Realizations

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Chapter 29 - Appointment with the Minister

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July 25, 1995

Sirius Black stood in front of the mirror in Arabella Figg's lounge, glaring at the property it monitored with a ferocity that should have melted the glass. The sight of the house on Privet Drive was enough to make him want to smash the bloody thing to pieces, seven years' bad luck or no.

Sirius had never had a high opinion of his godson's Muggle relatives, but now he found himself tapping reserves of self control that he didn't know he possessed to prevent himself from journeying to Perth and taking care of the Dursleys himself. Even now, two days later, he was still reeling from his most recent meeting at Hogwarts.

The good thing was, the majority of the blind rage he'd felt in the beginning had subsided to a more manageable level. He was still furious, of course, but now he was at least thinking clearly.

Or clearer, anyway.

Sighing, Sirius tore his eyes away from the hated structure, rubbing weary hands down his face. In truth, the meeting really shouldn't have been that much of a shock. From what had been verified and pieced together, they had known or at least strongly suspected that Harry's life with the Dursleys hadn't been all peaches and cream. Those hateful Muggles abandoned Harry for Heaven's sake!

Still, it was one thing to suspect abuse, another thing to hear the suspicions confirmed, and something else entirely to witness an event in living color. Sirius reckoned that everyone, himself included, had been guilty of wishful thinking. Even when someone had noticed something, they hadn't really wanted to believe. In that way they'd proven themselves little better than that idiot, Fudge, always ready with some handy excuse:

Harry claiming his family hated him and didn't understand him could have been so much adolescent angst. He certainly wouldn't be the first teenaged wizard at Hogwarts to feel that way.

Even after the window bars thing came to light, proving there was truth in Harry's claim, they'd consoled themselves by noting that the Dursleys seemed more reactive than proactive. That didn't excuse their behavior by any means, but perhaps these were isolated events.

Poor choices made in the heat of the moment.

Overreactions to occasional mishaps.

An unfortunate inability to deal with stress in a civilized manner.

Aberrations in other words, not the norm. Bars on Harry's window couldn't possibly be an example of everyday life!

Snorting bitterly, Sirius began to pace as his mind wandered back to the last meeting at Hogwarts he'd attended a couple of days ago. He and Remus had been summoned to the Headmaster's office along with Filius, Minerva, and Poppy Pomfrey.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," Dumbledore had greeted, after everyone was present. His tone was brisk, almost short, and there had been an unusual hint of gravity in his demeanor. Worse yet was the headmaster's appearance. Albus had looked dreadful--absolutely knackered. He had also hesitated in a manner quite unlike himself before he finally announced, "Some new information has come to light with regard to young Mr. Potter."

Sirius had jumped on that immediately, grinning broadly and drawing relieved smiles from his companions. "He's been found then?" he'd questioned, looking around eagerly. "Where is he? Is he here? Harry!"

Dumbledore, instead of appearing relieved or gently chiding the Animagus for his impatience, had looked even older and more tired than before. "Forgive me, Sirius. I did not mean to give you the wrong impression. The news I have is not related to our search efforts. Rather, it has to do with Mr. Potter himself."

Dumbledore had paused a moment more, as though searching for words, then appeared to grow impatient with himself. "There is no easy way to say this, so I'll just get on with it. Before proceeding I must caution you that this is an official school meeting regarding a student, and anything discussed must be kept in the strictest confidence."

Sirius had thought this a rather inauspicious opening and felt the fine hairs on his neck begin to rise as the headmaster peered at each of them in turn. When Dumbledore was satisfied that they all understood, he had continued.

"As you all know, concerns have sprung up this summer regarding Harry Potter and his Muggle relatives. I have looked into the matter, and regret to say that these concerns were not unfounded."

Sirius paused in his pacing, recalling the sinking sensation the old wizard's words had caused. With that one statement, Dumbledore had swept away all the excuses and forced them to stop kidding themselves. The fact that Albus himself had misjudged the matter was very cold comfort. Almost against his will he found himself drawn back to the mirror, looking at the silent house while Dumbledore's words echoed in his head.

"Information has come to light during the course of my research that you should be aware of. Sirius is here as godfather, of course, Remus was invited because of the rather spectacular results of his tutoring during Mr. Potter's third year and you three," here Albus indicated Pomfrey, McGonagall, and Flitwick, "are here as Mr. Potter's Mediwitch and primary spellcasting instructors."

"Potter's spellcasting Albus?"

Sirius had felt a warm rush of pride when McGonagall shared a puzzled frown with Flitwick, then spoke up in her student's defense. "While I will admit that the boy could apply himself to his studies a bit more assiduously, there has never been any question about his magical talent or ability."

"No, he has performed as well as any other incoming student, but only as well, I think."

Dumbledore had let the implications of that statement hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "Right or wrong, I believe we expected better than average performance out of the Boy Who Lived when he came to Hogwarts. We believed him capable of more."

Sirius had been a little miffed at that, but it had been Remus who'd voiced the objection. Ah, Remus, what would we do without you, mate? Sirius thought, smiling fondly at his friend who was currently dozing in one of Arabella's comfortable armchairs. The amber-eyed wizard was normally so congenial and self-effacing, it was easy to forget the beast he carried within him.

The wolf had been in fine fighting form that day, however, Sirius recalled with a smirk. As soon as the Headmaster finished speaking, Remus had jumped in, almost bristling with indignation. "With respect, Headmaster, Harry is capable of more. He managed a corporeal Patronus in his Third Year, which is ridiculously advanced magic!"

Dumbledore had quickly moved to soothe him before even more fur flew. "You misunderstand, Remus. I was not belittling Mr. Potter's accomplishments, but given what he has shown himself capable of, do you not find it odd for him to struggle so with more basic ideas?"

Sirius had answered that one. He and Remus had gone over this at length just a few nights ago. "If you're referring to the Summoning Charm, that was probably nerves," he had stated firmly. "Harry was upset with Ron and he had the bloody First Task coming up. That would be enough to throw anyone off their game!"

The others had nodded their agreement. "Initial difficulties aside, Mr. Potter eventually mastered the Summoning Charm, and used it most effectively," Filius added proudly.

"That is true," Albus conceded. "Mr. Potter was dealing with undeniably stressful circumstances on that particular occasion. Had it been an odd incident, I would not be so concerned, but alas, it was not. He has had similar difficulties with Wingardium Leviosa and others over the years. No, I regret to say, we are dealing with a little more than a student's poor performance as a result of a bad day."

Sirius rolled his eyes as he remembered the headmaster's understated words. That was like saying the North Sea had a little more water than your average mud puddle.

Taking the reins again, Dumbledore had explained his strategy for removing Harry from the Dursleys, and briefed them on the "impressions" Dobby had gathered.

"Sorting through the impressions was very tedious and time-consuming," he explained, retrieving his wand. "Fortunately, Severus came to deliver a report when I was first examining them. The skimming ladle Dobby provided is a useful but rather literal tool. It required a rather subtle line of questioning for maximum effectiveness. Severus made several suggestions that allowed me to get to the heart of the matter much more quickly. As it turned out, wording was everything. I had started with words like 'starved' and 'beaten'. 'Underfed' and 'struck' yielded much better results."

Sirius had been a little taken aback by that bit of news, and had protested Snape's involvement. As usual, this line of proved ineffective with the Headmaster, so he'd subsided fairly quickly. At least the greasy git hadn't been present for the meeting. Of course he wasn't one of Harry's spellcasting professors.

"Viewing all the house impressions would take literally years, so in the interest of time, I selected a representative sample," Dumbledore continued, after Sirius' ruffled feathers had been at least partially smoothed. "One incident in particular seems to address most of the issues at hand. I also believe it is an indicator of just how long the folder has been malfunctioning," he lectured, drawing their attention to a largish Pensieve on his desk.

"Wait, Albus," McGonagall had interrupted when Albus raised his wand, preparing to activate the Pensieve. "Wouldn't it be best to simply tell us what disturbed you so?" she asked, looking uncomfortable.

Dumbledore, Sirius noted, had the appearance of a man who had argued long and hard with himself about that very issue. "I do not wish to intrude upon Mr. Potter's privacy any more than necessary, Minerva. However, I fear I might not be able to adequately describe what I wish you to see. The event could have repercussions on his future schooling, and there is every possibility that one of you might spot something I missed." Raising his wand again, Dumbledore held it at the ready. "Brace yourselves," he warned as he tapped the Pensieve with his wand, "being immersed in non-sentient impressions is rather jarring."

Truer words were never spoken, Sirius reflected, recalling the experience, and marveling again at the professor's gift of understatement. He had dealt with Pensieves before on a rather limited basis, but Dumbledore was right. This was altogether different. The house's impressions took over in a much more forceful way than human thought, making the headmaster's office vanish, and bringing its own prissy interior to the fore. While he and the others fought to regain their equilibrium, Dumbledore calmly lectured.

On one hand, the old man's unflappable attitude was reassuring. On the other hand, it had also made Sirius want to smack him.

