The Time Of Trial

PART SEVEN. TEMPUS FUGIT.

Ron rolled over in his sleep ... let out the faintest of little moans, and woke up, sending the thin, scratchy blanket falling to the floor. He sighed in annoyance. It was very, very cold, and the blanket ... that single, sleazy blanket, and the horrible, scratchy garment that appeared to be made out of old jute potato sacks, were no protection against it.

Aching all over, for there was no mattress, he sat up, clasping his filthy, long-nailed hands together and hugging his legs to his bare chest in a desperate attempt to eke some warmth back into the frozen, sore bones of his body. Visible in the half-light pouring through the tiny, barred window were yellow bruises clutched desperately into the fair flesh of his forearms. The skin around his fingernails, dirty and chipped and uncut, was peeling through malnutrition, his stomach swollen and distended through hunger.

Ron shrank back into the shadows, and wept, pitifully.

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

For a moment or two, Harry did not dare open his eyes. He could smell something acrid ... something burning. It smelled like rubber, mixed with gas. It was a stench so frightfully overpowering that it was all he could do to keep from gagging. Then, quite unexpectedly, he heard the sound of explosions, close by. Each detonation seemed to be closer, and with each bang, came fresh waves of hot air.

Crump ... crump.

The ground shook with the force of it. The eerie, wailing siren was still ringing in his ears, only now Harry could hear human voices too ... people screaming, intermingled with the unmistakable roar of collapsing stonework and masonry, and the distant ringing of alarm bells.

Someone brushed past him in haste and almost sent him sprawling to the ground.

"Move back there, boy!" an angry voice yelled.

Harry opened his eyes, and chanced a glance around. The man who had nearly knocked him over appeared to be a Muggle fireman. He wore a steel helmet over a uniform that looked practically antique ... not like the firemen who had come to Privet Drive two summers ago, when Dudley had set fire to his collection of Disney videos in a fit of pique. This man looked ... older, somehow. Like he was, in some way, out of time.

"If you're just going to stand there ... then hold this!" the man shouted angrily at Harry, gesturing to the long, coiled hosepipe that was lying on the wet tarmac, like an enormous earthworm.

"This isn't Hogwarts, is it?" asked Harry, knowing the answer before it came.

"Deptford!" came the reply. "Look ... are you ARP, or just a firewatcher?" he sounded quite annoyed.

"Uh ... neither," began Harry tentatively.

"Never mind ... hold the hose!" the man roared, forcing it into Harry's hands before he had a chance to back away.

Harry gripped tightly to the two metal handles either side of the nozzle and took a deep breath. He was becoming increasingly aware of intense heat ... fire, nearby. Blinking in the darkness, lit only by flickering orange, dancing shadows, he saw blazing buildings, and the silhouetted shapes of other people running.

A woman was screaming. Harry looked up ... and nearly dropped the hose in shock. She was leaning out of a fourth storey window of the building, evidently a flat block.

"Get that kid away from here!" somebody close by was shouting. "He shouldn't be here! Get him down a shelter!"

Someone else ran past, yelling. This man was carrying a small, beige orange box, and wearing a black helmet with stencilled letters over the brim.

"Ashworth Street's gone!" he roared breathlessly. "They got the gasworks! The whole thing's going to go any moment now!"

"Christ!" the fireman yelled. "They'll need help on ..."

"Stay where you are. You ... boy!"

Harry turned. Did they mean him?

"Got your gasmask?" the man asked.

Harry shook his head. Gasmask?

"Never mind!" the man yelled. "Make yourself useful, there's a good lad!"

Harry gripped tighter. Without any warning whatsoever, a jet of high-pressure water burst forth from the nozzle, nearly knocking him off his feet. He was sweating ... his robes plastered to his body as he struggled to keep the flailing beast under control.

"Aim at the fire, damn it!"

Harry felt hands clasping him roughly by the shoulders, someone else was grabbing the hosepipe, dirty, grease stained fingers overlaid his. "Just hold tight to it!"

Other people were speaking in the background. Harry caught snatches of their conversation.

"They've got the Red Lion ..."

"They're saying Southwark's taking hits badly ... and the sugar refinery's gone ..."

"Any news of Bromley ... I have family ..."

Harry's breathing was coming in fits and gasps. His eyes darted frantically over the building ... that woman ... was she all right? He'd lost sight of her.

"I think I saw someone!" he tried to say, but the firemen weren't listening to him. He heard more bells ... sirens, and the growling of diesel engines as more appliances turned into the street, their shiny, red paint streaked with dirt and dust from the rubble strewn streets. A white ambulance, its windows covered over with what appeared to be sticky tape, was edging its way through the crowd that had gathered to watch the conflagration.

Then he caught sight of her again ... and this time, the fireman spotted her as well.

"Oh hell. I thought everyone in there had got down the shelter!" he yelled.

"She can get out ..." began Harry.

The fireman snorted. "Not a blithering chance in hell, lad! This whole thing's going to go at any minute!"

Harry's eyes darted back to the woman, who was still standing at the window, waving frantically to the people below, all of whom, save Harry and the Muggle fireman, were oblivious to her presence.

There was a kid with her!

"She's got a child!" Harry yelled. Suddenly, all thoughts of his own safety dashed from his mind, he did the most stupid thing imaginable, and let go of the hose. It was suddenly ... he didn't know how ... but it was suddenly the singularly most important thing in the world not to let that child die.

He heard a roar of anger from the fireman as the hose flailed all over the street, sending cascades of water over the watching throng, who scattered, shrieking. But Harry did not care; there was only one thought in his mind, and that was to get to that woman.

He sprinted across the road, oblivious to the shouts, and before he was fully aware of just what was going on, he was through the double doors and inside the lobby of the burning building.

It was deserted, and eerily quiet in there ... the roar of the flames consuming the structure seemed distant and unthreatening. Harry cast his eyes about the lobby, and spied, leaning up against someone's front door, a fire axe; grabbing it, although to what purpose he was unsure, he set off up the stairs, taking each step at a time. Smoke was filling the air, filling his lungs ... and he began to cough, dropping to his knees to edge along the floor where the air was clearer. Reaching the top of the stairs, he became aware of flames, very close, and the acrid smell of burning plastic and rubber filled the air.

"Can anyone hear me?"

But nobody could. Harry peeled off his robes, and abandoned them to their fate, and clasping the axe by its long handle - it really was *astonishingly* heavy, wriggled his way forwards. The smoke was stinging his eyes.

Fourth floor ... fourth floor. Correctly surmising that the blaze had put the building's lifts out of action, Harry stumbled to the next flight of stairs, and began to climb them as well. He had not got halfway up when he heard a monstrous crashing sound behind him. The floor above had given way ... plaster dust, burning bits of wood and furniture were cascading down from overhead, blocking his exit.

For a moment, Harry just sat there, halfway up the flight, surveying the wreckage. The roar of the flames that had seemed so distant and had *certainly* not seemed dangerous when he had entered the building was suddenly a whole lot closer.

Closing his eyes against that hateful, stinging smoke, Harry clasped his fingers around the banisters, and began to haul himself up the last few steps.

The second landing was utterly deserted. The windows had been smashed in by something. The heat was becoming unbearable ... and then the building trembled, and Harry knew ... he was more certain than he had ever been before, that he was going to die.

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

The portraits of past head teachers of Hogwarts that hung on the walls of Dumbledore's tower study surveyed the proceedings with an air of sombre melancholy. Occasionally they would flitter between each other's picture flames for a hasty, whispered consultation with a colleague.

Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, and Fawkes was perched next to him, his bright golden plumage somehow reflecting the flickering flames that danced in the grate, casting entrancing shadows about the entire room.

"He dropped his wand," Dumbledore said in low tones, gesturing to the object itself, which was lying on the desk before him, like some kind of taunting affront.

Professor McGonagall started forwards. "Can it tell us anything ... anything at all?" she asked.

Dumbledore shook his head sombrely. "It was, of course, the first thing we tried," he said, in a tired voice. It was getting on for twenty past one in the morning, and everyone else in the castle save himself, McGonagall and Sirius were long abed. "Mais helás, non. Alas, no. The last spell Harry performed was a simple wandlight charm. Nothing more."

"May I see?"

Dumbledore picked up the wand resignedly, and uttered the words, "Priori Incantatem."

The tip of Harry's wand began to glow with an ethereal blue light.

"I shouldn't have doubted you, headmaster," Professor McGonagall said.

Sirius, who was sitting in one of the rather comfortable leather armchairs in which Dumbledore's office seemed to abound, leaned forwards. "I suppose we must surmise that *they* have him?" he asked, in a hollow, deadened voice.

Dumbledore shrugged. "I couldn't possibly begin to say, Sirius," he said, tonelessly. "We must face up to the possibility that the Dark Side has indeed snatched Harry from us ..."

"I don't buy that for a second, Albus!" snapped Professor McGonagall, her clipped vowels lapsing, as she often did when she became especially stressed, into a Scots brogue. "The wards ... we put them up only a few weeks ago ... Alastor himself supervised their erection ..."

"Wards have been known to fail, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "However, I suspect you may be right. Our security is not as tight as it should be under these circumstances. I will order Moody and the rest of the team up here tomorrow." His eyes seemed to sparkle slightly as he spoke, and for a second, Sirius looked at him oddly.

Sirius got up, stiffly, from his chair, and walked slowly over to the window ... it was snowing outside again ... not a blizzard, but the white flakes were cascading down in little flurries, drifting on the night time breeze.

"Bollocks!" he said, suddenly. He spun back round to face the other, frankly shocked, members of staff. "Bollocks to it. They *have* got him. It's pointless theorising! It's just like my parents all over again ..."

Dumbledore hung his head and looked intently at his upturned palms. He was, of course, fully aware of how Sirius' parents had met their tragic demise last time around.

"We may receive a ransom note, or something," he said, trying to keep Sirius' spirits up.

Sirius shook his head. "No ... doubt it very much," he said angrily. "They won't send us a final demand. They'll send us bits of him. That's what they did to my parents. A finger a day ... for twenty days they taunted me. They were saying, 'we have them ... we can choose to kill them if we want ... and there's absolutely sod all you can do about it.' And on the twenty-first day, they sent me a package containing two human hearts ..." he trailed off, and leant on Dumbledore's desk for support.

Neither of the two other faculty members really knew what to say to that. Professor McGonagall put what she intended to be a comforting arm about Sirius' shoulders, but it was shrugged off.

"He might be fine, Sirius," Professor McGonagall said. She would have spoken further, but a curt rapping at the door of the study cut her off in mid flow.

"Come," said Dumbledore, resignedly.

The door opened a bit, and Hagrid's bearded, red face was visible peering through the crack.

"The Weasleys have arrived, Headmaster," he said, his voice toneless, his accent stilted. It was clear to all three of them that he had taken Harry's disappearance the worst of all.

Molly and Arthur Weasley were all dressed up for dinner, Arthur in a green tweed robe, which made him look like Sherlock Holmes, and Molly in a black dress that did her dumpy figure absolutely no favours at all. They had been *intending* to see Ron, take him out for dinner with Harry, Ginny and Hermione, but the crisis had somewhat sidetracked them. Both looked on the verge of tears.

"We came straight up as soon as we heard," Molly began to explain.

"Tragic ... just tragic," Arthur said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

Ron and Ginny, who had followed their parents into the study, Ron still unsteady on his crutches, merely looked at the ground. Sirius regarded the kids painfully. Hermione had taken it badly, and was apparently locked in the Gryffindor girls' bathroom and refusing to come out.

Dumbledore got to his feet. "Molly, Arthur ... I ... I can't begin to ..."

"We know he was like an extra son to you," Professor McGonagall began. This was the wrong thing to say, for it only sent Hagrid running from the room, now positively howling. They waited until his heavy footfall had receded back down the stairs before continuing.

"It's just ... such a shock," said Molly, words failing to express, thought Sirius, what she was probably feeling. After all, they *had* practically adopted Harry, from what he had heard.

"Is there nothing that can be done?" asked Arthur, gathering his children closer around him and putting a hand around his wife's shoulders. "We must be able to do something."

