28

Ron and all the Weasleys had gone home to spend Christmas at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley had sent Harriet a very kind note saying they looked forward to having her to stay again in the summer, when Sirius Black would surely be back in prison. Harriet wasn't surprised she hadn't been allowed to go; if it was too dangerous for her to stay with the Grangers or go to Hogsmeade, the Burrow was right out, too.

In fact, she and Hermione were the only ones in the whole of Gryffindor Tower who had stayed behind. Professor McGonagall had actually come into the common room the night everyone left and been very brisk about telling them to call her if there was any trouble. She'd spent half an hour making spells that checked all over the tower, glittering up and down the staircases and on all the windows.

Even though it was the holiday, Hermione did not look any less stressed. She stared into space a lot, and at Harriet, and at her books without turning the pages, and seemed to be having trouble sleeping.

"I know I said I'd drop it," said Harriet on the second day of this even-stranger-than-usual behavior, "but this stuff with your classes—it's not dangerous, right?"

Hermione stared blankly at her.

"I know, Professor McGonagall okayed it," Harriet said. "But you don't look well."

"I'm all right," Hermione said quietly. "I just . . . have a lot to think about."

"Can I help?"

Hermione shook her head, her eyes strangely bright, like she wanted to cry. Harriet had no idea what to do.

"Want to build snowmen?" she offered feebly.

They did go outside and build snowmen, and made angels in the snow. It was bloody freezing. But Hermione laughed, and Harriet's heart lightened.

Harriet woke up on Christmas morning to Crookshanks' purring and kneading her back and a heap of presents lumped at the foot of the bed.

"Happy Christmas!" Hermione said, piling onto the bed next to her, shiveirng. "Can I please get in under your blanket? It's freezing in here, even with the fire. . . "

"That's because we live in a bloody tower," Harriet said, throwing the blankets over her.

Piled under blankets, they ripped into their gifts. Mrs. Weasley had sent Harriet a holly-green jumper; Ginny, a Fifi LaFolle novel (Magic at Midnight); Hermione's parents, an extremely fine leather-bound set of the Lord of the Rings books; and someone, an unsigned card with a painting of holly boughs on front. On the inside it read, in vaguely familiar handwriting, Merry Christmas, Harriet. PS. Write to the goblins of Gringott's Bank and ask them to send you the safety deposit box from the Potter vault.

"Lots of things could be in a safety deposit box," Hermione said when Hermione showed her the card. "Important documents, small valuables like jewelry and things—but what would Professor Lupin know about it?"

"Professor Lupin?" Harriet repeated in surprise.

"That's his handwriting. It looks a bit different printed smaller, but I'm quite certain it's his. I wonder why he didn't sign it?"

Harriet tucked the card into its envelope and put it carefully in her nightstand drawer for clarifying later. She could ask him at the Christmas feast what he meant about the safety deposit box—and why he hadn't signed his name. . .

"That one's from me," Hermione said when Harriet picked up a small but surprisingly heavy box that fit in her palm.

"Too small to be a book," Harriet said seriously; Hermione threw a ball of wrapping paper at her, laughing.

Harriet peeled the gold wrapping paper off a . . . red velvet box. Curiously, she prised it open and saw two gold necklaces, each with a pendant, each pendant half of a heart.

At first Harriet didn't realize what they were. Then, she did.

"We—we might be too old, I know," Hermione said, her voice gone high the way it did when she was nervous. "I mean, I considered—that we might be. Or that they're, I don't know, silly—they're silly, aren't they? It's, it's a Muggle thing, you know, I'm sure you know, I couldn't find them anywhere at Hogsmeade so I had Mum send them, but if you don't like them, I can return them—"

Harriet threw her arms around her. Hermione abruptly stopped talking.

"I love them," Harriet said, still hugging her.

Hermione squeezed back. When Harriet finally pulled away, Hermione looked happy and relieved (though still pale and tired).

"I was so afraid it was going to be stupid," she said.

