is highly unusual ..."

Harry peered out from behind his suit of armour. If Harry is what they think he is? What am I? Blood tests?

Dumbledore was shaking his head. "I should have forced them to come and stay here," he said. "I should never have let them go."

Harry could hear footsteps on the marble floor. He looked hurriedly round, and then was forced to shrink quickly back into the shadows as Hagrid walked past, wrapped in what appeared to be an entire bearskin, swinging a brace of dead chickens in one hand.

"Hagrid!" Dumbledore said. Hagrid stopped.

"Headmaster?"

"Why aren't you at the feast, my good man?" Dumbledore asked.

Hagrid grinned through his beard, which, Harry noticed, had been even bushier and more extravagant back then. "Too much work to do, Headmaster," he said. "Something's been getting at the hen coops. They're not laying."

Dumbledore looked at Hagrid. "I wonder ... would you mind doing something for us?"

"Fire away," said Hagrid, clearly eager to be of service.

"Hagrid ... how long does it take to get to Godric's Hollow from here?"

"Given the best horse in the stables," said Hagrid. "Thirty minutes, if I went flat out all the way ..."

"Go there," said Dumbledore. "Take whatever you need."

"Headmaster ... is ... is there something wrong?" Hagrid asked.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes," he said. "I'm rather afraid that there might be. Go directly to James and Lily's house ... don't stop for anybody or anything. If everything's all right, then report back to me immediately."

"If everything's all right, Headmaster?"

"If they ... if they're alive," said Dumbledore. "I have a horrible feeling that even if you go as fast as you can, they may not be. If ... if something has gone wrong ... it means ... I don't know what it means," he was clearly in a state of some distress, thought Harry, "but nevertheless, if the boy is alive ... you are to take Harry to this address. By whatever means are possible."

He had taken a notebook from inside his robes, torn a page out, and handed it to Hagrid, who folded it up without reading it, and tucked it into one of his voluminous pockets.

"They're Muggles ... relatives," said Dumbledore. "They'll have to do for the time being."

Harry could not see Hagrid's face, but he heard the Groundskeeper sniff ... as if he was about to start crying.

"I'll arrange the wards," Dumbledore went on. "You are to meet me in Little Whinging at midnight tomorrow night ... that should give us plenty of time."

"Very well," said Hagrid.

"I pray to God that everything's all right," Dumbledore said. "Hagrid ... you must go now."

"I'll saddle the horse now, Headmaster," Hagrid said.

Harry sneezed, involuntarily. All three men stopped dead.

"Who's there?" Dumbledore asked in a loud voice.

Hagrid's eyes flitted about the room, alighting on Harry's suit of armour. Harry breathed in.

"There's a boy behind that armour," said Hagrid. "I'll catch the little wretch ..."

"You go, Hagrid," said Dumbledore. "I'll deal with it."

Harry closed his eyes, and tried not to make a sound. Should he run ... or should he stay put? He could barely make up his mind.

"You there ... come out at once!" Dumbledore was saying.

"Some little wretch has been listening in," Snape said.

Harry screwed up his face. Oh, *bugger*! Bugger, bugger, bugger.

"Come *out*!" Dumbledore said, angrily.

Harry bolted ... he dashed out from behind the suit of armour, heading for the staircase. He heard an enraged yell from Snape, and Dumbledore's livid shouts of, "Come back here now! Explain yourself!"

Harry did not ... he took the stairs three at a time ... turned left at the top, and carried on running. He could hear footsteps, and Snape's voice.

"Where have you gone, boy?"

Harry turned left, then right, and found himself on the Charms corridor. Gathering his breath, he continued walking, occasionally chancing glances over his shoulder to check that Snape wasn't following him. His heart was beating fit to bust ... his breathing was fast and laboured, and he didn't notice when he walked slap bang into two people heading the other way, sending all three of them sprawling to the floor.

"Watch where you're going!" shouted one of them.

Harry disentangled his limbs from the other boy's, and picked himself up.

"Harry!" a voice exclaimed.

The next thing he knew, Hermione had thrown her arms around him, and was hugging him. "Oh, God, Harry!" she was practically sobbing. "We were so worried about you!"

Harry was slightly taken aback by this. "What's going on?" he asked.

"You vanished," said Draco's voice. Harry looked up into the familiar slate grey eyes of his former nemesis.

"*I* vanished?" said Harry, incredulously. "No ... I'm dreaming. What are you doing in my dream?"

Hermione and Draco gave Harry a very funny look. "This is reality, Harry," said Draco, after an awkward pause.

"No ... this is a dream," said Harry. "I'm dreaming you ... I'm in my bed at Hogwarts ..."

Hermione shook her head. "No ... Harry ... you disappeared."

"This is *not* reality," Harry affirmed.

Hermione appeared to be looking at something in her hands. "Either ... Draco ... this is really very weird."

"It's been a weird evening for us," said Draco to Harry.

"The bloody thing must be malfunctioning," said Hermione. "That's twice it's fouled up."

"What thing?" asked Harry, intrigued.

Hermione gave him a guarded look ... then she said, "We can't tell you. It's really dangerous for us even to talk to you. Harry ... will you answer a question for us?"

"Fire away."

"If you *are* dreaming ... then what day is it?"

"October 31st, 1981," said Harry.

Hermione's face paled. "No ... no, no," she said. "What day in ... um ... reality, Harry?"

"Friday, December 1st," said Harry. "1995."

Draco put his hand to his mouth. "Christ, Hermione. This is *really* dangerous now."

"Harry ... we should really go," said Hermione. "I want you to close your eyes ... and then open them again in a minute."

Harry was about to comply with this rather bizarre request, when another voice boomed out.

"Ha ... caught you!"

Snape!

"Oh crap," said Draco. "What's he doing here?"

Harry turned around guiltily. Snape was walking towards them along the Charms Corridor, his robes flowing out behind him.

"You look well, sir," said Draco, perkily.

Snape blanked him. "You," he pointed at Harry. "What the hell did you think you were doing? Spying on teachers? Do you not care how this looks ..."

Harry observed Snape appeared to be squinting.

"Who *are* you, anyway?" he asked, craning closer. "I don't recognise you at all ... James?"

Harry took a step backwards.

"James ... what have you done to yourself? You look years younger ... whatever is that *thing* on your forehead?" Snape took a step closer. "Should I tell Dumbledore to stop Hagrid? Is everything all right?"

Harry did not reply.

Snape stepped into the light. Then he stopped, and appeared to cough. "Lucius?"

Draco looked absolutely horrified.

"Get ready to run," said Hermione.

But a wicked grin was spreading across Harry's face.

"Professor Snape?" he asked.

"Of course," said Snape. "Don't you recognise me? We only saw each other the other week, in Dublin, for the Phoenix meeting ..."

"Professor Severus Snape?" asked Harry.

Hermione tried to tug at his robes.

"Yes," said Snape.

"You're a jerk, Snape. A complete arsehole," said Harry.

"Wuh?" began Snape.

"Run for it!" yelled Hermione.

Harry turned and instantly ...

... was somewhere else. A wood, this time, with trees, obviously, all around him. They were tall oaks with thick trunks, mostly. Harry could smell that fresh, earthy smell that comes from heavy rain. The sodden leaves crunched underneath his trainers.

Was this still his dream? He honestly had no idea.

