Replay

Replay

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Chapter Four

Fugitive

Harry stared.

The blonde woman was completely oblivious to the invisible teenage wizard in her garage; she took her handbag out of the car, closed the door, then removed a handkerchief from her bag and noisily blew her nose. Harry had forgotten that Mrs Figg lived next door to Miss Harrison, whom he hadn't seen since the previous summer. She'd been jogging near the park on one of the days when he'd been hanging about there, half hoping to run into Dudley and his gang. They'd been there that day, too, giving her a hard time with catcalls and lewd comments until she'd made a rude gesture with her hand and jogged off, as though unconcerned that they were continuing to comment loudly behind her back.

He'd been both shocked and pleased at the time; Harry didn't think she'd seen him when she'd made the gesture at Dudley's gang. He'd never thought of a teacher doing such a thing, especially aimed at former pupils. (Although, having experienced three terms of Umbridge, he wasn't sure there was anything he'd put anything past a teacher now.)

Miss Harrison hadn't actually been his teacher since he was ten years old, but he still thought of her that way, more so than he thought of her as Mrs Figg's next-door neighbour. Miss Harrison had also been his teacher when he was two years younger, and he was quite glad to have discovered, upon starting his last year in primary school, that she had been moved up to teaching one of the top classes. When he had stayed with Mrs Figg he had only sometimes seen Miss Harrison working in her garden or driving her car in and out of the garage, and if he happened to be outside he would give her a friendly wave, which she always returned, but in all of the times he'd been at Mrs Figg's, they'd never spoken. He'd only ever addressed her or been addressed by her in the school.

Harry felt very, very lucky to have run into her garage. He knew that she wasn't married, so there would be no husband or children to worry about. (If she had acquired a husband, he was sure that his aunt wouldn't have missed the chance to gossip about how long it had taken her to get married.) This meant that he could lurk in her house and keep an eye on Mrs Figg's without having to worry about staying out of the way of a slew of other people.

Oblivious to having company, Miss Harrison opened the rear door of the car to retrieve some carrier bags bulging with groceries, as well as a long paper bag with a loaf of French bread protruding from it. She looked tired, he thought; in the glaring light of the single bulb hanging from the garage's ceiling he could see dark circles under her large, pale eyes. She sighed as she pulled down the garage door again, inexpertly juggling the food she'd bought, and when she started moving toward Harry, he panicked, as there was very little space for him to manoeuvre. He was currently blocking the door leading into the house.

However, he managed to move over just far enough that she didn't come into contact with him. To his relief, she didn't close the door right away but walked down a short corridor to what Harry assumed was the kitchen. He slipped inside and backed up toward what appeared to be a lavatory; she returned empty-handed to close the door and Harry felt like doing a jig. It had worked! He was in the house!

He thought about just hanging about near the garage door, but after she walked back down the small corridor, his curiosity got the better of him and he followed her cautiously, trying to tread very lightly. In his experience, although she had always been kind enough to him (Miss Harrison was one of only two teachers at the school who hadn't seemed to have the same opinion of him as the Dursleys), she was very sensitive to her surroundings. Many times, while the class were bent over their work, she had detected all manner of subtle goings-on as she strode up and down the aisles with a steely eye, breezily collecting notes that had been passed surreptitiously or very ably detecting cheats. He knew that his aunt and uncle hadn't liked her; she had never hesitated to find fault with Dudley when he was bullying Harry or another child, cheating on a test or stealing other children's packed lunches.

Despite her not having been harsh with him, she had never exactly taken him under her wing, either. She seemed very capable but a bit distant, as though she were only teaching for as long as it took her to find something more to her liking. She had an air about her of someone who was just biding her time.

"Pip! I'm back! Where are you?"

Harry froze on his way to the kitchen. Oh, no. She had a dog! That wasn't good. It was through sheer luck that he'd escaped with Ripper in the Dursleys' house. If Miss Harrison's dog detected him--and it was likely that it would--then Harry's hiding would be over almost before it started. And if Miss Harrison had seen the news then she would know that he was wanted by the police....

He realised a moment later that she probably hadn't heard about his house being blown up, as she'd just returned from shopping. That was something, at least. Perhaps, if the dog didn't make it impossible, he could subtly unplug the television or radio and prevent her from hearing about it at all. But that still didn't solve his dog problem.

He cautiously continued to approach the kitchen until he was standing in the doorway, bracing himself to be discovered and attacked.

"Oi, Pip! I'm back! Come on, you!"

Miss Harrison was speaking in a rather strange, irritated manner, he thought, almost as though she didn't like her dog very much. Harry watched her spill the contents of the bags onto her kitchen counter, sorting through her purchases and putting the items in the cupboards or fridge. She was muttering darkly under her breath the entire time, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear when it escaped from its haphazard ponytail.