"How could it be stupid? Here." Harriet pulled the necklaces out of the box and untangled the chains from each other (Crookshanks batted at the pendants as they spun in midair). "Put mine on me, then—quit it, Crookshanks, go on—then I'll do yours."

Harriet had never actually owned a necklace before. Aunt Petunia had certainly never bought her jewelry, and no one had ever given her any before this.

"You've got one present left," Hermione said, lifting up a large, shapeless package wrapped in plain packing paper and tied with twine.

They pulled open the paper and gasped as a magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled free and onto the bed.

"I didn't know you'd ordered another—" Hermione said.

"I didn't," Harriet said, her voice shaking slightly from astonishment. "And certainly not that one. That's—that's a Firebolt."

Hermione looked blank.

"A Firebolt," Harriet said. "You must've heard the boys banging on about it—international standard broom, best on the market, so expensive its price is on bloody request?"

Hermione's mouth fell open.

"See if there's a card," Harriet said urgently, pawing through the remaining paper (Crookshanks copied her). Hermione scrabbled through the bits she'd torn off, but they found nothing, not even a mysterious card.

"I wonder if anyone else gets as many mysterious Christmas presents as me," Harriet said. She meant it as a joke, but Hermione was staring fixedly at the broom. Harriet would have expected this behavior of Ron—this was a Firebolt—but Hermione had once said that she didn't care if it sounded too Muggle or not, brooms were meant for sweeping floors, not for flying around on.

"Who would have spent this much money on you and not told you who they were?" Hermione asked slowly.

"I've got no idea. . ."

Harriet reached out for it in awe, but Hermione grabbed her hands as quickly as if she'd been about to touch an open fire.

"What?" Harriet asked, taken aback.

"Don't touch it!" Hermione said shrilly. "And whatever you do, don't ride it!"

"What?"

"Don't you see? You break your broom and a complete stranger sends you an astronomically expensive replacement, anonymously?"

"I know, that's what's—"

"Harriet, I think that broom was sent to you by Sirius Black!"

Harriet stared at her. Hermione stared back, eyes wide but determined, and she was gripping Harriet's hands so hard it hurt. Hermione's own hands were shaking, so Harriet's were trembling in her grip.

"Okay," Harriet said slowly. "It's okay. I won't touch it. Okay?"

"Promise me," Hermione said, voice shaking. "And you won't fly it."

"I promise," Harriet said.

Hermione stared at her a moment longer, and then she let go of Harriet's hands and started wringing her own. She jumped up from the bed and started pacing, while Crookshanks sniffed up and down the broom.

"I know it sounds mad," Hermione said, still pacing and hand-wringing. "I know—there's the question of how he could get the money—but it would be a perfect way to get to you, to hurt you without risking himself, and he's already tried to already, he's near Hogwarts, we know he is, so he could easily have found out about your broom—

"We have to tell someone," Hermione said, spinning round suddenly to face her. "Professor McGonagall. Let's go and get her right now—"

Her eyes were bright and her cheeks red, and her lips were pressed together in that way that meant she was barely controlling her emotions. Harriet wasn't convinced the broom had come from Sirius Black, but Hermione was. There was no talking her out of that.

"Okay," said Harriet. "Let's get dressed and find Professor McGonagall."

"This is it, then?" Professor McGonagall picked up the broom and turned it over in her hands, studying it. At least Harriet could now be sure that it wouldn't have blown up in her face; not even Professor McGonagall's eyebrows were singed.

"And you received no note?" she asked, looking at Harriet over the top of her square spectacles. "No message of any kind?"

"No, ma'am."

"Hmm." She gave the broom a stern look, like she could tell it was trying to hide something. "You were quite right to bring it to my attention. It will need to be tested for jinxes. I'm no expert, but Professor Flitwick and Madam Hooch can certainly strip it down—"

Harriet winced at the thought of a broom like that being stripped down. She decided it was good that Ron had gone home for the holidays; if he'd been here to hear this, he might have had a fit.

