The Upbringing of Harry Black

Fifteen years before:

Remus Lupin was alone.

There were people around him, of course. The entire Order was there, blending grief and joy together like black bitter coffee and sweet chocolate in a mocha. Everyone was sad, absolutely devastated by the death of the Sirius and the Potters. It was a tragedy.

But their lives had become a tragedy in these past few years. Many a good wizard family was killed in what had become what seemed to be a hopeless battle. The Potters, with their sacrifice, had changed all of that.

The war was done. Voldemort was dead, all trace eliminated except for a few scattered, confused followers they were rounding up in herds. Now there was nothing to do but for everyone to move on to a new, better life.

Everyone, that was, except Remus Lupin.

It was horrible what happened to your two best friends, Remus, people said to him. (Best? he thought. Try only). It's horrible the role Peter turned out to have in it all (should have expected it. Dirty rat). It's horrible that now you have no one to turn to for help or comfort, no one except the constant companion inside of you waiting to take your place every full moon. It's all so horrible. Have a treacle tart.

Remus left everyone to their feasting and slipped into his room. He found an unopened bottle of Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Vodka in his underwear drawer. Greedy, he tore into the wrapper around the cork.

"Now don't drink too much now, Moony", said Sirius as he handed him the bottle, tied with colorful sprigs of ribbon and a note declaring, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOONY." "You've always been such a damn lightweight."

All the muscles in his body were trying to hold themselves together, tensing up so much his hands shook and he couldn't finish tearing the wrapper. Instead, he rested it on the ground, sat on his bed, and began to cry.

He struggled to hold it in, screwing up his face, pressing into his eyes with the heels of his hands. He bit down on his quivering lip until he realized he was swallowing blood. He managed to keep it down to gasps, gargled versions of actual crying, until he felt a warm, strong hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the wise sad face of Albus Dumbledore.

Showing such a sign of weakness in front of a man he so admired made Remus feel small, low, and as he felt worse and worse he began to cry harder and harder until he gave up trying to hold back and just sobbed, sobbed so hard his cries became tortured howls that made the people downstairs check their lunar calendars.

The entire time, Dumbledore just stood there, patient, until Remus had quieted down and become merely a swollen, red, hiccupping creature. When he was done, Dumbledore sat down next to him on the bed.

"I'm s-hic!-sorry," whispered Remus, hoarse.

"It's perfectly understandable," replied Dumbledore.

"I didn't mean....hic!...I mean I..."

Dumbledore waited, curious look seated on his face as he waited for Remus to compose himself.

"I can't believe it was them," Remus said at last. "I thought I knew what we were getting into, but I didn't think it would ever happen to them, that they could all..."

He couldn't finish. Instead, he took a deep breath to prepare himself for what he was going to say.

"Professor Dumbledore," he said, addressing Dumbledore in a way he hadn't since he was a schoolboy, "I...I'm lost."

Dumbledore let out a long, slow breath through his stately bent nose before he spoke his next wise words.

"I was visiting my brother Aberforth, who lives in our parents' old house, the other day, and he needed some help fixing his toilet. So I step into the bathroom and pop open the tank's lid and what do you know? Inside, floating next to the little bulb doohicky, was my childhood pet, Geraldo the Gerbil." Dumbledore paused to chuckle with wonderment at his fantastic discovery. "I thought he was gone forever, but there he was, perfectly preserved in the tank of my brother's toilet. Makes a wonderful addition to my taxidermy collection."

Remus struggled to comprehend this anecdote, trying to relate it to his situation. He didn't want to seem stupid in front of his old headmaster, after all. Eventually, however, he gave up and just said, "What?"

"What I am trying to say, Remus," said Dumbledore, serious and sage, "is that sometimes we find the things we lose in the strangest of places."

* * *

"Why can't I go?"

Filled with teenage annoyance and angst, Harry poked away at half-fried egg goop he was cooking on the pan. It sizzled merrily, greasy and shiny.

Harry's Uncle Scott, who was brewing coffee in the corner of the tight, motley, unfortunately-colored (pea-green, a paint job from the seventies) kitchen, sighed.

"Because I don't want you to, Harry, and that's it," he said. "I...I don't like the neighborhood."

"Soho?"

"Yes. You could get robbed by a Starbucks."

Harry let out a "hmph," and flipped over an egg. Without even looking up from his work, he picked up his wand, pointed it at a cupboard, and said, "Accio plate."

The ceramic disc whizzed across the kitchen, narrowly decapitating Scott. Still not looking, Harry caught it with one hand and put it down on the counter.

"Wish you wouldn't do that," said Scott, frowning as he got some mugs out of the cupboard. "If you're going to be zooming the cutlery around, at least look up when you do it."

"I don't need to," said Harry, scooping the eggs out of the pan. "And it's not cutlery; it's a plate."