"From what I have been able to gather, the first twelve to eighteen months that Mr. Potter lived with his Muggle relatives were relatively uneventful," Albus said, unconsciously slipping into his professorial tones. "Mrs. Dursley very obviously favored her own son, and she and her husband were not as demonstrative towards Harry as one might wish or expect, but all his physical needs were met."

Remembering the Dursleys made Sirius angry all over again. He glared at the house in the mirror and gave a disdainful snort. After the meeting was over, Dumbledore had reluctantly given Sirius permission to investigate the Pensive himself. It hadn't taken long for Black to decide that it was fear of possible discovery or consequences that kept Petunia Dursley in line, rather than any altruistic tendencies she might possess. The woman obviously considered Harry an inconvenience at best, a freak of nature at worst, and squandered all her love and care on her own unappreciative brat.

Still, he had to admit Dumbledore was right. Compared to later, the first year or so that Harry had spent in Surrey had been exemplary. Caring for two toddlers could be a challenge, so for Petunia's convenience, Harry had slept in a little cot in Dudley's bedroom. He was never a favorite in the family, and always came in a distant second in his aunt and uncle's affections, but in the beginning they had at least tolerated him.

Once, Petunia had noted the lack of magical activity and theorized rather hopefully that the trauma to the head Harry had suffered might have rendered him "normal". Sirius had nearly choked when he'd stumbled across that one. Idiot Muggle, he thought contemptuously, as he glared at Privet Drive once again for good measure. How dare she wish Squib status on Harry! Frowning, Sirius turned from the image again before he gave into temptation and cursed the Dursleys into next week.

When he'd entered the Pensieve with the others, he'd thought he'd had a pretty good idea of what he was going to see. Forewarned and primed for the worst, Sirius had dredged up every bit of his Gryffindor courage and steeled himself for the sight of Harry hurt or worse. As the scene stabilized he had been rather taken aback when the sound of childish laughter greeted him.

Laughter? Sirius had raised a questioning eyebrow at Remus, and received a perplexed shrug in return. Almost as one, the group had turned questioning eyes to Albus, silently asking for an explanation. Was he sure he had called up the right impression?

Dumbledore hadn't responded directly to the unvoiced question. Instead he simply gestured for the rest to follow, and led them through the doorway that opened into the lounge. Once inside, the source of the merriment became clear. Sirius had felt his jaw drop in disbelief as he surveyed the scene, barely acknowledging similar displays of wonder from his companions.

Dudley Dursley, who could not have been more than three, clapped and squealed in delight as an equally youthful Harry Potter grinned broadly. Sweeping his arms through the air, Harry was making several of the toys scattered about float and twirl in lazy circles around his cousin.

Sirius and Remus had watched in fascination for a couple of minutes along with everyone else, then it occurred to them what Harry was doing. "Carousel! He's playing carousel, Sirius!" Remus had whispered, using the name Lily had given the game while Sirius nodded excitedly. "I can't believe he remembered that!"

The dark-haired wizard half-smiled at the memory. Everyone had been pleased and amazed, of course, but Sirius had to admit that Flitwick had probably been the most excited. The little Charms professor had been almost beside himself with delight. "Albus!" Filius had squeaked gleefully, "he has perfect control of at least two dozen objects! Wandlessly! Do you realize what this means?"

"Yes," Dumbledore had replied, smiling seemingly in spite of himself, as Harry spread his arms and spun in circles along with the toys. "Mr. Potter's cousin had an unfortunate tendency to poke and torment him. This was his rather ingenious method of distracting young Mr. Dursley," he explained, then suddenly looked very grave.

Sirius had just opened his mouth to ask what the matter was, when the answer became horrifyingly clear. Dudley had grinned at Harry and demanded, "Duddy up!" Harry had innocently complied about the same time the elder Dursleys had peeked in through the hall door to see what their "little poppet" was up to, and the situation had deteriorated rapidly.

Not unexpectedly Petunia had shrieked in horror, startling Harry and breaking his concentration. The entire lot of flying objects had gone tumbling to the ground in a series of thumps and frightened wails. Sirius reckoned the cousin was more surprised than hurt, especially with all that padding, but the parents clearly didn't share that view.

It had been a mistake. Even Sirius had been forced to admit that. Angry as he was, the uncle hadn't truly intended to cause physical injury. While Petunia snatched Dudley off the floor and began to soothe his tears, Vernon rushed forward with an inarticulate roar of rage and seized Harry's small arm in his sausage-like fingers. He'd yanked the boy around, presumably to spank him or lead him to the "time out" chair and...

Crack!

Sirius ground his teeth together and clenched his fists, recalling the small sharp sound of the snapping bone and Harry's terrified, pain-filled shriek. He'd hoped the malfunction had occurred later and Harry had been watched over at least through his toddlerhood, but no. The folder's alert mechanism had failed earlier than even Dumbledore had guessed. At the tender age of three, Harry had been essentially on his own in a hostile environment, and no one had been the wiser.

The unfairness of the whole mess made Sirius' blood boil. If anyone had come to the house at that moment, Harry's arm would have been healed with a single wand-wave, and he almost certainly would have been removed from his relatives' care, or at least monitored more closely if the Ministry wanted to push the issue of blood protection.

What happened? What went wrong? Sirius wondered, resuming his agitated pacing. While it was true that his godson had never been severely beaten or molested, thank heavens, years of living in that atmosphere of tension and unreasoning fear had clearly left its mark. Some of Harry's behaviors and mannerisms that he'd found odd in the past made more sense now.

Cringing, Sirius privately admitted that loosing his frustrated anger on the boy when they'd "spoken" via the enchanted parchment probably hadn't been the best decision he'd ever made. Hell, given his godson's background, it was possible, highly likely even, that Harry was frightened or mistrustful of him now!

Wonderful. Just bloody brilliant. Sirius growled, shaking his head in disgust.

To give credit where it was due, Vernon and Petunia Dursley had actually been rather horrified at what had happened, even if "what will others think" or "what will happen to us" had more to do with their distress than their nephew's injury.

Forgotten, Harry had hugged his broken arm to his chest and paled until his face was the color of milk. His large green eyes grew wide and glassy, and for a minute or two he seemed to be in very real danger of fainting dead away.

Not that Sirius and the rest of Dumbledore's group of observers had been in much better shape by that point. Time seemed to stop. No one moved or even breathed for the space of several heartbeats, each trying to process what they'd just witnessed. At length, McGonagall found her tongue.

"You think some of his magic may be subconsciously blocked, Albus?" she asked in a clipped little voice, shaking Sirius out of his own shocked stupor. Turning, to face his companions, he had been a little surprised at the intensity of their reactions.

Remus' anger, he was expecting. Moony, he knew, would be as furious as he was, but it had been profoundly unnatural to see the usually unflappable Madame Pomfrey gripping and releasing her wand in a show of helpless frustration. Professor Flitwick was alternately wringing his hands and clenching his fists, and McGonagall...

Sirius shook his head in awe. The Transfiguration professor had been standing ramrod-straight and peering at him through her square glasses in a very no-nonsense way. In the majority of Sirius' experience with the witch, that posture usually meant a student was about to get their head handed to them. At least a dozen handy excuses came to mind before he realized that McGonagall's focus wasn't him. She had actually been looking over his left shoulder at the headmaster, and her angry look had a very "I Told You So" feel to it. Her eyes were suspiciously bright as well, and the small part of Sirius' brain that wasn't busy being stunned and furious wondered if McGonagall had been against leaving Harry with his Muggle relatives all those years ago. Intrigued, he made a mental note to discuss it with Remus later.

Dumbledore, for his part, had stepped forward and met his deputy's accusing glare without comment. When it became clear that she wasn't going to back down, he sighed and answered her question. "It is possible, Minerva. When we find Mr. Potter, it might be enlightening to have him take some of the proficiency tests we give to our incoming Muggleborns. We shall get to that shortly, but for now there is a bit more," he admitted, including the others in his address and looking apologetic. "Be assured that the worst is over," he said, waving his wand and allowing the scene to move forward again.

Up until that moment, Sirius had reckoned the "time stopping" sensation he'd experienced earlier had just been shock. At that moment he'd cottoned on to the fact that Dumbledore had just been allowing them time to gather themselves.

Once back in motion, things began to happen very fast. The elder Dursleys had soon worked themselves into a full blown panic. They'd babbled nonsensically about what they were going to say, now that the "freaks" were coming.

Would the boy be leaving?

Would they be blamed? Punished?

It was an accident, of course. Anyone with eyes could see that!

Sirius had winced at the unnatural angle of Harry's arm when Petunia finally remembered him. Surrendering Dudley to Vernon's care, she'd grabbed her nephew (by his good arm at least), dragged him upstairs to his cot, and left him there, crying and uncomforted.

"A few hours passed," Dumbledore said at that point, sweeping his wand around in a clockwise motion that mercifully made the memory speed up. Harry cried for a while before eventually succumbing to sleep, all the while hugging his injured arm tightly against himself.

