The Last Days at Hogwarts

As the train finally drew into the station at King's Cross, Harry finally felt the Christmas holidays had finally begun. By the time they'd taken their bags and trunks from the carriage, he had made so many promises about visiting people over the holidays that he knew Hedwig was going to be a very busy bird. He gathered his luggage together, piled it onto a trolley, and make his way to the barrier together with the other Gryffindor seventh years.

They walked out onto the station platform and looked around at the crowd of people: Hermione saw her mother and father standing waiting for her, and rushed off to throw her arms round them in a big hug. Harry could see their beaming faces, glad to be re-united once more with their daughter. Mr and Mrs Granger waved at Harry and the others, before the three of them began heading out of the station.

Ron spotted his parents beneath the station clock: they were engrossed in a conversation with Mr Thomas.

"Hope he's not going on about Muggle stuff again," grumbled Ron, as they pushed their trolleys towards them. "You know what he's like once you get him started ... "

Harry wasn't expecting to be met at the station: he hadn't told Remus when the end of term was. It was easy enough to get a taxi home by himself, but since he was in no hurry, he might as well stop and say hello.

The adults broke off their conversation as the three boys and Ginny approached, and there was more hugging going on, whilst Harry hung back, feeling a little out of things - a feeling which disappeared when Mrs Weasley enveloped him in a great embrace. Harry thought he'd better endure this for a few moments before giving her a squeeze back, then everyone stood back to look at each other.

"You've grown, Ginny," said Mrs Weasley, eyeing her daughter.

"Yeah," she replied nonchalantly. Mrs Weasley shot her a slightly sharp look.

"We were just talking," said Mr Weasley quietly, "about the events of the other day. Well done, again, Dean." Dean smiled shyly. "We hope you'll be able to come and visit - all of you - sometime over the holidays. Your parents and Olive, that is."

"That'd be good," said Dean enthusiastically.

"Excellent," beamed Mr Weasley. "Now then, Weasleys all, let's be off."

Mr Thomas turned to Harry. "How you keeping?" he asked.

"Well, thanks."

"I've got the cab here. Want a lift home?"

"Only if . . . " Harry didn't want to take up Mr Thomas's time when he could be earning.

"It's okay - I've finished for the day. I'll be taking Dean home, then we'll be able to relax."

"Right - okay then."

"Bring your things."

They followed Mr Thomas out of the station and to the waiting black cab, where they loaded all their bits and pieces in.

"Where to, Harry?"

Harry had to smile at the usual cabby question. "Grimmauld Place."

"Grimmauld Place? Oh, yeah, I know it."

It was perhaps twenty minutes drive from the station. Mr Thomas drew up in the shabby square. "Which one's yours?"

"You can't see it," said Harry with a slight smile.

"Why? Where is it?"

"It's here all right, but you can't see it."

"Oh, I get it. One of those magic things, is it?"

"Yeah."

"Okay then."

He stopped the cab and he and Dean helped Harry out with his trunk.

Harry hesitated as they stood together on the pavement. "Do you want to come in for a minute?"

Mr Thomas looked round the square again, then said, "Yeah. This I've got to see."

Dumbledore had been the original Secret Keeper for Grimmauld Place, but after Harry had become the legal owner, it had been decided to transfer the task to Harry himself. He hesitated: he didn't really want to reveal the secret to the Thomases.

"Hang on a just a second."

He decided to lift the spell for just sixty seconds.

"Right - up here."

As they carried the trunk forward, the front of the house began magically to appear. Mr Thomas was fascinated.

"This can only be done by wizards, right?"

"Not quite," Harry told him. "You've also got to know what you might call the password." He glanced over at Dean. "Sorry, but ..."

"S'okay. I know. Security, and all that."

"That's right."

Harry opened the front door, and they stepped inside. As he did so, he felt the power of the spell descending. His house was safe again.

"Hey, this is nice," said Mr Thomas, as he looked round at the hallway. "But what's with the lights?"

"Too much magic for electricity," said Harry.

"Is that so?"

Remus appeared at the top of stairs, brought down by the sound of their arrival. "Is that you, Harry?" he called.

"Yeah."

"Thought I could hear voices."