He could see the lighted windows of a house glowing through the trees, and so decided it might be a good idea to head in that general direction. He started walking, stumbling blindly between the trees, for the ground here ... wherever here actually was, was very uneven indeed.

His foot snagged on a tree root, and he went tumbling to the ground, landing face down in a muddy puddle. As he picked himself up, wet, cold and shivering, he wished himself anywhere but wherever he was.

It then dawned on him that he was standing by the edge of a narrow forest road, barely wide enough to take a single car comfortably, it was, nevertheless, metalled.

Lightning flashed overhead. Instinctively, Harry began counting ... one one thousand ... two two thousand ... three three thousand ... four four thousand ... thunder.

Four kilometres, he thought to himself.

He was also, he noticed, standing directly opposite the house whose windows he had seen not two minutes earlier. It was a small, ivy-covered cottage, with a dry stone wall enclosing a herb garden filled with exotic looking pieces of sculpture ... statues and so on.

There was a single light on in one of the windows, and through the open curtains, he could see what was going on inside. There was a woman, quite alone, wearing a very expensive looking, slinky, black dress, setting places at a table. She was polishing cutlery, wiping the plates dry. Then she moved on to fold the napkins. Harry watched, entranced ... she was beautiful.

The woman took what looked like a taper from the sideboard and lit two candles, placing them in the middle of the table. Then she stood back, admiring her handiwork.

Harry watched as she went through into the kitchen, which was at the front of the house, on the opposite side of the green front door, and switched on lights in there. Something appeared to be cooking on the stove. The woman lifted the lid off a casserole dish, and tasted the contents, before disappearing.

It started to rain.

When the woman appeared again, in the dining room, not two minutes later, she was cradling a baby in her arms.

Harry suddenly recognised the woman. It was all he could do to keep himself leaping from his hiding place. That baby was him!

Lily Potter appeared to be rocking baby Harry to sleep ... she was definitely singing something to him. The infant made a grab for her hair, and missed.

Harry bit his bottom lip hard.

... so horribly unfair ...

He felt the beginnings of tears trickling down his face. He felt like James Stewart in 'It's A Wonderful Life' when he gets to spy on his family ... except, of course, Harry didn't know this was how he was feeling.

A car engine ... close! Harry shrank back into the undergrowth, and watched as headlights on full beam rounded a bend in the road. The car in question ... an elderly looking Ford saloon, red ... with a black vinyl roof, pulled onto the grass verge at the side of the road. A young man ... Harry's father, clambered out. In one hand he held a bottle of something, wrapped in paper. He opened the back door, and when he emerged again, was holding an extravagant bouquet of flowers, and a box of Black Magic chocolates.

James walked up to the front gate, pushed it open, and mounted the steps to the cottage's front door. Lily, who had clearly seen him coming, opened it. For a second, Harry heard delighted laughter ... his father's voice enquiring. "Did you settle Harry yet?"

The front door closed. Harry, judging it was safe, and not caring how wet he got, emerged from the undergrowth. He crossed the road, his trainers silent on the slick surface, the water trickling down his glasses obscuring his vision. He put a hand out, touched the car on its tailgate. The metal was cold under his creeping fingers.

His bottom lip was now quivering full on as he stood there, outside this house ... which he knew was his. The car even had bumper stickers ... two, one of them a Brittany Ferries GB sticker, and the other read, 'Keep Your Distance ... Magic Baby on Board.'

Harry shuddered ... sank to his knees on the wet tarmac, resting his head against the back of the car. This was their car ... *his* car ... it was silly ... but this was something he was connected to. He could feel the tears pouring down his face. He choked back sobs.

Someone inside had put on an LP and turned it up loud.

'You've done it all, you've broken every code
and pulled the Rebel to the floor
You spoilt the game, no matter what you say
for only metal - what a bore!
Blue eyes, blue eyes, how come you tell so many lies?

Come up and see me, make me smile
Or do what you want, run on wild

There's nothing left, all gone and run away
Maybe you'll tarry for a while
It's just a test, a game for us to play
win or lose, it's hard to smile
Resist, resist, it's from yourself you have to hide'

Harry choked.

'Come up and see me, make me smile
Or do what you want, run on wild

There ain't no more, you've taken everything
from my belief in Mother Earth
How can you ignore my faith in everything
when I know what Faith is and what it's worth
Away, away, and don't say maybe you'll try

Come up and see me, make me smile
Or do what you want, run on wild.'

The tears were coursing down his cheeks now. He crouched, pathetic, on the wet road, his robes getting drenched. I thought I was over this ... he thought. This was over. This is behind me.

So why does it *keep* coming back. Why does my head do this to me? Harry shuddered, pillowed his head on his hands, felt himself shudder as blind, enraged fury swept through his body.

The music changed.

It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair.

The volume was turned down. Through the pouring rain, Harry heard the sound of a telephone ringing.

It's not fair.

The music was still swirling around his head.

It's not fair.

A voice, shouting. "Darling. That was Sirius. He's just leaving now. He'll be here in an hour. He's picking up Peter and Remus on the way!"

Harry did not hear his mother's reply.

Then a thought hit him. If he was to keep seeing his parents like this ... then oughtn't he to be pleased? What if this was some sort of ... blessing? Shouldn't he be making the most of it? Shouldn't he be enjoying it?

He got to his feet ... his robes were soaked through, and the knees of his trousers were filthy with grit from the road and mud from the forest. He pushed open the garden gate, and stood for a second on the threshold of the garden, looking around. The statues seemed to be watching him. He felt a shiver running down his spine.

Harry stepped forwards, his footfall almost silent on the wet paving slabs, hair matted and dangling in front of his tear-filled eyes. He mounted the steps, and then stood, stock still in front of the cottage's door. There was a brass knocker looking at him.

"You're a mess," it said.

Harry closed his hand over the knocker, and rapped it smartly against the wood four times. The knocker squeaked at him angrily.

"Sirius ... already?" came a voice. Harry heard the sounds of footsteps on the floor inside, and then the sound of the door being opened. It swung slowly aside. His Father was standing there, still wearing his work clothes; a Muggle suit that, despite being well cut and made in Italy, still looked as if it was being worn by someone who was used to flowing robes. The trousers were flared quite extravagantly at the knee, and over an orange shirt he wore a kipper tie in stripes of pink and green.

"Ah," he said, upon catching sight of Harry. "I was wondering where you'd got to?"

"You were expecting me?" gasped Harry.

James Potter gave him a very quizzical look. "Well," he said. "I hardly thought ... what *have* you been doing to yourself, Harry? You're covered in grime."

Lily appeared in the doorway. "Yuck," she said. "It's Harry." She was holding the baby. The baby Harry could tell was himself, which gurgled at him and made a grab for his glasses. "If it was summer I'd make you stand in a washing up bowl in the garden and turn a hosepipe on you. Go and have a bath before Sirius gets here."

Harry stared at her bizarrely.

"Cat got your tongue?" she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Harry followed her, still dripping mud all over the clean floors. She was singing to Baby Harry, who was still giggling to himself.

"You still here?" she asked.

"Ungh," said Harry.

"Lord spare us," said Lily Potter, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. "Can we get any kind of response out of you that doesn't end in a grunt?"

She clouted him round the back of the head. Baby Harry shrieked with laughter.