"Same difference," replied Scott. "You know, in Britain you-"

"Well, we're not in Britian anymore, now are we?"

Scott watched as Harry carried the eggs out to the table and begin attacking them with the single-mindedness of an annoyed teenage boy. Remarkable, how something so adult-looking could act so petulant.

"It's just a book signing," Harry whined, swallowing down his breakfast.

"Harry, I just don't want you to go, alright?" Scott sighed, then walked over to Harry and scrunched up his hair in a paternal way that made Harry scrunch up his face. A glossy paperback book with embossed letters in gaudy gold sat next to his young hand. Scott picked it up. A Werewolf Named Sammy. Ugh.

"I don't know why you even like these books," he huffed. "They're just...horrid."

Harry had to smile at his uncle's Britishness. "You know, the author is British, too."

"Yes, but the damn island spat him out, remember, and now he gets to slum around with the rest of us in this rat-infested hovel."

"The damn island spat you out, too," Harry pointed out.

"It didn't spit me anywhere. It just gave me a gentle shove out the door. And don't swear."

"You said, 'damn' first."

"That's beside the point."

There was a bright, cheery beep from the kitchen, stating that the coffee was done. Scott went in to pour it out.

"I don't get why you hate the author so much," pouted Harry, pushing the last of his egg around the grease left on his plate.

"I don't hate the author," answered Scott. "But you should be reading better books, Harry, not this trash."

"Like all the wonderful literature you read?" replied Harry. "I've seen those Harlequin romance novels under your bed."

"Those were left by a lady friend," said Scott, stepping out of the kitchen with a carefully-balanced cup of coffee in his hand. "Now take Deirdre her coffee before she goes into a caffeine-withdrawal coma."

Still annoyed, Harry took the mug, careful not to spill any of the scalding-hot coffee on his hands. It smelled a bit off. Harry knew the scent of good coffee; Scott owned a coffee shop near the Columbia campus. Harry had spent his childhood breathing in coffee fumes and now worked there to earn pocket money.

"Why doesn't Deirdre just get a coffee maker?" Harry demanded, bringing his nose a little closer to the cup.

"I couldn't imagine the sort of coffee Deirdre would make," Scott replied, retreating back into the kitchen. "Now scoot."

Deirdre Yu had been renting the studio apartment next door since she was a sophomore at Columbia College. Why Harry never understood; it was more expensive and her studio was probably the same size as a dorm room. He wasn't complaining, however; Deirdre was a great neighbor, an eccentric figure with her bright blue hair, eyebrow stud, and strange eyes. And with her connection at the publishing house, she'd arranged for him to meet his favorite author, R.J. Lupin.

Of course, his father had put a squash on that idea. Still, it was a nice thought.

When he pushed open the door he found Deirdre fully dressed in her "adult editor" outfit--A-line tweed skirt, light button-down shirt, and chunky black heels. At the moment she was wearing only one of the heels; the other she was brandishing around as a weapon against her greatest enemy: the wall.

"DIE SPAWN OF SATAN!!!" she shrieked, beating the wall. Heel-shaped dents marked her path.

"Suffering from caffeine-withdrawal hallucinations already?" asked Harry.

She froze, shoe-club poised still. When she saw Harry-or, more accurately, when she saw the coffee-she smiled, revealing teeth that were blindingly white despite all the coffee and nicotine she consumed.

"Harry! COFFEE!"

She dropped the heel and snatched up the cup, pouring the hot brown liquid down her throat with the skill of practiced coffee addict. Before it had barely passed her lips she spat it out all over Harry.

"What the fuck is this shit?" she gasped, gagging. "Ugh, I could menstruate better coffee than this."

"Thank you for that visual," replied Harry, deadpan. He was actually quite used to random, shameless comments like these. It came with living with Deirdre for a neighbor and Scott, who was frequently shoving one random woman out the door after another, as a guardian.

Harry took back the coffee and gave it another sniff. Like a little falling drawbridge in his mind, he realized what the funny smell was.

"Damn," he said. "Guess some of Uncle Scott's dry rat poison got mixed with the coffee."

"Ah, yes, because nothing beats arsenic in the morning."

"It's not arsenic," replied Harry. "It's some weird humane thing. Just supposed to knock the rats out for a bit or something like that."

"How sweet of him." Deirdre went over to her sink and began rinsing out her mouth, gargling and spitting like mad. When she wasn't gagging, she said, "You know, if your uncle's afraid rats so much, he really shouldn't have moved to New York."

"He's not afraid of them," Harry answered. It was sort of true. His uncle was not so much scared of rats as he was thrown into a berserker rage at the sight of them. There had been many a scene in subway stations during which Harry had had to hold Scott back because he'd spotted a rat among the detritus on the tracks.

"Anyway," continued Harry, "look who's talking." He walked over to the wall Deirdre had been bludgeoning, feeling the centimeter-deep grooves. "You seem to have a deep-seated hatred for walls."