He came down the steps, and Harry was shocked at his appearance - Remus looked washed out and grey. He must have just come through a change, and it obviously hadn't been that easy. He could see from Dean's face that he had had the same reaction.

Despite his tired appearance, Remus smiled and shook hands with Mr Thomas. "Did you enjoy your trip onto the platform at the start of term?"

"Yeah, it was real good doing that. Thanks for taking me along." Mr Thomas looked around. "I was just saying to Harry how nice this place looks."

"Wasn't always this way," said Harry, remembering the shrieking portrait and the elf heads just as starters. "But Remus has been spending a lot of time redecorating."

"Oh?"

"Easy when you know how," said Remus with a slight smile.

"Don't tell me - magic?"

"Yeah. You put a charm on the paintbrush, tell it to start in one corner, and keep going until it runs out of paint."

"That so?" Mr Thomas turned to Dean. "Looks as though you're going to have a busy holidays, then."

"Thanks, Remus," said Dean.

Remus laughed. "It'll make you put all that school work to good use."

"So how big is this place?" Mr Thomas asked Harry.

"There's a basement, four rooms on this floor, two more floors, and an attic."

"What? And it's all yours?"

"Yeah," said Harry, feeling embarrassed, and remembering the tiny flat where the Thomases lived.

"It was left to him by his godfather," said Remus quietly.

"Oh?"

"Sirius Black?" Dean asked Harry.

"That's right."

But before Harry could explain further, there was a sudden 'pop' and Dobby appeared in front of them with a squeal of excitement. Mr Thomas took a hasty step back at the sight of the elf.

"Harry Potter is back, sir. Harry Potter is back. Dobby is so pleased to see Harry Potter back. And so is Winky."

Dobby snapped his fingers and with a fainter pop Winky appeared behind him. Harry was relieved to see she was neatly and tidily dressed, unlike Dobby with his odd assortment of garments seemingly chosen at random.

"Welcome back, master," she said quietly.

"Er," said Mr Thomas, "Excuse me, but what . . . "

"Meet Dobby and Winky," said Harry. "House elves. They live upstairs, and look after the place."

"Right," said Mr Thomas faintly.

"Would Harry Potter and his friends like some tea? Cakes?"

"That sounds a great idea," said Dean. "We've time, haven't we, Dad?"

"Yeah, sure."

Rather nervously Mr Thomas followed the others down the stairs to the kitchen. They seated themselves around the table whilst Dobby and Winky conjured up a splendid spread. When they had finished, the two elves hovered slightly uncertainly by the table.

"Come and sit with us," said Harry quietly.

Winky cast a very anxious eye at Dobby, who himself was looking slightly unsure as to whether he should or not.

"Come on," said Harry again.

Nervously, the two elves found seats at the table. They looked decidedly comical as they peered over the top.

"Two more cups," said Harry.

"Oh, no, Harry Potter, sir, we is preferring to have our tea by ourselves," said Dobby.

Harry thought he'd gone far enough. To have got the two elves to have joined them at the table was probably sufficient for the moment. He cast a covert eye at Winky: at least she was not twisting the hem of her dress round and round in her fingers as she had done so often in the past - indeed, she looked relatively composed, even if not entirely happy about sitting at the table with everyone else.

"Dobby has heard that you came face to face with He Who Not Be Named again, Harry Potter."

"That's right. Though it was Dean who saved us this time."

Dobby turned his tennis ball eyes towards Dean. "You fought with He Who Not Be Named? And won? You must indeed be a great wizard!"

"Er, well, no, not exactly. It was all a bit of luck really."

But Dobby obviously didn't believe Dean's demurring: he continued to gaze at him across the table with goggle eyes. Even Winky seemed open mouthed.

Mr Thomas had finally got over the shock of meeting a house elf. "He Who Not Be Named?"

Dobby turned to him, finally dragging his eyes from Dean. "You have not heard of He Who Not Be Named?" in tones of incredulity.

"I'm a Muggle, see."

If Dobby's eyes could have gone rounder and wider, they would have done. "A Muggle?" Mr Thomas nodded. "You are a friend of Harry Potter?"

"In a manner of speaking. I'm Dean's father," nodding towards his son.