"What's for ... um ... dinner?" asked Harry, peering over her shoulder. She was patting the baby on its back, and a long string of drool had detached itself from the child's mouth and was heading in the direction of Lily's rather expensive evening gown.

"Casserole," she said. "I know it's not your favourite ... but it was either that or get your Dad to do one of his specials," she shuddered.

"That's fine," said Harry, almost laughing, partly because he was so happy, and partly because Baby Harry was sticking his tongue out at him. "Really, I don't mind what we eat."

Was this actually a dream at all? An indescribable feeling of elation - such elation as Harry had never known before, seemed to be sweeping through his bloodstream. It was all he could do to keep from doing a little dance.

"I ... er ... do love you, Mum, you know," he said, gingerly putting his arm round Lily's shoulder.

"What has got into you?" asked Lily. "You're being almost polite. Perhaps that school is finally knocking some sense into you. Now, go and have a bath before I change my mind about letting you stay up. There're dress robes on your bed, and I ironed your ducky socks especially."

"Thanks, Mum."

Harry slipped out of the kitchen, and was just hunting around for a staircase, when James called from the other room.

"Let me show you something."

Harry pushed open the door, and stepped into the living room. Squashy chairs and sofas in bright, primary colours were ranged around a fireplace. There was a telephone in the shape of a yellow cat on the mantelpiece, and an enormous TV set with wood panelling on the sides. The carpet was covered in black and white swirls. The seventies had *happened* to this room.

James was standing over by an old JVC record player, carefully extracting the black, polished vinyl record from within its protective casing.

"You'll like this," he said. "I used to dance to this with your Mum at the Hogwarts balls. When she'd let me."

He blew dust off the record. Harry crouched down on the floor, and rifled through his Father's record collection. To his dismay, he found it to be filled with nothing but seventies kitsch ... Abba, Slade and so on. There was nothing dated later than 1981.

"Do you have anything that isn't crap, Dad?" asked Harry.

"Like what?" James said, placing the record on the turntable, and lowering the stylus over the top. It slowly began to spin around.

Harry didn't really know any bands. In real life, Dudley had always punched him in the stomach, or at the very least attempted to garrotte him, whenever Harry had gone anywhere near his stereo system. He only really knew magical ones ... and that was through listening to WWN when staying with the Weasleys' over the holidays.

"Weird Sisters?" he suggested. "They're good."

James shook his head. "Never heard of them," he said. "Newfangled rubbish, I'll be bound. Now ... forgot to turn my amplifier on. Excuse me."

He flicked a switch.

'Look out! Look out! your mama will shout, you might as well go home.
You say my bed gets into your hair so give me back my comb.
But you, you make things that get along turn out so wrong.
Do-ron do-ron you'd better rock on, the band might play our song.....

See my baby jive, see my baby jive.
She hangs on to me and she really goes, wo-ow wo-ow wo-ow.
See my baby jive, such a lazy jive.
Well everyone you meet coming down the street just to see my baby jive......

That tenor horn it's turning me on, you drop down to his knees.
Whoa boy that sax is calling me back, this dog 'aint got no fleas.
But you, you dance all the guys up town into the ground.
Do-ron do-ron you gotta rock on. Your daddy 'aint coming home.....

See my baby jive, see my baby jive.
She hangs on to me and she really goes, wo-ow wo-ow wo-ow.
See my baby jive, such a lazy jive.
Well everyone you meet coming down the street just to see my baby jive......

Too bad your nag it's driving me mad, the top down on my car.
I do suppose that everyone knows exactly who you are.
But you, you make things that get along turn out so wrong.
Do-ron do-ron you'd better rock on, the band might play our song.....

See my baby jive, see my baby jive.
She hangs on to me and she really goes, wo-ow wo-ow wo-ow.
See my baby jive, such a lazy jive.
Well everyone you meet coming down the street just to see my baby jive...... '

Harry woke up. The words of the song, and his parents fading into the background as he drew back the curtains of his four poster. Ron was already awake, sitting up in bed and reading. Light was pouring in through the windows.

"Sleep well?" Ron asked, licking his finger methodically before turning the page. The book appeared to be entitled 'How to Control Armies of the Night.'

Harry nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I guess I did."

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

"... meanwhile, the death toll from the Wigtown train crash has now risen to thirty. In the news today; the International Floo Powder network has crashed completely, leaving as many as ten thousand witches and wizards stranded in fireplaces throughout the world. Technicians have been working around the clock to fix the fault, believed to be the work of saboteurs. A helpline has been set up to advise those affected by the crisis. But our hearts must go out this morning to the families of the ten victims of what is now being referred to as the Montrose Massacre. It appears that ... as of ten o'clock this morning, armed wizards walked into a packed shopping centre, murdering ten people, amongst them two children, with the Avada Kedavra curse. The Ministry of Magic acted swiftly, but the culprits remain at large, and it is feared they could strike again. Here at WWN, we'll keep you updated throughout the day on the new Campaign of Terror being waged against our people by the Dark Lord's followers. We're ... we're going to go over to the sports desk now, for a preview of today's Quidditch fixtures ... and I believe several matches have been cancelled, David?"

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

Harry helped Ron into his woollen over cloak. Ron was standing by one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor Common Room, propped up against one of the posts, his left hand gripping his crutches so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.

They looked, thought Hermione, like a war-wounded colonel and his faithful batman, preparing to go for an afternoon drive in the country.

"Gloves," said Ron. Harry handed them over.

Hermione watched with interest. Ron wobbled precariously as he momentarily let his crutches go to put his gloves on. Fortunately, the body stabilising charms that she and Ginny had put on him earlier seemed to be holding.

"Ready," said Ron, taking up his crutches again. "Shall we go?"

Harry nodded. "Say if you need anything," he said.

"I'll be fine," said Ron, pulling his hat down over his fringe.

Ginny, who was wearing Ron's orange Chudley Cannons hat, linked arms with her brother.

"Sure you're up to this?" she asked. "I'll stay with you ... if you'd like."

Ron shook his head. "No way," he said resolutely. "This is the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas. I have presents to buy."

It took them quite a while to meander all the way from Gryffindor Tower all the way down to the Entrance Hall, what with Ron slowing them up, tottering along on his crutches ... his left leg dangling uselessly. And despite all this, thought Hermione, despite all that he'd endured - he still had a broad grin on his face as he fumbled awkwardly down the stairs, being held up by Harry and Ginny, his crutches floating along ahead of them.

Draco was waiting for them in the cloisters, looking upwards at the leaded window panes of the teachers' quarters. The ornamental fishpond had frozen over, and snow covered the bare bushes that, in summer, were a riot of colour. He was stomping his feet, hugging himself tightly in order to keep warm. The temperature had not gone above three degrees for about a week now, and the entire area was starting to feel the effects of the cold snap. Rumour had it that the railway line was blocked at Hogg Bridge, a couple of miles down the track, where the line crossed the rushing beck on a stone bridge that was constantly threatening to collapse.

"Thought you weren't going to turn up," said Draco huffily, as they approached. His breath condensed into a cloud of steam before his face as he spoke.

"It took us a while to get downstairs," said Hermione.

"Can we hurry up then?" asked Draco. "It's perishing cold out here."

