Child's Play by Quickdraw

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 04/09/2003
Last Updated: 08/09/2003
Status: Completed

Harry finds a mysterious girl passed out on the steps of #4 Privet Drive. He's never seen
her before, but she claims they are friends. What secrets does she hold about Harry's past--and
his future?




1. Have We Met?
---------------



**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended, etc… You know the drill.

Thanks as always to Haggridd for Beta above and beyond the call of duty.

“CHILD'S PLAY”

by

Quickdraw

Chapter One

“Have We Met?”

Harry Potter carried the unconscious girl to the sitting room and gently laid her down on the
sofa. When he'd gone to answer the doorbell, he'd found her lying in a crumpled heap on the
front steps. He brushed a few strands of light brown hair out of her face. She looked to be about
sixteen or so, the same age as Harry, but he didn't recognize her from school or from the
neighborhood. Nor did he recognize the school uniform she was wearing: a blue jumper and a charcoal
gray skirt, over which she wore some kind of black robe. While the girl wasn't fashion-model
beautiful, there was something about her that Harry found very attractive.

She had cuts and bruises on her hands and her face. Clearly she'd had a rough time of it.
Harry went to fetch the First-Aid kid from the downstairs bathroom. His mind was racing as
returned.

*A damsel in distress--and a cute one at that! Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Cousin Dudley
won't be back from Blackpool until Sunday night!* He stopped and took a deep breath. *Now
get hold of yourself, Potter. For all you know she's got a boyfriend the size of King Kong…and
with your luck, he's a footballer, as well!*

“Harry!” The girl suddenly called out in her delirium.

“It's all right,” Harry sat down beside her and began to minister to her wounds. “Just lie
back. I hope this antiseptic doesn't sting too much.”

The girl's eyes suddenly leapt open.

“Harry!” She suddenly sat bolt upright and threw her arms around his neck, causing him to spill
the First-Aid kit onto the floor. “Thank God! I thought you were dead!” She buried her head in his
shoulder and sobbed uncontrollably. After what seemed like an eternity, Harry was finally able to
move his arms. He wrapped them around this strange, intriguing creature, who frightened him and
fascinated him all at the same time.

“I'm fine,” he said gently. What else *could* he say? “I'm right here.”

“I was so afraid,” she sobbed. “I thought I'd lost you forever!”

It was then that she kissed him—and this was no sisterly peck on the cheek. She nailed him right
on the mouth. Fireworks went off in Harry's head. At first, he was too stunned to respond, but
slowly he began to kiss her back. He'd never felt anything so wonderful in his life.

*You can do that again any time you want!* He thought as he held her in his arms. *PLEASE
want to do that again!*

“Are they all gone, Harry?” the girl sobbed into his shoulder, “Dumbledore? McGonagall? Even
Ron? Are they really dead?”

“Don't think about that now,” Harry said gently, “You're safe here. I promise I
won't let anything happen to you.”

“I know I'm safe when I'm in Harry Potter's arms.” She looked up at him through her
tears, her hand gently caressing his face.

*I have no idea what you're talking about,* Harry thought to himself, *but I could
listen to you talk about it all night. I could sure get lost in those big brown eyes of yours…*
Even brimming with tears they were beautiful.

Harry froze again.

*She called me by name! It's enough of a coincidence that she has a boyfriend with the
same first name as mine, but the odds are astronomical that she just happened to run into someone
with the same last name as well!*

“Don't leave me, Harry,” she said groggily, “Promise that you won't leave me…” Harry
could feel her body relax. The poor thing was so exhausted she had fallen asleep in his arms.

“I promise,” he whispered. He gently laid her back onto the sofa, then went to his uncle's
bedroom, pulled a big crocheted afghan from Aunt Petunia's bed, and laid it over her.

He dug around until he located Uncle Vernon's old shotgun and a box of shells in the
upstairs closet. Uncle Vernon hadn't hunted grouse since before Dudley was born, so there was
no guarantee that the thing would even fire. Still, it was better than nothing if the girl were in
as much trouble as she claimed.

For a long time, Harry just sat there watching her sleep and pondering this pleasant mystery.
He'd never seen this girl before in his life, but she certainly seemed to know him—plus, she
was a great kisser.

*Who were the people she mentioned?* *Dumbledore, McGonagall, Ron?* Are *they all
dead? What horrible ordeal has the poor thing been through? Should I call for a doctor? Should I
call the police?*

Around ten o'clock Harry pulled an old sleeping bag from the hall closet and rolled it out
beside the sofa. If the girl woke up in the middle of the night, he would be there.

He wondered if she would even remember the kiss.

***********

The next morning, the girl awoke to the smell of sausages and eggs cooking.

“That smells wonderful!” She stood in the kitchen doorway, stretching. Her color was coming back
and there was more of a sparkle in her big brown eyes. “I can't even remember the last time I
ate anything.”

“Sit down. Everything will be ready in a minute!” Unlike the times he was forced to cook for the
Dursleys, Harry was going all out to impress his houseguest. “How are you feeling—?” Much to his
embarrassment, Harry suddenly realized that for all the snogging they'd done last night,
he'd never actually gotten round to asking the girl her name! He'd just have to bluff his
way through this. “—love?” Harry began to divvy up the sausages between them.

“A damn sight better than I did last night.” She giggled as Harry tried to show off, taking the
frying pan and attempting to flip the flapjacks in the air. It had been a very long time since
she'd had anything to laugh about. She was beginning to think that everything she'd been
through in the past few days was simply a horrible nightmare. There was Harry, alive and well and
making an ass of himself as usual. As she sat down she happened to notice the pile of mail that was
sitting on the table awaiting Uncle Vernon's and Aunt Petunia's return. The girl's face
suddenly went pale. She looked around as if she were seeing the place for the first time.

“Little Whinging?” she gasped. “This is Privet Drive!”

“Yes…” The look on her face had Harry worried. “Number four.”

Her eyes grew wide as if she'd just seen the Angel Of Death hovering over her bed.

“I saw this place go up in flames! This whole neighborhood burned to the ground!”

“I wish,” Harry muttered to himself, immediately regretting his flippant tone. Even though
number four Privet Drive was obviously still here, the girl was clearly haunted by some terrible
tragedy.

“That was the night we lost Ron…”

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“A friend of *mine*? You don't remember Ron Weasley?”

“Sorry.” Harry shrugged.

The girl's shoulders drooped. Clearly Harry had no idea what she was talking about.

“Do you even know who *I* am?” Her eyes were pleading. Harry longed to be able to give her
the answers she wanted, just to see her smile again.

“I know I'd remember meeting *you* before.” She realized that in his own charmingly
clumsy way, Harry was trying to flirt with her. Some things never changed. That seemed to lift her
spirits a little. “What's your name?”

“Hermione… Hermione Pot—Granger.”

*Was she about to say, “Potter”?* Harry wondered. *Great… She's a stalker! She's
created this whole imaginary world inside her head where we're married and have six kids.*
Harry had a sudden mental picture of the girl coming after him with a butcher knife if he said or
did the wrong thing. He certainly didn't like the idea that the girl who'd given him his
first kiss might be a raving nutter! *Wait just one minute! Why would* any *girl—even a nut
case-- be obsessed with a "nobody" like me? My instincts are telling me that she's
not dangerous.* All the same, Harry made a quick mental count of all the knives sitting in the
rack by the stove.

“Can I get you some milk?” At least it was something *semi*-intelligent to say.

“Just some orange juice, thank you.”

*Glasses!* In his excitement over his houseguest, Harry's mind suddenly went blank.
*I can't remember where Aunt Petunia keeps the “good” glasses.* He just stood there,
staring at the cupboards.

“They're in the cupboard to the left of the sink. Bottom shelf.”

Harry had two choices, crawl under the sink and die of embarrassment right there or just get a
glass, get her some orange juice and go on. He opted for the latter.

“How did you know that?”

“I know all about you, Harry Potter,” Hermione got up. “I know that your parents died when you
were a baby. I know that the Dursleys have been treating you like dirt ever since you came to live
with them.”

“They're not *that* bad,” Harry shrugged feebly.

Hermione sighed. She took his hand and escorted him to the staircase that led up from the entry
hall. She pushed aside the latch and pulled open the door to the cupboard.

“I know that *this* is where you've been living for the past fifteen years.” The shame
on Harry's face was almost unbearable. “I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to embarrass
you.” She reached up to touch his face. Harry allowed it, but she could feel his body tense. It was
a harsh reminder that this wasn't the Harry she knew. She was looking into the eyes of a
stranger. She brushed the hair away from Harry's forehead as if she expected to find something
underneath. She seemed disappointed when she found nothing there. Her eyes filled with tears again.
Harry took her hand and pressed it reassuringly between his.

“Who are you?” Harry whispered. “How do you know so much about me?”

She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes.

“Let's go eat that wonderful breakfast you've worked so hard to make and I'll try to
explain.”

Slowly, carefully, Hermione began to sketch out as best she could remember, the life of Harry
James Potter—the one she had known. She told him about a magical school called “Hogwarts” where
young witches and wizards learned their craft. She told him about a virtual avalanche of letters
he'd received and that no matter how many his Uncle Vernon destroyed, thousands more would take
their place. She told him about the gentle half-giant Hagrid, keeper of the keys and grounds. She
spoke of a place in London called Diagon Alley, of the magical train “The Hogwarts Express,"
and of how they and Ron

Weasley had met. There were so many names to remember: McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, Lockhart…and
the all-wise Professor Dumbledore. She spoke of the feasts in the Great Hall, of classes high up in
the Astronomy Tower and deep below in the dark dungeons. Of transfigurations, divinations, nearly
headless ghosts and centaurs! Of Whomping Willows, flying cars and a game called Quidditch where
the players ride broomsticks. She spoke of adventures: *The Sorcerer's Stone*, *The
Goblet of Fire*, and *The Chamber of Secrets*… As crazy as it all sounded, Harry found
himself wishing he'd actually lived this strange, exciting, topsy-turvy life as a junior
wizard.

*She really needs to write this stuff down,* Harry thought, *if she could turn it into a
book she'd make a fortune!*

Then the story took a dark turn. She had told him of the sinister Lord Voldemort; of how he had
murdered Harry's parents (As far as Harry knew, his parents had died in a car crash.), and of
his plans to conquer the Wizarding World. Apparently the villain had decided to strike before
Professor Dumbledore and his allies were ready for him.

Those survivors who still opposed the Dark Lord gathered to make a final stand at Hogwarts. It
was suspected that someone from within Hogwarts betrayed them but Hermione never learned who it
was. She had watched helplessly as one by one her friends fell in battle— even Harry.

Harry wasn't quite sure how to react to the news of his own death.

It took a few moments for Hermione to compose herself after that. Though she could never quite
bring herself to say it aloud, Harry could tell that she and the Harry she knew had become “more
than friends”. (The way she had kissed him last night was a clue as well.) When she introduced
herself, she had started to say her name was “Hermione *Potter*”. Harry wondered if they had
married just before the end. He suddenly found himself envying this other version of himself.

At last she was able to go on.

She and Professor Dumbledore were the only ones left. They had barricaded themselves in what
remained of his office. They both knew the horrible fate they would suffer if they were captured
alive. Hermione was preparing to take poison when Dumbledore stopped her.

“No!” he insisted, “You must start again! You must rebuild! You are the only one who can!” With
his last ounce of strength, the old wizard had conjured up some kind of magical portal and shoved
her through just as the enemy broke down the door. The next thing she remembered was waking up on
the Dursley's sofa—looking up into the face of the young man she thought she'd lost
forever.

The memories of all those she had lost started her crying again. She excused herself, saying she
really needed to freshen up and could she borrow some of Harry's *clothes*?

While Hermione took a shower, Harry cleaned up the breakfast dishes and pondered all that
she'd told him. The whole thing was insane—and yet Harry couldn't help wondering if she
might actually be telling the truth. Did he really believe her—or did he just *want* to
believe those big brown eyes?

******

“A parallel universe?”

Harry and Hermione sat on the floor by the fireplace in the sitting room. Like many men, Harry
found a woman wearing a man's shirt, (and little else), to be quite sexy, but did his best to
concentrate on the matter at hand. While he was trying *not* to stare at her bare legs, he
suddenly realized something.

“The bruises are gone!” Upon closer examination, he saw that most of the cuts on her hands and
face were nearly healed.

“A simple little healing charm.” Hermione showed off her arms. “I'm no Madame Pomfrey, but
you always seemed to appreciate it after Quidditch practice. But what's this about a parallel
universe?”

“It's the only theory that fits the facts. I mean assuming everything you've told me
is--” Harry cut himself off. He could see the look in Hermione's eyes.

*You mean*, “*Assuming that I'm not crazy and that I didn't just make the whole
thing up!”*

Harry decided that the only thing to do was press on.

“The theory's been around for a long time: That our universe is only one of many, each
existing on a different dimensional plane. One hypothesis says that every time we make a decision,
another reality is created along with an opposite reality where we made the opposite decision.”

“You mean there could be one reality where we had kippers for breakfast instead of
sausages?”

“Something like that. At least that's the theory.” He poured her another cup of tea. “You
said that where you come from, we've known each other for about six years?”

“And yet,” she said with a hint of sadness, “you say that *here* we've never met
before?”

“No one's sorrier about that than I am… I could've used a friend like you.” Now that
Harry was growing up, he was beginning to attract a bit of attention around school. Even with his
unfashionable clothes and shy manner, the girls were beginning to notice him—particularly in
contrast to his revolting cousin Dudley. Still, no one so far had taken the next step and tried to
befriend him. Hermione was suddenly angry at the basic unfairness of the universe. At least
*her* Harry had Dumbledore looking out for him. For that matter, where was *her*
counterpart in this universe and why was she laying down on the job?

“So, what are you going to do?” Harry finally asked.

“I don't know,” she sighed. “I have no idea how to get back—and even if I could, there's
probably nothing to go back to. Dumbledore said something about `rebuilding', `starting
over'—but rebuild *what*? Hogwarts? The Wizarding World? All by myself?”

“That's a good point. Does Hogwarts even exist in this reality?” Harry gathered up the
teacups onto the tray. “If it does, and I really am some kind of wizard, surely I'd have gotten
my letter by now. For that matter do wizards and magic exist here? I know I've never run across
anything like it before.”

“Haven't you?” Hermione prodded. “What about the trip to the London zoo?”

Harry's eyes went wide.

“You know about that?”

“I wonder…” Hermione went back to the bathroom and retrieved her wand from her school robes,
then handed it to Harry. “Wands are supposed to be specifically attuned to their owners, so this
may not work—but at least it's worth a try.” There were no feathers about so she looked around
until she could find some relatively light object that wouldn't be too dangerous for a
beginner. She finally settled on one of the letters sitting on the kitchen table. It turned out to
be the gas bill. She set the envelope down in the middle of the sitting room floor then
demonstrated the “Swish and Flick” technique that Professor Flitwick had taught them in their early
days of Charms classes.

Harry felt a complete ass but did as he was instructed.

“*Wingardium Leviosa*!”

Slowly, the letter began to rise into the air. Startled, Harry instinctively scooted
backwards.

“Brilliant…!” Harry muttered to himself. Hermione hugged him, both of them grinning from ear to
ear. Within moments the letter was dancing around the room, doing loop-the-loops and spinning like
a pinwheel. Carpets, chairs, the sofa and even Hermione took flight over the course of the
afternoon.

“I really am a wizard…” Harry kept repeating to himself. “It's all true!”

“You know what this means?” Hermione's excitement was growing. “There must be *other*
wizards out there!”

“But if they *are* there, why haven't they contacted me?”

“That's a good question.” Hermione rubbed her chin. “Maybe in *this* reality, wizards
exist, but they never organized the way we did back home—or they went even deeper underground.”
Hermione had Harry dig out the Greater London Phone Book and she began flipping through the “G”
section. There was no listing for the Granger family at her home address. She even checked under
her mother's maiden name.

“They could have moved out of London,” Harry suggested helpfully.

“Who knows? Maybe in this dimension my parents never even met. Maybe there is no Hermione
Granger in this reality.”

“Perhaps that's why Dumbledore sent you. If you ask me, we've been needing one for
ages.” At least that got a smile out of her.

Further research proved just as fruitless. The phonebook and the Information Operator failed to
turn up any Weasleys, Longbottoms, Flitwicks, McGonagalls—not even a Snape. On the bright side,
there were no Tom Marvolo Riddles and the only Lucius Malfoy they could find was a lower level
bureaucrat for the Ministry of Sanitation.

“So what now?” asked Harry.

“How would you like to take a little trip to London?

Harry and Hermione materialized in a broom cupboard at King's Cross Station. She explained
that when the war with Voldemort broke out, their training had been accelerated to include
apparating. Once they were satisfied no one was looking, they emerged and immediately did their
best to blend into the crowd. Hermione led him towards platform Nine, and then spent quite a while
investigating a brick wall located between platforms Nine and Ten. Eventually she concluded that
what she was looking for wasn't there.

“No Nine and Three-Quarters…” she muttered cryptically to herself.

She then transported them to a rather seedy section of the city. Again, she seemed disappointed.
For a long time, she stood staring at an old pub sign that hung out over the street: *The
Weathercock*.

“No *Leaky Cauldron*…”

Climbing a fence behind the pub put them in litter-strewn alley. Hermione located a brick wall
behind the pub and began touching the bricks with her wand as though hitting the right pattern
would somehow cause the wall to open. Again, nothing happened.
“No Diagon Alley, either…”

“'Ere!” came the landlord's voice from the rear door of the pub. “Clear off!” Harry and
Hermione quickly scrambled out of the alley.

Hermione then transported them to the nearest McDonalds. She wasn't all that hungry, she
just needed a place to sit and think.

As they ate, Hermione couldn't help noticing Harry noticing her. She had borrowed a T-Shirt
and jeans from him, and after a few magical alterations, they fit remarkably well, in spite of the
differences in their sizes and builds. Harry seemed particularly struck by the way Dudley's
hand-me-down jeans hugged her curves. Maybe he wasn't the Harry she had known, but this was
still Harry Potter. All the things that made her Harry special were here. All he needed was a
little encouragement.

At some level, Hermione wondered if she was somehow being unfaithful to *her* Harry back
home, but she quickly pushed the idea from her mind.

*No! That's just too much to deal with right now,* she thought. *I can't even
begin to wrap my head around what's happened to me. All I know is that I'm here and
Harry's here. Somehow, I've got him back! I've been given a second chance!*

*Maybe there is a greater intelligence at work in the universe, and I've been sent here as
part of some grand design. Well, if that's the case, then what's wrong with asking for a
little consideration for myself in return? So here's the deal: If I'm going to carry out
this great cosmic mission, then I need Harry Potter! This one will do just fine, thank you!*
*Maybe it's selfish of me, but damn it, after everything I've been through I figure
I've bloody well earned the right to be a little selfish! Just let me have Harry by my side and
I'll do whatever needs doing.*

“So, where to next?”

“I'm tempted to try and find my house, but I'm not sure I could deal with seeing
strangers living there,” Hermione sighed. “ I wonder if I should try to find Hogwarts. I think I
need to see for myself that it's really not there.”

“Why torture yourself?” Harry reached over and covered her hand with his. “Maybe it's time
to start thinking about the future.”

“*What* future? I'm only *one* witch, Harry! What could I do, all alone in an
alien world?”

“You're not exactly *alone,* you know.”

She smiled up at him.

“Thank you, Harry. That means more to me than you'll ever know.” She swirled a french-fry in
her ketchup, remembering the days of mixing potions in cauldrons. “But even with two of us, what
could we possibly do?”

“You could teach *me*.”

Hermione froze for just a second.

“But I'm not a professor! I was only in my sixth year! I hadn't even graduated yet!”

“Teach me everything you know, then! I have to start *somewhere*!”

As much as she wanted to protest, Hermione couldn't help but think this was exactly what old
Dumbledore had in mind.

“Don't you see? Once I master the basics, we'll have something to build on! The rest
we'll learn by trial and error—by experimenting! I'm sure that's how the early wizards
in your world did it! Then we start searching the libraries for old books and papers! And if
you're right about there being other wizards, it'll just be a matter of finding them! There
are bound to be people out there who already know more than we do.” Harry was bubbling with
enthusiasm and it was catching. “What have we got to lose?”

“You know, you make me believe that it just might work.” She leaned over and started to kiss
Harry on the cheek, then thought better of it and went right for his lips. Harry didn't seem to
mind one bit.

Before they returned to Privet Drive, Hermione borrowed some Muggle money from Harry and bought
a big spiral notebook and a pen at a convenience store. Once they arrived back at the Dursley home
in Little Whinging, Hermione gave Harry a few simple spells to practice, and then began carefully
setting to paper the knowledge she had received in her six years at Hogwarts. She knew it would be
a massive undertaking that would eventually fill many notebooks. She also knew that even with her
nearly photographic memory, there would be pieces missing. She would have to be careful to
highlight these areas so Harry wouldn't attempt any spell that was incomplete.

It was around nine o'clock that evening when both Harry and Hermione decided they'd had
enough for the day. There was nothing remotely interesting on television so they ended up watching
an old *Thunderbirds* tape of Dudley's and thoroughly enjoying themselves. When the tape
was over they both decided it was time for bed.

“You're not going to sleep in that awful cupboard tonight, are you Harry?” Hermione had a
very intriguing look in her eyes.

“I'm used to it,” he shrugged.

“I'm sure it would be much nicer out here with me.”

Was she really suggesting…? *This sort of thing just doesn't happen to Harry Potter*,
he thought. He began to wonder if the regular fellow in charge of his luck had taken the day
off.

“Please…” Hermione's mouth was as dry as the Sahara, but tonight she wasn't going to
take “no” for an answer. “Stay with me.”

**********

“VERNON!”

The ear-piercing screech woke both of them with a start. Harry and Hermione had fallen asleep in
the sleeping bag, their clothes scattered around them on the sitting room floor. Harry still had an
idiotic grin on his face like—well, like a teenage boy who's just gotten lucky for the first
time in his life. Aunt Petunia was standing over them, her eyes big as saucers. Hermione clutched
the sleeping bag to cover herself.

Uncle Vernon dropped the half-dozen suitcases he was struggling to squeeze through the front
door and came charging to the rescue like a bull elephant in heat. He stopped dead in his tracks,
his round face still red from the exertion. It took a moment of huffing and puffing for him to
catch his breath, and then the redness came from his anger.

“Why you little pervert!”

“How dare you bring your depraved carnal lusts into this decent, God-fearing home, Harry
Potter?” Aunt Petunia pointed a bony finger at Hermione. “You and this—this—“

“Harlot?” Hermione suggested helpfully, “Vixen? Jezebel?” Trollop? Am I getting warm?” She felt
around for Harry's T-shirt. “Yes, I got the feeling there hasn't been an awful lot of
carnal lust going on around this place.”

Vernon suddenly drew back his arm, ready to backhand Hermione across the face.

“You keep a civil tongue in your head my girl!”

“Don't you touch her,” Harry snarled at him.