Dumbledore regarded the Weasleys over the tops of his spectacles. He appeared to be deep in thought. "It is," he began, "obvious what must be done ..."

"Then tell us!"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Arthur, you of all people know ... in your own way, what must be done."

Sirius was very suddenly overcome with the urge to smack Dumbledore for being so damn evasive.

"I haven't a clue, Dumbledore ..." Arthur began.

"Unfortunately ... there is very little we can actually do at this end that will make any difference. Wherever, and whenever Harry has gone, it is up to him. This is, as they say, the first big test," he fell silent, and looked all round them.

Everyone's mouths were open wide.

"I think supper, then bed," said Dumbledore, hastily. "We shall meet again come the morning."

After he had chivvied them out of his study, he returned, walking a little stiffly, to his desk, and sat down behind it. Fawkes flapped his wings a couple of times, sending a feather spiralling to the rug.

A moment passed, then Dumbledore spoke to the empty room.

"You can come out now."

The door to one of the other chambers opened, and a younger man poked his head through it. He was very tall, possessed of a great length of beard, and long, sweeping auburn hair.

"Is it safe?" he asked.

Dumbledore nodded. At this, the younger man reached into the folds of his long, ermine trimmed robes, and withdrew what, at first glance, appeared to be a tiny golden, hourglass shaped pendant on a chain.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Let's go and get Harry," said Dumbledore. "Five turns of the fifth level, and then, then three turns of the fourth."

The other man nodded. Dumbledore picked up an identical object from the desk.

"Here we go then, Albus."

They both turned the hourglasses over.

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

Harry, summoning up all his strength, sapped by that noxious, choking smoke, charged sideways into the door, like he had seen them do in Muggle films. He was mildly surprised, then, to find that the door did, indeed, splinter like matchwood. Harry had not been prepared for this ... he kept going, tripped over something big and heavy, and collapsed in an untidy heap at the floor.

"Are you the firemen?"

Harry picked himself up, and found himself face to face with a small boy, about three years old. He had long, curly, flame red hair, and his round face was dotted with freckles.

"Where's your Mum?" Harry asked.

"She's gone to sleep," said the boy. "I'll show you."

He held out his hand, and gingerly, Harry took it, and allowed the boy to lead him into what appeared to be a sitting room. A pall of dense smoke was still hanging over the scene, and it was nearly impossible to see what was what. However, there was, lying on the circular rug in the centre of the room, what was unmistakably a woman's body.

"She'll wake up soon!" the boy said hopefully. But even Harry knew that it was hopeless. The woman's eyes were wide open ... her tongue was hanging slightly out of her mouth. She was asphyxiated.

And before very much longer, if those crashes from outside are anything to go by, thought Harry, she will be burned to a crisp as well.

"We have to go," he said, turning to the boy, who was crouched on the floor next to the corpse of his Mother. He was wearing a grey shirt, knee-length shorts held up by braces, and long socks with brown sandals. He looked like the old pictures Harry remembered seeing of evacuee children during the War.

"With Mummy," said the boy.

"No," said Harry, quickly. "We can't carry Mummy. She'll have to stay here ... she'll ... she'll," he regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, "she'll have to stay here. The firemen will rescue her."

"You're a fireman!" shouted the boy, gleefully.

"No, no," said Harry. "We have to go."

"All right," said the boy. But he remained crouching beside the body, and Harry craned closer to see what the problem was. The child was tugging on her sleeve.

"It's time to wake up!" he said. "We've got to go."

Harry, however, was starting to feel giddy from the horrid smoke. Praying this was the right thing to do, he seized the child around the waist, but was met only with kicks and shouts of resistance as he tried to drag him away.

"Get off me!"

"We have to go!"

"Not without my ... gasmask!" he was shouting. "I want my Mummy too!"

"Mummy's safe!" shouted Harry, losing his temper. "Where's the gasmask?"

The boy smiled, a toothy grin at Harry, and then bolted out of the room. Another crash, this time close by, indicated, unbeknownst to Harry, but obvious to the firemen and the crowd outside, the collapse of half of the building.

"Where are you?"

The boy reappeared in the doorway, his face covered by a huge, and ugly, black rubber gasmask. In a concession to frivolity, it had black Mickey Mouse ears, too.

Harry was about to yell at the boy to take it off, when it dawned on him that, actually, this was probably a sensible move. It would certainly mean that the kid wouldn't have to breathe in any of the fumes on the way down ... if there still was a way down. He wondered if the Mother had one as well.

"Does Mummy have a gasmask?" asked Harry.

The boy nodded, then pointed. There was a beige coloured case dangling from an upright, wooden dining chair. In one bound, Harry crossed the room, and wrenched open the clasp on top of the case. True to the little boy's word, there was, indeed, a gasmask nestling within. Harry seized it, and, loosening the straps, which were quite tight, wrenched it onto his face. Almost immediately the little plastic visor steamed up with his breath.

"Damn," he said. It wasn't much, but it would have to do ... and at least now he could breathe again, even if that *did* mean he would have to feel his way downstairs.

"You got yours?" asked Harry. "What's your name?"

"Arthur!" said the boy. "What's yours?"

"Harry," said Harry. "Good, now we've exchanged pleasantries, let's go."

He grabbed the child by the hand, and going as fast as the boy's small footsteps would allow them, led him out and onto the landing.

"Keep close by me!" he roared over the noise of the inferno. "Don't stop at all ... don't do anything unless I say so."

"All right."

Harry had occasionally had cause to wonder, during his short life, just how he would stand up in such a situation. When he had lived at Privet Drive, he had once dreamed, after another one of Uncle Vernon's trivial beatings, that a fire was consuming the house, and that he, Harry, had fled, without waking them, without stopping for them, leaving them to their fates. It had, despite his long and abiding hatred of all things to do with the Dursleys, left him cold, and he had awoken shivering ... though that was in truth because there was no radiator in his cupboard. It had given him great cause for concern, Harry having been that kind of introspective child; he had thought about things a lot to pass the time. How would he really cope with a fire? Could he really, truthfully, save another person's life? Wouldn't he just flee?

As the next few minutes unfolded, Harry came to realise that, of course, he would not have done. For a brief period, the most important thing to him in the world was ensuring that little boy's survival.

They clattered down the first flight of steps okay, but upon arriving at the landing below, Harry found, to his dismay, that two joists, holding up the ceiling, and probably holding up whatever remained of the block as well, had crashed down. Burning wreckage was cascading from the ceiling. There was no way down.

Arthur was practically sobbing by now. Harry clutched his hand tighter, and shouted, "We'll go back up. Something will come ... something will happen ..."

He began to lead Arthur back the way they had come, keeping close to the floor, where the air was cleaner, they made their way slowly back up the stairs, all the while that incessant roaring, crashing sound becoming louder and louder. Harry could hear, above the roar, the faint flickering of little, individual fires all around him as the building was gradually consumed.

They arrived, panting, clothes stained with soot and dust and sweat, back on the landing outside the flat. Up here, the electricity had finally given up the ghost, and shorted out. A piece of bare flex was dangling perilously from the cracked and jagged ceiling, jerking from side to side and spraying sparks all over the floor.

"Keep down!" Harry yelled. He forced the boy behind himself, and they edged slowly along, keeping out of the way of the wildly flailing wire. Harry felt burning as the sparks touched his face and skin, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out in pain.

"We'll be okay!" he went on, soothing the boy. He kicked open the door of the flat again, and they made their way inside. Harry looked frantically around. Surely there must be a ladder, or a fire escape, or something ... anything, nearby. Desperate, Harry charged into the kitchen, senselessly rummaging through the drawers and cupboards ... all empty, devoid of anything, whilst the boy regarded him suspiciously from the doorway.

And then, Harry heard a rushing, roaring, crashing sound, heard the shrieks of the child, Arthur. He whirled around, mouth wide with horror as the ceiling finally gave way, showering them with dirt and blazing bits of wreckage. Then one of the huge, metal joists swung down from on high, rendered red hot by the fire, crashing through the floor. Harry felt it give way under his feet, felt a sudden sensation of falling, and then knew nothing more.

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

A week had passed ... and it was now the following Thursday .... Thursday the 7th, to be exact. All week long, Ron, Hermione and Draco had watched as gangs of Ministry wizards combed the Hogwarts grounds. Men armed to the teeth with huge, ferocious guard dogs on leashes headed off into the depths of the Forbidden Forest. Hermione herself was chilled to the very bones ... and almost gave up all hope of seeing Harry alive again, when she chanced upon a slow moving line of Ministry officials walking through the long grass near Hagrid's hut, spread out in a line, probing the ground with sticks ... looking for any clues whatsoever, just as Hermione had seen them do on Muggle TV crime dramas. She ran upstairs to the girls' dormitory, where Lavender and Parvati, themselves badly shaken up by Harry's disappearance, found her later that afternoon.

Ron seemed beyond consolation, and daily would take to hobbling around the grounds, breathing deeply, clenching his fists, and plainly trying to keep from crying. Professor McGonagall tried to talk to him ... but he wouldn't listen. Ginny tried to talk to him ... even Fred and George tried to cheer him up ... but he was having none of it. Even the arrival of a team of paediatricians from St Mungo's, to finally fit a false leg, that seemed so real and moved so well that it was only the fact he couldn't feel it that told him it was fake, did not lift his spirits one iota.

Draco did not seem his usual self, either. Of course, there was no grief, as there was amongst Harry's true friends ... but even he, as he watched the Gryffindors moving sullenly from one lesson to the next ... one conspicuous force within them noticeably absent, he felt awkward, slightly ashamed, and slightly sick. On Tuesday morning, he received a letter from the Ministry informing him that his erstwhile twin sister, Tatiana, whom he had met for the first time in Naxcivan, now three months, or thereabouts, distant, would be repatriated to Azerbaijan at the order of their Department of Magic. But Draco felt nothing for that, as much as he did for Harry. Tatiana was nothing ... they hadn't known each other that well ... and ... he had become very tearful and had to go and have a lie down, whilst Crabbe and Goyle listened at the door and sniggered to one another.

Most inconsolable of all were Hagrid and Sirius. Hagrid had not been seen for some days ... school rumour had it that he had locked himself away in his little hut with Fang the boarhound and a large barrel of mead, and was refusing to come out. Some of the Ravenclaws, who had been practicing Quidditch, claimed to have heard him howling. As for Sirius ... he had repaired to the Three Broomsticks, and nightly proceeded to drink himself into a complete stupor. And hence, the entire Care of Magical Creatures timetable fell apart like matchwood.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" Madam Rosmerta asked. It was coming up to six o'clock, and Sirius had been drinking since twelve. He was on his eighth pint of mead, and frankly, it was a miracle he was still standing ... or sitting ... albeit sitting with a decided list to port.

Sirius raised his head off his arms, and leered drunkenly at her. "I'll tell you," he slurred, "when I've had enough ..."

"Sirius ... you're drunk," Madam Rosmerta repeated. "I can't stand to see you like this. Please go home and go to sleep ... you'll feel better in the morning ... I promise."

Sirius shook his head vociferously, and mumbled something Madam Rosmerta didn't hear.

"I'll give you a drink," said Madam Rosmerta, "but it's going to be water ... okay? Do you want some ice in it?"

"And gin," slurred Sirius.

"No, just water ..."

One of the other patrons leaned over the bar. "Could you turn the radio up, please?" he asked. "The news should be about to start."

Madam Rosmerta poured water out of a vast pitcher into a fresh pint glass, and handed it to Sirius, who regarded it suspiciously. "Sorry, love?"

"Could you put the radio on?" the man repeated. He was a short, stocky wizard wearing worn red robes.

Madam Rosmerta turned the set up. Sirius stared at the water as if it was about to kill him.

"This is London. You're listening to WWN. It is six p.m. on Thursday, December the 7th, 1995. Here is the news, read by me, Godfrey Wayzgoose. Tonight's top story, Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, today ordered the Minister's Guard, the elite foot soldiers of the Ministry to patrol the streets of wizarding London for the first time since October, 1981. This renewed level of vigilance is in response to the recent spate of attacks against magical targets by the forces of darkness. In further news of what is ... now, indubitably the resurgence of the Dark Side ... um ... we're ... we're getting reports, uh, now, in fact, of a massive explosion at the Ministry building. No news of casualties is coming in yet ... we're ... we're still holding on at this end. Which we ... holy ..."

