When Harry awoke it was to the sounds of the doorbell ringing shrilly from downstairs and a rather fierce pounding from down the hall. Snape, whom he had always pegged for an early riser, groaned and barked, 'Open the bloody door, will you?'

Sighing, Harry slipped from under the covers, taking a moment to glance at his reflection in a tiny looking glass on the wall. He looked exhausted, with grey circles under his eyes and a haggard, pinched expression. Not exactly the ideal image to present to whoever was ringing the doorbell with such persistence the floor below.

'Coming!' He shouted, which was met by a nasty howl from Snape and deafening pound on the front door. 'Hang on a minute! I'm coming!'

He swung the door open with such vigour that the person fell forward, mid-knock, onto the parlour floor. It was all Harry could do to stop himself laughing as Slater steadied himself, sending a glower at the offending door.

'Could've told me you were opening it,' he said reproachfully, rubbing his shoulder. Harry levelled him with a filthy look of his own.

'If you weren't so busy trying to knock Snape's door down, you might've heard me.'

'Indeed.'

Both boys stiffened as a hand clamped down on Harry shoulder, Snape's cold voice carrying almost as much menace as his glare.

'Sir,' began Slater and Harry in unison.

Cocking an eyebrow, Snape shoved Harry forward a bit. His eyes, too, were shadowed by thick grey circles, and he kept blinking, as though something was caught in them. 'I suppose you have come to invite Trotter out. He shall be down in a moment, after he has brushed his teeth and dressed himself.' Speechless from shock, Harry stumbled upstairs on clumsy feet, fumbling for a clean pair of trousers and one of his school shirts. After quickly scrubbing with the toothbrush, he found his way downstairs again. Snape held out five quid, which he took wordlessly. 'For food,' he instructed. 'I expect change, and I expect you to be back by seven tonight.' The two turned to leave, each as relieved as the other to be away from Snape.

'And Trotter - '

Harry groaned, dissimulating his frustration behind a weak smile.

'Don't do anything stupid.'

The door clicked shut before the words "yes, sir" had even begun to form on his lips. Slater sniggered, straightening his back and raising an eyebrow. 'I expect change,' he said in an uncanny impression of Snape's low, heavily articulated voice. 'I expect you to be home by seven. I expect you to kiss my bloody arse, and while you're at it Trotter, I expect you to - '

'Shut up,' Harry grumbled. Slater punched him lightly on the shoulder and opened his mouth to reply, but Harry pushed him away. 'I've only met you yesterday, and all of a sudden you're being all best-matey with me. Go away.'

Slater stiffened, looking extremely put-upon. 'Not like you've got any mates around here, is it? What, d'you watch Dr Who with Snape, or something? Have a go on the Play Station against each other? I'm sure he's loads of fun.'

As much as he would loved to have told Slater to simply get stuffed, Harry had to admit the younger boy had a point. A very painful, clear point. He sighed. 'Fine. Where're we going, then? Play Station? Watching Dr Who on your mum's TV?'

Slater shrugged and pointed at number three lazily. 'We're going wherever Hightowler says we go.'

Hightowler was taller than Harry remembered, his blue eyes like chips of ice on a pale, square face. He walked slowly, arms swinging at his sides. 'Trotter,' he greeted, sparing Harry a brief jerk of his head. 'Slater said you'd want to get away from Snape for a bit. We're,' he turned to Slater, lips pursed, 'going downtown.'

Harry had never had a day quite like this. Snape had certainly been right about Spinner's End making up a small majority of Rottidge. The village, while not exactly Little Whinging or anything even remotely close, grew cleaner and more pleasant with every step one took away from the disused old mill, which, Hightowler informed him, had once been an off-shoot of the Ford factory in Birmingham. 'Small things,' he disclosed, 'axles and minor framework - stuff like that.'

Harry nodded, glancing back at the tall chimney of the mill. 'What happened to it?'

Surprisingly, it was Slater who answered. 'Most of the town worked it in the '70's, especially the neighbourhoods round Spinner's End. It sort of died, though, after the unions lost power, and then there was this big murder - no one could work out how it happened. Doors were locked from the inside, lights on, not a mark on any of the bodies. This whole family died, and nobody could make out how it happened, and another one died. Then, another. Five men, three women, six kids. Everyone went yampy for a bit, and then it calmed and people started leaving bit by bit, and the mill closed because no one was left to work it anymore. Three families, two other men.'

He could feel his ears perking, alert and at attention. It was early in the morning, but Harry knew the funny feeling in his stomach was not a plea for food. No, this was Voldemort. Or, Death Eaters. It had to have been. He thought of the article in the Prophet on Amelia Bones. Doors locked from the inside, not a mark on her. His stomach dropped.

