"Little blighter," Uncle Vernon shook his head as he picked up the discarded hammer, "not a moment of peace with him around. I swear, Petunia –"

"No, Vernon," his wife cut him off. "Don’t start. There’s nothing we can do anyway."

"Think he’s coming back?" Vernon jerked his head towards the fireplace.

Petunia dusted the mantelpiece with a rag, straightening the pictures of Dudley. "Probably not tonight. I imagine we’ll hear where he’s gone tomorrow, or they’ll bring him back."

Vernon swore under his breath, but Petunia looked over at her son. "Enjoying the show, Sweetums?"

"Yes, Mum." Dudley said around a mouthful of gummy bears. "Can I have more chocolate?"

The doorbell rang before she could answer. Petunia and Vernon turned towards the hall slowly.

"Don’t move," he hissed. "Don’t speak. Maybe they’ll think no one’s home."

"Don’t be ridiculous," Petunia threw her rag on the kitchen counter as she walked by. "They know we’re here. I don’t want another screaming letter. You stay with Dudley, and don’t let anything happen to him!"

Vernon opened his large mouth to tell his wife to come back, but she was already down the hall to the door. Steadying herself with a deep breath, she opened the door prepared for the worst.

To her surprise, the person standing on the doorstep was not a freak or anything frightening. Simply, a tall man with long dark hair dressed in a black suit, an impatient look of his face.

"Mrs. Dursley?" he asked crisply.

"Yes," Petunia held on to the door, ready to slam it if trouble arose.

"I’m Professor Severus Snape from your nephew’s school."

"Oh, so you’re a . . ."

"A wizard? Yes, madam, I believe that is the correct term. At the present moment, young Mr. Potter is at my home, asleep. He arrived a couple of hours ago, unexpected and gave me the impression that he was not planning to return to your humble home."

"We did not kick him out," Petunia insisted, aware that her husband was watching from the end of the hall. "He just stormed down and started attacking the fireplace, then disappeared in the green flames."

"Yes, it took him to my house," Snape watched her carefully. "But I take it you are not sorry to see him go?"

Petunia stepped closer, partly closing the door to cut off their conversation from the rest of the house. "I heard what happened – how his godfather died. And how the other boy died last year. I don’t care what anyone thinks, when he was left on our doorstep fourteen years ago, I knew there would be trouble. After my sister and that man she married were killed, I knew it was only a matter of time before their murderer came back."

"That was a wise assumption considering how many people believed that he would never return," Snape noted, his face blank.

"Yes," Petunia crossed her bony arms, her lips tight, " but we did take Harry in, against Vernon’s wishes and my better judgment. Dumbledore thinks I’ve been cruel, but I do have another son to think about. I only have one son and a husband to worry over. And taking into account that everyone who gets close to the boy ends up dead -" Petunia closed her mouth and stared down at the ground with red eyes.

"Quite understood," Snape stepped back. "I’m sorry to have bothered you so late in the evening. Suffice to say Mr. Potter will not be returning tonight or anytime in the near future if I can help it. You have been through a great deal, Mrs. Dursly, and I commend you for persevering. Dumbledore may frown upon your treatment of his favorite student, but you did all you could considering the circumstances. If I could take Mr. Potter’s schoolbooks . . ."

Two and half minutes later, Petunia returned with a backpack full of books. She handed the bag to him.

Snape nodded politely. "Good evening to you and your family."

"Goodbye," Petunia softly closed the door and turned back towards the hallway.

"Well?" Vernon hurried forward, "what did he want? What’s happened to the boy?"

"He’s not coming back for now," Petunia briskly walked to the kitchen, turning her head so he could not see her eyes. "Not for a while. His professor took him. At least, I think it was his professor, maybe I should have made sure, but it’s too late now."

"Ruddy bother," Vernon grumbled. "All this funny business, neighbors sure to see. We should have locked him up the moment he got here."

Petunia said nothing, only reached for the box of chocolates to hand to Dudley.

-----

Harry’s first thought when he woke was that he had never slept so comfortably or woke so well-rested. For the first time in months, he had no sweaty nightmares or the grim reminder of reality sweeping over him. His only desire was to lie there in a tangle of warm sheets and blankets on the soft feather pillow and to fall back asleep. He thought he heard running water in the distance, but the sound only added to pleasantness of his hazy state.