"Do you really think Sirius Black sent it, ma'am?" she asked, in part so Professor McGonagall would stop talking about broom-stripping.

"I cannot say, Miss Potter, but it does look suspicious. You may have it back if we are sure it's jinx-free."

She took the Firebolt with her when she left.

Harriet felt . . . odd. She didn't know what to think. It seemed impossible that Sirius Black would have gone to the trouble and expense of sending her a jinxed broom when he could simply have sent her a box that blew up in her face. But both Hermione and Professor McGonagall, who was certainly very clever, thought he might have been behind it. . .

It was disturbing to think they might be right.

"Are you mad at me?" Hermione asked in a tiny voice.

Harriet blinked at her. "No."

Hermione bit her lip.

"Of course not," Harriet said. "Why would I be mad at you for not wanting me to be killed?"

"Your Nimbus . . . I know how much it meant to you. . . And even I could tell that was a really good broom."

Harriet shrugged. She didn't feel much of anything, except a sort of numbness at the thought of someone trying to murder her on Christmas.

"That really put a damper on Christmas, didn't it," Hermione said a few moments later, not even trying to smile.

The sofa next to Harriet dipped as Crookshanks jumped up on it. He stepped imperiously into her lap and settled down with his feet tucked up under his body. Harriet blinked.

Pet him, Hermione mouthed, stroking her hand through the air. Cautiously, Harriet laid her hand on Crookshanks's fluffy head and scratched behind his ears. He purred, as if saying, That will do for starters.

Hermione smiled.

They dressed up a little for lunch, in honor of Christmas. Harriet wore a green velvet top that the Dr. Grangers had given her for her birthday and tried to get her hair to behave. It had inched down to touch her shoulders, so there was more of it than she was used to. Hermione's theory was that if Harriet grew out her hair, the extra weight would help tame it, but to Harriet it seemed that the more hair she grew, the wilder it got.

In the Great Hall, they found a set-up much like last year's: the House tables had been moved against the walls, and one long table, lined with mismatched, flashy arm-chairs and set with crystal plates, stood in the center of the room for everyone. Professor Dumbledore presided at one end, his magnificent crimson robes trimmed with ermine, so that he resembled a slim Father Christmas.

The Heads of House were also there, wearing slightly more festive robes than usual, and even Filch had switched his musty robes for a mouldy-looking tailcoat. It was like Christmas dinner with the Mad Hatter.

Snape, of course, looked the same as ever. Harriet wondered if he had any clothes that weren't black.

But something was missing . . . no; someone: Where was Professor Lupin? Harriet had wanted to ask him about the card, but he wasn't here. There wasn't even a chair for him: only enough seats to sit her and Hermione.

"Merry Christmas!" Professor Dumbledore greeted them, beaming. "As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables. . . sit down, sit down!"

The only other students were Asteria Greengrass, her sister Daphne, and another first-year boy whom Harriet didn't know. He looked at Hermione and Harriet in pure terror, but Daphne did not seem to think them worth acknowledging, and although Asteria's face went deeply scarlet, she didn't look at Harriet or Hermione either.

"Crackers!" Dumbledore said happily, offering one end of a large silver one to Snape, who only gave it a look as cold and dirty as slushy mud. Chuckling, Dumbledore then appealed to Professor Sprout, who gave her end such an enthusiastic tug that she knocked her plate onto Professor Flitwick's lap.

With a startling BANG the cracker split and a large, pointed witch's hat, topped with a stuffed vulture, thudded to the table. Snape stared at it, and then his face went even harder than usual. Professor McGonagall coughed and took a drink out of her goblet. Harriet got the impression she was trying not to laugh, and wondered, for the millionth time, why everyone thought the Boggart-thing was funny but her. And Snape, obviously.

She hadn't spoken to him since leaving his office that day she'd asked about her mum. She hadn't had the nerve. He hadn't once looked at her since then, and he didn't today, either. She might as well not have existed. She'd kicked herself over and over for bolloxing up her chance at learning the Patronus, since she was quite sure he wasn't going to teach her after that disastrous lesson. "Please" surely wouldn't work twice, not after she'd said . . . whatever she'd said that had upset him.