"I was trying to kill a spider, smart-ass," replied Deirdre. "Now go get me some new coffee sans-rat poison, or I'm not going to let you meet R.J. Lupin today."

The playful expression on Harry's face died. He put the mug down on Deirdre's coffee-and-cigarette-burn stained table.

"I'm couldn't go, anyway," he said. "Uncle Scott said I'm not allowed to."

"Why? It's just a book reading," said Deirdre.

"I know!" cried Harry, relieved at finding someone who understood his teen-angst. "He's being so stupid. He's let me do shitloads more than this."

Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked down at the glazed red-tile floor, sulky again now that he was reminded of the previous argument. "He's treating me like a child."

"Well, you know," said Deirdre, walking over and leaning in close the way co-conspirators do. "It's not like he really has to know." She gave him a hearty wink with one of her odd blue eyes. "Now hurry up and get that coffee before you have to go to school."

* * *

The Cunningham Institute for Magickal and Muggle Learning was an extremely boring-looking brown building situated in an extremely boring-looking corner of Manhattan. Inside, however, was the East Coast Regional Center of the Salbrick Order, an American institution dedicated to the education of young witches and wizards, to housing guardians of knowledge, and a lot of other dark mysterious things Harry paid no attention to.

Scott always went on about how the Salbrick Order sounded a lot like a cult, but Harry liked the various masters that taught at the school. Half the time was spent on magic lessons-Charms, Herbology, ect,-but the other half was spent on Muggle subjects like math and English. The Order had some sort of theory that witches and wizards could assimilate better into society if they could do things like long division. To make up for the lost time, an extra three weeks or so of just magic lessons running from 8-12 was tacked onto the beginning and end of each school year. So when all the Muggle children were sleeping in or terrorizing the streets, Harry was walking to the subway with spellbooks for school discretely tucked into his bag.

The day was a lovely bright one, the stifling summer humidity lifting a corner to let in the faintest of breezes. The walk to the subway station made Harry regret having to go to school even more, even if it was a shortened day.

After walking for a couple blocks, trying to avoid running into people or stepping on small dogs on their walks, Harry arrived at the station for the turquoise Z line.

If you've never heard of the turquoise Z line, there's a very good reason; it was for the use of magical beings only. It ran along the same tracks as the regular subway lines, but the stops were different: the New York Underground, various magic museums and libraries, and of course the Cunningham Institute.

As always, the station had a thick silver grating and various little warning signs, cutting anyone walking down the steps off from the tunnel below. Posts informed the reader that the line was closed for repairs. Harry, however, walked straight through the grate and into the station without even blinking an eye.

The smelly, fetid little stop was empty except for a half-troll worker in the token exchange and Harry's best friend in the world, Graham Lohanagan.

"Hey," said Harry, prodding the chubby, freckled boy out of his daydream.

"Oh, hey Harry," said Graham, sweeping some of his dull, dirty-blonde hair out of his eyes. "Have you got the Potions homework yet? I've still got a couple of problems to do."

"You mean you've got all of the problems left to do," corrected Harry.

"No." Pause. "I did half of one."

With the sort of sigh that accompanies an unpopular task that has been performed many times before, Harry fished in his bag for the wanted Potions homework. As he did, he studied Graham's face. The puffy expression had the tell-tale dark under eye circles of a night spent at the computer.

"Graham, if you're not going to do your homework, please do something healthier than play computer games," said Harry. His voice was jibbing, however, and he had a twisted sort of smile as he handed Graham the paper.

"I'm very pleased with my lifestyle, thank you very much," replied Graham, taking the homework.

"Oh, c'mon, come out with me to New Jersey this weekend for Quidditch."

When Harry was seven, Scott took him out on a weekend trip to Vermont, convinced that seeing a cow was an important part of every little boy's childhood. He found Vermont a bit lacking in dairy animals, so to make it up to Harry he rented a broomstick and let Harry go for his first ride. He and Harry both were delighted to find that Harry was a natural on a broomstick. Scott was less delighted to find that it was illegal to ride a broom inside the New York City limits. So every other weekend, Harry took a train out to New Jersey to play Quidditch with other city kids with no place to play. Harry was beginning to find the games even better because he had the more or less permanent position of Seeker.

Graham just seemed to look even glummer at the suggestions and shook his head. Graham had never been on a broomstick, and it was probably for the best; Graham's proportion to a broom would have been something like an extremely fat guinea pig's proportion to a toothpick.

There was a whooshing noise and a rattle, and then the Z line train was pulling into the station.

Silent, Harry and Graham boarded the train. The car was empty except for a well-dressed business wizard in robes of lurid purple and gold, a black lump of a hag, and a shivery little house elf sent on an errand that just huddled in the corner like a bizarre lost child.