A loud rumbling echoed over the airwaves. Madam Rosmerta turned it down slightly ...

"This is not alcohol," burbled Sirius, unhappily ... but he drank the water anyway.

"... am not sure just what that was," the signal went crackly, like it did during thunderstorms. "Um ... we can ... we're ... this is WWN, staying on the air throughout the current situation. I ... we appear to have ... appear to have ..."

Sirius put down the glass he was drinking from, and motioned for the set to be turned up again. Those patrons who were not watching the Hogsmeade & District Darts Tournament were all listening intently ...

"... massive explosion just rocked the studio building here in London. We're ... we're staying on the air, it would seem we are still broadcasting ... and we can now take you live to Enid Brook ... who is down on the street, in the thick of things ... Enid ..."

The signal cut out briefly.

"Turn it on!" someone shouted.

Madam Rosmerta fiddled with the dial. "Hang on ... hang about ... got it, I think," a burst of Beethoven's Ninth rang out.

"Damn ... no ... sorry ... here we go."

"... standing here amidst a scene of utter confusion, Godfrey, nobody seems to know what is going on. I can confirm to you that the Ministry building has been bombed, it would seem, the ... the front of the building has been blown clean away, and from where I am I can see office furniture hanging from the ... from the structure here ..."

"Any sign of any casualties?"

"There are as yet, no emergency services on the scene, but people are emerging from the building ... as far as casualties are concerned, we must assume the attack was lethal ... at this moment, I find it hard to believe how anybody in those rooms could have survived ... um ... we're ... we're getting news now, news now that ..."

"Sorry to interrupt you there, Enid ... I can now take you to Abel Cartwright, who is on the roof of the WWN building ... Abel ..."

"From up here, I can see several small fires ... a lot ... a lot of people on the streets, taking to the streets. It seems to be a full scale panic ... I'm ... I'm not sure what's going on ... we'll ... we'll come back to you just as soon as ..."

"Thank you. We're getting reports that Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic has been fatally wounded in the attack on the Ministry building ... more of that from Enid ..."

"Thank you ... bodies are now being carried out of the ... of the building. And mediwizards are on the scene ... we can see the Dark Mark now ... floating ... and, oh God ... Godfrey, we're going back to you hurriedly ... we're getting out of here ... there appear to be masked ... masked wizards on the square ... coming this ..."

"Not sure what caused us to lose that report. We're working on it, this," another loud bang briefly drowned out the presenter's voice, "... full scale attack on wizarding London ... that was another explosion you heard ... not sure if that was a bomb or not, and we're going to now take you to Abel again, who is rather better placed to ..."

The signal cut out again. Madam Rosmerta thumped the set, which was now emitting a high pitched whistling.

"Damn useless thing."

"... ladies and gentlemen. We are activ ... actively looking to re-establish that link just as soon as we can. In the meantime, I have been rushed this statement, on behalf of the Ministry ... I must ... a full-scale alert against Dark Insurgency ... this is an official alert ... official. Um ... we must recommend that you remain calm, remain in your homes, and do not try to leave your current location. We'll ... we'll of course be bringing you live updates ... news coming now, um, it appears that the Minister of Magic has died ... within the last few minutes bodies were brought out of the bombed Ministry building in London, and within the last minute itself, I have been told to inform you that ... someone's handing me a statement here ... um ... we appear to have an invasion of the studio here ... what."

The sounds of papers rustling.

"I hardly think that's rational at this time. We are trying to ... ladies and gentlemen ... we appear to have a full-scale situation at this time within the studio itself. I must please reiterate the official government plea to remain calm at this juncture ... we'll be right back ..."

"New, for the witch in a hurry to be going places, comes the Eezy-Wipe Kitchen Cleansing Spell. Just one application keeps your worktops looking and smelling fresh for up to a whole week. No more mess from those kids! No more frogspawn when you're trying to fix dinner. Eezy-Wipe ... making your life, eezy!"

"Please do not adjust your wireless set. This is a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System."

Madam Rosmerta didn't. Silence had fallen over the entire pub.

"... station is now on the air. Please remain calm. Do not attempt to leave your homes. Thank you. This is ... uh ... WWN. Staying with you throughout the current crisis ... we're breaking now for ... no we're not. I'm Godfrey Wayzgoose ... thank you for listening at this time we ... we are unsure as to what is happening. For the record, I am being watched in the studio now by three masked wizards who ... no? No ... okay ... ixnay on that point. Seem to be ... I must at this time reiterate the official plea to stay exactly where you are. There is ... as far as I can tell, mass panic on the streets of wizarding London tonight ... we're a bit isolated at the minute. I think it'd be ... it'd be ... may we take that report? You will only ... only make matters worse if you do ... I'm very sorry, listeners, this appears to be a full scale breakdown of official government power. If I may describe the scene ... we are seeing, down below us on Diagon Alley, er ... running figures ... many ... flickering green light all over the place. As I understand it units of the Minister's Guard have been deployed against what is a full scale insurgence within London itself ... cannot quite maintain why or how this has suddenly happened ... I would *really* appreciate it if you didn't point that thing at my head, sir. That ... that button is not important ... please, we are on the ..."

"WWN, radio for the wizarding community ... paid for by listeners like you ..."

"... don't press that button, I said. No! As I was saying, the studio is being closely watched, I have been handed a new statement ... I will not read this tripe ..."

There was the sound of someone else talking off the microphone.

"Under protest. If anybody out there is still listening to us. This radio station is now officially under the control of the Silver Serpent ... I'll thank you to stop pointing your wand at me. The statement reads that as ... as of now, all, all ... I'm sorry, this is against our ethical broadcasting policy ..."

"Do it."

"All ... all, uh, Mudblood property held at Gringotts now becomes the property of the ... of the Dark Lord himself. There will be further announcements made as they become necessary ... that is all Mud... ah ... Muggle-borns are to ... property has been seized in London. This is now, officially, a coup d'etat. We are under siege here ... Ladies and Gentlemen, if any of you are listening abroad, in France or Eire or anywhere ... as a ... ah ... responsibility, I must plead at this point. That, Death Eaters, the ... the Silver Serpent Cult now appears in control of most ... of the functions of magical government in the United Kingdom. I am pleading with you now to send help of whatever kind you can ... that's a plea to our listeners abroad, please help ... I understand now we are to be taken off the air ... yes ... let me finish please. I do not know what is happening here ... no ... I will finish this broadcast. We are being taken off the air by rebel insurgents, forcibly and against our wishes ... hands off! We are being gagged ... this is unofficial, no government has sanctioned this action, and I must regard it as a violation of ... a crude violation ... violation none the less, an act of civil war against the legitimate magical government of the United Kingdom. I am pleading with you to send us help here. This radio station ceases to be a source of reliable information ... if ... the next voice you here will be ... not mine ... um ... if anybody ... if ... help."

A different voice. "This station is going temporarily off the air. We will return you to ... in the meantime, here is some ... ah ... light music, from London, this is WWN ..."

The signal cut completely.

Sirius looked up from his drink ... his hands were shaking.

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

Harry woke up, sweating profusely, his heart racing. His eyes snapped open, and then he breathed a huge sigh of relief as he felt the familiar apple pie bed enclosing him tightly on all sides. He was in the Hospital Wing. He was safe.

Harry began to wonder just what he had done to end up here *this* time, when it suddenly dawned on him that this was most certainly not the Hospital Wing. For a start, it was the wrong colour. This ward was painted in that strange shade of bile green so favoured by institutions worldwide. The light came not from candelabra, but from bare, fluorescent tubes. And on the ceiling, someone had painted a countryside scene from what appeared to be The Wind in the Willows. There was a steam train, a toad driving an old time motor car, and assorted animals wearing human clothes.

He propped himself up in bed, the better to survey his new surroundings. The room was filled with beds, each one containing a solitary, sleeping figure. They all appeared to be children. Several of them were hooked up to drip feeds, but looking closer, Harry could see none of those sophisticated computer things that he knew from watching Muggle television, hospitals were crammed with. At the far end of the ward were a pair of double, swing doors, and a glass fronted booth with an elderly, steel-grey haired woman sitting inside, reading a newspaper.

It was deathly quiet and dark outside.

As Harry pondered what all this dense description actually meant, the double doors crashed suddenly open, and a swift moving retinue of two doctors and a nurse entered the ward. They moved quickly from one slumbering child to the next, stopping at each bed to take a pulse, wipe a fevered brow, and so on. One of the doctors was taking notes on a little pad.

When they reached his bed, they paused.

"Good evening," said the doctor who wasn't taking notes. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles and looked worryingly studious. "I see you've consented to rejoin the land of the living, my boy."

"Whu?" went Harry.

The doctor regarded him with a smile. "My name is Doctor Smith, this is my colleague, Doctor Johnson, and this is Nurse Black ... she'll be looking after you whilst you're on the ward ..."

"What happened?" asked Harry, feeling his head. To his dismay, there was a thick, white bandage wound tightly about his skull.

"You've been out for nearly a week," said Doctor Smith. "We were worried about you. You were injured in a blazing building ... but don't worry, you're in tip-top condition and all that rot. Just as soon as we've rested you up for a few days, you can go home."

Harry didn't really think he had a home to go to. But he kept quiet. "What about the other boy?" he asked. "There was another boy, wasn't there?"

Doctor Smith hastily consulted his sheaf of medical documents. "Of course," he said. "Arthur Weasley, I believe. That was a very brave thing you did, Harry ... um ... what, might your surname be? Arthur has told us your ..."

"Potter," said Harry, woozily. "Potter."

There was a brief pause as Doctor Smith scribbled this new intelligence down. "Okay, Harry Potter," he said. "You took quite a whack to the head, old chap. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you a few questions. Check you've not gone doolally on us. You feel up to that, Harry?"

"Yeah, go ahead," said Harry.

Doctor Smith pulled up a chair, and sat down awkwardly on it.

"Now, can you give us your address, your home address?" he asked.

Harry nodded. "Sure, um ... number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging. It's in Surrey ..."

Doctor Smith raised his eyebrows. "Long way from home, aren't we, Harry? Whatever were you doing in Greenwich during a raid?"

"I don't know," said Harry.

"Okay, that's okay. Now, can you tell us your date of birth?"

Harry nodded. "31st of July, 1980," he said.

Doctor Smith nearly swallowed his tongue. "I'm ... I'm sorry, Harry?" he said. "I thought you said 1980. You mean 1930, I'm sure, maybe 1928 ... to look at you I'd say you were a little older than eleven?"

Harry gave the doctors a very funny look. "No ... no, 1980," he said.

"Right ... erm ... Harry, this may sound very, very strange to you. But can you tell us who the Prime Minister is?"

"The Muggle one?" asked Harry, without thinking.

"I'm sorry, a Muggle?"

"Yeah ... oh," realisation dawned. "Sorry, that's nothing. It's Major ... John Major ..."

Doctor Smith raised his eyebrows. "Riiight," he said, slowly. "Harry, who might the President of the United States be?"

Harry scoffed. "Bill Clinton," he said. "Duh, everyone knows *that*."

He stopped, it was clear from the expressions on their faces that they didn't.

"Tell me, um, Harry," said Doctor Smith, who now appeared very on edge. "Have you heard of a man named Franklin Roosevelt ... Winston Churchill?"

Harry nodded vociferously. "Sure, sure," he said. "They won the War ..."

Doctor Smith raised his eyebrows even further ... they were practically up at his hairline by now. "*Won* ... the war, you say, Harry? Who wins the War ... which countries."

"Um, us," said Harry. "The Russians, the United States ..."

Doctor Johnson broke in. "The Americans aren't fighting, Harry."

Harry suddenly remembered, with a flash of inspiration, what he had been told by Dumbledore. Was this that hospital? Was *he* that boy? It seemed incredible ... but ...

"What day is it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What day ... the date ..."

