The Time Of Trial

CHAPTER EIGHT. THE DREAMSCAPE HYPOTHESIS.

The funny, shivering sensation that had spread through DracoÂ’s entire body stopped, just like that, as soon as it had come. His feet touched tentatively on solid ground, and very slowly, he opened his eyes. He could hear HermioneÂ’s breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Did it work?" he asked, his heart still pounding as though he had run a race.

Hermione leant against a pillar for support. She was clutching the Time Turner so tightly in her fist that her knuckles had turned white.

There was a pause that seemed to stretch for eons. Finally, Hermione spoke.

"I think so," she said Â… but she didnÂ’t sound especially sure.

Draco looked around himself. At first glance, they appeared to be standing in the selfsame corridor that they had left. Lining the rough stone walls were brightly burning candles in black, cast iron holders. However, the candles were burnt slightly lower down than they had been before, and the wax was a different shade of cream.

"It worked," he said, astonished. "IÂ’ll be buggered Â… thatÂ’s quite something Â…"

Hermione put her arm across his chest to silence him. "Hush, hold it a minute."

Draco was about to continue speaking, but Hermione pushed them both back behind the pillar, into the shadows, where it would be harder for them to be seen.

"WhatÂ’s happening?" Draco asked.

Hermione pricked up her ears. She could hear footsteps approaching from somewhere. Ahead of them, in the corridor, an oil lamp flared. Draco let out a slight gasp. In the sudden burst of light, they could make out two people, an adult and a child.

Instantly, the other footsteps fell silent. Whoever it was, they were very close by indeed, perhaps only a matter of feet away, Hermione thought to herself Â… but she couldnÂ’t see anything whatsoever. Was there somebody nearby wearing an Invisibility Cloak?

"Detention!" Professor McGonagallÂ’s harsh tones were unmistakable. "And twenty points from Slytherin. Wandering around in the middle of the night, how dare you!"

Draco surged forwards, but Hermione again barred him.

"Stay in the shadows!" she hissed.

"But you donÂ’t understand, Professor!" the child was pleading in a piping treble Â… but a treble that very clearly belonged to Draco. "Harry PotterÂ’s coming Â… heÂ’s got a dragon!"

"What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on – I shall see Professor Snape about you, Malfoy!"

And so doing, she lead the twelve year old Draco away by his ear. Hermione pushed them both further back into the shadows as the unlikely pair walked right by their hiding place. Draco was, she thought, a perfect shade of embarrassed red, his little face a mask of anger. He really had been adorably sweet Â… she stopped herself, quickly.

"Is it safe?" Draco began.

"Shush Â… hold it a minute."

A brief second later, she heard again those invisible footsteps Â… footsteps that she now knew belonged to herself and Harry, concealed under the Invisibility Cloak, carrying between them the weight of Norbert, a baby Norwegian Ridgeback Dragon.

They waited whilst Harry and Hermione disappeared around the corner, and then stepped out into the corridor again.

"I know this may seem quite strange," Draco began. "But I actually remember that."

"Why shouldnÂ’t you do?" asked Hermione, not really giving him her full attention, as she was looking at the Time Turner, and wondering what on earth could be wrong with it.

"I actually remember!" Draco went on, clearly quite amazed at what he had just seen. "Bloody lucky we stayed hidden, eh?"

Hermione looked up, half toying with the idea of confessing everything Â… after all, she and Harry had been coming Â… and they had had a dragon with them. But instead, she said, "ThatÂ’s why time travel is potentially so dangerous Â… if you ran into yourself walking along a corridor, what would you do?"

Draco grinned in the flickering candlelight. "IÂ’d pat myself on the back and tell myself how very, very sexy I am," he said, brushing blond hair out of his eyes.

"YouÂ’d think youÂ’d gone crazy," Hermione corrected him. "ItÂ’s happened before Â… loads of wizards have ended up killing themselves by accident."

Draco looked around. "HadnÂ’t we better get out of here?" he asked. "Someone could come back any second Â… Filch Â… Mrs Norris Â… or someone?"

"YouÂ’re right," said Hermione. "So Â… when are we?"

Draco closed his eyes, as if deep in thought. Finally, he said, "It should be on or around May 20^th 1992."

Hermione did the maths in her head. "Okay," she said. "Got it this time."

And she flipped the Time Turner over, and once again that funny, rushing sensation seemed to overcome them both. Hermione felt Draco cling tightly to the hem of her sleeve, so tightly, indeed, that his fingernails dug into the flesh of her forearm and made her wince.

And once again, their feet touched solid ground. HermioneÂ’s eyes flicked open. Draco, on the other hand, kept his tightly shut, as though he was trying to block something.

"ItÂ’s all right," said Hermione, gently removing DracoÂ’s hand from her robes. "It seems to have worked."

Draco opened one eye cautiously. "Sure?" he asked.

Hermione looked around. Maybe not, she thought. This was not the corridor they had started out in. Something was definitely wrong.

"I thought," Draco began, looking around, and brushing dust from the shoulders of his jet black cloak, "that you said a Time Turner moved us in time, not space."

Hermione surveyed the tiny, golden object that lay in the palm of her hand, and resolved not to let DracoÂ’s carping get to her.

"Because, unless IÂ’m very much mistaken," Draco went on, smiling slightly, "it would have appeared to have Â… um Â… moved us in space as well?"

Hermione nodded. "I donÂ’t recognise this place," she said.

Draco looked around. They were standing in the Charms Corridor Â… but that Hermione had failed to recognise it was not really a surprise. It looked so completely different.

"Charms Corridor," he said. "Look, thereÂ’s that chipped flagstone."

Hermione looked at it, and then up at Draco. "But this is all wrong," she said, after a brief pause, "this is all wrong. Look, thereÂ’s usually a suit of armour that belonged to Oswulf the Unwashed standing there, and that door has a different knocker, itÂ’s usually in the shape of a lionÂ’s head. And IÂ’m pretty sure that tapestry shouldnÂ’t be there at all Â…"

But Draco did not seem to be listening to her. Instead, he was alert, looking rapidly about him, as if he had heard someone.

"SomeoneÂ’s coming," he said. "Get behind the tapestry Â… maybe they wonÂ’t notice Â…"

He got no further, for no sooner than the words were out of his mouth, a rather short, black haired boy had barrelled around the corner, and collided head on with them both, sending all three children tumbling to the stone floor. Draco cried in pain as his elbow struck the flagstones.

"Watch where youÂ’re going!" he shouted in exasperation.

The other boy struggled to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs, and then picked himself up.

Hermione looked up, into a face she recognised well - untidy black hair framed a bespectacled face with green eyes and an earnest expression ... "Harry!" she exclaimed.

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

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

"You vanished," said Draco, simply. Harry looked up at him.

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

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

"No ... this is a dream," said Harry, who was clearly very sure of his position indeed. Of course, thought Hermione, considering how bloody sure we are of our position right now, whoÂ’s to say HarryÂ’s not right?

"I'm dreaming you ..." Harry went on, "I'm in my bed at Hogwarts ..."

Hermione shook her head. He couldnÂ’t possibly be! "No ... Harry ... you disappeared." Had he gone completely bonkers?

"This is not reality," Harry affirmed. He set his jaw and folded his arms, as he always did when challenged Â… it was, thought Hermione, almost as if he was prepared to fight them over it.

She looked again at the Time Turner. Draco and Harry both followed her gaze unblinkingly. "Either ... Draco ... this is really very weird," she began.

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

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

"What thing?" asked Harry, intrigued.

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

"Fire away."

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

"October 31st, 1981," said Harry. "At least, I think it is Â… I was downstairs, listening to Â…"

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

"Friday, December 2nd," said Harry. "1995."

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

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

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

"Ha ... caught you!"

Snape!

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

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

"You look well, sir," said Draco, trying and failing to look innocent.

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

Snape appeared to be squinting.

"Who are you, anyway?" he asked, craning closer to get a better view. "I don't recognise you at all ... James?"

Harry took a step backwards.

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

Harry did not reply.

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

Draco looked absolutely horrified.

"Get ready to run," said Hermione.

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

"Professor Snape?" he asked.

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

"Professor Severus Snape?" asked Harry.

Hermione tried to tug at his robes.

"Yes," said Snape.

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

"Wuh?" began Snape.

"Run for it!" yelled Hermione.

Immediately, Harry vanished. It was something akin to watching a television set blacking out during an intense thunderstorm. His Â… image Â… there was not really any other word to describe it, literally flickered once or twice, and then died, leaving no indication that he had ever been there at all.

Snape looked up at the two of them. He opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish – completely unable to string two coherent words together.

"What are you?" he managed, finally. "What trickery? Are you ghosts?"

"Not ghosts," said Hermione, looking at the spot where, until twenty seconds earlier, Harry Potter had been standing. "I donÂ’t understand this at all."

Snape, however was backing away from them. He looked scared.

"I want no part in this," he said. "I saw nothing. I have to speak to Dumbledore. I think I left something in Â… er Â… my car."

He turned, swiftly, his robes billowing out around them, and without a backwards glance, was walking quickly away, his boots tapping on the floor as he went, leaving Hermione and Draco standing there.

"LetÂ’s get out of here Â…"

***

And now they were standing on wet paving slabs. Both children opened their eyes, and Hermione was mildly taken aback to find that they were standing in what appeared to be the front garden of a small cottage Â… slate roofed, and from the look of the surroundings, somewhere in the north of the country. But this didnÂ’t look like Hogsmeade or its environs.

"It would," said Draco, with eminent satisfaction in his tone, "appear to have moved us in space yet again. Now, excuse me for stating the perfectly bleeding obvious, but a little bird whispers in my ear that you have picked up a dud."

"It is possible, I suppose," said Hermione, uncertainly. The garden appeared to contain mostly herbs and exotic looking pieces of statuary. There was also a small water feature. In summer Â… in the daylight, it mustÂ’ve been quite pleasant.

"This could be Hogwarts, I suppose," said Draco. "Like, before it was built, or something like that. However, several things indicate to me that this is probably not the year 1095 Â…"

"They would be?" asked Hermione, who was staring at the Time Turner, and wasnÂ’t really concentrating.

"On account of the undeniable fact," Draco went on Â… he was quite clearly enjoying himself immensely, "that in the year 1095, tarmac roads did not exist Â… nor did fire hydrants, and nor did electricity Â… or Â… small garden gnomes with cute little fishing rods Â…"

"Thank you!" said Hermione, with feeling. "YouÂ’ve made your point Â…"

Draco produced his wand, and hissed, "Lumos."

"You might be seen," Hermione cautioned.

"In this?" asked Draco. "Not likely. Hermione Â… when are we?"

Hermione looked around. "This isnÂ’t during the War, thatÂ’s for certain," she said, confidently.

"Why not?"

"There are lights on in that cottage," said Hermione. "Muggles had a thing called the blackout Â… holy cow!"

A sudden flash of lightning forked across the sky, briefly illuminating the whole scene. It was followed mere seconds later by a peal of thunder so loud that it seemed to shake the entire world to its core. Raindrops began to fall.

"Hope you remembered your brolly," said Draco.

Hermione cast a quick water repelling spell around them, as she had once done to HarryÂ’s glasses during a particularly violent Quidditch match.

"As I was saying," she went on, as the rain began to get much heavier, "Muggles had a thing called the blackout during the War. Nobody was allowed to show any lights after dark without making sure they were screened off. They even had wardens patrolling to make sure that people kept to the rules Â…"

"Why, exactly?"

"It was so the enemy planes couldnÂ’t see where to bomb," said Hermione. "Not that it made a great deal of difference."

Another peal of thunder drowned out DracoÂ’s reply.

Hermione heard the sound of a car engine in the distance, then headlights came sweeping round the bend, and to her dismay, pulled up on the verge outside the cottage. There was a brief moment of panic as Draco tried, unsuccessfully, to become one with a hawthorn bush.

The driver, a young man whose face they could not see, as it was so dark, leapt out, and ran round to the back door. He took out something, and closed the door, then mounted the steps up to the front door at a run. Someone inside the cottage opened the door for him, and they heard words being spoken, although they couldnÂ’t make out exactly what was being said. The door closed.

"That proves it," said Hermione, looking at the car.

"What does?"

"This can't be the War ... this can't be any earlier than August, 1979," said Hermione.

"And how can you tell that?" asked Draco.

"The car is a V registration," said Hermione.

"Have you gone barking mad?" asked Draco.

Hermione sighed ... evidently Draco was going to need every detail of the Muggle world explained to him. "It's the licence plate," she said. "Each year has a different letter. In 1979, the letter was V, in 1980, it was W, and so on."

"What happened when they got to Z?" asked Draco.

"They didn't," said Hermione. "Z means Ulster ... it's rather complicated, they shifted the system around, and started again with A."

Draco read the car's licence plate. "GPF 478 V ... oh ... I get it. So this is 1979?"

"Not necessarily," said Hermione. "It could be any year since ... it could be the future."

Suddenly, Draco let out an exclamation of surprise, and Hermione found herself being pushed back into the bush.

"What? What is it?"

"We donÂ’t want to be seen," Draco whispered hoarsely. He pointed to the road. A shadowy figure Â… clearly a wizard, for he was wearing robes and a black pointy hat, was walking across the road, out of the forest. He appeared to be a boy of about their age, but more than that they could not tell, for they could not see his face.

He did not, however, appear to give a flying fig just how wet he got. He was standing, bold as brass, in the middle of the road outside, next to the car. From their hiding place, Hermione and Draco watched as he reached out, and touched the car gently on its rear tailgate. Hermione could have sworn he was having something approaching a spiritual moment. Her mouth dropped open as he fell to his knees beside the vehicle. His shoulders were heaving Â… he was crying.

And suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to put her arms around this strange boy Â… whoever he might be Â… to hug him Â… comfort him. Something was causing him pain Â… and Hermione had always been a soft touch for the tears of another Â… but Draco held her back.