While Graham copied the paper in a frantic scrawl, Harry sat and contemplated why he was even friends with the boy. When they were little, Scott had combed the streets for a companion for Harry, concerned that he was becoming a bit too attached to their two corgis Lily and James. His search turned up Graham, an alienated little boy two blocks down with a thumb sucking habit. Before long, they were playing catch and releasing store-bought tadpoles into the gutters together.

They were growing older, however, and Harry was beginning to realize they had absolutely nothing in common. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he'd never met Graham, if his best friend was someone else...

"Sirs?"

Harry looked down to see the house elf jerking at a corner of his jeans. It-damned if Harry could tell what sex it was-looked as if it were about to be beaten, clutching at the dirty, pitiful pillowcase it wore as if it were a security blanket.

"Can yous tell Dobby where he could find Dryaid Street?" it asked in a high squeak of a voice.

"No," replied Harry as the train lurched to a stop. "Sorry."

The elf just nodded its knobbly head then walked out of the train, muttering to itself like a drunken bum.

"Weird," said Graham. "Never though one of those would take the subway. I thought they could just zip themselves everywhere."

"Maybe it doesn't know New York very well," Harry replied.

"Yeah," answered Graham. "Hey, you know, that reminds me of this one game I was playing where this really hot warrior elf princess..."

For the next three stops Graham proceeded to describe a game Harry really didn't care about while Harry thought, I've really got to get some other friends. Then...

"Cunningham Institute for Magickal and Muggle Learning!"

* * *

"Ron! Ron, look!"

Ron Weasley looked up at the prodding of his younger sister. Ginny Weasley was pointing out the train window at the New York skyline which was gleaming in the summer sun.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Ginny sighed.

"It's just a bunch of buildings," replied Ron.

"I can't believe we actually live here," continued Ginny, ignoring her negative brother.

"We don't; we live in a development in New Jersey."

"Well, we live close enough," huffed Ginny, finally annoyed. "And we'll be going in every day for school."

Ron just let out another huff of annoyance, and stared out at his new home.

"Don't remind me."

When I say Ron looked out at his new home, I really mean new; the Weasley's flight from England had arrived roughly twenty-two hours before Mrs. Weasley hustled Ron and Ginny onto the fuchsia X line (the New Jersey extension of Manhattan's turquoise Z line) in their new Muggle clothes with fresh spellbooks and notebooks burning in their backpacks, paid for by an advancement of Mr. Weasley's handsome new salary.

A couple of months before, Ron had returned from his uneventful but pleasant fifth year at Hogwarts to discover that his father, at the coxing of his mother, had taken up the position of British Ambassador to America for the Ministry of Magic. With five sons out in the world and supporting themselves (the twins had scrapped and saved away enough money with their mail-order version of the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to buy themselves a dingy little shop on the corner between Diagon and Knockturn Ally) and the two remaining children in school, the Weasley parents had become bored. There are only so many pots to scrub and Muggle cars to make fly before you need a change of scenery. So when Cornelius Fudge offered the position to Mr. Weasley, he took it.

Ron's summer had been spent packing and preparing the Burrow for the new renters moving in. Looking forward to enjoying his last month of summer peace, he'd arrived in America to discover that his new school started three weeks early.

"Where are we supposed to get off again?" asked Ginny as the train ducked down under the water, plunging them into the darkness of the tunnel and the fake daylight of the train.

"We're supposed to make a connection in Morningside Heights," answered Ron.

Ginny's delicate pink mouth split open in a yawn she unsuccessfully attempted to stifle with her hand.

"Can we get some coffee before we go?"

"Since when do you drink coffee?" demanded Ron.

"Fred and George always nicked a bunch of extra-strong stuff from the kitchens around exam time to sell as something-or-other," answered Ginny. "I heard they've really got good coffee shops around here, anyway."

"Fine, we'll wander a couple blocks until we find one," said Ron. "I don't want to get lost, though. We've still got to find our way to this school."

A couple of stops later, the redheaded siblings emerged from the subterranean train station into the bright bustling sunlight of Morningside Heights. Ginny spotted what she wanted immediately.

"Look, there's a coffee shop right there," she said, pointing across the street.

"Stop pointing so much; Mum always said it was rude," scolded Ron. He followed her finger anyway to a sign reading, The Dark Dog Café.

Even though the shop was kept impeccably clean, there was still an old, dusty feeling to it, a pleasant feeling, like when you walk into an attic stacked with old treasures you never thought you'd see again. It was filled with old wooden tables and equally old mismatched chairs with ornately carved backs and legs. The walls were covered in dark murals of a faintly canine natures; the chief theme seemed to be dogs and wolves racing after deer-like prey in the moonlight.

It was morning and most people took their coffee to go, so the place was nearly empty except for the barrista, a handsome (though Ron wouldn't know anything about men being handsome) dark-haired man in his thirties working behind the counter. Ginny was still studying the foreign-looking names on the blackboard mounted on the wall, so Ron approached first.