'See, the thing was,' Hightowler spoke now, hushed, yet authoritative, his eyes darting over the quiet streets, 'all the people killed were connected to the Union and the mill. Every one. There was the McKinnons at nine, Fickler Lane, the Andertons at four, Spinner's End, my uncle Philip, Paul Chase, and the Snapes. They were the odd ones. Sitting right in front of the televisions watching the Avengers, dead. Like nothing was wrong, but they both had the wrong head. Weirdest thing anybody'd ever seen. Both heads on the wrong body, different skin tones and everything, but they were on like they'd been born that way. Like it was natural.'

Harry made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, snapping his mouth shut. 'The Snapes,' he panted, glancing between the two. They both nodded. 'Snape's parents were killed?'

Hightowler's reaction was not what he had imagined in the least. Cocking a single eyebrow and managing to look both politely bemused and incredibly well-informed at the same time,' he said softly, almost chucklingly, 'Snape's parents? He never knew them, as far a mum's told me. Mum died having him, and his dad popped off three months later in a drinking accident. Run over by a lorry, wasn't he?'

His throat once again produced a sound not unlike to that of a mouse being trod upon. Harry mouthed out the word "what", his voice little more than a rasping squeak. What about the Occlumency lessons? And the parents arguing? What about the dark haired boy crying the corner?

'Snape lived with his aunt and uncle here, and then they snuffed it in '78, the last family to go. After that no one wanted to live anywhere near the mill, or have anything to do with it.'

'We're here.'

They had stopped in front of a restored cinema called "The Hippodrome". A flashing sign overhead informed passers-by of a Star Wars marathon, a Disney cartoon, and some new drama about King George. Taking Harry's arm firmly in his own, Hightowler led him to the door and announced a bit too loudly, 'Slater's taking care of tickets for us. Just in here, then, Trotter?' They stepped cautiously inside, a cool wave of air conditioning ruffling Harry's hair and making him chill beneath his old jumper. He followed Hightowler to buy fizzy drinks and Crunchies, and then to find seats in Star Wars, where Slater, who huffed and rubbed at his reddened cheeks exasperatedly, joining them. Their only accompaniment were two boys of about seven, dressed in their school uniforms, and a couple of well-past primary age, who Harry very much doubted had come for a Star Wars marathon at all.

'Who's he, Adam? Who's he, then?' A titchy, freckled boy leant over to his friend, school jumper dulled as the lights dimmed. He was pointing excitedly at a plastic toy still in the box and bouncing up and down on his seat. 'Does he fight Darth Vader? Is he cool?'

'He's nobody,' said the other. 'Shh.'

Slater and Hightowler grew bored almost as soon as the film had begun, and halfway through had turned their attention onto a much more interesting and provocative performance - the couple, who was currently eating one another's faces out two aisles above. Sniggering, Slater tossed his popcorn at them and commented loudly, while Hightowler looked on indulgently, his blue eyes showing only a brief flicker of uncertainty when the two began to bung gumballs in return.

'He was worried for you,' commented Hightowler quietly. He nodded to Slater, who had ducked a moment before to dodge a rogue gumball. 'Afraid of what Barraclough said, you know, about Snape and everything.' Hightowler scrutinised him, lips pulled up at so that the corners of his mouth folded into tiny creases. He frowned. 'It's true, though, innit? About Snape. Mum thinks it's true, and Slater, and...me. I mean,' he cut off swiftly, 'he's not the pleasant sort, is he? Only been here three times since I can remember, hasn't he? And there's your hand. Barraclough noticed when you shook his - there're words scratched into it, aren't there?'

Harry started. In all the plotting and the hectic, chaotic mess Hogwarts life had become for him, he had never spared a thought for the marks on his hand. But, of course the Muggles would notice straight off. He glanced at the words, which, once pearly white and practically gleaming, had faded to a slightly discoloured upraised patch of skin. The sentence "I must not tell lies" was still there, still an awful reminder of the old hag he hand his friends had put up with the year before.

Making a split-second decision, he confided quietly, 'I'm not from Hackney, you know.'

Hightowler snorted. 'I'd guessed. You haven't half got a Cockney. I reckoned you might've lived there for a bit, or something, so I gave you the benefit of a - sommink wrong?'

Setting a finger to his lips, Harry said softly, 'No, and it's not Snape doing anything to me. It's a long story, and I don't feel much like sharing it with everyone just yet.' Hightowler nodded, resigned. 'Who's that bloke with the wonky hat?'

'Some alien-thing. Dunno.'

Slater scoffed. 'It's a sand person, you twat.'

They spent the rest of a good three hours in the same fashion, dodging the occasional gumball and shouting at the two excitable boys in the front.