Somebody inside the cottage was playing music very loudly. It was a song Hermione vaguely recognised Â… something from the Seventies. She remembered her parents playing it.

As the chords of the record faded away to nothing, the boy, who had been crouching beside the car all this time, stood up, finally, and then just stayed stock still, contemplating the cottage. Then he, too, mounted the steps, and rang the doorbell. And a moment later, Hermione heard the door being opened, and the sound of happy laughter and voices raised in cheerful greetings. And then the door closed again.

And all was still and silent, save for the pitter-patter of the rain as it cascaded from the sky.

"That was very weird," said Draco. "Who do you suppose Â…"

"God knows," said Hermione.

Music started up again. This time, it was another old record, by a band Hermione recognised as Wizzard, the one people always get confused with Slade.

"You there ... boy!"

They jumped to their feet, startled. There were two men, wearing black cloaks, whose hoods hid their faces from view, standing on the other side of the wall.

"What ever do you think you're doing?" asked the taller of the two men.

Hermione coughed, and shuffled her feet. "Well ... um, we were, as a matter of fact ..."

"Trick or treating," said Draco, hurriedly. "That's it ... we were planning a surprise for the people who live here ... they're friends of ours."

The man surveyed Draco with suspicion. "Then where," he went on, "are your paper bags full of goodies and sweets? I understand this is how such customs work ..."

"We've only just started," said Draco, looking suitably shamefaced.

The man made clicking noises with his tongue. "At eleven thirty at night Â… I see," he said, after a very pregnant pause. "What are your friends' names?"

"Potter," said Hermione, grabbing the first name that sprang to mind. "Um, Harry, Potter ... our friend ... he is ... yes."

The man's voice took on a tone of slight interest. "Really?" he said. "You are friends of Harry Potter?"

Draco and Hermione nodded earnestly.

"I believe, if I am correct, that Harry Potter is nothing more than a baby ... what would two big children like you want with him?"

Something told Hermione she was treading on dangerous ground ...

"Perhaps, I should go and speak to them," said the man, opening the garden gate, which creaked on its un-oiled hinges. "You are sure he lives here?"

Draco shook his head, but the man took no notice of them, and strode up the path to the front door. Draco and Hermione watched as he withdrew a wand, and tapped it.

"Alohomora," he hissed.

"Wait!" shouted Draco. "That's breaking and entering. You can't do that!"

"I can do anything I want," said the man, as the front door swung open before him. From inside the house, they heard someone shouting ... it was not a happy shout.

As he stood on the step, he turned back to Draco and Hermione, and lowered his hood, and the face that was exposed was one they both now knew by sight, so vividly had it been engraved upon their memories ... red, slit eyes ... a narrow nose, gaunt, pinched cheeks. "Do not think I will not reward you greatly for the information you have provided," he said. "Lord Voldemort is gracious to his servants."

And with that, he stepped into the house. The other man followed.

"Take the kitchen," they heard Voldemort hiss. "Cut off the other escape routes."

"Oh bugger," said Hermione.

"You don't think?"

"I just thought," she said ... a deathly silence had descended.

"We have to stop him," began Draco, making as if to step forwards.

"No!" cried Hermione ... seizing his arm. "You can't ... we can't ... you know what is at stake ... we must not be seen ... we must not change anything, and nobody must know we are here."

"But he's going to kill ..."

"And if he doesn't!" hissed Hermione. "Then what ... it might change everything ... it might mean you don't exist, it might mean Harry doesn't exist! Whatever is about to happen, we must let it happen as history intends it to happen. There can be no other way ... however horrible it is ... we must let him do this. For all our sakes ... James and Lily Potter must die tonight."

Draco's face was illuminated by the light pouring out of the sitting room window. He looked horrified.

"You would let Voldemort kill ..."

"We know he doesn't!" snapped Hermione. "We know Harry survives ... if we intervene, he might not!"

"But!"

"Stay still, Draco ... stay calm. We must do this."

There was a flash of green light from within the house ... followed by a bone chilling, high pitched scream ... and the high cackling of laughter. Hermione turned away ... unable to look ... tears pouring down her face, and Draco turned too, and put his arms around her shoulders.

"Fight it," she breathed again and again. "Make it be okay!"

But it was not okay Â… as frantic shouts from inside the cottage bore witness.

" ... take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run ... I'll hold him off ... go!"

A door slammed ... a roar of drunken rage ... and the whole scene illuminated once more by a flash of green light ... a yell, the last yell of a dead man ... a door splintering like matchwood. Then another scream ... this one mingled with the fearful cries of a child.

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead ..."

Another yell rang out, this time indistinct through Hermione's tears. Draco clasped her even more tightly.

"Not Harry! Please ... have mercy ... have mercy ..."

The shrill voice of Voldemort, laughing ... then another scream, another flash of green light. Hermione shuddered ... two down, one to go, she thought, despite herself. She thought to hold back the tears. She had witnessed death at, almost first hand, before, that day Lucius Malfoy was cast into the ravine from a dragon Â… but never like this. Never had she sat by, knowing that she could do something Â… yet doing nothing.

And now she heard VoldemortÂ’s voice once more. She comprehended just why he was so feared. His voice was empty of all emotion. It was like chalk, grinding on slate. It was cold, cruel, calculating. Evil beyond compare.

"So, child. We end this here."

Next thing either of them knew, a massive explosion rent the night air, and both of them were flung forwards by the force of the blast, into the flowerbeds. Draco flung himself protectively across Hermione as bricks and chunks of mortar rained down around them, the ground shuddered ... it was like being in that earthquake, back in Naxcivan again.

Then a blood-curdling yell rang out ... Hermione felt the world light up briefly, and then there was nothing, save for the crackling of flames and the hiss of the incessant rain.

Draco picked himself up gingerly, wincing slightly, for his ankle appeared to have been hurt in the blast, and Hermione scrambled to her feet as well.

"Oh Christ Â… oh Christ!" she repeated, like a mantra.

"Should we?" Draco asked. His face, ghostly pale in the firelight, looked drained, sick, and terrified.

Hermione nodded. "We ought, really," she said. She sniffed, and wiped her tears away on the sleeve of her robes. Draco looked on impassively.

They clasped each others hand tight, as they half walked, half stumbled across the garden towards the remains of the house. Here and there, small fires were burning amidst the wreckage ... and all that was still standing was the chimney breast, with one framed wizard photo on the mantelpiece ... two parents, smiling, clutching their young charge. Hermione had never seen a picture of Harry as a baby before ... the child was sleeping.

"He must be somewhere around here," Draco said, letting go of her hand, and simultaneously stumbling on a mound of bricks.

Hermione looked at the photo, and bit her lip to hold back the tears. Slowly, she picked it up, and before Draco noticed, slipped it into her rucksack. It would do for HarryÂ’s Christmas present, at a pinch. There was also a stone Â… a beautiful, polished slice of agate. Inscribed upon the front was an inscription in some Nordic language that she was unfamiliar with. Curious, she turned it over.

‘Harry James Potter. Born, 31.7.80. Baptised at St Luke’s, Godric’s Hollow, 18.9.80. On the first anniversary of your Christening.’

She tucked the stone into her rucksack as well.

Draco shouted. "Hermione ... quick ... I've found him ... I think he's hurt bad!"

Hermione stumbled over to where Draco was crouched on the floor, next to the slumped and bloodied body of Lily Potter, where there was a bundle of white blankets.

"Is he alive?" Hermione asked.

Draco turned over the bundle. "I think so," he said ... he pushed back the blankets, exposing Harry's face to the night air ... the child appeared to be sleeping now, but he screwed up his face in response to the chill night air on his skin. "No, of course he bloody is ..."

Draco traced his fingers along the burnt, bloody scar that now disfigured Harry's forehead. The child opened one eye sleepily, and looked at Draco.

"Daddy?" Harry asked, closing his fingers tight around Draco's hand.

"No," breathed Draco. "No, Harry."

"No Harry? Where Harry?"

"Right here," whispered Draco, Hermione bent over them both and waved to Harry. "We're right here."

"Should we take him with us?" asked Hermione. Draco shook his head.

"Are you silly? He has to stay here," he said. "Everyone knows how the story ends ... Hagrid will be arriving in ... about five minutes time ... and Sirius will be here in ten."

"Sirius is coming?" asked Hermione.

"Padfoot?" asked Harry.

"They're on their way, Harry," said Draco.

"Who you?" demanded Harry, petulantly.

"Me? I'm Draco," said Draco. "You're Harry Potter ... right?"

Harry grinned. "Dwaco," he said, quietly. "Good boy."

Draco picked him up, and cradled him in his arms. Harry was not very weighty, and was keeping very still as well. Draco supposed he must still be in shock, or something.

"Dwaco," repeated Harry sleepily. "Dwaco, Dwaco, Dwaco."

"I think he likes you," said Hermione, craning to see the baby.

"Of course he likes me," said Draco, haughtily. "I'm Draco Malfoy. What is there not to like about me?"

To which Hermione could think of nothing to say. She leaned in closer. Harry appeared to be in no pain from the scar at all. "Duzzee ickle baby wantie sleepykins?" she cooed.

Harry screwed up his face, and began to snivel.

"I think you're scaring him," said Draco, frostily, rocking Harry backwards and forwards to try and calm him down. "Is bad Hermione scaring little Harry?"

"Waz bad Ermy-knee!" sniffed Harry. "Ermy-knee poo!"

"I will never let you forget that when I track you down," said Hermione, smiling. "You horrible little boy."

"Spaghetti!" shouted Harry. He made a spirited grab for HermioneÂ’s long hair, but she moved it swiftly out of the way. Two baby cousins of her own had taught her early in life to be very careful where hair was concerned.

Draco cradled Harry in his arms, and to her surprise, Hermione suddenly found herself becoming Â… well Â… quite broody. Draco honestly did appear to have a natural affinity for babies. She had never encountered it before.

"What are you staring at?" asked Draco, as Harry popped his thumb into his mouth and began to suck it noisily. Hermione came out of her infant-induced trance.

"Sorry?"

"You were looking at me all funny," said Draco.

"Sorry Â… I was miles away, suddenly," said Hermione. "Actually, I was thinking Â…"

"What about?"

"The Time Turner," she lied. "IÂ’m pretty sure itÂ’s malfunctioning on a pretty fundamental level Â…"

"Well done, Brain of Britain, 1995," said Draco, sarcastically. He hoisted Harry over his shoulder. "Any further gems of enlightenment to amuse and entertain me Â…"

"Arrogant twerp," Hermione muttered under her breath Â… Draco did not hear. "Look," she went on. "ItÂ’s fairly obvious that this Time Turner is Â… well Â…"

"Not working?"

"Um Â… exactly right, yes. So probably, we shouldnÂ’t use it again?"

"Good so far," said Draco, patting Harry on the back, remaining all the while oblivious to the fact that Harry was dribbling on his shoulder.

"What do we do then?" asked Hermione, exasperated and close to tears. Everything was going wrong Â… and now they were stuck 14 years in the past, holding the baby, as it were.

"Stay here," Draco said. "WeÂ’ll stay here. Something must happen. Something has to happen."

Right on cue, something did happen. Hermione heard it first. The sound of hooves galloping at speed towards them. A horse.

"Hagrid," swore Hermione. "It must be! Quick Â… put Harry down."

Draco scrambled back over the pile of rubble, and ever so gently, replaced Harry in the bassinet. Then, dimming his wandlight lest either of them be seen, he retreated back into the shadows flung by the chimney breast. Hermione stumbled over to him, and together, they crouched down, out of sight Â… hopefully.

Somewhere, not too far off, the horse whinnied. And now HagridÂ’s feet were crunching over the wreckage. They could hear him breathing.

"Oh God," he was saying. "God no. No! Anybody hear me?"

"Keep still," Hermione hissed. She put an arm around DracoÂ’s shoulders to keep him from moving. The boy seemed not to notice. "He canÂ’t see us if we donÂ’t move."

HagridÂ’s footfall thudded loudly. Insignificant objects, ornaments and little keepsakes crunched underneath his vast feet. The rain had stopped falling now, and such was the manÂ’s sheer size that he was causing the water, collected in puddles around them, to ripple.

Hagrid paused Â… scanning the ruins of the PottersÂ’ house. Taking it all in.

"James? Lily? Harry?"

Draco squirmed. "HeÂ’s going to walk right past us," he said.

"WeÂ’ll have to hide," said Hermione. She glanced swiftly around them. Behind them, a large, cork notice-board had fallen at right angles over the chimney breast, creating a rough shelter.

"I say we run for it," said Draco. "IÂ’ll jump out, and distract him somehow."

As if on cue, the chimney breast shifted ominously. It was not going to stay upright for very much longer, that was for sure.

"It isnÂ’t going to hold," said Hermione, voicing both their concerns.

"My plan looks like the better one, then," said Draco, with perhaps a discernible trace of malice in his voice. He may have been improving in terms of likeability, thought Hermione, but he was still seemingly obsessed with one-upmanship.

"ThereÂ’s a clump of bushes over there, on the other side of the back patio," Draco said. "When I give the word, you run for it."

Hermione nodded. HagridÂ’s huge, boot-clad feet paused, mere inches from where they were crouched. He looked around, and then stepped away again.

"James! Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

Draco tipped Hermione the nod. Immediately, as if racing for a gold medal, she was on her feet, and sprinting, after a fashion, half stumbling and half leaping over the crushed bricks and broken furniture, her robes trailing out behind her, the Time Turner clasped tightly in one hand.

Hagrid turned.

Draco leapt up, brandishing his wand. "Lumos!" he cried.

Hagrid put his hand up, the better to see whomever it was shouting at him.

"James?"

Draco swished the wand from side to side. "Hey Â… over here, you great dimmock!"

Hermione tripped and fell, landing face down in a puddle with an almighty splash.