"Um, do you have any coffee?" he asked.

"I should hope so," laughed the man behind the counter. Ron was surprised to hear a familiar British accent.

"Right, I'll-I'll have some of that."

"Tall, Grande, or Vente?"

"What?" demanded Ron.

"It's really small, medium, and large," replied the man. "I hate the stupid system myself, but every other coffee shop in Manhattan goes by it and customers were starting to complain that without it they felt less artsy."

"Oh," said Ron. "Um..."

"Ron, I'll have whatever you're getting," called Ginny, finally defeated by the café breves and lattes and espressos.

"Right, two medium coffees," said Ron.

"Ah ah ah," scolded the man.

"Two grande coffees."

"Excellent," said the man. He stepped over to a complicated steel machine. "By the way, isn't it a bit early in the year for backpacks?"

Ron felt himself grow red and warm in the face as he tried to shift his knapsack into a less conspicuous place.

"Cunningham Institute?" whispered the man, leaning in across the counter.

"Erm, yeah," said Ron, wondering where all of this was going. He was a bit flustered; what was with this guy?

"My Harry goes, looks about your age," said the man. He presented two Styrofoam cups warm and steaming with coffee. "On the house, starters treat. But don't be expecting it the next time."

"Right," said Ron, taking the cups. He turned to leave. "Um...thanks."

"No problem."

"That was odd," commented Ron as they stepped back out into the sunshine. "Guy seemed a bit off."

"I liked him," said Ginny as they headed back into the subway station, past the fake grate and warning signs. "He was very attractive."

"Ginny!" cried Ron. "He's ancient!"

"No he isn't," replied Ginny. "He's just as old as Professor Lupin was, and half the Gryffindor girls fancied him."

"Still," said Ron. He took the top off his cup and blew, making ripples on the surface of the brown liquid. It reminded him of the lake in bad weather.

"Oh, you liked the place," said Ginny, also trying to cool off her coffee.

Ron frowned. "Well, fine." He sniffed experimentally at his coffee. "Maybe living in New York won't be that bad."

"We live in New Jersey."

"Oh, shut up and drink your grande coffee."

* * *

Sam fell back, clutching at his bicep, gasping for breath.

Apprehensively he drew back his hand. His figners dripped with blood and some weird venomous, neon-colored, bright poison-yellow, thick, mucous-y, pus-like liquid.

Biting on his lip, the emotion of horror far greater than his actual pain, Sammy looked down at his fresh, new werewolf bite.

"Moron!" shouted Scott, throwing the book across the café. Ironically, it hit the wolf on the mural. "And how would you know what a fresh werewolf bite looks like, you bloody idiot!" he continued to yell at the much-abused book. "You were five when you got yours!"

He shouted a few more expletives until he realized the only customer frequenting the café so early, a tan woman with blonde dreadlocks, was staring at him.

"Damn these stains!" he said. He scrubbed at the counter with a rag. "Damn, bloody stains, so hard to get out!"

The woman went back to her novel and Scott sighed, throwing down the rag and walking around the counter to retrieve the book.

He had tried to read one of Remus's books ever since they came out a couple of years ago, but it always ended with him shouting and swearing and stomping and having to be comforted by the dogs. It wasn't that he was angry at Remus for writing the monstrosities, it was just that he knew Remus could do so much better.

Making sure the blonde woman was engrossed in her book, Scott tucked the paperback away and crouched over the counter, running a hand through his long dark hair and muttering, "Get a hold of yourself, Sirius."

He did this, talk to himself and call himself Sirius, quite a bit. It was a way for him to remind himself of his actual name, because, as you might have guessed by now, Harry's Uncle Scott was really Sirius Black.

No one around him knew that, of course. Everyone thought he was Scott Black, owner of The Dark Dog Café and caretaker of his brother's only son, adorable little Harry Black, who was orphaned after his mother and father contracted the Ebola virus while doing missionary work in Africa (first thing Sirius could think of). He told Harry his parents had been researching ancient African spells when they were killed by an Incredibly Poisonous Viper of Unusually Large size (second thing he could think of).

What had really happened, of course, was that Lily and James Potter had been killed by Lord Voldemort, who in turn had been defeated by baby Harry Potter.

The wizarding world knew a completely different story, however. Everyone not only thought that Harry was dead, but that Sirius was too. Not only that, but it was assumed that Sirius had been over at the Potters that fateful evening when horrid little Peter Pettigrew betrayed his friends, and that the elder Potters together had sacrificed themselves to defeat Voldemort, thereby saving the wizarding and Muggle world and becoming heroes.