Lunch rolled in round noon. Harry followed Slater and Hightowler through the streets of downtown, taking in the restored bank and greengrocers, the sweet shop, the day care centre, and an old-looking building called "Rottidge Towne Centre". He reckoned they must have been a fair ways away from Spinner's End, for the downtown of Rottidge was cleaner, brighter, and above all - modernised. Where Spinner's End and its surrounding neighbourhoods looked as though they could easily date back to the Industrial Revolution, downtown appeared to be in the process of a remodelling. Older buildings had been repainted or replaced, thick concrete ones torn down to make way for their more eye-pleasing counterparts. Hightowler stopped in front a McDonald's on the corner, pushing open the door to herd Harry and Slater past a group of boys in track suits listening to hip hop music and grumbling incoherently at one another. They looked remarkably like Dudley to Harry, who could not help but stare as he was shepherded to the counter to give his order.

'Big Mac,' Slater said, almost immediately upon stepping up the counter. The bored-looking girl behind the register punched in a number and snapper her gum at Hightowler.

'Same. And two Coca Colas.'

Harry had been inside a McDonald's only three times in his life to date. Once to use the toilet when he was five, once to have Dudley's chips after he'd thrown a fit, and once to run in from the pouring rain, while Aunt Petunia honked the car horn obnoxiously outside for him to hurry up and get her food. He knew it was Dudley's favourite hangout, or one of them, and that they served all sorts of food Hermione would have sniffed at.

What he did not know was what to order.

'Hurry up,' the girl prompted.

'Er...'

'Make that three Big Macs,' Hightowler interjected quickly. 'And three Cokes.'

He passed her a few quid, and Slater took a tray of food to a table with "Chanel + Luke Luv 4 Eva" scratched into it.

'Thanks,' Harry said sheepishly, to which Slater shot him a funny look. Hightowler brushed it off.

'Haven't got McDonald's at that prison school, right?' He said McDonald's funny, like it was two words "Mack Donald's". Harry nodded, relieved.

'No, it's all nasty food there.'

Slater groaned into his Coca Cola.

'Where d'you lot go to school, anyway? Is it - '

'Not in Rottidge,' Hightowler said. 'Only one here's this nasty comprehensive, so everyone takes the bus to St Francis's. They're rebuilding our comprehensive for us.'

'Have been building it,' cut in Slater, his mouth full of chips and hamburger bun, 'for two years. By the rate they're going, we reckon it'll be done the time I reach uni.' He bit into a chip gloomily. 'If I make it to uni at all.’

Harry felt suddenly distinctly out of place. Here were two people that had never before heard or thought about Hogwarts, or OWLs, or NEWTs, or any of the things that dominated his own day-to-day living. They had no idea magic even existed, and, truth be told, what did he know about comprehensive schools or buses anymore? There had been a time when Stone Wall High was the future, with a grey jumper and grey trousers and probably a rather boring life compared to the one he led now. But, that time had been replaced with wands, and Malfoy, and (he groaned) Snape. Snape who would murder if he saw Harry chewing a Big Mac like it was celery and downing Coca Cola like pumpkin juice. (“Unhealthy, useless, disgusting thing – Muggle fast food.”)

‘Sod it.’ Slamming a chip into the table and shoving another into his mouth, Slater stood. ‘You ruin every ounce of fun that comes your way, Trotter. D’you know that?’ He was grinning, though, through potato-coated teeth. ‘Let’s get out of here before Barraclough or someone comes, y’know? That batti’s always hanging round here when he’s got nothing to do.’ He sniggered behind the McDonald’s wrappings, clearing up quickly. ‘All he can afford, I’m sure.’

Before he could ask why Harry found himself being whisked off, past the boys in tracksuits, who had now been joined by gaggle girls armed with a battalion of push-chairs, bottles, and screaming toddlers they repeatedly called “Cheyenne” and “Elvis”.

“Elvis, get your arse back, y’little bugger.’

‘Titchy kid, innit.’

‘Cheyenne, have yer Big Mac!’

Hightowler, Slater, and him pushed their way through to the street, careful to steer clear of little Elvis, who had taken his nappy off and was attempting to feed a limp chip to an innocent passer-by.

‘Where to?’

Hightowler considered a moment. ‘You play football, d’you?’

When was the last time he had really given half a thought to Muggle football? Harry could not remember. For the past five years his life had been entirely dominated by Quidditch, friends, and Voldemort. Did he even remember how to play football?

He scoffed. Of course.