Harry almost fell over in fright when a thin, dark-haired woman bounced into the kitchen from the hall leading to the front of the house. "I'm here, I'm here, all right? Bloody hell, can't a person go to the loo without being harangued by a harridan?"

Miss Harrison laughed as she turned around, still holding the long French loaf. "Good word, that. 'Harridan harangued.' Is that from one of the tabloids? If it isn't it should be. I can see the headline now: 'Harridan Harangued Husband Hangs--' Well. I want to say 'self,' but that doesn't begin with an 'H.'"

The dark-haired woman looked thoughtful. She was familiar to Harry for some reason, but he couldn't put his finger on where he'd seen her before. "'Hares from Hangers'?"

Miss Harrison made a terrible face at her friend. "Oh, no! That's dreadful. No, no, no." She blew a raspberry at her friend. "No points! Oh, that's just putrid, Pip. You're really off your game tonight."

She removed the bread from its long paper bag and took a knife from a drawer, starting to cut the it into rounds. Harry breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that 'Pip' was the friend, not a dog. He did think, however, that he could be forgiven for assuming it might be an animal. To his ears, it didn't sound a great deal like a person's name.

'Pip' sighed deeply and pulled herself up to sit on the counter next to the sink, her bare legs swinging. She was dressed appropriately for the hot summer weather, in a tee shirt and shorts, but her clothes were rather on the tight side instead of loose and airy, like Miss Harrison's. "I know. This heat has baked my brain. But so has hanging about here, waiting for you. I thought you were going to be back hours ago!"

"I'm not that late," Miss Harrison insisted, continuing to cut the bread. In stark contrast to her friend, she was wearing loose knee-length navy shorts and a white blouse that could have been part of her teaching wardrobe. She handed Pip a slice of bread and her friend began picking bits out of the middle, chewing as she spoke.

"It's not seven o'clock, is it?"

"No, but--"

"So then."

"But wait until you see what I've got!" she cried, suddenly advancing on Harry. His eyes went wide and he backed up the passage to the garage, finally managing to cower in the doorway of the lavatory again while she retrieved something from the car. When she was in the corridor once more she closed the door carelessly, leaving it ajar an inch or so, and Harry gently leaned on it to help it close the rest of the way. He didn't think she'd notice, anyway, as she was striding excitedly into the kitchen carrying something roughly the size of a human head. (For an absurd moment that's what Harry thought it was, but despite finding out some new and disturbing things about his former teacher, he doubted that a decapitated head had caused her excitement.)

He inched back toward the kitchen as Pip walked around the kitchen table, where Miss Harrison had placed the item, scrutinising it thoughtfully. Harry had no idea what it might be, but Pip was now nodding knowledgeably while Miss Harrison stood to the side, grinning excitedly.

"It's almost just like the one I sold Mr Merriweather last week. He was over the moon about it! Said if I had any more he'd take it in a trice, he had loads of clients interested. So as I was driving back from the shops, I saw that the church was taking in donations for the jumble sale this Saturday and I stopped to look, on a lark. Well, the Rector's wife was donating this because she hates it, thinks it looks like a coffin for just a head, or something. She has no idea it's actually worth anything...."

Pip looked incredulous. "You mean you conned the Rector's wife out of a valuable antique!"

Miss Harrison frowned. "Not conned. She didn't want it. Didn't like it. I was doing her a favour, and benefiting the parish into the bargain. Where's the harm? I'm not likely to give the church anything any other bloody way, so if they want my money, this is how they're going to have to get it," she snorted. Harry was surprised; he'd always thought of (Muggle) schoolteachers as the sort who went to church and were scrupulously honest, even the ones who'd given him a hard time in school, while Miss Harrison was being rather scornful of the church and evidently a bit dodgy about having acquired a valuable antique from the Rector's wife.

Pip looked at her friend with one eyebrow raised. "All right, Tilda, how much did you pay?"

A wicked grin spread across "Tilda's" face and she said mischievously, "Guess," popping a piece of French bread in her mouth and chewing it while watching her friend. Pip rolled her eyes.

"Oh--fifty p."

"Don't be stupid. I offered her a plausible price, not an insult."

Pip sighed. "Ten quid."

"Lower." Miss Harrison was giggling gleefully and Harry was starting to wonder who she really was; she certainly was bearing less and less of a resemblance to his former teacher. He was, however, starting to see a resemblance between her and someone else he knew....

"Five quid." Pip looked tired of the game, twirling her short, curly dark hair around one finger, her dark eyes blank and bored.

"Close enough! Four pounds. And do you know how much Merriweather paid me for the other one? Seventy-five. And that was chipped on one side and had been refinished. This one has the original finish and is utterly undamaged. I think he'll give me a hundred for it, easy, if not more."

"A hundred? For a bloody knife-box? It better at least have some knives in it."

"No, just the box. It's all about what the market will bear, Pip. If someone wants to pay a hundred quid for something, then that's what it's worth."