"When no one arrived, the Dursleys determined that they would have to deal with Mr. Potter's injury on their own," Dumbledore commented while the images flew by. Now," he said, making the impression flow in real time again, "observe what occurred."

Madam Pomfrey saw the change at once. "Albus! His arm!" she exclaimed, rushing forward and trying to run a diagnostic in spite of herself. She made a frustrated noise when she encountered a mere memory instead of a solid flesh-and-blood boy, but even to Sirius' untrained eye, Harry's arm looked much better. Petunia hadn't seemed to notice or care and had soon ungraciously bustled her nephew off to get him checked over.

Dumbledore had sped up the events again while they were gone for which Sirius was profoundly grateful. He wasn't sure he'd have been able to stomach Vernon fretting about how this was going to affect his chances of promotion, or Dudley whining to be fed or entertained.

When Petunia returned, Albus allowed the impression to resume a normal pace. "Well?" Vernon demanded impatiently before she'd even had time to remove her coat.

"It was nothing, Vernon," Petunia had replied, looking a little shell-shocked. Mechanically, she removed Harry's jacket, exposing the new cast he sported before shooing him away. "They examined the arm, and only found a little hairline fracture. I told them the boy had a small accident...fell...they didn't question it."

"But..."

"I know."

"But his arm..."

"I know! "

"How, then?"

"I haven't the slightest."

"Do you think they came here without us noticing?"

"I don't know. It's possible, I suppose, unless the wards take care of that sort of thing or the boy healed it himself."

"About that, Pet, I'm as sympathetic as the next fellow, but I can't allow such goings on in this household. What will people think?"

"Surely you aren't suggesting that I fancy it!"

"No, no, of course not, but there must be something we can do!"

Watching, Sirius had felt the same sort of horrified fascination usually associated with witnessing an accident--aghast at what was happening, and yet unable to look away.

It had been amazing how they'd convinced themselves that they had no choice--that the magic had to be "stamped out" of their nephew. Instead of being relieved that Harry's arm had been mostly mended, she and Vernon had become even more antagonistic towards the boy, certain that some "freak" must have come and given aid without their knowledge.

Not too surprisingly, Harry had been moved out of Dudley's room because of safety concerns. At first he'd been put in the toy room, then they'd begun to worry about him somehow "sabotaging" or "contaminating" Dudley's toys. Petunia hadn't wanted to give up her guest room, since Marge Dursley was a regular visitor, so eventually he'd ended up in the cupboard under the stairs of all places!

Dudley, not understanding why his favorite game had been discontinued, resumed his habits of picking on Harry. It hadn't taken long for his frustrated pokes and shoves to turn to punches, and since his parents never corrected him, the aggressive behavior continued unabated. For all Sirius knew, it might have still been going on.

What a mess, Sirius thought, raking an agitated hand through his hair.

After the first incident ended, and Harry had been moved to his cupboard, the images shown began to go faster. The other Impressions Dumbledore had selected skipped time and tended to show snapshots of Harry's life rather than full instances. A fact that had surprised everyone was that the cousin had caused more physical damage than his parents did--he and those "friends" of his. The results were always the same, though. On the occasions he was caught by Dudley's gang, Harry would slip into his cupboard scuffed and bruised, and emerge the next morning looking as though nothing had happened.

Worst of all, the exquisite control Harry had demonstrated seemed to have been destroyed. He never consciously initiated magic after that day, and instead became prone to wild spurts of accidental magic when sufficiently stressed. This, of course, did nothing to endear him to his Muggle family, and the vicious circle continued to spin.

Sirius found his gaze drawn to the house yet again, and uttered a very doglike growl. It had somehow escaped those blockheads' notice that keeping Harry calm and happy would have minimized or eliminated those incidents entirely. Once again the desire to journey to Australia and rip them limb from limb asserted itself. The dark-haired wizard looked at Arabella's fireplace longingly. It would only take a few minutes...

"Sirius?"

Pulled from his unpleasant plans and memories, Sirius turned to find Remus watching him. "Alright?" the werewolf asked, frowning worriedly.

"Yeah," Sirius responded, deflating a little.

Always able to sniff out lies, Remus arched a dubious brow. "Are you sure?" he pressed.

Sirius sighed. "No," he admitted sulkily. Truthfully he felt ready to fly into a thousand tiny pieces, and wanted to hit something. Hard.

It had been agony trying to keep himself together during the meeting. He'd managed, but only by a very narrow margin. The strain, the desire to just do something, had been incredible, and when Arthur Weasley, Ron and Hermione had arrived his control had very nearly snapped. You were supposed to be his friends! Why didn't you help him? Why didn't you see? he'd wanted to shout. Only the knowledge that he was being unreasonable had allowed him to maintain a modicum of control.

Ron and Hermione had also helped their cause in Sirius' eyes by being touchingly loyal to Harry. They cooperated with their headmaster, but only as far as they felt they could without contacting Harry first.

"I think Arabella's gotten over most of her upset," Remus offered uncertainly, dragging Sirius back to the present and making him wince at the memory. After everyone left, Sirius had asked for some time to examine the impressions in more detail. Dumbledore had strongly suggested that he take a little time before examining the Pensieve but Sirius had been adamant, so the headmaster had allowed him a brief look. He'd kept himself together splendidly during most of the meeting, but the Pensieve had finally been his undoing.

By the time he'd returned to Magnolia Crescent he'd been beyond furious. It made him sick how the Dursleys' unreasoning fear had compelled them to belittle Harry, to underfeed him, lock him away, and to withdraw even the small amount of care he'd been given at first. When he'd flooed in and caught sight of Arabella dozing on the couch while Remus kept watch he'd finally snapped, and poor Arabella had borne the brunt of his helpless anger and frustration. He'd castigated the witch so severely that she'd fled up the stairs in tears.

Later, he'd regretted it and had apologized. Unless she happened on Harry when he was newly injured, which wasn't often, there was very little solid evidence for her to go on. Petunia had always pleaded expense when questioned about her nephew's clothing, and Harry himself was frighteningly good at adapting and keeping his own secrets.

Realizing Remus was still watching him, Sirius tried to articulate his dilemma. "Harry tried to please his relatives, Moony, he truly did. He wanted nothing more than some small sign of love and acceptance, especially in the beginning," he said, recalling how he had watched with an aching heart as his godson's attempts to win his relatives over met with failure again and again. "Eventually he just gave up and begun to withdraw. You can almost pinpoint the moment when he decided enough was enough, and he was young, Moony! Still just a little thing. He stopped reaching out, stopped asking for help and just went his own way. We're all furious that Harry didn't come to us, but he never really had anyone to go to. It probably never occurred to him," he said with a heavy sigh. "Remus, how can we help him?"

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Remus. "I don't know, Paddy," he admitted sadly. "Come on. We'll think of something," he coaxed, obviously trying to cheer Sirius up. "Right now let's just be grateful that he was strong enough to survive with his spirit intact."

"Mostly intact, anyway," Sirius agreed gloomily, fiddling with one of Arabella's knickknacks. Harry was remarkably strong willed and tenacious, despite the Dursleys' efforts to keep him as downtrodden as possible, but now that he knew what to look for, Sirius thought he could see subtle signs of what the boy had endured.

"He doesn't trust us," he summed up abruptly, after thinking a few minutes in silence.

"He trusts us in his own way," Remus disagreed, "and he trusts you over everyone else, so don't bloody forget that," he continued, shaking a scolding finger. "If he chooses to confide in anyone it will most likely be you."

"Bollocks," Sirius retorted with an impatient swipe of his hand. "If he trusts me so bloody much why is he acting like this? And don't you dare say it's because of that scene in Dumbledore's office the other night."

"Well not entirely, anyway. You must admit that it probably didn't help matters, though," Remus pointed out. He looked like he was about to continue but was interrupted when their stack of Order parchment rang for attention.

"What does he want now?" Sirius grumbled, expecting yet another "errand" for one of them from Dumbledore, or worse, another "meeting". Stalking over to his stack of paper, he froze in surprise when he recognized Harry's writing on top.

"What? What is it?" Remus asked, alarmed.

"It's from Harry!" Sirius crowed, grinning realistically for the first time in days as he snatched the pages from the top of the stack. "It's a letter from Harry!"

"Excellent! What does he say?" Remus asked eagerly, brightening with a smile of his own.

"Well if you'll pipe down, I'll tell you," Sirius responded, smoothing out the pages and clearing his throat. " 'Dear Sirius,' " he began, " 'I've been trying to write to you for a couple of days now, but everything I put down on paper just sounds like rubbish. It's kind of hard to explain something to you that I don't really understand myself. Anyway, I've decided to just write the thing, even though I know it's going to sound stupid.' " Sirius stopped and glanced up at Remus. "Hmm. We really should speak to Harry about that towering self confidence of his. No wonder Snape thinks he's arrogant."

Remus snorted in spite of himself. "Give him a break, Paddy. We didn't have all the answers at fifteen either."

"True enough, Mr. Moony. Mr. Padfoot concedes your point and respectfully asks for permission to continue."