"He Who Not Be Named - the Dark wizard we all fear." Dobby shuddered, and his fear was obvious.

"Ah, I know who you're talking about now. Well, I was there too. Not that I saw much, to be honest."

"You were there? With He Who Not Be Named? And you lived?"

"Well, thanks to Dean."

For once Dobby was completely without words. His head turned repeatedly from father to son, and then without looking, and probably without thinking, he reached out a hand for a bun, and slowly began munching it. Winky looked at him rather disapprovingly.

Remus said quietly. "You must be one of the very few Muggles to have escaped unscathed from him."

"If I never see him again, I'll be more than happy. Not that I really saw him, anyway. When we get home, Dean is going to fill me in on a few more details. Aren't you, lad?"

Dean didn't look overjoyed at the news, but nodded his agreement. Mr Thomas finished his tea and put his cup down.

"They'll be waiting for us at home. Thanks for the tea, Harry." He smiled at Winky and at Dobby, who immediately leapt to their feet as Mr Thomas stood up.

Dean nodded and followed his father. At the front door he turned to Harry and said, "I'll be in touch, yeah?"

"Yeah. No problem. It'd be good to meet Olive again."

"Right."

As he closed the front door behind the Thomases he saw Remus standing looking at him with an expectant expression.

"Going to fill me in on the details, then?"

With a sigh, Harry prepared himself for yet another recital.

It was only a day or two later that Harry got an owl from Dean.

"Hi, Harry, I'm sending this from Ollivander's. He's been looking at that wand from You Know Who and wants to have a chat. It could be useful. When would be convenient for you? Dean."

Harry scribbled on the bottom: "Anytime tomorrow. 2 o'clock? Harry." He gave the note back to the waiting owl and watched it fly off.

He remembered his first meeting with Ollivander. He hadn't liked the man then. But Dean had been working there on and off for some time now, and seemed to trust him, and Harry respected Dean's instincts. He thought he'd better put away his prejudices for the time being - for Dean's sake, if nothing else.

He needed to go to Diagon Alley for some bits and pieces, so thought he might as well combine the two trips together. Briefly he considered having lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, but with his face having been plastered all over the front page of the Prophet so much in recent months, thought better of it. Instead he set off after an early lunch, and mooched around the shops, picking up odds and ends. The sight of his face at least meant he got good service in the shops, and he was stopped more than once in the street by passers by. It wasn't always easy to extricate himself gracefully, but he was slowly learning the art. It popped into his mind that he was becoming almost like a politician himself, learning how to say a few words that didn't mean much, smiling nicely, and sliding away before he could be button holed further.

Promptly at two, he opened the door to Ollivanders, and the bell tinkled as he closed the door behind him. He waited for a few moments before Ollivander himself appeared. The old man stopped and surveyed Harry, then smiled unexpectedly.

"Ah, Mr Potter, so good of you to come." Harry stepped forward. "Do follow me."

Harry followed the wand maker into the rooms behind, catching glimpses of witches and wizards at work, sorting rods of wood, unpacking parcels, before he was led into a small office. Dean was already there, leafing through a pamphlet. Ollivander turned: "Do take a seat, Mr Potter."

There was an upright wooden chair in front of a desk. Ollivander himself went and sat down the other side of the desk. Then Harry noticed it: the wand, lying in the middle of the desktop. His attention drew the eyes of the others to it. For a moment there was silence, then Mr Ollivander chuckled.

"Ah, yes, the wand. So adroitly charmed by Dean." He looked across at the other boy. "You were lucky to get away with that one."

Dean shrugged. "Not a lot of choice, really. Thought it was worth a try."

"True. Very true. I would think that He Who Must Not Be Named was not very pleased to be outwitted like that."

"I didn't really think it would work - but I was running out of ideas."

"Some quick thinking on your part. And I'm pleased to see you remembered something of what I have taught you. Anyway . . . "

He leaned forward, picked the wand up from the desk, twirled it in his fingers. Harry had a sudden impulse to snatch it from him, but Ollivander laid the wand carefully back on to the table once more.

"Unique," he said in his soft voice. "Quite, quite unique."

He leaned back and looked at Harry, who looked back at him. "Dean tells me you know something of this wand. Of its ingredients and history, you might say."