Pip made a face. "Yeah, except I thought you were just dealing in antiques to get rid of all of that old stuff you have crammed in the spare rooms upstairs. And here you are buying something to sell. That's not the way to empty out those rooms."

"I'm not selling my dad's old things just for the sake of emptying out rooms! I'm being very careful and finding the right seller at the right time; if I sold the lot tomorrow I wouldn't get half of what I could eventually get by being careful and timing everything right. Mr Merriweather is becoming interested in my fine taste and practised eye--"

"Mr Merriweather is interested in more than your eye, you mark me...." Pip muttered darkly. Tilda ignored her.

"--and after I bring this to him, the next thing I show him after that will be something he'll have to buy from me, since he'll know that I am discriminating. I'm building my nest egg, Pip. I've already made over fifty thousand in just the last two years. Dad wouldn't have wanted me to sell the lot for nothing, after all."

Pip sniffed. "I'm not completely certain you want to sell things that have to do with your dad," she started to say, then stopped when she saw the look on her friend's face. She cleared her throat and began swinging her legs vigorously again. "At any rate," she said in a too-bright voice, changing the subject, "you missed the excitement while you were out."

Tilda Harrison looked around her quiet kitchen, mystified. "Erm, what excitement? It looks like a tomb around here."

"Oh, around here it is. But I've still got something rather juicy to tell you." Her eyes were positively glowing with the delight of delivering fresh gossip.

Tilda put her fingers in her ears and looked up at the ceiling, as though looking at her friend put her in danger of reading her lips and therefore learning the dreaded gossip. "Pip, I will not listen to a word. You really must get over the need to spread rumours. Act your age! Honestly--" This made Harry wonder what the age was she was supposed to be acting; he could believe anything from twenty-five to thirty-five.

Pip smirked, not the least bit chastened by her friend's reaction. "Would you tell Old Soberley to act her age?"

Tilda froze, then looked suspiciously at Pip. She still didn't remove her fingers from her ears. Harry was actually having a difficult time refraining from laughing at the way she looked. "What's the headmistress got to do with this?"

"She's the one who told me about it. Called me on my mobile--"

"You were talking to Soberley while you were in the loo? That's not very respectful on your part. She is your boss, after all, even if it is the holiday."

Pip rolled her eyes. "No, not when I was in the loo. Before that. At any rate, she told me to put the news on, so I did." She smirked, looking like she had a secret. She rolled her eyes enticingly at Tilda, swinging her legs even more.

"The news?" Tilda frowned.

"Yes, you know, the news. Known for spreading rumours and innuendo...."

Tilda snorted. "It is, actually. But what are you talking about?" she demanded, unable to resist temptation any longer.

"Aha! Now you want to know!" Pip crowed gleefully.

Tilda sighed and sat wearily, her head in her hands. "Yes, yes, tell me what the great news of the day is...."

Pip cleared her throat. "Well," she said, drawing it out, "guess which local delinquent--formerly taught by Miss Matilda Harrison herself and formerly attending Greater Whinging primary school--has blown up his own house."

Harry's heart leapt into his throat. That was why 'Pip' had looked so familiar to him! 'Old Soberley,' to whom she had referred, was the headmistress, Mrs Soberley, and Pip was Miss Powers, her secretary. Many's the time he was cooling his heels in the anteroom outside Mrs Soberley's office, waiting to be dressed down for something he'd (inexplicably) done, moving his eyes over every surface in an effort to assuage his boredom while he waited. He'd seen the little plaque on her desk many times: Philippa Powers, it read, but Mrs Soberley had never called her either Philippa or 'Pip' at the school; when she was giving instructions to her secretary to type up a long letter for Harry to take home to his aunt and uncle, or any other clerical duty, it was always "Miss Powers" this and "Miss Powers" that.

He stared; if he'd been passing Pip Powers on the street, he would have thought her rather tarty. He never remembered her looking that way in the school. He didn't really remember much about her appearance at all, but the one time he remembered meeting her eye while he waited she was smirking with barely-concealed amusement, so he never looked her in the eye again. He had developed an early distaste for being laughed at.

She was doing it again, as far as he was concerned, and he felt an instinctive dislike as she continued speaking. Adults who laughed at children were just--he had no words for how wrong this was. Adults were supposed to be above all that. He remembered the time Ripper had chased him up the tree, the way the Dursleys had laughed and laughed. That's what sort of person she is, he thought. A Dursleyish person. He could think of no worse epithet for someone without involving Snape or Umbridge.

"Come on, then! Guess, guess!"

Tilda Harrison looked at her as though she'd gone mad. "We are talking about Greater Whinging primary, Pip. It would take less time to list which kids in recent years haven't had a brush with the law."

"Oh, come on....Think. You last taught him, let's see, five years ago, I think. He has a prat of a cousin, big as a house--"

Miss Harrison's eyes widened. "Dudley Dursley blew up his house?"

Pip huffed with exasperation. "No, Harry Potter did!"

