“I’ve just been to see Remus,” Harry told Hermione. He couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.

All this time he’d been counting on Professor Lupin’s friendship, but he hadn’t banked on his blasted integrity. The man was just too decent, too responsible, too damnably honest. Harry had expected Lupin to raise a few practical objections - legality, for starters - but he’d thought he could tap the old Marauder spirit in him and appeal to his sense of adventure to persuade him to do this one special favour.

Portkey Authorisation could only be performed by a qualified adult wizard in full-time employment in one of a number of specified professions. ‘Teacher’ was on that list. Unfortunately ‘associate of the criminal fraternity’ and ‘fence for stolen goods’ were not listed, otherwise Harry could have gone straight to Mundungus, who would have asked no awkward questions. The Portkey was the one piece in his puzzle of deception that Harry could not put in place by himself. (No, actually there was another. He was on to that though.)

His hours in the Library had not been wasted - he’d planned for every eventuality, except Lupin’s non-cooperation. Even the restriction about travel to and from a pre-determined location (‘Applications will be authorised for Portal Entry from designated locations only…’) could be by-passed with a modified Displacement Spell. Goodness knows, he’d practised it often enough. What hadn’t he practised? He’d been so diligent in Transfiguration and improved his grades so dramatically that Professor McGonagall had moved him up into the ‘advanced’ group - much to Hermione’s chagrin: she liked to maintain her intellectual edge. He’d practised transfiguring things of increasing complexity, until he could turn a full grown Crup into a broomstick and back again in two flicks of a wand. (The Crup was never very enthusiastic about this and bit Harry more than once.)

He’d repeated the Reducing Charm so many times he could cast it in his sleep - and, apparently, had been doing, judging by the number of Ron’s clothes, left strewn about the dorm that had mysteriously shrunk in the night over the past few weeks. (The Expansion Counter-Charm was all very well, but was, for some reason, ineffective on woollens.) Metallic objects worked best - Harry supposed it was something to do with being ductile. He could confidently reduce his cauldron to the size of a teaspoon and back with no detrimental loss of form, durability or brewing power.

He’d even addressed the problem of traceability, in case Lupin didn’t want to be identified as the Authoriser of the Portkey. It would mean that Lupin would have to be put under a short-term Identity Hex, but it would only need to be for a few minutes while the application was being validated. It was no big deal.

Had all that effort been for nothing? Because Professor Oh So Law-abiding Remus Bloody Lupin was too scared to take a risk? Harry had asked, then pleaded; he had cajoled, persuaded, argued, demanded, but to no avail. Lupin was adamant. Harry had even - embarrassingly - resorted to emotional blackmail:

“You don’t care if the Death Eaters kill me.!”

Still Lupin had declined to get involved.

“How can you ask me to do this, Harry?” Lupin had looked at him sadly. “Do you want me to lose my job? Have you any idea how difficult it is for a werewolf to get work? I’m sorry, but I can’t help.

“The use of Portkeys is strictly regulated for special occasions only. You’d never get one licensed for your own personal travel. If it were as easy as that we’d all have them. Why do you think we have Floo Powder? Why do we Apparate? It’s not on, Harry.

“Besides, you will be putting both yourself and Hermione in danger. What if something goes wrong and I have colluded in this crazy scheme of yours? Do you want me to have that on my conscience?

“If you want a Portkey you must go to Dumbledore.”

Harry had anticipated resistance, but not an absolute, point blank refusal.

The plan had been so simple – or did he mean naïve?

1. Get an object (preferably metallic!) and have it Authorised as a Portkey for one-way (return) travel to Hogwarts from a specified location such as The Three Broomsticks.

2. Apply the Displacement Charm so that this location could be altered at will.

3. Transfigure and Reduce the Portkey object into something smaller, more discreet and easily portable - something that wouldn’t automatically be taken if his clothes or belongings were lost or confiscated - for example, an ear-stud…

And, Hey Presto! You have an Emergency Exit. Or not. Who was he kidding? He was up against a competent wizard here, not some weak buffoon like Lockhart.

Harry felt stymied. Part of him wanted to give up the whole stupid vendetta. If he had misjudged Lupin, maybe he was wrong about everything else too. What was the point? He hadn’t asked for this. Why couldn’t things go back to being how they were? He’d been fine being ‘The Boy who Lived’, resisting Voldemort, butchering the Basilisk, evading Dementors… Battling those external enemies had been bad enough; fighting the conflict within himself was far worse.

He just wanted to be ordinary and happy. Was that too much to ask?

Harry realised that Hermione was observing him anxiously. He’d forgotten she was even there.

“You missed lunch. We were worried about you. Harry, what’s wrong?”

“Let’s go for a walk.” He wanted to get out of the building, into the sunshine, away from everything and everybody.

They strolled into the grounds, away from the castle and towards Hagrid’s cottage. It was shut-up and forlorn, awaiting the return of its master. They turned and walked slowly in the direction of the lake. The trees, still in leaf, but yellowing already, with smudges of gold and ochre, were perfectly reflected in the glassy surface. It was nearly the end of September. Today was bright and calm, with a little warmth still in the early autumn sun, but the forecasters had predicted that a cold snap was on its way soon, with rain, possibly gales. That would mark the end of the summer. They’d better make the most of what was left of it. They walked, side by side, close but not touching.