Hagrid was angry. "What are you playing at?" he roared. "People are dying!"

Draco gulped.

"Come here!"

Draco sprang back to his senses, and, as Hermione had done, took off, running full tilt away from the cottage, down the sloping back garden. Hermione scrambled to her feet, and followed. For one terrifying moment, it looked as if Hagrid would follow them, but he did not, and they made the safety of the line of tall pine trees which stood at the foot of the garden. There, they collapsed, breathing heavily, at the mossy foot of one of the trees.

"Honestly Â… I canÂ’t take you Â… anywhere," Hermione said.

***

There was an almost eerie silence in DumbledoreÂ’s new office. Now that he was no longer the Headmaster, he had been, in the spirit of the whole thing, quick to move out, so that Professor McGonagall could move her things in.

Now, he looked painfully around the room, and he felt a pang of longing for his old study, with its tapestries and fine views.

Fawkes perched on the edge of the desk and regarded the room sniffily.

"ItÂ’s no use turning your beak up at it," said Dumbledore, fishing in his pocket for a packet of birdseed. "ItÂ’s all weÂ’ve got."

Fawkes ignored the sunflower seeds Dumbledore held out to him, and took flight to the chandelier, dislodging cobwebs as he went. Sighing, the Minister of Magic sat down at his desk.

It wasnÂ’t as if the room wasnÂ’t nice. It was. Bloody nice, in fact. It was located in one of the taller towers, and had south facing windows, and a large balcony. Once upon a time, it had been a Hufflepuff dormitory, and the walls were still thick with graffiti and tack holes from their posters. It was also dusty, and smelled as if it had not been aired for years, which, of course, it hadnÂ’t.

The morningÂ’s post had already been delivered, and was sitting in a wire tray on the desktop. Dumbledore took up the first envelope, and slit it open with a knife.

The single piece of yellow parchment that fluttered out and fell to his desk did not make for especially pleasant reading:

The Ministry of Magic

Home Park

Diagon Alley

London

http://www.mom.gov.wiz

December 9^th 1995

Dear Mr Dumbledore,

We have received intelligence that you have chosen to set up what you refer to as an ‘interim’ Ministry of Magic, based in the town of Hogsmeade.

We feel it is our duty to inform you that such actions are regarded as acts of Civil War against the legitimate magical government of the United Kingdom under Section 12, Paragraph 16, Clause 8 of the Magical Constitution of Great Britain & Northern Ireland (1452). Therefore, we demand the immediate cessation of your rebellious activities, and the resignation of your entire apparatus by 11 a.m. on Sunday, December 10^th 1995. You will be summoned to appear at the High Court of Magic forthwith to answer capital charges of High Treason.

If we do not receive assurance that our demands have been carried out by 11 a.m. on the aforementioned date, we will commence military action against your insurgence.

Yours, cordially,

Williams. P.

Secretary to the Minister of Magic.

For a moment, Dumbledore stared at it Â… reading it, taking it all in. His eyes, now bereft of their former twinkle, alighted upon the name, printed meticulously in golden ink at the foot of the parchment. Williams. He remembered the boy from his Hogwarts days. But surely Â… he had been sent to Azkaban Â…

How had he managed to stay alive?

It could only mean one thing. Voldemort had broken into Azkaban. The Dementors were on the loose.

Dumbledore wasnÂ’t usually a man for prayer, but even he turned his eyes heavenward and whispered a brief request.

Whether or not it was heard was unclear.

So, he thought. It has come to this. To this. Voldemort had accomplished in less than two days, what he had failed to accomplish in nearly a decade of all out war last time round. They had been completely unprepared for him. Fudge, now dead, of course, had been wallowing in denial. The Daily Prophet had merely printed what they were told to print.

None of you did anything to prevent this.

Dumbledore screwed up the parchment, and hurled it across the room. It bounced off the far wall, and rolled away into the shadows.

The most awesome magical power in the world.

We thought we had contained it.

ItÂ’s out now.

None of you did anything to prevent this.

A knocking on the office door disturbed him. His head snapped upwards.

"WhoÂ’s there?"

"Sirius," a muffled voice.

"Alohomora," Dumbledore pointed his wand at the door, and the heavy, brass bolts slid backwards with a clanging noise. The door swung slowly open.

Sirius had quite clearly already been drinking. His face was red, and his gait unsteady. All the same, he looked to be in full command of all his faculties.

"Albus," he said, softly. "I think you should come and see this."

Dumbledore stood up, pushing back the chair he had been sitting in.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Refugees," said Sirius. "WeÂ’ve got refugees. Six cartloads."

***

Albus sat down heavily in his chair, and rested his feet on the desk. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece declared the time to be a little past midnight.

"Whiskey?" he asked.

Charles Potter removed his hat, and set it down gently on the arm of his smoking chair. He withdrew from the pocket of his blue jacket a packet of cigars, and a cigarette lighter. "You mind?" he asked.

Albus slid an ashtray across the desktop towards him. "Go ahead," he said.

"Thanks Â… IÂ’ll take mine on the rocks."

Albus got up, and retrieved the whiskey bottle and a soda siphon from a high shelf.

Charles lit his cigar, and puffed on it, sending a cloud of smoke into the air. In the grate, a small fire was burning.

"HeÂ’s a good lad," Albus said, pouring a shot of OgdenÂ’s finest into two glasses, and topping his own up with soda. "Polaris."

Ice cubes chinked in CharlesÂ’ glass. Albus handed it to him.

"Thanks," Charles said. "He Â… he seems all right Â… doesnÂ’t he?"

Albus returned to his seat. "He does," he said. "I know he is."

"Fact remains, what is he doing here?" Charles asked.

Albus ran a hand thoughtfully through his long beard, twirling the fine, auburn strands of hair about his fingers, like candyfloss on a stick.

"I wish I could tell you the whole story, Charles," he said. "You know me almost as well as I do Â… I hate having to cover up. You know as much as I know. Dumbledore has seen fit to tell us as much as we need to know for the purposes of Â… fulfilling whatever it is Harry has to fulfil Â…"

Charles nodded. "No Â… I quite understand. ItÂ’s just difficult. Am I to understand that the little boy he rescued is in someway connected to a friend of his Â…"

"HeÂ’s the father of a boy called Ron Weasley," Albus said. He sipped his whiskey, whilst Charles toyed with his glass, watching the ice cubes as they bumped together within.

"Who is in some way Â…"

"Important?" Albus finished. "Yes, he is. Ron is HarryÂ’s best friend, it would seem. And as such he is instrumental to some kind of war that is being fought Â… or is about to be fought Â…"

"It seems so far off," said Charles, relaxing back in his chair, and inhaling the cigar. "ItÂ’s as if Â… as if somebody had told my parents that we would be fighting a war today."

"Understood," said Albus. "Slightly Â…"

"Unreal?"

"Hmm."

Both men nodded.

"Who is this Voldemort chap, anyway?" Charles asked.

Albus grinned, and Charles noticed that familiar twinkle in his eyes Â… that reassuring look of his old headmasterÂ’s Â… the one that told you someone was in control Â… that however hairy things might be, someone would know what was going on.

"You know Â… donÂ’t you?" Charles said, leaning forwards. "Is he someone I know?"

"HeÂ’s at Hogwarts now," said Albus. "But it would do you no good to know who he is. History must, after all, be kept upon its proper course."

As he spoke, his voice seemed to become Â… somewhat laboured Â… almost as if he was tired of something Â… tired of history?

"I completely fail to understand you, Albus," said Charles. He grinned, stubbed out his cigar, and downed his whiskey in one gulp. The ice cubes bumped against his moustachioed upper lip.

"LetÂ’s talk about Harry, then," said Albus, sipping his drink more sedately. "Can I fill you up?"

"Best not," said Charles. "Us RAF chappies need to keep a clear head."

"Poppycock," said Albus, with a smile. He drained his glass, and reached for the whiskey bottle again.

"Did you ever see anybody fly so well?" asked Albus.

"Not since Oscar Quentin flew for the Bats," said Charles. "HeÂ’s a born Seeker."

Earlier in the evening, Eustace Malfoy had honoured his promise to Harry, and allowed him to fly in the Gryffindor teamÂ’s Quidditch practice session. Charles, Albus, and Minerva McGonagall, the new student teacher, had all been present in the stands to watch, and Harry, by all accounts, had not disappointed, catching the Snitch in slightly under two minutes.

"Won the Cup in his Third Year," Albus said. "I see a glittering future for the boy Â…"

Charles smiled. "He Â… he seems to have taken the Â… the whole thing rather well."

"By all accounts heÂ’s used to it," said Albus. "HeÂ’s faced down some form of mortal death several times in his lifetime Â…"

Charles shuddered. He still got flashbacks from his first insertion into France Â… and that had been months ago.

"Something the matter?" asked Albus, sensing his discomfort.

"Just thinking," Charles replied. "ThatÂ’s all it is."

***

Ginny couldnÂ’t sleep. The fire, banked up for the night, still crackled in its grate, and the other girls who shared her dormitory were all sound asleep, their breathing light and untroubled.

She filled up a glass of water from the tumbler she habitually kept at her bedside, and then downed it in one go. Refreshed, slightly, she leant back amidst the vast, fluffy pillows, closed her eyes, and smiled.

A full ten seconds passed before her eyes snapped open again.

"Oh, this is bloody useless," she said. She threw off the covers, and swung her legs out of bed, feeling, as she always did, for her slippers. They were in the shape of tigers, and had been a Christmas present from Ron from the ‘Yes, Everything’s A Knut!’ shop in Hogsmeade – hence they were already falling to bits.

Retrieving her blue, towelling dressing gown (this had once belonged to Bill) and fastening the cord tight about her waist, she padded softly over to the door, drew back the bolts Â… they always made a point of locking the doors, mainly as a precaution against Colin Creevey, who was becoming steadily more perverse as his hormones began to kick in, and had upgraded from a point and shoot to a Nikon Pronea with zoom lenses and Advanced Photo System capability. Ginny shuddered, and slipped outside, heading down to the deserted Common Room.

However, the Common Room was not deserted by any means. There were two people there, sitting in the light of the fire, playing what appeared to be chequers.

"Gin?" one of them asked.

"Just me," Ginny whispered, slipping over to join her brothers.

"CouldnÂ’t sleep either?" Fred inquired, removing three of GeorgeÂ’s pieces from the board in short shrift. George looked slightly downcast at this.

"Just worried," said Ginny.

"About what?" George asked.

"A lot of things," said Ginny, sitting down and pulling her legs up to her chest. "Harry mainly."

"I thought so," said George. "Not to worry, Gin. IÂ’m sure theyÂ’ll get your hunky black-haired, studmuffin back in no time."

Ginny scowled, and cuffed George on the shoulder. "That wasnÂ’t quite the reason," she said.

"Although it was part of the reason," Fred said sagely.

"Okay, part of the reason," Ginny conceded.

"Sirius knows what heÂ’s doing," said George. "Anyway, HarryÂ’s gone through plenty Â… IÂ’m sure he has his wits about him Â… not to worry, little sister."

"YouÂ’re worried," Ginny said. "I heard you and Lee talking."

"That was about somebody else," George said, defensively. "Anyway, you should be keeping your nose out if you know whatÂ’s good for you. LeeÂ’s having personal problems Â…"

"Seamus has dumped him?" asked Ginny. "I knew it!"

George looked panicked. "No, nonono!" he hissed. "Not that reason Â… though I wonÂ’t deny itÂ’s true. You Â… um Â… wonÂ’t tell Ron, will you?"

"WonÂ’t tell Ron what?" Ginny asked.

Fred coughed. "About Seamus," he said. "Seamus hasnÂ’t got the bottle to go through with it and tell everybody Â… but Â… just donÂ’t, okay?"

"I wonÂ’t," said Ginny.

"Actually," George said, "it was Ron we were talking to Lee about."

"WhatÂ’s wrong with Ron, then?" asked Ginny. "DonÂ’t tell me heÂ’s seeing Seamus too! Mum will go spare Â…"

"No," said Fred.

"We think he might be," said George. "But we also think he isnÂ’t Ron."

"Um Â… youÂ’re going nuts, arenÂ’t you?" said Ginny, moving backwards a bit from them. Fred chuckled.

"No, weÂ’re not nuts," he said. "Actually, IÂ’m surprised you havenÂ’t picked up on it. HavenÂ’t you seen the way heÂ’s acting?"

"Acting?"

"All funny," said George. "All secretive, moody Â… not himself."

"Yes, thatÂ’s called puberty," Ginny explained. "You chaps wouldnÂ’t know, not having been through it yourself Â…"

"Shut up, Gin," George snapped. "You know what I mean."

"You think RonÂ’s acting odd," said Ginny. "HeÂ’s a teenaged boy Â… of course he bloody is. You all act slightly odd. Why do you think I can never get Harry interested in me? HeÂ’s terminally weird Â… just very cute, too."

George stifled a snigger. "Between you an me, Gin, Harry isnÂ’t interested in you for a very specific reason."

Fred gave a loud, fake cough that sounded suspiciously like, "Hermione!"

Ginny folded her arms and looked defensive. "You guys are pissing me off," she said. "IÂ’ll go back to bed, if you arenÂ’t careful."

"ThatÂ’d be nice," said Fred, who was not really paying attention to the proceedings.

"Seriously," George said. "ThereÂ’s something not right about him. It seems like heÂ’s Â… forgetting stuff, you know?"

"I caught him wandering around upstairs the other day," said Fred. "He got lost on his way to Divination Â…"

"ItÂ’s just weird," George finished the sentence on FredÂ’s behalf.

Ginny looked at them both. The flickering light of the fire cast their faces in an orange glow. "IÂ’ll look out for him," she said. "If youÂ’re really worried."

"DonÂ’t mention it to Mum and Dad," George cautioned.

Ginny smiled. "Seems weird, having them staying here," she said, absently.