"It is," Doctor Smith checked his watch. "Approximately six thirty p.m. ... on the 7th of December, 1941," he said. "Does that tally?"

Harry did the sums in his head. "Yes," he said. "Um ... I rather think you should turn on your wireless, or something. They ... the Americans are fighting now. They get bombed into the War ... today, at a place called Pearl Harbour ..."

Doctor Smith nodded indulgently. "By whom, Harry?"

"Um, Japan, I think," said Harry, who had only the vaguest idea through snatches of overheard documentaries on the Dursleys' TV.

"Japan!" scoffed Doctor Johnson. "Fine time to rake *that* up! Bloody Yanks wouldn't recognise a war if it came up and biffed em on the nose. Why'd you think they're always so late getting here ..." he broke off under a glare from Doctor Smith.

"That will do," he was tapping his finger to the side of his head, and motioning to Harry. Harry was mortally offended. Were they implying he had gone insane?

"We might have to section him. For the other children's safety, of course," Doctor Smith went on.

The others nodded their agreement. They *did* think that! It dawned on Harry that they were assuming he couldn't understand them.

"Shall I sedate him?"

"Might be an idea," Doctor Smith said.

"I'll get a hypodermic," said Nurse Black.

"I'm not mad," said Harry.

Doctor Smith regarded him with the air of someone who thought otherwise. "Of course you're not. Would you like to tell me what happens after the War, Harry?"

Harry nodded, took a deep breath, and continued to talk. "Sure, yeah. We win and Hitler dies and there's a thing called an atom bomb which gets dropped, and then everyone starts hating one another, and there's a big wall in Berlin, and somebody shoots President Kennedy, then there's loads of weird stuff happening in the Sixties ... my Godfather was there, he can tell you. Then there's loads of boring stuff happening, and some Space Shuttle gets blown up ... then that wall I told you about fell down, and Communism ended, and there was a big war in Iraq ..."

Doctor Johnson scooted closer, and wiped the sweat from Harry's forehead with a pocket handkerchief. Harry stopped babbling and calmed down. Doctor Smith ran a hand through his hair, and spoke in a calming voice. "There, there, Harry. You'll be okay. Everything will be all right. You don't need to worry about any silly old Space Shuttles. We're going to give you a teensy injection now. Send you off to sleep."

Nurse Black was looming over him, and Harry, who suddenly remembered that he was deeply, deeply scared of injections, paled.

"Just roll over, Harry. This won't hurt a bit."

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

1941

Dumbledore sat down at the desk again. The office looked completely different, although, of course, that was because it *was* completely different. After all, back then, he thought, I wasn't Headmaster. How well I remember it, he thought, running his hand along the desk, picking up a pile of blue exercise books and reading the scrawled names on their covers.

"Drink?" Dumbledore asked him.

Dumbledore looked up. "Thank you, Albus, I won't," he said.

"This is very irregular," said the younger version of himself, sitting down opposite him with a glass of neat Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. "I suppose I should really have anticipated it ..."

"Time travel is full of paradoxes," Dumbledore said. "Muggles don't even think it possible. But we know better."

"We always do," said Albus. "Know who I caught the other day ... skulking around ... mind you, you probably already know this ..."

Dumbledore nodded. "I do," he said. "But tell me anyway ..."

"That Rubeus Hagrid kid ... he's a funny one. Reckon he's hiding something," said Albus.

"Couldn't possibly say," said Dumbledore.

"And they found a girl, dead, the other day," said Albus. "I can tell you, it's really hotting up round here. They're saying that silly Chamber of Secrets thing has been opened again. Well, I don't know about that, but there's weird stuff happening all over at the minute."

Dumbledore nodded.

"Half the old firm are off fighting for the Muggles ... we're understaffed as it is. Horatio Snape joined up ... he's in the Navy, down in the Med. And Charlie Potter ... remember him, he's somewhere in France, undercover, for the Ministry of Magic, or so I understand it," Albus said. Dumbledore sat back, content to let all this already well-known knowledge wash over him.

"But what am I saying ... you, of course, know all of this."

Dumbledore grinned. "I'm afraid I do," he said.

"So," said Albus, knocking back his shot of whiskey in one go and reaching to replenish his glass. "You think that this, Harry Potter boy is somewhere in ... in our, *timeframe*, Albus. Am I right?"

Dumbledore nodded. "To be exact, he's in a hospital in Greenwich," he said. "The circumstantial victim of a blazing block of flats ..."

"Whatever was he ... I can't begin to imagine ..." Albus said. "You want Aberforth to ... to go in there. Get him out?"

Dumbledore nodded. "It is how it happened," he said. "I remember it so well myself."

The younger Dumbledore clapped his hands around his long hair. "I'm very sorry ... this is just, so very confusing. Luck would have it Aberforth is in London at the minute. I mean, it'd be the work of a minute to owl him and let him know ..."

Dumbledore leaned across the desk. "Harry has already accomplished the thing he came back here to do," he said. "A young wizard boy, named Arthur Weasley. If Harry hadn't ... well, been there, he would have died ... I know these things. I know the future too," he paused. "Arthur Weasley is himself vital to the survival of the wizarding world in years to come," he went on, "and his son is even more vital. The other boy's name is Ronald, a very good friend to Harry, although currently ... currently ..." he tailed off. The knowledge of what really was happening was, after all, so painful ... and to know, just to know that these events were to come. He hardly dared think of it. So many times, he had lain awake, poring over this knowledge. And to know he couldn't tell anybody anything ... not Professor McGonagall ... not anybody, it was horrible.

"This is dynamite stuff, Albus," said Albus. "You're sure?"

Dumbledore waved the time turner at him. "I have seen it," he said. "I know what happens. This whole, sequence of events is just the prelude. You think you have problems with Grindelwald ... well, you ain't seen nothing yet."

"I'd sooner not know," Albus reminded him.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Of course," he said.

"Tell me one thing," said Albus, picking up the Evening Prophet. It was a special edition, and there was a full front page photo of the carnage over in distant Hawaii, at the other end of the Earth. The moving picture showed squadron upon squadron of little planes descending from the sky, the air thick and black with smoke from the blazing refineries and the sinking ships. "Does good come of this horror?"

"Ultimately," said Dumbledore, with a gleam in his eye. "Ultimately, it is a good thing," he thought, as he spoke, however, what good can come of it? Everything must happen on schedule. Everything from the Blitz, to Dresden, to Hiroshima. I cannot interfere. And beyond ... fifty years of nuclear paranoia. Muggles certainly come up with ingenious ways to kill one another.

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

1995

Arthur Weasley looked around the room. The other members, hastily transported in secret from their respective locations, were gathered round the table.

"Well," he said, after they had all finished shuffling their papers. "It appears we are all here ..."

Remus Lupin filled his glass with water. Sirius looked pale and defeated ... suffering, as he was, the effects of several sobriety charms, hastily performed by Remus. Even Arabella Figg, without her disguising charms on, looked unnaturally older, as if she was going grey overnight.

"It would appear to be a great shock to us all," Arthur went on. "Um ... I can only say at this time, that from what we know, my own son, Percy is well placed within the Ministry ..."

"They are in complete control ... is what he's trying to say ... they are in complete control and we've lost Harry," said Gwyneth with venom.

"We might as well lie down and wait to die," said Sirius.

Arabella shook her head. "Not me," she said. "I fully intend to fight this one out ..."

Arthur coughed for order. "That's as maybe ... it would seem it has fallen to us to appoint a Minister of Magic by proxy, in the absence of any legitimate form of magical government, I don't see what else we can do ..."

Dumbledore looked sadly at the faces of the remaining members of the Order. What a sad, depressing, ragtag bunch, he thought. The years have reduced them to petty squabbles ... while London burns, they fiddle.

"If we can establish some sort of government in exile," said Arthur, "I rather think it might help stabilise the situation somewhat. After all, they haven't got this far yet ... and the Minister's Guard is doing a fine job ..."

"For how much longer?" asked Sirius, blackly.

"I nominate Albus," said Arabella.

"I'm sorry?"

"If we are to establish some form of resistance ... it seems the only way," Arabella went on. "I move that Albus Dumbledore be immediately instated as Minister of Magic ..."

"This is hardly the time or the place ..." began Dumbledore. He noticed that everyone around the table was nodding gravely.

"I second the motion," said Sirius.

"Likewise," said Gwyneth.

Dumbledore was faintly flabbergasted. "I ... I ..." he began, "I mean ... I can't just take over, not just like that ... Arthur is far better placed to assume power than I am ..."

Arthur shook his head. "I have other things to worry about," he said.

"The headship of the school ... I mean ... I can't just leave Hogwarts," said Dumbledore. "And I certainly can't do both jobs at once ..."

"Nobody was insinuating you leave Hogwarts, Albus," said Arabella. "This is probably the safest place in the country to be right now. It would certainly act as a rallying point for the Light ... a public relations bonanza ..."

"Since when were you so clued up about public relations?" asked Sirius.

Arabella smiled. "I have had a very uneventful fourteen years," she said. "Being Harry's Secret Keeper wasn't all it was cracked up to be ... anyway, I had plenty of time to do some background reading ... and breed cats," she added, with venom. "Always with the bloody cats. I loathe cats ..."

"This would certainly seem to be the place to set up an interim government," said Arthur. "Albus ... any ... anything to add?"

"I'll head it if you want, but it will mean I can no longer continue in my post as Headmaster of this school," said Dumbledore, resignedly. "I will have to delegate ..."

"Is that significant?" asked Arthur Weasley, combing his moustache. "Who would take over from you ..."

Sirius pretended to bang his head on the conference table. "Snape," he said, in a low voice. "Snape ... he means Snape ..."

"You trust that man?" asked Arthur. "After everything?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Implicitly," he said.

"Nah ... I don't like it," said Rhodri Finnegan. "We all saw what happened with Snape last time ..."

"I trust him," Dumbledore repeated. "And besides, if what you tell us is true, we will be based here anyway ..."

Rhodri nodded. "It's utter chaos across the ditch," he said. "You can't move in Dublin for people trying to get out. Half the magical community has decided to leave ... I only got out through sitting on the waiting list for a Portkey heading this way ..."

"I don't like Snape," said Sirius. "He turned spy once ... he could turn spy again ..."

"He's too obvious a target," said Arabella. "I agree with Rhodri and Sirius. Instate Snape as Headmaster of this school if you want, but you'll turn us into a prime target for Voldemort by doing so. A lot of the Death Eaters are still very angry with him ... especially after he foiled that ..."

"We all remember that," said Dumbledore. "Very well ... we should put it to the vote. I move that the next Headmaster of Hogwarts school should be Severus Snape ..."

"I move for Sirius," said Rhodri.

"Bollocks ... don't be stupid," said Sirius.

Rhodri grinned. "Seamus is always very complimentary of you in his letters," he said. "I don't think I can ..."

"Professor McGonagall," said Gwyneth. "She had her eye on the post back in 64 when they finally retired Dippet ..."

"This is hardly for us to decide," said Arthur.

"I agree," Arabella said. "This is a matter for the governors. The Order of the Phoenix does not interfere with Hogwarts business inasmuch as possible ..."

"Maybe the time has come for us to start," said Rhodri. "You can't get out of the UK at the minute ... the Death Eaters control all the major Portkey points ... the Floo Network has been shut down ... there's no chance of us getting to Eire anytime soon."

"Oh, Hogwarts will remain our centre of operations," said Arabella. "That isn't a point for discussion, at least as far as I'm concerned."

"Then we cannot help but interfere," said Rhodri.

Dumbledore nodded. "Rhodri is right," he said. "Legally, we have to acquire facilities here from the Governors and the Board of Trustees ..."

"Will that be a problem?" Gwyneth asked.

"It shouldn't be," said Dumbledore. "The Board is generally very supportive ... there are a couple of rogue elements who might try to use their veto ..."

"Bloody Slytherins!" swore Gwyneth.

Dumbledore nodded. "I'm awfully afraid so," he said. "The conservatives do hold several key positions on the Board ... convincing them to allow the Order to use facilities here would be tricky ..."

"Tricky is an understatement," said Gwyneth.