If it was cold up at Hogwarts, then down in the valley where Hogsmeade was, it was even colder. The freezing fog of the previous night had still not lifted, and the crystal clear blue skies that prevailed over Hogwarts soon gave way to dense grey cloud. As they descended down the winding road into the village, it was hard to even make out the shapes of the buildings.

The High Street was crowded, however, mostly with Hogwarts students enjoying the chance for some relative freedom. Groups of them congregated on the steps of the clock tower in the village square. Hermione conjured up one of her speciality fires, which she kept in an old Robinson's jam jar, in order to keep their digits from falling off.

Harry and Draco wanted to go straight over to the boarding house where Remus had taken lodgings for the time being, but Ron said he needed to buy his Christmas presents, and so, for a couple of hours, they trailed round all the likely looking shops, where Ron examined the price labels and clicked his tongue in annoyance. Then, of course, Ginny spotted a nice set of dress robes in the window at Gladrags, and they had to pop in there, and when they got in, Hermione spotted a lovely pashmina, charmed to keep the wearer warm, and Ginny ended up trying on the dress robes, whilst Harry and the boys sat in armchairs outside the changing rooms and talked in loud voices about how awful the clothes were, which prompted an assistant to scold them.

"... genuine Branfords indeed," they heard her mutter tearfully, as she retreated behind the counter to keep an eye on them.

Then it was on to Honeydukes, who were giving out free samples of a new kind of gobstopper, which stifled all conversation between them for some twenty minutes as they rolled the enormous sweets about on their tongues, trying to wear them down. And after the sugar infusion had made them feel all bilious, they headed over to the Three Broomsticks, where they found Hagrid downing several pints of mulled mead in the company of Sirius and Gwyneth, who were shooting one another passionate looks across the table.

"Those two at it again?" asked Ron, absent-mindedly peeling the label off his bottle of Butterbeer.

"When's the wedding, Harry?" Hermione asked, tugging open a particularly stubborn packet of hedgehog flavour crisps.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know, exactly," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "I think they wanted it to be around New Year's ... or just before Christmas. Some time around then."

"We'd better think of buying them a present," said Hermione.

Harry looked at Sirius. He was munching on a pickled egg, and showed no sign at all at having noticed the children coming into the pub. Gwyneth was talking to Madam Rosmerta about something, whilst she polished the glasses. Two other people Harry didn't recognise were pulling pints and making change for the patrons.

"I'm not sure what sort of thing Sirius likes?" said Harry.

Ron looked up from his drink. "Didn't you say he had a motorbike?" he asked. "How about a leather bomber jacket, or a pair of gloves."

Harry looked thoughtful. "I've never actually seen his motorbike," he mused. "I'm not sure if he even *knows* where it is. Probably languishing somewhere."

"Cufflinks," suggested Draco, apropos of nothing.

Everyone looked at him oddly.

"Well, it's what my Father got on occasions like this," said Draco. "A pair of solid gold cufflinks."

He scowled at some long forgotten memory that had clearly been dragged up. "I got my first cufflinks for my Christening," he said.

"*You* were Christened!" Ron exclaimed.

Draco went very red. "Yes ... why ... weren't you?" he asked.

Ron nodded. "Well ... yes," he said. "But I didn't think your parents would've bothered with you."

Draco looked offended. "Being into the Dark Arts, you mean?" he said.

"No ... not like that," said Ron. "What were the cufflinks like?"

"They were little gold D's," said Draco. "I still have them somewhere. Very tasteful."

"What would you want with cufflinks?" asked Ron. "Didn't they get you anything ... normal ..."

"At Birthdays and Christmas," said Draco. "You don't give the baby things it actually wants when you Christen it ... that'd be cheating ... you give it things like cufflinks and engraved napkin rings that it can appreciate later in life. *I* was an adorable baby," he added.

Ron sniggered.

"Anyway ... I think you should get cufflinks," said Draco haughtily.

"How about a paperweight?" said Hermione, out of the blue.

"Why would Sirius want to weigh paper?" Ron asked, incredulously.

Hermione raised her eyes heavenward. "No, silly. A paperweight ... it's a heavy thing that you put on papers to stop them blowing around."

"A Muggle thing?" asked Ron.

"I think so."

"We have magic to do that sort of thing," said Ron, grinning as if he had just won a decisive victory. "Honestly, Hermione, for someone so bright you aren't half dim-witted sometimes."

"Not a paperweight ... not cufflinks ..." said Harry.

"How about port and stilton," suggested Draco. "That's classy. They used to say that whomsoever the Malfoys wished to destroy, they first bought port and stilton ... like the kiss of death thing in the Mafia ... come to think of it ..." he trailed off.

Ron sniggered again.

"Packet of co ..."

"Ron!"

"Sorry."

Harry lifted his bottle to his lips and drank deeply.

"A lifetime's subscription to Practical Parenthood?" asked Hermione. "It's full of tips on feeding times, nappies and sleeping patterns."

"That's boring," said Harry.

"It's practical," said Hermione. "Babies will be coming to them, Harry. Hey ... if they adopt you, you can have little brothers and sisters. How cute."

"I'm *not* letting them adopt me," said Harry, firmly.

Draco sipped his drink. "How about a Faberge egg?"

"Something they'll cherish forever," said Ron. "Photo albums. How about framing some photos?"

"Of what?" asked Harry, sarcastically.

"You?"

Harry went red. "I'm not very photogenic," he said. "Besides ... I don't really have any photos of me. And what would they want with that?"

"They could put it on their mantelpiece," said Hermione. "I bet you were even more adorable than Draco as a baby ..."

"Not possible," huffed Draco. "I won the Bath and North-East Somerset Regional Bumper Bonnie Baby Competition in 1980 *and* 1981."

"Shame," said Ron. "The other babies must really have been something to look at. Who were you up against? The offspring of Attila the Hun and Lord David the Unattractive of Dunbar?"

"I don't *have* any baby photos," said Harry sorely.

"More's the pity," said Hermione. "I should have liked to have seen them."

Draco drained his bottle of Butterbeer, and then checked his watch. "We'd better get a move on if we want to talk to Professor ... um ... I mean Remus," he said. "They'll be expecting us back up at the school in an hour or so."

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

Remus Lupin had taken rooms in a small boarding house at the far, and cheaper, end of the High Street. The house itself was half timbered ... built sometime around the 1580s, it was *definitely* showing its age. The beams were knotted and gnarled and peppered with woodworm. Over the years, new bits had been added on at the sides ... several bay window extensions, propped up by railway sleepers overhung the small herb patch at the side overlooking the river. There was a small patio, with a bench and a swing seat that had almost rusted away ... and on the river itself, tied to a tree stump, a small rowing boat. It looked like it might have been quite pleasant to sit out there during the summer, thought Draco. Harry thought, as they pushed open the feeble garden gate, that overall, the house was a fairly close attempt at recreating the Burrow, the Weasley family home.

The front garden had a small, ornamental fish pond sunk into the middle of it, and there were, despite the cold, goldfish swimming about in it. There was also a statue of a nymph, whose eyes turned to follow them as they walked up the front path. Draco gave the bell pull a sharp tug, and immediately, a loud, seemingly ceaseless clanging echoed through the entire house.

For a moment, all was silence. Then Draco heard the sound of someone fussing over to the door, complaining in a loud and almost incomprehensible Geordie accent that, "A gentle tug will suffice ... no need to yank it off!"