"Mr. Moony observes that Mr. Padfoot's critique was the cause of the interruption, however Mr. Moony will grant permission for expediency's sake," Remus replied, slipping into their old Hogwarts debating style without missing a beat.

"Yeah, yeah," Sirius said, brushing off the details with a wave of his hand before returning to the letter. " 'I suppose I should start by apologizing for my behavior the other night. I just...I don't know. Maybe I should start at the beginning instead and kind of work up to that part. I guess the story starts on July first at King's Cross Station. No. Wait. It starts a little earlier in the day--at Hogsmeade Station. Professor Dumbledore came up to me while I was waiting for the train with Ron and Hermione. I was a little excited, I guess. I was really hoping I'd be allowed to go directly to the Burrow, but he said it was too dangerous, and that Surrey was the safest place for me and for them.' "

Frowning, Sirius began to summarize. "He talks about mistaking someone for his uncle at King's Cross and catching a train to Little Whinging, and finding the house empty. You were right, he did go to Arabella's before catching the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley," he commented absently to Remus, then snorted in disbelief. "He was afraid Tom would be frightened or turn him away. Please. Have you ever known Tom to refuse anyone? He also says he was planning to spend one night, then owl someone in the morning."

"Well that seems reasonable. What changed his mind?"

Sirius raked a hand through his hair, torn between amusement and exasperation. "It appears that he ran across his mysterious employer fairly quickly, and once his living arrangements were taken care of, he was prepared to just hunker down and wait it out. He reckoned he shouldn't "bother" us. Says he wasn't sure how we'd react."

"Are you saying he was embarrassed ?" Remus blurted, aghast, even as he tried to understand where Harry was coming from. "He thinks we'd blame him because those ignorant Muggles turned tail and ran?"

"That's about the size of it," Sirius said, continuing to scan the letter, "but he still doesn't say why--ah! Here we go. 'I know you're probably wondering why I'm refusing to tell you where I am. I guess it's because...' " Sirius raised an eyebrow and trailed off.

"Because what?" Remus finally demanded, watching impatiently as his friend frowned and scanned the letter intently.

"I don't know," Sirius said, flipping the page around so Lupin could see the numerous scratched out lines. "Looks like he doesn't either. Even says so here," he stated, pointing to where the handwriting began again. "See? 'In truth, Sirius, I don't really understand it myself. Well, okay, I guess I understand part of it. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. And I most definitely do not want to return to my aunt and uncle's home--Australia or otherwise.' " he read, then looked hurt. "Am I reading this right? Does he honestly think that he's going to be sent back to his worthless relatives?"

Remus sighed heavily. "He might at that," he admitted reluctantly. "It would explain quite a lot, don't you agree?"

Sirius refused to be pacified. "What does he take us for? How could he even entertain the notion?"

"Oh, please! Dumbledore all but ordered him not to contact anyone. Besides, he knows your hands are tied at the moment. What are you going to do? Waltz into the Ministry of Magic and sue for custody?"

"I might," Sirius retorted, rising to the challenge.

"Don't be daft. You'd be back in Azkaban or worse before you could even say two words, and where would that leave Harry?"

"Harry seems to be getting along just bloody fine," Sirius retorted petulantly. "It's obvious he thinks he doesn't need anyone."

"Uh-huh. So that's why he's telling you about having nightmares and visions, and stressing over whether you and the Weasleys still want him?" Remus asked dryly, moving to read over Sirius' shoulder.

"What?"

"Maybe you should finish reading the letter before jumping to conclusions, bonehead."

"Shut it, I was getting there."

"Quite. With the grace and speed of a crippled flobberworm, I might add."

Sirius pulled a face then quickly scanned the rest of the letter. "What the bloody hell is he on about? 'If you've changed your mind about me living with you' indeed! He must be joking! And the Weasleys! Doesn't he know how many times Molly asked if he could stay? Is he serious? He can't be serious! Tell me he's not serious!"

"No, that would be you," Remus grinned, then sobered. "All kidding aside, Paddy, I think Harry's dead serious."

"This just gets better and better, doesn't it?" Sirius muttered, flopping dejectedly on the couch.

---

A wizard's work is never done, Lucius Malfoy sighed to himself as he strode importantly through the Ministry of Magic with the Minister himself at his side. They had been in meetings most of the morning, and were now off to enjoy an early lunch once the minister dropped some papers off at his office.

Cornelius Fudge, as had become his habit since the night of the Dark Lord's rebirth, was trotting along fretting about Albus Dumbledore and that insufferable Potter brat.

Potter.

Lucius unconsciously tightened his grip on his serpent-headed walking stick when he recalled how the boy had slipped out of their grasp, but managed to keep all traces of annoyance from his expression. Instead, he molded his features into an mask of attention and made little noises of agreement or consolation where appropriate while the minister continued his monologue.

Fudge wasn't saying anything of import at the moment, so Malfoy let him babble and continued his analysis. For the life of him, he couldn't comprehend why that idiot, Barty Crouch, had used a "round trip" portkey spell. The man obviously had less than a thimbleful of sense, or the spellcasting ability of a Mudblood if that was the best he could manage. All those years under the Imperious Curse must have permanently damaged his brain.

As he continued down the corridor Malfoy cursed their bad luck. He would have never made such an obvious mistake! Presenting prisoners with an escape route on a silver platter was not a sound plan. Especially prisoners who had proven troublesome in the past. The most dunderheaded first year at Hogwarts should be able to deduce that! Unfortunately for the Dark Lord, Crouch and that worthless Pettigrew were the only Death Eaters available who could perform long term tasks without being missed. Lucius and most of the others were employed, or at the very least had friends and family, and couldn't simply vanish for months on end.

Inconvenient, that. The scene in the graveyard would have played out very differently if someone competent had been in charge and Potter had been trapped without a convenient ride back to Hogwarts. Wounded as he was, the boy wouldn't have gotten very far on foot. He would have tired quickly and been easy prey.

Relishing the thought, Lucius fingered the fangs of his serpent-head walking stick, thinking of the blade hidden within. Oh, yes. Very differently indeed.

Potter's escape had infuriated the Dark Lord, of course, but he had been surprisingly lenient in the "punishments" he handed out. The Death Eaters left standing empty-handed in the wake of the trophy portkey had expected to suffer grievously for the error, but the Dark Lord had other plans. Instead of torturing them for hours on end, he had put them to work getting his old manor house set to rights instead of merely "habitable" which was all that idiot Pettigrew could manage. He'd only thrown in an occasional Crucio to keep them on their toes.

Luckily, Lucius still had the Malfoy fortune at his disposal, which was very useful in avoiding some of the more menial jobs. Compared to most of the other Death Eaters, he was actually getting off ridiculously easy. All the Dark Lord wanted from him was political intrigue, galleons from the Malfoy vault, and a chance to "recruit" Draco once the boy turned sixteen. Shaking his head slightly, Malfoy had to appreciate his master's choice of wording. He actually made it sound like the boy had a choice!

That Crouch had missed this "discipline," annoyed his fellow Death Eaters to no end, especially since the Dark Lord's abysmally horrible mood was entirely his fault. Lucius supposed being given the Dementor's Kiss settled the score to some small degree, but it lacked the satisfaction of taking matters into his own hands. At any rate the simpleton was silenced before he could do any damage, and anyone who was that susceptible to the Imperious Curse was probably an unwanted liability, anyway.

Speaking of liabilities, Cornelius was still going at it. It was amazing how he never seemed to run out of things to say. On the other hand, he did have his uses. To give credit where it was due, Fudge's actions with regard to Crouch had brought about their current course of action. The minister's public face was that of a wise and kindly wizard, but on the night of the Dark Lord's rebirth he had shown himself capable of swift, vicious, even foolhardy action when he felt threatened.

The irony of the situation was delicious. Potter literally had them dead to rights. He had seen his classmate murdered, witnessed the rebirth ceremony, knew how the Dark Lord had survived all those years and heard him call most if not all of the responding Death Eaters by name. He could identify them all and have them sent to Azkaban in an instant, but because of his age, some poor choices on the boy's part and some unkind twists of fate, no one would believe him!

Draco and the esteemed Potions Master, Severus Snape, kept Lucius up-to-date with school events, so he knew quite a lot about the happenings at Hogwarts. Thanks primarily to Rita Skeeter and the Sirius Black fiasco, Potter's word was considered suspect at best by the minister. No one had even bothered to test the validity of his story.

Not that that was a bad thing, of course, or even that unusual, now that he pondered it. Weasley was always blathering about some "innocent until proven guilty" rubbish that the Muggles favored, but Lucius personally didn't see the point. Trials were expensive and seemed a waste of time and money, especially when facts spoke so eloquently for themselves. Narcissa's cousin had been carted off to Azkaban and left to rot without anyone even bothering to take a statement. Likewise, according to Severus, the authorities hadn't interrogated Crouch on the night of June 24th. He'd simply been given the Kiss, no questions asked.