Except Sirius knew that wasn't the case, and knew of at least two wizards who knew it too. When Sirius met Hagrid at the Potters fifteen years ago, Hagrid had taken pity on him and handed Sirius his godson and the only piece of James he had left. Cradling the scarred baby, Sirius blasted his motorbike to pieces and threw it into the sea, hoping they would think him dead.

Hagrid had been on order by Albus Dumbledore to retrieve Harry, so obviously Dumbledore knew it had been Harry, and not Sirius and the Potters, that had defeated Voldemort. However, he let the rumors that Harry and Sirius were dead spread, and Sirius had raised his godson in peace and quiet for the last fifteen years.

He took the rag back out again, mindlessly cleaning the counter as he thought some more about the two redheaded British children. They had probably gone to Hogwarts before, like he and James and Remus had and like Harry was supposed to, before Sirius snatched him away.

Sirius had liked the two teenagers. There was something about the boy especially that made him think of Harry, and of his own much more pleasant past.

Lost in thought, Sirius stared up at the mural until a sharp, "Ahem!" brought him back to New York.

"Huh?" said Sirius, looking down into the face of yet another teenager. This one was pale and blonde, however, with a much more unpleasant air about him. He wore a black button-down and khaki trousers despite the heat, and had a paper tucked under his arm, the picture of a little gentleman.

"I said, I want an espresso machiato," snapped the boy. He had a refined British accent. Dear lord, British children were just popping out of the woodworks these days.

"Heavy on the foam?" asked Sirius. He already had a distaste for the boy before him, just like he'd had a good feeling about the redheaded boy and his sister.

"Yes," answered the boy, studying his nails. They were better manicured than a socialite's. "And make it quick if you want a tip." He pulled three crisp dollars out of his pocked and pushed them at Sirius almost casually.

Sirius fiddled around with the machines until he produced a small cup of foam and espresso, then took the three bills and gave a silver dime in exchange.

"Thanks," said the boy, taking the cup. He flipped the tiny coin into the tip jar then walked away, throwing the newspaper over his shoulder as he left.

Grumbling about rude little berks, Sirius stepped out again from behind the counter and picked up the paper. He was surprised to recognize it. The Quibbler. It was the sort of rag he used to find next to counters in Diagon Ally. He was about to toss it, when a headline caught his eye.

The Lost Potter.

Stepping behind the safety of his coffee machines and pastry boxes, Sirius began reading the paper, curious.

Fifteen years ago was that faithful night He-who-must-not-be-named was defeated. Everyone rejoiced. Everyone, that is, except the Potters and their friend Sirius Black, because they were dead.

Ah, such wonderful writing in The Quibbler.

But are they all dead?

The remains of the youngest Potter, Baby Harry, were never to be found. Could he have been taken by Death Eaters, maddened by the death of their master? Could he have crawled away by his own volition, rolled down a cliff, and been raised by unusually intelligent rodents?

"What?" said Sirius. Realizing that he was talking to himself again, he went back to reading

Attempts to ask Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and best-selling author R.J. Lupin, both former confidants of the Potters before their tragic demise, have been met with much huffing and door slamming and demands that this reporter have a lemon drop. What could they be hiding? What dark mysteries hide behind the night of the Dark Lord's defeat?

The Quibbler will be sponsoring a contest to find that long lost hero, Harry Potter.

The article continued in a description of what Harry might look like now that he was sixteen. They got the part about his green eyes right, but that he might have long curling locks and over-prominent front teeth were completely bizarre statements. Still, Sirius folded up the newspaper, and stuck in his back pocket.

* * *

Master Alberich, the bumbling teacher for the History of the Wizarding World class, always took exactly seven minutes to take attendance. Harry had tested this for about a week, measuring the amount of time between the second bell and Master Alberich's first "ahem!" His digital watch read 7.00 minutes exactly every single time.

This meant that the twenty or so students in the junior class at Cunningham had seven minutes to just sit around and do more or less what they pleased.

After settling down into his uncomfortable plastic desk-chair contraption, Harry took out his history book and flipped it to a chapter marked Modern-Day History: The Era of He-who-must-not-be-named. He contemplated reading what he was supposed to read last night, History being one of those classes you could slosh your way through until test-time, but decided against it. Instead, he dug around in his backpack until his fingers met the glossy cover of Sammy and the Vampires, third book of the Werewolf Chronicles. He had just wrapped his mind around the first word of where he'd left off when the girl in front of him turned around.

"Harry," she demanded, "are those holes in your jeans?"

She was a little midget of a thing, her petite ballerina's body as mature as a twelve-year-old's. She was wearing a prim little T-shirt with a V monogrammed on it, the V standing for Victoria. Harry had dated her for an uneventful three weeks once in eighth grade, and she had been dictating his wardrobe ever since.

"Those were Gap jeans, Harry," Victoria continued, lip-glossed mouth puckered in annoyance.

"I probably tore them skateboarding," replied Harry, examining the worn-through knee. "They're old, anyway."