The door on the far wall swung open, and Snape walked out in black robes. Honestly, didn’t the man have any other clothes? Always black robes, sweeping around like a fearsome bat, even in summer –

Snape? Harry sat straight up in bed as the slightest twinge in his backside brought back a torrent of memories from the night before. He felt his face growing crimson.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," Snape neared the bed.

"Er –" Harry stammered, clutching a handful of covers to his chest.

"Articulate as usual," Snape smirked. "However, by now I should realize that your mental capacities don’t fully arrive until noon if even by then."

"They come before then," Harry protested. "I mean, they don’t come at all. I mean, I always have them so they don’t have to come ‘cause they’re already here." It was hard to find a good comeback this early in the morning.

"I rest my case."

"Uh, sir, what am I doing here?" Harry ventured.

"Oh, that is quite easy to explain, even for your small, if not non-existent, brain. You got in bed last night, and because you didn’t get out to snoop around or explore or sleepwalk, you woke up in the same place that you started in. Fascinating, no?"

Harry ground his teeth in frustration. "I meant, why did I sleep here and not somewhere else?"

"I realized as soon as you arrived and began shouting that you weren’t going back that you could only have two reasons for not returning to your relatives. Quite simply, either they kicked you out or you threw one of your famous tantrums and left. Though I was entitled to think the latter, both choices left us with relatives reluctant to take you back, very wise of them if inconvenient for me. Since searching for someone to take you in would probably last all night, I opted for the lesser evil and decided to let you stay here, though I’m sure your natural disposition will not let me take comfort in my hospitality for long."

There were several insults in Snape’s explanation, Harry was sure of that. But he felt a little groggy from sleep and did not want to defend himself on every point, especially when he wasn’t sure exactly what was a slur or not. He liked it better when Snape was short and clear with his insults. Then it was much easier to put up a good argument.

"Though I am sure that you are used to lounging away the morning, I assure you that I will not indulge you with breakfast in bed. Get up."

Harry flung the covers off and slipped off the bed. The floor felt cold to his bare feet after the warm bed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest protectively.

"Go take a bath and get dressed, then we’ll go down to breakfast," Snape pointed to the door from where he had just come.

"Take a bath, get dressed," Harry muttered as he stomped into the bathroom and closed the door. "Really, I’m not a baby."

The porcelain bathtub was big enough for four people. It was filled with hot water, bubbles frothing on top like whipped cream. A bar of pale soap, a washcloth, and a bathbrush lay on one side, all new and unused.

Harry stripped off his pajamas and got into the bathtub. The hot water felt good to his muscles, still sore from painting. He was afraid that his rear end might ache, especially in so warm a bath, but the water only eased the last twinge from it. Harry was almost disappointed at the lack of any permanent damage to his hind quarters. Considering how his bottom had burned and throbbed after Snape finished with him, Harry was sure he would be sporting livid welts and ugly bruises. And with the way he had cried and carried on, Harry really wanted to show some sign of abuse, proof that Snape had beaten him. Well, not really beaten him, Harry had to admit to himself, if somewhat reluctantly. Snape had been firm, but not violent, more intent on teaching Harry a lesson than trying to hurt him. Nothing that he could use to get Snape into trouble, not that Harry ever planned to tell anyone about this, especially not Ron or Hermione. Hermione would be shocked speechless for once, and Ron would probably turn redder than his bright hair.

Then again, he wondered if any of his schoolmates had ever been spanked. He doubted Hermione’s parents would have punished her in that way – she probably never did anything wrong now or as a little child. Ron – well, Harry knew that the Weasleys had used corporeal punishment on the twins, but Ron usually didn’t doing anything to warrant so harsh a punishment. Neville – he wouldn’t have the nerve to do anything his grandmother disapproved of. Malfoy –

Harry grinned, almost evilly. He could just picture Draco bottom-up, maybe even bare-bottomed, over Lucius Malfoy’s lap, getting smacked good and hard for whatever crime he committed. Of course, after the Ministry of Magic, Harry hated Lucius as much as he hated Draco, but he could put that anger away long enough to imagine the mortifying punishment Draco would get from his father. Harry could hear his howls now, the prat begging Lucius for mercy as Draco’s bottom turned raw. Yes, very satisfying.

"I don’t hear you washing," Snape’s voice cut through the closed door. "Stop playing and wash quickly."

"Make me," Harry muttered, frustrated that his pleasant daydream was interrupted. He never got to relax in a bathtub at the Dursleys. He was limited to three-minute showers, usually after Dudley had used up all the hot water. Whatever was in the bath and bubbles helped ease his tense muscles, and Harry wanted to stay like this, leaning against the warm back of the tub, forever.