"Oh," Tilda said, blinking. "I thought you said he was as big as a house."

"No, I meant the cousin is as big as--anyway, that's beside the point. Harry Potter has blown up his house! With his family in it! They've all been taken to hospital and the police are looking for him."

Tilda Harrison's jaw dropped. "I don't believe it. Harry would never do that sort of thing...."

Pip nodded, ripping off a chunk of French bread from the loaf. "Believe it. After all, he does go to St Brutus's now. Of course, they had the headmaster on the news and he denied ever hearing of Harry. God forbid he should take any responsibility for teaching him to be a homicidal maniac. Those places really only teach boys how to be better, more efficient criminals...."

"That's not true! Ralph Majors did very well when he went to St Brutus's. He's a milkman now," she added, although it seemed to Harry that this was a rather lame defence of St Brutus's. "He's not a homicidal maniac! Don't be ridiculous, Pip. This is Harry Potter we're talking about." She shook her head. "Not that I'd exactly blame him if living with the Dursleys had finally made him crack, mind you...."

"See! There's a way he could have done it! It also turns out that his godfather is a bit dodgy. He's that bloke who escaped from prison a few years back. Can't remember his name now. And of course, when they got Scotland Yard on the phone during the news, they just said 'no comment' about why they'd stopped looking for him."

"For Harry? But you just said--"

"No! Try to pay attention. They stopped looking for his godfather, the fugitive. Scotland Yard won't say why. Well, if they do as good a job at finding Potter, he'll turn up--never."

"Harry," Miss Harrison said, making him look down, checking to make sure his Cloak was still covering him; then he realised that she wasn't addressing him, she was correcting Pip, who had called him "Potter."

He hadn't really noticed anything out of the ordinary. Pip Powers had said it to him often enough when doing her job. He was used to it. "Potter, the headmistress will see you now," he'd heard her say far too often for his liking. "Potter, you're to give this letter to your aunt and uncle."

Pip snorted. "Oh, I forgot. Harry can do no wrong...."

"I didn't say that! I just--" Harry stared at Miss Harrison as she sputtered in frustration, trying to find the right words. Harry can do no wrong. Had she said that to Pip at some point? She'd certainly never said it to him.

"You're just upset that all of that time you spent ranting at Old Soberley about how nothing he did was his fault was all for nothing. He's just like all the others, Til. Just a little criminal in the making--"

Tilda Harrison took hold of her friend's hands and pulled her off the counter and into a standing position. Pip made an awkward landing, grunting in pain when she twisted her ankle slightly. "What the--"

"I think you should leave, Pip." Tilda was breathing quickly. "Before one of us says something that prevents us from continuing on as friends."

Pip dropped her jaw. "You're not serious. You still don't think he's done anything wrong?"

"Have you ever heard of innocent until proven guilty?" Tilda demanded, turning a bit pink. "My dad had that conviction for breaking and entering follow him around for thirty years. Those rich snobs couldn't see how it was anything but an inside job, the handy-man had to have stolen their silver because there was no sign of a forced entry and Dad was the one who'd hung the doors and keyed the locks. Never mind that their son had developed a gambling problem and had blown fifty thousand pounds on horse races. Oh, he couldn't have taken his parents' antique silver to sell, could he? Not with his fine breeding...."

"Just because your dad was falsely accused forty years ago doesn't mean every other criminal on the planet is innocent, Tilda."

"No, it just means that everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt and a proper trial and all that." Tilda crossed her arms and glared at her friend. "So. Unless you're about to tell me you've changed your mind about Harry, you were just leaving."

Pip threw up her hands and picked up a handbag from the kitchen counter. "Fine, have it your way. I'm leaving. Ring me when you decide to live in the real world again," she added acidly.

Harry watched her leave the kitchen in a huff. The front door opened noisily and then slammed. Tilda Harrison remained where she was, gripping the kitchen counter with white knuckles, her jaw clenched. "Oh, bloody hell," she muttered, striding into the hall. Harry followed her as quietly as he could; she had gone into the living room and when he had finally made his very slow way into the room himself, he found her slouched on a large overstuffed couch, pointing a remote control at the television, apparently looking for more news about him.

Although he'd been on his feet for quite a while, he didn't attempt to sit; instead, he stood behind the couch, watching the television with her. She went past comedies, costume dramas and game shows before finding a channel giving the late-breaking news about Terror in Surrey, according to the lurid red legend scrolling along the bottom of the screen while the reporter he'd seen earlier stood before what he recognized as the hospital in Harrington (the bus went past it). She was speaking very rapidly into her microphone and looking gravely concerned.

"At this hour the condition of all of the Dursleys and Mrs Martin are critical but hopeful," the reporter said, making Harry frown.

"Their condition is hopeful?" Tilda Harrison asked the television, snorting. Harry tried not to laugh at the idea that she couldn't resist correcting the reporter's English, even though she couldn't be heard. Then he realised, with great relief, that it sounded like everyone was going to pull through and he heaved a silent sigh of relief.

