“Wow.” Harry came out of the cinema feeling dazed and very star-struck. “That was . . . Wow.” Scenes from the film kept running through his head. “Can we see it again?”

Snape made a strange noise from just behind him. “Not right now,” he said, and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder to steer him down the street. “I take it you enjoyed it, then?”

“It was fantastic!” Harry burst out, beaming up at Snape. He’d been on the edge of his seat for most of the film – it was a good thing hardly anybody else had been in the room with them, as Harry had literally been clinging to the back of the seat in front of him, his gaze riveted to the large screen. “I thought Silver Blaze was going to win the race!”

Snape’s lips twisted, no doubt remembering Harry bouncing in his seat to urge the fictional horse onwards. Another reason to be thankful there hadn’t been many other people – Harry’s gasp when the jockey had been shot off the horse had been rather loud. “In the book, I believe he does,” was all he said.

“And the way Holmes decoded the telegram!” Harry was all but skipping as Snape directed him to an open door that led into a large, airy cafe. “And poor Doctor Watson was going to get killed!”

“Stay there while I order,” Snape interrupted, pushing firmly on Harry’s shoulder to plant him into a chair.

With a great effort, Harry managed to close his mouth as Snape strode off towards the counter at the rear of the room. He couldn’t help it; he just wanted to replay everything they’d just seen.

Squirming, he tried to distract himself by looking around the room. It actually wasn’t as big as he’d first thought, but the white walls offset by the filmy yellow curtains and matching tablecloths gave it an airy, summer feel. Did Snape come here often? he wondered. He must do – he’d known the cafe was here, after all, and it wasn’t terribly busy. In fact, only two of the other tables were occupied; one by a woman by herself, reading a book, and the other by a family.

The muffled clatter of a tray landing on the table made Harry jump. He hadn’t seen Snape coming back.

“Here.” The professor handed an empty plate to Harry, and gestured at the plate stacked with sandwiches that was still on the tray. “Select whichever ones you want.” He placed a bottle of orange juice beside Harry.

Delighted, Harry peered at the sandwiches to determine what kind they were. Not that it would make much difference – the Dursleys had quickly taught him not to be fussy about what food he was given. But these weren’t flat and stale and curling at the edges. These were big and white, and Harry’s stomach gave a small growl of anticipation.

Harry flushed, and peeked sideways at Snape, who pretended to be concentrating fiercely on his own sandwich. Unable to decide between cheese and tomato, chicken, and corned beef, Harry took one of each. They fell into a marginally uncomfortable silence as they both chewed, but Harry was used to this by now. Snape wasn’t really fond of small talk.

Apparently, however, Snape had been busy thinking, as once he’d finished, he leant back in his chair and studied Harry contemplatively. “We will need to take a trip to Diagon Alley soon,” he said, his voice low so as to avoid anyone overhearing. “Your Hogwarts letter should be arriving any day now, so make sure you think of anything else you need to get whilst we’re there.”

Harry struggled for a moment, and then swallowed his mouthful of bread. “Yes, sir,” he agreed. “Um, sir?” he added, cautiously. “Do you think there’s any chance we’d see the Weasleys while we’re there?”

Snape grimaced. “It’s possible,” he admitted, reluctantly. “They should be getting their letters round about now, too. Of course, they may not go on the same day as we do.”

“Isn’t there a way we could ask them?” Harry asked. He wanted to see at least one of his friends, to reassure himself that they were still his friends after the enforced silence.

Tapping his fingers on the table, Snape made a small noise that could have meant anything. “I will ask Professor Dumbledore to pass on a message,” he said, finally. “But we will not hang around for days waiting for a response. If there is no reply by the time I decide to go, then that is that. Understood, Potter?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured, and turned his attention back to the sandwiches. It wasn’t the unequivocal yes he’d been looking for, but any chance was better than none. 

At the same moment, far away in the heart of London and deep underground, Lucius Malfoy was in the Minister of Magic’s office, pretending to sympathise with the complaints of Cornelius Fudge.

“It’s the Boy-Who-Lived,” Cornelius grumbled, his fingers nervously twitching various quills on his desk. “He should be somewhere proper, but Dumbledore refuses to tell me what he’s done with the boy.”