No, that was wrong: she knew what had upset him; she just didn't know why.

Sometimes she felt the answer lurking there in her mind, like a shadow that stretched behind her at midday. If she turned to try and look at it, it would disappear. She couldn't get at it properly: just like when Aunt Petunia had told her about Snape and her mum (and been right, it seemed), and she'd felt an idea forming in her, and the next morning it had become clear.

So, she'd wait for it to clear up again.

(She just wished it would hurry up. She really wanted to figure out what was going on.)

"Tuck in!" Dumbledore advised the table, beaming around at them all.

As Harriet was serving herself and Hermione roast potatoes, she heard the doors to the Great Hall opening. She looked up, hoping it was Lupin—but it was only Professor Trelawney, wearing a long, green sequined dress that made her look more than ever like a human-sized dragonfly.

"Sybill, this is a pleasant surprise!" said Dumbledore, standing up for her and tucking his beard against his chest so it wouldn't trail into his gravy.

"I have been crystal-gazing, Headmaster," said Trelawney in a voice even mistier than usual, "and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and joining you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? At once I hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness. . ."

Harriet was afraid that if she looked at Hermione, she'd burst out laughing. Instead she looked at Snape, who was wearing an expression of open disgust. Unfortunately, this struck her as extremely funny and she wound up snorting quite loudly from trying not to laugh. Daphne Greengrass gave her a mildly scandalized look.

"Let me draw you up a chair," said Dumbledore. Harriet could have sworn he winked at her. His eyes were certainly twinkling.

He drew a chair in mid-air with his wand, and a wing-backed armchair with purple brocade dropped into an open space between Snape and McGonagall. (Harriet remembered what he'd said to her last year about missing Transfigurations; had all the chairs had come from him? It would explain all the flashy fabrics.)

Professor Trelawney took her seat with a misty smile, appearing oblivious to the way Professor McGonagall's lips thinned and Snape actually moved his elbow off the arm of his chair, like he was afraid her shawls would touch him. Harriet wondered if this told how bad Professor Trelawney really was at fortune-telling.

"Tripe, Sibyll?" Professor McGonagall asked her, poking a spoon into a large tureen.

Professor Trelawney ignored her. "But where is dear Professor Lupin?" she asked, looking up and down the table.

Harriet had the mean thought that finally, Professor Trelawney had said something useful.

"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again," said Dumbledore. "A shame, too, that it must happen on Christmas Day. . ."

"But surely you already knew that, Sibyll?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"Certainly I knew, Minerva," said Professor Trelawney coldly. "But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently pretend that I do not possess the Inner-Eye, so as not to discomfit those whose Sight is not as far-reaching."

"That explains a great deal," said Professor McGonagall.

"If you must know, Minerva, I fear that Professor Lupin may not be with us for much longer," said Professor Trelawney, her nostrils flaring slightly. "He seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal-gaze for him—"

"I can't imagine why."

"I believe," said Professor Dumbledore in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, putting an end to Professor Trelawney and McGonagall's conversation, "that Professor Lupin is in no immediate danger. Severus, you brewed his potion for him?"

Snape grunted. Harriet wondered if he was in such a bad mood because of her, and then felt silly. That had been days ago. Besides, he was always in a bad mood.

"Then he should be up and about in no time," said Dumbledore, cheerfully still, as if Snape weren't being terribly rude. "Asteria, have you had any of these chipolatas? They're excellent."

Asteria Greengrass went first red and then white at being spoken to, and trembled so much as she took the sausages that the pan rattled loud enough for Harriet to hear it down the table.

The rest of dinner was almost dull, really. The teachers (except Snape) kept to themselves, chatting. The first-year boy concentrated on his dinner, and Daphne spoke in a low voice only to her sister. Hermione must have been dwelling on Sirius Black's broom bomb; she kept looking at Professor McGonagall and answering Harriet at random.