“Now you listen to me, young lady,” Petunia screeched like a harpy, “I may have performed my
*wifely duties* but it was always strictly for procreation as prescribed by scripture! I pride
myself in having *never once* enjoyed myself!”

“I can vouch for that,” Vernon muttered under his breath. He grabbed Hermione's arm and
tried to jerk her to her feet.

“I said keep your filthy hands off her!” Harry couldn't remember ever being so angry. Before
he even realized what he was doing, Harry's right hand had clenched into a fist and launched
itself right into Uncle Vernon's great bulbous nose. Tiny droplets of blood sprayed all over
his bushy mustache. It was hard to tell who among them was more surprised. Aunt Petunia
couldn't have been any more traumatized if she'd just seen Vernon dancing naked in the
House of Lords. For his part, Vernon became even more enraged.

“Why you little—!”

By now Hermione had located her wand.

“Oh shut up, you great stupid walrus!”

Vernon suddenly froze in his tracks like a statue, his mouth hanging open in sheer terror.

“Vernon!” Aunt Petunia wailed. “What have they done to you? Speak to me, Vernon!”

“And *you*!” Another flick and Petunia was silenced.

Dudley was shoveling popcorn into his face when he stepped into the sitting room and saw his
parents frozen like sculptures, their faces set in grimaces of terror.

“What's all the shouting about—Mum? Dad?” His cousin Harry was quickly pulling up his
trousers and a strange, but pretty young girl was sitting up in his old Boy Scout sleeping bag,
covering herself while pointing an orchestra conductor's baton at his mother. It suddenly
occurred to Dudley that the girl didn't appear to have any clothes on.

“What's going on, Harry?” He gasped in astonishment at the sudden realization. “Harry…? Have
you been…?”

“*Do you mind*?”

The girl flicked the conductor's baton at him and suddenly his whole body went rigid. With
another flick, he spun around until he could no longer see what she was doing.

Hermione quickly pulled on Harry's old shirt. The idea of either Dudley or Vernon seeing her
naked and possibly fantasizing about her later made her very uncomfortable. Now properly covered,
she sank down onto the couch.

“How long will they stay like that?” Harry sat down beside her.

“A couple of hours, unless I release them myself.” She finished dressing and took Harry's
hand. “So, what do you want to do, Harry? We could stay here long enough to start making some
definite plans.” She tapped her wand against the palm of her hand. “I have a feeling that your
family will be *much* easier to get along with now.”

“All my life I've dreamed of turning eighteen so I could finally get away from this
place.”

“Well Happy Birthday, Harry. Get your things. Today you leave Privet Drive forever.”

Once Harry left the room, Hermione spun the Dursleys around to face her once more. Vernon's
nosebleed was starting to gross her out, so she quickly cast a healing charm to clean it up.

“For ages I've been wanting to give you three a piece of my mind!” She looked them over.
“Hardly seems worth it, now. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look? I almost feel sorry for
you. Harry lived with you all this time and you never understood what a truly wonderful person he
is. You want to know the real topper? Even after everything you've done to him, I don't
think Harry hates you. It's just not in him.”

“Don't waste your time with them,” Harry said as he returned with his few possessions
stuffed into a backpack. “Let's go.”

As Harry stepped out the door, Hermione paused at the doorway and called back to the Dursley
family:

“Don't think it hasn't been a little slice of Heaven—because it *hasn't*.”

With that, she flicked her wand and released them from the spell. For a few moments they could
only stand there in shock. Vernon sank down onto the sofa. Petunia could only stand there shaking,
pausing only to let out the occasional disbelieving wail. Perhaps it was Dudley who best summed up
their situation when he said:

“Oy! Who's gonna cook my breakfast?”

Harry paused at the end of the walk and looked back at number four Privet Drive.

“You're not going to get all sentimental on me are you, Potter?”

“What? Waxing nostalgic about my childhood? Forget it! I'll miss this place about as much as
I'd miss a toothache.” Harry turned to face her. “It is a bit ironic, though. Horrible as it
was, I did spend the most wonderful night of my life there.”

“You're very welcome, Mr. Potter.” Hermione was beginning to blush. “But I promise you it
will only be `the most wonderful night of your life' until *tonight*—and *tomorrow
night*—and the *night after*. But I'm the one who should be thanking you. I'd lost
everything and I thought my life was over. You showed me that there were still some things worth
living for.”

As Harry leaned in to kiss her, out of the corner of her eye Hermione spotted the Dursleys
peering through the front window. Never breaking the kiss, she reached into her pocket and pulled
out her wand. The Dursleys disappeared behind the curtains.

“Mornin' Harry!” called old Mr. Cates the postman. “Who's your friend?”

“She's a witch from a parallel dimension.”

“You don't say! Well, give my best to your family.”

“Not in *this* universe,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“I keep wondering if there's a dimension out there, where the Dursleys are kind, loving
people,” Hermione mused as Mr. Cates walked away.

“In an infinite universe, I suppose *anything* is possible. Maybe there's even one
where my parents are still alive…”

“With everything else that was going on, I never really had a chance to think about it,”
Hermione sighed, “But, I suppose I'm an orphan now, too.”

They walked in silence for a long time, holding tightly to each other's hands.

“You know, we really didn't think this thing through very well,” Harry finally said. They
were walking down Privet Drive toward Cherry Tree Lane. “I mean, where will we go? How will we
support ourselves? I'd rather go back and live with the Dursleys before I'd let you sleep
on the streets.”

“If you think I had any intention of sleeping on the streets to begin with, Harry Potter, then
you've got another think coming. Give me your wallet.”

“I've got a couple of pounds on me.” Harry said, a little embarrassed. “I've also got a
little bit of savings in the bank from mowing the neighbors' yards—about twenty-five pounds
altogether. It was supposed to go toward my first car, but that wouldn't last us very
long.”

“Right now I'm not interested in small change.” She fished around until she found
Harry's school ID card. Like most ID pictures, the photo of Harry looked like a bad mug shot.
“Not the most flattering picture I've seen of you.”

“Okay, Margaret Bourke White, so, what are you going to do with it?”

“This isn't exactly ethical—but then again, there's no Ministry Of Magic to bust us for
doing this.” She pulled out her wand and waved it over the card. “*Prescriptio in manibus
tabellariorium est*!” Where Harry's school ID had been, there was now American Express Gold
Card.

“You're right,” said Harry, “it's *not* *exactly* ethical. Is that what they
taught you in that school of yours?”

“It's not part of the *official* curriculum, if that's what you mean.” Hermione
grinned sheepishly. “Still, desperate times call for desperate measures. So? Where would you like
to stay tonight? I'm in the mood for a little pampering…”

They got more than a few stares as they walked through the lobby of the Dorchester Hotel in
London. Their blue jeans, sneakers, T-shirts and Harry's backpack seemed a tad out of place
amid the elegant splendor of the marble-columned lobby. Harry was more than a little
self-conscious, but Hermione strode past the other guests as if she owned the place.

“May I help you?” The Concierge looked down his long, pointed nose at them. His face seemed to
be etched into a permanent sneer. He reminded Harry of that actor… he played the bad guy in the
first “Die Hard” movie… Except for the shorter hair, Hermione could have sworn it was…

“Professor Snape?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Hermione shook her head. No. Obviously it couldn't be. .

“Oh nothing. You just remind me of someone I used to know.”

“I'm flattered beyond words. May I help you, Miss?”

“*Mrs.*,' Hermione corrected. She held up her left hand to show off an elegant but
tasteful wedding ring. “Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter, Little Whinging, Surrey. We were married
yesterday.” Harry felt a tingling sensation in his left hand. When he looked down, he discovered
that an equally elegant and equally tasteful wedding band had appeared on the third finger.

“You don't waste any time, do you?” Harry whispered. She nudged him with her elbow to keep
him quiet.

“My most heartfelt congratulations,” said the Concierge with all the enthusiasm of Charlton
Heston at a Jane Fonda film festival. “Do you have a reservation?”

“As a matter of fact, we do.” Hermione smiled her most angelic smile.

Singularly unimpressed, the Concierge began flipping through the guest register. Obviously this
was some kind of school prank. The boy barely looked old enough to shave and the girl looked even
younger. He would soon be giving these two underage comedians a good dressing down. It was then
that he came upon the listing: “Mr. & Mrs. Harry Potter, Little Whinging, Surrey”—and most
startling of all, it was in *his own handwriting!*

Unaware of what the Concierge had discovered, Harry kept looking around, expecting Hotel
Security to surround them at any time. Hermione was doing her best not to giggle.

“Y-yes,” the Concierge stammered. “The reservation is right here.”

“You did put us in the Honeymoon Suite, didn't you?”

He glanced back at the entry.

“Of course,” he said through clenched teeth in an odd tone of voice.

As much as he would have liked to toss the two juvenile delinquents out into the street, their
reservation appeared to be in order. They were able to produce ID's stating that they were both
eighteen and what's more, a check with American Express indicated that they had a virtually
unlimited line of credit. He decided that it might be a good idea to be nice to these two—just in
case they were the spawn of some important personage with a long pedigree and a short temper.

He snapped his fingers and two identically dressed bellhops appeared. The Concierge rolled his
eyes and let out a sigh. In addition to their uniforms, their faces were also identical, right down
to their flaming red hair.

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. *Could it really be* *Fred and George?*

“Are you two joined at the hip?”

“No, sir! It's just that 'e owes me five quid and I'm not lettin' him outa me
sight until 'e pays it back!”

“Show these,” the Concierge struggled for the least offensive word, “*guests* to the
Honeymoon Suite.” He handed George the key.

“Honeymoon Suite?” Fred raised and eyebrow.

The Concierge cleared his throat in a way that said, “Shut up and get moving!”

“Right sir!” He turned to the `newlyweds'. “And your luggage?”

“Half-way to Australia by now, I imagine.” Hermione said innocently. “We'd planned to
Honeymoon in Paris, but I'm afraid the airline put the entire lot on the wrong plane. So
we've decided to say in London and rough it here for a few days until they find it.”

“`Rough it',” the Concierge repeated with a forced smile. “How charming.”

Fred and George weren't buying it either, but they had both already decided that anyone who
could put one over on their boss like that was okay in their book

As the bellhops escorted them to the elevator, Hermione's curiosity got the better of
her.

“Fred? George? You don't have a younger brother named `Ron' by any chance?”

“'Ere! How'd you know that?”

“She's psychic,” Harry informed them. “Things like that just come to her.”

“You also have two older brothers a little sister named Ginny—and your parents are Arthur and
Molly Weasley.”

Their smiles faded a little.

“That's not bad,” said George, “but you're a bit out of date. You see, our dad passed
away a while back and Mum remarried.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Nothin' to be sorry about.” Fred told her. “Remus is okay as step-dads go. He really loves
Mum and he treats us okay. That's what counts.”

Harry and Hermione were amazed. That would explain why Information couldn't find any
“Weasley” family in Ottery St. Catchpole. And could their `step-dad” possibly be Remus Lupin?

The doors to the Honeymoon Suite swung open to reveal an enormous rococo fantasy straight out of
an old RKO Musical. Harry half expected Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers to come dancing down the
marble staircase that led up to the second level.

“I like it,” Harry quipped. “It's showy, yet ostentatious.”

“'Ang on!” George's arm shot out, as they were about to step inside. “You're
supposed to carry the bride over the threshold!”

“We do rent cranes and forklifts at a reasonable rate should they become necessary,” Fred
added.

Hermione was not amused, but before she could kick Fred in the shins, Harry scooped her up into
his arms and carried her inside. He was promptly rewarded with a kiss before he set her down.

“I can't wait to see the bed!” Hermione bounced up the stairs.

“I think you got a *live one* there, son!” Fred said out of the corner of his mouth.

“You don't know the *half* of it!” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

George slapped the key into Harry's hand.

“Well, if you need anything—oysters—vitamin pills—CPR—you just give us a shout!” They hesitated
at the door. Harry realized that they were hinting for a tip. Harry suddenly became aware of a
bulge in his pocket. He reached in and found two twenty pound notes folded together. He handed one
to each of them.

“Thank you, *Sir*,” they said in chorus.

“I had no idea I was such a generous tipper,” Harry called up the stairs once the bellhops were
gone.

He found Hermione sprawled out on the gigantic bed, wallowing in the luxury that surrounded
them.

“They're going to be very annoyed at us when those bank notes fade away after a few
hours.”

“They won't.” Hermione took his hand and pulled him onto the bed. “I didn't just conjure
them up out of nothing. I apparated them out of the ATM machine in the lobby. Trust me, we're
going to need those two on our side before this is over.”

“They can help us hide when the police arrive.”

“Nothing I've done can be traced back to us, Harry.”

“That's hardly the point.”

“Oh, lighten up, Harry!”

“You're *enjoying* this, aren't you?”

“You better believe it, kid. After everything I've been through, I figure I've earned
it—and so have you!”

“All the same, we're going to keep track of everything we spend so we can pay it back one
day.”

“You're serious, aren't you?” She pulled him into a kiss. “That's why Einstein could
never finish his Unified Field Theory. He never met you. *You* are the one true constant in
the universe, Harry Potter.”

***********

Harry felt Hermione catch her breath. He could feel her eyelashes brush against his chest as her
eyes flew open. He could feel her heart beating faster. He had a pretty good idea of what had
happened. He was still perspiring from his own nightmare. He was back in his cupboard under the
stairs with monstrous nightmare versions of the Dursleys taunting him.

“You thought you could get away!”

“You'll never escape us!”

“Never!”

He could easily imagine what Hermione's nightmare was like: Standing among the smoldering
ruins of Hogwarts, the only survivor—totally alone.

He felt her relax and snuggle closer.

He felt a tear run down her cheek onto his chest.

After a few more times of waking up like this, it was as if their subconscious minds finally
accepted that neither of them was going anywhere.

They were no longer alone.

At last they could sleep peacefully.

Tomorrow would literally be the first day of the rest of their lives and Harry thought he might
just have a plan for their future together in this brave new world…

End Of Chapter One



2. Signs and Wonders
--------------------

Brian Hendrickson Normal Brian Hendrickson 9 92 2002-11-06T21:05:00Z 2003-09-05T05:20:00Z 12
7491 42700 355 85 52438 9.3821

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR’S NOTE:** This chapter takes place a little over a year after Chapter One. At the
time I was anxious to get on with my plot. Only later did readers ask me what happened during that
time. I am currently working on a sequel, which covers that gap in the story. Also, one of the
reviews pointed out that I goofed on the number of Weasley brothers. This was a typo, which I
THOUGHT I had corrected before I uploaded the chapter. (Sorry continuity fans!)

“CHILD’S PLAY”

(Chapter Two)
"Unless you see signs and wonders, you will not believe."
-John 4:48
****

“Does anyone here believe in *magic*?” Harry asked, as the crowd of four, five and six
year-olds sat mesmerized on the grass before him. After the amazing things they had just witnessed,
most of the children's hands went up, although a few skeptics still remained, particularly
among the parents who stood at the back, arms folded upon their chests, radiating cynicism.
"Well, I'll bet some of *you* are magical! Shall we find out?" Harry removed the
conical wizard's hat covered with moons and stars that perched precariously on his shaggy mane
of jet-black hair. He pulled back one of the oversized sleeves of his matching velvet wizard’s
robes. (The deliberately ill-fitting robes always reminded Hermione of Mickey Mouse playing *The
Sorcerer’s Apprentice*.) Harry reached into his hat and produced a brand new magic wand. “Now I
want all of you to concentrate on this magic wand and see if you can make it rise into the air.” He
set the wand down on the table. “Now, everybody *concentrate*!”

The children squinted their eyes, clenched their fists, furrowed their little foreheads and
leaned forward to show that they were *really* concentrating. The wand slowly began to rise
off the table and floated over the heads of the astonished audience. While the kids fixated on the
wand itself, the parents looked into the trees and on the roofs of adjacent houses to see how Harry
did it. Harry was positive that the tall man in the dark glasses and the cheesy fake beard was
David Copperfield and the gentleman in the bad wig was Lance Burton. He was half-tempted to
levitate the wand over to them and keep it just out of their reach—but the wand was on a much more
important mission. It settled just above the head of a dark haired six-year-old girl in a
*Paddington Bear* T-Shirt.

*I don’t know how she does it,* thought Harry*.* Earlier in the afternoon Hermione had
said that the little girl looked “promising.” Harry was still learning about the magical objects
Hermione had used in the games in which she'd led the children before the performance, but he
knew that in this area Hermione’s instincts were right more often than not.

“You see? The magic wand is always right! What’s your name, luv?”

“Alice. Alice Higgins.”

“Well, Alice Higgins, the wand seems to think that you might have some magic in you. Would you
like to find out?”

“Yes, please!”

“Then take the wand and bring it up here to me.”

Little Alice seemed to hesitate at first, then reached up and snatched the wand out of the air.
Harry couldn’t help but smile as she took a moment to examine it for wires or other obvious
gimmicks. Cheesy-Beard and Bad-Wig appeared to watch with particular interest. Satisfied that she
wasn't being conned, but still skeptical, little Alice ran up to the stage to join Harry.

Harry then pulled a large white feather from his robes and set it on the table.

“Now when I tell you, I want you see if you can make the feather fly.” Harry demonstrated how to
swish and flick the wand. “And then you say the magic words, ‘*Wingardium Leviosa’.*”

It took little Alice a few tries to wrap her tongue around the words, but eventually…

*“Wingardium Leviosa!”*

The feather began to rise.

Alice’s eyes grew wide with wonder.

“Now concentrate!” Harry knelt down and placed his hands on her shoulders. “What do you want the
feather to do, Alice?” Oftentimes, for the sake of the performance, Harry had to help things along,
but not this time. Little Alice was levitating it all by herself. She grinned from ear to ear. As
the feather did loop-the-loops over the heads of the other children, Harry surreptitiously nodded
to Hermione, who placed a check mark on the mailing list before Alice's name and address.

From the back of the crowd, an unseen observer frowned. Things were even worse than she had
feared.

“…and just remember,” Harry reminded his audience as he brought the performance to a close,
“that the most powerful magic in the whole world…,” his eyes met Hermione’s and they shared a
secret smile, “…is *love*.” Harry extended his arms and bowed as the audience went wild.

After the show, little Alice just had to talk to Harry one more time.

Harry was cheerfully waving to Cheesy Beard and Bad Wig as they passed by. “’Bye David! ’Bye
Lance!” The men muttered something unintelligible and kept walking.

Alice’s mother timidly shook Harry’s hand.

“You’re very talented, Mr. Potter.” Harry’s smile dimmed a little. Even with the oversized
sunglasses and the extra make up, the black eye was all too obvious. Harry was about to say
something when little Alice tugged at his robes.

“Did I *really* make the feather fly, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, Alice.” Harry knelt down. “And that means you’re a very *special* little girl. One
day you’re going to find out just *how* special you really are.” Harry reached into the pocket
of his robes and pulled out a silver chain. On it was hung a silver amulet about the size of an
American dime engraved with a diminutive figure of a lion *rampant*. He slipped it around the
little girl’s neck. “Until that day, this will watch over and protect you—” Harry looked directly
into her eyes; there was a question that she didn’t dare speak aloud. “—even from *him*.” He
looked up at Alice’s mother. “I promise.”

Alice threw her arms around Harry’s neck.

“I promise…”

*****

“Mum! Tommy hit me!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Hermione paused from loading Harry’s things into the van for a moment and focused her
second-sight inward. The newest member of the Potter clan snoozed serenely inside his mother’s womb
in spite of the chaos that surrounded them. The image of her unborn child sleeping so peacefully
made everything else around her pale into insignificance. She smiled to herself. The baby looked
more like Harry with each passing day.

Because of all the noise, Hermione didn’t hear her husband as he drew up behind her, but she
recognized his touch immediately. Harry put his arms around her waist and gently caressed her
swollen belly. Just as he brushed back her hair and kissed her on the neck, one of the little girls
let out an ear-piercing screech that threatened to shatter every eardrum in the neighborhood. A
little boy was pulling her pigtails.

“A small sample of what *we* have to look forward to in a few years,” Harry said into his
wife’s ear.

“If *your* son ever misbehaves like that, his mother will hex him from here to
Bristol.”

“*My* son? What happened to *our* son?”

“If he acts that way, he’s *your* son.”

“How is the heir to the Potter dynasty, by the way?”

“See for yourself,” She covered his hands with hers. Harry closed his eyes and for a moment they
shared her vision of the tiny miracle they had made.

Harry Potter couldn't help but marvel at the way his life had been so totally transformed
ever since Hermione had appeared on his doorstep a little over a year ago. At first he thought her
mad with her tales of alternate realities and her strange alma mater, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft
and Wizardry. Now she completely filled his life—no, she had *become* his life. Because of
her, he had found the strength to walk away from Privet Drive and the Dursleys once and for all. By
day, with the limitless patience of a born teacher, she had revealed to him the world of magic and
sorcery; by night, still a teacher, but no longer patient, she had introduced him to an entirely
*different,* but no less wondrous form of magic. As a result, in a few months she would
present him with the most precious gift he could ever receive. On top of all that, she had proved
to be a highly astute business manager for Harry’s burgeoning career as a stage magician. Harry
wondered if it was possible to be any happier than he was at that moment.

Hermione's thoughts also were about the day she had found Harry. It was almost as if she had
been reborn that day. Everything before—the war with Lord Voldemort, the destruction of Hogwarts,
the deaths of her friends—had begun to feel like nothing more than a horrible nightmare, fading
away in the reassuring light of morning and the comforting warmth of Harry’s arms. After all that
she’d been through, her new life seemed almost ridiculously *normal*—or at least as normal as
life can be for a newlywed witch and wizard with a baby on the way. There were times when she
almost felt guilty for being so happy.

Harry had become her life as well: husband, lover, best friend, protector, provider and very
soon he would add the title of “father”. Perhaps more important, he was her star pupil, to whom she
patiently imparted all the magical knowledge she had learned in her previous life as a student
witch. The journal that she had begun that first day in a simple spiral notebook was now in its
third volume. It would serve not only as a textbook for Harry's continuing education, but
Hermione also hoped it would eventually form the beginnings of a future curriculum for a *new*
Hogwarts—but with a difference. Instead of simply recreating the wizarding world as it was, this
new Hogwarts would be a place where their son and others like him could learn to use their gifts
for the benefit of *all* mankind. That last part would be Harry’s legacy.

“His Majesty is having a little nap,” Hermione said with a weary but contented smile. “His Mum
could sure use a break though.”

Harry began gently rubbing her shoulders.

“You didn’t *have* to come today. Ron and I could’ve handled this show.” Like most
expectant fathers, Harry had become very protective of both his wife and his unborn son. “Dr.
Pomfrey said you really need to start taking it easy from now on.” From almost anyone else, such a
suggestion would have been like waving a red flag at a bull. Hermione's independent streak and
natural contrariness would have kicked in and she would have informed the person in no uncertain
terms that she could take care of herself and that she didn’t need to be fussed over. When it was
Harry, her reaction was a bit more subdued.

“You ought to know by now, Harry Potter, that I’m just not a ‘sit at home and put your feet up’
kind of a girl. Besides, I just get a kick out of watching you work with the kids…” She gave him a
sheepish grin that told him there was *another* reason…

“And…?