With a sigh, he reached for the soap. However, the soap moved down the edge of the tub. Harry reached for it again, but the soap slipped from under his fingers before he could get a god grip. With a growl, he lunged for it with both hands, but the soap escaped again.

Then the washcloth and bathbrush rose up on their own accord and plunged into the hot warm. Harry watched in bewilderment as the cloth and brush rose from the water, and then the soap floated up to meet them, sudsing them up good with bubbles. Then both cleaning instruments attacked Harry.

The washcloth launched at his face, scrubbing hard. He tried to yell, but only got a mouthful of suds. The bathbrush began scouring his shoulder, rubbing so hard that Harry was sure he would have no skin left when it finished.

"Stop it!" he shouted when the cloth and brush left him. But out from the spout in the wall high above poured galleons of hot water, nearly drowning Harry in its fury. He twisted in the water, sputtering and spitting, and tried to claw his way out of the tub. But his ankles were pulled forward, making him side down from the back of the tub. He felt his feet lifted, and the bathbrush began scrubbing at his soles. Harry squirmed in protest, the bristles tickling his vulnerable feet horribly before starting to scrub his legs.

"Snape, make them stop!"

Then he was flipped over in the tub on his stomach, almost immersed underwater. Harry desperately tried to grab the edge of the tub and pull himself out. The brush flipped itself over and delivered three sharp smacks to his bottom with the flat of the handle.

"Ow! You sodding –"

He was pushed under water again while the brush and cloth resumed their assault.

Once the scrubbing was finished, another gust of water roared out of the spout, washing off the soap. All the water drained away down invisible holes, leaving a coughing Harry in the empty tub.

"Snape, (cough) let me out (cough) of here!"

An invisible force lifted him up out of the tub and left him standing on the bath mat, shivering in the cool air. He wiped his eyes and looked up to see three dark shapes floating towards him. For several panicked seconds, Harry thought they were dementors. He didn’t have his glasses to see properly, but he raised both hands to ward them off. As they drew close, Harry realized that they were three brown towels hovering in the air.

He barely had time to draw a breath of relief when the towels latched on to him, rubbing him dry. One towel went for his hair and rubbed so hard he thought it must be pulling out hair by the handful. He swatted the towel away, but another towel wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his side so the other towel could get at his hair without interference.

A chair appeared out of nowhere, and the towel wrapped around him suddenly dragged Harry back and into the chair. A pair of metal scissors floated out of a drawer, and Harry sat very still, watching the scissors open menacingly.

"Snape," he whispered, hoping the potions master might take mercy and come get the scissors before they could snip off his ears. "Don't."

The scissors started trimming his hair, sending little pieces of hair down on the towel. Round and round, the scissors cut until it trimmed all the hair from touching his neck and falling in his eyes. Of all the haircuts Harry had ever received, this was scariest, and he prayed it would be over soon with his hair halfway presentable.

Then the towel flew off, and the scissors dove back in the drawer. Harry brushed the itchy hair off his nose and stood up. Then he saw a bottle of lotion and a shaker of talc powder rise from the countertop.

"No bloody way!" he hollered as they drew near. He grabbed his pajama bottoms and swatted the cosmetics away. "I'm not a girl – I don’t wear lotion or powder – get away!"

He barely had time to close his eyes before a spray of lotion splattered all over him. A new towel wound around him, rubbing in the lotion and wiping away the excess.

"You stupid - no, stop!" a gust of talc powder blew over him, smelling like fresh baby powder.

"Aghh!" he roared and tried to grab the container of powder to break it. The container rose above his grasp, but Harry jumped for it, determined to smash it to dust. He slipped on the damp floor and would have fallen to the hard marble below, but a towel caught him before he could hit the floor. Like a spread hammock, the towel eased him back up and wiped away the loose baby powder, giving his skin a soft, tender feeling.

When the toothbrush sailed across the room, Harry did not even put up a fight. He opened his mouth and held perfectly still as the brush scrubbed at his teeth. Fortunately, he was allowed to rinse before getting dressed. A pair of dark boxers and black trousers opened up for him to step into, and he raised his arms when a dark blue shirt dangled over head. He sat down on the chair to put on his socks and shoes, and lastly his glasses floated over to rest gently on his nose, pulling the bathroom into crystal-clear clarity.

He stood up to walk to the mirror, wondering what he looked like with the new haircut and clothes. But before he could take a step forward, the bathroom door opened, and the bathroom spit him out into the bedroom. The door slammed behind him, and Harry angrily hit it. "Hey, let me back in. I wasn’t finished – you can’t push me out like that!"