With Crouch so conveniently silenced, their main problems were Potter and Dumbledore. Potter, since he was the only outsider who knew the truth, and Dumbledore, who was the only person with any power who appeared to believe him. Both were too well protected to attack openly, hence the current campaign to discredit them utterly. A good deal of the general Wizard pubic blindly believed anything they read, especially if it was an article in the Daily Prophet.

Glancing smugly at the flustered wizard beside him, Lucius silently congratulated himself. It was one of his better ideas. Since he was already on friendly terms with Cornelius Fudge, the Dark Lord had tasked him with cultivating the minister's paranoid side and gently guiding him down the garden path. He was grateful for the opportunity to smile openly when the minister made a small jest. Oh, Fudge was embarrassingly easy to manipulate! All he really had to do was tell the minister what he wanted to hear, and slip in a few "helpful" suggestions during the course of conversation.

Speaking of which...Lucius weighed his options. He supposed he probably should actually say something--pearls before swine and all that--but on the other hand they had practically reached their destination. Perhaps something quick and pithy, then. He regretted not listening well for maybe half a second before an opportunity to be "helpful" presented itself in the form of one Albus Dumbledore. They were coming up on the minister's office and Lucius, who had the advantage of height, could see the aged wizard in the waiting area, speaking to Arthur Weasley's spawn. How delightful.

Fudge was still going on at length about the Hogwarts headmaster, so Lucius could make himself look like a hero by simply telling the other wizard to cease his accursed babbling.

As long as he phrased it nicely, of course.

"Forgive me for interrupting, Minister, but isn't that the Headmaster now?" he asked, doing his best to sound mildly surprised.

As hoped Fudge broke off immediately. "What?" he gasped, looking horrified. Lucius enjoyed a few seconds of silence while the other wizard stepped in front of him and peered ahead, then sighed mentally when the minister piped up again, this time feverishly thanking him.

"Oh, good show, Lucius! Very good show indeed! The old fellow may be a bit touched in the head, but it's very bad form to go around insulting wizards to their faces!"

"Very bad form indeed, Minister," Lucius agreed sagely. It's easier and much safer to insult them behind their backs.

"Still I wonder what he's doing here," Cornelius frowned in confusion. "I distinctly recall Mr. Weasley--Percival that is--informing me he had an appointment in two weeks' time, not today!"

Lucius nodded, hiding his acute interest behind a bland facade while his mind began to click through the possibilities. Fudge had already told him Weasley junior's account of Weasley senior making an appointment for the headmaster. At the time he'd dismissed it as some routine matter, especially if Dumbledore was content to wait. Since Dumbledore was obviously willing to push the issue, his errand might be of interest to his master. He'd have to tread carefully so as not to be ejected from the proceedings. "Perhaps he wishes to reschedule," he speculated with a shrug. "Or perhaps he's been in contact with Potter again and has more shocking news for you," he quipped, getting one last dig in before they entered.

The two wizards shared a knowing look, then paused a second more so Fudge could don his 'congenial but very busy' persona before entering. "Headmaster Dumbledore!" he exclaimed as he walked briskly through the door. "Absolutely lovely to see you--"

"And you as well, Minister," Albus replied smoothly, cutting Fudge off before he could get to the 'so sorry, but I really don't have time to chat' part. Lucius hung back and stayed silent, enjoying the show. Dumbledore might be one of the Dark Lord's major opponents, but he had to admit, the old boy was good.

Or maybe Fudge was just that pathetic.

Regardless, one should never pass up the opportunity to observe an adversary. There was always something to be learned.

"I know you must be very busy, Minister, so I'll be brief," Dumbledore continued, before Fudge could gather his wits enough to make the claim himself. "I trust your excellent assistant, Mr. Weasley, told you that we suspect that an Archive Folder is malfunctioning, and why we require your assistance. If you consider the circumstances, I think you will agree that it must be examined immediately," the headmaster stated, blithely ignoring Percy who was making animated gestures to gain Fudge's attention. "To expedite matters, I have brought Hogwarts' resident Charms expert, Professor Flitwick. He should be able to determine if the folder was tampered with, and hopefully set it to rights in short order."

Fudge blinked a couple of times, looking unforgivably confused, in Lucius' opinion. One should never admit ignorance. The minister did redeem himself a bit when he nodded politely to the Charms professor, then excused himself and whirled on a very chagrined-looking Percy Weasley. Lucius smirked behind his hand, and casually moved to a spot where he could lean comfortably against the wall. If the spot allowed him to conveniently "overhear" their hissed conversation, so much the better.

"I thought you said this was a routine matter that was of no great import, Mr. Weasley!"

"I did! It is! My father came in spouting some ridiculous story about how Harry was neglected by his Muggle relatives! I said I would send a team out to investigate but he refused! Clearly, a proper investigation would uncover their lack of proof."

Perhaps, Lucius conceded thoughtfully, or they may simply want to keep their facts out of the "Daily Prophet".

"Perhaps we should move this conversation into your office, Minister," Dumbledore suggested pointedly, silencing the other two wizards. "Professor Flitwick and I will be happy to clear up any misunderstandings and answer any questions," he continued more placatingly.

"Yes, yes, of course," Fudge agreed, before remembering his luncheon date. He stopped and looked indecisively at Malfoy, but Lucius waved a forgiving hand. "Duty calls, Minister. I am content to wait." To prove his claim, he folded his elegant figure into one of the comfortable chairs in the outer office and gave Dumbledore a mocking little nod. "If the headmaster is as efficient as he claims, you should be done in no time. Perhaps Mr. Weasley here can nip down to the Archive and fetch the folder in question, just to save time."

Cornelius brightened. "An excellent idea!" he enthused. "Run along, Percy, there's a good chap. Thank you, Lucius, we'll try to be brief."

"Take your time, Minister, I'm off for the rest of the day so there's no great need to rush," Malfoy forgave easily, watching in amusement as Weasley huffed out the door as fast as his long legs could carry him, and the other wizards disappeared into Fudge's office. Delores Umbridge, Fudge's other staff member, appeared to be at lunch already which was perfect.

Hurrying over to the door, he cast a small alarm spell that would let him know if anyone was approaching from the hallway, then went over to Weasley's desk. He cast a quick Scourgify on the desk and chair, then keyed on the magical intercom and listened to the arguing voices filtering through the device.

"Minister I still believe it would be prudent--"

"Don't be daft, Albus, there's no need for silencing spells! No one eavesdrops on the Minister's office! Wands are checked at the front for Heaven's sake! Besides there's no one out there but Lucius, so do get on with it."

Lucius rolled his eyes. How did someone so naive ever attain the post of Minister? he wondered, then began listening intently as Dumbledore finally sighed in exasperation, then got down to business.

The Hogwarts professors obviously suspected that their meeting wasn't anywhere near as private as they'd like, and were clearly trying to be cagey. Well acquainted with the futility of such an exercise, Malfoy nearly chuckled out loud when Fudge's native obtuseness neatly thwarted that plan, and forced them to speak more plainly than they probably would have liked. Steepling his fingers in front of him, Lucius raised an inquisitive brow and took note of details that might interest his master.

They suspected Potter's folder had been tampered with?

The alarm system was not functioning properly?

Potter needed to be removed from his Muggle guardian's care, and the sooner the better?

Hmm. Interesting. Very interesting indeed, Malfoy thought, a calculating gleam in his pale gray eyes.

---

"This should do it for the women's robes, Sparky," Maggie McKnight said, casting pressing and freshening charms on some of the garments she'd just finished re-hanging. "After this, all we have to do is sort through that pile of menswear."

Harry nodded, then raised an eyebrow at the number of robes still waiting to be put away. When he'd arrived, Madam Malkin had directed him over to the fitting area, and requested that he help Maggie sort the mess out. "You must have been busy earlier," he noted, as the witch removed the last few ladies' robes from the wall bar and draped them over his arm.

"Oh, aye," Maggie confirmed, pausing a moment to pocket her wand and stretch her fingers. "It was a very odd sort of morning. Normally we don't have so many customers all at once. They were mostly last-minute shoppers for the Whitworth wedding," she said, giving Harry a sly wink. "Can't be seen wearing last years' robes, don't y'know."

Harry chuckled and rolled his eyes in response, and made his way to the ladies' department. Actually, he thought, methodically hanging the rich formalwear, it's been a rather odd sort of day all the way around.

First, there had been Pigwidgeon's rather ignominious arrival that morning. Frowning, the dark-haired teen made a mental note to check on the little owl again when he returned to the Leaky Cauldron, and maybe pop by Eeylop's Owl Imporium later. Pig's normal hyperactive manner had made his state of near collapse all the more frightening, and Harry was taking no chances. He'd looked in on the bird before leaving for Madam Malkin’s, but hadn't really been able to get a clear indication of his health. He'd seemed to be sleeping comfortably, though, so Harry had left him under Hedwig's watchful eye, confident that the snowy owl would fetch him if need be.