During one of these lulls, Harriet heard someone saying: ". . . dog, in the forest."

Her heart jumped. Daphne Greengrass was speaking to Snape.

". . . Asteria and I were out earlier, near the greenhouses, and we saw it—a great, ugly, filthy dog, very large, and I thought perhaps it might be dangerous, or diseased. . ."

Shut up, shut up, Harriet willed her, because Snape was looking sharp-eyed and suspicious as he listened.

"Hagrid keeps a dog, you know," said Professor Sprout. "Could've been Fang."

"I did not think it was Professor Hagrid's dog, ma'am," said Daphne politely. Asteria kept her head down, staring into her rice pudding. "It did not appear to be a boarhound."

"Does anyone recall seeing a dog?" asked Professor Dumbledore, looking up and down the table.

Asteria did not answer; the other first-year boy shook his head, his mouth full of trifle; Hermione said, "No, sir," and Harriet, trying her hardest to look innocent and honest, echoed her.

Except Snape was looking down the table, his black eyes fixed right on her. Her heart bumped twice in one beat.

"Well, we can certainly look into it," Dumbledore said, smiling.

"I'll do it," Snape said immediately. He finally looked away from Harriet, but this didn't make her feel any less anxious.

"That's quite generous of you, Severus, thank you," Dumbledore said. "Ah . . . now?" he asked when Snape stood from the table.

"Before it gets dark," Snape said, and stalked off, robes billowing.

Harriet watched him go. She tried to calm her nerves by telling herself that Snuffles hid from almost everyone.

But it made her wonder. . . What had he been doing that the Greengrass girls saw him?

The air was so cold it was like a knife in Severus's lungs. The world was glimmering monochrome: glistening white snow covered the grounds; the sky was gray as iron; the tops of the Forbidden Forest black. Everything was silent, the birds all flown south; nothing but the sound of his breath and the snow crunching beneath his boots.

At the edge of the forest, Miss Greengrass had said. A great, filthy black dog. . .

He didn't know why it made him suspicious. He was naturally suspicious, of course. A stray, on Hogwarts grounds—no one had thought anything of it.

But the girl had already known. He was certain of that. He was very good at telling when people were lying, and could generally sense what type of lie it was: outright lie, omission, concealment, misdirection. . . The girl lied quite easily, but wasn't any good at it. He could always tell when she was being less than truthful.

She'd been lying at dinner. She knew about the dog. She'd been trying not to look anxious.

If the dog had something to do with Sirius Black—which had been his first thought—then it didn't make sense that the girl would also have something to do with it. She was still alive, after all, and quite well, stuffing away Christmas goose and potatoes and mince pies like she was storing for winter. Then she'd looked them straight in the eye and lied.

She was getting bolder. Already asking questions he didn't want to even occur to her, let alone hear from her.

Were you friends with my mum

Where did you hear

Aunt Petunia told me

And wasn't he likely to know that wasn't all Petunia had probably told her. . .

His most guarded secret, kept hidden for so long, locked up tight. Oh, a lot of people had known he'd had a thing for Lily—the boys in Slytherin that Mudblood shrew you fancy—Lily's friends you're such a creep, Snivellus, no girl in her right mind'd want anything to do with you—Potter's sycophants Evans could have anyone, she could have James, he's worth a hundred of you—but no one had really known what it truly was. Only Lupin would probably even remember that much, as close as he'd been to Potter and to Lily.

Lupin hadn't once mentioned it, not even through some oblique dig. He didn't talk about the past at all, in fact. He acted like he and Severus had a past, but pretended they'd been genial, if distant, acquaintances.

Severus had no idea why. Sucking up to Dumbledore? Playing games? When Will I Bring It Up and Really Make It Hurt?

Severus mistrusted Lupin on every level. He had no idea who the werewolf was. And he didn't only mean the wolf part; he meant the person, Lupin himself. Lupin was admittedly intelligent and level-headed; someone was definitely home—but who?