"Mr. Potter," a silky voice said from behind him, "please do not hit the door in that barbaric way. This will be the second temper tantrum you've thrown in thirteen hours."

"What was that?" Harry demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the closed door of the bathroom. "It – it attacked me."

"Simply a morning washing spell," Snape said smoothly, "mostly used by busy mothers with too many children."

"I was going to start washing," Harry snapped. "I was barely in there five minutes, before everything jumped at me. The bathbrush hit me, too, three times."

"How very unusual," Snape observed.

"And the towels flew at me, and tied me up so the scissors started cutting. And I don’t use lotion or that powder stuff."

"I must have left that in there by mistake," Snape said, completely unconvincing. "I’m sorry the bath did not meet your prestigious standards. Though I did think you might enjoy it – after all, it allows you too lie back and do nothing, quite suiting for the hero of the wizarding world."

Harry flushed red and clinched his hands into fists, glaring at Snape, too angry to speak. He did feel better after a bath, and the new clothes fit comfortably, not as formal and restricting as his school clothes or baggy and sloppy as Dudley’s hand-me-downs. And it was better to have his hair a little shorter and not falling in his eyes or making the back of his neck itch.

"At least now you look halfway appropriate for Snapdragon Manor and not like a street urchin. Sit down for a moment – breakfast is almost ready," Snape motioned to the made bed.

Harry pulled himself up on the bed, watching Snape warily. There was no telling what the man might do next - he might use any of the dormant objects as a weapon against Harry as he sat there helplessly.

Snape reached into a black leather bag on the nightstand and pulled out a long glass object with knobs at the end.

"Open up," Snape ordered.

Harry eyed the thing. Except for the knobs, it looked like a thermometer, but with Snape you never knew.

"Open your mouth," Snape’s voice grew hard when Harry did not comply. "Believe me, Potter, there’s more than one way to take a temperature. Shall I demonstrate on you?"

Immediately, Harry opened his mouth and took in the thermometer without a second's hesitation. He was afraid it might burn his tongue or glue itself to the roof of his mouth, but it only felt hard and cold like a regular thermometer.

Snape reached in his bag and took out a gold pocket watch.

"Wass dat?" Harry asked around the thermometer.

"Hush," Snape answered as he took Harry's right hand and turned it palm up. Snape place two fingers over Harry's wrist and watched the small clock intently. Obviously, Snape knew how to take a person's pulse.

Without a word, Snape tucked the pocket watch back in the bag and began feeling around Harry's neck and throat for swelling. Snape's hands were cold, and Harry, not used to being touched, never realized how ticklish his neck was. His shoulders hunched up as he tried to keep from giggling.

Snape’s lips curved in a smirk. "Potter, sit still."

Harry tried, but he was very thankful when Snape removed his hands. In a clinical, detached manner that would have made Madam Pomfrey proud, Snape peered into Harry’s eyes and tapped on his cheekbones. Harry felt uncomfortable with Snape so close and – concerned. He liked the man at least a few steps away, looking cold and critical. Satisfied with what he found, Snape removed the thermometer and checked it.

"Hmm, 99.4. A bit high."

"The bath was hot," Harry objected. "And I'm always warm when I wake up."

Snape reached into his bag and removed a small dark vial. "Drink this."

Harry thought about refusing, but then he had a mental image of his mouth being forced open and Snape pouring the potion down along with something else nasty and harmful . . .

Harry gulped down the potion. It tasted awful, especially after the minty toothpaste. "Ugh," he handed the empty vial back. "Yuck."

"I suppose that will do for now," Snape shrugged. "Of course, if your fever rises, we can always try an ice bath. I imagine you'll enjoy spending the afternoon packed down in ice with another potion to keep you from freezing."

Harry stared agape at him, but Snape turned and swept out of the room. Harry scurried off the bed and followed him downstairs.

The dining was large and spacious with seats enough for twelve at the long table. However, only two places were set, the one at the head of the table and the place to its right. Snape sat down at the head and motioned to the other seat. Harry sat down slowly, wondering why Snape didn’t just send him to the kitchen for breakfast.

Two house-elves in neat dish-clothes came out with food. Harry expected to see several dishes to serve from, like a Hogwarts. However, one elf set a plate full of muffins, eggs, sausage, kippers, butter, and marmalade at Snape’s place with a pot of hot tea. The other elf placed in front of Harry a bowl full of porridge with sliced bananas and a smatter of cream and a small plate of wheat toast with a tiny spoonful of jam along with a huge glass of milk.