Frowning thoughtfully, Harry hung the last of the womenswear then made his way back to where Maggie was working, still working through the events of the morning. Pig's condition had been a shock, but equally disturbing was Hermione's theory that he was somehow blocking tracking magic. He'd fretted about that a bit after reading the letter Pig had brought, but by the time he'd finished cleaning up and writing to Sirius, he'd mostly convinced himself that Hermione, brilliant though she might be, had to be mistaken in this case. Unless his magic was doing something without his knowledge or consent, there was no way he could do what she was suggesting. He wouldn't even know where to start for Heaven's sake!

Or so he'd thought.

Now he was beginning to wonder.

Harry grinned at Maggie as he accepted another armload of freshly pressed robes, ("Not too many now, there's no great rush!") then continued his musings as he trudged towards the men's department.

By the time he'd made his way down to the kitchen to help Tom open for the day, he'd dismissed Hermione's theory as daft, and moved on to more pressing matters like how he was going to smooth Ron's ruffled feathers and if it might be safe to tell his friends what was going on. Deep in thought, he'd greeted Tom, then headed out into the dining room to take the chairs off the tables. He hadn't really taken note of what the older wizard was doing until he came back for place settings and realized Tom hadn't budged an inch.

Curious, he had wandered over to see what was going on, and had found Tom fussing irritably with the tracking charm he'd cast the night Harry had escorted Janet and her girls back to their house. Tom had insisted that the spell was useful as a safety precaution, especially since he was out and about so much, so Harry had grudgingly allowed the older wizard to keep it on the condition that it be kept hidden.

In all honesty, Harry considered the tracking charm something of a nuisance, and hadn't been all that concerned when Tom hadn't been able to resolve his difficulty with it. He'd taken a much keener interest in the proceedings when Tom informed him that his charmed worklog was malfunctioning as well.

Since Harry found it difficult to recall every stupid little chore he'd done, especially if he was doing a lot of small jobs, Tom had instructed him to keep a list, documenting his work. Neither wizard had particularly liked that, though. Since writing the items down and balancing the account every day was boring and tedious, it hadn't been long before Tom had gone in search of a way to automate it. The result had been a parchment logbook, charmed to track and keep a running tally of Harry's earnings and expenditures while in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry thought it was a dead useful little thing, and had hovered anxiously while Tom tried to sort it out, but both spells appeared to have gone completely haywire. The log had stopped making entries sometime this past Saturday, and instead of giving details about Harry's whereabouts and status, the tracking charm simply read:

Sparky

Location: Unknown

Status: Unknown

"Peculiar," Tom had commented, rubbing his chin with one hand. "Most peculiar," he reiterated after removing the charms and re-casting them to no avail.

Personally, Harry thought "peculiar" didn't even begin to cover it, and considered the oddity as he went back for yet another armload of robes. Could Hermione possibly be right? And if so, how? Fantastic as the notion was, it would explain why Professor Dumbledore hadn't simply sent someone to fetch him. It would also explain Ron's owls' behavior to some extent and Tom's problems with the log-- Eurgh! he interrupted himself when he noticed a particularly revolting set of robes waiting to be returned to the sales floor. I didn't even know Madam Malkin carried this kind of stuff!

"Not the most attractive thing, is it?" Maggie observed, grinning at the look on his face.

Harry blinked at the robe then shook his head in dismay as he took in the current assortment on the hanging bar. A lot of the robes in the pile were all right, but as he and Maggie worked their way towards the bottom, they were coming across some of the gaudiest, most outrageous garments Harry had ever seen. A case in point was the retina-searing orange creation on top of the robes Maggie had just laid across his arm. Harry grimaced, wondering if it glowed in the dark, then inquired, "Did someone go out of their way to find the most dreadful robes in stock?"

It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but Colleen, who had come over to help, looked mischievously at Maggie and laughed as the other witch rolled her eyes. "Something like that," she confirmed, making Harry raise his eyebrows inquisitively.

Grinning impishly, Colleen filled in the back story. "Mags told you about this morning's wedding guest panic, right?" She waited for his nod then continued. "Well, some of the Weasley boys came in looking for dress robes while we were trying to attend to the Whitworth lot. Mags, here, told them to 'feel free to browse' until someone was available help them."

"I didn't know they planned to dismantle the place," Maggie grumbled pettishly, shooting the other witch a harassed look as she hung another robe and inspected it for dirt or wrinkles.

"I know, love, I'm just having you on. They just got a little carried away is all," Colleen said placatingly, before turning to Harry.

"The older brothers were having a bit of fun with the younger one," she said, continuing her explanation. "Since they were paying, they reckoned they should be allowed to choose which garment would be purchased." Plucking at the sleeve on one of the uglier robes, she slanted Harry a knowing look. "Obviously the object of their generosity wasn't impressed with some of their *ahem* choices."

"Obviously," Harry agreed, laughing helplessly as he imagined the scene. Poor Ron, he thought, smirking at a set of maroon velvet robes with generous lace cuffs and a matching jabot at the throat. His best friend's likely reaction to that was probably something like "no, no, and hell no!" The Weasley twins and his Muggle cousin didn't share many traits in common but Harry had to admit, all three of them were experts at finding weaknesses and exploiting them. Fred and George were not malicious in their teasing, unlike Dudley, but once they had someone going they certainly weren't above milking it for as long as they could.

Prats, Harry thought half in amusement, half in exasperation as he hefted the robes and headed back to the mens department. Thoughts of Ron and his family brought Pigwidgeon to mind again, so Harry found himself speculating idly on tracking magic and messenger owls as he returned the dress robes to their proper places.

The main sticking point that Harry could see with regard to Hermione's theory was Hedwig. Errol and Pig might be having trouble locating him, but she clearly wasn't. It could be argued that she already knew where he was, but Errol and Pig did too! They'd been delivering messages all summer, in point of fact. Why were they suddenly having trouble now?

Frustrated, Harry went back to get the last few robes. Okay. Fine. Ignoring the Hedwig thing for the moment and assuming he was suddenly somehow invisible to any and all forms of tracking magic, how did it happen? And when? Was he controlling it? Could he turn it off?

Wait.

Back up.

When!

If the log is right, I know when this started!

Harry realized with a start. When Tom hadn't been able to sort out the log, he'd fetched a quill and ink, and instructed Harry to fill in the blanks while he rushed out to set the tables and finish getting the dining room in order.

That had been a rather large scare, Harry mused, snorting when he encountered a black satin robe with a matching shoulder cape. Both were lavishly embroidered with silver cobwebs, and the cape was held in place by two jeweled spider brooches. Oh, well done. I can't possibly imagine why Ron didn't choose that one! he mused sarcastically. At least it was better than the pink paisley number he'd just put away.

Normally the idea of recalling three days' work would be rather off-putting, but Harry had gotten off fairly light. Really, between being gone or asleep a good deal of the weekend, and spending most of Monday at Lancaster's, there truly hadn't been a lot to report.

By all indications, the log had stopped working early Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately, once completed, the log clearly documented his sudden loss of appetite and he'd had to come clean to Tom about his recent stomach woes, Harry recalled, twisting his mouth to one side in annoyance. Tom had been concerned that he might be coming down with a summer flu, but Harry had shrugged it off, certain he was just suffering from his body's unfortunate reaction to stress.

Or pretty sure, anyway.

Now that he was almost finished putting all the robes away, and had slowed down enough to notice such things, Harry was dismayed to discover he had broken into a light sweat and was huffing a little. Frowning, he hung the last robe then leaned against the clothing rack and took a deep breath. Why was he so bloody tired? It certainly wasn't like Maggie had been overworking him. She'd commented that he looked a little off, and refused to let him take more than five robes at a time, for Heaven's sake!

"Jimmy?"

Mortified, Harry lifted his head and found Madam Malkin studying him rather seriously. "Sorry ma'am," he said, hoping he didn't look as guilty as he felt. "Just...just taking a short break before coming to find you. Maggie and I have finished sorting the robes in the fitting area."

"Yes, well done," the little witch acknowledged absently, making Harry sweat even more when she put her hands on her hips and continued to frown at him. "Are you quite all right, dear?" she finally asked. "You look a bit peaky."

"I'm fine Madam Malkin," he replied automatically, simply relieved that she wasn't angry. And he was. Or better, then he'd been when he'd first awakened, anyway, Harry added silently as he did a quick assessment. His stamina wasn't top notch and his throat was still bothering him a bit, but the annoying nausea was mostly gone. All in all it was nothing he couldn't live with.

The dressmaker didn't look entirely convinced, but didn't press the issue. "All right, dear, but if you need to leave early just let someone know," she said, straightening her customary mauve robes, and showing him to the back room. Once there she seated him at one of the worktables, and fetched several boxes of accessories.

"There now," she said, arranging them in front of him. "Just sort and price those for now. If you feel up to it when you're done, put them out on the shelves. Do you remember where everything goes and how to use the pricing stylus?"

Harry nodded in acknowledgment. "Yes, ma'am."

"All right, then. I'll leave you to it."