The door slammed open, and the voice said. "Yes? What?"

Draco looked around for the voice, and found his gaze drawn inexorably downwards to where a tiny woman ... barely reaching up to his kneecaps, but clearly of rapidly advancing years, was glaring at him as if Draco was a cat that had fouled her pumpkin patch.

"What do you want?" she asked. "You selling anything?"

"Er, no," said Draco, "actually, we're not. We've come to see Professor Remus Lupin ..."

"We have an appointment," said Hermione, chiming in.

The woman huffed. "I dare say you do," she said. "You swear on the Good Book you ain't selling no encyclopaedias?"

"Promise," said Draco.

The Landlady, on the other hand, seemed to want to get a response from the other four, and looked in turn to Ginny, Hermione, Ron and Harry, each of whom nodded and showed her their hands to prove the absence of fifteen volume masterworks.

"I'll just get him," she said bitterly. "I *suppose* you'll be wanting some tea."

"Not if it's too much trouble," blurted out Hermione, drowning out Draco's rather muted answer of 'yes.'

"Well, it is," she harrumphed. "I have to get my mangling done. You can make it yourself. Teabags are in the tin with 'A Present From Margate' written on the lid."

They trooped obediently inside the house, each taking care to scrape the snow off their shoes and onto the doormat, which sighed and muttered to itself as they did so.

"Perfectly good boot-scraper outside," it muttered. "I will need washing now. And I just got my bristles re-laid ..."

The Landlady called up the stairs. "Lupin. People to see you!"

Then she turned back to the children and said. "I'll leave you to it then. *If* you'll excuse me."

She disappeared into a small room, and slammed the door shut behind her. Draco heard the sound of bolts being drawn across it, and seconds later, there was the sound of something like a cat being dunked in soapy water.

Draco yelped as something seized him by the scruff of the neck. He turned round to find that several golden hands, fastened onto the wall at about head height, had taken hold of their coats, and were trying to hang them up. Cursing himself for making himself look so foolish ... especially in front of *Weasley* he struggled out of the arms of his over cloak.

There was a clattering of feet on the stairs, and Remus stuck his head over the banisters.

"You met Mrs Cropredy?" he asked.

Draco nodded sheepishly. Harry spoke up. "Yes ... we ... um ... did," he said.

Remus smiled at them. "Well," he said. "I won't say she's an old battleaxe but has a heart of gold really ... because she doesn't. She is ... quite literally, the Landlady from Hell. She used to be an agent of Satan but got disqualified for shoving in the lunch queue. There are *some* things that get even demons pissed off. Nobody here can be bothered to banish her, so she spends her life being petty and lobbing eggs at the neighbours when they're out."

"Why's she ... so ... um ... short?" asked Draco.

"She got on the wrong end of a Shrinking Charm," said Remus. "Fancy a cup of tea?"

Draco nodded. So did the others.

"Follow me into the kitchen then," said Remus.

The teabags were indeed kept in a rather ugly tin, painted with one of those fifties style idealised pictures of rosy cheeked children in colourful clothes exploring rock pools with shrimping nets.

"She counts them," Remus said. "So you'd better not take too many. And watch out for the ones with the drawstrings ... those are from Zonko's."

Hermione let out a sudden shriek. She had picked up one of the Zonko's teabags too late, and the little string around the top for squeezing out the liquid had tied itself around her middle finger and wouldn't let go.

"Told you," said Remus. "It'll drop off in a minute."

They made the tea, pillaged the biscuit tin, and then followed Remus back upstairs to his room before Mrs Cropredy finished mangling the cat.

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

Remus had not quite worked out what they all wanted to come and see him about. He had been puzzling vaguely over it since he received Harry's owl over his breakfast that morning ... and none of the children were letting on anything as they trooped upstairs and allowed themselves to be shown into Remus bedroom.

It was quite a large bedroom, up on the third floor and away from Mrs Cropredy's prying eyes, with a view out of one of the side windows looking up the High Street towards the Market Square. There was an ancient four poster bed, covering up a large pentagram carved into the floorboards, and a small dresser with a mirror, upon which stood a three litre bottle of hair gel. There were four armchairs spread around the fireplace, where there was already a small fire burning merrily away, and a coffee table, upon which were spread several back issues of Lycanthrope's World.

Remus bade them all sit down ... there weren't enough spaces for all of them, so Ginny ended up perched precariously on the arm of Ron's chair. Remus flopped down in his favourite seat nearest the table. His trousers rode up around his ankles, giving the impression that he had somehow grown out of them.

"Now," said Remus, as they blew on their scalding hot tea to cool it down. "I'm still somewhat in the dark as to exactly what you wanted to see me about."

Hermione, however, had spotted something hanging on the wall. Remus turned to see what it was. A box of campaign medals ... Remus took them everywhere with him, he always had done.

"My Father's," he said, simply.

"What did he get them for?" asked Hermione.

"Fighting," said Remus. "He was a pilot ... he fought for the Muggles during their War ... in North Africa, I think."

"I often wondered," said Harry, "what we did in the War ..."

"We?" asked Remus.

"Us ... wizards and witches," said Harry. "I mean ... Dumbledore said ... and then my Dad ... when I saw him ..." he trailed off, as if the memory was still very painful for him. Hermione put an arm round his shoulders.

"Well," said Remus. He got up, walked over to the display cabinet, and took it off the wall. Then he crossed back over to where the kids were sitting, and sat back down in his armchair, handing the case to Harry. Harry took it with outstretched hands, and surveyed the shining medallions within. To each one was attached a coloured ribbon. Several of them bore inscriptions in Arabic and Cyrillic. One of them had George V on it ... another one a crossed hammer and sickle emblem.

"Some witches and wizards are honourable, Harry. Don't look so surprised," said Remus. "Some of us could see what was happening. Some of us fought for the Muggles ... with the Muggles, I should say," he corrected himself, glancing at Hermione, who didn't seem to have noticed. "My Father was one of them. Flew Spitfire fighters for the RAF ... in Africa ... and later he provided aerial cover for the Barents Sea Convoys ... that's where he got the Russian medals from."

Harry handed the case to Ron, who regarded it with equal fascination.

"So did your Grandfather, Harry," said Remus. "He trained as a pilot, initially so as to become a source of information for the Ministry of Magic within the Muggle Air Force. Then he got good at it. The Muggles noticed his potential ... he was shunted through the ranks ... " Remus broke off. "The rest is altogether more ... interesting stuff," he said, quietly.

"How come?" asked Harry.

"Perhaps I should give you some background," said Remus. "Times were hard for us then. Perhaps it's right you *should* know about it."

"I'm listening," said Draco, earnestly. Remus cast his eyes about the group. Each and every one of them was looking at him with something approaching genuine interest in the tale. Remus suddenly doubted his ability to tell it. This was just going on stuff James Potter had told him, back when they had been kids at Hogwarts themselves. He didn't know if the story, which was without any shadow of a doubt a fantastic one, would survive his reinterpretation of it. And then he thought, what the hell?

"You've not lived through anything like this," said Remus, quietly, looking at the medals. The candlelight glittered off their brightly polished surfaces. "You couldn't know. *I* haven't lived through anything like this. I mean, the Troubles ... the first fight against Voldemort - that was bad ... that ... but this must have been a million times worse."