Stopping on the shingle, his hands thrust into his pockets, Harry stared out over the still water, sightlessly watching his last scruples sinking. With a sudden, angry gesture he wrenched the ear-stud from his ear and hurled it as far as he could throw. It disappeared with a tiny ‘plip’. The mirrored trees shivered, then trembled then quaked as the ripples extended to the shore. For a long time neither he nor Hermione spoke.

Finally Harry broached the subject:

“I got a letter, in the summer. A letter from my father, from James.”

He didn’t tell her everything. Not about the rape or the Rite of Revenge; not about the ‘plan’ or the Portkey. Just that the Attainment tests would prove that Snape was his biological father.

“And that’s why I had to cut my hair,” he ended, flatly. “It was starting to get long and, well, greasy. Like his.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. She had linked her arm with his, and now she held it tightly, her eyes glistening. At last she turned her face towards him:

“Oh, Harry, this is huge,” she said softly “It’s almost too much to take in. It’s scary. I can’t believe that Snape, of all people, is your father. And that you’re OK about it. It’s so weird.” A thought struck her: “Does he know? Have you told him?”

“No. And I’m not going to. You’re not to tell him either. Nobody knows, except us.”

The ‘us’ sounded strangely intimate. They both noticed, and the word floated in the air between them, a delicate bond of confidence and shared secrets. Harry tried to explain:

“I want him to like me for myself. Not because he feels he is suddenly under some kind of paternal obligation. Can you understand that? I will tell him, but not yet.” Did that make sense? Would Hermione buy it?

“Since the summer,” Harry continued, ”I’ve been trying to get to grips with all this stuff about who I was, and who I am now - and trying to work out how I feel.”

“And how do you feel?”

Harry searched for the word:

“Unbelievable!” he said.

“Here it is! In ‘Dynastic Law: Constitution and Reformation’, page 286.” Hermione hefted a massive volume onto the desk. “It was the definition you needed?” She ran her finger down the page, skimming the text. Then she quoted:

‘ Test of Attainment: to ascertain inheritance entitlement upon attainment of majority (16 years). Test pertaining thereto; forensic establishment of blood connection (male line) to validate claim to property or title.’

“It’s just a blood test, Harry. What’s all the fuss about? Or are you squeamish?”

Harry shoved aside ‘Memoirs of a Missionary Mugwump’ which had momentarily caught his attention.

“Is that all?” he sounded crestfallen. “I thought it was going to be some ghastly ordeal. All the books I’ve read talk about the ‘ritual’ and the ‘ceremony’ and ‘enduring the test’ - I imagined I was going to have to fight a dragon at the very least. I thought it was going to be like the Tri-Wizard Tournament all over again.”

“Well, I expect they tart it up with all sorts of ceremonial nonsense – incantations, special robes, that sort of thing. And maybe in the olden days it was an ordeal, having your blood tested. So, problem solved?” Hermione was always so practical and efficient. “When are you having it done?” she asked.

“Dumbledore hasn’t mentioned anything, so I’m going to keep quiet and put it off for as long as possible,” Harry replied. “It’ll give me longer to work on Snape.”

She gave him a knowing wink.

“Don’t be late for Quidditch,” she reminded him.

If it hadn’t been such an utterly far-fetched idea, Harry might have thought that Malfoy was waiting for him. Certainly the rest of the Slytherin team was long gone and, even though the Quidditch equipment was safely stashed, their Captain was still hanging around the changing room. His training robes and face were splattered with mud, his normally neat blond hair pushed back scruffily behind his ears.

“Tough session?” Harry greeted him.

“Oh, hello Harry. Yeah, we’re training up a new Beater and he’s a complete troll. But he’ll be formidable once he gets the rules. Your lot won’t know what’s hit ‘em,” he added hurriedly, the Slytherin in him surfacing briefly.

Harry wasn’t sure at what point they had moved onto first name terms. It had happened, and he didn’t want to draw attention to it by making any comment. And Malfoy wasn’t so bad when he was on his own, without Crabbe and Goyle.

Malfoy was rubbing his hands together, blowing on his fingers.

“Wear gloves if you’ve got them,” he advised. “It looks nice out there, but once you get up high, above the stands, there’s quite a breeze and it’s perishing. Quite a wind-tunnel effect coming off the tower too - enough to deflect the Quaffle.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember.” Harry smiled.

Malfoy picked up his sports bag, ready to leave.

“Draco…?” Harry stopped him. “I need to talk to you about something. Not now. Can I meet you later, after supper?”

Malfoy nodded, his curiosity piqued.

“It’s social suicide, but OK. Astronomy Tower, 8pm?”

Just then there was a shout from the pitch. The boys stared skywards. Ron was already flying, his broom moving in erratic jerks, accelerating fast then halting, doubling-back, looping and diving. His faint cries could just be heard:

“Warp factor 9 - Engage!” Zoom!

“Inertial dampers failing!” Wobble!

“Kolvoord Starburst - ignite the plasma trail!” Swoop, dive, swerve, turn, accelerate.

“Eject the Warp Core! Slow to ‘impulse’…” Landing…

Malfoy watched Ron with disdain.

“Is Weasley completely mental, or is his broom jinxed?” he asked.

A small gaggle of spectators had gathered to observe Ron’s antics, but, as far as Harry could tell, none of them was maintaining eye-contact with Ron’s cavorting broom.

“Mad as a Mandrake!” Harry agreed.