Snape began cutting into his sausage and smearing butter over a muffin. Harry looked down at his bowl of porridge, thick and lumpy, and tried not to pout. He never thought about food at Hogwarts – it was always tasty and good – and at the Dursleys he was happy for whatever he got. But here, sitting at Snape’s table with a breakfast made for a toddler . . . though Harry probably wouldn’t have minded if Snape had the same breakfast as he did.

"Please start eating, Mr. Potter," Snape ordered, cutting into his eggs. "I know you must be hungry, and your breakfast is getting cold."

Harry picked up his spoon and took a bite of porridge. It was surprising good – hot and slightly sweetened with a hint of cinnamon. The bananas were fresh as was the cream, and he found himself enjoying every bite. The toast wasn’t bad, either – not too dry, and the jam was sweet and tangy. With the cold milk, he couldn’t wish for a better breakfast.

"Glad to see you enjoying the food and not complaining," Snape observed. "I was expecting our renown hero to demand his breakfast fit for a king. I never expected anything found in my miserable kitchen to suit your impeccable taste."

"I’m not that picky," Harry sat up in his chair, refusing the last swallow of milk from the glass just irritate Snape. "Food is food, you know – you eat it."

"Another brilliant observation made by the famous Mr. Potter," Snape said scathingly.

"You know what I mean," Harry insisted. Somehow, he didn’t find himself getting so riled up over Snape’s comments as usual. "I’m not picky because most food is the same after a while."

"Just like a child," Snape shook his head as he poured himself more tea. "Precisely the reason I told Dumbledore not to waste time or money on students’ food – they’d be happy with anything."

Harry wasn’t quite sure if Snape meant that as a compliment or an insult. The man said everything in the same tone, making it impossible to discern his true feelings. Until now, Harry had always found it a safe bet to assume that Snape was in a bad mood. But could someone be in a bad mood all the time, every second of everyday without dying of depression?

"Now, Mr. Potter," Snape set his cup aside with finality, "I might as well tell you that I already went and spoke to your aunt last night."

Harry looked down at the table. He wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or scared or relieved. Knowing Snape, probably all three.

"She was glad too hear that you were safe, but she seemed to think that if you came back, you were likely to run off again." Here, Snape fixed Harry with a stern look, and Harry squirmed slightly. "While I’m sure that would not be the case, I told her for now you would be staying somewhere else until school."

"Where?" Harry asked.

"I imagine Azkaban would be glad to house you, if only for a matter of weeks," Snape shrugged as he stood up.

Harry paled for a moment, thinking of the dementors swarming around a cell, slowing sucking the life out of him as he huddled in darkness.

"Oh, please, Potter," the potions master snapped, "if you are to ever defeat the Dark Lord, you have to stop being so vulnerable and jumpy. Live up to that Gryffindor bravery that you think so highly of."

Harry did scowl at that. He hated when Snape talked about Gryffindor ideals with that sneer. He could jeer all day at Harry, but talking about his friends was going too far.

"Up, Potter," Snape snapped his fingers.

Harry rose reluctantly from the table; he felt safer with a few pieces of wood between himself and the stern potions master.

"Until lunchtime, I want you to stay in the library," he led Harry down the hall with the portraits still whispering, "and keep quiet."

Snape pushed open the door, and Harry stepped into the library. It was huge – two stories high with spiral steps leading up to shelves that stretched to a domed ceiling. It was possibly bigger than the library at Hogwarts. Hermione would have drooled in the doorway.

"You can read any book that will open," Snape gestured to the shelves. "And books that won’t are forbidden. Do not try to force open a book that does not fall open easily. You will not like the end results. But not to worry – most of the books you should not read are on the top shelves beyond your reach. Your schoolbooks are on the table along with a few suitable books – I suggest you start on your homework."

"But I have two months before school starts," Harry objected. "I don’t want to study – I want to know what’s going to happen to me."

"You’ll know when the time is right," Snape told him. "For now, I want you to stay in here and study or read or whatever you have to do to keep still and quiet."

Harry felt the old anger rising up in him. This was just like last summer when he was locked away at the Dursleys, cut off from the wizarding world. Now, he was in a wizard’s house, but he felt more isolated than ever. Snape would not leave any newspapers lying about for him to see, and it was very likely that Snape would search through any letters that Hedwig or any other owl brought. Harry might as well be locked up in Azkaban until school started.