"The police manhunt--or rather, boyhunt--has not resulted in Potter's arrest as of yet--" Suddenly a large drawing that was ostensibly of Harry filed the upper right-hand corner of the screen; it was labelled Harry James Potter. "--but someone attempting to provide Potter with an alibi has turned up at the Greater Whinging police station."

The camera view switched to some footage that appeared to have been recorded a little earlier; Harry had forgotten about Gary, but there he was, in all of his post-football glory, scars, black eye and all. To Harry's chagrin, he didn't look like the sort of person he'd want to be vouching for him. Gary appeared to have been run over by several large lorries.

"Yeah, see, I don't understand how anyone could say it was Harry who done this. I was talking to him in The Bartered Bull in New Stokington--" He turned away from the reporter and faced the camera head on. "Sadie! I got it right! Oi! Bartered Bull!" he howled, punching the air with his fist. Turning back to the reporter, he went on as though nothing had happened. "So there he is, eating bacon sarnies at the bar--all of my mates will tell you the same, and so will Sadie, the barmaid--and then the report came on the telly with you telling the world Harry had blown up his house! Well, I think it was a frame-up. Someone who didn't like Harry--or his family--must have known he wasn't there when they did this. That's what I think." He turned and nodded emphatically at the camera, as though that settled it. The view switched back to the live feed in front of Harrington Hospital.

"Police have taken Mr Sellar's statement but also, evidently, felt compelled to give Mr Sellar a breath test, finding that he had been driving under the influence of alcohol...."

Harry groaned inwardly. That's right. Come to think of it, I was rather lucky he didn't crash the car when I was riding in the boot. He shuddered; he hadn't given a thought to how much Gary had had to drink. And now the police probably thought he'd imagined talking to Harry. The reporter didn't seem to think much of his eyewitness testimony, either.

After giving a physical description of Harry that was a bit off--several inches too short, his weight a couple of years out of date and not a single correct detail about his clothes--she signed off, "This is Greta Lockwax, Harrington, Surrey." Exhaling, Tilda Harrison turned off the television and threw her head back, staring at the ceiling.

"Oh, Harry, what have you done now?" she whispered.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Severus Snape tapped his long fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair in which he was sitting. Nearby, Remus Lupin was poking his finger at one of Dumbledore's strange whirring instruments. A burning smell met Snape's nostrils and he turned from contemplating the former headmasters and headmistresses, slumbering in their frames, to Lupin, who was now sucking on one of his fingers.

"It's real silver?" Snape said simply.

Remus Lupin nodded, continuing to suck nonchalantly on his finger.

"Burnt?"

"A little," Lupin managed to say around his finger. "I'll be all right; don't worry about me."

"I wasn't," Snape said truthfully. He felt impatient waiting for so long and felt better able to manage on his own. "I can meet with the Headmaster if you like and then report back at Headquarters. You should continue to monitor Macnair."

Remus Lupin shook his head. "No need to go anywhere to do that. I replaced the middle button on his robes with a Third Eye." He removed what appeared to be a large black button from his pocket and held it up. "I've got the other one here. Let's see...." He held it tightly in his hand and closed his eyes. "He's just brushing his teeth in his pyjamas. And now he's walking to his bed. He has a dog. I didn't know Macnair had a dog. He doesn't actually seem to like animals; takes entirely too much pleasure in killing them. Ah, I see what it is; not a dog, but a Krup. Well, since Krups don't like Muggles, that makes a bit more sense now, doesn't it?" He silently 'watched' the Death Eater for another minute. "Macnair's tucked up for the night," he finally said. "We needn't worry about him. What happened when you went to report?"

"We learned that the Dark Lord himself had not gone to Privet Drive but the Lestranges had, all three of them, plus some others, all using Polyjuice Potion to appear to be law-abiding Ministry employees. He is not as pleased with them as you might think, however. We have all been told that we are to retrieve Potter if we find that we can penetrate the barrier. It was Rodolphus's idea to attack the house and then demand that Potter come out if he wished it to stop. He did not come out, so they escalated it; then they began to be attacked by an unseen assailant...."

"Tonks," Remus said, nodding and smiling. "She has nerve, that girl."

Severus Snape looked grim. "Yes. Tonks. They thought that perhaps it was Potter in his Invisibility Cloak. She should have known better than to try to take on so many of them while encumbered by the Cloak," he added. When the werewolf did not appear inclined to defend her strategy, he continued. "She was disabled by a spell fired in the general direction of where she was, which stopped the attack, of course, but I believe she must have managed to drag herself well away from the Lestranges and their accomplices, for they found no one after some searching. The attack did not go as they had hoped, so they left the house burning with Potter's family inside. They did not immediately report to the Dark Lord, however, as they did not have the good news he sought. One of their number evidently had Apparated to him to tell him that the rest of them were going through the barrier to Potter's house. He expected to have Potter delivered to him after that. That is why my Mark alerted me to the fact that he was summoning his servants."