"Oh, so they're broken-in Gap jeans?"

"Victory," groaned Harry. It was a nickname he'd come up for her, because she had to win at everything.

"They are very nice jeans," interjected Graham. Harry glared until the boy turned back to his computer magazine, defeated.

Victoria just looked down at Harry's jeans, then back at Harry. She had an expression of pleased exasperation, like a new pet owner watching an adorable puppy that had just pissed all over the new rug.

"You're hopeless," she sighed, turning back around.

Girls thought Harry. He was just about to delve back into his book when-

"Sorry!"

A redheaded boy bright red from running up all of Cunningham's stairs had appeared in the door, clutching a heavy backpack. He looked ready to puke or pass-out.

"Oh, ahem, you must be the new transfer student," said Master Alberich, roused a whole three minutes before his usual time. "It's fine, trains are bit difficult these days." Hunched over and balding Alberich pulled the boy in front of the class, holding him up there like a strange rock put on display for show-and-tell. "Class, say hello to your new classmate, Ronald Wesley."

"Weasley," corrected the boy.

"Ahem?"

"My name; it's Weasley," continued the boy with a distinct British accent.

"Ah," said Alberich. "Right, Weasley, and he comes to us all the way from..." Alberich bent down (not very much, thought; the boy was very tall) and whispered, "Where are you from?"

"England."

"England! Ahem, well, I haven't quite finished taking attendance yet, so have a seat over there by Harry."

As the boy made his way down the aisle, bag swinging into people as he went, Harry gave him a little smile, the sort he gave the customers at the café.

"Hi," said Harry.

"Oh, um, hi," replied Ron, taking his seat.

"So, um, you're from England," continued Harry, determined the make small talk.

"Yeah."

"My uncle's English. Well, technically I am too; I'm still a British citizen and stuff, but I haven't been there since I was little."

Ron screwed up his face, as if he were having a very large thought and it was hard to get out.

"Does your uncle own a café? In Morningside Heights?"

"Yeah, The Dark Dog Café," answered Harry. He studied the boy. "How'd you know?"

"My sister and I stopped there today," said Ron. "Your uncle mentioned you. Gave us free coffee too."

"Probably because you remind him of his Hogwarts days," said Harry. "He says that's the only part of living in England he misses. He still has a stuffed Kneazle in a...what, Gryffindor sweater?"

Ron's red face split wide open in a loopy sort of grin.

"Gryffindor! That was my house. Well, it was my whole family's house."

"Really? How big's your family?"

"Er, well, I've got five older brothers and then there's my younger sister, Ginny. My brothers are out on their own and stuff, but it still gets pretty crowded around holidays."

"It sounds awesome," said Harry, shifting his book to stick a bookmark in it.

"Hey, that's Professor Lupin's book," said Ron, spotting the name on the cover.

"Professor Lupin?"

"Yeah, he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts," explained Ron. "Been so for the last two or three years."

"I didn't know he was actually a wizard," said Harry. "I've never seen any of his books in wizard bookstores."

"He never really talked about them much; seemed a bit embarrassed of them."

"Really?" asked Harry. "I love them."

"I've never read any," replied Ron. "A girl in my house has, says he could do better. Maybe that's what he's ashamed of. Anyway, he was a pretty cool teacher. Not as boring or scary or some of the others. Best DADA teacher we've ever had."

"You've had others?" asked Harry.

"Yeah. The one before him was Gilderoy Lockhart. He got mauled by a raging fan over the summer, though, so he couldn't come back. The one before him just sort of disappeared." Ron leaned in close across the aisle, checking to make sure everyone was too busy chatting or sleeping to notice. "They say he had something to do with You-Know-Who."

"You mean..."

Ron nodded, then stopped mid-nod, studying something on Harry's face.

"Hey, where'd you get that scar?"

"Oh, this?" said Harry, reaching up to touch the lightening-bolt scar on his forehead. "I-"

"Ahem! Right, well, last time we were discussing the early tactics of He-who-must-not-be-named, and how in the beginning his propaganda techniques mirrored those of the Muggle Hitler..."

Harry gave Ron an apologetic look, then looked up front, pretending to pay attention.

Alberich was one of those dry teachers with such a monotone voice that made it difficult to stay conscious when in a twenty-foot-radius of him. It didn't matter if he was talking about the Reform for the Care of Extra-large Gardening snails or bloody goblin rebellions. The fact that the Cooling Charms on the building had failed, giving the room a heavy damp quality, didn't help matters, and soon Harry found himself drifting off to sleep.

"Harry! Harry...wake up..."

There was a weird tapping on his face and suddenly Harry was awake, eyes opened and startled to be yanked so forcefully from unconsciousness. He was lying on his back on some cold, hard floor, and a man stood over him, peering, young yet lined face creased with worry.