"No, you tell me now," Harry insisted, crossing his arms defiantly. "Or I’ll stand here all day. I have a right to know what’s going to happen to me."

Without a word, Snape reached out and grabbed Harry’s ear in a tight pinch.

"Ow!" Harry tried to pull free, but Snape’s grip was vice-like as if his hand had become a permanent part of Harry’s ear. The man dragged Harry into the library and sat him down at the table.

Harry rubbed his ear, glaring at Snape.

"Now, Mr. Potter, do we understand each other, or do you need further persuasion as I used last night?"

"No, no, sir," Harry answered stiffly, "I’ll stay in here."

Snape walked towards the hall, but paused in the doorway. "I mean it, Potter, behave yourself. Or I’ll put you in a full body bind and hang you from the railing upside-down."

He walked out and shut the door behind him with a decided click.

Harry waited anxiously to hear the lock close. He hated the idea of being locked up, even in a spacious library for a few hours. After a minute or two, he crept to the door and tested the knob. It was not locked.

He went back to the desk and sat down. What should he do now? Had he been locked in, he would have felt justified in yelling or throwing things in the library. But he wasn’t locked in, and he had a feeling that Snape would not be pleased with books mistreated in his library.

With a blush, Harry remembered how he had destroyed Dumbledore’s office the day Sirius died. Breaking things – expensive things – and yelling, screaming like a maniac. What if Snape had been there, watching such behavior? Harry had the uneasy feeling that Snape would not have stood by calmly while Harry raved like a lunatic. One thing was certain: he would not test his theory by having a tantrum.

Harry reached for the top book of a stack on the table: Tales of Treasures: Five Stories about Priceless Possessions based on Magical Myths. He flicked at the cover with a finger. The book fell open, and he found himself reading the first page of some fairytale story about a witch named Emeralda in love with a wizard who went on a long quest in search of a necklace that would give its owner invincibility. At first Harry thought it might be a wizard version of Lord of the Rings, but as he read on, the story turned out to be completely different as the wizard traveled inside the Pits of Darkness to find the necklace.

Harry forgot about Snape, he forgot about studying, he forgot that he was even in a library. All that matter was Timord (the name of wizard) finding the necklace. Fifty pages, a hundred, Harry read on until at last Timord after two years of searching, found the necklace.

There laying in the box, as simple and pure as the morning sunlight was the necklace, made of brightest gold with a tiny hourglass in its center. Timord picked up the necklace and placed it around his neck. He began twirling the hourglass around in his fingers, faster and faster. He thought of his love for the beautiful Emeralda.

And then the walls of the cave faded, and he found himself in the bedroom of his lady. She glanced up with a smile.

"Why darling," she exclaimed, "why are you back so soon?"

"So soon?" he laughed. "I’ve been gone over two years."

"No, she shook her head, sending her hair dancing in the moonlight, "you left this morning. I just bade you farewell."

Timord looked down at the necklace around his neck and touched the hourglass gently.

The story went on to say how Timord married his witch and lived happily ever after, but what really caught Harry’s attention was the footnote at the end of the story.

Though this tale is considered a myth, the Necklace of Timord is an actual timeturner from the days before Merlin. It was last seen in 1598 during witch trial when the witch disappeared while being led to her hanging. The Necklace of Timord is reported not only to take its wearer back in the time, but also to the precise place that the wearer envisions. Also the Necklace renders its wearer impervious to harm, making the Necklace one of the more sought-after Dark Magic objects.

Our next story begins on a dark island where seven shipwrecked sailors stumbled upon a treasure beyond their wildest dreams . . .

Harry put the book down slowly. He had enjoyed the story – a little frilly and fussy for his tastes, obviously written for girls as well as boys – but the Necklace caught his attention completely. Could there be such an object in the world? It had last been sighted over four hundred years ago, but by wizards’ standards, that was not so very long. If he found it, it would not only take him back to save Cedric and Sirius, but to the exact place he needed to be to find them.

Harry grabbed a piece of paper out of his backpack and reached for a quill. Hastily, he wrote down the Necklace of Timord and below scratched Disappeared in 1598 at witch’s trial. He would search the entire library for any information about the Necklace and take notes on everything he found.

As for Snape – well, sooner or later the man had to let him out of the manor, and when he did, Harry would be ready for his quest. But he wouldn’t say a word about this to Snape – the last thing he needed was for the potions master to know that the savior of the wizarding world was going on another heroic journey.