Fred scowled. "Bloody dull, more like. I canÂ’t do anything!"

"He tried to blow up another toilet yesterday," George explained. "But we got Â… um Â… caught Â…"

"The ‘device’," explained Fred, "we used … it got into the cisterns, somehow, and blew Dad off a commode two floors above us."

"Mum wasnÂ’t best pleased Â…"

"She was with him."

"SheÂ’s forbidden me from seeing my girlfriend," said George.

"I didnÂ’t know you had one."

George blushed

***

Fifty-four years, but barely twenty metres away from the Weasleys, Eustace Malfoy watched Harry at rest, the curtains around his bed drawn back slightly. It was a freezing cold night, although the fire the House Elves had banked up in the dormitory was keeping them as warm as toast, as it always did. Slowly, he brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and surveyed Harry more closely.

The other boy was sleeping now, obviously. His breathing was shallow and light, and he seemed peaceful Â… undisturbed by troubles. And troubled he had most certainly appeared. He seemed to walk as if carrying some heavy weight upon his shoulders. There was a tiredness, a weariness that only came from experience in his eyes and in his face. Things had happened to this boy Â… and Eustace wondered vaguely just what they might be. His glasses lay, discarded, upon the bedside table, along with a jug of water and a glass tumbler. Strands of his black hair fell across his eyelids, and one hand was pillowed underneath his head, the fingers curled inwards to make a fist. The blankets were drawn up to slightly above his waist. For want of any clothes of his own, he had been forced to borrow an old pair of SteveÂ’s pyjamas, which were much too big for him, and made him look slightly ridiculous.

Where had he come from?

Eustace pondered this as he sat. They had been told that Harry was CharlesÂ’ nephew Â… that he had been evacuated, in Canada, far away from the fighting. Eustace was not convinced by this story. For a start, EustaceÂ’s family owned large tracts of land in the Yukon Â… and he had been to Canada twice in his lifetime. But Harry, when quizzed, seemed to know very little of the country Â… and one would have thought that two years in a place where people speak so funny would have given him a bit of an accent Â… but no Â… Harry sounded as Home Counties as Eustace himself did.

For a second thing, he knew full well that Charles Potter was an only child.

So where has he come from? Where is he going? What does he want? More importantly Â… what is he doing here?

Harry, sleeping, was merely aware of something holding him, cradling him, and caressing him with a gentle, loving touch. He enjoyed the first undisturbed nightÂ’s sleep he had had in ages.

***

Godric’s Hollow by day revealed itself to be a very normal looking borders town. The houses were built of stark, grey stone. There was a small square, with a few shops, a café, two pubs, and a tiny church.

It was past eight oÂ’clock in the morning, but there seemed to be no sign of life.

Out of doors, that is.

The café, thankfully, was open. The windows were dripping with dense condensation, and inside, the Vent-Axia was working overtime. A radio on the countertop was playing an old pop song that Hermione vaguely remembered. The tables were low, and topped with nasty, yellow Formica, and on the walls were posters advertising local beauty spots. It appeared they were somewhere near Kielder Water, a vast reservoir in the Northumbrian countryside. Hermione smiled … so that’s where Godric’s Hollow is, she thought.

Draco ambled over to the counter, and paused, studying the laminated menu card. The woman behind the counter ignored him, she was pouring fresh coffee into a large, chipped mug, which she then proceeded to deliver to the café’s only other occupant, a tall looking man whose face was hidden behind the morning Prophet. Hermione wondered vaguely why the headline said ‘Ministry Won’t Budge on Muggle Protection Act,’ instead of some lurid cover splash about the Potters.

Then she remembered Â… the news very probably wasnÂ’t out yet. She began to wonder who would be the one to break it. Perhaps it would even be them!

Draco was counting out little bronze Knuts on the countertop. There were seven altogether.

"Um, what can I get for seven Knuts?" he asked the woman, when she returned from serving the other man.

Hermione shoved him out of the way. She delved into the inner pocket of her robes, and produced a small, leather bag, which jingled with the weight of the change within.

"Sod it," she said, out loud. "IÂ’m cold and wet and IÂ’m not about to haggle over the price of a cup of tea. IÂ’ll take a full English breakfast."

The woman smiled. "With or without black pudding?" she asked.

"Without," said Hermione.

"With!" said Draco, quickly.

"Shall I make that two, then?" the woman asked.

Draco nodded.

"Any drinks?"

"Cappuccino Â… not too frothy," said Draco.

"Cappu-whatsit?" the woman asked.

"This is 1981, Draco," Hermione whispered in his ear.

But Draco didnÂ’t seem to quite grasp the point. "Well," he asked, tapping his foot, the way he had seen his Father do when on the receiving end of bad service. "What do you have then, in the way of coffee based beverages? Americano, Latte, Espresso?"

The woman stared at Draco as if he was some kind of alien, and then plonked a jar of Nescafe on the countertop.

"This," she said.

"ThatÂ’ll do fine, then," said Draco, smiling wanly at her.

"Tea for me," said Hermione. "Milk, no sugar."

The woman smiled warmly Â… Hermione was evidently a customer she could cope with. "IÂ’ll bring your food over for you, love," she said.

Draco and Hermione selected a table on the opposite side of the café to the other man, for fear of disturbing him, and Hermione began to talk in a low whisper whilst Draco fiddled with the cruet.

"How come do you suppose they donÂ’t know what happened, yet?" she asked.

Draco looked around the café. "Perhaps nobody’s found the bodies yet," he said. "Voldemort’s dead, or something like that … Sirius certainly isn’t saying anything … Pettigrew’s off being a rat somewhere, and Hagrid is God-knows where with Harry. Nobody knows."

"But nobodyÂ’s even said anything about it," said Hermione. "I mean, that explosion was pretty loud Â… it mustÂ’ve woken at least a few of the villagers up."

Draco shrugged. "Probably not," he said. "It was in the middle of a thunderstorm, and most wizard dwellings are warded off against noise. It helps if you have rowdy neighbours."

"Oh," said Hermione. "So who do you suppose it is who tells everyone?"

Draco shrugged. "The milkman?"

Then he twigged what Hermione meant. "Oh no!" he exclaimed. "Changing time is a big no-no. Who knows what weÂ’ve altered in the future by even being there? I am not about to start spreading rumours about HarryÂ’s parents Â…"

"Very wise, too," said another voice.

Hermione jumped Â… so did Draco, and both of them looked up.

They were looking into the eyes of a man who was unmistakably Albus Dumbledore. But how much younger he looked! How less grey his hair!

"Good morning, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy," he said. "Fancy seeing you here. Do you mind if I sit down?"

HermioneÂ’s jaw had dropped a mile. Wordlessly, she moved up along the bench to make room for the Headmaster.

"Pleased to see me?" Dumbledore asked. He folded his newspaper, and placed it carefully on the tabletop. "Seriously, now. I couldnÂ’t help overhearing you. Am I to understand that you are in dire straits, somewhat?"

Draco nodded.

"Yes," Hermione croaked. "Um Â… excuse me Â… sir Â… but are you Â… ours?"

DumbledoreÂ’s melancholic face cracked into a slight grin. "No," he said. "But I have met him. And in fourteen odd years, I will be him. Time is a fickle playmate."

He had produced a photo of Harry from inside his robes Â… but a photo of their Harry Â… the fifteen year old one, as opposed to the baby who had tried to pull HermioneÂ’s hair out.

"Looking for someone?" he asked.

Hermione nodded.

"Thought you might be," Dumbledore said. "HeÂ’s at Hogwarts now. Hagrid believed it best he should be somewhere safe. The presence of the students celebrating the downfall of Lord Voldemort will prevent him from leaving until late this evening, delaying their arrival at Privet Drive by approximately two hours Â… but that is still to come Â…"

"I meant our Harry," said Hermione.

"Ah, yes Â… you did, didnÂ’t you? Well, I only mentioned that to demonstrate to you just how riddled with paradoxes time travel actually is," said Dumbledore. "Harry is quite safe. HeÂ’s at Hogwarts Â… the Hogwarts of 1941 Â…"

Draco gave a start.

"Yes, Mr Malfoy," said Dumbledore. "Your hunch was indeed correct. I remember very clearly the day you explained it to us Â…"

"I did?"

"Not yet, you didnÂ’t," said Dumbledore. "But you will Â… in about three days time."

"ItÂ’s going to take three days?" goggled Draco.

Dumbledore nodded. "IÂ’m afraid so," he said. "Look. Harry is absolutely fine. HeÂ’s in the care of his Grandfather Â…"

"Are you going to tell us whatÂ’s going on?" asked Hermione, angrily. "Is this some kind of destiny thing?"

Dumbledore looked awkward. "Well," he said. "Yes and no. Harry must be taken backwards in time to fulfil a task of vital importance to the wizarding world. But this is not destiny Â… it is Â… it is," he shook his head, as if it was all too much, "it is Â… deeply, deeply confusing. If he does not fulfil the task, he will not be alive to fulfil the task."

"Damn right."

"Language, Miss Granger," Dumbledore scolded. "About a week ago, Harry rescued Arthur Weasley from a burning block of flats. If he had not done so, the boy would surely have died. Harry would then have died too."

"Why?"

"Because Arthur Weasley was a member of the Order of the Phoenix," said Dumbledore. "Heck, he still is. It was Arthur who finally forced James to perform the Fidelius Charm Â… I was pushing for it Â… but it was ArthurÂ’s concern for his friends that drove them to do it. If he had not done, who is to say whether Harry would have lived or died?"

"I think I get it," said Draco.

Dumbledore smiled. "Good," he said. "Now, you must rescue Harry."

"Our Time Turner is broken," said Hermione.

"I know," said Dumbledore, "but this time Â… I guarantee it will work first time."

"Oh Â… uh Â… okay."

"The one you Â… um Â… stole," said Dumbledore, "is in fact an experimental one. Professor Sprout created it so she could go back and collect plant specimens from the Jurassic era Â…"

Draco grinned. That explained some of the plants in Greenhouse 6.

"Â… unfortunately," Dumbledore went on, "it malfunctioned quite badly. Professor McGonagall was meant to be repairing it."

"I see," said Hermione.

"Now," Dumbledore said. "Have you heard of the Dreamscape Hypothesis?"

"Is this relevant?"

"Very much so," Dumbledore said. "Dreamscape was devised by Sabian Malfoy, a French theologian Â… and also a wizard."

"Naturally," said Draco.

"Charles Potter rescued him from Nazi-Occupied France a couple of weeks Â… well Â… forty years, ago," said Dumbledore, wisely ignoring DracoÂ’s carping. "HeÂ’s been busy recuperating at Malfoy Park. Anyway, besides the fact that he wanted to escape from the Occupiers, he had also been working on something he called the Dreamscape Hypothesis. If his theory was correct, it would be possible to Â…"

"Enter peopleÂ’s dreams?" Hermione guessed. "Hurt them?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Exactly Â… I see you are already filled in on certain details. Malfoy was only theorising, but he had written some important papers, and he knew that a team from the German Magical Research Institute, based in Stuttgart, was hot on his heels, and he also knew that they had the equipment and the funds to prove the theory true, whereas he did not. So, it was important he got to Britain as soon as possible. Imagine the carnage if the ability to penetrate dreams had fallen into the wrong hands Â…"

"HitlerÂ’s hands, you mean?" Draco asked.

Dumbledore nodded. "The GMR works very closely with an organisation loosely termed the Black Coven, or the Silver Serpent Â…"

"Death Eaters Â…" breathed Hermione.

"Exactly," said Dumbledore. "The Black Coven are Â… in favour of the general policies of the National Socialist Party in Europe. If they discovered Dreamscape, they would doubtless have passed on the information to the Axis Muggles."

"They didnÂ’t?" asked Draco.

"No, they did not. Because they never got close to proving Dreamscape," said Dumbledore. "Because Sabian and two other men firebombed their building in Stuttgart. The equipment, all the notes were destroyed Â… this took place in late November, 1941. The explosion was put down to British bombers raiding the city. It had taken the GMR six years to build up their store of information, and they were forced to start from scratch Â… and of course, six years on, the War was ended, and the GMR disbanded by the Allies. Sabian escaped with his documents, and the Dreamscape Theory, back to Britain, with the aid of Charles Potter and Algernon Longbottom."

"I begin to understand," Hermione said.

"Good, excellent. Now … back in London, the Institute of Advanced Magical Research … for which I believe Sirius’ fiancée, Gwyneth Jones, worked for a time, got their hands on Sabian’s papers. They were very interested, but they did not have the time or the money to pour into a project which, on the face of it, seemed frankly ludicrous. Sabian, angry beyond belief, took the papers back to Malfoy Park, where, a couple of days later, an audacious break in occurred. The papers were stolen, and disappeared into the ether. Until the mid-seventies, when the Order of the Phoenix stumbled upon them. Now, in 1978, a quite brilliant scientist and theologian named Lily Evans left Hogwarts School. She’s dead now, sadly. However, she and her husband found the Dreamscape Hypothesis, and were working on it. The Order felt … feels, that Dreamscape would be a powerful weapon against Voldemort. Unfortunately, the Silver Serpent were being informed by a spy …"

Draco was about to say ‘Pettigrew,’ but Hermione stopped him.

"We donÂ’t know who the spy is yet," said Dumbledore, as if appeasing some bizarre deus ex machina, "although I daresay that will come out fairly shortly. What we do know is that the Silver Serpent were working to crack Dreamscape themselves. Lily Potter had already proven the theory, but was still a week short of demonstrating how Dreamscape worked. Her work died with her, sadly."

Hermione nodded. "What does this have to do with Harry?"

"It was why Voldemort was after the Potters," Dumbledore said. "Lily had secreted the research inside HarryÂ’s head, using very advanced concealing charms. Voldemort merely wanted this information."

"Is it still there?"

"I would assume so," said Dumbledore.

"So if we can get to Harry Â… we can use it?" asked Hermione. "If we can find it?"