An eerie feeling filled the room, and save for the ticking of the carriage clock, all was silent.

Remus sipped his tea, and then spoke. "People wanted to get out."

"I'm sorry?" said Hermione.

"Imagine something for me," said Remus. "Imagine you are living in a police state ... a police state where people who are different are eliminated, where there is no quarter, no relief, no let up. No exceptions. Imagine then that there is something different about you. Imagine ... well ... imagine you're a wizard, living in a state where the slightest deviation from the norms the government has laid down can and will result in your death."

Harry felt a chill travel down his spine.

"Not nice, eh? That," said Remus, "is what it was like to be a wizard, or a witch, in Europe at the time. Try telling me you would have wanted to stay put. Nobody knew what was happening, and the wizarding community was running scared. The Ministry of Magic in Italy was shut down forcibly ... in Germany it was blown to bits, likewise in Poland and Romania. The French shut theirs down rather than let themselves be captured, and I believe the same thing happened in Norway and Holland. Even in Spain - all the magical people were forced to leave, kicked out by their own people. So, there ... there was no infrastructure, and that meant, well, that there was no information. No means of knowing what was going on beyond rumour and hearsay. And, well, rumour and hearsay aren't exactly reliable sources. In Europe at that time, all these rumours were spreading like wildfire. There were some rumours that said get out ... some that said stay put, some that said wizards and witches were being executed ... bang, just like that," he made a chopping motion with his hand.

"It was confusing. And they didn't know what to do. They could see their Muggle neighbours suffering, they could see what the Occupiers were doing to people they didn't like. They weren't stupid. And they all feared that it would happen to them next, soon they would start on the wizards. A perfectly rational fear, if the truth be known. There was no evidence to the contrary, after all."

Harry's mouth was hanging wide.

"Would you take that chance?"

Draco shook his head hurriedly. Ron popped another iced biscuit into his mouth.

"I'd get out," said Hermione, at length. "I'd run."

Remus nodded. "Too damn right you would," he said. "I'd have scarpered and all. Plenty of people did. There are stories of whole wizarding families who trekked across Europe to escape what they thought was certain death. Some of them hid themselves away ... some of them, I'm ashamed to say, turned the other cheek, joined the party and pretended to be Muggles."

"And did they turn on them?" asked Hermione.

Remus shook his head. "No ... they never did," he said. "The wizarding community in Europe was left utterly alone. Of course, there are theorists who say the reason for this is because the party elite was very into ancient myths and black magic and Teutonic folk rituals and so on. There are some who say that we were left alone because of that. Whatever the reason was, not one wizard was killed for being a wizard - plenty ended up as Muggle casualties - but there was no genocide. Nevertheless, some of them did try to get out of mainland Europe. They fled to Britain ..."

"Is this where my Grandfather comes in?" asked Harry.

Remus nodded. "This is all information I gleaned when I knew your Father ... so bits of it might be out of sync," he said. "But I'll try and tell it as I remember James telling it to me."

"Okay," said Harry.

Remus went on. "Right, so, it's early 1941. Britain is the one country in the world that's standing up to the Nazi war machine, the Americans haven't joined yet ... neither have the Russians ... the rest of Europe is occupied. We were completely alone. Now, in about May of 1941, the first European wizards began to try and get out. They would resort to ridiculous stunts to make it. Some of them Apparated over ... some of them flew broomsticks across the Channel ... neither of these are particularly wise choices; the brooms of the day weren't built for sea crossings ... Apparition over long distances is most unwise, and of course, there was no International Floo Powder Network in those days," he paused to sip his tea. "So most of them tried to come by boat. They'd sail little dinghies across the Channel ... and sometimes ... quite often, actually, it would go wrong. In those days, nobody carried lights, to avoid being spotted from the air by enemies, so many of them were run down by bigger, Muggle ships. The Ministry of Magic began to notice the bodies fetching up on our beaches ... and still more refugees were coming. Something had to be done."

"What did they do?" asked Harry, who was watching Remus with the air of a child being told a riveting story. Then it occurred to Remus ... Harry probably had never been told a proper story before.

"They set up a team to help them get out," said Remus. "They would insert agents into France - usually by boat, but occasionally they'd parachute men in. The agents, when they landed in enemy territory, would make contact with an underground network of friendly wizards and witches located throughout France, who acted as guides to European magical people escaping. The agents brought them back, Harry. And your Grandfather was one of them - in fact ... he was more than that."

Remus looked suddenly at Harry. To his surprise, Harry was beaming from ear to ear.

"Your Grandfather was a very brave man, Harry," said Remus. "Not only did he do this ... but he was also spying for the Muggles ... whilst spying for the Ministry, on the Muggles he was spying for, spying for those Muggles on the Germans. Got that?"

"No, but carry on," drawled Draco.

Remus glared at him. "He was an incredible man, Charles Potter. They made him a Knight afterwards ... and he got the Order of Merlin ... anyway ... I sense you didn't come here to listen to endless wartime anecdotes? No?"

Hermione shook her head. "Actually ... I was ... er ... that is ... all of us ... were wondering if you knew what ... um, the Order of the Phoenix actually did?"

Remus froze. "I don't know anything about it," he said abruptly. "I think perhaps you should leave ..."

"Professor?" began Harry.

Remus clasped his hands together briefly, breathed deeply, then said. "I know absolutely nothing about what you're asking me ... I think you'd better leave."

"But Harry wants to know!" started Ginny. "We know his parents were in it! Why can't you tell us?"

Remus scrambled to his feet. "I can't tell you because I don't know anything about it. That's it. Come on ... along with you all. They'll miss you back at the school."

Reluctantly, they got to their feet ... and allowed themselves to be chivvied out of the door. As they went, Draco bringing up the rear, the blond boy turned and asked, "Mind if I use your toilet before we go?"

"Outside ... first on the left," said Remus. "*Goodbye* now."

Remus closed the door firmly behind them, and, wiping his hand over his forehead, which was sweating profusely, went back to sit down. Had he done the right thing? He didn't know. But the Order was top secret - it always had been, and he was still bound by the Official Secrets Act. What would be the penalties if he did say? Of course, he *knew* what it was ... how could he not, having been so deeply, deeply involved for such a momentous few years of his life.

A slight knocking on the door disturbed him from his thoughts. He glanced up, assuming it was Mrs Cropredy come to curse him unto the Seventh Circle of Hell again - something she was wont to do about three times every week, without fail.

"Come in," he said.

If it was Mrs Cropredy, she had done a very good job with her makeup. The person standing in the doorway looked like Draco Malfoy.

"What do you want?" asked Remus, grumpily. "I thought you left with the others?"

Draco nodded. "But then I came back," he said. "There are a few things I want to ask you, Professor Lupin."

Remus didn't bother to tell Draco to call him Remus, as he usually would have done.

"As long as it has nothing to do with the Order of the Phoenix," said Remus. "I'm not allowed to talk about that. You heard what I said."

"It was about that, kind of," said Draco, standing in the open doorway, tapping his foot on the floor and folding his arms across his chest.

Remus stood his ground. "I'm saying nothing more," he said, huffily.

"I wasn't asking you to," said Draco. "But I thought you cared for Harry."

"I ... I do. Whatever does this have to do with you, Draco?" Remus asked.

