Annalee Taylor put out her cigarette with trembling hands. Ten years she'd managed without smoking, now here she was picking up the bad habit like she'd never left it behind. The police officer in the car finally stopped talking into her radio and Annalee raised a hand in farewell as they started the panda and pulled out of the school's long sweeping drive.

She had a class full of Year One students waiting for her, and the deputy headmistress would not be pleased about having to take over while she spoke to the police again, but still Annalee lingered by the drive, sitting on the scarred old bench where mothers usually sat waiting for the afternoon bell to ring to pick up their little ones.

Harry Potter.

No one had ever waited for that little boy. He'd walked home with his aunt and cousin but it was always painfully clear that Petunia Dursley was only awaiting her own boy, not her nephew.

Harry Potter.

No matter how many times she told herself she had done her best she was still painfully aware that she could have done more. Should have done more. But with thirty five years olds in a class there was always so much to do, so much going on. She'd chased up the school nurse hadn't she? Made sure the boy got glasses from his stingy uncle. Praised him, encouraged him.

Annalee closed her eyes as she remembered the surprise in his slanted green eyes whenever she'd praised him. Like he wasn't used to even the smallest word of encouragement.

She'd raised the question of neglect in the standard form, chivied the deputy head mistress into signing it, made sure it was sent on, received promises from the department to look into it.

What more could she have done?

Newspaper reporters asked her that now. Isn't there more you could have done? How could a five year old disappear without trace? Do you blame the Department of Child Welfare? Why didn't they act?

She had some questions of her own, as it happened. Like, why do you all care so much about skinny little Harry Potter now? Where were you all when he was here and could have been helped?

Now the police asked questions too, but the Dursleys stubbornly insisted the boy's father had come and taken him away. Except they didn't know the man's name, couldn't describe him, didn't even know how he knew where Harry was, let alone that he existed at all...

The really rotten part of it all was that they would probably get away with it. There was no evidence anything sinister had happened to the boy. There was barely any evidence the child had existed at all. When the police had asked for a photograph of him only one could be found, his Year One school picture taken the month before Christmas.

As far as Annalee Taylor was concerned that said everything one needed to know about the Dursleys.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She was wondering if she had time for another quick fag when a voice called her name, a familiar voice, close by.

And then there he was standing in front of her, panting a little from running down the drive.

"H-Harry?" she stuttered and he grinned at her.

Her eyes ate him up, disbelief still stealing her voice. He wore a thick black velvet cloak with little plackets for his hands, which were warmly covered with supple leather gloves in a softly sheened dark green. Peeping below the cloak were dully gleaming little black boots and on his head a curious hat, almost like a night cap, its point hanging over one shoulder and ending in a thick green tassel.

"Harry," she breathed, tears now blurring the impossibly beautiful vision of the little lost child, looking happy and a little plumper in his thin face.

"Hello, Mrs Taylor," he said, looking a little shy. "Did you miss me?"

She'd never hugged a student before, the Education Department frowned on it, but she reached out now and engulfed his thin little body, cupping his silky black head, the soft velvet of the tasseled cap plush beneath her fingers. She breathed in his scent, clean, wholesome, surprisingly spicy, like an exotic foreign deli.

"Harry," she said again, pulling him back to study his surprised little face. "Where have you been? Everyone's been so worried!"

Harry reached out a gloved hand and patted her cheek reassuringly. "It's all right, Mrs Taylor," he said kindly. "The Perfessor said you were awfully worried about me. I'm good, Mrs Taylor, really good. I'm with my daddy!" He gestured with his pointed chin over his shoulder and the rest of the world came back into focus. On the edge of the drive a tall figure stood, long black cloak swirling around his ankles in the early February breeze. He also wore a long pointed cap with a tassel resting over one narrow shoulder, beneath it long jet black hair hung down, obscuring most of his face as it was teased and blown by the wind.

He didn't move, merely stood, watching them both, but Annalee suddenly felt chilled to the bone. Her flesh prickled and she shivered.

