The Portkey Solution

"I did. If we need to, we'll call."

Harry slipped up to his room, trying to fight the sudden rise of panic. It's not possible for them to be right, is it?

*****

Friday, October 27, according to today's paper

I have tried all afternoon to think of a way to get in touch with anyone who can help me get back to Hogwarts. Phones are useless. No Hedwig. No broom. I've tried to Apparate and nothing happens. I don't know if I'll be able to slip away to London to find the Leaky Cauldron or down to the shore to find the Patterson house. And that's assuming they're even where they're supposed to be.

If there's no way out of here, I can only hope there's a way in, and that Staci or Sirius or Dumbledore is looking for it. I don't know what else to try, but I'll keep looking.

*****

Harry spent a large part of the weekend revising for school. He rushed to bring himself up to date on Muggle history and maths, feeling he had a decent grip on grammar and sciences. The chemistry, biology and astronomy sections were all rather familiar, thanks to their Hogwarts counterparts. He continued to write in his journal several times a day, keeping it under the floorboard so his parents wouldn't find it.

He was relieved to have an excuse to stay in his room, away from his parents. Seeing them was physically painful: he knew, knew without a doubt, that his parents were dead (didn't he?), yet he could smell the rose-scented shampoo on his mother's hair, hear his father's laughter, feel them when they touched or embraced him. He had to choke down his food at mealtimes, afraid of looking at his parents. It was all too easy to wish it were real.

And then it was Monday and Harry was expected at Stonewall High. He dressed in the grey shirt, trousers and jumper, feeling no comfort in the fact that the clothes fit well. He ought to be in robes, with a wand in one hand and his broomstick in the other. He gazed forlornly in the mirror for a moment, waiting for it to offer a comment, then shouldered the bag with his texts and his journal inside.

The school was a short ride away, on the other side of Magnolia Crescent, but far enough for him to get the hang of the bicycle that seemed to be his. He hadn't ridden since stealing a few rides on Dudley's bike over the years. After the first several yards of wobbling, he got his balance and sped off, enjoying the breeze on his face but longing for his Firebolt.

He parked in the rack that already held a dozen other bicycles. A few people nodded to him, but mostly he got sidelong glances if anyone noticed him at all. Not one face looked familiar, not even kids he remembered from growing up in the neighbourhood. It was a fresh reminder of the unreality of it all.

He followed the signs to the office and was given a course schedule and brief directions. His first teacher was a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length black hair and a thin face. She glanced over his textbooks and handed back the grammar.

"We've just switched to a new one, so this one can be sent back to your old school." She fished a shiny white book out of a supply closet and opened it to inscribe his name. "Here we go...Harold James Potter. I know some Potters up in Yorkshire, are they relations?"

Harry blinked at her words. "It's Harry, not Harold."

"That's not a problem, dear. Your teachers will address you however you like."

Harry was staring at the course schedule, with his name and the Privet Drive address at the top. Harold James Potter. That wasn't right and he knew that wasn't right. How many times had Aunt Petunia sneered at his name, not a proper name at all but a common nickname? He'd gone through this same dance in primary school.

"No, ma'am. I mean it's wrong here as well. I'm just Harry, Harry James Potter."

"Well, dear, these records were taken from your old school, so they were the ones to make the mistake first. Don't fret over it. I'll make a note for the office to change it."

It was a small thing, but it gave Harry something to hold onto as he drifted through his first day of comprehensive.

*****

That evening, Harry lay on his bed, listening to the strains of bagpipes drifting up from the lounge. In this world, his father was a rabid fan of Celtic music who sometimes subjected his wife and son to painful attempts at playing a tinwhistle.

He got up and looked out his window. No familiar shape of Hedwig swooping in from the day's hunting with a dead mouse or shrew. He pushed the window open a few inches, just in case. He wondered about Staci, his friends and teachers, Dumbledore. What were they doing to try and find him?

He stretched out on his bed with notebook and biro in hand to write some more.