Harry took a quick glance in Dean's direction, but he was sitting in his chair, quite relaxed.

"The core," Harry said.

"Quite so, quite so. The core. I have never met another wand like this one. A basilisk tooth at its core! But then, basilisks are very rare beasts. Of course, you and He Who Must Not Be Named can, I believe, both speak Parseltongue. Is that correct?" Harry nodded slightly reluctantly. "A basilisk is a fearsome beast," Ollivander went on, "so it is not surprising that this wand will be particularly suited to carrying out Dark Magic. I believe also you can tell us something about the wood, as well?"

Harry knew that the story of Voldemort's return was now quite widespread, so he knew he wouldn't have to go into too much detail.

"It's from a tree at a graveyard in Little Hangleton. That's where Tom Riddle's father is buried, and the place he chose for his rebirth, so to speak."

Harry had the satisfaction of seeing Ollivander's eyes widen at mention of the name 'Tom Riddle'. He obviously didn't need it explaining, however, which was also interesting.

"Indeed, indeed. The strong personal connection would make it even more suitable for his purposes. If he had grown fully into it, it would be a very powerful wand indeed.

"The more intriguing question for me is who made the wand. I cannot tell - which is unusual. Wands of any strength usually give something away as to their creator - small fingerprints of how a man works. The standard or generic wand, made by an apprentice, say, is more difficult - but then it is not usually a very powerful wand."

"Could Voldemort himself have made it?" Dean asked.

"Possible, possible," murmured Ollivander. "He has certainly studied widely in the area of magic of all varieties - but then, wandmaking is very specialised. It is not the kind of magic you are going to use more than once or twice in your lifetime.

"The wand could still bear closer examination, though. With your permission, Mr Thomas, I would like to keep it a little longer for study."

Harry noted the sudden switch to the formal when discussing professional matters.

Dean nodded. "No problem."

"Good, good. Now, Mr Potter," and the pale eyes turned disconcertingly to Harry once more. "I gather Dean told the secret of his little trick?"

"That's right."

"Well now," mused Ollivander, "there are many secrets you learn when you become apprenticed to a wand maker. Some fairly trivial, others much more serious. When you join the Guild of Wand Makers, you are bound by oath not to reveal them to outsiders. Yet I feel you may well benefit from knowing some of these. You might find them of use one day, given what might lie ahead of you." Ollivander paused. "I could teach you many of these, but first you must belong to the Guild. We could, of course, make you an honorary member. But you would still be bound by those oaths. Would you find this an acceptable proposition?"

Harry blinked, and was suddenly aware of Dean's curious and slightly envious gaze.

He hesitated a moment, not because he was unsure, but because he was so surprised and taken aback by the suggestion. Then: "That would be very kind of you, Mr Ollivander. And very useful."

Join the wand makers' guild? He couldn't quite take in what that mean. His distrust of the man diminished a little, even if his dislike didn't.

Ollivander smiled. "Good, good. Dean himself will be joining the Guild when he becomes an apprentice, and perhaps we could bring that forward a little so you both can benefit. Would that be all right with you, Dean?"

"Yeah, sure," said Dean enthusiastically.

"In the meantime, it might help if Dean were to show you round the workshops - show you exactly what it is we do here, how the materials are selected, and so on. Could you do that, Dean?"

"Yeah, I'd really like to do that."

"Excellent. In which case, Mr Potter, we'll pursue that other matter once you have seen round our premises."

Harry stood up. "Thank you, Mr Ollivander. That's really kind, and really helpful."

The old man inclined his head. "Not at all. Things are different this time round. I suspect you may be our secret weapon. And anything I can do to help . . . "

"Thank you again."

Harry turned to Dean, who gave a quick smile to Ollivander, then led the way out.

Harry was pondering Ollivander's remarks. The old man had made it clear that he was on Harry's side - but was that just because he wanted to be on the winning side, whichever it was? I'm thinking too much like a politician again, he told himself. And before he could think on it much further, Dean was leading him away.

Dean was looking at him slightly awed. "You do know what he's just offered you, don't you?"

"What?"

"Membership of the Guild. I mean, no one, but no one, gets an offer like that."

Harry gave a slightly crooked smile. "It's not Harry Potter he's making the offer to, but the Boy Who Lived."