"Th-that's your father?"

"My daddy," Harry said proudly, pulling back and standing in front of her, smiling happily. "He came and got me from my aunt and uncle, Mrs Taylor. He thought I was safe with them, but when he found out I was unhappy he came and got me."

"But - but, Harry," she said, a million questions crowding her head, blocking her tongue. "Where have you been?"

"I told you," he said patiently, rather as if he was the adult and she the little child. "I'm with my daddy. He's awfully sorry he left me behind afore, but he says he won't do it again. I have my own room, Mrs Taylor, and my own bed. And toys! And clothes too, of my very own."

The joy and contentment on his thin little face was so clear, so in contrast with all the horrible, grubby, violent ends she had pictured for him over the last weeks that she couldn't help the tears that blurred her vision once again. She touched his face, stroking his fine, flushed skin just to assure herself that he was alive. That here was one neglected and abused little boy who had found a happy ending.

"And he's good to you?" she asked, knowing the answer already from the joy in his slanted green eyes, the happy smile that curved his lips. "No one hurts you, or makes you do anything you don't want to?"

Harry shook his head. "That was aunt and uncle, Mrs Taylor," he reminded her. "My daddy looks after me and pertects me. Oh!" He widened his eyes and reached inside his cape, withdrawing a folded piece of paper. He handed it over to her with another shy smile. "I almost forgot! I drew this for you."

She opened it with trembling fingers, marveling in the back of her head at the thick richness of the paper, its soft edges making it look almost handmade. A crayoned picture greeted her and she smiled tearfully as she recognised Harry's style straight away.

"That's me, Mrs Taylor," Harry said, pointing to a little figure standing between two larger ones. "And that's my dad." Long dark hair and a bright pink heart in the middle of his chest. "And that's you, see? You're smiling at me, like you always did."

"Oh, Harry," she whispered. Had she always smiled? Couldn't she have smiled more, done more? Harry was here and safe, but what if he hadn't been? What about the next Harry who needed help?

"Harry."

The man on the end of the drive must have called, although the voice sounded soft in her ears. Harry stepped back, out of her reach, smiling and nodding. "I have to go, Mrs Taylor. My daddy's calling me."

"But, Harry," she said hastily, reaching out to him. "You can't go yet! The police, the school, your..." She was going to say his family, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. If Harry had a family then it was the tall dark man who took care of him, fed him, clothed him, put that smile on his face.

All the same, formalities had to be obeyed, so with one hand she reached for Harry and with the other she groped in her pocket for her mobile phone. Nimbly Harry was skipping back and then he was running down the drive, the green tassel on his hat streaming out behind him.

Long arms were extended and Harry reached out and leapt up, thin little hands locking around his father's neck as the tall man straightened. Harry lifted one hand and waved at her, and for just a moment they stood there, father and son, the sharp February breeze teasing cloak and long dark hair. This was a sight that would stay with her, imprinted on her mind, the tall dark man in his swirling cape with the child on his hip, two faces turned to her.

Harry smiled and his father inclined his head briefly before turning on his heel with a snap of his cloak. Almost between blinks they were an impossible distance down the road.

888

Annalee Taylor did all the right things, she called the detectives handling the case and showed them the crayoned picture. She nodded confirmation at the film from the CCTV cameras that covered the school drive and caught little Harry but not the dark haired stranger with him.

Police cars quartered the area but no trace of Harry and his father were found. Annalee sat in the staff room with a WPC, drinking strong hot cups of tea. Funny that she didn't feel the need for a smoke now, the sweet tea was enough, and soon the questions would be over and she could go back to her class.

She looked down at the crayoned picture open on the table between them. Harry's father didn't look frightening in the picture, despite the fact that he didn't have the wide drawn on grins she and Harry had. Perhaps it was that absurd pink heart on his chest. She cocked her head, only just noticing that his right hand had six fingers, one rather longer than the rest. She wondered why sparks seemed to be coming out of it...