*****

It had been forty-eight hours and there were no leads at all. Staci sat on a loveseat in Dumbledore's office. Bill was next to her, keeping an arm around her shoulders, and Fawkes perched behind her, nibbling her hair, which caused Dumbledore to throw curious looks at his pet from time to time. Sirius was pacing the room. Arthur and Molly Weasley were in side-by-side wing chairs, clutching hands. Dumbledore was talking through the fireplace to Charlie, who had been searching Eastern Europe and spreading the word among friendly wizards to keep an eye out.

After Charlie disappeared into the flames, Dumbledore motioned Staci forward. She took a pinch of Floo and tossed it in. "Patterson Transport and Courier, Diagon Alley."

Neil Patterson appeared in the flames. "Hi, honey. How are you holding up?"

"Not too good, Dad. What's the word?"

He shook his head. "No news to report. We've sent the alert to every branch worldwide, but no one has seen a boy that even has a passing resemblance to Harry. We'll keep trying, though."

Staci nodded dully. "How about Death Eaters?"

"We haven't seen any activity from the ones we know about, but you should know: Hugo Victor seems to have vanished as well."

"Victor? How?" Her head snapped back up, instantly alert.

"His co-workers say he put in for an extended vacation a few weeks ago. He didn't say anything about where he was going. He left the Wednesday before last and hasn't been heard from since."

"I don't like that. Victor always used to brag about the exotic places he was going when I worked there."

"I agree. He's almost certainly involved in this. I've sent along his information to the Ministry here."

They said their goodbyes and Dumbledore broke up the meeting after that. When everyone had left, Dumbledore tossed more powder into the fireplace and called out, "Cardington Crescent."

Snape appeared in the flames. "Yes, Headmaster?"

"Have you been able to find out anything more since we last talked?"

"No, Headmaster. It's obvious Lucius Malfoy is up to something, but he's playing a lone hand. None of the others seem to have the faintest idea of what's going on."

"All right, Severus. Keep trying. But be careful."

"Always, Headmaster." Snape replied and vanished.

*****

When the meeting broke up, Staci excused herself. Bill was about to follow her out the door but Sirius held him back with a gentle hand on his arm. She went to the Astronomy Tower, which was predominantly used at night, and settled on the floor of an empty classroom. She sat in the seiza position on her knees and worked to relax her muscles, drive her worry out of her thoughts. She breathed in slowly for a count of twenty, then exhaled just as slowly, repeating it for close to five minutes. Finally, she allowed her thoughts to turn to Harry, concentrating firmly on him and not the memories of her brother that had filled her during the past two days.

She stayed there for over an hour, meditating, waiting, alert. She had been finding time to try and use the blood-bond to search for Harry since Saturday night. So far she had had no luck. Either Harry was dead, which she refused to believe since she hadn't felt anything of the sort, or since the Stunning Spell he had not taken any more damaging magic.

When the hour was up, she stood and stretched her legs. She let herself cry for a few minutes, then went down to find Dumbledore, stopping in a girls' restroom to wash her face.

*****

Ron walked the halls of Hogwarts. His long legs ate up the floors in great strides, robes flapping. Something was bothering him.

It was more specific than being left out of the loop as the adults tried to locate Harry. Staci was too preoccupied to keep Harry's friends more than minimally informed, and Bill wasn't much better. Ron and Hermione were doing the best they could to find out what was happening, and the twins were trying to get their Extendable Ears into Dumbledore's office but had had no luck yet. The upshot was that Harry was still missing and the adults didn't have the least idea where he was.

But now Ron walked, trying to think of something else. He had been pacing the common room until some seventh years chased him out for disturbing them. Hermione was in the library, trying to discover why Dumbledore's pair of rings wasn't working.

Something else. It was something else, something small. They had all been thoroughly puzzled as to why Harry would have made an appointment with Sirius at the cave, since Sirius was perfectly free to go anywhere he wanted now. Of course, Harry hadn't been himself since the Quidditch match, so knackered that it was a wonder he'd made it to all his classes.

Ron turned a corner and realized he was in the corridor that led to the entrance to the kitchens. The thought of food twisted his stomach, but if Dobby was around maybe Ron could ask him again about finding Harry's bag.

He found the portrait, tickled the pear, and pulled the door open with the resulting knob. It was fairly quiet in the kitchens, in between lunch and dinner, and several elves were cleaning the floor and work tables. One rushed up to greet him.