Dumbledore smiled again. "I rather think thatÂ’s getting a bit forward," he said. "Let me tell you a little about what Dreamscape is."

The waitress brought DracoÂ’s coffee, and a small, silver pot of tea for Hermione at that point, and for a second, silence fell across the table as Draco struggled to prise the lid from a plastic tub of UHT milk.

"Can I get you something else, sir?" the waitress asked Dumbledore.

"A refill would be nice," said Dumbledore. Draco finally tore the lid off, splattering milk all over his robes.

Hermione poured tea into her cup. It was a disappointing orange colour.

"Dreamscape is easily accessed," Dumbledore said, when order had been restored, "by a variety of means. You can either use the Dreamstone to get in. You can use the Dreamscape Potion, devised by Lily Potter herself, although as yet untested, or you can travel through time."

Hermione gave a start, and nearly spat tea all over the table.

"Time travel?" she exclaimed. "You mean weÂ’re in Dreamscape now?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Well, yes and no," he said. "It turns out, the place you go to when you dream is remarkably similar to the place where you go when you travel through time. Both are, separate universes, if you will, which latch onto our universe at specific points Â… via the Â…"

"Stone," said Hermione, "and the potion, right?"

Dumbledore nodded. "And by falling asleep," he said. "Sorry, that oneÂ’s so simple I forgot to mention it before. It is also easy to move between Timescape, as it is known, and Dreamscape. Harry has become trapped in Timescape Â… so have you."

Draco interrupted. "What Â… whatÂ’s the Dreamstone Â… what does that do?"

Dumbledore smiled, yet again Â… it was becoming tiresome. "The Dreamstone. ItÂ’s an ancient rune stone, located within the Forbidden Forest. One has to know how to operate it Â… by reading the runes in a specific order. Nobody knows how long itÂ’s been there Â… we can only assume that the ancient Britons were considerably more advanced, scientifically, than we had previously thought. The Dreamscape Potion is an easier way Â… itÂ’s made of wormwood, eye of newt, toe of snake, essence of pogrebin Â… a whole load of curious stuff. Lily stumbled across the recipe herself when she was trying to invent a cheap substitute for Holy Water.

"Now, it seems that time travelling puts you in a remarkably similar dimension to Dreamscape, something Lily termed Timescape. YouÂ’re not dreaming, obviously, but the line becomes somewhat blurred. ItÂ’s the reason why people time travel all the time Â… yet people donÂ’t notice them."

"How do you mean?" asked Draco.

"ItÂ’s quite an old adage," Dumbledore explained. "Muggles have oft tried to explain time travel away by saying, if we invent it at some point in the future, then how come time travellers arenÂ’t coming back to us now? The answer is, they are Â… but only a select few will remain aware of it for more than a few seconds. That man you bump into on a crowded street, whose face you donÂ’t remember, and who then vanishes into a crowd? He could well be a time traveller."

"So HarryÂ’s kind of dreaming, kind of not, and kind of appearing to people in flashes?" Hermione asked.

"In essence."

"Thanks," said Hermione. "That really clears everything up."

Dumbledore made as if to get up. "I should be going," he said. "You must eat your breakfasts and then be gone Â… things are shortly about to get heated around here. I would estimate the milkman will find the PottersÂ’ bodies within the next Â… twenty seconds or so. Now Â… I have an emergency meeting of the Order to attend."

He gathered up his newspaper, and swept from the café, just as the waitress brought over another cup of coffee.

"He was in a rush," she said. "Does anybody want to pick up his tab?" she added, hopefully.

They finished their breakfast, paid the bill, and then stepped out into the cold morning air of a November day. As they pulled the door back, the milkman passed them on his way in, and they heard the waitressÂ’ voice raised in greeting. A radio was turned on.

"This is London. YouÂ’re listening to the eight oÂ’clock news on WWN. The headlines today. The Dark Lord is dead. Within the last hour, we have received reports that he perished last night in an attack upon the Northumberland home of James and Lily Potter. The PottersÂ’ son, believed to be the lone survivor of the attack, is currently in the care of the correct authorities. The Ministry of Magic has so far refused to release a statement Â…"

***

"This is WWN, coming to you live from Hogsmeade, Northumberland. IÂ’m Godfrey Wayzgoose. The headlines this morning. Repeated appeals by the interim Ministry of Magic, currently housed in temporary premises to the American Department of Magic have failed to illicit a response. The American Secretary of Magic has not yet released a statement on the deteriorating political situation in Britain, although he is expected to address Congress before the day is out.

"Meanwhile, heavy fighting continues in and around Thetford in Norfolk. It is believed that the elite MinisterÂ’s Guard is fighting a rearguard action to the north of the Black Country against the Dark LordÂ’s supernatural army. Information is, at this time, uh, sketchy, it is believed that the Guard is heavily outnumbered by a highly disciplined force of Dark Creatures.

"In London, the Dark Lord’s entreaties to the so called ‘illegal’ government in exile to surrender to the inevitable are being ignored. Eyewitness reports state that statues of late Minister Cornelius Fudge have been torn down, and that Death Eaters continue to patrol the alleyways of wizarding London. However, resistance amongst the general populace is growing rapidly. We are receiving reports of barricades in the streets and guerrilla activity … uh … within the last hour we have learned that a force of approximately twenty Knights, part of a Cabal known as the Dark Legion have been attacked on the streets of … um … London. We’ll have more information on that as we get it. Indications are that the guerrilla bands are composed largely of Muggle-born witches and wizards and … ah … the … indications show that as many as two thirds of the magical community are standing by them … yesterday’s edict that all Muggle-borns are required to wear prominently a pentagram shaped badge has been widely taken up by both Muggle-borns and Pureblooded witches and wizards alike in a show of solidarity, the like of which we have not seen before.

"Now, here is an important message for you all. The cat is out of the bag. Maggie waltzes at midnight. The red horses come unto Highgate Â… our hearts and prayers go out to those of you who are currently trapped or fighting for your people Â…"

***

"Order, please, ladies and gentlemen. This meeting of the Ministry of Magic is now in session Â…"

The assembled Magical government, who, just a day earlier, had been a semi-official governmental research body called the Order of the Phoenix, looked in DumbledoreÂ’s direction.

"WeÂ’ve all, I trust, had some sleep," Dumbledore said.

Gwyneth shook her head. She had been lying awake fretting until about four oÂ’clock that morning. Rhodri, Arabella, Remus and Sirius had all been in the same boat. The eyes of all present were ringed with red, and underlined with dark bags.

"Could we order some coffee up from the kitchens?" Rhodri moaned. "IÂ’ve got a terrible headache on me."

"I’ll see it done," Dumbledore said. He nodded to the attendant House Elf, standing at the door, wringing its hands in a paisley-patterned dishcloth. There was a loud ‘pop’ as the Elf vanished into thin air.

"Sirius," Dumbledore went on. "Perhaps you would care to favour us with your report?"

Sirius nodded, and stood up. "You need a projector or anything?" Rhodri asked.

"My wand will do," said Sirius. "Cartographus!"

Instantly, a shimmering, silver wraith, not unlike a Patronus, shot forth from the tip of SiriusÂ’ wand. Before their very eyes, it resolved itself into a map of the British Isles. The Order looked on as the map began to fill up with red from the bottom up, like a pitcher being filled with wine.

"The red area indicates the half of the country currently under the control of the Silver Serpent," Sirius said, using his wand as a laser pointer. "If we go on the reports and owls IÂ’ve been receiving today, then we can quite clearly see a demarcation line Â… a border, if you will, between that half of the UK that remains under our jurisdiction, and the rest of it. It runs, as of twelve midday today, roughly from the mouth of the Mersey to the mouth of the Humber at Great Grimsby. That includes roughly a quarter of the wizarding population of the UK. However, we can see some green areas remaining in the south. There is a force of approximately 1700 who still manage to hold Norfolk."

Norfolk turned green, and so did the coastal strip around Poole and Bournemouth on the south coast. And Birmingham.

"Why is Birmingham green?" asked Gwyneth.

"ThatÂ’s a hedgehog," said Sirius.

Snape coughed loudly.

"IÂ’m sorry?"

"An old military term," Sirius explained. "My Dad told me about it many years ago, and IÂ’ve been looking for an opportunity to use it ever since. Now, communication between Gubbins and ourselves indicates that the MinisterÂ’s Guard, which remains loyal to the Light, can hold out for approximately two days Â… after that, we may well be defenceless."

"Thank you," said Dumbledore. "Gwyneth? You have a question?"

Gwyneth nodded. "Once Gubbins is gone," she said. "How are we to go about defending ourselves?"

Sirius looked pleased with himself. "Well," he said. "There are Â… certain methods, certain means, by which we might defend ourselves."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

"We cannot raise an army," Sirius went on. "This much is obvious. The Dark has the remnants of GubbinsÂ’ force penned in at a place called," he checked the map, which was still shimmering in mid-air before their eyes, "Solihull. Once that goes, we are defenceless, and the way to Hogsmeade lies clear Â…"

Rhodri Finnegan spoke up. "ThereÂ’s no way on GodÂ’s earth IÂ’m going to let that happen," he said, stiffly.

"Quite," Sirius went on. "ThatÂ’s why IÂ’m advocating guerrilla tactics Â…"

"How do you mean?"

"Hit and run," said Sirius. "Go in quick, hit fast, hit hard, run."

"With what?" Rhodri asked. "Are we talking wands here? We have no Muggle arms save swords and spears."

"Swords and spears are good," said Sirius. "Bows and arrows too, stones, boiling oil is very effective."

"I see," said Dumbledore. "Freedom fighters, is it?"

Sirius looked hopeful, and nodded. "The power to resist is all around us," he said. "We just have to harness what nature provides Â…"

"When weÂ’ve quite finished with the Love-In," Gwyneth said, tiredly. "I feel I must add my assessment of the situation Â…"

"Carry on," Dumbledore said.

"SiriusÂ’ gung-ho tactics are all very well, but I would like," Gwyneth said, waving her wand in the air Â… SiriusÂ’ map vanished immediately, "to draw your attention to a problem that appears, to me, to be rather more pressing than mere guerrilla warfare."

"You have the floor, Gwyneth," said Sirius, in a tone that suggested ‘no sex for you.’

"We can run Hogwarts at full capacity for barely three weeks," said Gwyneth. "After that, the House Elves will begin to run low on the more essential supplies. If we disperse the student body and the faculty Â…"

"Are you suggesting we close Hogwarts?" Dumbledore growled.

"Not necessarily," said Gwyneth. "However, we must act to conserve what we already have. I estimate we could make three weeks food stretch to, say, six, with a bit of luck Â… and provided that no more people arrive here in the interim."

"That could be a problem," Dumbledore said. "Certainly, itÂ’s something we need to consider Â… Rhodri Â… Muggles?"

Rhodri smiled. "So far," he said, "Muggle awareness of the crisis remains strictly limited to those who live in close proximity to witches and wizards, and theyÂ’re certainly not saying anything. Now Â… being Muggle myself, I have to say that this probably wonÂ’t go on for much longer. Voldemort Â… if youÂ’ll pardon my use of his real name, has confined most of his operations to the wizarding community in London. Wizarding London has a population of approximately five thousand people, a good third of all the magical people in the South. A further thousand are resident in Brighton, and the rest are largely scattered across the region, with the majority in Devon and Cornwall. However, it is this region that we need to be worried about. The Silver Serpent will not care if they kill Muggles or wizards, and the South is by far the most populous region of the country."

"Do you anticipate Muggle awareness of the crisis rising?" Dumbledore asked. "Is our security going to be compromised?"

"With all due respect," said Sirius, "I do not see how it matters Â…"

Rhodri glared at him. "We cannot run the risk," he said. "ItÂ’s too great a risk."

"Why?"

"Have you heard of the Millennium?" asked Rhodri, sighing.

"ThatÂ’s not due for another six years," Sirius said. "What is your point Â…"

"Pre-Millennial Tension," Gwyneth said. "Of course, IÂ’ve heard of it myself."

"The Muggles, after two centuries basking in the light of the scientific arts," Rhodri elucidated, for the benefit of those present who werenÂ’t quite so up to date, "are rediscovering their roots, as it were. There is a renewed upsurge in interest in the magickal arts, in the supernatural, the paranormal. Paganism and Wiccan practices are at an all time high. Some people believe in worldwide conspiracies, Zionists, the Mafia, the Kennedys Â… the Trilateral Commission. Imagine the chaos if news of a secret Â… society, like ours, did get out."

"WeÂ’d be seen as an imminent threat," said Dumbledore. "Of course, I understand."

"The wizarding world represents a clear and present danger to the internal and external security of the Muggle," said Rhodri. "And I should bloody know, I am a Muggle."

"Muggles would be petrified of us," said Gwyneth. "TheyÂ’d either resent us for using magic to make life easier, or theyÂ’d convince themselves that weÂ’ve been somehow pulling the strings behind their society, screwing up their progress, nicking their biros Â… fuelling their need to see a conspiracy behind everything."

"Exactly," said Rhodri.

"Then weÂ’re decided," said Dumbledore. "The wards must be strengthened to their maximum."

The others nodded.

Dumbledore dipped his quill pen in the inkpot, standing on the table and his side, and proceeded to write down this latest intelligence on a piece of parchment. So far today, it was number 463 on the list of things to do. And the list looked, on balance, as if it was going to get longer still Â…

"Our next item," said Gwyneth, "we may not see as a pressing issue, for it concerns school business. I, however, believe otherwise. There is still no sign of either of the missing students, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy."

Dumbledore looked up.

"They vanished last night after dinner. Professor McGonagall reports that a malfunctioning Time Turner was stolen from her office," said Gwyneth. "I have reason to believe that this may be directly related to the disappearance of Harry Â…"

***

It was a little after midday when Gwyneth next caught up with Sirius. He was walking near the stables where the dragons were kept, his heavy boots crunching in the pure, white snow. His footprints magically filled themselves in as he went, leaving the icy blanket as pristine as it had been before. The hem of his cloak trailed in the snow, and he looked quite contemplative.