“Ron and Victoria have been married only a few weeks. They need some time to themselves.”

“I’ve always suspected that under that ‘Type-A’ personality, you were really a hopeless romantic
at heart.”

“I must be hopeless,” she grinned, “I married *you*, didn’t I?”

Harry gave his wife a playful smack on the bottom, then turned her around and gave her a warm,
affectionate kiss.

“I love you, *Mrs. Potter*,” he whispered.

“And I love you—”

“Mr. Potter?” interrupted an old woman’s voice with a slight Scottish burr to it. Minerva Smith
peered at him over the granny glasses perched on her long, thin nose. Hermione gave Harry a look
that said, “You’re on your own, kiddo!” and returned to loading the van.

“Mrs. Smith! What a pleasant surprise.” Harry’s most charming boyish smile did nothing to alter
the old woman’s dour expression.

“Your charms are very effective on six year-olds, Mr. Potter, but you needn’t waste them on
me.”

Harry pretended to be hurt. He took her hand and pressed it between his.

“Then I suppose running away with me to the Bahamas is out of the question?”

“The farthest he ever wanted to run away with *me* was Houndslow,” Hermione sighed. “Some
girls have all the luck!”

Mrs. Smith jerked her hand away.

“I saw the look that passed between you and your wife, Mr. Potter. I don’t know exactly what
you’re up to, but I’m convinced that Alice Higgins was singled out for a reason.”

“Just what is it that you think we’re doing, Mrs. Smith?”

“You’re searching for something…” she was groping for the right words. “There is something…
*different* about those children. Some hidden talent, perhaps…”

From the back of the van, Hermione gave Harry a, “See what I mean?” look.

“It’s a ‘fair cop’, Mrs. Smith.” Harry held up his hand, producing a deck of cards and spreading
them out like a Japanese fan. “We planned to kidnap the girl and sell her into prestidigitation.” A
second fan of cards appeared in his other hand.

Mrs. Smith’s eyes narrowed. Clearly she was not amused. Harry merged the two decks into one,
passed his hand over the combined deck and it disappeared.

“You may find this all very amusing, Mr. Potter, but I do not! It seems that whenever you single
out a child at one of your performances, strange things begin to happen. The girl in Esher for
instance! Or the boy in Rottingdeans whose long lost father suddenly turns up out of nowhere!”

“Oh, how horrible!” Harry gasped.

“You know very well what I mean. It’s not so much *what* happens, as the *way* it
happens. Almost as if—”

“—by *magic*?

“You are already something of a minor celebrity hereabouts, Mr. Potter. I understand that the
BBC is talking to you about hosting a children’s television series, and that the American networks
are interested as well. I wonder if you truly understand the effect you are having on your
audiences. Have you never stopped to consider the powerful impact someone like you can have on
impressionable young minds?”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Mrs. Smith,” Harry said innocently. She turned and indicated a small
group of children who were taking turns using, twigs, drinking straws and other handy objects as
“magic wands” to “zap” each other.

*“Wingardium Leviosa,”* a little girl yelled at the top of her lungs.

Harry could only grin sheepishly.

“Whether you realize it or not, you are having a decidedly *un-Christian* influence on
these children!”

“Un-*Christian*?”

“Instead of putting their faith in the Almighty, they think their problems can be solved with
the wave of a wand! You make them want to believe that magic and sorcery are *real*!”

“And was there never a time,” he said, gently mimicking her Scottish accent, “when you were a
lass back in Glasgow that wee Minerva McGonagall believed in magic?”

She raised an eyebrow. How did he know her maiden name?

“I was a child, Mr. Potter,” she said in a slightly defensive tone, “As I grew older, I put away
childish things.”

“And do you never get the urge to take them out and play with them occasionally?” Harry reached
into his pocket and pulled out a yo-yo, which he bounced a couple of times then offered to Mrs.
Smith to try. When she showed no interest, he put it back in his pocket. “Children are a lot
smarter than you give them credit for, Mrs. Smith. I think they can tell the difference between
fantasy and reality.”

“It’s not the *fantasy* part that worries me,” she said cryptically.

“Mrs. Smith,” Harry said, changing the subject, “I had a rather,” he searched for the right
word, “*unpleasant* childhood.”

“Yes, I’ve met the Dursleys. Horrible people.”

“Then is it really so hard to understand why I would want to help children in any way that I
can?”

Mrs. Smith looked at him in deadly earnest.

“But are you *really* helping them, Mr. Potter?”

“’Oy! Potter! Mr. Magician!” The great bear of a man looked as if he could crush both of them
with one hand, but Harry never flinched. “Where’s my wife?”

“Mr. Higgins, I presume?” Harry maneuvered himself between Mr. Higgins and Mrs. Smith, who
seemed somewhat taken aback by Harry’s concern for her. “On her way to a women’s shelter, with your
daughter.”

“Is that so? I suppose the little bitch told you I was a nasty old wife beater, eh?”

*As if the black eye and the bruises didn’t speak for themselves,* Harry thought.

“Now see here, young man!” Mrs. Smith began scolding him.

“You stay out of this, Granny!” Higgins growled.

“No, Mr. Higgins.” Harry deliberately raised his voice to distract Higgins’s attention. “You’re
wife didn’t betray you.”

“Some dirty little squealer in the neighborhood ratted me out, then? Was it you, old woman?”
Again, he looked right at Mrs. Smith. He seemed determined to attach at least some of the blame for
his troubles to her.

“I have my own sources, Mr. Higgins,” Harry shrugged, “The neighbor’s cat, the budgie across the
street, the badgers that live in your back garden…”

“So, you’ve been chattin’ up the badgers then, ’ave you?”

“Enthralling conversationalists, Mr. Higgins. It’s really a shame so few people speak the
language.”

“Well, the next time you and Mr. Badger get together for tea, you can tell ’im to *mind ’is
own business* if he doesn’t want a fist through ’is teeth—and that goes for ’is snoopin’ friends
as well!” Once again, Higgins seemed ready to take his anger out on Mrs. Smith. Harry put his arm
around Mr. Higgins and steered him away from her. Mrs. Smith looked over at Hermione, who was
watching the two men carefully.

“I wonder if we should fetch someone—the other fathers?” Mrs. Smith was clearly frightened for
Harry’s safety. “I know this man. He has a horrible temper.”

“Harry knows what he’s doing.” Hermione tried to sound calm. All the same, she reached into the
pocket of her jumper. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her wand.

In principle, Harry and Hermione both agreed it best to avoid using too much “real” magic in
front of Muggles for fear of giving away their secret, even if it meant standing by and allowing
something unpleasant to happen. In practice, Harry knew that if Mr. Higgins had laid so much as a
finger on him, Hermione would have gladly turned him into a toad right in front of Mrs. Smith and
the entire neighborhood.

Hermione and Mrs. Smith couldn’t hear what Harry and Mr. Higgins were saying, which did nothing
to assuage their fears. After a moment, the two men turned around. Harry seemed to be chatting
pleasantly. Mr. Higgins seemed docile enough—in fact, he looked a little bit dazed. Almost as if on
cue, a taxi drove up and stopped right in front of them. Harry maneuvered Mr. Higgins into the cab,
had a quick word with the driver and then sent it on its way.

Mrs. Smith’s mouth hung open in astonishment. Hermione wasn’t all that surprised, but did seem
duly impressed.

“Mr. Higgins wanted me to tell everyone ‘goodbye’ for him.” Harry said.

“Where is he going?” The smug look on Harry’s face made Mrs. Smith even more suspicious.

“Canada. Somewhere in the North Woods, I expect.”

“The North Woods?” Hermione was doing her best to keep a straight face.

“It’ll be difficult on his wife for a while, raising their little girl alone, but we both agreed
that in the long run it was for the best. The man just wasn’t cut out to be a father.”

Mrs. Smith was almost quaking with outrage.

“There is something very wrong here, Mr. Potter! I don’t know what demons you are consorting
with, but never doubt that this will all end in eternal damnation, for you—” she was choking back
her tears, “—and for that sweet innocent child of yours!” She turned and stumbled off. Harry
started to go after her, but Hermione stopped him.

“It’s no good, Harry,” she sighed. “If she’s anything like her counterpart in my universe, she’s
intelligent, insightful and very resourceful—and once she gets an idea into her head…” Hermione
watched as Mrs. Smith recovered her composure and headed for her car. “We’re going to have to be
very careful not to underestimate her.”

That evening, in their tiny but comfortable flat in Shepherd’s Bush, Hermione was going over the
list of children with latent magical abilities they had found since Harry had started
performing.

“Checking to see who’s naughty or nice?” Harry asked as he headed for the shower. “Are those the
boys or the girls?”

“The girls. Why?”

Harry pulled a yellow highlight marker from the desk drawer and tossed it to her.

“What’s this for?”

“Be sure and highlight the *really* naughty ones, so we can give the list to Junior when he
gets older. The boy’s got to start somewhere.” Harry’s train of thought was cut off when a pillow
from the sofa struck him in the face.

A little while later, Harry heard a wail from Hermione that penetrated even the noise of the
shower. Wrapping himself in a towel, he poked his head out the bathroom door. The normally
fastidious Hermione was tearing through the sitting room like a cyclone, digging through books,
papers and Harry’s magical paraphernalia.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s gone!” she moaned. “I can’t find it anywhere!”

“What’s gone?”

“My journal! The first notebook! Everything I learned at Hogwarts my first year!” In desperation
she had even pulled up the sofa cushions. “I was doing some corrections on it while you were doing
your shows today.” As good as her memory was, there were still many gaps in her magical knowledge,
which she slowly filled in as she gained real life experience teaching Harry and Ron, and they were
able to put the theories into actual practice.

“Did you leave it out in the van?”

“No!” she said miserably, “I just looked there!”

“Now just calm down! We’ll find it.”

Harry got dressed and searched the van once more. They spent the rest of the evening telephoning
the homes where Harry had performed that day. None of the homeowners had found a spiral notebook.
Most of them were too exhausted from clearing up after their parties to care.

"I can rewrite the whole thing from memory," Hermione insisted, "But that
isn't what worries me!" Suppose the person who found it has latent magical abilities? If
they were to attempt some of those spells without proper supervision, Merlin only knows what kind
of mischief they could do!”

Harry eventually calmed Hermione down. Mercifully they were able to forget their trouble for a
while as they made love that night, but Harry and Hermione held onto each other just a little bit
tighter than usual.

After nearly a week of retracing their steps, they finally resigned themselves to the idea that
the notebook was gone for good. All they could do was pray that it didn’t fall into the wrong
hands.

*****

“’Ello, luvs! C’mon in!” Molly Weasley-Lupin beamed at Harry and Hermione from behind the
counter of *The* *Griffin’s Door Natural Remedy Emporium and Tea Room*. To Harry, the
place always seemed to be suffering from an extreme case of split personality. Parts of it looked
like an ordinary little “greasy spoon” diner, complete with Coca-Cola ads on the wall menus and a
bill-of-fare that included fish & chips, sausage rolls and bacon sandwiches. Against a far wall
was a long wooden counter flanked by half a dozen barstools and topped off by an old fashioned soda
fountain. The rest was an odd cornucopia of bric-a-brac straight out of a medieval apothecary.
Behind the counter were shelves stacked with bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes, containing
all manner of liquids and powders—and a few substances that were not readily identifiable—in every
color of the rainbow. The only think brighter was the flaming red hair of Molly, who sat next to
the antique cash register dealing herself a hand of tarot cards. She was dressed in a simple blue
waitress uniform with a big white apron tied around her ample middle.

“That’s it!” Hermione groaned as she waddled over to their favorite table by the window. “Tell
them to stencil ‘Goodyear’ on me and get it over with! I’m now officially a blimp!”

“True.” Harry kissed her hand. “But you’re still the prettiest blimp I know.”

“Don’t you try and sweet talk me, Harry Potter,” Hermione grumbled as she carefully lowered
herself into a chair, “This is all *your* fault, you know.”

“I don’t seem to recall you complaining the night it happened,” Harry grinned as he brought her
hand up and rubbed it against his cheek. Hermione tried to keep her mad face on but there was
something about that grin of his that always got to her. Grudgingly, she smiled back.

“We girls never do complain *then*, do we, dear?” Molly smirked. “If we only knew what we
were lettin’ ourselves in for! ’Course *I’m* a fine one to talk, eh?” Molly brought over a
footstool and a pillow and placed them in front of Hermione’s chair. “There you go, dear. You just
put your feet up for a bit and we’ll get you a nice hot cup o’ tea. GINNY!”

For Hermione, just knowing that the Weasleys existed in this universe was heartening. The
gregarious family of redheads, with their almost unconditional love and acceptance, had been a
great source of strength and support while Harry and Hermione struggled to establish
themselves.

Just like her counterpart, Molly had immediately appointed herself surrogate “mum” to the
newlyweds. With her own mother gone, Hermione was grateful to have someone there to share the joys
and anxieties of pregnancy—even if Molly did fuss over her even more than Harry. Still, what Molly
Weasley-Lupin didn’t know about having babies just wasn’t worth knowing. And even though in this
dimension she had no formal training, Molly had already taught herself enough magic to be very
helpful filling in some of the gaps in Hermione’s journals.

Things were quiet in the shop that afternoon, so Molly pulled up a chair next to Hermione and
the two of them began comparing aches and pains and their most memorable bouts of morning sickness.
Hermione knew her stories could never compete just because of the sheer number of offspring Molly
had produced, but she seemed determined at least to keep pace.

Harry’s eyes were beginning to glaze over when the shop bell rang.

“Mornin’ dear!” Molly called

“Mornin’ Molly,” came a voice that always reminded Harry of Betty Boop. When the former Victoria
Plotkin married Molly’s youngest son, Ron, she joked that Victoria *Weasley* was at least a
*marginal* improvement over her maiden name. Ron had first met the model/actress when she
auditioned to replace Hermione as Harry’s on-stage assistant. (Hermione never really felt
comfortable in the spotlight and preferred to work behind the scenes.)

Victoria hung her hat and coat on a peg by the door. She sat down beside Harry and pulled a pack
of cigarettes from her purse. *“Finally* managed to find one that Ron hasn’t hexed!” She
looked up at the disapproving stares she was getting. “Have a heart! I haven’t had a fag for nearly
*two whole days!*” she pleaded. Finding no sympathy forthcoming, she grudgingly tossed the
pack back into her purse. “You win—but I could murder a cup of coffee, Molly!”

“GINNY!”

“Coming, Mum!”

“Where’s your ‘other half’, then?” Harry asked.

“Fiddling with the car as usual. It broke down three times between here and Acton.”

“I know ’ow much Ron loves that old MG,” Molly sighed, “But don’t you think it’s about time to
put the poor thing out to pasture?”

“*Out of its* *misery*, you mean!” She patted Harry’s arm. “You’ve just *got* to
get us that television series, Harry! It’d be ever so nice to have a car where you can use the
radio *and* the heater at the same time!”

“We’ve been looking for a house,” Hermione sighed. “I really don’t want to raise a baby in that
tiny little flat!” She looked over at Harry. “Especially not *now*,” she said softly.

Harry put his arm around her and gave her a hug. “The head of Children’s Programming seemed
pretty impressed by our presentation. All we can do is cross our fingers and wait.”

“You’ll do fine, dear!” Molly assured him. “’ Arry’s a natural with kids, aren’t you?” She
patted Hermione’s tummy. “This little one don’t know ’ow lucky ’e is to ’ave you for a dad!”

“I trust you’ll remind him of that when he’s a *teenager*,” Harry sighed.

“Once they turn thirteen, dearie, all bets are off!” Mollie craned her neck to call into the
back room. “GINNY!”

“Keep your hair on, Mum! I’ve only got two hands!”

“See what I mean,” she snorted, “Kids!”

Harry and Hermione both suppressed a smile at the word “kids”. In order to survive in this
strange new world, they had been forced to fudge their ages a little and pretend to be “adults”
even though they weren’t that much older than Ginny. (Hermione had conjured up the documentation
they needed to get married.) Harry was quite proud of the way Hermione had met the challenge of
“adult” responsibilities like paying rent, taxes, etc. even before his career had really begun to
take off. If he achieved any success at all, it would be in no small part due to her steadfast
support.

Young Ginny Weasley finally appeared from the back of the shop, wiping her hands on her big
frilly apron. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the new customers.

“Hermione!” Ginny picked up a tray, loaded it with cups and biscuits and hurried over to their
table. In the few months that they had known her, young Ginny had begun to blossom into a lovely
young woman and was beginning to attract some attention among the local teenage males. She and
Hermione had become fast friends, though Hermione suspected that Ginny shared the same
not-so-secret crush on Harry that her counterpart had.

“I was so worried about you!” Harry and Hermione did their best to signal with their expressions
for Ginny to keep quiet, but by the time she got the message, she’d already blurted out; “I heard
all about the break-in—!”

“*Break- in*?” Molly’s face went white as a sheet. “What break-in?”

“Somebody burglarized our flat last night,” Harry confessed as if he had broken his mother’s
favorite vase.

“N*obody was hurt*,” Hermione tried to reassure her, “And they didn’t take anything.”

“Hermione was there *all alone*!”

*Thank you, Ginny!* Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. *You’re mum’s already having a
heart attack! Let’s just give her a stroke as well!*

“I was asleep in the next room,” Hermione told them, “I didn’t even know they’d been there until
the next morning.” Harry and Hermione hoped they didn’t look as guilty as they felt for lying to
their friends. The truth was that Hermione woke up just in time to see the three miscreants leave.
She had managed to catch a glimpse of one of them as they were climbing out the window—and had seen
a face she thought she would never see again. Harry could feel Hermione trembling just a little
even now as she remembered crouching in the darkness, wishing they still had Harry’s invisibility
cloak, and praying that no harm would come to their baby. She was searching for her wand to hex the
intruders when the pains began.

“She almost went into labor!”

“It was *false* labor, Ginny. They’re called Braxton-Hicks contractions.”

Harry shook his head. *Leave it to Hermione to know the technical term.*

“Oooh!” Molly grabbed her belly in sympathy. “I ’ad those with Bill—and Charlie—and the
twins—and Ginny…”

As Molly launched into another of her pregnancy horror stories, Victoria motioned to Harry.

“Hermione’s obviously okay,” she said softly. “How about *you*?”

“The usual self-recriminations,” Harry shrugged. “‘I should have been there.’ ‘I shouldn’t have
left her alone.’”

She patted his hand.

“You *had* to go, Harry. You couldn’t *afford* to turn that job down.”

“It’s the whole ‘cave man’ thing. The male is supposed to keep the *wild animals* out.”

A thought suddenly struck Victoria.

“You said the villains didn’t take anything?”

“No…There was the TV, VCR, the DVD player—all there for the taking! They weren’t ‘top of the
line’ or anything, but a junkie could’ve gotten a few pounds if he’d fenced them.” Harry looked
around. Hermione and Molly were too wrapped up in their own conversation to pay attention. “The way
they tore the place up, it was like they were looking for something…”

The shop bell rang again and in stepped three young men about Harry and Hermione’s age. All
three were dressed in very tasteful dress shirts, ties and slacks, though the heavy-set one with
the bowl haircut and the one with the short, bristly hair and dull, deep-set eyes looked as though
they’d been shoehorned into theirs. The lean one with the pointed face, cold gray eyes and the buzz
cut white blonde hair wore his fairly well. Judging by his lordly demeanor toward the other two, he
was the leader of the trio.

Harry couldn’t put his finger on exactly why—Maybe it was his smug expression that said, “I’m
better than all of you, why don’t you just admit it?”—but for some reason Harry took an instant
dislike to the fellow.

Harry felt Hermione’s grip tighten on his arm. In fact it was so tight that Harry was beginning
to lose the feeling in his hand. She was clearly upset about something but kept quiet.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Lupin?”

Ginny heaved a romantic sigh.

“Hello Draco…”

The young man looked over at her. Perhaps it was Harry’s imagination, but the young man’s smile
almost seemed to say, “Of course you adore me, you ignorant peasant! What choice do you have?”

Molly’s normally jovial smile faded slightly.

“’Ello, Dennis.”

“Mother!” Ginny protested. “His name is *Draco*!”

“Oh! Well, it was *Dennis* when I picked ’im up and smacked ’is little bottom the day ’e
was born! But I was just the midwife! What do I know? How is your Mum, by the way,
*Dennis*?”

“She’s fine.” Judging by his expression, Dennis clearly felt that he was wasting his time with
this riff-raff. “May I put one of our fliers up in your window, Mrs. Lupin? The church is having a
Revival this weekend.”

“Please yourself,” Molly shrugged.

He handed the flier to Ginny, who dutifully taped it to the shop window.

Harry practically had to pry Hermione’s hands off his forearm. He thought for a minute that her
nails were going to draw blood.

“That’s my *wand-arm* you know!” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”

She looked to make sure Ginny and Molly were out of earshot, then motioned for Harry and
Victoria to move in closer.

“*He* was the one I saw last night!”

“But I thought you said—?”

Hermione motioned for them to be quiet.

“I hope we’ll see you there, Ginny.” Dennis said, turning on the charm. “And the rest of you, of
course!” he added quickly. “Everyone is welcome.”

His eyes met Hermione’s for one terrifying moment. Did he know that she had seen him? She tried
to remain stoic but she was convinced that he could sense her fear. He turned away and bowed to
Molly.

“May the Lord bless and keep you, Mrs. Lupin.”

“I’m sure ’e will, Dennis.” Once the door closed, Molly snorted disdainfully. “Revival meeting,
my Aunt Fanny! A couple of months ago ’im and ’is skin ’ead mates was paradin’ around in leather
jackets with swastikas tattooed all over ’em!”

I’ll believe a leopard can change ’is stripes before I believe Dennis Malfoy’s found religion!”
A customer got up to pay his bill so Molly headed for the cash register.

“People can change, Mother!” Ginny insisted. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about that church!
They say the new pastor there is *to die for*!”

“Is that the church on the corner?” The customer asked as he pulled out his wallet. “‘Amazing
Grace’ or something like that? Word down the pub is that their preacher can do miracles. He
predicted that business of the Italians shooting down the American helicopter by mistake. He found
that little girl that had gone missing in Sussex. Even cured Mrs. Axleby’s arthritis, they
say!”

“She wouldn’t ’ave any if she’d taken the Peruvian Cat’s Claw Bark I gave ’er!” Molly
grumbled.

The customer thanked Molly for the meal and left.

“You’re *positive* Malfoy is the one you saw?” Harry whispered.

“Believe me, you don’t forget a face like that!” Hermione wasn’t sure if she should mention that
she knew Malfoy and his buddies from *before*— and that back at Hogwarts, he had been
Harry's second-worst enemy. No sense upsetting Harry any more than he already was. "And
I'll bet you anything his two henchmen were our other two late night visitors."

“If Mr. Malfoy *has* found religion,” Harry mused, “*Breaking and Entering* is a
strange way of expressing it…”

The matter was duly reported to the authorities, but to everyone’s surprise, the prime suspects
had an alibi for the night in question—the Pastor of their church.