Dean stopped and thought about this. "Yeah, I see what you mean. Well, there must be some advantages to having a homicidal maniac trying to track you down."

"Given a choice . . . "

"Yeah, given a choice, you'd go for the quiet life. Maybe. But that's not what's on offer, is it?"

Harry sighed. "You're right. Okay, Dean, show me round."

Dean took Harry into what seemed to be a delivery room - there were boxes and parcels lying around. Harry attracted curious glances from the people working there - whether it was because he was a stranger, or whether it was because he was Harry Potter, he didn't know - but Dean was obviously known to them all.

"All the stuff comes in here," said Dean, "then it has to be sorted. I've been doing a lot of that. It's something I have a knack for. It was that which made Ollivander take me on in the first place. He asked me to sort some stuff, and I got it right."

"How do you do it?" asked Harry curiously.

"Dunno. I just pick it up, and some of it feels right. Others - well, there's no spark in them, if you see what I mean."

"Not really. Okay, try me out."

"Through here."

Dean took Harry into yet another room. There was a bundle of hippogriff feathers loosely tied together lying on a table. Dean untied the string, and spread them out.

"Try these."

"What do I do?"

"Pick 'em up one by one, and sort them into two piles. Good stuff on the left."

Feeling more than a little foolish, Harry slowly picked up feather after feather, feeling it, weighing it, and then putting it right or left. For all he knew, he was guessing.

A dozen feathers later, he turned to Dean. "What now?"

Dean stepped forward, and began on the two piles, picking up the feathers in turn, one by one, feeling each gently, putting it back. Eventually: "Not bad. Nine out of twelve." He sounded reasonably impressed.

"Do I make a wand maker?"

Dean made a seesaw motion with his hand. "Good, but not a star."

"Fair enough. What now?"

"I'll show you the sorting of the sticks."

"Do you have a Hat for that?"

"What?" Then Harry's meaning sank in. "Nah. That'd put us out of a job, see."

"Fair enough."

At the end of the afternoon, Harry wasn't sure whether he'd learned more about wands than he really wanted to know, but Dean's enthusiasm hadn't flagged. However, things were obviously winding down for the end of the day, and he was taken back to say his thank yous to Ollivander.

"My pleasure, Mr Potter. I'll arrange that business about the Guild - it will take a little time, but as I am the Senior Guild Master, I will ensure that there won't be any problems."

"That's very kind of you."

Ollivander gave a little bow. "Not at all. And thank you, Dean, for showing Mr Potter round."

"I enjoyed it, sir. I'll be off now, if that's all right."

"Yes, indeed. You'll be here in the morning?"

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Farewell, then, Mr Potter."

They walked out of the shop into the bustle of Diagon Alley. It was dark now, being almost midwinter, and gas lights flared to illuminate the shoppers.

"What're you doing now?" asked Dean.

Harry shrugged. "Nothing, really."

"Want to come back to my place?"

"Sure."

"Okay then. Remember how to get to my room?"

"Think so," said Harry with a slight grin.

"See you there."

Dean disappeared, and Harry gave him a moment or so before following. He appeared in Dean's bedroom to see him hanging up his cloak.

"Back to the Muggle world," he said.

"I suppose," said Harry, and dropped his own cloak onto the bed. What he was wearing underneath would pass muster in either world.

"Come through," said Dean, and opening his bedroom door, called out: "I'm back."

His mother said something Harry didn't quite catch, but Dean went on: "Harry's with me." He turned to Harry and jerked his head. "Come on."

Mrs Thomas was busy folding clothes, but dropped them when she saw the two boys.

"Harry," and she moved forward to give him a hug, then held him at arm's length to inspect him. Harry smiled back at her. "You're looking well."

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Come and sit down, both of you. Tea?"

"Yes, please."

Dean waved him to the sofa and went to help his mother. A minute or two later he came back with two cups, and handed one to Harry. Mrs Thomas took another of the chairs.

"Dean's been showing me round at Ollivander's," he told her.

"Oh, yes?"

"And Ollivander said he'd get both of us into the Guild," said Dean.

"I thought that wasn't going to happen until you started working for him full time?"