"Try getting our Seamus to eat cabbage," began Rhodri. "T'is like getting blood out of a stone, to be sure ..."

"I suggest," Dumbledore said. "We adjourn for the night. Hogwarts is well warded ... we are in no immediate danger ..."

Gwyneth yawned. "That," she said, "is the best idea you've had all day, Albus."

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

1941

Harry awoke the next morning to find the selfsame doctors who had visited his bedside the previous evening, all watching him intently. Doctor Johnson was holding the morning edition of the London Times, and appeared quite excited about something.

"All right this morning, Harry?" asked Doctor Smith, in a kind voice.

"Whassamarrer?" asked Harry, groggily.

Doctor Johnson thrust the newspaper, quite rudely, Harry thought, in front of him. "How did you know?" he asked, in a tone of wonderment. "How could you possibly have even guessed."

Harry read the banner headline at the top of the page. Indeed, there, in very bold, black and white lettering, was the news. America was in the War.

"Ah," he said.

"That's really quite incredible, Harry," said Doctor Smith. "I mean, unless you have access to the highest echelons of the government, which, with all due respect to you, old chap, I somehow doubt, then there is simply *no* conceivable way you can have known about this. Unless of course, we accept your frankly dubious claims to have been born in 1980 to have absolutely, um, anything whatsoever to do with this, which, frankly, they don't," he ruffled Harry's hair again, as if this excused him from being extremely patronising.

"So would you like to tell us the truth, Harry?" asked Doctor Johnson, clearly playing some kind of good cop, bad cop game with him. But Harry was too clever, or not mad enough, to fall for it.

"I already did tell you the truth," he said, frostily, folding his arms across his chest. "Last time I told you the truth you gave me an injection."

"For the safety of the other children, Harry. You must admit that, however logical your thoughts appear to you, old chap, to us barmy old codgers, they do appear to be rather, erm, off the wall," said Doctor Johnson, wringing his hands.

Harry scowled. He was beginning to get angry now. That and he was beginning to wonder when on earth Aberforth Dumbledore was going to show up.

"Please tell us, Harry."

"We looked through the register," Doctor Smith said. "There's no such place as Privet Drive in Little Whinging. Why did you give us a false address?"

"Because it probably hasn't been built yet," said Harry, whose blood was beginning to boil. The doctors were being extremely irritating indeed, and really, he just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. "Look, can I *go* now, I have to meet someone."

"Who are you meeting, Harry. Tell us about him?"

"I can't," said Harry resolutely.

"Why not?"

"Because it's a secret," said Harry. "Can't you keep a secret?"

"Well, yes, but that's hardly an issue," said Doctor Smith.

Harry snapped ... he wasn't sure how he managed it, but one of the fluorescent strip lights on the ceiling shattered, raining glass down on top of the doctors, and onto his bedspread.

"Holy ... what happened?" Doctor Smith asked, evidently not linking the incident with Harry at all.

Harry merely tried to look innocent. But, to his chagrin, or maybe, perversely, to his delight, all the light bulbs in the ward then proceeded to shatter, one after the other.

"Perhaps it's an unexploded bomb!" Doctor Johnson was saying, panicking.

"Rubbish ... since when did unexploded bombs cause lights to shatter?" asked Doctor Smith, standing up and pocketing his fountain pen. "Are you mad, Johnson?"

"Not at all ... perhaps there's a problem at the substation ..."

"Maybe," said Doctor Smith. Harry observed that, unknown to either of the two men, the double doors at the far end of the ward had opened once again, and two more people had entered. One of them was that same nurse from the previous night, Nurse Black, Harry seemed to remember she was called. The other was a youngish looking man, probably in his early thirties, or thereabouts, who had shoulder length auburn hair, a frankly incredible beard, and wore a very strange tweed suit that looked completely out of synch with his surroundings. A wizard amongst Muggles, maybe, thought Harry. Maybe it was even Aberforth, Dumbledore's brother ... the one with the goat.

They were approaching the bed.

"Doctor Smith, sir," the nurse began, uncertainly. "What happened in here?"

"Buggered if I know," Doctor Smith, evidently quite shaken by the experience, said. "There must be a problem with the electrics."

"How unusual. Sir, this man claims to be a relative of your patient's."

Doctor Smith looked the strange, long-haired man up and down, then he leant closer to Nurse Black and said, in a stage whisper. "Is he ... you know ... all right?"

"As far as I can make out," said Nurse Black, equally loudly. Aberforth Dumbledore, if that's who he was, pretended not to be able to hear them.

"Sir," said Doctor Smith. "You know this boy?"

The man nodded. "He's a nephew of mine," he said. "I cannot fathom how he managed to get himself wound up here," as he spoke, Harry was certain he heard a voice in his head saying

he thought back.

thought the man.

"Sorry Uncle, er ... Uncle Dumbledore," said Harry. The man winked theatrically, then nodded. "I was ... er ... lost ... um."

"We think he may be a bit, um, loopy," Doctor Smith confided. Harry scowled at him, and right on cue, one of the high up windows shattered.

"Oh yes, loopy as a bumblebee on opium," said Aberforth, ignoring the puzzled expression upon Doctor Smith's face. "It runs in the family. His father thinks himself to be a wizard ... with a magic wand and everything. Utterly absurd ... in this day and age as well."

"Um, quite," said Doctor Smith. "Would you ... like to take some time alone with him?"

"If I may?" said Aberforth. "You needn't worry Gentlemen, Madam ... I am very trustworthy indeed. You have to be ... in my line of work."

"Very well," said Doctor Smith, who clearly was very, very suspicious indeed. "Doctor Johnson, Nurse Black ... if we could withdraw outside for a moment or two, please."

thought Aberforth.

thought Harry ...

thought Aberforth.

The Doctors had retreated into the ward sister's office at the far end of the room, and upon hearing the door click shut, Harry, true to his word, flung his arms around Aberforth.

"You might pretend to be crying, as well," said Aberforth. "Just to drive the point home. We have to get you out of here."

Harry duly pretended to shudder his shoulders a bit, and make weepy noises. Then, thinking he might as well do the thing properly, he whined. "I'm scared, Uncle. They gave me an injection. I want to go back to Hogwarts."

thought Aberforth

Harry felt the reassuring bulk of a wand in his hand. he thought.

"You are Harry, then," said Aberforth, releasing Harry from the hug.

Harry nodded. "Are you ..."

"Albus' brother ... yes," said Aberforth. "And not a goat in sight, either, although that *was* many years ago, to be sure ... I was young, I needed the money ... you know how these things work."

Harry, who didn't, nodded his agreement.

"And the Weasley boy ..."

"Sir ..." Harry cut in. "Can I please ask you something?"

"Hmm, fire away, Harry," said Aberforth.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked.

"Oh, simple," said Aberforth. "My brother told me. But that isn't important right now ... what we do have to do is try and get you out of here safely. We have a long journey to Hogwarts ... and it is so dangerous trying to travel these days ..."

"Can I ask you something else?" Harry went on.

Aberforth looked slightly pained, but nodded anyway. "All right," he said.

"That ... Arthur Weasley. Is he actually Arthur Weasley?" asked Harry. "As in," he paused, wondering vaguely whether it was best to reveal anything about his future at all to this man. However, Aberforth seemed unperturbed, so Harry continued to ask his question. "As in ... my friend's dad?"

Aberforth grinned, then nodded. "Exactly right, Harry."

"Would he have died?"

"I don't know the details of the accident. Look ... can you Apparate?"

Harry shook his head. "I need a licence," he began.

Aberforth looked surprised. "Oh? Is that so? Crumbs. I shudder to think how much regulation there will be if you need a licence for a silly little thing like that ..."

"You could get splinched!" said Harry. "I wouldn't try it!"

"There is a faint possibility of that happening," conceded Aberforth. "But it certainly won't happen to me. I've been Apparating since I was ten, and I've never once left anything, anywhere ..." he paused. "Well ... there was a small mole, that I left in Great Yarmouth once, after a seaside holiday, but it was hideously ugly and I never did much care for it."

He stopped again, and peered owlishly at Harry, who somehow was getting an impression that Albus Dumbledore's brother was a bit of an odd one.

"My brother," began Aberforth. "You know him well?"

Harry nodded. "He's Headmaster at Hogwarts," he said, without thinking.

Aberforth went wide-eyed. "Really? That *is* a surprise. I honestly never thought the old chap had it in him. Anyway, you're trying to sidetrack me, Harry, my boy. My brother thinks I'm a bit of a lunatic."

So do I, thought Harry, without thinking.

Aberforth glared. "You forget, I think, that I can read your mind," he said. "Please keep your thoughts as much in check in my presence as you would your tongue."

"Sorry," said Harry.

"Apology graciously accepted," said Aberforth, grinning to show that he hadn't *really* been offended at all. "As I was saying ... my brother thinks I'm a complete lunatic. He thinks I'm dim ... a nutter ... a silly fool ... a dumb nitwit. But I'm really not, you know ..."

"Uh, really?" asked Harry.

Aberforth nodded vociferously. "Only kidding," he said. "I'm mad as a March hare. Can Arthur Weasley Apparate?"

Harry shrugged. "I only just met the kid," he said. "I somehow very much doubt it."

Aberforth nodded sagely. "Yes ... yes, of course," he said. "He is only a very *small* boy. Nevertheless one might have thought the parents would have ..." he paused, stared off into space. "Never mind ... never mind. I cannot and will not be held responsible for the failure of witches and wizards to instruct their young children correctly in the more refined arts practiced by our kind. Harry ... are you sure you can't Apparate?"

"Absolutely positive," said Harry.

"It is a pity ... a great pity," said Aberforth. "In which case, it looks like we shall have to charm a Portkey. Harry ... get to work on that, and I'll see if I can find this Arthur Weasley character ..."

"Um," said Harry.

Aberforth's bearded face fell. "You surely don't presume to tell me you can't charm a Portkey?" he said.

"I can't," said Harry. "Surely it would be better if I collected Arthur, since I know what he looks like, and then *you* can charm the Portkey?"

Aberforth appeared to ponder this. Then he said. "Actually, I think that's a rather corking idea. You do come up with some good ones, little Harry Potter. I think I should keep you ..."

Harry shuddered.

"We must get to work, then," he said.

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

1995

"I declare the resolution passed," Dumbledore said. "By six votes to nil, with one abstention ... which was me. Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen, for the overwhelming vote of confidence."

The Order of the Phoenix had convened again in Dumbledore's study, high up in its secluded tower. It was their second meeting in as many days, and several of the members were looking tired and drained ... few of them had had any sleep the previous night.

"Congratulations," Arabella said.

"I think, under the circumstances," said Remus. "We'll forego the swearing in ceremony ..."

Dumbledore smiled. "I swear to uphold the laws of the realm. To protect and to serve the wizarding community. To secrete us from Muggles," he began to rattle off the oath. The Order of the Phoenix stared at him, baffled.

"How do you know all that?" asked Remus.

"A little bird told me," said Dumbledore, winking. "Well ... I am the Minister of Magic, it would seem ..."

"What'll be your first act?" asked Sirius. Everybody else glared at him.

"This isn't a laughing matter," said Gwyneth, in her most authoritative Welsh accent.

"I ought really to get straight down to business," said Dumbledore, sitting down behind his desk. "First ... I must resign as Headmaster. Second ... I must take steps to dissolve the Board of Governors ..."

There was a collective intake of breath.

"I'm sorry?" began Rhodri. "You did just say what I thought you did?"

Dumbledore nodded. "But of course," he said. "We cannot, after all, have the Governors interfering with our business. They could ruin everything ..."

"He's right," said Sirius. "He's completely right ..."

"I second the motion," said Remus, shortly.

"I second the motion," mimicked Sirius. "Honestly ... do you have a hot dog rammed up your arse, or something?"

"Shut up," snapped Arabella. "For God's sake, Sirius. I'd have thought thirteen years in Azkaban would have matured you ... clearly you're destined to remain the spoiled teenager forever more."

There was another collective intake of breath.

"Below the belt, Arabella, below the belt," said Sirius, shaking his head.

"That was completely uncalled for," said Dumbledore. "We can do without this sort of friction. We cannot afford to allow the Order to splinter ..."