“I didn’t get to talk to him,” Harry shrugged, “but he told the police that Malfoy and his two
buddies were with him the entire evening,”

Apparently, that was good enough for the police and the matter was dropped.

It was *not* good enough for Hermione, but the next few weeks would keep her far too busy
to do anything about it.

*****

“…and just remember,” Harry reminded his television audience as he brought the program to a
close, “that the most powerful magic in the whole world…” His eyes met Hermione’s and they shared a
secret smile, “…is *love*.” Harry extended his arms and bowed as the studio audience went
wild.

Harry had managed to deal with the last few remaining autograph seekers when *Mr.*
*Nibbler® The Magic Rabbit* poked his fuzzy pink nose out from behind the curtains.

“I’ll get you for this, Potter!” came Ron Weasley’s voice from inside the costume. “Any ‘rug
rats’ about?”

“The coast is clear.”

Ron removed his great white furry head. “I think this getup’s giving me a rash!” he said as he
scratched himself. “And you don’t want to know what the inside of this head smells like!”

“You could always quit and open that wizard’s pub like you keep threatening to do.”

“What?” Ron said with a self-mocking grin. “And give up show business?”

Hermione watched from the wings as the two best friends exchanged wisecracks. Even though Harry
had no memory of Ron from before, as she had, the two had taken to each other almost immediately.
Apocalyptic wars and parallel universes notwithstanding, it seemed as if The Fates had decreed that
Harry, Hermione and Ron would forever remain “The Three Musketeers”.

“At least you didn’t have to play *Auntie Oxidant* *®* this week,” Harry shrugged.

“Her knickers would’ve been a lot more comfortable than this bloody rabbit skin!”

“I can see the headlines in the *Sun* now,” Harry grinned, “CHILDREN’S SHOW ACTOR EXPRESSES
PREFERENCE FOR WOMEN’S KNICKERS! Does your wife know about this peculiar predilection of
yours?”

“Of course!” Victoria called as she walked out onto the stage still dressed as *Princess
Pandora® of the Mysterious East*. “Luckily we’re both a perfect size six.”

Victoria’s television character had been brought in shortly after the producers learned that
Hermione was pregnant. Since this was a children’s show, the BBC didn’t want to have to explain to
the little ones—and more importantly, to their parents—how Hermione’s character, *Ms.
Information®,* suddenly found herself with “a bun in the oven.”

“She and *Harry Potter®* could always get married on the show and start raising little
wizards,” Victoria had suggested.

“You’re missing a golden opportunity,” Ron told them. “This show is supposed to be
*educational*! Show ’em the *real* story! *Ms. Information®* goes to a party, has a
little too much to drink, wakes up next to a total stranger—!”

“And they say romance is dead.” Harry sighed.

“Sorry, luvs.” The show’s liaison with the BBC, Mr. Humphries, sounded even more effeminate than
usual. “I’m afraid children’s show characters just don’t do that sort of thing—at least not on BBC.
Fun as it might be for us grownups, the little tykes don’t really need to know what *Harry
Potter®* gets up to between the sheets.”

“Poor dear,” Hermione said, giving Harry a hug.

“Stuck at the ‘self-service counter’ again, eh Harry?” quipped Victoria.

*****

“Harry! I’d like you meet someone!” Mr. Humphries was escorting a small entourage on a tour of
the studio. Harry noticed that among the guests were Dennis Malfoy and his two cohorts. Hermione
noticed as well, but her attention was drawn to the man in the business suit chatting with Mr.
Humphries

“Oh no!” she groaned. “Not *him*!”

“Harry, I’d like you to meet Reverend Gilderoy Lockhart.”

“Mr. Potter! You have no idea what an honor it is to finally meet you and your charming wife!”
He extended his hand and flashed a toothy grin that reminded Harry a little bit of the actor Hugh
Grant—or maybe it was Kenneth Brannaugh. He was dressed in a flawlessly tailored brown suit and tie
and a gold shirt. Judging by the patent leather shoes, the solid gold cufflinks and the diamond
stickpin holding his tie, the good Reverend wasn’t exactly laying up his treasures in Heaven.

“Reverend Lockhart has made quite a name for himself,” Humphries told them. “In fact, the BBC is
giving him his own series. He’ll be using studio E next door.”

“We’ve been hearing quite a bit about you, Reverend.” As with Malfoy, there was something about
Reverend Lockhart that Harry immediately disliked. “Healing, predicting the future—“

“I am merely God’s instrument,” the Reverend said with little or no real humility.

“I hear his act’s almost as good as *yours*, Harry!” Ron’s eyes never left Malfoy. “I
didn’t know he was an *animal trainer* as well.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Ron and Malfoy glared at each other.

“I don’t understand,” Lockhart looked back and forth between Draco and Ron, “Is there a
problem?”

“Nothing really, Reverend,” Draco said calmly, “It’s about that little *misunderstanding*
with the police a while back.”

“Potter!” Lockhart slapped his forehead. “Of course! I don’t know why I didn’t put it together
before! You were the couple who thought Draco had broken into their flat!” Lockhart pulled Harry
and Hermione aside while Ron and Malfoy stared daggers at each other. “Look here, I was so sorry I
couldn’t be of more help with your little problem, but I *had* to tell the police what I
knew.”

“Of course, Reverend,” said Hermione suspiciously, “but the man I saw certainly *looked* a
lot like your Dennis.”

“Precisely,” Lockhart said in his smarmiest, most patronizing manner. “It was someone who
*looked* like him! But since he, Vincent and Gregory were all with *me* the entire
evening, obviously they couldn’t have done it."

“*Obviously*.” Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand tighter, fighting the urge to knee the good
Reverend in the groin.

“I can only imagine what it was like having the sanctity of one’s home violated like that! It
must have been a horrible experience!”

“Now that our series is a success, we’ll be moving soon,” Harry said as much to Hermione as
Lockhart.

“That’s the ticket!” Lockhart slapped them both on the back. “Nice little house in the country,
eh? Plenty of room to raise a family!”

*How did he know that*, Harry and Hermione both wondered?

“Look, I know how easy it is to be distrustful of Draco, Mrs. Potter. To be fair, he *has*
done some very foolish things in the past, but you must believe he really is a very different
person now that he’s come to know the Lord. I depend on him for everything. You might say he’s my
right hand.”

“I guess that’s why he didn’t get *fingered*.” Hermione quipped.

Lockhart chuckled politely and quickly changed the subject.

“Look here, Harry, I know we’ve only just met and I’m being terribly presumptuous, but you’ve
done a lot of work for charities and that sort of thing—I don’t suppose you could see your way
clear to perform at our church sometime?”

“Well, I’d have to talk it over with my Business Manager…” He nodded toward Hermione.

“Of course we’ll do it, Reverend.” Hermione declared. She reached into her purse and handed
Lockhart a *Harry Potter®* business card. “Give me a call in the morning and we’ll set up the
details.”

Harry was dumbfounded but kept quiet.

“That’s splendid, Mrs. Potter! Splendid! The congregation will be thrilled!”

Mr. Humphries took charge of the tour once more and led them into the adjacent studio.

*****

“A *minister* is lying to cover up a burglary?”

Victoria began applying cold cream to her face to remove her make up. Hermione was trying to
plead her case to the others who had gathered in Victoria’s dressing room.

“I know what I saw!” Hermione took a deep breath. She had no choice but to tell them everything.
“You don’t understand…I knew them—Malfoy *and* Lockhart—from *before*.”

Ron let out an exasperated sigh.

“*More* fugitives from ‘Dimension X’?”

“Darling,” Harry said, choosing his words carefully, “Are you sure you’re not letting your
memories from ‘before’ affect your judgment? Remember that fellow we spent so much time tracking
down—you said he was a classmate of ours at Hogwarts? What was his name? ‘Longfellow’—?”

“Neville Longbottom.”

“Overweight, clumsy, couldn’t do anything right—and yet *here* he turns out to be a *body
builder*! People in this dimension have had completely different experiences—led totally
different lives.”

Hermione was not going to concede anything.

“Not *everybody*, Harry! *You* were exactly the same—and thank Heaven you were! And
body builder or not, Neville Longbottom was still basically decent person in *both* universes!
Now you heard Molly! Malfoy is just a big a prick *here* as he was back at Hogwarts—and I’m
betting, so is Lockhart! Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

Harry took her hand and pressed it between his.

“If you remember, Darling, *I* was the first person who *did* believe you, when you
first turned up on my uncle’s doorstep back on Privet Drive!” Hermione suddenly felt ashamed. From
the beginning Harry was the one person who had always believed her—and believed *in* her.

“That was an awful lot to swallow all at once, wasn’t it?” She sighed, and resting her forehead
against his, she gently kissed him.

“She is right about Malfoy, Harry.” Ron got up and helped himself to a beer from the fridge.
“Religious conversion or not, he’s been a trouble maker for as long as *I’ve* known him. And
even if my Mum doesn’t know her leopards from her tigers, she’s always been a good judge of
people.”

“Okay,” Harry sighed, “You’ve obviously wanted an excuse to visit the church and now you’ve got
one. So…? What’s the plan?”

*****

Julie London was playing on the radio as the Potter’s van pulled into their driveway.

*You’d be so nice to come home to,
You’d be so nice by the fire,
While the breeze, on high, sang a lullaby,
You’d be all that I could desire.
Under stars, chilled by the winter,
Under an August moon, burning above,
You’d be so nice, you’d be paradise
To come home to and love.[1]
*

Hermione rested her sleepy head on Harry’s shoulder as they stood on the stoop and Harry fished
for his keys.

“Hermione?”

“Hmmm?”

“Did you forget to lock the door on your way out?”

Hermione opened her eyes. The door was open just a crack. They both pulled out their wands.
Harry motioned for Hermione to stay behind him. Harry pushed open the door and crept inside. All
seemed quiet.

“Hit the lights!” Harry whispered.

The flat looked as if a bomb had hit it. All the drawers and cabinets and shelves had been
emptied, their contents strewn across the sitting room floor. The walls were now covered in red
spray-painted graffiti with such choice messages as “BURN WITCH!”, “SATAN’S HANDMAIDEN” and “DEUT.
18:10-12”.

The police dutifully came to the flat, took down Harry’s and Hermione’s statements and took
dozens of pictures. Hermione conveyed her suspicions about Dennis Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and
Goyle, but Harry suspected that they would once again have an alibi—and he doubted if the police
would have believed the *whole* story, anyway.

“But why pick on Hermione?” Harry shook his head in disbelief. Ron and Victoria had rushed over
as soon as they heard what had happened. A gentle rain had begun to fall on Shepherd’s Bush. The
police cars were beginning to pull away and the crowd that had gathered in front of the building
had begun to break up. “*I’m* the one with his face on TV. I’ve been doing my best to keep my
family *out* of the spotlight!”

“You got me, pal…” Ron put his arm around his friend. “So what does ‘Deut. 18 whatever’
mean?”

“It’s Deuteronomy,” said a familiar voice with a Scottish accent. Minerva Smith pulled back the
hood of her raincoat. She looked almost as miserable as Harry felt at that moment. “Chapter 18,
Verses 10-22. ‘*There shall not be found among you any one that ... uses divination, or an
observer of times, or an enchanter…”*

*“… or a* witch,” Harry stood up slowly, his fists clenched, his rage barely contained. His
anger growing with each word, *“ …or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a*
wizard*, or a necromancer,”* Harry’s voice dropped to a frightening whisper, “… *for all
that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord*.’”

“I guess that about covers it,” Ron muttered to himself. He’d never seen such rage in his
friend’s eyes before. He edged himself over toward Mrs. Smith, fearful of what Harry might be
capable of doing to the old woman in his current state.

“You must believe me, Mr. Potter, I never intended for anything like this to happen…”

“Intended—?” She tried to turn away but he grabbed her by the arm “What do you know, Mrs.
Smith?”

“Not as much as I once thought I did, Harry.” With surprising strength, the old woman broke
loose from Harry’s grip and ran away.

“Let her go, Harry.” Ron said, grabbing his arm. “She’s not the enemy.”

“I know.” Harry watched her disappear into the night. “I just wish I could convince *her*
of that.”

“You’re wife needs you.”

Hermione sat on the front steps, weeping as Victoria tried to comfort her. Harry knelt down
beside her.

“It doesn’t make any sense, Harry.”

“I know.” Harry took his wife gently into his arms and softly began to sing to her.

Nothing’s gonna harm you,
not while I’m around.

*Nothing’s gonna harm you,
not while I’m around.*

*Demons ’ll charm you with a smile
for a while,
but in time
nothing can harm you,
not while I’m around.[2]*

End Of Chapter Two



[1] Music and Lyrics by Cole Porter

[2] Music and Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim



3. Wolves In Sheep
------------------



**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Thanks to Haggridd for his most excellent Beta skills and steadfast
moral support.

“CHILD'S PLAY”

Chapter Three

"Beware of false prophets, which come to

you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are

ravening wolves."

-Matthew 7:15

*****

*“If you go out in the woods today
You're sure of a big surprise,”*

Harry Potter sang as he reached into his old carpetbag and pulled out a stuffed bear, a rather
ordinary looking little fellow, the kind you'd find at any five & dime store. Harry set the
bear down in the middle of the stage, then returned to the carpetbag and began pulling out more,
arranging them in a semi-circle facing the audience.

*“If you go out in the woods today
You'd better go in disguise,”*

He glanced out past the enraptured faces of his audience to the back of the Fellowship Hall.
Reverend Gilderoy Lockhart was holding court with a small bevy of attractive young ladies who were
far more engrossed in him than they were in Harry's efforts on stage. It came as no surprise to
Harry that the congregation of Lockhart's Amazing Grace church was predominantly female.

*“For every bear that ever there was
Will gather there for certain, because,*

*Today's the day
The teddy bears have their picnic.”*

“I don't know how the man does it, Harry,” his friend Father Paul Osborn had reflected the
previous day. Not wanting to walk into the Lion's Den unprepared, Harry had gone to the one man
in London who had the dirt on all his fellow clergymen. “He's a boozer, a gambler and a skirt
chaser, and yet he always manages to pack 'em in the pews every Sunday. Lord knows he's
been taking a bite out of our attendance.”

“Jealous, Father?”

“Envy is a mortal sin, my boy,” the old priest admonished with a twinkle in his eye. “I was
merely thinking of all the lost sheep that could have been brought into to the fold if I'd been
granted even one-tenth the charisma of `Good-Time' Gilderoy Lockhart.” Father Osborn had been
one of the earliest supporters of Harry's magic career and had been of immeasurable help in
advising which charities could best benefit from his sponsorship. “In my day I've met saints,
charlatans and everything in between, Harry. Lockhart's not an evil man. Much as I hate to
admit it, I kind of like the guy. Before all these so-called `miracles' started, he was a
harmless enough snake-oil salesman. But since he's moved into the big leagues, he's been
hanging around with a bad crowd.” A soccer ball rolled up to their feet. Father Osborn hiked up his
cassock. Catching the ball between his feet, he kicked it up into the air and juggled it a few
times before kicking it back into play. “Now where were we, Harry?”

“You were about to tell me what the Bible says about `show offs'.”

*“Ev'ry Teddy Bear who's been good
Is sure of a treat today.”*

Harry pulled out a miniature picnic blanket, which he set out on the stage floor in front of the
assembled furry picnickers. The first bear Harry had set down suddenly jumped to its feet and
started singing the next verse in a friendly cartoon voice.


*“There's lots of marvelous things to eat
And wonderful games to play.”*

Harry then pulled out a teapot, cups and saucers, and handed them to the bear, who distributed
them to his furry friends. Then Harry joined in singing.

*“Beneath the trees where nobody sees
They'll hide and seek as long as they please*

*Cause that's the way the
Teddy Bears have their picnic.”*

Harry took a quick look off-stage. Ron was in his usual spot in the wings to work the various
“Muggle” illusions Harry occasionally used, but Hermione and Ron's wife Victoria were nowhere
to be seen.

***********

*“If you go down to the woods today,
You'd better not go alone!”*

“I really wish you would have let me handle this, Hermione…” Victoria Weasley looked around
nervously. For the moment, at least, the church hallways were empty. Everyone was in the Fellowship
Hall watching Harry's performance. “You really don't need to be playing *Charlie's
Angels* with `Junior' ready to make his grand entrance at any moment.”

“Believe me, I'd much rather be home soaking in a nice hot bath right about now.” Hermione
took out her wand. “Unfortunately, being a Muggle, you can't do this—Alohamora!”

The door to Reverend Lockhart's office swung open.

“True.” Victoria pushed the door open and let Hermione step inside. “But least nobody wants to
burn me at the stake—except maybe my mother-in-law.”


*“It's lovely down in the woods today,
But safer to stay at home!”*

***********

Harry had warned them not to try anything foolish without consulting either Ron or himself
first. He should have known better—particularly after Hermione had read the paper that morning:

MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT CALLS FOR NEW WITCH TRIALS

..the headline in the Times had screamed. True, the reporter didn't seem to take the story
very seriously, but there it was:

“…The Honorable Mr. Lucius Malfoy, M.P., formerly with the Ministry of Sanitation, held a news
conference to urge the Speaker to begin an immediate inquiry into the spread of Satanism and the
Occult in Britain. While the distinguished Member declined to name names at this time, he claimed
to have conclusive proof of the use of black magic by certain prominent individuals, including
members of the government, the Civil Service and the wife of a prominent television personality…
further revelations would be forthcoming…”

“There's also another article about the break-in at your flat,” George Weasley had told them
as the twin bellhops set out Harry and Hermione's complimentary newspaper and continental
breakfast on the balcony of the Honeymoon Suite. “It's pretty much a `puff piece'. They
barely mention the graffiti.”

The Honeymoon Suite of the Dorchester Hotel was just as big and just as decadent as it had been
when Harry and Hermione first stayed there. Harry had insisted they get out of their flat after it
had been vandalized. They had decided that instead of trying to put everything back where it was,
they would simply pack it all up and put it in storage until their new house was ready for them to
move in. Ron and Victoria Weasley had very kindly offered to let them stay at their flat in the
meantime, but Hermione had decided that they needed a little pampering again.

“I guess Harry's efforts for the Police Benevolence Society were worth something after all,”
Hermione noted. “At least no one's managed to link the two stories together—yet!”

“They also mention that there were three other families attacked in the last week that followed
the same pattern.” Fred pointed out. “Something very nasty is going on out there, Harry.”

“Malfoy?” Harry scratched his head. “ Is that—?”

“His Father,” sighed Hermione.

“We used to have endless fun with Dennis callin' 'is dad `The Duke o'
Dustbins'!” Fred grinned.

Harry shook his head. “Wasn't he wizard… before?”

“He was also a traitor.” Harry had never seen such hatred in Hermione's eyes. “He was
secretly working for the Dark Lord all the time he was on the Board of Governors of Hogwarts.” Her
anger was suddenly replaced by a smile that sent a chill up the others' spines. “He was one of
the few traitors who truly got what he deserved.” Hermione had not elaborated any further that
morning and Harry, Fred and George had taken a silent vote not to pursue the topic any further.

*“For every bear that ever there was
Will gather there for certain, because
Today's the day the
Teddy Bears have their picnic.”*

As the chorus began, the remaining bears jumped up, joined paws and began to dance in a circle.
As they broke from the circle, Harry joined in and led them in a procession around the stage. Every
so often, the more enthusiastic bears would turn cartwheels. At the very end of the line was a bear
about half the size of the others who could never quite manage a cartwheel without falling on his
furry little bum. Eventually, he became distracted by the audience and stopped to wave and blow
kisses at the children in the front row—until he realized how far he'd fallen behind his
comrades and scrambled to catch up.

*“Picnic time for teddy bears
The little teddy bears are
Having a lovely time today”*

Lockhart's office was just as big, and just as tacky as Hermione expected. That orange
carpet had to go, for a start! One whole wall consisted of neo-gothic stained glass windows. The
rear wall behind the mahogany desk was dominated by a huge oil painting of the man himself, Bible
in hand, eyebrow cocked, and a “You know you love me, baby!” grin on his smug face. On the
remaining walls were hung pictures of the smirking clergyman shaking hands with the great, the near
great, and Ana Nicole Smith.

“So, what exactly are we looking for, Hermione?” Victoria asked in a hushed whisper.

“I have no idea.”

“Well, that should make it easy to find…” Victoria sighed.

Hermione pulled open a desk drawer.

“I think we just found it.”

Inside was a brand new magic wand.

“I found the old woman in Portobello Road, too, Mrs. Potter.” Lockhart casually walked in and
closed the door behind him. Hermione and Victoria tried to appear calm as their hearts each nearly
went into cardiac arrest.

*“Watch them, catch them unawares
And see them picnic on their holiday”*

Harry picked up the carpetbag and set it down on one end of the stage so the procession could
march back from whence they came.

*“See them gaily gad about
They love to play and shout,
They never have any cares,*

*At six o'clock their mommies and daddies
Will take them home to bed
Because they're tired little teddy bears”*

The littlest bear was still showing off, doing his best to keep from surrendering the spotlight,
until the music stopped and the only sound was Harry impatiently tapping his foot. Reluctantly, the
little fellow finally tramped into the carpetbag, blowing one final kiss and giving one final wave
to the audience before disappearing inside.

The audience ate it up.

“Now,” Harry said as he took of his wizard's hat and rolled up his oversized sleeves, “Does
anyone here believe in magic…?

************

“Say what you will about old Miss Price, she does know her wands.” Reverend Lockhart settled
into the big leather chair behind his desk. “Did she tell you her big World War II story?”

“You mean, how she single-handedly turned back a German invasion force by enchanting a bunch of
medieval armor from a museum? She tells everyone that story. Did she try and sell you `The Star Of
Asteroth'?”

“No, but she did try to sell me an enchanted bed knob once. I never did figure out what it was
supposed to do.” Lockhart held out his hand and Hermione handed over his wand. “I hope you
don't mind, but I did a bit of name-dropping when I went to see her. I kind of let her assume
that you and Harry had sent me.”

Lockhart pointed his wand at the huge mahogany desk and it slowly rose into the air. Underneath,
set into the floor was the door to a safe. Another flick of the wand and the dial spun itself into
the proper combination. The door flew open. Lockhart reached in and pulled out a large spiral bound
notebook.

“I assume this is what you were looking for.”

“My journal!” Hermione flipped through the pages to be certain it was hers. “How did you get
this?”

“Would you believe I found it? I just happened to be a guest at a birthday party where Harry was
performing. Of course, it was a total fluke that I was there to begin with—but that's been the
story of my life!”

************

A few hours later the church was virtually deserted. Only, the Potters, the Weasleys, and
Reverend Lockhart remained.

“You have no idea how finding that notebook changed my life!” With a gesture Lockhart levitated
the gold cigar box from his desk over to Harry. “Of course, I know I'm not up to your level,
Harry—or yours, Mrs. Potter.”

The lid opened obligingly. Harry knew little about cigars, but he was sure that they were
expensive—Cuban most likely. Harry waved his hand dismissively. Ron took a cigar and stuffed it
into his vest pocket, earning himself a dirty look from Victoria.