"Yeah, but he wants to teach Harry some of the tricks of the trade, so to speak."

Mrs Thomas looked at Harry in a rather disconcerting manner. "Is this anything to do with . . . him?"

Harry guessed who she was talking about. "In a way. Ollivander's on our side, and he reckons he can teach me stuff that might be useful."

"I see." She sighed. "It's just as well that I didn't see anything of him -You Know Who - from what Dean's been saying."

"Take from me, Mrs Thomas - you don't ever want to see him again. And he's not a pretty sight."

"Dean's been telling us about you and him - your parents, and all that."

This was something Harry wasn't so happy talking about. He gazed down to his untouched cup of tea. "Yeah, well, there's a bit of history there, if you see what I mean."

Mrs Thomas nodded. "I can understand if you don't want to talk about it."

Harry looked up. "It's difficult to explain. But for Voldemort think Hitler, Stalin, people like that. But in the magical world we don't have tanks and aeroplanes. It's more direct - more personal, if you like. And people vary - some are really good at magic, others not so good. Voldemort - he's really good at magic - but evil. You remember meeting Professor Dumbledore?"

"Dean's headmaster?" She gave a small smile. "I remember him."

"Believe it or not, he's as good as Voldemort. But he doesn't go in for the sort of Dark magic that Voldemort does, which gives Voldemort an advantage."

"What about you?" she asked softly.

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. I've had to grow up fast, if you like. And learn stuff the hard way."

"Yeah, but you are good," said Dean.

He looked sideways at his friend. "Maybe. But I'll be glad when it's all over."

"So will I, mate."

"What have you got to do?" asked Mrs Thomas. "To . . . well, beat him."

He gave her another smile. "I wish I knew."

"Oh."

"Yeah, it's a bit like that. Anyway, let's talk about something else."

There was a moment's silence before Dean asked: "Do you want to go over and see Olive?"

"Sure. We ought to say something to her mother, as well."

"Yeah. She wasn't happy."

"I can imagine," Harry said dryly.

"I'll give her a call."

Dean got up and went into his room. Harry sat in silence for a minute or two with Mrs Thomas before Dean came back.

"Yeah, she's in. We won't be long, Mum."

"All right. Your father's going to be another couple of hours yet."

"Okay."

He leant down and kissed her on the cheek, and again Harry was struck by that pang; the feeling that he'd never had a mother to kiss so casually. But he followed Dean out and down the stairs.

"Quicker than the lift if you're going down," said Dean practically.

"I'll take your word for it," said Harry.

They emerged from the block of flats, and Harry noticed that Dean did an automatic scan of the area before going any further. They walked to the next block, and again Harry noticed they kept close to the street lights.

"White boy like you," said Dean, "stranger, well dressed - just asking for trouble round here."

"Fine."

Fortunately the lifts were working, and they stepped out onto the landing outside Olive's flat. Dean rang the bell, and after a moment or two the door opened a little way, then he heard a chain being taken off.

"Dean!"

The two embraced, and Harry hung back, a little embarrassed. But Olive quickly pulled away and said, "Harry. Come on in."

Harry followed them and then saw Mrs Jackson standing further into the room. She caught sight of Harry, and recognition dawned on her face, before it wavered slightly.

"Mum, this is Harry," Olive said quickly.

"I know," she said. "We've met before."

Harry wasn't sure what was best, but he stepped forward and said to her: "I'm sorry for what Olive had to go through, Mrs Jackson. I didn't want it to happen."

"No . . . but, well, it did, though, didn't it?"

Harry nodded. "That's right. If it's of any consolation, the boy who came round - Theo - well, he's in prison now."

"He is?"

"It wasn't difficult to work out who he was. And once their plan fell through - thanks to Dean here - he was arrested."

She looked uncertainly from Harry to Dean to Olive. "Will it happen again?"

"I don't know, I'm afraid, Mrs Jackson. But it's not likely. They saw a weakness which they exploited. But they wouldn't try it twice."

Mrs Jackson nodded slowly. "It's bad enough already round here, without any more trouble."

"I'll look after Olive, don't worry, Mrs Jackson," Dean told her.