"You're right," said Arabella. "Sorry, Sirius."

"S'okay," said Sirius. "I'm a bit on edge, what with Harry missing and all ..."

"I understand," said Arabella. "We all are ... it's been a hard couple of days."

"Aren't you going to apologise to Remus, Sirius?" asked Rhodri.

The ensuing laughter served to break the tension somewhat.

"Seriously, for a minute," said Sirius. "What about your replacement ..."

"There is," Dumbledore began, "a signed, and fully legal document in existence which promises the headship of Hogwarts to Severus Snape ..."

"I vote we override it," said Sirius quickly.

"I haven't finished yet," said Dumbledore. "Whilst ... in a time of peace, I feel Snape would be just the man for the job ... circumstance has rather run away with us of late, don't you agree?"

The Order of the Phoenix nodded their heads.

"In a time of war, such as this," Dumbledore went on, "I fully agree with your concerns over such an appointment. We do not want Hogwarts to become anymore of a target than it is already ... and I think you'll agree ..."

"It's a pretty damn good target," Arabella finished the sentence for him.

"Um, quite," said Dumbledore. "Snape would only serve to make it more so. I have discussed the matter with Snape ... and he agrees fully ..."

"That's a relief," said Remus.

"Ergo, it has been decided to confer the Headship on Minerva McGonagall ... I trust there are no objections?"

Dumbledore glanced around the study, peering at the assembled company over the tops of his spectacles.

"None at all," said Rhodri Finnegan, quickly.

"Go for it," said Sirius.

"I second the motion," said Remus, with a slight grin.

Everyone looked at Sirius expectantly.

"What?" he asked, exasperated.

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

Draco was lying on his stomach, on his bed, down in the Slytherin dormitories, with their lovely view ... over the moat, with a book open in front of him.

It was one of the few things he had been allowed to actually keep when the Ministry of Magic had repossessed Malfoy Park, its lands and contents, partly as reparations, partly to punish surviving members of the family, and partly to pay off the quite staggering debts of Malfoy International Industries. Along with a few personal effects, it was all Draco had to remind him of the life of finery he had once led. In a way, he kind of missed it.

The book was tatty ... there was no doubt about that. It was bound in very thick, brown dragon hide ... but the cover bore no title. The earliest parts were written in Runic script ... later in Middle English, and later still, up until the Sixteenth Century, to be exact, in Latin. Only the more modern parts were in English.

It was entirely handwritten ... nobody had ever taken a typewriter to it ... heaven forbid ... and this meant that most of it was in a florid, copperplate hand, which was very hard on the eyes. The spine had been chopped and re-assembled countless times as successive generations of Malfoys had added their personal histories to the greater history of the family itself.

Draco was flicking idly through the late Nineteenth Century, observing the photographs that were starting to appear, often affixed to the pages properly, with glue, but more frequently with paperclips, that were rusting away with age. The majority of the pictures were wizarding photos, but owing to the fashions of the Victorians, they were so stiffly posed that most of the people portrayed were barely moving at all ... and if they were, were only scratching, or, in one case, picking their noses.

'The American branch of our great family upon vacation in the Catskills, 1901,' read the caption below a group of people in top hats standing in front of what appeared to be an upmarket mountain lodge, built out of logs. Next to that were two more Malfoys ... the caption proclaimed them to be called 'Eusabius and Tacitus' posing beside a newly acquired automobile ... a 1904 Renault. Both men were possessed of truly epic handlebar moustaches, and their caps were cocked at an angle that must have seemed daring and rakish at the time, but now looked faintly silly.

Draco flipped the page. The next page showed two Malfoys at arms ... Draco had not previously been aware that Malfoys fought during the First World War. These were Pierre and Fabrice Malfoy, both conscripts of the French army ... how strange, he thought, before the action at Verdun. Draco didn't have the faintest idea what had happened at Verdun ... but assumed, rightly, that it had been horrible. Both men were holding bayonets, and again had those moustaches.

Further on were pictures of more Malfoys ... Draco had always found it quite odd ... and if his Father had had his way, would have thought it completely wrong, how many of them had adopted Muggle styles. There was a picture of two young flappers during the 20s, doing the Charleston at an expensive looking ball ... which Draco realised was actually taking place in the ballroom at Malfoy Park: he recognised the King Louis chandelier. Then there were various sporting Malfoys. Eusabius Malfoy popped up again, looking quite a bit older, but tanned and wiry and smiling at the camera, and sporting a broomstick of epic proportions. The caption read, 'Eusabius before Quidditch League Cup Final, Ballycastle vs Holyhead, 1922.' Rhesus Malfoy, in another photo, a teenaged boy with Draco's hair was, 'playing tennis at the All-Wizarding Lawn Championships in Wimbledon - 1928.' Draco had once met Rhesus, at one of his Father's garden parties, when he had been a little boy, and he remembered Rhesus as a doddery old fool who had been a little too fond of the punch.

The next page brought them into the war years. And there were letters pinned to the pages, hundreds of photos ... a page torn out of an aircraft spotters guide showing silhouettes of Heinkels and Dorniers and Junkers 88s. And even a Muggle ration card, with the name Verence Malfoy printed upon it.

'Dear Sabian,' Draco read, unfolding a letter that was crinkled and yellowing at the edges, 'We would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to Britain, and we hope your stay will be a pleasant one. Should you have need of any Ministry representatives at all, please feel free to contact us at the telephone number above, day or night. In the meantime, feel free to enjoy the facilities made available by your English cousins at Malfoy Park in Somerset, and please rest assured we are doing all within our power to extricate the rest of your family from France; indeed, our very best men are at present working on it. We would also like to thank you for providing us with your documents and work on sleep psychology, particularly the Dreamscape hypothesis. Such intelligence may prove invaluable, and I have passed on the documents to our scientific branch. I have also conveyed, as per your wishes, your heartfelt thanks to Charles Potter DSM. Yours sincerely, A. Longbottom (Sec. & Aide to Col. C. Potter DSM)'

"Interesting," said Draco, to nobody in particular.

A photograph caught his eye. A group of wizards, standing in front of a building which appeared to be the Ministry headquarters on Diagon Alley, all of them smiling broadly at the camera. Carefully, for the paper was very delicate, Draco took it out, and flipped it over. There were names written on the back.

'Back row: Sabian Malfoy, Juliette Malfoy, Algernon Longbottom, Albus Dumbledore, Aberforth Dumbledore, Auberon Fudge, Emeritus Potter, Charles Potter, Mary Potter. Front row (standing): Thomas Kent, Ernest Plunkett, Armand le Mesurier, Janet Finch, Antonius Snape. Front row (sitting): Arthur Weasley, Cornelius Fudge, Harry Potter.'

Draco coughed, and then flipped the photo over. Sure enough ... there was Harry ... glasses, scar, hair and all, sitting cross-legged at the front of the group with two other boys.

"Bloody hell. I think I found him," he said.

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

1941

Aberforth, casting furtive eyes about the ward, looked up at Harry, who was sitting up in bed, rubbing his head. There was a dull, throbbing ache inside his skull that just wouldn't go away, no matter how hard he tried to will it.

"It's done," he said, holding up a small hypodermic syringe, which he deposited on Harry's bedclothes. "One Portkey ... a one way ticket to Hogwarts ..."

Harry couldn't really think of anything to say. Aberforth's bounding enthusiasm was, after all, just a little bit overwhelming.

"Impressive, nicht war?" said Aberforth.

Harry nodded, and managed a slight grin.

"Oh, cheer up," said Aberforth. "It isn't nearly as bad as it seems. We'll have this mess sorted out in no time. If you'll excuse me ... I just need to light a fire ..."

Harry was alarmed. "In here?" he exclaimed.

"Where else?" said Aberforth. He pointed his wand at the linoleum floor. "Incendio!"

Instantly, the ward floor burst into bright, incandescent flames, that curled up into the air, sending sparks flying far and wide.

"Won't they notice?" hissed Harry, gesturing with his head to the ward sister's office. The doctors appeared to be having some kind of summit meeting.

"That, my boy," began Aberforth, "is the power of suggestion. Evidently, nobody would ever do anything so patently absurd as lighting a fire on their floor ... they know it will never happen, so when it does, their brains simply pretend it doesn't. Muggles are very easily fooled," he glanced up at them, regarding them with an expression that approached pity.

Harry watched as Aberforth threw a handful of some kind of powder into the fire. "Emeritus!" he barked.

Instantly, another man's face appeared in the dancing flames. He looked quite elderly, had a neatly trimmed beard, complete with an extravagant moustache, and small, wire rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. He appeared to be holding a tin mug, which was steaming gently.

"What do you want?" asked the man, angrily. "I was having my elevenses ..."

Aberforth lowered himself down to the floor. "I have the boys," he said.

"Charmed a Portkey?" asked Emeritus.

Aberforth nodded.

"Well, then what are you waiting for?" asked Emeritus. "Get him out of there. Albus is expecting him ..."

"Albus!" began Harry. "Surely ... isn't it very dangerous for him to know I'm ... I mean ... I ..."

"Shut up," snapped Emeritus, turning to stare at Harry. "You're very weedy for a great-nephew of mine. We'll have to fatten you up a bit ..."

Harry fumed quietly.

"Don't waste anymore time than you have to, Dumbledore," said Emeritus. "Get him to Hogwarts post haste. He'll be all the safer for it ... I look forward to meeting him."

"He's a proper little charmer," said Aberforth, apparently completely forgetting Harry was listening.

"Yees ... quite," said Emeritus, a little uncertainly. "Just get on with it ... and don't do anything stupid ..."

"When did I ever do anything stupid?" asked Aberforth, looking offended.

Emeritus gave a slight cough that sounded very much like, "Goat!"

Aberforth rolled his eyes. "Damn you to hell," he said. "I'll see you later ... cad."

Emeritus grinned, and then his image flickered and died with the flames.

"Let's go," Aberforth said to Harry.

The Muggles, who were deeply absorbed in reading their newspaper, and ranting about the war and life in general, didn't notice as Harry slipped from his bed and into a hospital issue dressing gown and slippers. Nor did they notice as Aberforth lifted the three year old Arthur Weasley from his bed, cradling the tiny boy gently in his arms. Nor did they notice when the two of them put their hands on what appeared to be a standard issue hypodermic.

They did, however, notice, about five minutes later, that all three of them appeared to have vanished off the face of the earth.

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

1995

Ron and Hermione nearly fainted upon learning of this new intelligence. They were walking alongside the Lake ... the only place any of them could really go without being harassed by any Slytherins ... and though the snow was still lying deep on the ground, and Ron had still not really come to grips with his crutches, they were walking quite quickly to keep warm.

"You're having us on," said Hermione.

"He's never gone back in time ... I mean ... how?" began Ron, fumbling awkwardly in the snow.

Draco showed them the photo.

"I don't know *how*," he said. "I just have a feeling that that is where he's gone. How old do you think he looks?"

"Our age," said Hermione. "He looks about the same age as that boy next to him," she turned the photo over, "who is Cornelius Fudge ... good Lord ... the poor boy must've had plastic surgery on that conk!"

"The Minister of Magic's nose aside for a minute," said Ron. "May I see it?"

Hermione handed it over. Ron wobbled slightly, but stayed upright as he examined the picture.

"The other boy is your father, Ron," said Draco.

Ron appeared to be having some kind of epiphany. His eyes were glazed over.

"That's my Dad," he said to himself. "Is that really my Dad?"

Draco nodded. "Arthur Weasley isn't a very common name, now, is it? I mean, who'd subject their child to the humiliation of a name like that ..."

Hermione shushed him, but was a little perturbed to find that not only was Ron not saying anything against Malfoy, as he would normally have done, but also appeared not to have noticed.

"It's Harry I'm more worried about," said Hermione, taking back the picture. "I mean, no offence, Ron, but your father was old enough to have been around during 1941 ... plenty old enough ..."

"None taken," said Ron, woozily.

"How did Harry get back there?" asked Draco.

"Time Turner?" suggested Hermione. "Lord knows where he'd come across one ... but that's how I used to get to all my lessons ..."