“I knew I was different right from the beginning,” Lockhart told them, “Things just
naturally—perhaps I should say, *supernaturally*—seemed to go my way. The one and only fight I
ever got into in grammar school, the school bully tripped over his own shoelaces and broke his
collarbone. I don't know whether I should be so indiscreet in front of the ladies,” he said
with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “but the very first time I was ever intimate with a young
lady, her parents got lost coming back from the pictures and didn't make it home until the next
morning. I knew I had a gift, but I didn't know what it was or how to control it—until I found
your notebook. Almost instinctively, I knew this was what I had been looking for. If you don't
mind my saying so, Mrs. Potter, You have a real gift for writing.”

“You're too kind.”

“It isn't idle flattery. You give clear, concise instructions for even the most complicated
spells. It's a genuine talent.” Lockhart took a cigar for himself, snapped his fingers and it
lit spontaneously. “Just look what you helped me to accomplish,” he gestured to Hermione's
enlarged abdomen, “in less than six months!”

Hermione silently cringed at the thought.

Lockhart took a long, luxurious drag and said, “I suppose the question is, `What happens
now?'”

“Well, you can't keep on using magic to fool the public,” Harry said.

“Why not?” asked Lockhart rather insolently. “Isn't that what you're doing,
Harry?”
“I'm not lying to people—”

“Aren't you?” Lockhart blew a puff of smoke, which formed into the shimmying figure of a
Hawaiian hula dancer. “Aren't you lying every day when you go around pretending to be one of
them; pretending that the miracles you make are all done with smoke and mirrors; that somehow even
if the audience doesn't know what it is, there's a logical, rational explanation for
everything you do?”

“It's not quite the same thing,” Harry said. “I'm an entertainer. I don't promise
them a free ticket to heaven.”

“But is that really lying? I see myself as giving them hope!” Lockhart shrugged. “It might even
be the truth for all I know.”

“But how can you preach something when you don't believe it yourself?” Victoria asked.

“Does it really matter what I believe?” The hula girl was obliterated as she passed the
air-conditioning vent. “I'd always understood that it's what's in a person's heart
that counts. If they believe it, what difference does it make whether I believe it or not?”
Lockhart got up and opened a large wooden cabinet. Inside was an incredibly well stocked bar. He
picked up a glass and looked around to see if anyone cared to join him. Another dirty look from
Victoria assured that there were no takers.

“A long time ago, people like me learned that religion is very nearly the perfect consumer
product—at least as far as the salesman is concerned. It's practically foolproof. If anything
goes wrong, God is the perfect fall guy.” He switched to his pious/sympathetic voice, “`It just
wasn't God's Will, my dear…'”

“Or it's the person's own fault,” Ron nodded. “They weren't praying hard
enough.”

“Exactly! You understand, too. Don't you, Harry?”

“I understand that men like you have been using religion to take advantage of a lot of good,
decent people over the years.”

“Have I really? Look, if there really is a heaven, I figure people like Minerva Smith have
already got a front row seat. Even if I roast in hell, that's not going to change. All I've
done is `redirect' their energies a little. If their labors earn them a place among the saints
and make my life a little more pleasant in the process, then I figure it's a win-win
proposition for all of us!” Lockhart finished helping himself to a drink. “You don't do
healings, do you?”

Harry shook his head. Hermione was the one with the real knack for healing, but Harry said
nothing. He wasn't going to give Lockhart any more information that he might be able to turn
around and use against them later.

“Pity. That's the one thing I really wish I were good at. I mean I can do some basic stuff,
but nothing fancy. I figure if I could make just one blind person see or cure the odd cripple here
and there, I'd be set for life!” He remembered something just as he started to take a sip of
his drink, “I did manage to turn water into wine a couple of weeks ago! You've no idea how well
that goes over with the unwashed masses. I bet if we put our heads together, you and I could come
up with miracles that would make the parting of the Red Sea look like an old *Doctor Who*
episode!”

Harry started to get up. “I don't think so.”

“I understand you did the `Floating Wand' trick tonight.”

Harry froze.

“Yes.”

“Didn't quite go as planned, did it?”

“The wand seemed to get—I don't know—confused. It was as if—“

“As if there were more than one person in the congregation with magical abilities?” Lockhart
smiled. “Almost a third of them, Harry. One-third.” His grin grew to Cheshire Cat proportions.
“I've been a busy boy too.”

Now he had Harry's undivided attention.

Lockhart threw a copy of the Times on his desk.

“We're living in dangerous times, Harry. You've seen the reports of attacks in the
papers! In addition to the potential profits—or *prophets*, take your pick —this church could
also serve as a refuge—a sanctuary—for people like us! You're a magician! You know all about
the need for proper staging—and the use of misdirection! Where is the last place in the world
people would think to look for wizards and witches? A church!”

“He may be onto something, Harry.” Ron said into his friend's ear. “This could be just the
way to start that school of yours, without attracting undue attention.”

“If you were to feed five thousand people with nothing but a couple of loaves and fishes as part
of your act, the public would call it black magic—but if I do it as part of a church service,
they'd call it a miracle. It's all in the presentation.” Lockhart leaned back in his big
leather chair and took another long drag of his cigar. “If you stop and think about it, how do we
know that the fellow who first performed that particular trick wasn't one of us all along?”

****

“You're tempted, aren't you?” Hermione asked, finally breaking the long silence as they
drove home.

“I'm tempted by the idea of a sanctuary,” Harry confessed. “But I'm still not convinced
that we can trust Lockhart. Hermione, you knew him from before…”

“I think we can trust Lockhart to act in his own best interests. If his best interests just
happen to coincide with ours…” She shrugged. “Dennis Malfoy is the one we really have to
watch.”

“I noticed you didn't say anything about Malfoy Senior,” Ron said.

“Neither did Lockhart. He just took it for granted we believed him when he said Dennis
wasn't responsible for the break-ins.”

“The Old Man might not have anything to do with them,” Ron pointed out. “The way I heard it, he
and Dennis never got on all that well.”

“Well, if he didn't break into our flat on orders from his dad, then he did it on orders
from Lockhart—why else would Lockhart lie for them?”

“They could be blackmailing him.” Victoria suggested. “Given Lockhart's lifestyle, it's
not outside the realm of possibility.”

“Maybe…” Harry said. “But until we know for sure what's going on, we can't afford to
trust any of them.”

End of Chapter Three

See “Have We Met” by Quickdraw at www.astronomytower.org

“The Teddy Bears Picnic” Music and Lyrics by Jimmy Kennedy



4. A Price Above Rubies
-----------------------



**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Thanks to Haggridd for his most excellent Beta skills and steadfast
moral support.

CHILD'S PLAY

(Part Four)

“A Price Above Rubies”

*“Who can find a virtuous woman, for her price is far above rubies.”*

Proverbs 31:10

“This is *just right*,” said “Goldilocks”.

Reverend Gilderoy Lockhart couldn't have agreed more as he settled into the hot tub. The
water wasn't too hot. The massage she'd just given him wasn't too hard—and as for who
would be sleeping in *his* bed…

*“How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince's daughter!”* Lockhart quoted,
*“The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman. Thy navel
is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with
lilies. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.* *Thy neck is as a tower of
ivory; thine eyes like the fishpools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bathrabbim: thy nose is as the
tower of Lebanon, which looketh toward Damascus…* *How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love,
for delights!”*

“Is that really in the Bible?” “Goldilocks” asked.

“Song of Solomon, Chapter 7, verses1-6.” Lockhart grinned. “Now you know how the old boy managed
to snag all those wives.”

“That is so… biblical!”

“You know it, kid. Now, what do you say we break a few Commandments?”

The *last* thing Lockhart needed at that moment was the Honorable Lucius Malfoy, M.P.
scowling down at him.

Lockhart patted “Goldilocks”—*what the hell did she say her name was again? —*on her lovely
pear-shaped derrière and pointed her toward the bathroom.

“Why don't you take a shower, darlin', and let the men-folk talk?” With a naughty
twinkle in her eye, “Goldilocks” simply stood straight up, giving Malfoy the full, unobstructed
view. Yet, for all the reaction she provoked, she might just as well have been a chair or a lamp.
Lockhart wondered if the man even *possessed* a libido. Shrugging, the girl picked up a towel
that had been draped over the side of the tub, casually wrapped it around herself and walked
through the patio doors into Lockhart's hotel suite.

“If *that* doesn't make you believe in Heaven,” Lockhart sighed as he admired the view,
“*nothing* will.”

Malfoy let out a contemptuous snort as he set his briefcase down on the patio table.

“You have been granted the most extraordinary powers and yet you use them to indulge your vices
and lure women into your bed!”

“And your point is…?”

“Lord give me strength!”

“You have *your* ambitions, Lucius, and I have *mine*.” Lockhart felt around until he
located his champagne glass, and then helped himself to another round. “If you disapprove of my
behavior so much, you can always get someone else.”

“There is no one else,” Malfoy sighed, “not with *your* kind of talent, both for magic and
for—” he glanced over at the girl as she disappeared into the bathroom— “…persuasion... Still, as
long as the job gets done, it is not without precedent for history to forgive great men for their…
`indiscretions'… Jefferson, Eisenhower, Kennedy…”

“Why Lucius, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Thank you.” He
saluted Malfoy with his champagne glass. “Anyway, *I'm* not the one you have to worry
about.” He picked up a copy of the *Times* that had been left beside the hot tub and tossed it
to Malfoy. It was folded open to the article about the vandalism of Harry and Hermione's
flat.

“I've already spoken to Dennis.” Malfoy carefully placed the paper face down on the patio
table.

“They were only supposed to find the other notebooks. What was the idea of trashing the
place?”

“Naturally, Dennis is *impatient* to increase his abilities— he and his friends got a
little carried away.” Lockhart knew that Lucius was lying, but now wasn't the time to call him
on it.

“If you can't keep that kid of yours on a leash, he's going to blow this scam for all of
us!”

“I wish you'd stop referring to our good work as though it was some cheap real estate
swindle. I'm convinced that we are doing the Lord's will.”

“If you would let *me* handle this *my way*, I might still be able to win the Potters
over to our side.”

“*Our side*?” Malfoy repeated incredulously. “Do you seriously think you can just
sweet-talk them into *giving* us the notebooks voluntarily?”

“Lord, you gave them eyes, and yet they do not see!” Lockhart sighed. He poured himself some
more champagne. “Don't you understand, Lucius? The Potters are `Do-Gooders'! Like you, they
are on a *mission*! They're seeking out others of their kind!”

“And just what do they propose to do when they find them?”

“Knowing Potter, probably to form us all up into some kind of magical `Peace Corps' so we
can save the world from itself. Perhaps your goals and theirs are not so far apart as you
think.”

Lucius shook his head and sighed.

“I could see it in his eyes, Lucius! Harry was practically drooling over the idea of using the
church a sanctuary for witches and wizards! All we have to do is be patient and he'll come
around.”

The doorbell rang. Lockhart motioned for Malfoy to hand him his bathrobe.

“Mrs. Smith!” Lockhart said as he let the old woman in.

“I—I don't mean to disturb you at this hour, Reverend.” She stammered. With a mischievous
smile, Lockhart quickly tied his robe the rest of the way.

“You're not disturbing me at all, Minerva. You know The Honorable Mr. Malfoy, our Member of
Parliament. We were just discussing church business.”

“Mr. Malfoy…” Though she did her best to be polite, there was something about Lucius Malfoy that
Minerva just didn't trust.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Smith?”

“I've just been on the phone with Amelia Bones. It's seems her daughter Susan went up to
the church for a meeting of the Sunday-school teachers and hasn't returned. Then I come to find
out that there is no meeting scheduled for tonight.”

“A very devout young lady, as I recall.” Malfoy said out of the blue.

“And no one at the church has seen her?” Lockhart asked with a suspicious glance toward
Malfoy.

“The only persons there were your son and his friends Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle.” Her answer
sounded a little bit like an accusation.

“Had Draco seen Miss Bones?”

“He said that they had prayed together, but that she had left.”

“She probably just needed some time to herself. I'm sure there's nothing to worry
about.” Malfoy quickly changed the subject. “I'm glad I finally have a chance to speak with
you, Mrs. Smith. It seems you were quite right to bring your suspicions about Harry Potter to my
office. I've been in contact with several professional magicians, including David Copperfield
and Lance Burton. Many of Potter's feats simply cannot be explained away as simple stage
illusions. There's clearly something more sinister involved.”

“I believe that there are supernatural forces at work, Mr. Malfoy,” Mrs. Smith said grimly. “I
am convinced that Harry Potter is practicing black magic.”

“Or, perhaps it is his *wife* who is responsible…?”

“I don't understand…”

Malfoy opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick file folder, which he handed to Mrs.
Smith.

“Being a Member of Parliament does have its advantages. My people have been doing some discrete
checking on Mrs. Potter. Before she and her husband were married, Miss Hermione Granger barely
caused a blip on the radar screen. Her parents are dead. The hospital where she was born has been
closed. Her primary school conveniently burned down and all records were lost… and on and on.
It's almost as if she never existed prior to her marriage to Harry Potter. She simply appeared
out of nowhere.”

“Perhaps she is a *succubus* Harry conjured up to be his `love slave'…” Lockhart said
with a grin.

Lucius Malfoy and Minerva Smith both glared at him with distaste.

“More than likely,” Malfoy insisted, “she created this identity in order to hide her past.”

“A false identity?” Lockhart said, raising an eyebrow. “I wonder what she could be hiding…?”

“You don't suppose,” Mrs. Smith pondered, “that she's …a… *communist*?”

“I shouldn't be a bit surprised,” Malfoy said, doing his best to keep a straight face.
“Which makes it all the more imperative for us to take decisive action as soon as possible.”

“I just don't know, Mr. Malfoy… If only there were some way to be certain before we do
something drastic. My head tells me that the Potters are doing wrong—but my heart tells that that
deep down they're basically good people.”

“You are a caring and compassionate woman, Minerva,” Malfoy put his arm around her shoulders,
“But we must never forget that although our Lord is a God of love, He is also a God of Judgment.”
He turned to Lockhart with a “Back me up here!” look.

“Did He not let loose His plagues upon the Egyptians when Pharaoh defied Him?” Lockhart reminded
her. “Did He not rain fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gomorrah to punish them for their wickedness?
Did He not flood the entire world when mankind turned their hearts away from Him?”

“We can be allowed some pity for God's enemies, Mrs. Smith, but we must never weaken in our
resolve!”

“In my head, I know that you're making sense, Mr. Malfoy,” she sighed, “but the Potters are
so kind. Every time I see them they're helping someone or doing some good work…”

“I'm sure they work very hard to disguise their true intentions.”

“Harry Potter even risked his life to protect me when that horrible Mr. Higgins was determined
to do me bodily injury…”

“Proving perhaps that they are not *beyond redemption*.” Lockhart quickly added with a
stern look toward Malfoy. “Of course, we must hate the *sin*, but love the *sinner*!”

“Of course,” Malfoy repeated reluctantly.

“…and Mrs. Potter is expecting a wee baby soon.”

“Which makes it all the more important that they be brought to their senses in time, before that
poor child is caught in whatever diabolical morass its parents have already been dragged into! The
Lord is their only hope, Mrs. Smith,” intoned Malfoy. “The church is their only salvation”

When Minerva Smith left Reverend Lockhart's room, she was still plagued by doubts.

“I'm beginning think Potter's *wife* is the key.” Malfoy mused once she had gone.
His mind was working overtime. “Now if we could just apply the right amount of pressure…”

“What? Threaten her? Threaten the *baby*?” He shook his head. “Don't even go there,
Lucius.”

“When did *you* suddenly grow a conscience? You're not afraid of Harry Potter, are
you?”

“Of course not!” He poured himself another glass of champagne. “It's *Mrs*. Potter
I'm afraid of. Ever see a lioness defending her cubs? And lest you forget, *she* was the
one who wrote that notebook! I don't know where or how Hermione Potter acquired her knowledge
of magic, but she has had the full syllabus. Dennis and I—even Harry—have barely passed our first
years! Now, I'm getting pretty good at this magic stuff—and your Dennis seems to have even more
of a knack for it than I do—but that doesn't change the fact that we both have the equivalent
of a *brown belt* from a *correspondence* Karate school. Neither one of us are ready to
pick a fight with Bruce Lee.”

Lockhart could have sworn he heard Malfoy mutter the word, “coward” as he gathered up the file
folder and shoved them in his briefcase.

*“*Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to freshen up.” Lockhart let his robe slip off as
he went inside from the patio in search of “Goldilocks”. “*Oh, Susan! If you're a good girl,
I'll let you scrub my back!”*

**************

Through the streets of Shepherd's Bush echoed the voice of Frank Sinatra.

*“Fairy tales can come true,
It can happen to you
If you're young at heart”*

Minerva Smith was watching as Harry rehearsed a segment for his television show in a small park
not far from BBC Center. The scene involved Harry casually strolling through the park, (in full
wizard regalia), when he comes upon a lonely looking old man sitting on a bench, a lonely old woman
sitting on the bench opposite. With a wave of Harry's wand, the old man gets up, sweeps the old
woman into his arms and the two begin dancing like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

*“For it's hard, you will find,
To be narrow of mind
If you're young at heart.”*

Before she knew what was happening, Harry had swept up Mrs. Smith in a similar fashion.

“Where are you right now, Mrs. Smith?” Harry asked softy when she closed her eyes.

“The old Town Hall…” Minerva replied dreamily. “We're both nineteen, my Jamie and me… so
young… and so much in love.”

*“Don't you know that it's worth
Every treasure on Earth
To be young at heart”*

Harry smiled and softly spoke a quick incantation.

When Minerva opened her eyes, it was all there: the old Town Hall, the lights, the music, and
her beloved Jamie—with one slight change. Instead of just a phonograph record playing over the
loudspeaker, “Ol' Blue Eyes” himself was on stage, singing.

*“For as rich as you are
It's much better by far
To be young at heart”*

Mrs. Smith suddenly let go of her Jamie and backed away.

“No…” She shook her head violently. “It's not true… It's a lie. My husband is dead,” she
declared.

Harry was now up on stage in place of Sinatra.

“Not a lie, Mrs. Smith,” he said gently. “A memory! I meant no offense,” Harry apologized as
they returned to reality. “I simply wanted to give you back something you had lost; A moment of
*joy*. If you'll forgive me for saying, there seems so little in your life right now.”

Part of her wanted to scream, “How dare you!” and slap his face—but Harry was right. There was
very little joy left in her life. “It's not been easy since Mr. Smith passed on.” She turned
and started to walk away, then abruptly turned to face him. “Why?”

“I don't understand.”
“Why, after all I've done, do you insist on being so… *nice* to me?”

“I'm afraid that you have my wife to blame for that, Mrs. Smith.”

“Your wife?”

Harry led her over to a park bench where they sat down. He produced a small bag of breadcrumbs
from his pocket and began to feed the pigeons.

“Apparently you remind her of a teacher she greatly admired. I guess she could be pretty
hard-nosed, but she could also be warm and compassionate, and very wise. Hermione seems to feel
that you have those qualities—and maybe I agree with her.”

“You love your wife very much, don't you, Mr. Potter?” Mrs. Smith said, trying to steer the
conversation away from herself.

“She saved my life.” Harry considered for a moment, “No, that's not quite right. I
didn't have a life before she came along. You told me that you had met the Dursleys—but you
can't possibly imagine what it was to live under the same roof with them.”

She covered Harry's hand with hers.

“I am so sorry, Harry… If only I had known what they were doing to you. They were members of our
church! If only I had *seen*…!”

“You mustn't blame yourself, Mrs. Smith.” Harry told her gently, “Uncle Vernon was very good
at convincing people that nothing was wrong. Anything strange going on in that house was obviously
my own fault.” Harry suppressed a shudder. “Heaven only know what I would've turned into if
Hermione hadn't showed up on my uncle's doorstep that night.”

“She simply appeared out of nowhere…?” Minerva said, Lucius Malfoy's words echoing inside
her head:

*“It's almost as if she never existed prior to her marriage to Harry Potter.”*

“Something like that.” Harry chuckled. “She certainly had her work cut out for her with me. My
uncle had me convinced that I was the most worthless creature ever to walk the earth. Hermione saw
talents in me that I would never have even dreamed were there. Perhaps more importantly, she showed
me that I was not only capable of *giving* love, but that I was worthy of *being* loved
as well.”

“But what do you *really* know about her—about her background?”

Harry shrugged, “I know that she's had her share of hardships… She lost her parents just as
I did. I think it's only brought us closer together. Why do you ask?”

*“A false identity?” Lockhart said, raising an eyebrow. “I wonder what she could be
hiding…?”*

“It's just that…” She reached up, wanting to touch his face, but stopping herself. He was so
much like her dear Jamie… “You're so… You seem such a trusting soul, Harry… I would hate for
anything to…”

*“We can be allowed some pity for God's enemies, Mrs. Smith, but we must never weaken in
our resolve!”*

Harry raised an eyebrow. She seemed worried about him. He wondered if it could it have anything
to do with Lockhart and Lucius Malfoy?

“Mrs. Smith—”

“I really must go!” She collected her purse and hurried off, leaving Harry totally
bewildered.

“Mrs. Smith!”

A hand rested on Harry's shoulder.

“You can't win 'em all, kid,” Mr. Sinatra said as he cocked his hat, slung his overcoat
over his shoulder and lit up a cigarette.

“No… I guess not.” As they watched Mrs. Smith walked away, the music slowly faded in. Frank
began to sing:

*“And if you should survive
To a hundred and five”*

Harry took of his wizard's robes, slung them over his shoulder and took the next verse.

*“Look at all you'll derive
Out of being alive”*

As Harry and Frank walked back toward the crew, singing in close harmony, Frank slowly faded
away, only his voice remaining.

*
“Here is the best part
You have a head start”*

She now knew for certain that Harry Potter definitely had strange powers. But even so, somehow
Minerva couldn't bring herself to mention the incident to either Reverend Lockhart or Lucius
Malfoy.

*“If you are among
The very young at heart”*

***********

*“Mommy?”*

Hermione must have dozed off, because when she awoke, the afternoon chat shows were on.

The Honeymoon Suite at the Dorchester Hotel in London was the very definition of “the lap of
luxury”, but Harry had always suspected that the *real* reason Hermione loved to stay there
was because the Concierge had the bad luck to resemble one of her old Hogwarts professors—Snake, or
Snade, or something… As much as the fellow obviously detested them, now that Harry was something of
a celebrity, he had no choice but to pretend to be nice. Harry's cheeks used to ache in
sympathy for the poor fellow, knowing how painful it must be to hold that fake smile of his for so
long.

“I think you *enjoy* giving the man a hard time,” Harry had observed. “When you told him
that you were nine months pregnant, for instance, did you also happen to mention that you were
still nearly three full weeks away from your official due-date?”

“Well…”

“And is it *possible* that the reason he wanted to program the numbers of your obstetrician
and Charing Cross Hospital into the Speed Dial at the front desk, is that you let him *assume*
that you could go into labor at any moment?”

“I can't be responsible for what the man *assumes*, Harry,” she had said
innocently.