Even without Leglimency, Severus could usually get a read on someone. Leglimency was, in fact, his reluctant weapon held in reserve; there were too many things in a person's mind that one didn't want to encounter, the chief of those being what they really thought of you. But no matter what method Severus resorted to, Lupin was like a one-way mirror. He simply reflected everyone around him. It was as if the real Lupin was buried somewhere so deep inside that you never saw him.

In a place as deep inside, so deep he could almost ignore that it was there, Severus was unnerved by that. It made him uneasy how little he knew about Lupin; how little it seemed he could know. He was certain that Lupin was shielding Black somehow, but it was only an instinct; and while he trusted his own instincts implicitly, he had not found a shred of proof, in Lupin's face or voice or actions—or anywhere.

He should have been able to. He always had, before.

Whether a man or a wolf, Lupin discomfited him. He was dangerous. Unpredictable.

God willing, Trelawney would be right: Lupin's time would be short. Soon, he would be gone.

If he hurt the girl, even by so much as an omission, Severus would send him on his way.

Night was falling. The wind was fierce and cold. He lit his wand and stepped into the shadow of the trees, alone.

Being at Hogwarts with so many people gone reminded Harriet of being there in the summer, when she and Snape were the only ones there. But now it was winter, and the silence seemed deep and cold and dark. The clouds outside had parted enough to show the moon, whose shafts of slanting silver light glinted on the diamond window panes.

Hermione's voice was speaking off to one side, quietly over the sound of the fire:

"Roads go ever ever on,

Over rock and under tree,

By caves where never sun has shone,

By streams that never find the sea;

Over snow by winter sown,

And through the merry flowers of June,

Over grass and over stone,

And under mountains of the moon. . .

"Are you worried about Sirius Black?"

Harriet looked round. Hermione had Harriet's new copy of The Hobbit open on her lap. Like in the summer, before Sirius Black had escaped, they'd returned to reading out loud from books, though now they were reading now by the fire at Hogwarts instead of by flashlight in Hermione's Muggle bedroom in London.

"I don't know," Harriet said, half-honestly. I'm worried about my dog, actually.

It wasn't just that Snape might find him and do something nameless and horrible; it was also very cold outside, and he looked so hungry all the time. If only she had some way of. . .

Dobby.

She sat for a moment, stunned, and then almost jumped up from the couch in excitement. Dobby—how could she have forgotten Dobby? How could it have took her this bloody long to think of it?

"Sorry," she said to a silent, staring Hermione, fumbling the tartan throw off her lap. "Loo—"

She did run to the bathroom, but only so she could whisper tenatively, wondering if it would work:

"Dobby?"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then with a crack Dobby appeared there in the bathroom, wearing his tea cozy hat and mismatched socks, with a lurid orange tie done up neatly over a doll's frilly blouse.

"Miss Harriet Potter!" he cried ecstatically, clutching something to his chest.

"Shh!" Harriet watched the door anxiously, but Hermione did not appear to see what was going on.

Dobby grabbed the ends of his bat-like ears and pulled them down, pressing them over his mouth, and accidentally dropped his package.

"Sorry," Harriet whispered. "I don't want anyone to know I've called you, okay?"

Dobby pulled back his ears a little to whisper, "A secret, Harriet Potter?"

"A very important secret," Harriet said firmly.

"Harriet Potter may trust Dobby with anything," he whispered, his eyes enormous and shining.

"I need you to look out for someone for me. Well, I say someone, but really he's a dog."

Dobby nodded vigorously to show he was listening.

"He's living in the Forbidden Forest. Remember that day I came to the kitchens and asked you to get me some food? . . ."

"Dobby will help, Harriet Potter," Dobby vowed when she'd finished explaining what she wanted him to do. "Dobby will find Harriet Potter's Snuffles and make sure that he is safe and well, forever!"