"So, the Lestranges aren't exactly his favourite people at the moment?" Remus said hopefully.

"So it would seem," Severus agreed. He breathed quickly through his nose. "I don't know why Dumbledore didn't try harder to convince Fudge to keep them all in custody. There they were, caught like fish in a net, and now they are all running about loose again...."

"Well, Jugson's not running about loose. He's been in hospital now for, what, a month? They still can't seem to work out a way to deal with his head. Still looks like a little baby. Bellatrix Lestrange was never captured, of course, so if we ever get our hands on her again, she's for the drop. And Rookwood and Avery didn't get off, either."

"It was all calculated," Snape said. "I know Malfoy. He said he'd put the others under Imperius so that they'd have their freedom, so they'd still be able to serve the Dark Lord."

"Of course he did. But the Ministry couldn't prove he hadn't put them under Imperius, and he was basically confessing to having committed even more crimes than we knew about, so their hands were tied. It wasn't as though the Death Eaters claimed they were under Imperius in order to get off; Malfoy took the fall for them."

"And he has his friends Rookwood and Avery to hand when he gets ready to break out of Azkaban, probably with the help of the Lestranges," Snape grumbled; he rather felt like knocking the delicate-looking silver instruments across the room. Just when it seemed that the Death Eaters who'd infiltrated the Ministry on the night Black had been killed by his cousin were dealt with, most of them had been let go. "Perhaps Fudge is really the one Malfoy has put under Imperius," he said, thinking aloud.

Lupin shook his head. "Dumbledore has said he'd know if the Minister was under Imperius. No, he's just misguided in this, as in many things. But Dumbledore made sure one of us was monitoring each one of them from the second they were released so we'll know what all of them are up to. Who was monitoring Rodolphus and Rabastan?"

Severus looked grim. "Mundungus Fletcher and Kingsley Shacklebolt are supposed to have those two, but I don't know who is handling Shacklebolt's assignment while he's on Azkaban duty."

Remus nodded sadly. "Dumbledore's not going to be very pleased with Dung or with Shacklebolt's replacement, I'm afraid. Looks like it's quite the night for people to be dressed down, whether by Albus or Voldemort..."

Snape hissed instinctively. "Don't say that!" he growled at Lupin.

Remus grinned at him. "Sorry, but you'll have to get used to it. And remember, Albus prefers it."

"Actually," Snape corrected him, "lately, the Headmaster seems to favour calling him 'Tom.'"

Lupin nodded. "True, true. I've heard him use that often." He stood and paced nervously. "I feel like we should be out there, trying to track down Harry. But where to start?"

Suddenly the door opened and Albus Dumbledore entered. He smiled ruefully at the two men waiting for him in his office.

"Ah, Molly. Remus and Severus have beaten us here, it seems," he said to the person behind him. To Severus Snape's surprise, Molly Weasley followed Dumbledore into the office; she was sniffing into a handkerchief and her eyes were red-rimmed.

"Remus, Severus," she said politely, nodding at them, but her voice had no conviction to it; she was just going through the motions.

Remus Lupin guided her to the chair where he'd been sitting before waving his wand and conjuring another one for himself. "Here, Molly, you rest. I'm sure you're worried sick about Harry, we all are." He looked pointedly at Snape, who raised his eyebrows.

"Headmaster," he said to Dumbledore, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Lupin's blanket statement; "do we know why the spell failed?"

Dumbledore sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers, looking thoughtful. "Yes, Severus, I believe we do know."

After a pregnant pause, Severus demanded, "Well?"

"You see, a young man turned up at the local police station to speak on Harry's behalf. It seemed that he'd been in a pub in a town known as New Stokington and was speaking to Harry when a report appeared on the television in the pub concerning the attack on Privet Drive."

"Yes," Severus said, growing impatient; "we know Potter left his house. What we don't know is--"

"--what I am about to tell you Severus, if you would please display some patience," Dumbledore said, his voice less gentle. Chastened, Snape clamped his mouth shut and nodded at Dumbledore. "As I was saying, this young man was speaking to Harry in the pub. And he asked him was where he was from."

Remus shrugged. "Why should that be a problem? I'm sure that when Harry told him, this bloke didn't send the Death Eaters over there."

"No, because Harry did not say that he lived on Privet Drive in Surrey. He said that he lived on Grimmauld Place in London."

Molly spoke, her hand on her chest and tears in her eyes. "Bless him, of course he thinks of that as his home, it was Sirius's home...."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Unfortunately, Molly, that was the worst possible thing Harry could have said, and chances are that he was thinking it as well."

Snape frowned. "That is why the spell failed? I do not understand," he said with some effort, not meeting Molly's or Remus's eyes.

Dumbledore sighed; "Let me explain to you all how this ancient magic works...."