Harry could only laugh. At least they were assured of good service while they were here. As long
as the Concierge was on duty, the phone never had to ring more than once when they called for room
service.

Until the Potter's new house was ready for occupation, or the baby came, Hermione was
clearly intending to enjoy herself.

*“Mommy…”*

She thought she had heard—but it wasn't really a voice—it was more of—what *was* it?
She put a hand to her abdomen. That's when it hit her: It was the *baby*!

***********

Harry got back from taping his television program about six thirty in the evening. When he had
left her that morning, Hermione had been in one of her “I'm so fat and gross and repulsive”
moods. Of course, Hermione had never been terribly secure about her looks to begin with.

“Just once, I wish you could see yourself the way that I see you,” Harry had told her. “Then you
would know just how truly beautiful you really are.” That usually did the trick but sometimes more
drastic measures were called for. While Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream was not a
*guaranteed* cure for the condition, it did seem to relieve the symptoms most of the time.

“Talk about a rough day at the office!” Harry said as he let himself in. “We've got the
Olsen Twins as guest stars this week. You wouldn't believe the way those two natter on! I now
know more about “N-Synch” and “The Backstreet Boys”, than any one over the age of fourteen should.
And of course, *Mr. Nibbler*® got me three times today! I swear, if I never see another
custard pie as long as I live—”

Hermione was sitting in a big armchair in the middle of the room, hugging her abdomen, a
beatific smile on her face and tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked as though she had just
experienced some divine revelation.

“Darling…?” Harry knelt down in front of her, gently touching her hand, almost afraid to disturb
her reverie.

“It's the baby, Harry,” she said softly.

“Is it time?” He fumbled for his cell phone to call Dr. Pomfrey.

She gently took hold of his hand.

“No, no… It's not time, yet,” she said ever so softly, as if afraid to awaken a sleepwalker.
She took Harry's hand and placed it on her abdomen. “He could sense that I was upset… about the
break-in… about Lockhart… He wanted to make sure Mommy was okay.” She smiled at Harry. “Caring and
considerate, just like his father.”

It took a moment for the full implications of what she was saying to sink in.

“You can actually *communicate* with the baby…?”

“It's not *words*. He's still too young for that. I don't think he really
understands *what* I was upset about, just that I was upset.”

Harry's mind was racing in ten different directions at once. “I—uh—uh—Is this *normal*?
For a witch, I mean?”

“I don't know,” Hermione admitted. “I grew up as a Muggle and I don't remember Molly or
any of the witches I knew at Hogwarts ever mentioning it. I think it's *you*, Harry.
You've been training less than two years and you're already doing things I couldn't do
after six years! If you're *that* powerful, what kind of things will our son be capable
of?”

“We should call Molly—”

“Later,” Hermione insisted. “I want to enjoy this moment while it lasts.” Harry gently laid his
head against her abdomen and closed his eyes while Hermione ran her fingers through his hair. “I
tried to share my second-sight with him, the way I did with you as we watched him grow inside me. I
tried showing him a little of the outside world but I think it confused him a little.

“There's only so much that even an *exceptional* infant can take in,” Harry pointed
out.

“Now that you're here, I'd like to try it again.” Closing her eyes, Hermione
concentrated. Opening her eyes, she reached up to caress Harry's face. “Can you see, my little
one? This is your Daddy.”

Harry was so overwhelmed by the moment that all he managed to get out was, “Son…”

She began to giggle.

“He wants to know what those funny things are on your face.” Hermione reached out and pulled off
Harry's glasses.

“They help Daddy to see.” That apparently brought forth a cascade of questions, which Hermione
wasn't quite prepared for. Her expression changed several times as she mentally tried to
placate their curious son. Finally, she sighed. Evidently he was satisfied for the moment. “I
can't wait for you to finally meet your Daddy, Darling, because he loves you just as much as
Mommy does… Just as much as Mommy loves *him*—even if he does snore sometimes.”

As he replaced his glasses, Harry stuck his tongue out at her.

“Pay no attention, Darling, Daddy's just being silly.”

“Daddy can't wait to get to know you, son.” He began kissing Hermione's hand. “Just like
Daddy can't wait to get `reacquainted' with Mommy when she's feeling up to it.” He
worked his way up her arm. “It's been much too long since Daddy and Mommy spent any `*quality
time'* together!”

Hermione was beginning to blush. When Harry got to a particular spot on her neck, she suddenly
found herself thinking things that *really* perplexed the little tyke.

“Harry!” She said through gritted teeth, “Not in front of the baby!” Suddenly, she caught her
breath and held up her hands, causing Harry to freeze. Something was happening. “I think the
lessons are over for today,” she said with a smile, “Let's have a look.”

Harry took Hermione's hand and she looked inside herself once more.

*Young Master Potter had apparently decided that he'd had enough for one day. He
didn't really understand a lot of what his parents were going on about. He would soon discover
that things were much the same in the outside world. On some level, Young Potter did understand
that, in spite of their rather strange behavior, that these beings called “Mommy” and “Daddy” were
there to love and protect and care for him. That at least, the child decided, was a good
thing*.

Harry and Hermione watched as their son smiled and went back to sleep. The Potters—the
*three* of them, snuggled together in the big armchair. For the very first time, a connection
had been made. They were truly a family.

END OF PART THREE

See Chapter Two

*Y**oung At Heart* Lyrics by Carolyn Leigh, music by Johnny Richards



5. Not Heeding Her Plea
-----------------------

Brian Hendrickson Normal Brian Hendrickson 7 2921 2002-11-07T03:43:00Z 2003-09-07T18:37:00Z 10
5929 33797 281 67 41505 9.3821

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:** Thanks to Haggridd for his most excellent Beta skills and steadfast moral
support.

CHILD’S PLAY

Chapter Five
"Not heeding her plea, he overpowered her;
He shamed her, and had relations with her."
-2 Samuel 13:14
********

*“I come to the garden alone,
while the dew is still on the roses,”
*

He was looking at her again. Always before it had simply been an annoyance. Now it was all she
could do to keep from running out of the room in a blind panic.

*“And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.”*

She tried to concentrate on the words to the hymn she was singing, the cut of the pastor’s suit,
the wood grain of the pews; Anything to take her mind off those eyes.

*“I’d stay in the garden with Him
Though the night around me be falling,”
*

Marcia Herringbone’s life had not been particularly glamorous or exciting, but it had certainly
been happy enough. She had a loving family; good friends and she had always made decent grades in
school. Yet always there, just at the edges of her life, *he* had been there, haunting her
like a ghost.

“But He bids me go; through the voice of woe
His voice to me is calling.”

In her fifth year at St. Bridget’s Public School, Marcia had met Stanley Simons, a nice young
man from Croydon who dreamed of one day becoming a solicitor. He had told her she was pretty. She
had laughed at all his jokes. He had taken her to the pictures. By her seventh year, she had more
or less decided that they would marry.

It was about this time when the dreams began. At first she would simply wake up with a start,
her body covered in perspiration and her heart beating wildly—yet she could never quite remember
what the dream was about. It was like reaching for an object on a high shelf. Touching it with her
fingertips, but unable to grasp it.

“And He walks with me…”

Now, as she looked into those eyes, something was happening. She was beginning to
*remember*.

“...and He talks with me,”

She had begun to recall images—fleeting impressions—a mysterious figure that would crawl into
her bed—hands wandering over her—but her body paralyzed, unable to move or cry out—and a voice
saying, “I love you.”

*“*“...*and He tells me I am His own;”*

“What’s wrong,” her beloved Stanley whispered. Marcia was too ashamed to meet his eyes. Fighting
back the tears, she stood up and headed for the aisle.

“*And the joy we share as we tarry there,*

None other has ever known.”

Harry Potter watched the service from the control booth overlooking the studio as the BBC
technicians taped it for broadcast on Sunday Morning. Always a bit of a techno-geek, Harry seemed
to delight in the organized chaos that went into the making of any television program.

On the monitor for camera one, Reverend Lockhart launched into his sermon. He seemed
particularly fired up this week.

“There is a dangerous misconception,” he began, “perpetrated on the public by the so-called
‘mainstream’ preachers who take the phrase, ‘Blessed are the meek’ to mean that believers should be
smiling, touchy-feely little drones, obsessed with ‘peace’ and ‘loving thy neighbor’…”

Less interested in the technical details—or Lockhart’s sermon, Hermione, Ron and Victoria sat at
the back of the room and chatted quietly.

“You could actually *talk* to the baby?” Victoria gasped.

“It wasn’t *talking*, exactly…we could each sort of sense what the other was thinking.”

“Mum says that’s pretty rare.” Ron pointed out. “In all her years as a midwife, she’s only heard
of it happening a couple of times. Sounds like you two have got a pretty special kid on your
hands.”

“I can’t wait for him to be born,” Hermione sighed. “I just want so badly to hold him…” She
smiled and put a hand to her abdomen. “I think he’s embarrassed.”

“Little boys never like for their mums to fuss over them.” Victoria pointed out.

“It makes the other boys think you’re a sissy,” Ron agreed. “I just hope *our* kid won’t be
quite as chatty. Lord only knows what he’d be telling the neighbors!”

“Victoria! You two aren’t—?”

“Not *yet*…” Victoria blushed. “Now that the show’s beginning to pay off, we’ve decided to
start trying.”

“Ready or not, world,” Ron said, “There could be another Weasley on the way.”

“Heaven help us!” Victoria sighed as Hermione gave her a hug.

The assistant director turned around to shush them.

“That’s odd,” said the Director. “I wonder what’s up?” Harry and the others moved to the control
board to have a look. Camera three was following a pretty young girl as she scooted her way to the
aisle and ran out of the studio in tears.

“Isn’t that Marcia Herringbone?” asked Hermione.

“Must’ve had a fight with her boyfriend,” Ron shrugged.

Harry was watching the monitor for camera one.

Lockhart shot a concerned look back at Draco Malfoy, who was sitting behind him.

“‘Meek’,” he continued, “does not mean ‘weak’! Meekness, in biblical terms is that quality of
grace under pressure; the ability to keep one’s head as the battle rages about you. Our Lord
doesn’t want soldiers who are weak, soft or soggy, but rather strong in the Lord and the power of
his might.”

“Onward Christain soldiers…” Ron began singing as he beat on imaginary drum.

It was at this point that the A.D. got fed up and threw the lot of them out of the control
booth.

*********

*“Loo, loo, loo, I’ll take you dreaming,*

*Through the rainy night,*

*To a place behind the raindrops,*

*Where the stars are bright.*

Harry could hear Hermione’s voice as he climbed the stairs of the old Victorian house they had
christened “Potter Manor”.

*You may not find gold or silver,*

*But a richer prize,*

*Waits for you behind the raindrops,*

*If you close your eyes.”*

Harry peeked through the open door into the room that they had chosen as the baby’s nursery.
Many of the boxes still waited to be unpacked but the crib had been assembled and Harry had brought
up the big old wooden rocking chair that Molly had given them. In spite of the pouring rain
outside, the room seemed wonderfully warm and cozy. Hermione was rocking gently back and forth, as
she sang softly to the their unborn son.

*“Tonight, Tonight,*

*When all the world’s asleep,*

*We will tiptoe home with a wondrous star,*

*A star you can always keep.”*

They had spotted the eccentric old house on the edge of Wilsdon Green while driving home from a
birthday party where Harry was performing. Hermione had fallen in love immediately. For his part,
Harry was perfectly content being newlyweds in their tiny “love nest” in Shepherd’s Bush, but
Hermione was certain that here they had found the perfect place to raise a family. After watching
the way Hermione’s eyes lit up, Harry needed no more convincing.

*“And years from now when you go dreaming,*

*When you’re very old,*

*Though your crown be rich with rubies,*

*Diamonds set in gold,*

*None will shine as bright*

*As the star we’ll find tonight*.” *[1]*

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing before,” Harry said gently as he walked in.

“I guess I’ve never had so much to sing about before.”

Harry knelt down beside the rocking chair.

“Do you feel it too, Harry?”

“That we should have held out for a lower interest rate?” He shrugged. “Well, with
‘twenty-twenty hindsight’—“

“No, silly!” She gave him a playful smack on the shoulder. “That we belong here…That this is
*home*.”

“I never really knew what those words meant before I met you.” He told her. “My uncle’s house
was never a ‘home’ to me—and the first place I ever felt I ‘belonged’ was in your arms. This is a
wonderful old house, but to me, ‘home’ will always be anywhere that the three of us can be
together.”

From the doorway came the sounds of someone loudly clearing their throat.

“I hate to interrupt this touching little scene,” said Victoria Weasley dryly, “But the natives
are getting restless downstairs.”

“Fear not,” Harry said as he got to his feet, “The food’s already on the way.”

**********

The Weasley/Lupin clan was sprawled about the Potter’s sitting room in various states of
exhaustion when Victoria, Harry and Hermione came downstairs. Boxes were still scattered about the
room, but the, the stereo, the DVD player and the television had all been carefully unpacked, and
fully installed under the strict supervision of Bill, Charlie and Ron, who had taken charge of the
remote control.

’Ere!” said Remus Lupin as his eyes snapped open, “I was watchin’ that!” Ginny snatched the
remote from her older brother and changed the channel back to the news. Before long Remus had
settled back in the big recliner he had claimed and was fast asleep again.

“Some people simply weren’t cut out to be Muggles,” Professor Dumbledore once observed,
[2] “It’s not an easy life, and few of them ever really get the hang of it.” Such was the
case with Remus Lupin. He was as friendly and caring as his Hogwarts counterpart, but there was a
sadness about him—even more so than his lycanthropic opposite number. A dead-end job as a minor
official with the Ministry Of Housing, the pressures of supporting a “Super-Sized” family and the
usual day-to-day cares of the Muggle world had worn him down and made him old beyond his years—The
same stresses that had already killed his good friend Arthur Weasley.

It was something of a surprise when Remus proposed to Arthur’s widow. He never seemed all that
interested in family life before. Several of his friends suspected that Arthur had made his friend
promise to look after his family. Regardless of how it came about, Remus and Molly seemed happy
enough and the children never felt he was trying to usurp their father’s place in their affections.
Even so, Hermione often suspected that the free spirited Remus might have found the werewolf’s
curse preferable to the life he lived in this reality.

Remus was still snoozing when the pizzas Harry had ordered finally arrived.

As they ate, the news reported on the inflammatory sermon that Reverend Lockhart had preached on
his Sunday program.

*“There is a cancer growing in this country today,” Lockhart told his congregation, “And it is
our duty to remove this disease before it consumes us all. We do not condone these attacks on
innocent people accused of practicing witchcraft, but true believers must be prepared to take up
arms against the enemies of the Lord and fight. Witchcraft and sorcery are the tools of the Devil
and no good can ever come from their use!”*

“Harry?” Victoria asked as they tucked into their meal, “Do you ever wonder about where your
power really comes from? I mean, I’ve been hearing it all my life; The Bible says witchcraft and
sorcery are evil.” She, Ron, Harry and Molly were seated around the dining room table, while the
others made themselves comfortable in the sitting room to watch the upcoming Manchester United
game.

“I’ve seen evil, Victoria.” Hermione said from the kitchen doorway. “I got to see *up close
and personal* what Lord Voldemort did to those who dared to stand up to him.” She sat down in
Harry’s lap. “Now, I don’t know any more about the next life than anyone else, but I refuse to
believe that all my friends back at Hogwarts who fought so bravely *against* that evil are
burning in hell just because they chose to use magic.”

“Here, here!” Molly said.

“Magic is a *tool*,” insisted Hermione, “You can use a hammer to build a house or you can
use it to bash someone’s head in. It’s *how* you use it that’s either good or evil.”

Ron hoisted his beer.

“I’ll drink to that!”

“*You’d* drink to a hernia operation.” Fred called from the sofa.

“Only if it was *successful*.” Ron shot back.

The doorbell rang.

Reverend Gilderoy Lockhart made his entrance as if he were the featured act on “Top Of The Pops”
and handed his raincoat to Ginny as if she were the maid. In spite of the pouring rain outside, his
suit, as always, was immaculate.

“I really wish you’d reconsider joining the church, Harry,” He said as he helped himself to a
slice of pizza.

“Why should we trust you after today’s uplifting little sermon?” Victoria asked.

“What’s your game, anyway, Lockhart?” Ron demanded. “With one side of your mouth you’re
promising us sanctuary, and with the other side, you’re trying to turn the public against us. Whose
side are you on?”

“His *own*.” Hermione snarled.

“My dear Mrs. Potter…” he sighed shaking his head. “Don’t you remember what I said to Harry
about ‘misdirection’?”[3] Lockhart started to pull out a cigar. Hermione glared at him until
he replaced it in his pocket. “The louder I preach against magic, the safer we’ll all be.”

“And what about Lucius Malfoy?” There was an unusually cold harshness to Harry’s voice. Ever the
self-absorbed Lockhart couldn’t fail to see the depth of Harry’s suspicions about him.

“Have you never heard the old saying, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies *closer*’?
Malfoy is using me to get in good with the Religious Right.” He shrugged and grinned a particularly
immodest grin. “What can I say? I’m a great ‘photo-op’. Of course it works both ways. I’m using him
too. As long as he thinks I’m on his side, we’re protected—plus, we have the added bonus that he
lets me in on his strategy. We know what he’s going to do before he does it!”

“You do like to live dangerously, don’t you?” observed Victoria.

“It’s part of my charm.”

The telephone rang.

Minerva Smith was in a frightful state.

“Reverend Lockhart! You must come quickly!”

***********

Marcia Herringbone lay unconscious in the Intensive Care Unit at Charing Cross Hospital.

“Mr. and Mrs. Potter?” Mrs. Smith seemed quite surprised to see them when they entered the
waiting room with Reverend Lockhart. “What are you doing here?”

“The Herringbone’s were our neighbors,” Hermione informed her rather bruskly. Ever since her
talk with Harry in the park[4], Minerva Smith’s attitude toward Hermione had cooled
considerably. It was as though she suspected her of cheating on Harry or some other equally
egregious sin. Tired as she was, Hermione simply wasn’t in the mood for it.

“They were very kind to us when we first moved into our old flat,” Harry said, trying to sound
more diplomatic. “Do you know what happened, Mrs. Smith?”

“The doctors believe that the poor child took an overdose of sleeping pills.”

Hermione shook her head. “She seemed fine the last time I spoke her. She’d even offered to
baby-sit for us...”

“According to her mother, she’s been acting very peculiar these last few weeks.” Reverend
Lockhart told them. “It was as if she were carrying some terrible burden.”

They could hear the sound of raised voices coming from down the hall. As Lockhart opened the
door to the waiting room, they saw Stanley Simons burst out of the ICU, followed by Marcia’s mother
and father. Mr. Herringbone’s expression was of sheer disbelief.

“Stanley!” called Mrs. Herringbone. “Wait! This has to be a mistake!”

Stanley roughly shoved his way past three young men loitering by the vending machines near the
elevators. Though they tried to keep their faces turned away, Harry recognized them as Dennis
Malfoy, and his stooges Crabbe and Goyle; All of them with guilty looks on their faces. They turned
and walked casually toward the restrooms, apparently convinced that no one had spotted them.

Once they were out of sight, the color began to return to Lockhart’s cheeks.

Mr. Herringbone fumbled with a pack of cigarettes.

“I don’t understand…” his wife muttered to herself over and over.

A Doctor in full surgical scrubs emerged from the ICU.

“Mr. and Mrs. Herringbone? I know this has been a horrible shock, but there are some decisions
that need to be made right away if we’re to have any chance at all of saving the baby.”

“Baby?” Mrs. Smith gasped.

““I just found out that my daughter is going to have a baby,” Mrs. Herringbone was quickly
loosing her grip on reality. “She never said a word —and now I could end up losing both of
them.”

Harry, Hermione, and Mrs. Smith did their best to comfort the family, but it soon became
apparent that there was little they could do to help. The doctors and Lockhart both made a point of
saying that Marcia was “in God’s hands now.”

All the while, Mrs. Smith kept watching Hermione. To hear Lucius Malfoy tell it, Hermione Potter
was some kind of evil Mata Hari, simply using poor innocent Harry in her plans to bring about the
downfall of Western Civilization—and yet every time she had seen Hermione lately, it seemed as if
she were performing some act of unselfish kindness. This simply did not compute.

********

“I almost forgot,” Molly said. “How’s your friend that’s in the hospital?”

A few days later, Victoria, Molly and Ginny were helping Hermione finish unpacking the things
for the kitchen. Hermione was getting antsy just sitting there, “supervising”, but Molly had
insisted that she stay off her feet.

“Going downhill fast.” Hermione sighed. “Nothing seems to help.”

“It’s almost as if she’s given up, poor kid,” Harry and Ron carried in the last boxes of cooking
utensils, “like she’s lost the will to live.”

“I just wish there was something we could do for her…” Hermione let out a frustrated sigh.

“They still don’t know who the father of the baby is?” Ron set the box down on the kitchen table
and Hermione began unpacking it.

“The boyfriend swears he and Marcia have never did anything.”

“Judging by his reaction when he found out she was pregnant,” Harry said, “I tend to believe
him.”

“Men!” Ginny harrumphed. “He just automatically assumes that she’s been cheating to him!”

“She could have been raped,” Hermione concurred.

“I know this might be an alien concept to your brilliant analytical mind, my darling,” Harry
said, “but logic has nothing to do with a situation like this. All the boy knows is that she’s
pregnant and she never said a word to him about it.”

“Yeah!” Ron chimed in, “If you caught Harry snogging another bird, would it even occur to you
that there might be a perfectly innocent explanation for the whole thing—or would you just hex him
into next Tuesday?”

“Oh, I’d give him a chance to explain himself” Hermione said, “*then* I’d hex him into next
Tuesday.”

“Note to yourself, Harry,” said Ron, “Before you decide to cheat take elocution lessons.”

Molly was searching through the cabinets.

“Do you know where your measuring cups are, Dear?”

“I think we ran out of room and they got put in the box with the bathroom things.”

In spite of Molly’s objections, Hermione got up to take a look.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Hermione,” Harry said confidentially after she had
left the room, “But Dennis Malfoy & Co. were at the hospital last night. They acted like they
didn’t want anyone to know that they were there.”

“They know Marcia.” Ron shrugged. “We all went to grammar school together. And they might have
been there with Lockhart. I hear he makes the rounds of the hospitals at least a couple of times a
week to visit sick parishioners.”

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” Harry sighed, “But it seems as if every time there’s been any
kind of trouble lately, Dennis Malfoy and his trained baboons are lurking somewhere nearby.”

“You don’t think they had anything to do with Marcia getting…?” asked Victoria.

“I don’t know,” Harry shook his head, “but I can’t help wondering just how many people took ‘The
Hermione Potter Correspondence Course in Sorcery’ while Lockhart had possession of her
notebook…”

***********

The car sat at the bend in the road until the lights in the upstairs bedroom went out. The three
occupants got out and made their way toward the big, wrought iron fence that surrounded the house.
The rain had finally stopped but the ground was still saturated and the going was slow. One of the
intruders pulled out a magic wand, aimed it at one of his companions and levitated him over the
fence. Once all three were inside the yard, they carefully crept toward the house.