"Thanks, Dobby. You're a lifesaver." In Snuffles' case, he might well be. At least, as long as he diligently followed her instructions of food and blankets and didn't try to add any special Dobby touches like he'd done for her. "Oh—you dropped something." She pointed at the package lying at his feet.

"How could Dobby have forgotten!" he cried, and then stuffed his ears in his mouth when Harriet shushed him again. "It is a present for Miss Harriet Potter," he whispered in a muffled voice.

"Thank you," she said, surprised but quite touched. "That's really sweet of you. Erm." She wracked her brains. "I—have a present for you, too, but it's, it's upstairs. Wait here."

She left Dobby quivering with happiness and ran to her dorm. Throwing open her trunk, she rooted for something she could give to him, and found a pair of socks that weren't too girly, and which she never wore because they were a terrible mustard color. She threw some discarded wrapping paper around them and dashed back downstairs.

"Merry Christmas," she said as Dobby accepted the package with awed gratitude.

"Harriet Potter!" Dobby choked as he unwrapped the world's ugliest socks. They looked even worse in the bathroom light than they had in the dorm, but Dobby clutched them to him as if they were spun from gold. "Socks is Dobby's most favoritest clothing! Thank you, Harriet Potter, thank you!"

Harriet opened the present from Dobby which turned out to be—socks. She laughed. One was green with a pattern of broomsticks on it, and the other was red with a pattern of Snitches.

"Dobby is knitting them himself, miss," Dobby said, looking anxious.

"They're lovely," Harriet said, grinning as she pictured Lavender's and Parvati's faces. Hell, even Hermione's. She pulled off her slippers and plain white socks and put on Dobby's odd socks. His eyes leaked tears of happiness, and when he bowed, he bowed so low his nose touched the ground.

Then he disappeared with a crack.

When Harriet returned to the common room, she found Hermione sitting and staring at the couch in complete silence, The Hobbit closed and set to one side. Crookshanks was lounging next to her, his yellow eyes half-closed, lashing his tail. His fur was tipped with snow, as if he'd only just come inside.

"Sorry," Harriet said. "Didn't mean for that to take so long. We can get back to . . . what is it?"

When Hermione looked up at her, Harriet was startled to see tears making her eyes glisten.

"I'm sorry," she said in a low, thick voice. "I've been thinking how to tell you. I knew I had to, but I . . . I didn't want to. I'm so sorry."

Harriet's heartbeat picked up. She was bewildered, but the look on Hermione's face was making her hands feel cold. "Is this about how you're getting to your classes?"

"What?" Hermione blinked. At least she wasn't crying outright. That would have made this that much more serious. "No, it's. . ."

She closed her eyes and pressed her heels against them.

"Last Hogsmeade weekend," she said in a muffled voice. "Ron and I stopped in at the Three Broomsticks. . ."

Harriet sat down on the couch, more confused than ever. "Okay," she said when Hermione's voice stalled. "The Three Broomsticks."

Hermione nodded without taking her hands down from her eyes. "Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid came into the pub," she said, her voice still muffled by her arms. "The Minister was with them. Madam Rosmerta sat down with them. . ."

Harriet listened with increasing confusion. What did this have to do with anything?

"They were talking about Sirius Black," Hermione whispered. "Who he was. W-what he—what he did."

"He was Voldemort's supporter," Harriet said, slowly because she knew this, and Hermione knew it, but she didn't understand why Hermione was acting this way. "And he murdered thirteen people with one curse. Now he wants to kill me."

Hermione finally dropped her hands and looked at her, face grim and set. Something cold seeped into Harriet's chest, like Dementor-mist.

"Not . . . not just that." She took a deep breath and reached for Harriet's hands, wrapping her cold fingers around them. "He . . . Harriet, he was the one who led Voldemort to your parents."

Harriet stared at her. She felt the room distort slowly around her, bending the shadows up the walls.

"What?" she whispered. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe her lips only moved, and the sound of her voice was only the wind rattling the windows, the fire hissing. Was she tilting? No; she could feel Hermione's hands. They hadn't moved.