"Cold out," she said, catching up with him on a low rise overlooking the lake. The giant squid was waving its tentacles through a hole it had smashed in the ice.

"Just a bit," said Sirius, casting moody eyes up at the leaden grey sky. "Look Â… thereÂ’s Hagrid."

Hagrid was standing outside the stable gates, holding an enormous wooden tub, filled with what seemed to be meat. Bellerophon, DracoÂ’s dragon, was with him, pawing the ground with his forelegs, his vast wings furled against his back, jet black against the snow.

"He seems to like them," said Sirius.

Gwyneth nodded. "I was thinking," she said, as they began to walk down the hill towards Hagrid and the dragons.

"Â’Bout what?" Sirius asked.

"Harry," said Gwyneth. "Draco, Hermione Â… that lot."

Sirius smiled. "You think they did steal the Time Turner?" he asked.

"IÂ’m sure of it," said Gwyneth. "If only I could work out why Â…"

"Perhaps HarryÂ’s gone back in time, and theyÂ’ve gone to look for him," said Sirius, jokingly.

"Perhaps," said Gwyneth, in all seriousness. "ItÂ’s certainly the best theory IÂ’ve been able to come up with myself."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "YouÂ’re actually serious?"

Gwyneth nodded. "Why not?"

"ItÂ’s rather improbable, donÂ’t you think?" asked Sirius.

Gwyneth shrugged. "Yes, but look at our relationship."

"IÂ’m meant to nod sagely at this juncture, arenÂ’t I?" said Sirius. "Then we get all serious and pledge our troth and head up to my rooms for a fire-lit shag on the rug Â…" he added, hopefully.

Gwyneth shook her head, sending her hair flying. "Your idea of a romantic evening is firmly rooted in the 1970s and ‘Debbie does Dagenham,’ isn’t it?" she laughed.

"WeÂ’d need a big tigerskin rug," Sirius was saying, "and one of those huge fireplaces like you get in Alpine hotels. And possibly the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading squad."

"Shut up, you pervert."

"Oh, thatÂ’s rich!" scoffed Sirius. "Â… Hey Â… wait for me!"

He jogged down the hill to catch up with Gwyneth. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"To see the dragons," Gwyneth said.

Hagrid, who had caught sight of them approaching, set down BellerophonÂ’s feeding bowl, and waved his graphorn fur clad arms in the air.

"Hey Â… down here!" he roared at the top of his voice. "Got something to show you, Gwyneth!"

They hurried down the hill. Bellerophon was sniffing disdainfully at the meat in his bowl, and looked up at their approach

"Greetings, Sirius Black, Gwyneth Jones," the dragon said, in mournful tones. "Look what heÂ’s feeding me."

Gwyneth peered into the bowl. It appeared to be pork by-products, mainly brawn and sausages.

"Well, whatÂ’s wrong with that?"

"Pork harms my gullet," said Bellerophon, sniffily.

"He wonÂ’t eat his sausages," Hagrid explained. "He just growls Â… like heÂ’s doing now Â…"

Gwyneth understood immediately. "Giants canÂ’t understand the speech of dragons," she said. "ThatÂ’s all it is Â…"

Hagrid looked almost offended. "Why ever not?" he asked.

"WhatÂ’s that oaf saying?" asked Bellerophon. "Make him talk English, for pityÂ’s sake!"

"He is talking English," said Gwyneth. "ItÂ’s all rather complicated Â… a curse was cast many centuries ago that rendered it impossible for giants and dragons to understand each other. ItÂ’s called the Babel Curse Â… legend has it that French waiters suffer from it, too Â…"

"Why should they have done that?" asked Bellerophon and Hagrid simultaneously.

"To stop them allying against wizards, IÂ’m afraid," said Gwyneth.

"So heÂ’s talking English?" asked Hagrid, bewildered.

Gwyneth nodded. "He talks it very well," she said. "You just need to get some cue cards, or something."

"I canÂ’t write," sighed Bellerophon.

"WhatÂ’d he say?"

"He said he canÂ’t write," Gwyneth explained. Sirius looked on with an air of detached amusement.

"Hah Â… so Â… whyÂ’s he off his food?" Hagrid went on.

"YouÂ’re feeding him pork," Gwyneth said. "The meat harms his gullet. HeÂ’d sooner have a few head of cattle, or a small flock of sheep, wouldnÂ’t you, Bellerophon."

"That," said the dragon, "would go down a treat," and Gwyneth could have sworn he smacked his lips in anticipation.

"Explains a lot," said Hagrid. "Hey Â… any news of Harry?"

Sirius looked up from the snow-covered ground. "Nothing Â… you heard Hermione and Draco have gone missing too Â…"

Bellerophon looked up. "I know where theyÂ’ve gone," he said.

Nobody listened to him. Hagrid looked very crestfallen. "Does anybody have any idea where they might have gone?"

Gwyneth nodded. "I have a vague theory," she said. "Professor McGonagall reported the theft of a malfunctioning Time Turner from her office last night. I reckon they believe Harry has somehow gone back in time, and theyÂ’ve gone to look for him."

"Yes, thatÂ’s exactly correct," said Bellerophon.

"My," said Hagrid. "But what makes them think HarryÂ’s gone back in time Â…"

"ThatÂ’s what IÂ’m trying to work out," said Gwyneth.

"I could tell you, if youÂ’d like," said Bellerophon. Sirius looked up.

"Hey, Gwyneth. I Â… er Â… think Bellerophon might have something to tell us."

Gwyneth and Hagrid both looked up at the dragon, who surveyed them with something approaching affectionate pity.

"I know DracoÂ’s mind," said Bellerophon. "He is my Rider. We are linked. I know what heÂ’s thinking. I know exactly where he is Â…"

"Bellerophon?" Gwyneth said. "Tell us, please."

Bellerophon cocked his head on one side, and blinked. There is a school of thought that says dragons – as reptiles – cannot blink. This school is wrong.

"What do I get out of it?" he asked. "I am a loyal dragon. I keep my RiderÂ’s secrets secret."

"IÂ’m his teacher," said Sirius, elbowing Gwyneth sideways. "And I have a right to know!"

"I might be persuaded, of course," said Bellerophon.

"WhatÂ’ll it take?" Gwyneth asked.

"I want beef," Bellerophon said. "None of this swine flesh! I wouldnÂ’t allow it to grace a rubbish tip!"

"We can manage that," said Sirius. "IÂ’m sure Hagrid can sort out something."

"Hereford Beef Cattle, mind," Bellerophon said. "Pure-bred, Polled Herefords, if you please."

"Nothing but the best," Gwyneth said. "Bellerophon Â… please Â… itÂ’s very important you tell us."

"Very well," said Bellerophon. "I will."

And he did.

***

Harry was awoken by the sound of the guard rapping on the door of their compartment.

"KingÂ’s Cross, ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen. Ten minutes to KingÂ’s Cross. Thank you!"

Harry opened his eyes, and glanced out of the window. Sure enough, the dreary suburbs of North London were gliding past the train window Â… but how different they appeared! Gone were the corrugated iron warehouses that lined the railway Â… gone were the giant, ugly cash and carry stores, gone the trendy blocks of flats and the shiny office towers. And in their place Â…

Row upon row of identical, grey, terraced housing. Cobbled streets with children playing in them. Queues outside shops. No cars. Here and there Â… pretty much everywhere, in fact, an entire house had been blown away by enemy bombs, leaving a gaping hole in the fabric of the street, giving an effect not unlike that of a missing tooth.

The train was slowing down as they glided through Finsbury Park station. The electronic information display boards had vanished, the adverts for mobile phones and computers had been replaced by gaudy propaganda posters depicting cartoon Nazis; ‘Keep Mum: She’s Not So Dumb’ and ‘Dig For Victory,’ alongside drab advertisements for Fry’s Chocolate and Spam. Gone were the crowds of commuters. Indeed, Harry observed, there weren’t even any signposts, lest their location be given away to spies.

Charles, sitting on the bench seat opposite, reading documents over the tops of his half-moon spectacles, seemed monumentally unaffected by it all. Arthur Weasley, who was coming back to London with them, had spent most of the journey asleep as well. But to Harry, it was a whole new world.

And soon enough, the Edinburgh Flyer was pulling into Platform 9 ¾, spewing smoke and whistling. There was a great crowd of people standing on the platform. Most of them were dressed in robes, but there were a few who looked dour and depressed in Muggle suits. Here and there were women with fox furs draped about their necks as a guard against the cold.

Charles gathered his things together Â… Harry, who of course had nothing with him save the clothes he was standing up in, stood up, realised his shoelaces had come undone, and bent to retie them.

"Stick close by me," Charles said, flinging open the carriage door, and nearly catching a passing porter on the nose. "IÂ’ve owled ahead for a Ministry car, but knowing them weÂ’ll have to take a bus."

The cold hit Harry like a knife cutting through his pale skin as they stepped down onto the platform. At first, Harry was a little perturbed at the lack of people pointing and staring at him, as they usually did whenever he went out in magical company Â… but then, of course, he remembered. He was anything but famous in 1941.

Charles, with Arthur Weasley holding his hand tightly, led him through the barrier and out onto the concourse. It was crowded, mainly with soldiers, on their way to new billets (the invasion of the GIÂ’s had still not yet happened), although here and there Harry spotted some city gents who were too old to be pushed into National Service.

He glanced about, looking for any sign of familiarity. But there was none. The departures boards, with their familiar clicka clicka sound, had vanished. The digital clocks were gone too. There were no ticket vending machines, no benches, no branch of WH SmithÂ’s, no Sock Shop. The Baguette Express which usually stood by the entrance had been replaced by two Red Cross trestle tables, with a silver tea urn, steaming gently. Harry looked up to the vaulted ceiling. Last time he had been here, there had been an advert up for Oil of Ulay. Now there were just ugly, blacked out windows, streaked with pigeon droppings.

It wasnÂ’t raining outside, but the clouds overhead looked threatening, as Charles led Harry outside, pausing to buy an Evening Standard from a local vendor, who looked cheerful despite the miserable day.

There were two naval ratings leaning against a lamp post beside the road. Charles approached them, and snapped a salute.

"At ease, chaps."

The ratings, who already were at ease, looked about ready to blow their tops at him Â… and then one of them looked up.

"Charlie! What the dickens are you doing down here?"

Charles shook hands with the men. "Harry Â… this is a friend of mine, Horatio Snape."

He looked like a Snape, Harry thought Â… the same hook nose, and sallow, greasy hair. All the same, they shook hands. Harry wondered if this was SnapeÂ’s Dad.

"My nephew, Harry," Charles was saying. "Just back from Canada. IÂ’m looking after the other little boy for a friend."

Arthur Weasley grinned spectacularly.

"Good to meet you," Horatio said. "Me, IÂ’m off on leave. One lovely month away from the high seas. I tell you, IÂ’ve had them U-Boats up to here. Bloody sick of them!"

"Heading to Hogsmeade?" Charles asked.

Horatio nodded. "Booked on the first stopper," he said. "Looking forward to giving the wife one."

"Ha," said Charles. "Should have joined the RAF Â… lotÂ’s of lovely NAAFI girls for you to get your teeth into. Now forgive me if IÂ’m wrong, but they donÂ’t allow women in the Navy, do they?"

Horatio scowled. "Have it your way," he said. "Poncy git."

Harry almost gave a start, but there had been no malice in HoratioÂ’s voice.

"Meant to be getting a car to Diagon Alley," Charles was saying. "Damn useless Ministry canÂ’t even meet a bloody train."

"Tell me about it," Horatio said. "TheyÂ’re rationing Floo Powder, as well. Bloody stupid, if you ask me. ThereÂ’s plenty more where that came from Â…"

Charles gave Horatio a lop-sided look. "Now, now," he said. "IÂ’m sure the powers that be have their reasons. Ours not to reason why Â…"

"Comes to something, thatÂ’s all IÂ’m saying," said Horatio. "Fancy some chocolate?"

Harry perked up immediately Â… it was a very cold day, after all.

Horatio delved into the pocket of his greatcoat, and withdrew a large bar of HoneydukeÂ’s Finest, which he broke into five pieces, sharing them around. From the gutter, two young, filthy looking boys eyed them hungrily.

"So, Harry," Horatio said. "What brings you back to Britain? IÂ’d have thought Canada was much safer Â…"

"His Mum," said Charles, quickly, before Harry had had a chance to say anything. "She worries about him Â… a lot. So he was booked passage back home, werenÂ’t you?"

Charles looked to Harry for agreement. Harry nodded.

"By ship?"

Charles nodded. "Our boats are warded off against attacks by U-Boats," he said.

Horatio nodded. "Wish my boat was," he said. "We damn nearly took a torpedo at anchor in Valletta. The bugger was only a hundred feet or so off the port bow. So, Harry? YouÂ’re a seaman at heart, eh?"

Harry didnÂ’t quite know what to say Â… he kept silent.

"YouÂ’ll be joining the Navy as soon as youÂ’re old enough, I take it?" Horatio went on.

Harry shook his head. "I actually prefer Quidditch," he said.

"Ah, an airman," said Charles. "A man after my own heart. You know, Harry, my old man used to have a Tiger Moth based at Middle Wallop Â… back when they still let civilians fly. If this bloody war wasnÂ’t in the way, IÂ’d take you up in it Â…"

"Bollocks," Horatio interrupted. "Harry just wants to get his hands on those NAAFI girls Â… donÂ’t you?"

Harry blushed Â… he couldnÂ’t help it.

***

Dumbledore was just making his way down to the Hogwarts kitchens for a spot of afternoon tea and a biscuit or six with the House Elves Â… when he found himself unexpectedly waylaid by Sirius on the main staircase.