"I guess it's conceivable you might not know," said Draco. "I just think ... as it was his mum and dad ... that you might at least have told him. He's never known his parents, and it isn't everyday that you get the opportunity to learn about them. He's ... he's really close to them ..."

"How do you mean?" asked Remus.

"I mean ... close," said Draco. "I wasn't close to my parents at all ..."

"Why's that?" asked Remus.

"Before they died," said Draco. "We didn't exactly see eye to eye. Mother was only ever interested in her fancy balls and makeup and horrible dresses. Father was interested in ..." he paused. Switches and riding crops, mainly, he thought, but did not say aloud.

"And Harry?"

"Harry is," said Draco. "Not in a physical sense. But he cherishes their memory. There was a very strong bond between them. Why exactly am I telling you this?"

Remus shrugged.

"My point is, Professor Lupin, that I think it's doing Harry a disservice to withhold that kind of information from him. I think he has a right to know ..."

"What Harry has a right to know and what the law says Harry has a right to know *are* two completely different things," said Remus. "It isn't that I think Harry ... or you, will betray confidences, but I'd sooner not talk about it for my own reasons. Some of which are personal ... and that's going to be my final word on that particular subject."

Draco looked crestfallen.

Remus crossed over to the other side of the window, and peered out at the snow covered scene below. "Why do you care anyway?" he asked.

Draco shrugged. "I care about Harry," he said. "I worry about him. He's been through a lot just lately. We all have. And you must have noticed that he's ... well ... gone ..."

"Completely out of his tree?" Remus finished the sentence for him. Draco nodded his agreement. "Well, that isn't *quite* how I'd put it myself ... but yes - he does seem to have some pretty intense personality issues to work on."

"He's coming to terms with his parent's death ... that's why," said Draco. "All his life he'd been told one thing, and then to find out at eleven that everything you've ever been told is a lie. I'd be pretty pissed off at that point - says good things about Harry that he kept his cool through that."

Remus nodded. "With you so far, my boy," he crossed back over to the armchairs, and sat down. "If we're going to be talking, you may as well have a seat."

"Thanks," said Draco ... but he did not sit down, he merely perched on the arm of one of the chairs, and drummed his heels against the upholstery. "Then ... then he actually got to meet them, inasmuch as he can actually physically meet them. And they had to be taken away from him again. That's hardly fair. I'd be angry. That's why Harry's been so mental just lately."

"I understand that," said Remus. "I really do. If I could change things ... then I would. But I can't do that."

"I'm not asking you to change time," said Draco. "But cut the kid some slack."

Remus gave Draco a funny look. "I don't think," he began, "that you are quite aware just how much slack everyone *has* been cutting Harry just lately."

"Just tell him what the Phoenix thingy is?" said Draco.

Remus shook his head. "Draco ... I can't," he said. "I really can't. I ... I'm still bound to secrecy."

"Hah!" exclaimed Draco. "A likely story."

Remus shook his head gravely. "Oh no," he said. "That's not it ... I mean ... I'd tell him if I could ... if I'd been told I could."

Draco cocked his head to one side, quizzically.

"I *would* tell him," Remus went on, conducting an intensive study of the rug as he did so. Draco noticed for the first time that there were what looked like bloodstains on it. "But, well. You've read the papers lately?"

Draco shook his head. He never usually went near newspapers.

"You've heard the news?"

Draco nodded ... vaguely, he had.

"Well," said Remus ... he spoke slowly and carefully, choosing his words with the utmost diligence. "Let's ... um ... put it this way, Draco," he paused again, sighed, "you won't remember how bad it was last time round ... you were only just born."

"Poppycock!" snorted Draco, then looked embarrassed, possibly at having said something as absurd as 'poppycock.' "Everyone *always* says that to us. I'm not an idiot. Try me."

Remus smiled, and for a moment Draco saw a slight twinkle in one of his eyes. "Very well," he said, after a momentary pause. "It was absolutely terrifying. Imagine not knowing who you could trust ... who your enemies were ... who your friends were. Imagine just knowing that you might come home from work one day to find your house in ruins, your family abducted by Voldemort," Draco shuddered on cue, "possibly even *killed* by him. The Order of the Phoenix was an organisation set up to fight this. And we won ... or rather, Harry won for us ... or ... well ... we all *thought* he'd won. But really, he'd just caused Lord Voldemort's Flying Circus to go on hiatus for a while. Voldemort eked out a miserable existence with the help of that snake servant of his ... Nagini, I think her name was, in Albania for eleven years until that Quirrell chap stumbled across his path ..."

Draco was twiddling his thumbs.

"Look ... d'you want to hear this, or not?"

"It isn't like I don't already know it," said Draco reproachfully.

Remus sighed. "What I'm trying to say is that Voldemort is back. And he's kicking some serious behind in the bloody mayhem department."

"I thought he died," began Draco. "We all saw it ... he stepped out of the Circle ..."

Remus nodded. "Ah, yeah ... Sirius told me about that. Well ... it's very clear to me ... to all of us that he didn't die. Basically ... there's a chance that the Order is going to be resurrected - and quite soon at that. And if it is ... *then* we're going to tell Harry about it."

Draco, who had been staring intently at his shoes, looked up. His already pale face was drained of what little colour it had.

"Okay," he said, hoarsely.

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

To Harry's surprise, Sirius was waiting for them as they toiled back up the hill towards the school. He looked angry. Very angry.

"I think we might want to hide," said Ron. Sirius caught sight of them, and started to walk down the steps towards them. "You guys go on without me ... I'll only hold you up ..."

"Harry!" Sirius called. "We've been looking for you all afternoon."

Harry hastily tried to hide the bag of tricks he had bought in Zonko's behind his back.

"Where the hell have you been? We were worried sick about you! We thought something horrible had happened ..."

Harry was confused.

"We only went to Hogsmeade," protested Hermione. Ron and Harry put on their very best poker faces.

Sirius seized Harry by the collar of his robes. "Don't you remember a single bloody thing I told you?" he asked. "You're not to go into Hogsmeade! It's very dangerous ..."

"You never said ..."

"I *did*!" snapped Sirius. "You're not to go into Hogsmeade unaccompanied ..."

"I was with Ron ... " Harry began. "An' ..."

"Ron is *not* going to protect you from attack by Voldemort now, is he?" said Sirius.

Harry looked at Ron, who wobbled slightly on his crutches. "Oops."

"I guess not," said Harry. "But we were with Professor Lupin ... and we had gone in before, and Sirius, nothing *did* happen. We're fine ... well, all in one piece and everything."

Sirius released Harry. "You shouldn't have gone in before, Harry. You should have told me you were going. I would have come with you ..."

"And you can protect me from the Dark Side, can you?" asked Harry sarcastically.

"That isn't the point," said Sirius, flustered. "Harry, I want you to promise me ..."

"You always want me to promise stuff," moped Harry. "Nothing ever comes of it ... I never get to have any fun ..."

"Sirius has a point," began Hermione. "Perhaps we should've asked, or something ..."

"Shut up," said Harry and Ron simultaneously.

"Fun isn't the issue," said Sirius. "I really think we need to sit down and have a little talk ..."

"You just don't *want* me to be happy," said Harry, who was on the verge of seeing red again.

"We got over this," began Sirius.

"No ... you got over it!" snapped Harry. "You just want to kid yourself that everything's okay. Nobody ever lets me do anything. An' ... and I just wanted to be normal and stuff. I didn't ask for any of this ..."