As they approached the rear door, a luminous figure materialized behind them.

“WHO GOES THERE?”

One of the reasons that “Potter Manor” was still available when Harry’s television program went
on the air was because the previous owners believed it to be haunted. Hermione had decided that as
long as they were friendly, a ghost or two would make them feel right at home. Captain Jeb Maguire,
a retired seaman and his wife, Erma, turned out to be hospitable enough and agreed to share their
home with the newcomers. The old woman was thrilled at the prospect of helping care for a new baby
and the old captain immediately appointed himself night watchman and dutifully patrolled the house
and grounds to guard against trespassers.

“Scampered over that fence like their britches was on fire!” The old sea dog laughed as he
related the tale to Harry. “One of ‘em dropped ‘is stick.”

Harry examined the magic wand, and then handed it to Hermione.

“I’ll give you three guesses who it was,” Harry said, “and what they were after.”

“Even if they’d gotten into the house,” Hermione said with a smile, “they would’ve had an
interesting time trying to get past the new spells I put on my notebooks.” Hermione sank down onto
the couch. “You say they were at the hospital when we were there?”

Harry nodded.

“I’m not sure how this all ties together, Harry,” Hermione mused, “but maybe its time I paid
Marcia a visit.”

************

The steady “beep, beep, beep” of the heart monitor was the only sound as Hermione appeared in
Marcia Herringbone’s hospital room, casting a privacy spell so they would not be disturbed.
Hermione had often dreamed of continuing her studies and perhaps becoming a magical healer like
Madame Pomfrey—but the war with the Dark Lord had put an end to that dream along with the dreams of
many others. Still, there was a chance she might be able to do some good.

The healing charm she cast was sort of an all-purpose basic first-aid spell that she had learned
her second year. It wasn’t much, but it might at least give Marcia and her unborn baby a fighting
chance.

Hermione paused and placed a hand on her abdomen. It was a struggle to keep her imagination from
running wild with visions of harm befalling her own precious little one.

Hermione bent down and kissed Marcia on the forehead.

“An awful lot of people are praying for you.” Hermione told her. “Try not to let them down.”

Suddenly, she was bombarded by psychic images: A shadowy figure—hands wandering over a young
girl’s body—a voice saying, “I love you”.

*Mommy?*

Baby Potter was frightened. This had never happened before. Had the child somehow picked up
images from Marcia’s mind and relayed them to his mother?

“It’s alright, Darling,” Hermione reassured him. “It’s nothing to worry about.” Even as she said
it, she hoped that she wasn’t lying to her son.

********

Hermione said little about her experiences at the hospital, but it had obviously spurred her to
action. She spent the next few days either huddling with Molly or searching for materials on
Portobello Road. By Thursday, she was ready.

Harry found her in the kitchen with Molly. In the center of the kitchen table was a large wooden
bowl filled with a strange silver white liquid.
“By George, I think you’ve got it, dear!” Molly grinned, patting Hermione on the back

“Okay,” said Harry. “I’ll bite. What is it?”

“It’s called a ‘Pensieve’.” Hermione told him. “It’s a way of sorting out one’s memories and
examining them in detail. Let’s give it a test.” Hermione touched her wand to her temple. As she
withdrew her wand, it first appeared that several hairs had been caught on the tip and were coming
away with it, but upon closer inspection, they turned out to be filaments of the same silvery
substance, which Hermione quickly deposited in the bowl. The strange liquid formed into tiny
cloud-like formations as if a miniature thunderstorm were brewing.

“There!” Hermione seemed quite pleased with herself. “Shall we give it a try?”

Harry looked down into the bowl as the “clouds” parted. It was as if the bowl had become a
window looking down into another room.

“Is this the famous ‘Hogwarts’?” asked Molly.

“The Gryffindor Common Room.” Hermione nodded. “Would you like to have a look, Harry? You’ve
always wondered what Hogwarts was like.” Hermione took Harry’s hand, and then guided it to the
bowl. They touched the tips of their index fingers into the image and they were both suddenly drawn
inside.

Having grown up in an alternate universe, this Harry Potter knew Hogwarts only from the stories
Hermione had told him. It was just as wondrous as she had described it. The memory Hermione had
extracted was of the good times, before the war. It was just before Christmas. The decorations were
up and Hogwarts was full of holiday cheer.
Harry jumped as Oliver Wood brushed past him without even looking. Hermione explained that everyone
and everything that they were seeing were simply memories. No one could see or hear them. It was
like viewing a three dimensional movie.

Harry grinned as he noticed the bushy-haired little eleven-year-old bookworm seated next to the
big fireplace, reading “Hogwarts, A History” for the umpteenth time. Hermione blushed as if Harry
had just discovered a particularly embarrassing baby picture.

“Did I really look like that?”

“I think you were adorable,” Harry said, as he kissed his wife on the cheek. “But I definitely
prefer the ‘grown-up’ version.”

Nearby, two boys, one with flaming red hair and a the other with a mop of unruly black hair and
round, owlish spectacles sat on opposite sides of a table thoroughly engrossed in a game of
wizard’s chess; Ron Weasley and himself—or more precisely, the Harry Potter of this world.

In the back of his mind Harry wondered if he should be jealous. After all, this was the Harry
Potter that Hermione had first met on the Hogwarts Express. He was the one with whom she had shared
so many adventures and the one with whom she had originally fallen in love—Of course, Harry
reminded himself, he was also the one who managed to get himself killed by Lord Voldemort—and he
certainly wasn’t the one sharing a bed with Hermione nine months ago when their child was
conceived.

Tough luck, mate, Harry thought to himself.

Hermione took him on the grand tour, showing him the dormitories, the Potions classroom and even
the Astronomy Tower.

They were admiring the enormous Christmas tree in the Great Hall when a strange thing
happened.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Harry Potter.” Professor Dumbledore was looking right at them. He got up
from his place at the faculty table and walked over to greet them.

“B-b-but,” Hermione stammered, “this is just a memory!”

“It’s been said that as long as a person is remembered, he is never truly gone.”

Dumbledore told her. “It’s even more true for some than for others,” he said with a mischievous
wink.

“Hermione has told me so many stories about you—about this place,” Harry said, shaking his hand.
“I wish I’d had the opportunity to actually study here.”

“The loss was ours as well as yours. Our Harry was taken from us much too soon.” The old wizard
looked around and sighed. “Yes, Hogwarts is truly wondrous, but in the end, the true essence of
this school lies not in the *place*—the lands nor the stone walls nor even the mighty
towers—but in the hearts and minds of those who have passed through it over the years.” He rested a
wizened hand on Harry’s and Hermione’s shoulders. “The torch has been passed. *You* are now
the keepers of Hogwarts flame, my children.”

“We’re *trying* to rebuild as you asked,’ Hermione said apologetically, “but the job seems
so overwhelming sometimes.”

The old wizard smiled at her.

“You’ve already accomplished far more than you realize, my dear,” he told her. “Because of your
most excellent tuition, Harry is well on his way to becoming the great wizard he was always
destined to be. With each life you touch—the Weasleys, the children you’ve found through Harry’s
magic act, and so many others you may not be aware of—another stone is added, and the foundation
for a *new* Hogwarts is laid.” He gently placed a hand on her abdomen. “And *this* may be
your greatest achievement of all.” He spoke directly to the baby. “In this form I am little more
than a shadow from the past. As such there is little I can give to you except my blessing. May you
grow in strength and in wisdom. May your joys outnumber your sorrows, and may you always be
surrounded by those who love you.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Hermione said, giving him a hug.

“Now you must go,” Dumbledore told them. “There is still much to do. Farewell my children.”

With that, Harry and Hermione found themselves back in the kitchen.

Both of them felt quite drained, so they decided to wait until the next night to use the
Pensieve again.

********

It was after midnight when Harry and Hermione appeared in Marcia Herringbone’s room at the
hospital.

“How can you be sure you’re getting the right memory?” Harry asked as Hermione began the
extraction process.

“If I’m right,” Hermione said as she transferred Marcia’s thoughts into the pensieve bowl, “this
memory is so traumatic that it’s going to be just about the only thing on her mind.” Once the
mixture was ready, Harry and Hermione dipped their fingers into the bowl and were transported
inside once more.

They found themselves in an upstairs bedroom that, like its owner, was in transition; Dolls,
teddy bears and posters of boy bands were giving way to cosmetics, clothes and bridal magazines.
Marcia Herringbone sat at her vanity table, brushing her long, blonde hair.

“I always wished I had hair like that,” Hermione sighed. Harry was about to comment, but thought
better of it. He gave her an “I love you just the way you are,” hug.

According to the alarm clock by Marcia’s bed, it was a little after ten at night.

She got up and began to undress.

“I don’t think we have to see *everything*.” Hermione grabbed Harry’s hand. They passed
through the bedroom door as if it were made of mist. They waited in the hallway for what Hermione
judged to be a reasonable amount of time and then re-entered the room just in time to see Marcia
get into bed.

They settled down in a corner and waited as she fell asleep.

“Isn’t there any way to ‘fast forward’ this thing?” Harry was just about to fall asleep himself,
when there was a noise at the window. An extension ladder was leaning against the side of the house
and someone was climbing up toward the window.
“*Alohamora*!” came a muffled voice from outside. The window slid itself open and Draco
Malfoy’s goon Gregory Goyle climbed in.

“He’s not exactly “Raffles” is he?” Harry observed as Goyle clumsily crawled inside, knocking
several knick-knacks off the windowsill. “It’s a wonder he didn’t wake the whole neighborhood.”

“He may have put a sleep charm on her parents,” Hermione noted grimly, “or else he’s put a
privacy spell on this room.”

“He obviously hasn’t mastered levitation yet.”

Goyle got to his feet and pointed his wand at the sleeping form of Marcia.

“*Spero nos familiares mansuros!*”

Marcia opened her eyes and sat up. At first, her expression was a complete blank, like a zombie.
Then, as she gradually became aware, her face fell as if she had totally resigned herself to the
situation. Goyle sat down on the bed and kissed her on the cheek.

“Hello Darling.” Goyle said. A shiver went up Hermione’s spine. He let his hands begin to
wander. A tear trickled down Marcia’s cheek.

“I can’t watch this,” Harry declared and walked back into the hallway.

Hermione forced herself to remain behind. There were things she needed to see. Before very long,
even she’d had enough.

Harry was sitting on the floor of the hallway when Hermione walked in.

“He not violent.” she sighed, “He didn’t hurt her.” Hermione almost spat out the words. “He even
said he *loved* her.”

“I guess all boys fantasize about girls they can’t have… You always assume that once she gets to
know you… You never think that your dream might be the poor girl’s worst nightmare.”

“Don’t belittle the man I love by trying to compare him to that looser in there.” She knelt down
and took his hand. “There is no comparison.”

“I swear, if anyone ever did that to you, I’d—”

“Don’t say it, Harry.” Hermione said in an odd tone, “I know that you love me, and that you’d do
anything to protect me, but I pray that you’ll never have to know how it is to actually take the
life of another human being…” Hermione rarely spoke of her experiences during the war with the Dark
Lord, and Harry knew better than to press her on the subject.

Hermione led him back into Marcia’s bedroom. Goyle was snoring like a chainsaw. Marcia sat
hugging her knees and weeping.

“I’m responsible for this!” Hermione voice was barely audible. “He could never have done this to
her without my journal.”

“Remember what you said to Victoria?” Harry said gently. “Magic is a *tool*. If Goyle had
stolen a hammer out of Ron’s toolbox and bashed someone’s head in with it, would Ron be
responsible?”

“In my *head*, I know you’re right, Harry…” she sobbed, “but in my heart I still feel as
though I’m to blame for this.”

Harry was all for leaving, but there was still one thing that Hermione needed to see.

Just as the first rays of the sun began peeking over the rooftops, outside, Goyle woke up and
took out his wand.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Marcia said softly. “I won’t tell anyone” The shame on
her face was heartbreaking. “Even if I did, who would believe me?”

“Sorry, luv.” Goyle said. “Can’t take any chances.” He kissed her on the cheek, then swished and
flicked his wand rather awkwardly at her. “Obliterate!"

Harry turned to Hermione.

“That’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“I had the wrong word written down in the notebook before
Molly caught it and corrected me…” Hermione shook her head and let out an ironic chuckle. “That’s
why she started to remember. He was following my notes and he screwed up the memory
charm!”

********

“I swear I never hurt her!” Goyle was almost pleading. “I would never hurt her…”

“I suppose that’s why you had to erase her memory every time?” Hermione was furious.

“It’s just that she’s so…” He was almost in tears. “A girl like ’er wouldn’t even give the time
of day to a bloke like me…if not for…”

“Stop your sniveling!” Draco Malfoy was like a general issuing orders. “The solution is
obvious.” He turned to face Hermione. “If the girl survives, you must cast a proper Memory Charm on
her and see that it’s done right this time.”

“You seriously expect me to clean up this mess for you?”

“There’s more at stake here that just the girl’s feelings.” Lockhart reminded them.

“The only alternative,” Draco pointed out, “is to insure that she doesn’t recover.”

“Bastard!” Hermione hissed.

“Have you a better plan, little Miss Know It All?”

“As much as I hate to agree with them, Darling,” Harry pulled her aside, “they may have a
point.”

“He raped her!”

“He deserves to be punished for what he did—but they’re right. There is more at stake here. If
she starts remembering, she could end up exposing all of us. Now maybe you’re not concerned about
our safety, but what about our son’s?”

“Harry--!” “I know, my darling. This whole thing stinks to high heaven, but we have no choice.”
He sighed. “Did it ever occur to you that erasing the girl’s memory just might be the most merciful
thing we could do for her?”

The look of betrayal in her eyes was almost unbearable. Hermione’s glare looked like it could’ve
melted steel. Harry had never seen such anger and disappointment focused in his direction. Hermione
wanted to answer back. She wanted to throw something. She wanted to hit somebody. But she knew that
none of those things would have changed the situation one bit. She looked up at Harry through her
tears.

“What else can we do?”

They turned to face the others.

“All right.” Hermione said softly. “I’ll do it.”

“But on one condition.” Harry added. He pointed an accusing finger at Goyle. “She’ll only erase
the girl’s memory if she erases his too.”

Goyle looked like he’d been hit with a bucket of cold water.

“WHAT?”

Hermione beamed up at her husband, her faith restored.

“If Marcia can’t be allowed to remember the crime,” Harry insisted, “then neither can he! Every
last bit of illicit pleasure he got while molesting her has to go!”

“What a novel sense of justice you have, Harry Potter,” Lockhart chuckled. “Very well. We
agree.”

“Now just a minute--!” Goyle began.

“Silence!” Roared Malfoy. “It’s certainly preferable to the alternative. As a Member of
Parliament, my father would, of course, have insisted on a long prison term for such a deplorable
crime.”
“But I love her…” Goyle pleaded.

“That’s not love,” Harry informed him. “Love is sitting through ‘Steel Magnolias’ when you’d
rather be watching ‘Raiders Of The Lost Ark’.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“You said you liked ‘Steel Magnolias’…”

*******

“I had hoped that we might be able to persuade Harry Potter to cooperate,” Lucius Malfoy mused
as his son had related the incident to him, “But what with one thing and another, I’m afraid that
Mr. and Mrs. Potter may prove to be more trouble than their worth.” He opened his briefcase and
took out a file folder. “But that can wait. I need you to do a little ‘job’ for me, Son. It seems
the Labor MP from Brixton is holding up my Wiretapping Bill in committee. I need him to suffer a
small accident. Nothing serious. I just need him out of action until after the vote.”

Draco Malfoy was staring at his wand with an expression of pure disbelief.

“I—I can’t, Father,”

“What are you babbling about, boy?”

He looked at his father wide-eyed.

“I can’t remember how to do magic…”

“The little bitch.” Lucius Malfoy said with a mixture of admiration and astonishment. “She
tricked you!”

*******

Hermione was jubilant as they crossed the parking lot at BBC Center.

“We got all four of them!” Hermione squealed. “Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and Lockhart!” She gave
Victoria a “high-five”. “They didn’t even remember us putting the charm on them!”

“That’s great,” Ron agreed, “but what about Daddy Malfoy?”

“As far as we can tell, he let Draco handle the magic in the family.” Harry told him.

“Well he may not be able to hex you,” Ron said, “But he’s still a Member of Parliament. Once he
figures out what you did, there’s any number of things he might do to get back at you.”

“Harry James Potter?” Three policemen stood between them and the building.

“That’s right,” Harry answered warily. “What can I do for you, officers?”

“I’m very sorry about this, Mr. Potter.” The policeman seemed embarrassed. “My kids think you’re
the greatest…” The other two officers nodded in agreement. Clearly, none of them was very keen on
this assignment.

“What’s going on here?” Hermione demanded.

“Harry James Potter,” the policeman said, trying not to sound ashamed of what he was doing.
“You’re under arrest. I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence
against you….”

“Now just a cotton pickin’ minute,” Ron said. “What’s the charge?”

The policeman took a deep breath.

“The charge,” he said, feeling an inch high, “is *Practicing Witchcraft*.”

End of Chapter Four



[1] “I’ll Take You Dreaming” from the film “The Court Jester”. Words and Music By Sylvia
Fine and Sammy Cahn

[2] Don’t bother digging through the books to find the quote. I just made it up.

[3] See Part 3.

[4] See Part 4.



6. Thou Shalt Not
-----------------

Brian Hendrickson Normal Brian Hendrickson 4 27 2002-11-08T01:02:00Z 2003-09-08T04:52:00Z 8 5292
30167 251 60 37047 9.3821

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. “Rumpole Of The Bailey” and all related characters were
created by John Mortimer. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is
intended.

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:** This chapter was written shortly after the death of one of my favorite
actors, Leo McKern. It is a tribute to him, as well as to his most famous character, “Rumpole Of
The Bailey”, a crusty old British barrister. As always, thanks to Haggridd for his most excellent
Beta skills and steadfast moral support.

CHILD’S PLAY

Chapter Six

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to
live."

-Exodus 2:17

************

“FREE HARRY POTTER!” chanted the crowd that surrounded Newgate Prison. One couldn’t help but be
reminded of the French peasantry preparing to storm the Bastille. There were all the usual side
shows—Communists, tree huggers, religious zealots, Goths, Satanists and Wiccans (“Witch Wannabees”,
as Molly always referred to them)—but the vast majority of the faces in the throng belonged to
children. The tabloids had all gone gleefully mad with stories about Devil worship and orgies
(*“Heaven knows what kind of sexual mischief has been going on in the Potter household!”*
cried *The Tattler*) in the wake of Harry’s arrest for practicing witchcraft, yet through it
all, the children steadfastly refused to abandon their hero.

“Mrs. Potter?” A familiar looking little girl of about four or five had somehow managed to sneak
past the police line that surrounded the prison and inside the gate. Hermione knelt down to speak
to her. “When Harry did his show at my cousin’s birthday party, he gave me this.” The little girl
showed her the tiny medallion with a lion *rampant* engraved on it. “He said it would protect
me—and it has! I thought Harry should have something to protect him too.” She reached into her
pocket. This “necklace” was strung with macaroni noodles and the “medallion” was the top of a
frozen orange juice can, to which the child had glued a piece of construction paper. A crude lion
had been drawn in blue crayon surrounded by the words, “*I Luve You, Hary Potter”*.

“Thank you, darling,” Hermione wiped a tear from her eye and gave the girl a kiss on the cheek.
“I know Harry will treasure this always.”

“*Let the little children come unto me, and do not hinder them...*”[1] came a
gravelly voice from the gate.

Alec Callender, Harry’s solicitor, a middle aged Scottish teddy bear with bald head and a warm
laugh, introduced the squat, round owner of the voice. “Mrs. Potter, this is Harry’s barrister, Mr.
Horace Rumpole.”

The man extended a meaty hand. “Renowned in song and legend for unraveling the Penge Bungalow
Murders—”

“Without a leader,” Mr. Callender added before Rumpole could do it himself.

“—the Great Brighton Benefit Club Forgery—”

“—due to his encyclopedic knowledge of typewriters.”

“—and the Brick Lane Billiard Hall Murders—”

“—owing to his vast experience with bloodstains.”

*Your material’s getting stale Rumpole old darling,* he thought to himself. *Old “By The
Numbers” Callender must know this speech backwards and forwards by now.*

“Just teasing, Rumpole.” Mr. Callender said, “I’ve already told Mrs. Potter that you are the one
barrister in all England who can help Harry beat this ridiculous charge. I always say, if you can’t
get Perry Mason, call Horace Rumpole!”

Callender was a decent sort, but his fascination with the fictional Perry Mason sometimes
bordered on the obsessive. He’d even mentioned going onto that new-fangled “internet” thingy to
publish stories about his hero. *A strange way to occupy one’s idle hours,* the old barrister
thought.

Horace Rumpole had been a thorn in the side of prosecuting counsels ’round the Old Bailey for
nearly half a century. His round face, bulbous nose and bushy mustache gave him a passing
resemblance to Harry’s Uncle Vernon, but that was where the resemblance ended. Where Uncle Vernon’s
visage seemed sculpted into a permanent scowl, old Rumpole always seemed to have a twinkle of
mischief in his eyes. Around the Inns of Court he was well known for his fondness for great
literature, bad claret (“plonk” as he called his favorite tipple), and an almost compulsive need to
question authority. He had come highly recommended by Mrs. Marjorie Timson, a neighbor of Molly’s
and member of the notorious family of inveterate, though strangely honorable, thieves. (They would
steal but they would never even think of using weapons or violence in the commission of a crime.)
To hear Rumpole tell it, it was the Timson family that largely kept him in business.

Harry Potter proudly displayed the medallion he had been given around his neck as he paced the
visitors’ room.

“Last time I checked my watch, Mr. Rumpole, it was the *twenty-first* century!”

“The time-pieces in the prosecutor’s office are running a bit slow, my boy.” Hermione’s
disapproving stares were wasted as Rumpole puffed away on the dog-end of his cheroot. “Apparently,
by their reckoning, it’s only a quarter past the Spanish Inquisition.”

With a slight grunt, Hermione adjusted her position in the chair. It seemed as though the baby
was deliberately squatting on her kidneys that day. “Even if Harry *were* practicing
witchcraft,” (Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes), “The Witchcraft Act of 1735 was repealed
in 1951. In fact,” Hermione continued, never for a moment thinking that her audience wouldn’t be
fascinated by her vast knowledge of the subject, “the very last witch trial ever held in England
was in 1944. A certain Helen Duncan was put on trial because she was alleged to have revealed
military secrets in one of her séances. It seems that the War Department—“

“Darling,” Harry put a hand on her arm, “You’re doing your ‘Mr. Spock’ impression again.”

“The point is, Mr. Rumpole,” Hermione blushed, “What then, precisely, is Harry doing in
jail?”

“It was a feat of *legerdemain* worthy of your husband, Mrs. Potter. It seems our esteemed
Member of Parliament, the Hon. Lucius Malfoy, somehow managed to attach an amendment to that
well-known cure for chronic insomnia known as the Trade Equity Bill.”

“And no one tried to stop it.” Hermione said, incredulous.