"How may we help you, sir?"

"I was looking for Dobby. I wanted to ask him something."

The elf looked slightly disapproving, but turned and relayed his request to another elf. In a few seconds, Dobby materialized in front of Ron with a loud pop. "You is wanting Dobby, Mister-Wheezy-sir?" The little elf looked exhausted. His thin shoulders sagged under the paisley waistcoat he wore. It clashed horribly with the striped boxers and mismatched socks.

"Yeah, Dobby...You look done in. Are you still covering for other elves?"

"Yes, sir. Meggy is still sick--" The memory suddenly surfaced in Ron's mind.

"That's it! That's what I was trying to remember! Dobby, I thought house-elves never got sick!"

"She is the first I have ever heard of, Mister-Wheezy-sir, but sick she is. Too tired to work, too tired to even remember to work."

"Is she in the hospital wing?"

"Oh, no, sir! House-elves is not getting above themselves like that!"

"House-elves isn't--aren't--paid either, but you are." Ron snapped back with a touch of impatience. "Come on, where is Meggy?"

Dobby led Ron through the kitchens to a door in the back. It led into a cosy sitting room with furniture scaled to the small house-elves. Another door that Ron had to stoop low to get through led to a large dormitory, with some fifty featherbeds in two lines down the walls. Ron thought he saw Winky in one as they went two-thirds of the way down.

Meggy was a young house-elf. She was a head shorter than Dobby, with huge hazel eyes and a turned-up nose. She was not sleeping, but staring up at the ceiling in a stupor. Ron shook her gently.

"Meggy? Can you hear me?"

She didn't answer, but slowly rolled her head slightly to look at him.

"Meggy, when did you start feeling like this?"

"Don't...remember...tired...sir..."

"Meggy is acting like this for days, sir," Dobby offered.

"Since the day you found Harry's bag in the common room?"

"No, sir, days before that. Perhaps a week."

Ron couldn't tell if Meggy might have a fever or other ailment to explain her condition, but she was certainly acting ill. Ron picked her up like a toddler and started for the door.

"Mister-Wheezy-sir! What are you doing?"

"I'm taking her to Madam Pomfrey. She should have gone there straightaway. Now, are you going to help me by opening doors or do I have to get her there myself?"

Caught between disapproval and dawning concern for Meggy, Dobby obeyed.

*****

By the time Ron arrived at the hospital wing with his burden, he had attracted an audience, following him like iron filings chasing a magnet. His siblings, Neville, Lavender and Susan Bones, and a couple of Ravenclaws trailed in after him. He laid Meggy down on the bed farthest from the doors as Madam Pomfrey flew out of her office.

"Mister Weasley? What are you doing?"

"This is Meggy, ma'am. She's ill. I think she's been poisoned in some way."

Madam Pomfrey shooed the rest of the students out except for Ginny, who had stepped forward smartly to stand next to Ron. "Well, it would have to be poison. House-elves don't fall ill, it's something about their magic."

"I didn't think they did. Dobby said she's been like this for over a week: tired, unable to remember things." The house-elf nodded eagerly at Ron's side.

Madam Pomfrey took her wand and waved it up and down Meggy a few times. She frowned and did it again. After the third time, Ginny broke in impatiently, "What is it?"

"There's something in her system, all right. You two will have to wait outside. This will take some time."

Ron waited at the entrance while Ginny went to fetch Hermione and Dobby returned to his work. At one point Professor Valora appeared and went in without speaking to them. It was upwards of an hour before she emerged from behind the curtained bed.

"Well, Mr Weasley. You were right. We'll need Professor Snape to be absolutely sure, but it looks like the elf has been poisoned with a Veternosus Brew."

Hermione opened her mouth but Ron forestalled her. "Let me guess: it causes a person to be very tired and sleepy, to the point of forgetting things that they usually would remember."

"Yes, it does," Professor Valora replied, as Hermione looked at Ron first in surprise, then in sudden awareness. "The last thing she remembers doing is cleaning and putting away the Quidditch equipment from the last match."

All three students looked at each other and gasped in unison, "Malfoy!"