Harry smiled, wise to the witch's transparent attempts to get him to rest, but grateful nonetheless. What's going on with me? Am I just out of shape? he wondered inanely. He didn't think it could have happened so quickly, but it had been several days since he'd done any heavy work...maybe the old Muggle saying "use it or lose it" had more merit than he thought.

Shrugging dismissively, Harry reached for the first box which turned out to be full of school ties and started sorting them by House. If being out of shape was the problem, he had an easy solution. Steve had made it clear again, just this morning, that he wouldn't mind helping Harry train up a bit. Before now Harry had still felt a bit timid about accepting the offer, but clearly he needed to if he couldn't even hang a few robes without breaking a sweat.

Steve, of course brought the rest of the Wrights to mind, making Harry shake his head as he read the bill of lading and set the numbers on Madam Malkin's pricing stylus. Now there's an interesting lot, he thought with a grin. Nutters--that was the only way to describe them. The whole family was bloody mental --but in a good way.

Tom had solved the mystery behind their sudden disappearance that morning, Harry recalled as he began to touch the price tags on the ties with the stylus. The conversation about his loss of appetite had evidently jogged Tom's memory, because in the middle of pacing around and recommending that Harry take a few days off or at least get looked over by a Mediwizard, the older wizard had suddenly stopped short, slapped his forehead and muttered a mild oath.

"Sorry, lad, I was supposed to tell you, but it completely slipped my mind!" he had said, turning to face the rather bewildered young man. "Steve, Janet, and the girls came by while you were sleeping Sunday afternoon. I going to fetch you, but Janet suddenly started acting like she really didn't feel well at all. I told them to run along and I'd make their excuses..." He glanced up at Harry and spread his hands helplessly. "I do apologize for the oversight. I guess I've been more distracted than I thought."

Harry had been surprised and a bit put out initially, but couldn't stay cross for long. He certainly couldn't claim that this was normal behavior. In fact, if Tom hadn't played the "boss" card and directed the other shopkeepers to send requests for Jim's services care of himself at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry's freelance "business" might have never gotten off the ground. The fact that "Jim Patterson" wasn't a real person might have confused some of the postal owls, so the old man's cooperation had been absolutely essential. Harry was responsible for sorting his schedule and sending response owls, of course, but Tom always ensured that he received his requests in a timely manner. This one small slip was actually a testament to how deeply the old man had been affected by their conversation Sunday afternoon and the revelations about Harry's home life.

Sighing, Harry reset the pricing stylus and began to work on the plain black ties worn by unsorted first years. Candidly, he admitted that there were probably a lot of things he could have done differently, or better, but amazingly, Tom didn't seem to be angry with him. In fact, he'd seemed genuinely distressed that his delay might have contributed to Harry's "illness", with his "dithering." Harry had tried to reassure the old man, but by that time the first customers of the day had arrived, and they'd both had other things to attend to.

Harry had tried to keep his mind on things as he smiled at the customers and serviced the tables, but after discovering that Janet was unwell, he'd found himself...not worried exactly, but distracted. Yes, distracted. Distracted and wondering if everything was quite all right. Steve hadn't been in town long--what if he didn't know where the surgery was, or the chemist? What if he was trapped in the house because Janet was incapable of watching the girls? By the end of the breakfast rush, he had decided that a short visit might be in order--just to see if they needed anything. He'd been toying with the idea of taking some pumpkin juice over anyway, and this was the perfect excuse.

Tom had graced him with one of his toothless smiles when Harry had announced his intentions, and asked that two liters of pumpkin juice be added to his account. The bald wizard hadn't said anything aloud, but when he'd returned with a jug full of the requested beverage, he'd also pressed a large package of biscuits into Harry's hands.

"Give her my love as well, lad," he'd said with a wink, ignoring the boy's reddening cheeks and stuttered protests. "Oh, and do try to make it back before the lunchtime customers start queuing up."

Harry hadn't thought there was any danger of that, and assured Tom he would return straightaway, but the old man's words had troubled him as he'd headed down the street. Love was something he felt horribly uncomfortable discussing. He felt completely out of his depth and wasn't even certain he could properly define the emotion! Was it the wistful longing he'd experienced with the Mirror of Erised? Was it the warm feelings he had for his friends or perhaps the sense of kinship and rush of gratitude Sirius' offer of a home had inspired? Certainly there was a long list of people of which he was fond, but none of those feelings were precisely the same. Was that love, then? Or just varying shades of "like a whole lot"?

By the time he'd arrived at the Wright's home, he'd managed to confuse himself thoroughly, and had decided trying to sort out his feelings was a bloody waste of time. Unfortunately, he'd also made himself a little unsure about his place in the grand scheme of things, and found himself wondering if this had been such a bright idea. The Wrights seemed to like him well enough, but he'd never popped 'round without an express invitation before.

I should have rung first, Harry had thought, giving himself a mental slap as he continued on his way. Unlike most Muggle-raised wizards, he didn't automatically think of ringing when he wanted to contact someone. Because of the Dursleys forbidding him to touch theirs and his growing accustomed to the wizard practice of owling, Harry was actually much more likely to fetch his writing supplies than pick up a phone if he wanted to communicate with someone.

By the time a confused-looking Stephen Wright responded to his knock, Harry had been convinced he was going to be turned away, and was prepared to just ask after Janet, hand over the goods and go. Steve had surprised him, though, greeting him warmly, and waving off his apology for not ringing first. "Can you spare a few minutes, or do you have to rush off? Jannie's told me what a busy schedule you keep, but I'm sure the girls would like a chance to say hello. All of them," he'd emphasized with a wink, not seeming put out at all.

Since the lunch rush wouldn't begin in earnest for another hour or more, Harry had happily accepted the invitation, inquiring after Janet, as Steve ushered him in.

"She's much better today," Steve had assured him with obvious relief. "She's just been trying to do too much, and not taking care of herself. I told her to wait until I got here, damn stubborn woman."

Harry shook his head again, smirking a bit as he recalled the older man's protective fussing. Steve's overall attitude combined with the mostly "normal" condition of house itself had relaxed him more than words ever could. Bright, bouncy music was coming from the living room speakers, and the "keep quiet" atmosphere he associated with the seriously ill, was not in evidence. Definitely a good sign.

The Wrights had been attending to their laundry when he arrived, and as Harry entered the living room he'd been pleased to note that Steve was quite right. Janet had been seated in the floor with her daughters, folding the last of the shirts, and appeared to have made a complete recovery.

"Hey! Look who's here! Steve had called with a grin, drawing everyone's attention. Becky and Kitty had looked up then smiled brightly and rushed over, latching onto him like they hadn't seen him in a year. Janet had been a little more restrained in her greeting but not by an awful lot. She'd given him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, beaming when he passed on Tom's message and thanking him very nicely for the juice and biscuits.

The whole thing had been amazing, really. He'd felt very much the intruder when he'd knocked on the door, but within ten minutes he'd been folded into the family routine like he'd lived there all his life. Harry paused a moment in his pricing, snickering when he recalled the Sock War. Even now, he couldn't swear who'd made the first toss. He was almost certain it had been Kitty, but it could have been Janet. She was sneaky that way, sometimes. One minute he'd been sitting on the floor with the rest of the family, sorting socks and enjoying the peppy rock music, and the next minute someone had lobbed a rolled up pair of socks directly at Steve's head.

Harry had blinked in astonishment, not quite known what to think as the socks bounced lightly off the top of Steve's head and rolled to a stop. Certainly Uncle Vernon would have never tolerated that sort of behavior. Heck, Uncle Vernon would have never been sorting socks in the first place! He'd tensed up a bit, wondering what was going to happen next, but Steve had merely cocked an eyebrow and borrowed a line from the old Warner Brothers' cartoons:

"Of course you know, this means war..."

The Wrights did that a lot, Harry noted, picking up the stylus again. It seemed to be a family trait to quote lines from songs or the cinema or shows off the telly. In the early days of their acquaintance, he'd actually found it sort of eerie when Janet and Kitty would say the same thing in response to some random cue, and even more disturbing when the line in question was one that Becky knew as well. Steve was obviously just as bad, and his comment had touched off a total sock free-for-all. Harry initially thought he'd refrain, but changed his mind at once when Kitty bounced a pair of Becky's frilly anklets off his chest. They'd played for a few minutes, tossing the soft projectiles at each other with a great deal of silliness and laughter until a stray shot hit an already-fussy Becky in the ear, frightening her and ending the game.

The visit had gone surprisingly well, but had been over all too soon. The hour or so that had seemed like loads of time when he left the Leaky Cauldron had flown faster than his Firebolt and before he'd known it, Harry had found himself hurrying back to the wizard inn, as fast as his irritable stomach would allow.

There, Harry thought in satisfaction, surveying the priced and sorted ties. He was just debating on whether he should carry on pricing the other accessories or shelve the ties and come back when he was rudely interrupted by a furious shout.

"YOU MORONIC IMBECILE! IS THE CONCEPT OF STEALTH LOST ON YOU? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? WERE YOU TRYING TO ANNOUNCE OUR PRESENCE TO THE MINISTRY?"