When he was done, they all looked apprehensively at each other. "And that's all he had protecting him?" Molly said, clearly incensed.

"Yes, Molly, that is all. It meant that Voldemort--or any witch or wizard with evil intentions--would not be able to come close enough to Harry to harm him. Unfortunately for Harry, it did not protect him from his cousin while he was growing up, and we discovered last year, of course, that it does not offer protection from Dementors...."

Remus sighed. "Do you mind my asking, Albus, how we are to continue monitoring the Death Eaters who were released because of Lucius Malfoy's testimony and also look for Harry?"

"The Dark Lord still finds it laughably easy to penetrate Potter's mind," Severus said, less concerned about Harry's safety than the danger he represented to those around him. "He is likely to find him before we do, and then we shall all be obliged to put memory charms on dozens of Muggles...."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Not at all, Severus. And while you may technically be right about Harry having failed to master Occlumency, I have decided that that is all right and even useful."

Snape made a face. "His failure is useful?" he sneered.

"Yes. You see, Severus, when we were at the Ministry, Tom managed to penetrate Harry's mind, to possess him. He hoped to get me to kill Harry while he was possessed. What he didn't count on were Harry's thoughts, Harry's feelings in response to that. Thoughts of love, feelings of deepest affection for Sirius, something that Tom finds utterly abhorrent. He doesn't want to experience that again soon, Tom doesn't. So I believe that Tom attempting to enter Harry's mind again is the least of our worries at the present."

Molly cleared her throat. "All right, Albus, do you mind if I ask what the greatest of our worries is?"

He sighed. "That Harry won't realise that he is in the safest possible place he can be right now and just stay put."

Molly sat on the edge of her seat. "Safe? How can you be sure he's safe? Oh, I wish it were my duty to monitor the Lestranges instead of that layabout Mundungus Fletcher..."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at her but did not alter the casual tone of his voice. "I have my ways of knowing about Harry, always have done. He is fine for the moment and no one--I mean no one--" he added, looking particularly at Molly; "--is to try to contact him. He is in a Muggle area where owls would rather stand out. Anyone looking for post owls would know a wizard was present. Barring anyone sending him post, he is perfectly safe at the moment."

"So do you or don't you know where he is?" Molly asked belligerently.

"Not technically, no. I have but a general idea; that is sufficient for now. I am monitoring Harry using one of my favourite devices," he said, pointing at a peculiar spinning wheel that was moving so fast its silver spokes were a blur. "He is sleeping on a couch, and he appears to be wearing his Invisibility Cloak, which cannot fool this particular device. He is in what I believe is a Muggle house. Because of this device I knew that Harry was safe when he left his home in a flying car," he said, his eyes twinkling at Molly, "and because of another device I have that tells me when the ancient magic is at risk I knew that his uncle had threatened to throw him out, last summer. That is why I immediately sent him a letter telling him to stay in the house. If he had set one foot outside the door.... Well, the spell would have been nullified before he had reached the pavement."

"Then why didn't you know the ancient magic might fail this time?" she said, a slightly accusatory tone in her voice.

He sighed. "His uncle threatened to throw him out last year. That meant that his being able to call his aunt's home his home was at risk. It was rather clear-cut. However, he can leave his house for short periods of time without there being any alarm. Harry's intention is a large part of it; because this device--" he pointed at the one that had burnt Lupin earlier; "--did not tell me that there was a risk of the spell being nullified when he left the house, that means that at the time, Harry fully intended to return. I just came from speaking to Tonks in the hospital wing, where Poppy is taking good care of her. You found her in the upstairs hall because, even injured as she was, after the Death Eaters left she took it on herself to find Harry's room and learn whether he had planned to run away. She says that none of Harry's clothes appeared to be missing, his broom was still in his bedroom, his trunk and all of his schoolbooks... Of course, she pushed herself too hard and collapsed in the hall after she had learned this, but I do think she has done an exemplary job under quite difficult circumstances. Fortunately, her injuries should heal quickly." He nodded at Mrs Weasley. "Harry is safe, Molly. We now have work to do to ensure that he stays safe."

Molly straightened up. "Yes, Albus. Whatever you say," she added; Remus looked at her as though he doubted her sincerity. Severus strongly suspected that she wanted to give Mundungus Fletcher quite a dressing down; he rather wished he could do this himself, but in his experience, anything he said to Fletcher was like water off a duck's back. It was more productive to speak to a brick wall.

"Thank you, Molly. Now, before we started rotations of guards outside the Department of Mysteries last year, I did reveal to you all that Sybill gave a prophecy many years ago concerning Harry and Tom. What I did not tell any of you--and what I know you've all been champing at the bit to know--is what the prophecy actually says. For that I will require my Pensieve...."