"Sorry?"

"Long story," said Hermione, quickly. "Have you ever seen one before?"

Draco thought for a moment. "I might've done if I actually knew what they looked like," he said to them both. "Perhaps Father had one in his study. It's the sort of thing he would have had. They send you back in time, right?"

Hermione nodded. "They do ... they move you in time, but not in space. It's like a temporal Portkey."

"I get it," said Draco.

"I don't," said Ron glumly.

"Never mind," said Draco. "It must be someone else's turn with the family brain cell today. You'll ..."

"Oh wait ... I just got it," said Ron, looking relieved.

"You've got it?" exclaimed Draco. "You should see a vet at once!"

"Shut up, Malfoy," said Ron. "So, Harry's got hold of a Time Turner ... we don't know how, and he's somehow sent himself back through time to the Second World War ... why ... we don't know. But we do need to get him back ..."

"Right so far," said Hermione.

"There must be a Time Turner somewhere round the school," said Ron. "Perhaps even the one Harry used is still lying around somewhere. Or maybe one of the teachers has one ... we could steal one from somewhere ..."

"Weasley," said Draco, calmly as anything. "We all have something to bring to this discussion, and right now, I think the thing you should bring is silence."

"No, maybe he's got a point," said Hermione.

"Twice in one day?" exclaimed Ron. "When you're hot, you're hot!"

"Draco," said Hermione. "Have you ever seen something that looks like a little hourglass pendant on a gold chain?"

"That would be a Time Turner?" asked Draco.

"Exactly right," said Hermione.

Ron was idly picking dirt from behind his fingernails.

"I can't think," said Draco. "Weasley's within a hundred yards of me ..."

"Rack your brains," said Hermione, glaring at her ex.

Ron looked up. "McGonagall has one," he said, suddenly.

"What??" Draco's expression betrayed immediately what he was thinking; he was utterly amazed.

"Well," said Ron. "Remember when Harry and I got a detention at the start of term ..."

"For turning into hamsters in the Great Hall!" said Draco, with a note of glee in his tone. "Yeah ... that was *well* funny!"

Ron gave Draco a glance that suggested, in no uncertain terms, that he would have liked to have done something very nasty to Draco, possibly involving sharp spikes and treacle. "Listen," he said. "When we went up there to organise our detentions ... she had this little hourglass thing on her desk. Attached to a neck chain, yeah?"

Hermione nodded. "Think that might be one?"

Ron shrugged. "You know what they look like," he said. "Do they look the same?"

"Haven't the foggiest," said Hermione. "Do we want to take the chance, though?"

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

1941

"You'll be sleeping in here," said the dark-haired boy, opening the door. Harry shuddered, inwardly. Something about this boy, with his over-polished prefect's badge, irked him. "It isn't altogether a very *nice* room ... but then, these are Gryffindors we're talking about. The Slytherin dormitories are much, much nicer. You should join *us* instead."

"Er, thanks," said Harry, realising with something of a shock that this was his own dormitory that he was being shown into. How different it looked fifty four years ago.

"You can put your bags under the bed here," said the prefect in a bored voice, "except you don't actually have any. Charity student?"

"No," said Harry firmly. He had already taken a firm dislike to this boy.

"Pure-blooded?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "My parents were a witch and a wizard, if that's what you mean ..."

This did not seem to impress the prefect at all. "I'd watch what you say ... you might find certain people at this school don't hold with that libertarian mumbo-jumbo. Just a friendly warning, 'cos you're new around here, and hey, I've taken a shine to you."

"Thanks," said Harry, without meaning it.

The prefect slipped quietly out of the dormitory, and a moment later Harry heard guffaws of laughter as he went downstairs. He felt his ears burning.

A moment later, the door thudded open, and two other boys came in. One of them had silvery blond hair, and looked quite remarkably like Draco, right down to the sallow face and grey eyes ... the other was short and quite squat, giving the impression of far too much greasy food, and not enough Quidditch.

"I say," said the taller, blond one. "Whoever let that pompous oaf Riddle up here?"

"Such an idiot," the other boy said, quite loudly too. He put on a falsetto voice, and added. "Ooh, Professor Dippet, may I polish your shoes? I'm sooo good ... for a Slytherin ..."

They both caught sight of Harry.

"Oh," said the blond one.

"Are you that new chap Professor Dumbledore told us about?" asked the squat one.

Harry nodded. "Yeah ... I guess."

"He talks awfully funny," said the blond one, conspiratorially, in very clipped, Oxford vowels. "Where are you from?"

"Don't really know," said Harry. "Lived in Surrey most of my life."

"You don't sound like you do," said the blond one. "I'm from Epsom ... well ... it's where I live during the holidays. Father is in the Colonial Service for the Ministry in India. Don't you really know?"

Harry shook his head.

"Where were you born?"

Harry shrugged. "London, I think," he said.

"You think?"

"My parents died ... okay?" said Harry, losing his cool momentarily.

"Oh ... um, all right," said the blond one. "Sorry, and all that."

"Was that really Tom Riddle?" asked Harry.

The blond boy gave him a funny, sideways glance. "How do you know him?" he asked. "Yeah ... that's Tom Riddle, all right. Arrogant little twerp. I socked him one on the nose at a Quidditch match."

"We've met before," said Harry.

"Out of school. I say ... your parents weren't into all that Dark Magic stuff, were they? I mean, before they died?"

"Eustace!" snapped the podgier boy. "Tom Riddle's a bit of an odd one. He's into all that kind of thing. And it's more than an obsession. He's going to end up getting hurt, silly sod. I'm Steve, by the way, Steve Gold. This is Eustace Malfoy ..."

"As in, Malfoy, Malfoy?" asked Harry, incredulously staring at the boy.

Eustace rolled his eyes. "M'afraid so, old chap," he said. "My old man nearly threw a fit and died when I got put in Gryffindor. He wanted me to be a Slytherin ... so now he's pinning all his hopes on Lucius ... and he's nothing more than a sprog," he picked his teeth idly as he spoke. Harry was reminded incredibly of Draco's mannerisms.

"You know Lucius Malfoy?"

"*Know* him?" scoffed Eustace. "He's my baby brother, old chap."

"Nobody called Potter here, is there?" asked Harry, on the off chance.

"Not since two years ago," said Eustace. "Old Charlie was nearly Head Boy ... but Dippet's going senile, so they say, and the job went to some Hufflepuff called Jack Lambert. Potter was the man for the job, though ... Quidditch captain, and all round bloody good egg ... you play Quidditch at all?"

Harry nodded. "Oh, yes," he said.

"What position?"

"Seeker," said Harry. "I was the youngest house player in a century ... I," he paused, catching their expressions. "At my old school."

"We should try you out," said Eustace. "After dinner ... there's a practice. I'm Seeker at the minute. We'll have to see if you can better me. I don't even know your name."

"Harry," said Harry.

"Got a surname at all ..."

Harry was just about to fabricate something, when the door to the dormitory opened, and Aberforth poked his head around it. "Ah, Potter," he said. "They said I'd find you up here. Some people have arrived you might want to meet."

"I'll see you later," said Harry, as he was ushered out of the dormitory.

He was led, to his great surprise, to Professor McGonagall's office ... except, of course, that it being fifty-four years ago, it wasn't Professor McGonagall's office. Instead, the brass plaque screwed onto the door read 'Albus Dumbledore - Transfiguration.'

Aberforth knocked.

"You'd better go in," he said. "If he's not there, wait."

Harry opened the door, and stepped inside. The office was deserted. Feeling slightly strange, he walked over to the desk and sat down opposite it. The office wasn't really all that different from how McGonagall kept it. There were the same types of books on the shelves ... the same carriage clock on the mantelpiece. The only real difference was the gilt cage containing, of all the birds Harry wasn't expecting to see, Fawkes.

He had been waiting about five minutes when the door opened again, and three people walked in. One of them was unmistakably a younger Dumbledore ... Harry recognised him from his resemblance to Aberforth ... and of course, he vaguely remembered seeing him like this a few years earlier, when he had found himself sucked into the memories of Tom Riddle. I must stop picking up strange diaries, he thought to himself. I always seem to end up in all sorts of trouble.

The other people, Harry didn't recognise at all. There was a young, and very pretty woman, and a man who looked vaguely like the photos of Harry's dad ... he had the same untidy black hair. He was wearing a blue RAF uniform.

"Harry," said Dumbledore warmly, sitting down on the desk. "Good to meet you in the flesh at last. You've been through quite an ordeal, no?"

Harry nodded ... he somehow felt barely able to speak.

"I think I should ... yes ... Harry, this young woman, I believe you know. She is currently a student teacher here, completing her secondment from the London College of Witchcraft. Minerva McGonagall."

"Pleasure to meet you, Harry," said Professor McGonagall. "From what Professor Dumbledore has told us, you're something of a tearaway ..."

"I'd expect nothing less of my Grandson," said the other man, leaning forwards to ruffle Harry's hair. "Charles Potter, at your service. A real treat to meet you before time, as it were ..."

Harry looked to all three of them. "Isn't this dangerous?" he asked. "I could let anything slip ..."

Dumbledore grinned. "Then try your damnedest not to," he said. "We'll take the chance, Harry. It is hardly your fault that you're here, after all ... and there are such things as Memory Charms. We're not so primitive, back in the 1940s."

"I thought ..." began Harry. "I ... was it a Time Turner? I used one of ..." he stopped himself hurriedly.

"It wasn't, funnily enough," said Dumbledore. "It was something that ... that you'll find out for yourself in good time. As it is, your being here is certainly no accident."

"How d'you mean?" asked Harry.

"What Professor Dumbledore is saying," said Professor McGonagall, "is that you were brought here for a purpose. Part of that purpose you have, already filled, as it were ..."

Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed," he said. "You rescued a boy called Arthur Weasley from a burning building."

Harry nodded. "Yes ... but ... I didn't mean to ... I mean," he didn't really know what he meant.

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "Arthur Weasley would certainly have died if you had not risked your life, Harry," he said. "Can you think why that might be important in the future ... important for you?"

Harry pondered ... and then it hit him, full on. "Well," he said, thinking as he did so; how could I have been so stupid? "Well ... he is my best friend's Father."

"Exactly. I've not met your friend, Ron," said Dumbledore. "But I have spoken a great deal with your Headmaster ... with ... well ... with myself. I understand also that there are great difficulties for you, your friends in the future? You might call it a time of trial for you."

"Yeah, I suppose," said Harry.

"And if Ron didn't exist," said Dumbledore, "then perhaps the whole fabric of your time might be different. The consequences of our actions are so diverse that predicting the future is ... very tricky indeed. There are few true seers. It is something of a paradox."

Harry couldn't figure it out.

"Let me put it like this," said Dumbledore, sensing his confusion. "If you hadn't come back in time ... then Arthur Weasley would certainly have died. Ron would not have been born ... you would not have become friends with him or Hermione, and therefore, you would not have been able to find your way past the trick potions, or the giant chess set, back in your First Year ... you would not have been able to get out of the Chamber of Secrets ... indeed, without Ron's sister, it would not have been opened. Who can say what would have happened. Your friends are as vital to the equation as you, Harry."

"But if I didn't rescue Arthur Weasley ... wouldn't someone else have?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "That, my boy, is the paradox. Who can say. Better you came back in time and did it yourself, that he died, I think?"

"But then ... doesn't that mean my entire life has ... y'know ... like, pointed to that moment?" asked Harry.

"Not at all," said Dumbledore. "Lives are not pre-ordained. Nothing is set ... but ... time travel brings such a complicated set of procedures, physical and magical to the fore. It is impossible to explain it ... because nobody can understand it. That is the reason why Muggles debunk it as a waste of time. They do not trust what they can't explain. And that, Harry, is magic. What we can't explain."

"I ... see," said Harry.

"Best you don't try to understand, Harry, wing it and go with the flow," said Charles, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Am I to take him home tonight?"

"Perhaps not," said Dumbledore. "He should stay with us for tonight, certainly, then you can take him down to London."

"Meet the family, and such," said Charles.

Harry's heart leapt.