"I heard my dad," Harry heard a voice say. It sounded very much like his own, but there was something funny about it. "That's the first time I've ever heard him--he tried to take on Voldemort himself, to give my mum time to run for it..."

Harry realized he was crying, and for some reason he didn't want this man to see him cry. Instead, he got up and cleaned off his face while pretending to tie his shoe.

He wasn't in Cunningham anymore, that was for sure. Cunningham used to be an apartment building and looked it, with linoleum floors and boxy rooms, but this room was magnificent. Large and drafty with high ceilings, there were bookshelves and candles everywhere, and the windows were large and arched. All of this Harry took in before the man said his next few words.

"You heard James?"

"Harry! Harry, wake up!"

Harry's eyes snapped open with that same sort of shock as they had in the dream. Victoria was turned, reproaching him with her eyes.

In fact the entire room was staring at him, even Graham who usually was unconscious until eleven. Evidently Harry had been snoring quite loudly.

"Erm, sorry," said Harry. "Late night."

Alberich just nodded and went back to the lesson. "Goblin involvement had been suspected in the rise of You-know-who but..."

Running a finger through his hair to discover a sheen of moisture not caused by the heat in the room, Harry glanced down at his desk. Spotting his novel, which he had discarded over his textbook, he got a very sick feeling in his stomach, as if he had swallowed a whole hunk of chocolate without pausing to chew.

The picture of R.J. Lupin on the back of his book matched the man in Harry's dream perfectly.

* * *

"Sorry!" Harry shouted as he almost grazed an old woman, causing her armload of petunias fly off over her head. As Harry continued to glide away, the woman shook her fists and let out a stream of words surprising coming from a woman of her age.

Skateboarding was the closest thing Harry could ever come to flying in the city. When he found the right sort of pavement, the movement was smooth and fast and almost gave him the same sort of rush and rising into the air on a broom did. It had quickly become his transportation of choice whenever he didn't have to be anywhere right away.

Because he had about an hour and a half between the end of school and the beginning of the reading, Harry broke out his board and went coasting about the city, the wind rushing through his hair a temporary relief from the humidity. He stopped for a bit to buy a falafel from a stand and sat down on a park bench to eat it, flicking bits of the wrap at pigeons as they strutted past.

He was still bothered by his dream. He had never seen a room like the one he'd been in, and he'd never met Remus Lupin in person before. He knew you could have impossible dreams, but this one felt more than impossible. This one felt like it had actually happened.

James. He had never known a James, aside from his pet corgi. Running over the dream again, he guessed James must have been the name of his father.

Harry knew little to nothing about his parents. He had learned early in life that it was a subject that hurt his uncle, and he never wanted to hurt him. So after a few essential questions ("Where are they?" "How did they...die?" "Did you love them?") Harry left the subject alone. It wasn't horribly important to him anyway. He was happy with Scott, and Scott loved him, and it didn't seem like there was anything else that mattered.

Was there?
When Harry arrived at the bookstore, confused and full of falafel, he was ten minutes late. Luckily the reading seemed to be later; the tiny stage that had been set up was still bare and the audience was chatting in low tones that washed over Harry in waves.

"Harry!" Standing by the stage was Deirdre, waving her hand as if they were in a loud crowd instead of a quiet bookstore.

"Hey," said Harry, walking up to her. "What's going on?"

"Author showed up hungover; I sent him into the bathroom with my special kit," said Deirdre. "Still excited about meeting him?"

"Um, I guess," answered Harry, wondering if he really was. He glanced back at the room. "Well, I guess I better go sit down then."

He took a seat in the back, clutching his board between his legs, and waited for the reading to begin.

Remus Lupin stepped up onto the stage, looking thinner and with more ragged hair than Harry would have imagined. He looked exactly like he had in Harry's dream, except in a neat button down shirt and trousers instead of wizard's robes. Harry would have never imagined that he was a wizard, too.

Harry thought the reading was a smash; he gave Deirdre a thumbs up to indicate his pleasure. Soon he found himself fighting his way through a crowd of teenigoths, old people, and the wannabe indie elite in an attempt to get his book signed. Not as rude or pierced as some of the others, Harry found himself at the end between what looked like a thirteen-year-old in a beret and an old man in suspenders.

Harry was surprised at how nervous he was. He felt somewhere between excited and ready to be sick. He couldn't understand why. All he had to do was shove out his book and say his name. Lupin would look at him with the glazed over look of indifference or the bemused expression of a celebrity watching a fan.

Thought still didn't make him feel any better.

He found himself at the front of the line before he knew what was going on. The book of the kid before him was swept away and nervously Harry stuck out his own.

"Here. Could you sign it to Harry?" Harry chirped out.

The man took it wordlessly and moved to sign it, but as he looked up to reply his pen fell out of his hand. On his face was a look Harry had not expected. It was of amazement, of shock, and...

And of recognition.

"James?"