Severus was shocked when the image of a younger Sybill Trelawney rose from the silvery substance in the stone bowl, her eerily magnified eyes unblinking as the misty voice pronounced the words of the prophecy that concerned them all. Molly Weasley covered her mouth with her hand and Remus's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. Afterward, Dumbledore put the Pensieve away and sat in his chair again.

"One of them is to kill the other," Remus said softly. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

Dumbledore sighed. "I believe that I have made more than a few mistakes in this matter, Remus, and after the debacle at the Ministry last month, I suspect that perhaps the greatest mistake has been to continue to keep the true content of the prophecy from Tom, as well as Harry. Harry now knows about it; if Tom knew what it said, then there would have been no need for him to try to get it from the Department of Mysteries. He knew only a part before; he knew that the one with the power to vanquish him would be born at the end of July, and that the parents had defied him three times. He did not know that he would mark his opponent, nor that this other wizard would have power Tom does not. He certainly did not know that one of them must die at the hand of the other. It is this last part of the prophecy that I wish to be more widely known, especially by Tom himself...."

Molly was aghast. "What? He's sure to go after Harry as soon as he can, knowing that...."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Not at all. Now, I grant you, Tom thought he had every right last year to expect that, surrounded by his Death Eaters, with Harry tied up and disarmed, he should be able to kill him. Had Tom known about this part of the prophecy, however, I doubt he would have done what he did: he untied Harry, gave him his wand, and started duelling with him, demanding that the Death Eaters refrain from interfering, although when Harry was making his getaway they did not refrain. You see, Tom does not like even odds. He of course considered the odds that day to be in his favour. And despite his telling his Death Eaters not to interfere, he knew that they would, if necessary. He has them well trained. However, I strongly believe that the prophecy is saying that Harry and Tom are the only risks each of them has at this time. For example, Tom tried to taunt me for not attempting to kill him at the Ministry; I know that is not my role to play, however, just as Death Eaters, if I understand the prophecy correctly, are not likely to bring about Harry's demise, either. Only Tom has that power.

"Speaking of power, I also want it to be widely disseminated that Harry has power Tom does not. It's true, after all. Coupled with the knowledge that he and Harry must each kill or be killed by the other, and the excruciating experience he had the last time he possessed Harry, I expect this to mean that Tom stays far away from Harry until such time as he feels he has a quick, foolproof way of killing him. If one of them is to kill the other, those are even odds, and Tom does not like even odds, as I said before. He likes a sure thing. He will regroup. The close monitoring we were doing of the released Death Eaters means that--in theory," he added, nodding at Molly, "we will be aware of anything he has planned almost before he is." Severus assumed that the headmaster had received an earful from Molly Weasley about Mundungus Fletcher. "And we have your invaluable assistance as well, Severus," Dumbledore said, nodding at him. "Trust me, the best thing we can do right now is to let the lines of communication spread the truth of the prophecy and let Harry stay safely where he is."

"How will you do that, Headmaster?" Snape wanted to know.

"Oh, in the usual way, in the usual way...." Dumbledore answered in his typical vague manner, waving his hands randomly.

"What if the Muggle police find out where he is, though? They think he blew up his own house," Remus said, frowning.

"I have taken care of that, Remus. Soon the Muggle police shall not even remember that anything out of the ordinary occurred on Privet Drive. I agree that it would be rather inconvenient for the police to be involved in this; if Harry were apprehended and it became known that he was in a Muggle prison, Voldemort could get to him there quite quickly and easily."

"Oh, why can't we just fetch him back to Headquarters?" Molly said, wringing her hands.

"Because to do so, we would have to draw attention to his current location. The advantage he had before was that, although his location was easy to learn, it was impossible for anyone intending him ill to actually reach him. Now it is possible for someone with evil intentions to reach him--but his whereabouts are unknown. That is now his protection. When he was escorted from Surrey to London last year, he was at least able to begin the journey in safety; once he was well away from his home the guard we sent to accompany him was quite necessary. I will put my mind to using the subtlest methods possible to pinpoint his exact location, so that I can put some protective spells on the place. Then he will have that and secrecy to protect him. Should his location cease to be a secret, it would, of course, be prudent to bring him back to Headquarters as quickly as possible, even with any additional protection I may manage to give him.

"Now, if you will all excuse me, I must speak to someone about publicising the prophecy."

The three of them exchanged nervous glances; Severus could tell that neither Remus nor Molly was convinced about the wisdom of this path, although he did have ample evidence, in his close observation of the Dark Lord, supporting the assertion that he did not care for anything but sure victory; if there was a fifty percent chance that Potter would be the one killing him, instead of the other way around, he would be putting all of his effort into making the odds far more lopsided in his favour.

When he was once more alone in his office, Dumbledore nodded at Fawkes. "You may fetch him now."

There was a flash of fire and the bird disappeared; a few minutes later another flash of fire accompanied the phoenix's return. His passenger let go of Fawkes's tail feathers and brushed down his robes, looking expectantly at Dumbledore.

"Tell me what you want me to do."

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