“The headmaster has always had a habit of interfering where he shouldn’t,” Lucius agreed, his face as blank and pleasant as ever. No need to worry Cornelius by showing just how frustrated he actually was. None of his contacts had been able to tell him anything about where the Potter boy was now staying. It was maddening.

“Apparently,” Cornelius continued, aggrieved, “the boy is friends with the youngest Weasley boy, so I called Arthur Weasley in, but all he’d say was that he didn’t think it was my business!”

It took more effort, this time, not to let his feelings show. Arthur Weasley; the Muggle-loving, bumbling fool of a blood-traitor; the one who was behind the recent efforts to purge the Dark from them all, and thereby strip half the magical population of their heritage.

“Not my business!” the Minister repeated, indignantly. “As if I shouldn’t know what to tell people when they ask where our saviour is, and if he’s safe!”

Lucius coolly and calmly crossed one leg over the other. “It may be that Dumbledore hasn’t seen fit to inform him,” he said. “He does like his little secrets, after all. And isn’t Weasley senior busy with that legislation at the moment . . . ?”

“Hmm? Legislation? Oh – yes,” Cornelius absently agreed, neatly accepting the change of topic. “I believe it’s on the agenda for the next Wizengamot meeting.”

Lucius silently cursed to himself. The meeting was scheduled for next week, and several of the people he relied on to vote favourably for him were out of town until just before the new school term. He’d already used up several important favours getting Arthur Weasley’s legislation postponed and suppressed; the bribes necessary to delay it again would deplete even the Malfoy coffers to an unacceptable level. He’d have to ensure he got rid of the most incriminating evidence. Really, the blood-traitor needed taking down a peg or two; if only he and his family weren’t considered so disgustingly good . . .

A thought suddenly came to him, and he had to repress a chuckle of delight at his own cleverness. There was a way of removing three birds with one avada kadavra.

Let’s see how high and mighty he is after it is discovered that his own children have been dabbling with the Dark Arts, he thought, and imperceptibly settled himself deeper into his chair, humming apparent agreement as Cornelius’ complaints continued.

Also at the same moment, Ron Weasley was sulkily weeding his mum’s vegetable garden, which also involved chucking the occasional gnome over the hedge into the field next door.

He had still heard nothing from Harry. He had attempted to remind Fred and George of their promise, but the twins had been holed up in their room, and the loud, frequent explosions emanating from inside did not inspire the courage to knock on the door. Mrs Weasley had been upstairs to yell at them at least twice a day, but they appeared to have put up a one-way silencing charm, and Mrs Weasley always had to admit defeat – even if only for a few hours.

Ron had hoped that Harry would get in touch so they could arrange to go to Diagon Alley together. Hermione had already contacted him, asking if he’d had his letter yet – he hadn’t – and if he’d completed his summer homework yet – he had plenty of time to start that! – and he’d been overjoyed to see the owl winging its way in at first, because it had been Hedwig, so he’d naturally thought it was Harry. Finding out that the snowy owl had been staying with Hermione all these weeks had been a bitter blow.

Hauling a gnome out of its hole as he remembered that moment all over again, Ron drew his arm back and flung the gnome as hard as he could. It went cartwheeling over the hedge with a shrill scream that grew fainter the further it went, until it eventually crashed almost at the other end of the field.

“Tut, tut, Lickle Ronniekins,” said a voice from behind him.

“Temper, temper,” another added.

Ron spun on his heels so fast that he fell over backwards, and ended up sitting in the middle of a patch of lettuce. Fred and George smirked at him, as he scrambled to his feet, scowling at them.

“Problem?” George asked.

Ron fumed for a moment, then considered. Perhaps this time they’d actually help him. “I’ve still not had anything from Harry,” he said, finally.

“Oh, yeah, we were gonna go rescue him, weren’t we?” said Fred. He tilted his head at George, who blinked once, then nodded twice.

“Dad finished the car ages ago,” George said, lowering his voice as though worried someone would overhear them. With Mrs Weasley around, it was a valid concern. “We could sneak out tonight; take it for a little spin and go rescue Lickle Harrykins.”

“Got his address, Ron?” Fred asked, abruptly serious.

Ron nodded. “It’s upstairs,” he said.

“Go get it,” his brother suggested, and Ron tore off towards the house. Thankfully, Mrs Weasley wasn’t around to see him skid through the kitchen, but he almost ran into her as he dashed up the winding, rickety staircase towards his room.