Harry sucked in a startled gasp as the link he had with Voldemort suddenly flared to life. The dark wizard was in a towering rage, over something, Harry noted as he glanced at the door that let into the shop. No one was there. Good. Automatically his fingers flew to his shirt pocket, searching for his pen and notepad as the conversation continued in his head.

"It was a Muggle, Master! Just a Muggle! We didn't visit them or cast the Dark Mark! It was owls! Just a few owls! They left a few warning messages on the front step!" the hapless Death Eater begged, knowing, just as Harry did, what was probably coming.

"Owls that are bringing their messages back undelivered now?" Voldemort spat. "How are these Muggles doing this without the aid of the Ministry?"

"I don't know, Master, but the Ministry isn't involved! It isn't only myself, there are others who feel they don't belong--" he tried to explain, breaking off in an anguished scream when Voldemort snarled "Crucio!"

As the energy from Dark Lord's curse flashed over their link and slammed into his scar Harry clenched his teeth and cast around desperately, trying to keep his own sympathetic howls under control. Damn! The connection usually didn't come to life so quickly! Normally he had some time to prepare!

Harry he noted fleetingly that the Death Eater being "disciplined" sounded vaguely familiar before an especially vicious blast demolished all coherent thought. Panicking slightly, he staggered to his feet, topping his chair in the process. He had to run--break the connection--hide in the loo--something--anything! He couldn't be caught like this! He'd never be able to explain himself. He was considering using a bolt of material to muffle his yell when another voice interrupted.

"Master?"

Whimpering softly in relief, Harry leaned over the table bracing himself with both palms, as Voldemort's attention was distracted and the intensity lessened somewhat. Unfortunately as the pain in his head began to ebb, his ability to hear diminished also. Harry made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and strained to re-establish the full connection, but his strength was shot. He was able to get some of it, but Voldmort's irritation at being interrupted just didn't fuel the link as effectively.

"...This...etter...be...portant, Malfoy,"

the red-eyed wizard warned, while his victim moaned piteously in the background.

"Yes, Master." Malfoy was all business from what Harry could hear. His tone was brisk, efficient, and utterly lacking its usual condescending attitude. He almost didn't sound like himself. "Dumble...visit...inisty. ...worried...Potter's folder."

Folder? Harry frowned a bit wondering if he'd misunderstood, but no, the word was "folder." Struggling to hear, he was able to barely make out "advance the timetable" and "press our advantage" before the link slipped like dust through his fingers and scattered into silence.

For several long second he leaned on the table, breathing hard and trying to gather himself. Mr. Malfoy had obviously overheard Professor Dumbledore at the Ministry earlier! he determined woozily he pushed himself upright, and tested his ability to stand unaided. The professor would probably want to know about that straightaway! Hoping Madam Malkin was nearby, Harry stumbled towards the door, planning as he went. First he needed to return to the Leaky Cauldron, then he needed to write to Professor Dumbledore, and then he needed to collapse.

In that order.

Fortunately the little witch had evidently heard his chair hit the floor and came rushing through the door before he'd taken more than a few steps. "Are you all right dear? I heard a crash--oh! Jim! Great Merlin, child, you look like death warmed up!"

Harry closed his eyes and nodded, stopping when it made his head hurt worse. "Sorry, Madam Malkin, but I think I need...t'go," he mumbled, doubly grateful for the headband that hid his scar. Not only was it hiding the lightning shaped mark, it was also keeping sweat from dripping into his eyes.

"Of course dear, of course," Madam Malkin soothed, pressing a gentle hand against his cheek, then wrapping a supportive arm around his back. "Oh, dear, you're all clammy, love," she noted worriedly, as he swallowed with some difficulty. "Can you get back all right? Would you like to use the Floo System? Yes," she decided, steering him towards her cavernous fireplace. "You'll never make it back on foot. Don't worry, love, we'll have you tucked into bed in no time," she soothed, casually picking up some Floo Powder and urging him forward.

Floo? Oh, no. Nonono. Harry felt himself go green at the thought. He tried to tell the Madam Malkin that Flooing was a really bad idea but his throat was suddenly hurting again making speech really difficult.

Already decided on a course of action, Madam Malkin brushed off his objections, pointing out practically that it was the quickest way to get him where he needed to go, and herding him towards the hearth. Before Harry could figure out a means of escape, she'd dropped the powder, and shouted, "The Leaky Cauldron!"

As the green flames enveloped him, Harry uttered an undignified little whine, and clenched his teeth together, concentrating on making it through the Floo System before he threw up all over himself. Floo rides between the Diagon Alley shops and Lancaster's were usually quite brief, he reminded himself, as his stomach roiled dangerously. He'd just had time to wildly wonder if the Floo System was charmed against motion sickness when the dizzying ride was over and he tumbled out of Tom's hearth, landing in a rather undignified heap.

"All right, dear?"

Swallowing painfully, Harry shifted to face the fireplace, nodded to Madam Malkin's head, and managed a raspy "Thanks."

"Anytime, dear. Do take care of yourself," she said before disappearing with a pop.

The Leaky Cauldron was pretty quiet at the moment, so Harry stayed where he'd fallen for a few seconds, closing his eyes and pressing his feverish cheek against the cool stone floor. Muzzily, he wondered if Tom was going to stuff him back into the fireplace and Floo him off to St. Mungos, when a shout from the bar made his eyes pop open.

"'Parky! Mama dere's 'Parky!"

"What?"

Cocking an eyebrow, Harry wearily lifted his head when he heard footsteps approaching.

"Sparky? Are you all right?" Janet asked as Becky dragged her along by the hand. "What happened, baby? Did you trip when you came in the door?"

What? Harry couldn't keep the puzzled look off his face. There was no door in this part of the Leaky Cauldron.

"Hmm. He might have caught that out of order sign on the pay phone," Steve suggested, looking at a perfectly ordinary pillar near the fireplace. "When is that going to be fixed, Tom?"

Phone? Harry wondered for a second if Steve and Janet had gone nutters or he had. There was no door and there certainly wasn't a phone there. Frowning in confusion, he started to ask what the bloody hell they were on about, but subsided when he noticed Tom frantically signaling for him to keep quiet.

Kitty and Becky didn't get the message, however. "Mom," Kitty said tentatively, "where do you see a phone and a door?"

"The door's right there!" Janet declared, pointing at the fireplace. "I don't see a phone though," she claimed, looking around in confusion. "Didn't you tell me the Leaky Cauldron didn't have a phone, Jimmy?" she asked a bit plaintively when the mysterious instrument continued to elude her.

"But there's no door, Mom!" Kitty insisted, growing agitated. "No phone and no door! There's just a big fireplace!"

"If there's no door there then how did Jim get in?" Steve asked, looking as bewildered as his wife and oldest daughter.

Amazingly, Becky was the only one who was calm. "'Parky fell outta da fire pace," she said matter-of-factly, "just like Sanna Caus!" She paused a minute then got a brilliant smile on her face. ""Parky go see Sanna Caus?" she asked, her blue eyes sparkling hopefully.

"Don't be silly, Becky," Steve corrected, as he absently reached down and gave Harry a hand up. "Whoops, easy there," he said, steadying the teen when he wobbled slightly.

Hurt, Becky shook her head. "No! 'Parky fell outta da fire pace!" she insisted, starting to tear up. "Becky saw!"

"Becky," Janet reprimanded a bit more sharply.

"Well he is awful dirty, Mom," Kitty pointed out in her sister's defense. "I didn't see him fall out, but I did see a flash from the fireplace."

"Dirty?" Steve echoed, looking Harry up and down. "Well he might need to brush off a bit from falling down, but I wouldn't call him dirty. "

Harry felt his jaw sag open in surprise. He was literally covered in soot--had gotten it on Steve's hand and shirt for crying out loud! How could he miss it? The fact certainly didn't slip by Kitty.

"But Dad," she objected, "he's got black stuff all over him! You got it on your hand and shirt when you helped him up!"

Harry glanced at Tom, wanting an explanation but not daring to ask for one. By the look on the older man's face some calamity was about to occur, and it wasn't long in coming. As Harry watched nervously, Janet suddenly got a horribly confused look on her face. "She's right. Your hand, Steve. You have soot all over your hand, and Jimmy's covered in it, and there's a huge stone fireplace here and Tom! " she gasped then asked again as though seeking reassurance. "Tom?"

"Yes, dear, it's me," Tom assured her, taking her hand in one of his and grabbing his wand with the other. With a couple of swishes he accio'd a couple of chairs that Steve and Janet sank gratefully into.

"What are you seeing now?" Tom asked gently.

"Fireplace," Janet listed dully, while Steve nodded his agreement. "Door to London, door I never noticed before, bar, dining area...at least that didn't change. Tom, what's going on?" she demanded, more frightened than angry.

Sighing, Tom rubbed a hand over his bald pate. "This is probably going to seem like an odd question, but bear with me. Do you believe in magic?"