Before Sirius could reply, he had stormed off into the gathering shadows. Sirius made as if to follow him, but Hermione gently put her hand on his sleeve.

"Let him go," she said, calmly.

"He might run away again ..." began Sirius.

Hermione shook her head. "No," she said. "He'll just storm about a bit and then go upstairs. I know Harry ..."

Ron and Sirius looked relieved.

"That's good," began Ron, "because we're meant to be going back into Hogsmeade later. Mum and Dad have come up from Devon to see me, and they wanted to take us for a curry ..." he burbled.

"Not a chance," said Sirius.

"What?"

"Harry can't go," said Sirius. "The Wards are being strengthened ... tonight. He won't be able to leave school grounds of his own volition. It's why I came to find you. That ... and ... we're getting ready to indoctrinate him ..."

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

Harry pushed open the gate, and stepped into the gardens, noting as he did so that there appeared to be other footprints ... someone wearing what looked like quite expensive shoes, in the snow.

For a second, he paused, looking around, almost as if sniffing the air, and then, sensing all was clear, he took a step into the garden.

Someone coughed.

Harry spun round immediately. Even though he knew he was just walking in the school gardens ... even though he knew he was perfectly safe, he felt adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream as his body prepared itself to fly or fight.

"Sirius?" Harry was amazed at how quivery and insignificant his voice seemed.

No reply was forthcoming. Harry began to walk again, padding through the soft snow that lay underfoot ... and ...

Harry paused ... there *definitely* was somebody shadowing him in the garden. He was positively sure of it, now. Every time he took a step, he could hear the corresponding crunch of someone else's boots in the snow ... yet every time he stopped and looked around, whoever it was had either vanished completely into thin air - a distinct possibility in the wizarding world, or had managed to conceal themselves very well.

Now, suddenly worried, Harry began to walk just a little bit faster. The hem of his robes was trailing in the snow behind him, scuffing his footprints. And now, he was sure he could hear someone breathing. He stopped again, and waited whilst his heart rate returned to normal.

"Who's there?"

Silence.

Harry's hand went to the inside pocket of his robes, and his fingers clasped tightly around the wand that he found there. He pulled it slowly out, held it up in front of him, and whispered.

"Lumos."

The wandlight was not really bright enough to see properly by, but all the same, it told Harry all he wanted to know. Nobody else could have been hiding in that garden without him seeing them now.

"Just my imagination ... only my imagination," he repeated to himself, before turning, but keeping a tight grip on his wand nonetheless.

Harry began walking again, and immediately, he heard the breathing again, the footsteps crunching in the snow, only feet behind him. He spun around, now frantic, sweat breaking out across his forehead and under his arms.

"Is there someone there?" he asked out loud. Maybe someone wearing an invisibility cloak?

Harry swallowed ... turned slowly away ... and then ran. He had not taken a step when the air around him seemed to ... solidify. It was turning, before his very eyes, into some sort of liquid, treacle-like substance. It was like swimming in molasses. Breathing was becoming harder ... Harry panicked, heard his heart beating deep inside his body, opened his mouth to yell, but of course, no sound came out.

A blinding red flash, very sudden, and very close ... a rush of light ... a sound not unlike that of a speeding express train, and then everything went very dark, and everything returned to normal.

Harry, who had closed his eyes, opened them again.

An eerie wailing filled the air.

Author notes: POSERS
So.... what just happened to Harry? Can anybody read anything into these dreams? What is Harry's connection to the Oscar Schindler of the wizarding world? How deeply is the Order of The Phoenix enmeshed in all this? And has figured out who Harry's mortal enemy is? What about the unrequited love triangle? The hints are flying thick and fast now!

THANKS
I'm carrying on with the individual thanks format I lifter out of Krum Do I Love? and that other people are now lifting from me... I notice, because I quite like it. So if you reviewed last time, you should be somewhere in the list. Of course, this system will become untenable if ToT does a Draco Sinister on me - but no sign of that happening soon, so I'll carry on.

To the following wonderful people;

Tanasia Maleficarum - glad you enjoyed playing `spot the Pratchett reference'
Amanita Lestrange - it's quite simple ... snitch!Harry is mean and nasty. TOT!Harry is depressed and suicidal! I think.
Saitania - I'm not going to drop any explicit hints, but you are doing well sussing out my plot here *vbeg*
Karina - was *too* a big continuity error *Al sulks in corner*
Portia - intriguing guesse
Lizzy/Tygrestick - thanks!
Molly - scary spiders rock *g*
Parker - I may take you up on the Celtic thingy ... thanks for the review
minx - and to think people were asking me where my plot was for part one. Ha! I'm glad I stuck out writing as well.
Keith - I have whacked Harry round the head for looking at sinead on your behalf ... no less is required IMO.
Longlonghair - I think you may well be seeing Monty Python where there is no Monty Python. Nevermind. Did they do a sketch about Australian table wines? Must have missed that one. I'll bastardise the Dead Parrot sketch at some point, just for you *g*
Yael - that was the longest review I've ever had and merits an equally lenghty comeback. The badger wasn/t anyone overtly important (but it *was* someone, so you're on the right track). I'm afraid the buried troll was a red herring. The hieroglyphs are important, and um ... you have a grudge against Simon suddenly? And Sirius *told* Harry to run away. It was a lovely review *mad schnoogles*
Zephyr - Neville's mum is still languishing in St. Mungo's, and never actually escaped, and you're another one who got the OOTP thing ... well, was it really that hard?
Silverfox - little Snapes ... hmm... interesting concept * scribbles in notebook* - thanks!
Gileonnen - I got the review! Glad you liked it!
PEZ - you're another who picked up on the buried troll thingy ... it was a red herring, sorry. The OOTP were working on sleep psychology, but more than that I will not say.
The Unicorn Whisperer - thanks!
Evilia Malcone - thank you for the review *schnoogles*
Trystellion - I have no intention of *not* continuing.
Coqui - Savoyard ... um, I have no idea what one of those is, so I'm probably not one.
Dumbledore - that was a `please put x with x' review wasn't it ... but never mind. I'll take your suggestion into consideration. I may not do anything about it though *vbeg*
Rhysenn - strange people flitting here and there ... I like that line. Spooked!Harry is also a nice change, IMO. Thanks for everything.
Carey - is on some sort of drip feed for this story, by the sounds of your reviews.
Remmirath - thanks!
Hydy - I was pondering how to give you an evil villain cameo .. and then it suddenly came to me. So keep reading ... you *will* pop up eventually.
Meriadoc - I'm sorry you lost your last review. we're having 13 chapters in all, and a sequel to go with it.
Anna - thanks!
Crimson Devil - thanks also
Lin - Z - Sorry for taking so long
Pook - Thanks for the comments *g*

AL'S FINAL THOUGHTS

Okay, so maybe the questions I posed last time weren't too testing. It's actually really interesting to see what you people are picking up as significant and what you're dismissing as unimportant. Some of you are quite clearly hot on my track ... some of you are stumbling over the red herrings. Everyone is missing some very significant points. There is a great deal of back story going on here, so do keep your eyes peeled! I'm kind of enjoying myself. The next part should be out within three weeks, barring horrible accidents. Till then, take care of yourselves ... and each other.