"Albus," Sirius began, blocking the older manÂ’s way. "IÂ’ve been meaning to have a word with you about something."

He looked angry. Dumbledore, who was not normally afraid of anything, except for mice, could almost feel himself shivering in his shoes.

"Might it wait?" asked Dumbledore. "Time and custard creams wait for no man, you know, Sirius."

"No, it might not wait," said Sirius. "At least letÂ’s go somewhere private, though."

"The kitchen would suit me fine," said Dumbledore. "I was just on my way to have a brew, as it happens."

"How lovely," said Sirius, in a most smarmy tone of voice. "And how lovely it would be to have a hundred odd House Elves babbling about us. Your office Â… Albus Â… pronto."

Dumbledore sighed. "I wouldnÂ’t have stood for this twenty years ago," he said. "IÂ’d have put you straight in detention, you know Â…"

"Lovely," said Sirius. "However, this is not 1975 Â… look, just come with me."

Sirius led Dumbledore to the small cubby-hole office that he officially shared with Hagrid Â… however, Hagrid was too large to fit through the door, which had been built only a little over five feet high, so even they had to stoop to get in. So Sirius had personalised it a bit.

"Nice," said Dumbledore. "Bit untidy," he added, moving a pile of Wizard! magazines from the single chair.

"Have a seat," said Sirius. Dumbledore noticed there was a half-eaten packet of Bourbon biscuits on the desktop, and looked at them hopefully. He took his seat, which creaked ominously as it accepted his weight. Sirius perched on the edge of the desk, and lit the candles with his wand.

"Why didnÂ’t you tell me where Harry had gone?" he asked, softly.

"I donÂ’t know what you mean."

"Bollocks, you don’t!" yelled Sirius, losing his cool almost immediately. "You thought you’d just keep it under wraps, did you? You thought you wouldn’t bother telling anybody that he’s in danger? You thought you’d leave it up to Hermione and Draco ‘A-Grade hair, F-Grade essays’ Malfoy, did you? They're racketing around the cosmos, trying to find Harry, and all you can do is sit here? Eating biscuits?"

"IÂ’m sorry?" Dumbledore said, looking quite taken aback.

"Tell me where theyÂ’ve gone," said Sirius.

"IÂ’m sorry?"

"You know. And I know you know," said Sirius. "Your eyes have been doing that whole twinkly thing Â… they havenÂ’t bloody stopped! YouÂ’re up to something Â…"

"I wonÂ’t deny IÂ’m up to something," said Dumbledore, suddenly looking all of his hundred and fifty-something years. "But it would Â…"

"It would do me no good at all to be made aware of where my damn kid has gone?" snarled Sirius Â… if he was being Padfoot, he wouldÂ’ve been baring his teeth at this juncture.

"Be fair Â… Harry isnÂ’t Â…"

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "IsnÂ’t what?"

Neither of them got any further, for the door burst open at that point, revealing Gwyneth and Professor McGonagall standing there.

Professor McGonagall, for one, looked as if she was about to explode, leaving entrails all over the office.

"What?" she asked, in tones reminiscent of a superpower threatening to go nuclear. "What have you done with my students, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore got to his feet. "Minerva Â… I Â… I Â…"

"Owe us an apology Â… an explanation?" hissed Gwyneth. She stepped up to Dumbledore, until they were practically nose to nose.

"Precisely," said Dumbledore. He removed his hat, the tip of which kept getting caught on the low ceiling. "That is precisely what I owe you Â… that is precisely what I should have dignified you with Â…"

"And Â…"

"And it is precisely what you are going to get," said Dumbledore. "I know everything Â… I know what Â… I know where Harry is Â…"

"Albus, the entire school knows that Harry is somewhere in the Second World War," said Gwyneth, in a low voice, "a period of history with more than its fair share of nasty, dangerous things, donÂ’t you think? So, are you going to tell us how he got there?"

"He was attacked in the grounds," said Dumbledore. McGonagallÂ’s hand flew to her mouth, and she let out a little gasp.

"You didnÂ’t!"

"I didnÂ’t," said Dumbledore. "HarryÂ’s attacker was my brother, Aberforth. He took Harry back in time, and placed him where he Â…"

"He took Harry back?" began Sirius, Gwyneth waved him into silence.

"On my instructions, I regret," said Dumbledore. He clocked the looks the others were giving him. "Let me explain," he went on. "Harry must go back in time Â… there are certain people who need to be dealt with Â… certain tasks to be carried out, and certain, things to bring back Â…"

"Bollocks to that, IÂ’m going to look for him," said Sirius.

"It concerns Dreamscape," began Dumbledore.

This information stopped Sirius and Gwyneth in their tracks.

"IÂ’m sorry?"

"I could have sworn you mentioned Dreamscape," said Sirius. "I thought that was dead and buried Â…"

"Oh, no," said Dumbledore. "Harry is a vital link in the chain Â… he must Â…"

"IÂ’m still going to look for him," said Sirius Â… and, without even waiting for a reply, he was gone, slamming the door shut behind him.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "Such an incorrigible, stubborn young man," he said. "Reminds me of me. Oh well."

And Gwyneth and Professor McGonagall could only stare in disbelief.

***

The Leaky Cauldron was, surprisingly, quite crowded. Charles made sure Harry, who was freezing in his borrowed robes, had a corner table, in a cosy booth next to the fire, and then disappeared to the bar to see if he couldnÂ’t organise some tea.

Harry unbuttoned the front of his over-cloak, and looked around. The majority present were quite clearly witches and wizards, although there were also some, presumably Muggle-born servicemen standing around. Even though it was barely four oÂ’clock in the afternoon, vast quantities of alcohol were already being imbibed. Clearly, Harry thought, the wizarding population was not immune to all the effects of the bombing. The subject of their loud conversations testified as such.

Nobody took any notice of him, however, for which he was grateful. After a few moments, Charles returned to their table, slid into the seat opposite Harry, and plonked a menu card down in front of him.

"It isnÂ’t the Ritz, IÂ’m afraid," he said, apologetically, as if Harry had been expecting smoked salmon pate and caviar on toast. "But at least they donÂ’t ration us."

Harry took up his menu, and studied it. The bill of fare did, indeed, seem more well stocked than what he suspected the majority of Muggles were used to, and he allowed himself a few seconds of self-conscious guilt. And then he remembered Â… Dursleys were out there somewhere. A smile spread across his pale features.

Charles surveyed him over the teapot that sat between them.

"Sorry about the drinks," he said. "They didnÂ’t have any pumpkin juice today."

"ThatÂ’s okay," Harry said, quietly. Even though he knew full well that this man was his Grandfather, he still felt ill at ease in his company.

Charles must have sensed HarryÂ’s discomfort, for he said, "Cheer up, now. WeÂ’ll have you home and right as rain in no time."

Harry almost had to put his hand in his mouth and bite hard to prevent himself from crying out. The Leaky Cauldron was familiar. Everything, pretty much, was all right. But it was the singular fact that he was a very, very long way away from home, friends, people who cared for him Â… that Â… that Â… was upsetting.

"Drink your tea," Charles said, gruffly. "You decided what you want to eat?"

Harry shook his head. Arthur, who was clearly a very timid little boy, swung his legs back and forth under the table, and said nothing.

"DonÂ’t say much, do you?" Charles went on.

"Not usually," said Harry. "Just Â… tired, I guess."

"It shows," said Charles. "Travelling always takes it out of you. Come on, Harry. Look lively. No point letting the side down."

"It isnÂ’t the side IÂ’m worried about," said Harry, fitfully.

Charles changed the subject. "I fancy the cheese and pickle sandwiches. Of course, IÂ’ll have Mary cook us a proper roast in honour of your presence later Â… but for now Â… you need to get something down your neck, Harry."

The menu suddenly looked very uninteresting.

"Some sort of sandwich, I suppose," Harry said, weakly.

"Bowl of chips. They do super chips here," Charles said. "DonÂ’t want to fill you up too much."

"I guess."

"IÂ’d like chips," Arthur said.

Charles sighed extravagantly. "Look, here," he said. "Let me tell you a story."

He paused, gestured to the window, which was steamed up.

"If you could see out there Â… youÂ’d see a different world to the one you know, that much I know. LondonÂ’s in ruins Â… exhausted by eighteen months solid bombing, pretty much. People are dying, out there, Harry. TheyÂ’re dying now. Some of them will never be found. They all had families, too. People are dying in Europe, Harry. Brave people, who are fighting for their independence, for their right to freedom. People are hiding, terrified for their lives, in attics and haylofts and even in churches. These are Dark Times Â… and things seem, to them Â… to us, pretty much as they must seem to you."

Harry nodded.

"TheyÂ’re not giving up, Harry. Many more of them will die needlessly and horribly. Of that I am sure. Now, think of yourself like London, Harry. YouÂ’ve got some scars Â… but youÂ’re still okay. The Underground still works, the buses run Â… thereÂ’s just enough food for everyone. People are going on. Now Â… I cannot pretend to know how your life has been Â… but Â…"

"You donÂ’t need to do this," Harry said, quietly.

"IÂ’m sorry?"

"You donÂ’t need to do this. I know," said Harry. "But I canÂ’t Â…"

"CanÂ’t what?"

"I canÂ’t carry on," said Harry.

"Yes, you can," said Charles. "Wait till you get home. YouÂ’ll see. ItÂ’ll be worth it Â…"

"I donÂ’t have a home," said Harry, great sadness welling inside him as he spoke. "Hogwarts doesnÂ’t count Â… the Dursleys Â…"

"My home," said Charles. "I meant my home. Look, now. Keep a stiff upper lip, Harry, thereÂ’s a good boy Â…"

***

The Ministry of Magic building was a vast, fortress like edifice with turrets and arrow slit windows, sitting on one side of a large square at one end of Diagon Alley. Harry had passed it by a couple of times back Â… sorry forwards in the 1990s, but he had never actually been inside.

The two guards, armed with Enfield rifles instead of the customary ceremonial swords, stepped smartly aside and saluted as Charles passed through, Arthur Weasley still clutching his hand. Harry trailed along in their wake.

They passed through the main gate, and under a lethal looking portcullis. The central courtyard of the Ministry was empty, save for a few parked cars, and a large, ornamental fountain in the middle of it.

And one man, who was striding towards them, his hand stretched out in greeting.

"Charlie!" he exclaimed. "Simply spiffing to see you, old boy!"

"Antonius," Charles said, shaking the other manÂ’s hand. "Good to see you. IÂ’d like you to meet my nephew, Harry, and this is a family friend, Arthur."

He pushed the boys forwards. "Chaps, this is Antonius Â… another Snape, and a fellow Gryffindor."

HarryÂ’s jaw dropped.

"The Snapes have a long tradition of being Gryffindors," Antonius grinned. "WeÂ’ve not had a Ravenclaw or a Hufflepuff since the 17^th Century. And IÂ’m pleased to say that never in the annals of history have we recorded a Slytherin amongst our brethren Â… shame, eh, Charlie?"

"No need to drag that up Â… be civil, now," Charles said, flustered.

"Your UncleÂ’s Great-Grandfather was a Slytherin," Antonius said to Harry in a stage whisper that seemed to carry right across the courtyard. "Now, would you chaps like to come inside? WeÂ’re having a little shindig for Sabian."

"ThatÂ’d be splendid," Charles said. "YouÂ’ll forgive me, boys, but I need to speak to a couple of chaps."

They followed Charles and the bizarrely jolly Antonius Snape, who kept cracking off-colour jokes about barmaids, and reminded Harry very much of Ludo Bagman, through the hallowed portals of the Ministry of Magic building, across a vast atrium, where several receptionists sat at a long bank of desks, looking bored, and up a wide flight of marble stairs. Everywhere were vast, opulent portraits of past Ministers looking regal in their ceremonial Inauguration Robes. Everything Â… everything down to the banisters themselves, seemed to have been leafed with pure gold. The building seemed to shimmer.

"LetÂ’s have an ID check, please?" a security guard at the top of the stairs waylaid them, barring their way with an eight foot pike. "Whose kids?"

"TheyÂ’re with me," said Charles. "Colonel Charles Potter. Department of International Affairs, on secondment from His MajestyÂ’s Royal Air Force."

"YouÂ’re cleared," said the guard, swiping Charles with what looked like some kind of wand. "Thank you, sir."

"Very good," said Antonius. "Would you chaps like to see my office while GrandpaÂ’s busy?"

"I think weÂ’ll just pop in briefly," said Charles, firmly, as they rounded a corner into an enormous, even palatial corridor. Marble benches were set at intervals along the walls, and tropical plants were flowering in giant pots. Light was let in through a glass roof, frosted against the outside world.

Charles rapped three times on one of the doors. "Charles," he said.

The door was opened by a young, pretty woman, wearing loose, flowing robes, her hair back in a bun, and a smile that could have spanned the Channel. Harry was smitten.

"Thank you, Miss Moneypenny," Charles said, and Harry had to force his fist into his mouth again to keep from laughing out loud.

"Good day?"

"Not bad," Charles said. He ushered Harry and Arthur through the door, and into what appeared to be an enormous function room. Huge, Georgian windows afforded fine views over Home Park. From the elegantly painted ceiling hung an array of crystal chandeliers, whose candles flickered gently. Hanging from the walls were fine, damask coverings, with ornate, red and gold twiddly bits, expertly picked out. The floor was polished to a buff sheen, and glittered in the fading afternoon light. A chamber orchestra was playing a slow waltz, and a couple of people were dancing. There was a photographer doing the rounds, the blinding light of his flashbulb cutting through the dim candles. On one side of the room several long tables had been pushed together, and laden with an assortment of nibbles; crudités, little cheesy biscuits, slices of quiche and pork pie, smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, sausages on sticks, large jugs of Martini cocktails, even Champagne. Harry looked around, impressed. It was spookily like one of Aunt Petunia’s Womens’ Institute Christmas socials.