"He was their friend." Hermione's voice wavered, but her eyes did not leave Harriet's face. "He w-was your dad's best friend. Your parents knew Y-you-Know-Who was after them, because one of Dumbledore's spies tipped them off, and they went into hiding. Sirius Black was the only person who knew where they were, and he t-told You-Know-Who—"

Harriet felt like a great weight was slowly pressing on her chest, suffocating her.

"—he tried to take you from Hagrid, after he found you at the house, after—but when Hagrid wouldn't give you to him, he left . . . Your dad's other friend, Peter Pettigrew, confronted him, but Sirius Black cursed him—Pettigrew was one of the thirteen people Sirius Black k-killed on the street that day. . ."

Hermione was crying openly now. Harriet felt as if everything inside her—blood, bones, organs, everything—had been removed and absolutely nothing was left; nothing was even moving in to replace it.

"I'm s-so sor-ry," Hermione said, hiccuping. "I didn't—know how—to—tell you. It's so horrible—"

He was their friend?

He was their friend.

And nobody told me. . .

"They never told me."

Hermione looked stricken. Harriet said it more loudly.

"They never told me." She was breathing hard, so hard her breath was hitching painfully. "They never told me. Not one person. All this time."

"Harriet," Hermione said fearfully.

"They didn't tell me he's the REASON THEY'RE DEAD."

Hermione's eyes were huge. "Harriet—" she whispered, anguished.

"Do you know what I hear when the Dementors get close to me? I hear my mum begging Voldemort not to kill me, telling him to kill her instead—"

Hermione was staring up at her, looking terrified. Harriet realized she'd gotten to her feet but didn't remember doing it.

"Do you have any idea what it's like to hear that? No, you don't, because your mum's alive, her friend never set her up to be murdered. How could they not have told me? I have a right to know who killed them—"

"I know," Hermione whispered, still crying, but silently now. "I kn-know, Harriet, I'm so sorry—"

Harriet's head felt like it was stuffed with wool, the world around her like it was made of cotton. She whirled and ran up the stairs to the dorm for the second time, throwing open her trunk and dragging things out, dumping it all on the floor if it wasn't what she was looking for. When she found it, she hurtled back down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Hermione stood beside the fire, her hands clutched together, looking frightened. When Harriet thrust the photo album at her, she looked bewildered.

"Which one is he?" Harriet asked, breathing hard and fast. "Which one did they say he was?"

Hands shaking, Hermione took the album and started paging through it, biting her lip, her eyes flicking from side to side. She went past page after page.

Then she stopped. Her eyelids flickered.

"This one," she whispered, and turned the album around.

It was the picture of Harriet's mum and dad at their wedding. Her parents were beaming up at her, their arms around each other . . .

"The Minister said that Sirius Black was best man at their wedding," Hermione said quietly, trembling.

A handsome man with dark hair that fell casually into his eyes was standing there with her dad, laughing, maybe at something someone had said, maybe because her parents were so happy. If no one had told her

(they hadn't)

Harriet would never have guessed that this laughing young man was the same person as the dead-looking man in the WANTED posters. It was like they were two completely different people.

Hermione carefully slid the photograph out of its slot and flipped it over. Her face changed subtly, and she turned it round and held it out Harriet.

James & Lily wed. Aug 1979 SB.

SB.

Sirius Black.

It was darker than ever. Hermione had gone to bed, but Harriet couldn't sleep. She kept seeing Sirius Black's handsome, laughing face and hearing her mother's voice, pleading.

Take me, kill me instead—

Sirius Black laughed and laughed. His laugh changed to Voldemort's, and there was a flash of green—

Her mum screamed—

She sat up, kicked off her blankets and pushed past her hangings. As quietly as she could, she searched through her dresser for the Marauder's Map. But she must have put it somewhere else, because it wasn't there.

Well, then. She'd just have to find him on her own.

She pulled her Invisibility Cloak out of her trunk, slung it on over her shoulders, and left the room.