Dumbledore nodded. "I can see how that ... yes ... I don't see the harm," he said. "We'll just use a Memory Charm on them afterwards ... Dumbled ... I tell myself that you play Quidditch rather well, Harry."

Harry nodded. "How ... how do you know Professor Dum ... I mean ... you?" he asked.

"Professor Dumbledore has been a frequent visitor to our time," said Dumbledore. "It seems he obtained a Time Turner of his own, at some point in the future, and uses it, uses it to smooth the paths of those closest to him."

"You mean me?" asked Harry. "Is Dumbledore behind all this?"

"Your, future Dumbledore ... in a way, he is," said Dumbledore.

Harry was now very confused indeed. "But, surely," he said. "Is he here now ... can I go back with him?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Even Dumble ... even ... my word, this is more confusing than ever I gave it credit for. Even *he* cannot interfere too much. It is only because he has complete trust in himself, not to tell anybody ... and Minerva and Charles here will have their memories altered afterwards, if they consent. But Dumbledore ... I ... pardon me if this appears like vanity. I am rather special. And of course, your Dumbledore knows that it is safe to talk to himself because he went through this himself once upon a time. He saw himself, and you, come back from the future. And he didn't tell anybody about it ... so he knows he can come back ... another paradox, you see."

Harry's brain was whirling.

"I think, maybe dinner?" hazarded Dumbledore. "That at least is a fixed event ..."

Charles chuckled. "You know what they say, Albus?"

Dumbledore looked up.

"No, what?"

"Time is an illusion ... dinnertime doubly so," said Charles.

"Oh, do shut up."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
1995

Hermione and Draco lay in wait until Professor McGonagall had left her study to go down to dinner. Then, they crept into her office, which, as luck would have it, she had left unlocked. Hermione lit a couple of candles, casting flickering light over the old bookshelves.

"Where did Ron say it was?" asked Draco, cautiously, peering around the office.

"He said," said Hermione, tugging open one of the desk drawers and inspecting the contents, which were, variously a half drunk bottle of Gordon's Gin, a spare pair of spectacles and a buff coloured folder with 'Potter - Fan Mail' written on it. "He said that he saw it dangling from one of the shelves ..."

She closed the drawer, and opened another one. This contained a leather bound photo album, and a box of toothflossing stringmints.

"But *that* was back in September," whined Draco pathetically. "It's nearly Christmas ..."

"She *mightn't* have used it since then," said Hermione. "Look around you, Draco. It's bound to be here somewhere."

Draco could be heard muttering something under his breath, which sounded like, "Why don't you get your precious *Ronniekins* to look for it then, if you're so sure it's in here ..."

Hermione ignored him, which was just as well, for at that moment, what should she see but a Time Turner, placed carefully on the topmost shelf in between two piles of stacked books.

"Got it!" she exclaimed, triumphantly, reaching out for it. Sadly, it was too high for her, and Draco had to retrieve it on her behalf. He clasped it tightly in his hand, and stared at it.

"So *this*," he said, in a tone suggesting deep disappointment. "Is what we were looking for. This is what we broke into McGonagall's office to find? It looks like a cheap pendant. The sort people sell at fairs ..."

"Oh, be quiet, for heaven's sake!" snapped Hermione. "Give it here."

Draco handed it over, muttering, as he did so, "Nobody tells *me* to be quiet."

"You're really very irritating," said Hermione. "Did anybody ever tell you that ..."

"All my life," snarled Draco.

"Look," said Hermione, holding it up to the light. "It has different levels, depending on how far back you want to go. The first sends you back in hours, the second in days, the third in weeks, the fourth in years, and the fifth in decades ..."

"What about centuries?" asked Draco.

"Tough cookies," said Hermione in reply. "So, say I wanted to go back two hours from now, I'd set it to the first level, and turn the little hourglass over twice ..."

She promptly vanished.

"Oh, bugger," said Draco.

And then reappeared again, right where she had been standing before.

Draco was somewhat flabbergasted. "Um ... exactly ... how ... did ... um ... you do that?" he asked.

"Easy," said Hermione. "I just went back two hours ago."

"What was it like?" asked Draco.

"I said two *hours*," said Hermione. "It was exactly the same as it is now, except lighter outside. And Professor McGonagall was asleep on the desk ..."

"That must have been a sight," said Draco. "May I try?"

Hermione handed it over. "But come right back afterwards," she said.

Draco nodded ... took the Time Turner, and, copying what Hermione had done, twisted it round two times.

Instantly, he felt a rush of blood to the head ... a funny, shivering sensation seemed to be enveloping his entire body, and then his feet touched solid ground, and he opened his eyes, and found himself standing in McGonagall's office. The only difference was, indeed, as Hermione had said, that Professor McGonagall herself was asleep, her head pillowed on her arms. Draco turned the Time Turner back over immediately lest she wake up, and immediately, found himself back in the study with Hermione.

"It really works!" he said, in amazement.

They left the office post haste after that, just in case someone important did come back and find them raiding it, and hurried back to Gryffindor Tower as fast as their legs could carry them.

Ron was sitting on his bed up in the dormitory, reading a book that he hastily shoved back under the pillows when they came in.

"Any joy?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. Draco, meanwhile, was staring around the dormitory in amazement. He had been up to Gryffindor Tower before, of course, but never to the dorms ... and frankly, he was overcome with jealousy. This was *much* better than Slytherin's draughty dungeons. He made a mental note to write to his Father and complain ... and then remembered that he didn't have one.

"Well," prompted Ron.

"It was exactly where you said it would be," said Hermione. "Give or take. You were right."

Ron spluttered. "Of course I'm right ... I'm always right."

Hermione gave a loud, forced cough that sounded like, "Scabbers!"

Ron glared at her.

"When we've quite finished, children," said Draco, smarmily. "I think Weasley here might want to hear just how, in a feat of dashing heroism worthy of the highest accolade, I snatched the Time Turner from the gaping jaws of death and ..."

"It was on a shelf, next to some books," said Hermione.

"And nobody saw you?" asked Ron, holding out his hand for the Time Turner. Hermione deposited it in his palm.

"Nobody whatsoever," said Draco.

"Excellent," said Ron. "Um, what do I want with this, exactly?"

Hermione took the Time Turner back. "Of course ... sorry. Well, it's really quite a simple device to operate ... there are five levels, you see, each of which corresponds to a different unit of time, so of course, depending on how far backwards or forwards in time you actually want to go ... you can ..."

"I *know* how a Time Turner works, Hermione," said Ron, viciously.

"Um ... okay ... sorry," said Hermione.

"You intend using it, I presume?" Ron asked.

Hermione gave him a funny look. "Well ... that was the plan," she said. "Unless you can think of a better one ..."

"Not really," huffed Ron.

"What has got into you?" asked Hermione. "You're really not yourself lately ..."

Ron looked awkwardly up at them. "I'm just stressed ... okay?" he said.

"Sure ... sure ... it's just ..."

"Look, never mind," said Ron. "You have my full support."

"Thanks," said Hermione. "I shall always wear it."

"That wasn't even slightly funny," said Draco, in an infinitely bored tone of voice. "Look ... are we actually going to do anything about ..."

Ron cut him off. "It's the middle of dinner," he said. "We should go down to the Great Hall and eat. We don't want you setting off on your little adventure with empty tummies ..."

"Ron ... what have ..."

Ron waggled his fingers at them. "No arguments," he said. "Besides, it'll look less suspicious if you show up for dinner, look innocent ... chat to the others and stuff."

"Ooh ... good thinking," said Hermione.

"For once, Weasley ... I think you're right," said Draco. "But don't count on it ever happening again ..."

"I can barely contain my indifference," said Ron. "Now ... it's coming up to seven o'clock. Shall we synchronise watches?"

"Maybe that'd be taking things a bit too far," said Hermione.

"They always do it in films," said Ron. "I was just trying to add a realistic dynamic to quite a dull sequence ... cinematographically speaking ..."

"Let's just go," said Draco

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Professor McGonagall looked at the assembled Order with slightly goggle eyes.

"I'm ever so sorry," she repeated. "But I seem to have misheard you. I'm quite certain you said I'd just been appointed Headmistress of Hogwarts ..."

"Yeah ... there'd be a very good reason for that ..." Rhodri Finnegan began, a smile creeping across his face.

"We did," said Sirius, simply.

Professor McGonagall glanced around Dumbledore's ... her ... study again. The faces of all present betrayed no hint of a practical joke.

"You will, of course, serve out your statutory three months notice as Transfiguration Mistress," Dumbledore said. "Your pay will be adjusted accordingly ..."

Professor McGonagall could feel herself going very red indeed. "But ... I ... don't really want ..."

"Congratulations, Minerva," Arabella smiled broadly.

"Well ... I suppose I could," Professor McGonagall, despite herself, found herself warming to the idea somewhat. "But what about Snape ... what about *you*, Albus?"

She regarded the Headmaster with a look of concern.

"I'm not going anywhere," said Dumbledore. "It would ... appear. Minerva, in the absence of any form of political power in this country, I am now the Minister of Magic."

"Oh ... Albus."

Dumbledore grinned. "I'm not entirely sure just what their justification was in voting for me. All the same, I am obliged under the Terms and Conditions of the Emergency Succession Act (1979) to step aside as Headmaster immediately, and assume the reins of power ..."

"But ... London ... you can't," Professor McGonagall managed to stutter. "I mean ... we don't even have an army ..."

"I have been in touch with General Watson," said Dumbledore. "He assures me I have the unequivocal support of the Minister's Guard, and what remains of the Ministry's apparatus has all come over to me ..."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Lord Voldemort," Professor McGonagall shuddered on cue, "has succeeded in doing a rather fine hatchet job on those operatives of the MLES, the MCID, the IBME Circle ... even the Department of Mysteries who did not immediately declare for him. Most of those who did not declare their loyalty to him are either dead, or have already fled London. We have cells in most major towns ... we control all of Scotland and Northumberland without exception ... I have everyone I can behind me on this ..."

"Your cabinet?"

Dumbledore gestured to the Order of the Phoenix. "Them," he said. "I was rather hoping that in your capacity as Headmistress, you might allow us to use school facilities as governmental ones ..."

Professor McGonagall was taken aback. "Albus ... Minister ... I cannot possibly ... for the safety of the children. You would turn us into a prime target. Besides ... I need gubernatorial approval."

"The Hogwarts Board of Governors and Parents Association has been dissolved ... and that includes the Summer Barbecue Committee," said Sirius, flatly. "As of 16:56 hours GMT today. *We* are now the Hogwarts Governors ..."

"They're not going to like that," Professor McGonagall said.

Dumbledore scowled. "This is *war* ... Minerva. I'm not entirely sure you understand the enormity of our situation at this time ... the Governors have already approved the release of school facilities for governmental purposes ..."

"But ... you can't ... just ... do that," said Professor McGonagall.

"Evidently, they just have," said another voice, in sarcastic tones. Snape stepped out of the shadows ... Professor McGonagall had not noticed him standing there.

"Severus ..."

"They have my full support," said Snape, blankly. "This is an emergency situation ..."

"Good," said Dumbledore. "That's settled then. I think we should send out to the kitchens for a light snackerel of something. I'm rather peckish, myself."

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

Hermione took Draco's hand. "You need to be close by me," she explained. "It won't work ... like I said ..."

"Like a Portkey," said Draco, breathlessly ... "I remember."

Hermione nodded.

"Pity we couldn't take Ron," she said.

"He'd only slow us up," said Draco.

Hermione nodded. He was, of course, completely correct. There was no way on earth they would be able to take Ron with them. Not with his leg.

"How far back?" asked Draco.

Hermione cradled the Time Turner in the palm of her hand ... examining minutely the tiny, golden object. Finally, she spoke, "Five turns of the Fifth .... Four of the Fourth," she said. "Takes us to December 8th, 1941 ... I hope."

She turned it over.

Instantly, both of them felt that bizarre sensation creeping over them again ... the head rush ... the nasty shivering feeling ... and then there was a whooshing sound of air as they left a Draco and Hermione shaped hole in the present ... and were gone.

Their feet touched solid ground.

A lamp flared ...