A short, dark, French-looking man with an impressive crop of facial hair was making his way across the room towards them, hand outstretched.

"Charles," he said, in heavily accented English. "So wonderful you could make it, so charmed to make your acquaintance in more refined circles. I cannot begin to thank you enough for all your help."

"That’s no trouble, Mr Malfoy," Charles said … Harry goggled – he had never seen anybody who looked less like a Malfoy. "May I introduce my nephew, Harry, and this is Arthur Weasley … a … friend of the family."

Arthur Weasley was looking around the vast room, his eyes almost bursting out of their sockets Â… having previously lived in a dingy block of flats in Deptford, he was very unaccustomed to such luxury. His mouth hung wide open.

Sabian Malfoy dutifully shook hands with both the children. "I was unaware you had a nephew, Charles."

Charles explained the fabricated story of HarryÂ’s evacuation once more for SabianÂ’s benefit, and Sabian nodded.

"I understand, homesick?"

Harry nodded. "You could say that, Mr Malfoy," he said.

Sabian chuckled, "Sabian, please," he said.

"Sabian has done some very interesting work," Charles explained to the boys. "HeÂ’s been working on a very interesting theory called the Dreamscape Hypothesis. I rescued him and his papers from France a couple of weeks ago Â…"

"Eternally grateful, eternally grateful," said Sabian Malfoy, wringing CharlesÂ’ hand once more, as if it was some kind of dishcloth. Harry got the impression that Sabian was not the sort of person to be trusted.

"WhatÂ’s Dreamscape?" he asked.

Sabian smiled. "ItÂ’s really very simple," he said. "Dreamscape is the plain of reality to which you travel when you dream Â…"

Harry froze Â… he was unaware of Sabian talking. But the connections were falling into place, for sure. Voldemort had Dreamscape, or whatever it was called Â… Dreamscape allowed you to penetrate the dreams of others Â… his parents had been working on it themselves Â…

"May I see the papers?" he asked.

Sabian was taken aback. "IÂ’m awfully afraid not," he said. "TheyÂ’re very safe with the I.A.M.R Â… the Institute of Advanced Magical Research are voting now on whether or not to devote time and effort to this very important work of mine," he seemed to be swelling with pride, "alors, this is the whole purpose of this soiree Â… they should be letting us know of their decision within the hour. I am in no doubt that they will grant me funds and facilities to continue my work Â… Charles, mon ami Â… a drink with me, a toast to your bravery."

Charles looked chuffed. "I wouldnÂ’t say no," he said.

Sabian snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared by their side, as if by magic. He was holding a gilt tray upon which were two crystal glasses of Champagne.

"A little something for the children, too, perhaps?" asked Sabian.

The waiter nodded, and directed his gaze to the tray. Two small glasses of tomato juice appeared on it. Sabian looked disappointed.

"In France," he said, "it is customary for children to take a little wine now and then Â… however, we will forego in the present circumstances."

He handed round the glasses, and coughed. "To Charles Potter," he said, pronouncing it ‘Pott-eur,’ "my rescuer, saviour of my work, and his fine family."

They chinked glasses and drank.

"It is a good vintage," said Sabian. "Charles, are you familiar with the wines of my country?"

Charles shook his head. "I prefer Newcastle Brown, as a general rule," he began.

"A shame," said Sabian. "Perhaps one day, when this war is over, I shall take you to my vineyard. I own properties on the Rhone, near Chateauneuf Â… as well as on the Riviera itself. The wines must be tasted to be believed. I also brew olive oil. Charles, are you familiar with the fruit of the olive tree?"

"Not really," Charles said. "My wife uses boiling water for all her cooking."

"A good olive oil," said Sabian, "coats the stomach before one drinks Â… it allows one to take a little more alcohol than is perhaps wise Â… an old Provencal trick Â… what is it?"

Someone else had placed their hand on SabianÂ’s shoulder. "WeÂ’re just posing for photos now," he said, in a familiar voice. "Charles, perhaps youÂ’d like to join us?"

Harry looked up. It was Dumbledore.

"Sir? What are you doing here?"

Albus winked. "WouldnÂ’t miss this for the world," he said. "Come now, Sabian."

Harry found himself being hustled over into a corner of the room, where, before a vast oil painting, depicting the façade of the Ministry building, several benches had been set up.

"Just in there," Albus said, hustling Harry into the front row. There was another boy already there, who looked at Harry with an air of faint disgust.

"YouÂ’re scruffy," he said, in a posh accent. "My nameÂ’s Cornelius Fudge Â… whatÂ’s yours?"

"Smile please," the photographer said, drowning out HarryÂ’s reply. "Mr Kent, Mr Plunkett Â… the Potters in the back row Â… thank you Â… come along, Armand, you all want to be remembered as a bunch of grinning idiots, donÂ’t you?" There was a brief chuckle at this remark. "Smile, please, the kids down the front, this means you too Â… come along, the dark haired chappie with the specs Â… cheer up Â… you look like your parents just died! And Â… say cheese!"

There was a blinding flash, and then it was done. The photographer busied himself removing the plate from his vast machine. Charles and Sabian hopped down from the back row, Sabian still clutching his glass.

"Before we Â… continue," Sabian said, raising his hands for quiet. "I would like to say a few words Â…"

"Get on with it!" someone heckled.

"Yes, thank you," said Sabian. "It has been a couple of weeks since I arrived in this fair country, and I would like to say thank you Â… thank you to the people who rescued me from France Â… to the people who believed in me and gave me a chance, and to Janet Finch for the lovely vol-au-vents Â…" Charles was talking to a tall woman with black hair, "Â… and to all of you Â… I believe we are all here with, united with the same purpose. So I hope very much that the purpose we are here for will be realised. We all want the same thing. Thank you."

There was a smattering of applause. Charles picked his way over to Harry and Arthur, leading by one hand the tall woman, who was strikingly beautiful, and was possessed of brilliant emerald eyes, just like HarryÂ’s own. She was resplendent in a black dress that mustÂ’ve cost Charles a pretty penny. The two of them were accompanied by Albus Dumbledore, all smiles and twinkly eyes.

"This is Mary," he said. "My wife Â… your Grandmother, Harry."

Mary smiled at Harry with affection.

"WeÂ’d better make a move, Charlie," said Mary. "I have a roast lamb for this evening, and I need to get it in the oven."

She put her arm around HarryÂ’s shoulders and clasped him tightly to her side. Harry could have exploded with happiness at that point. He blinked to keep back tears that he could sense were coming.

"Charles," Albus said. "A word, if I may."

Charles nodded, and signalling to Mary to wait with the children, moved away from the milling throng. Harry watched as Albus put a companionable hand on CharlesÂ’ shoulder. It looked as if he was being told something. Charles nodded gravely.

Mary nudged the boys towards the exit. "Come along," she said. "I ordered a Muggle taxi Â… weÂ’ll wait for Charles out there."

***

They made their way down to Wimbledon on the Muggle underground, clattering through the darkened streets of Putney and Fulham. From there, a taxi took them to Richmond Hill, where Charles and Mary had an expensive terraced house, perched on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Thames, with fine views over the Western suburbs of Twickenham and Teddington. Charles and Mary talked in whispers amongst themselves, and Harry got the impression Mary was being told something important, but he didnÂ’t like to pry by asking what his Grandfather had to say that was so secret.

Harry looked out of the steamed up window as the cab driver turned left onto Hill Rise. Rain was falling steadily from the sky, and it showed no sign of stopping. Richmond itself appeared absolutely deserted.

The carÂ’s engine whined as it struggled up the hill, past the elegant Victorian mansions. Charles and Mary sat on the fold down seats, gazing upon Harry with, evidently, great affection. Little Arthur Weasley merely kicked his legs against the seat. There was a large scab on his knee.

Engine protesting, and windscreen wipers going supersonic in a vain effort to keep pace with the downpour, the taxi pulled over to the side of the road behind a very large, imported American Packard, with shiny chrome fittings everywhere, that looked quite out of place amongst the tinny Austin 7Â’s and ageing Model T Fords. Charles paid off the driver with a ten shilling note.

"Keep the change," he said.

"From ten bob? Thank you very much, sir," the cabbie said. He was a greying man, on the cusp of old age – clearly too hold to have been conscripted into the military. "Bloody awful weather we’re having, eh?"

"Terrible," said Charles. "Absolutely ghastly. Come along, boys."

Harry found himself and Arthur being hustled from the car, which did a U-turn in the middle of the road, and sped off down the hill.

"This is it," said Charles, clamping his hand on HarryÂ’s shoulder. Mary unfurled a large, black umbrella, which she held above them. "Our humble abode."

"Hardly humble," spluttered Harry, who had never been inside such an elegant looking house. Petunia Dursley wouldÂ’ve had a seizure if sheÂ’d known the Potters had ever owned a house like this.

They walked up the garden path, and mounted the front steps, which were flanked on either side by reproduction Corinthian columns. The front door was vast, with a brass letterbox set squarely in the middle of it, and painted scarlet.

"ItÂ’s big," Arthur cooed, matter-of-factly.

Mary opened the door, and kicked a pile of post out of the way. Then she flicked on the hall lights. Harry, who vaguely remembered learning about the Home Front at Primary School, was shocked.

"ShouldnÂ’t you have black out curtains?" he asked.

Charles smiled. "No need," he said, closing the door. "The windows are charmed not to let any light out Â…"

"IÂ’ll put the wireless on," Mary said, disappearing into the parlour. "I do hope that blessed elf has remembered to stoke up the fire."

"You have a House Elf?" Harry asked, turning to his Grandfather. Charles nodded.

"Her nameÂ’s Dilly," Charles said.

"I see."

"Sure, she occasionally spills the odd decanter of Port, but believe me, Harry – she does a mean bubble and squeak of a Monday evening," Charles winked. Harry, who well remembered being force fed bubble and squeak whilst the Dursleys ate lamb chops, shuddered inwardly.

"Now, would you chaps like to have the grand tour, or would you rather put your feet up and listen to ITMA, or perhaps youÂ’d rather have a nice cup of tea?"

"Tea sounds nice," said Harry.

Charles smiled. "Good, thatÂ’s settled then. Follow Mary into the kitchen and weÂ’ll see what we can rustle up."

The PottersÂ’ kitchen turned out to be almost, at least to Harry, inconceivably vast Â… this dwelling, he thought, was clearly one of those TARDIS like places that was bigger on the inside than it at first appeared. There was a large, wooden dining table, cracked with age and stained with a thousand spillages. The walls were lined with cupboards, the glass fronted ones holding an array of fine china and Clarice Cliffe artefacts. There was what Harry supposed must be some kind of a fridge, although it looked a very odd one, and, standing up against the wall, with at least five separate flues, was the most enormous, old fashioned stove you ever set eyes upon. Mary was boiling a kettle on it. Opposite the stove, a stone sink had been plumbed into the wall, and standing upon a pile of books, her little arms lost up to the armpits in soap suds, was Dilly, the House Elf, who was wearing a paisley patterned napkin. Her saucer eyes widened as Harry and Arthur were shown in, but she paid them no attention, and went back to her work.

"Cup of tea?" Mary asked. Charles pulled out chairs for them both, and took down a box of biscuits from one of the myriad high shelves.

"Just squashed flies, IÂ’m afraid," he said, lifting the lid to reveal that the box was full to bursting with Garibaldi biscuits. "The Ministry is rationing chocolate to try and make us feel more guilty than we already do."

Arthur appeared not to mind, and grabbed a handful of biscuits. "’Anks Mr ‘Otter," he said, spraying the table with crumbs. Charles ruffled his hair affectionately.

"We shall have to see whatÂ’s to be done with you, my boy," he said.

"IÂ’d sooner die than pack a child off to an orphanage," said Mary. The kettle began to whistle and vibrate violently at that point, distracting her. The sound of the unattended wireless blaring out music for the forces could be heard emanating from the parlour.

"I know how you feel, my dear," said Charles. "But you know how much youÂ’ve always wanted children Â…"

Mary cut him off. "Not in front of the little ones, Charlie," she scolded, setting down a mug in front of both boys. "Besides, I rather think HarryÂ’s existence is proof that we do Â… um Â…"

Harry said nothing. Arthur was spooning sugar into his tea, and hadnÂ’t heard.

"He could stay for a little while," Charles said. "It doesnÂ’t look much like there are any other relatives."

Mary smiled. "I daresay we could make time," she said. She lowered her voice. "Charles Â… um Â… are we expecting anybody else, today?"

She sounded like she was hinting at something.

Charles nodded. "As a matter of fact," he said. He reached into his pocket, and withdrew a gold fob watch. "Almost six o’clock," he smiled. "If Albus Dumbledore’s forecast was correct – they should be arriving any minute now. Mind you boil that kettle again," he added, staring out of the window at the rain still pouring down, "they’ll be cold and wet."

Harry was about to ask exactly what Charles was talking about, but there was no need, for before he could speak, Charles had Â…

"Harry Â… forgive me, my boy Â… but I may not have told you certain things that, I should have told you earlier today Â…"

"Like what?" Harry asked.

Charles checked the fob watch again. "Well," he said. "Follow me, boys, and Â… no, no, leave your tea, this wonÂ’t take a minute Â… well Â… youÂ’ll see."

Harry and Arthur followed Charles through into the hall, and, no sooner had they done so, but the doorbell rang, quite loudly and very clearly.

"Why donÂ’t you open it, Harry?" Charles said, pushing Harry, who by now was very bewildered, forwards.

Harry walked across the hall to the door, and gently turned the latch sideways. It creaked open.

"Hello," a bossy sounding voice began before the door was halfway open, "weÂ’re very sorry to bother you, but we got this address and we were wondering if a Charles Potter lived Â…" the voice trailed off.

"Harry?"

"Hermione?"

"Draco?" said a third voice, wryly.

"Oh shut up," said Hermione.