‘Er, yeah, a bit. I’m in my House team at school.’ His voice cracked, betraying his uncertainty. Slater raised an eyebrow, and Harry felt a surge of confidence swell in him. He was the best Quidditch player Hogwarts had had in ages, and was Quidditch so different from football, really? Goals, Keepers, Chasers were like the offence. The only problem was, he played Seeker, and Seeker had no Muggle equivalent. ‘I’m youngest player in a century to have made the team. Se – er – Midfield in my first year and everything.’

‘What’s your club, then?’ Slater quizzed.

Harry thought for a moment. Favourite club? Football club? Did he even have one? He had a Quidditch team, knew hundreds of them. The Holyhead Harpies, the Tutshill Tornadoes, the Chudley Cannons, the Manchester Man-eaters – what about Muggle sports? What about football? He knew the teams everyone knew – Newcastle, Man U, Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea the English National. He knew Uncle Vernon hadn’t let him out of his cupboard for a week over a Real Madrid match, and a month during the World Cup.

‘I – ’ But, now the question was what to say. What did he say next, and how did he say it, and what in the hell did he knew about Muggle football? ‘I like, erm…’ What team could he pass off as a fan for? Which did he knew most about?

And then he remembered Piers Polkiss was a die-hard Blades fan.

‘Sheffield.’

This time, it was Hightowler who groaned, good-naturedly punching him on the arm. ‘Blades fan,’ he said hopelessly, shaking his head. ‘Can’t stand the buggers.’

Slater huffed and said self-importantly, ‘Birmingham City F.C. all the way. And Hightowler’s,’ he wrinkled his nose, ‘a sodding Magpie.’ He pointed an accusing finger at Hightowler’s top, which was blue and emblazoned with the felt Newcastle club badge at the lapel. ‘Disgusting, innit?’

They had drifted toward the primary school, where six or some odd little boys were kicking a football between themselves and arguing over who could play for England or not when he “grew up”. Slater materialised a ball from inside an abandoned kit bag, and they set to. There was no keeper. Anything went. It was Trotter vs Rottidge, and Harry was beginning to feel unfairly matched by Hightowler’s second goal.

‘Your mum’s a fat cow,’ Hightowler, who had randomly begun scoring for Harry, laughed tauntingly. Slater’s cheeks pinkened. ‘Stroppy fat cow.’

He kicked the ball with an unknown fervour, missing the net entirely and running into the slide.

‘She’s been around, hasn’t she? Slattery reckons he still hasn’t managed to shake the infect – oi!’

Slater had kicked the ball into his shins. Seizing his chance, Harry stole forward and pounced. He missed the net by a mile, but no one noticed. Glancing around, he found the other two engaged in a sort of mock-fistfight.

‘Filthy slut!’ Hightowler howled. Slater charged at him, but he was laughing.

‘Your dad’d know!’

‘My dad’s dead!’

‘Your brother, then.’

‘Too young.’

‘Your mum.’

‘If they work the same corner, maybe.’

‘That’s just scary, mate. She’d scare off customers.’

‘Now you’re rating my mum?’

‘Someone’s got to.’

‘Your dad.’

‘He’s drunk. He forgets two comes after three sometimes.’

They rejoined the game, still laughing, but it was a joke now. Slater tripped over the ball, passing it inadvertently to Hightowler, who picked it up and deposited it on Harry’s head.

‘You lose, Sheffield,’ he announced, sending a pass to the air five foot from Slater.

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Sheffield don’t lose to Magpies. Ever.’

‘No, but they lose to Birmingham,’ Slater joined in, dribbling past to score. ‘Birmingham

Citay!’ He aimed, missed by a spectacular ten feet, and loped off after the ball.

‘C’mere, Trotter,’ Hightowler stood suddenly, pushing Harry none-too-lightly on the shoulder. ‘C’mon, get off your arse. You’re as bad as Chelsea.’

‘You’re as bad as Liverpool!’ Slater called over, making to pass at Hightowler, but missing and sending the ball zooming toward the opposite end of the pitch.

‘You’re as bad as French Cricket!’

‘American Rugby!’

‘Chinese Basketball!’

‘Leeds Football!’

‘You’re such a spastic.’

‘You sound like you’re six, you prat.’

‘Git.’

‘Batti boy.’

‘Only because you like it.’

‘Fine, only because I like it.’

‘Spastic.’

‘Bollocks.”

They were laughing again, Hightowler with his eyes closed, sitting atop the football as though there was nothing else in the world except him, Slater, the football, and an empty pitch. But, Harry noticed, though Slater laughed, he had a glint in his eye. He looked like the young boy in Dumbledore’s pensieve, with black hair and a piercing stare. They resumed the game a third time, Hightowler with Harry now, while Slater operated his own sad little team.

‘You play football like a pig on its hind legs, you sod,’ Hightowler taunted, and they were at it again.