She looked at him and her gaze softened. "You're a good lad, Dean." Dean shuffled his feet again. Mrs Jackson's manner became more brisk. "I have to be getting out now. You three will be all right then? Until I get back?"

"Fine, Mum. Honestly."

"Right then. I'll get my coat and be off. I won't be more than a minute or so."

Olive turned to the two boys. "My room?"

Dean nodded.

Like Dean's room, it was very small. What did surprise Harry was how neat and well organised it was. He was also struck by the desk, with books carefully arranged, an A4 pad open with a pen lying across it, an essay interrupted in mid sentence. Olive pulled back the chair for him, as she and Dean flopped onto the bed.

Harry settled himself, and looked across at her. "You okay?"

The question had a hidden depth: this had been the first time he'd seen her since that evening when Harry, Dean and Olive had faced Voldemort.

She nodded. "Fine."

He wasn't sure whether she was a little more subdued than usual: some of her bounce seemed to have gone.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "All that stuff you told us last summer, about your adventures - well, it was an exciting story. At the time. Then I met . . . him."

"Not very nice, is he?"

The corner of her mouth turned up. "You might say that. That curse that backfired - he was going to aim it at us?"

"Oh yes," said Harry. "He likes torturing people, you see."

"Right. And he's still after you?" Harry nodded. "You'll have to be careful then. Wounded animals are the most dangerous when cornered."

Once again Harry was struck by the girl's sharpness. That was a comment that could have come straight from Hermione.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to go looking for him."

"You don't know where he is?"

Harry shook his head. "No idea. Plotting something somewhere."

"But you're his target?" Harry nodded. "His obsession. His King Charles' head."

"What?" Now Harry was completely thrown.

"Sorry. Dickens. David Copperfield. Just been reading it."

"Oh."

It meant nothing to him - he'd never read Dickens. He looked down at the desk where he could see the pad of paper with its neat handwriting interrupted in mid flow.

Olive followed his eyes.

"No more shelf stacking for me. It was that visit to Hermione's that set me off. I mean, there's us here in these poky flats with druggies all around, and she's in this nice house in that nice avenue. And why? Her parents got a proper education. And then I beat her at Scrabble. So, I thought, why can't I have that too? Why don't I get an education?"

"And get out of here?"

"That's right."

"Best of luck."

"Yeah. Dean got the luck. Getting to that school of yours."

"Oh, he's got talent too. And you've got brains."

"And you've got a madman after you."

"Something like that."

Dean stirred. "You'll do it, Harry. Get through, I mean."

"You reckon? It's all been luck so far."

Dean looked at him more directly. "That's not the Harry I know - the Harry who came here to rescue Olive and Mum and Dad - when you didn't have to. Sure, it might happen one day - but you've got everyone on your side. Even Ollivander. Hey, Olive, you know what happened today?" And he began telling Olive of Ollivander's offer. "Means I get to join the Guild early too."

"And that's good?"

"I'll say!"

Harry smiled at Dean's enthusiasm, despite his mood.

"Dean's doing well." He paused. "Look, I better be getting home. If you take me to the lift, I'll Apparate out of there."

Olive looked at him rather sadly. "Apparate. If only!"

"Well, when you've got all your exams, you'll have something I don't."

"Don't you have exams at that place of yours? I've heard Dean talk about them often enough."

"Yeah, well, exams are the least of my worries at the moment. Come on, Dean."

Dean and Olive heaved themselves off the bed, and Harry stood back to let Olive open the door. There wasn't much space in the tiny room. Taking a deep breath he headed out and saw Mrs Jackson, who was watching the television. She was obviously back from wherever she'd been.

"I'm away now," he said. She reached for the remote control and turned the sound off, then slowly stood up. "I'm sorry for all the trouble," he said again, awkwardly.

Mrs Jackson looked at him for what seemed an age, before replying softly: "You don't seem such a bad boy really."

Harry did his best to smile. "I hope not."

She nodded. "Just try to make sure Olive doesn't get mixed up in your troubles again."

"Yeah." He cast a look at the other two. "I'll be off then."

They followed him out into the corridor. As they waited for the lift, he said, "I'll be in touch, okay?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

The lift door opened, and Harry stepped in. As the doors closed, he was able to Apparate back to Grimmauld Place with a great sense of relief.