“Ronald Weasley, how many times have we told you, no running in the house!” his mother screeched after him, as he muttered something that sounded like an apology and kept going.

“Sorry, Mum – urgent!” he hollered back over his shoulder. Grabbing the doorframe to swing himself around into his room, he fell to his knees beside his school trunk. Throwing the lid back, he scrabbled through sheets of parchment, old clothes and pieces of broken quills until he found the paper Harry had written his address on.

Then he was running back outside, almost running his mother over for a second time as he hurtled down the stairs. Panting, he came to such a sudden halt beside Fred and George that he almost fell over again. Wordlessly, he held out the paper, then bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

The twins bent their heads over the paper to study it, their mutters barely reaching Ron’s ears. “Is that near—?” “Must be. What about going—?” “Nah, too far north.”

Eventually, as Ron straightened up, they both looked up at him.

“Not to worry,” said Fred.

“Leave it to us,” said George.

“We’ll have Harry out of there in no time,” they added, together, and both clapped a hand on Ron’s shoulders before hurrying off around the back of the house.

Sniggers drifted back to him on the wind, and Ron had one instant to get a very, very bad feeling, before his hair abruptly turned into bright green feathers.

Arriving home that afternoon, Severus disappeared into his lab, after returning the Abraxan foal to Potter, and informing him that he could do as he liked – provided he did it quietly – for the rest of the day.

Once he’d closed the door behind the boy, he checked the potions that were simmering. Two were ready for the next step, so he spent a few minutes dicing and chopping and sprinkling.

Then, with the air of a man doing something deeply unpleasant just to get it over with, he reached for the Floo powder and threw it into his small fireplace. “Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts,” he called.

It seemed to take an inordinately long time before the headmaster’s head appeared in the flames, and when it finally did, he looked harried.

“Is this a bad time, Headmaster?” Severus asked.

“No, no.” The movement of Albus’ beard suggested he’d sighed heavily. “I was just finishing a meeting with our new Defence professor.”

“Ah,” said Severus, in a tone of sudden understanding. Really, meeting with Gilderoy Lockhart would cause anyone to look harried. “Potter has asked if you could pass a message on to the Weasleys,” he continued. “He wants to meet up with them in Diagon Alley once the school letters have gone out.”

“Hmm, that reminds me.” Albus disappeared briefly, and then there was a flash of brighter green, and an envelope came sailing out of the fireplace. Severus reared back to avoid having it stab him in the eye. Albus’ head reappeared. “Harry’s letter,” he said. “The rest will be going out by owl, as usual, in two days’ time, but I suspect Harry’s wouldn’t reach him.”

“You still haven’t learnt anything about what is blocking the owls from us?” asked Severus, plucking the letter out of the air from beside his ear.

“No.” Albus looked incredibly frustrated. “I am running out of places to look. I think I will have to ask Minerva and Filius if they’ve ever heard of anything like this.”

“As long as you don’t ask Lockhart,” said Severus, his lip curling in a sneer at the very thought of allowing the pompous imbecile anywhere near his house. He glanced down at Potter’s letter. “I’ve informed Potter that although I would ask you to pass a message to the Weasleys, I will not wait for them to get it and respond. I was planning on going to Diagon Alley in three days’ time. If there is no response, or they cannot make it, we will continue as planned.”

“I will let Molly know before then, if I can,” Albus agreed. “How is Harry enjoying his birthday?” he asked, pointedly.

Severus scowled at him. “Oh, yes, the brat is thoroughly enjoying the heaps of presents he’s received,” he said. “Or no, perhaps he’s thoroughly enjoying scrubbing every inch of the house with his toothbrush.”

Albus’ eyes began twinkling, and Severus was severely tempted to cut the Floo connection there and then. “Well, please wish Harry many happy regards on my behalf,” Albus began, and then suddenly moved to look somewhere behind himself. “Ah, my next meeting has arrived,” he said. “Was there anything else you needed, Severus?”

“Aside from my sanity back?” Severus muttered, but shook his head at the headmaster. “No, Albus, not at the moment.”

“Very good.” And Albus’ head disappeared from the flames with a pop.

With a sigh, Severus checked his potions one last time, then made his way to the door. “Shopping for school supplies,” he muttered in disgust as he exited the lab. “What could possibly be more fun than that?”