“You obviously haven’t kept up with the political news, my dear. Over the past year or so
(beginning, coincidentally, around the time the Honorable Mr. Malfoy was elected to Parliament),
several key members found themselves embroiled in scandal and were forced to resign. The bad luck
seemed to be distributed equally between Tories and Labour—even a few of the smaller fringe parties
did not escape damage. The only ones who emerged unscathed were Lucius Malfoy’s *Traditional
Values Party*. Since neither Labour nor the Conservatives now had enough seats in the Commons
for a clear majority, one or the other of them would have to enter into a coalition with Malfoy in
order to form a new government.”

“But only if he got something in return.” Harry sighed.

“The New Witchcraft Act,” Rumpole nodded. “The Tories’ little present, ostensibly to help calm
the growing anti-witchcraft hysteria gripping the country.”

“Hysteria which Malfoy himself helped to create in the first place.” noted Harry.

“It saves no end of time and trouble if you can provide both the problem *and* the
solution.” Rumpole took another puff of his cigar. “Unfortunately, my dear Harry, we have stepped
‘Through the Looking Glass’. Black is white, wrong is right and all persons more than a mile high
will be asked to leave the courtroom. It appears the Honorable Mr. Malfoy is convinced that several
of your best tricks could only be accomplished by supernatural means.”

Hermione grinned, but not from any amusement. There was no humor in her expression. She bared
her teeth in a way that seemed positively feral, a predator’s rictus. *Stripping young Dennis and
those other swine of their magic was clearly ‘too little and too late’. The damage had already been
done. Lucius has already managed to grab enough political power so that he can manipulate the
system even without magic! I knew I should have taken care of Malfoy Senior personally—not just his
damned whelp! Now we can’t even touch the old bastard!*

Trying to sound appropriately outraged, all Hermione managed to say aloud was “The man’s
mad!”

“Mad he may be,” observed Mr. Callender, taking her to mean only that it was insanity ever to
accuse Harry of using witchcraft, “But he certainly knows how to win friends and influence people.
I still don’t understand how he got the Home Secretary to go along with this nonsense. The public
certainly doesn’t support it.”

Hermione did nothing to correct his impression.

“If rumor is to be believed,” Rumpole said, “Mr. Malfoy’s greatest strength may lie in his
ability to discover a man’s ‘Achilles heel’—which does not bode well for the defense, I’m afraid.
According to my ever-efficient clerk, Henry, we’ve drawn the Honorable Mr. Justice Sir Guthrie
Featherstone, Q.C., for the trial.”

“Is that a problem?” asked Hermione.

“Don’t misunderstand, my dear,” Rumpole explained, “Mr. Justice Featherstone is the soul of
reason and impartiality—used to be my Head of Chambers before he made the Queen’s List—but I’m not
exactly telling tales out of school when I say that on occasion, poor old Guthrie has been known to
chafe at the bonds of Holy Matrimony. The scuttlebutt ’round the Old Bailey is that the last time
was with a twenty-three year old dental hygienist from Kensington. Save for this tragic flaw, our
Guthrie should have been Prime Minister ages ago—at least according to the redoubtable *Lady*
Featherstone.”

“And you think Malfoy might try to blackmail him into railroading Harry?” Hermione asked.

“A sad comment on our times, my dear—but a definite possibility.”

“I’m already working on our appeal to the House of Lords, if it comes to that,” Mr. Callender
told them.

Rumpole chuckled, remembering how fifty-something widower Alec Callender had his own share of
scandal when he outraged the legal profession (and his grown children) by marrying a vivacious,
redheaded, twenty-something P.E. teacher. Not a proper mistress, mind you. Alec actually had the
temerity to fall head-over-heels in love with the girl, and she with him. At last report they had
bought themselves a cozy little love nest in Pinner, Middlesex, and were happily raising an
adorable little redhead they had named “Fleur”. *Cupid certainly has been collecting his share of
overtime of late,* Rumpole mused.

“I understand the trial is already the number one topic of comedians on both sides of the
Atlantic.” Mrs. Potter sighed. They’re all wondering when we’ll pull out the dunking stools or
start burning people at the stake. Malfoy is turning Britain into a laughing stock,”

“Sad for our country,” Callender told them, “but I’m afraid it’s the best thing for our cause.
We have to keep ridiculing the case in the media—make Malfoy and the prosecutors office look like
fools for arresting Harry in the first place.”

“That reminds me,” Hermione checked her watch. “I’d better get going. I have another interview
in twenty minutes.” In the last forty-eight hours Hermione had managed to appear on practically
every British chat show on the dial, proclaiming her husband’s innocence all the while
diplomatically implying that Her Majesty’s government—and Lucius Malfoy, M.P. in particular—had
lost their collective marbles. Now it was time to have a go at North America.

“This can’t be easy for you, darling,” Harry said, “I know how much you loathe dealing with the
press.” Harry and Hermione had always struggled to keep their public and private lives separate.
Until the present crisis broke, it was not generally known to the public, for example, that
Hermione was pregnant.

“If I thought it would get you out of here one minute sooner,” Hermione kissed him on the cheek,
“I’d wrestle an alligator in my underwear.”

“Crikey,” Harry said with a hint of Australian accent mimicking a certain television crocodile
hunter. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
Rumpole watched as Mr. and Mrs. Potter embraced. He particularly noted how reluctantly they pulled
apart—as if the separation caused them actual physical pain.

“*In true love it is the soul that embraces the body,”[2]* reflected Rumpole. While
Harry and Hermione had obviously been drawn together as soul-mates, Rumpole often likened his own
marriage to the former Hilda Wyston, a.k.a. She Who Must Be Obeyed, to being drafted into the Army.
Her father, the legendary C.H. Wyston (juggler, sword-swallower, barrister to the stars, and
esteemed former Head of Chambers at Number 3 Equity Court), had arranged everything. Once Rumpole
had passed the physical, all he had to do was turn up at the church on time. Over the years, both
Hilda and “Daddy” grew disenchanted with Rumpole’s preference for criminal, as opposed to civil,
law. The sordid cases and often impoverished clients would hardly elevate Rumpole to the Privy
Council or support the prodigious Mr. Wyston’s daughter in the manner to which she had become
accustomed. But the deed was done and to a Wyston, divorce would have been an admission of defeat.
As Rumpole would often quote, “A man in love is incomplete until he has married—then he’s
finished."[3]

“We will get you out of here, Harry,” Hermione told him. Rumpole noted her tone. This was not an
expression of wishful thinking or even a fervently held belief. This was a simple statement of
fact.

Outside the visitors’ room, Hermione gave Mr. Callender an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Give
my love to Zoe and the baby.”

“They send theirs as well,” Alec said as he returned the kiss. “Zoe was hoping you’d come over
for dinner. You know she worries about you all alone in that great big house.”

“Well I certainly won’t turn down an invitation to dinner, but tell Zoe that I’m not alone,”
Hermione said, avoiding the subject of the resident ghosts. “Ginny Weasley is staying with me until
Harry comes home.” Between the Callenders and the Weasleys it seemed Hermione’s destiny to be
surrounded by redheads.

“You’re luckier than some wives,” Rumpole noted as they approached the main gate, “At least you
know where your husband is of an evening.”

“I love my husband, Mr. Rumpole,” Hermione declared, “and I refuse to raise this baby all by
myself. I will do whatever it takes to bring him home and there’s nothing Lucius Malfoy or the
British justice system can do to stop me.”

Rumpole couldn’t resist a smile of admiration.

The tabloid press had never forgiven Harry for depriving them of the opportunity to mold him
into the next Prince William. As far as they were concerned, the handsome young magician should
have been jet-setting around the world, dating socialites and super-models, not living a quiet life
of domestic bliss in the suburbs. There was much speculation in the gossip columns as to why
dashing young Potter had fallen for Hermione Granger—“plain-looking”, “unglamorous”, and “boring”
were some of the kinder words used to describe Mrs. Harry Potter when the marriage was first made
public—and as to why he steadfastly refused to cheat on her. Witchcraft was even jokingly suggested
in some quarters.

While Hermione may have been no Rita Haworth in the looks department, Rumpole could easily
understand what the boy had seen in her. Within her petite frame was a will of iron that rivaled
even She Who Must Be Obeyed*.* He could picture this “unglamorous” little thing loading
British soldiers into a fishing boat at Dunkirk, assuming her husband’s job at a munitions factory
or taking charge of an air raid shelter during the London Blitz.

*“A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.”[4]*

She would defend her husband to the last and woe be to anyone who got in the line of fire.

********

“He was always a strange one,” Vernon Dursley growled from the witness box. “Always getting into
trouble. Disappearing from his classes and then reappearing on the roof of the school. Then there
was the time we took our Dudley to the London Zoo. Because of him,” Uncle Vernon pointed a
sausage-like finger at Harry in the prisoners’ dock, “A giant boa constrictor got loose and our boy
ended up trapped in its cage!”

Flanked by his son, Dennis, and his son’s stooges, Crabbe and Goyle, Lucius Malfoy sat in the
spectator’s gallery directly behind the prosecution table. To Rumpole the senior Malfoy looked like
a vulture, waiting patiently for some poor animal to drop dead so he could pick at its bones.

“Thank you, Mr. Dursley. No further questions.” The prosecutor, Claude Erskine-Brown sat down
with a self-satisfied smirk and Rumpole, in his threadbare robes and moth eaten old wig, rose to
his feet.

“Mr. Dursley? Do you consider yourself a good parent?”

“As good as the next fella, I suppose.”

“And were you a good parent to Harry Potter?”

“I did my best.”

“Do you and your wife love your nephew?”

“Well,” Vernon said with a shrug, “He’s family, isn’t he?”

“Indeed.”

“Are there any photographs of Harry Potter on your walls of your home, Mr. Dursley?”

“Objection.” Erskine-Browne snorted from his place at the prosecution table. “Of what possible
relevance—?”

“It goes to the credibility of the witness, my Lord.”

“I will allow the question” Judge Featherstone declared, “subject to your demonstrating
relevance, Mr. Rumpole”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Rumpole returned his attention to Vernon. “Do you display any photographs
of your nephew in your home, Mr. Dursley? After all, he’s become a great success. His face is known
around the world. Aren’t you the least bit proud of his accomplishments?”

Vernon shifted uncomfortably in the witness box. “Well…”

“I can call at least a dozen witnesses,” Rumpole informed him. “But let us save the taxpayers
the time and effort. There are no photographs of Harry Potter on display on the walls of your home,
are there, Mr. Dursley?”

“Not really.”

“Do you have an album of his baby pictures?”

“No…”

“Any snapshots of his first tooth?”

“No.”

“His first steps—his first day at school?”

Vernon cleared his throat. “Not exactly….”

“None?”

“No, but you see, the thing is—.”

“In fact, if one were to visit your home in Little Whinging, would one find any evidence at all
that any other boy resided in that house besides your son, Dudley?”

“Well, no, but you see—.”

Before he could finish the sentence, Rumpole shoved a photograph into Vernon’s hands. “Do you
recognize this photograph, Mr. Dursley?” The bailiff was handing out duplicate photos to the jury.
“The one marked ‘Defense Exhibit A’?” Vernon never got the chance to answer. “This is a cupboard
beneath the stairs in your front entry hall, is it not? Isn’t it a fact that you forced Harry
Potter to sleep in this tiny cupboard every night right up until the day he left your home?”

“Well, yes, but—”

Rumpole looked over at the jury. From their expressions, they were clearly beginning to dislike
Mr. Vernon Dursley.

“The truth is that you and your wife *resented* your nephew’s presence in your home, didn’t
you? You treated a helpless, innocent child as though he were some terrible burden on your family,
didn’t you?”

“Now look here—!”

“Mr. Dursley, did your family ever celebrate your nephew’s birthday?”

Vernon’s face grew redder and redder. “Er….”

Rumpole’s voice was rising with each question like a revival preacher whipping up his
congregation into a religious frenzy. “Did you ever take him fishing? Ever take him to the football
matches? The cinema?”

“I—”

“Did you ever once show your nephew the least bit of parental affection?”

Out of the corner of his eye Rumpole could see Erskine-Brown opening his mouth to object.
“*The learned counsel for the defense is obviously badgering the witness, my Lord!” Well, of
course I’m badgering the old walrus! Otherwise Mr. Justice Featherstone will figure out that there
is no relevance to this line of questioning and I’m just trying to generate some sympathy for my
client. Come on, Dursley, old sweetheart! Where’s that famous temper of yours? Come on, old
darling! Let’s have a nice little fireworks display for the jury!*

As if in answer to a prayer, Vernon exploded.

“Of course I never showed him any affection! He didn’t deserve any, the ungrateful little
bastard!”

Rumpole sneaked another look at the jury as Vernon continued ranting. The women in particular
were eyeing him with undisguised contempt. They would then look over to Harry in the prisoner’s
dock, squirming in shame and humiliation as he was forced to relive his horrible childhood, and
their faces were full of sympathy. They all looked as though they wanted to take Harry home and
mother him.

Mr. Justice Featherstone loudly banged his gavel and chastised the witness for his uncouth
behavior in court.

“I told you it was mistake to put Dursley on the stand,” Erskine-Brown whispered to his
co-prosecutor Sam Ballard as Rumpole cut their witness to pieces. “By the time Rumpole’s through,
the jury will want to convict *him* instead of Potter!”

The next day, Rumpole noted with some amusement that the prosecution had changed their witness
list and would no longer be calling either Petunia or Dudley Dursley.

********

“Mrs. Higgins?” Erskine-Brown began, “What happened to your husband?”

“He left.”

“Where did he go?”

“To Canada.”

“Had he ever expressed any interest in going to Canada before?”

“No, sir.”

“But after speaking to Harry Potter for two minutes, he suddenly decides to leave the
country.”

“I suppose that’s right.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Higgins.”

Rumpole got to his feet.

“Mrs. Higgins? How many times were you hospitalized during the time you were married?
“Objection!”

“Overruled,” said Sir Guthrie.

“Five…”

“Was your husband responsible for your injuries each time you hospitalized?”

“Yes.”

“Now, when Harry Potter apparently talked your *violent, abusive* husband into getting out
of yours and your daughter’s lives and moving away to another continent, did he ever ask you for
any kind of compensation?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he express any interest in purchasing your immortal soul?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained,” said Sir Guthrie.

“Did Mr. Potter perform any other acts of kindness on your behalf?”

“He helped me find a job—a *good job* too—down at the Co-Op! Alice and me, we got a real
nice flat and I’m saving up for a motorcar!”

“Did Harry Potter ever ask you for anything in return?”

“He said that the best way to pay him back would be to do something for somebody else. You know,
help out some other poor blighter who’s in trouble.”

“If this keeps up,” Erskine-Brown whispered to his co-council, “*I’ll* vote to acquit the
man…”

Lucius Malfoy leaned forward and handed Erskine-Brown a note:

“*Put* Mrs. Potter *on the stand*.”

Claude Erskine-Brown and “Soapy” Sam Ballard turned and looked at the Honorable Member as if
he’d just suggested they both dress up like Carmen Miranda.

Malfoy simply smiled. “Trust me.”

***********

“This really isn’t fair to the other prisoners,” Hermione pointed out as she and Harry snuggled
on the sofa of Potter Manor. Harry had quietly apparated out of his prison cell and a magical
*doppelganger* was now sleeping in his cot.

“I know, darling, but I’m only one man, after all. They’re just going to have to get along
without me for tonight.” He felt Hermione suddenly catch her breath as her stomach muscles tensed.
“Another contraction?”

“A little one.” She slowly let out the breath as her muscles relaxed. “But they’re still hours
apart. Dr. Pomfrey and Molly both say that they could go on like this for days before the baby
actually comes.” Harry was clearly concerned. “Ginny will be here the whole time,” she reassured
him, “and Molly can apparate here at a moment’s notice if anything happens.”

“I’m going to be there when the baby’s born,” Harry declared.

“Harry—!”

“I’ve made up my mind. Even if I have to use magic right in front of a BBC news crew, I am going
to be there when our son is born.”

Hermione let out a frustrated sigh. Of course she wanted her husband by her side as she gave
birth to their son, but—

There was a knock at the door.

“Mrs. Potter?” The man handed her an official looking envelope. “Sorry to bother you, luv.
’Night!”

“What is it?” Ginny’s bunny slippers flopped as she came down the stairs, tying her robe. “Who
was at the door?”

“It’s a summons to appear in court.” Hermione announced. “I’m being called as a witness—for the
*prosecution*!”

“Malfoy…!” Harry growled.

“I don’t understand.” Ginny rubbed her eyes.

“He’s told the prosecutors to ask questions about my past—and then they’re going to realize that
I don’t have one—at least not on *this* world.”

Harry grabbed his wand from the end table.

“That’s it! I don’t care if they put me in jail for a thousand years.”

“Harry.” Hermione grabbed his arm.

“I’m sorry darling,” Harry said calmly, “but there are certain circumstances where it is
perfectly appropriate to turn someone into an aardvark.” Ginny feared that she might have to tackle
Harry to keep him from leaving, but a door locking charm managed to delay him long enough for the
two women to calm him down. They were still trying to come up with a workable plan as Harry
returned to his cell the next morning. Hermione had a funny feeling that they might not need
one.

***********

As she climbed into the witness box, Hermione didn’t look well. She hadn’t looked well since
breakfast.

“Mrs. Potter?” Erskine-Brown began. “Where were you born?”

Hermione’s face was pale and she was perspiring heavily. Suddenly she doubled over in pain.

“Hermione!” Harry cried from the prisoners’ dock. He looked ready to leap out of the box, but
for some reason Lucius Malfoy had insisted that he be shackled that day. It was almost as if he
knew what was going to happen.

“Mrs. Potter?” asked Sir Guthrie as Hermione recovered, “Are you able to continue with your
testimony?”

“Harry!” Hermione wailed, ignoring the judge, “I think it’s time! My water just broke!”

“She’s faking!” roared Lucius Malfoy from the spectators’ gallery. He turned to the policeman
guarding Harry. “You there! Keep a close eye on him! He may try and used this as a diversion to
escape! If he tries anything, *shoot him*!”

“I must protest, my Lord!” Rumpole roared back in righteous indignation, “My client is not
simply going to dash off and abandon his wife in the midst of giving birth to their first
child!”

“Quite right, Mr. Rumpole!” The judge agreed. “Bailiff! Call for an ambulance at once! Officer!
Release the prisoner and let him comfort his wife.”

The officer fumbled for the keys to the shackles.

“Don’t bother, “ said Harry as he handed him the irons and leaped out of the dock.

“Nice timing, son,” Hermione patted her abdomen just as another contraction hit. Witnesses to
the event would later recall that Molly Weasley/Lupin bounded over the other spectators like Wonder
Woman, nearly running over Harry in the process.

“It’s definitely coming all right,” Molly confirmed as she felt Hermione’s mid-section.

“I figured that out all by myself…” Hermione grumbled through gritted teeth between
contractions.

“Don’t be difficult, darling,” His wife’s vise-like grip was causing Harry to lose the feeling
in his right arm. “Molly knows more about childbirth than anyone else in England.”

His wife’s voice suddenly went up three octaves as the next wave hit. “I’ll get you for this,
Harry Potter!”

“Trust me, luv,” Molly assured her, “Once you’ve got that beautiful baby boy in your arms this
will all seem worth it.”

“Would you like to make a small wager on that?” Hermione was huffing and puffing like a marathon
runner as her muscles momentarily relaxed.

Moments later the ambulance arrived, but as Harry started to follow Hermione out of the
courtroom, two policemen grabbed his arms.

“Now just a minute!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Potter,” one of the officers apologized, “but orders is orders.”

“MALFOY!!” Only the fact that they were surrounded by dozens of onlookers saved Lucius Malfoy
from spending the rest of his life as a small furry animal.

As he climbed down from the bench, Judge Featherstone noted the smug smile of satisfaction on
Lucius Malfoy’s face as Harry was dragged back down to the cells.

“There was no reason why the lad couldn’t have accompanied his wife to the hospital under
guard.”

“There is a perfectly good reason, Sir Guthrie. I did not wish it.”

“I don’t know what your quarrel is with Harry Potter, Malfoy, but I am not used to having other
people giving orders in my courtroom—and when we are in my courtroom, you will kindly address me by
my proper title.”

“*If your Lordship pleases*.” Malfoy’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “But just remember how
easily that title could be taken away if *I* please.”

*********

“He’s taking it better that I would have,” remarked one of the policemen assigned to guard
Harry’s cell. “If it was my missus having a baby, I’d be bouncing off the walls.” Harry’s
*doppelganger* slept soundly on his cot.

*********

The *real* Harry appeared in the Maternity Ward of Charing Cross Hospital. Fortunately, he
was wearing what Hermione referred to as his “Clark Kent” spectacles, which had rectangular frames
instead of his trademark round ones. Like most people, Harry had never particularly believed that a
pair of glasses could be that much of a disguise, but it turned out to be just enough to confuse
people. They still thought they recognized his face, but they could never quite remember where
they’d seen him before.

*“ABOUT BLOODY TIME TOO, POTTER!”* Hermione yelled from the bed of the birthing room as
Harry poked his head in the door.

“Harry!” Dr. Pomfrey gasped. “I’d heard they wouldn’t let you out of jail for the birth.”

“They didn’t.” Harry put a finger to his lips.

“Won’t you get in trouble for being here?” she asked.

“Not nearly as much trouble as I’d be in if I *weren’t* here.” Harry told her. One of the
nurses moved aside as Harry took hold of his wife’s hand.

“Forget everything I said before, Harry. I’m glad you’re here.”

********

“He looks just like his father!” Molly exclaimed. “All he needs is a little pair of spectacles.”
Molly turned to Dr. Pomfrey who was writing down the results of her examination on Hermione’s
chart. “So, what’s the verdict, then?”

“Mrs. Potter,” the doctor said, ignoring Molly, “your son is as healthy as the proverbial
horse.” The physician and the midwife didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but perhaps because
of their shared affection for the Potters, when the time came the two worked together as if they
had always been a team. (Though Molly had no qualms about pointing out where she thought the doctor
had made mistakes.) Both Molly and Dr. Pomfrey had lost count of how many children they had helped
bring into this world, but they both couldn’t help getting a little dewy-eyed on this particular
occasion. Few couples adored each other as much as the Potters, and fewer still seemed so ideally
suited to parenthood.

As Dr. Pomfrey handed Hermione Potter her newborn son, it was as though she were looking at her
husband’s baby pictures, right down to the tiny mop of unruly black hair that covered the boy’s
head. He even had his father’s green eyes. It seems that Molly was right after all. Exhausted,
sore, and covered with perspiration, Hermione had never been so happy in her entire life.

“He’s beautiful, Harry,” she sobbed with joy.

“Almost as beautiful as his mother.” Harry said as he kissed her on the cheek.

The telepathic contact Hermione had shared with her son while he was in her womb was somewhat
lessened now that he had been born, but holding him in her arms, she could still sense his
emotions. *He was tired and sore from the ordeal of birth, from being encouraged to cry in order
to clear his tiny lungs, and he was confused by the poking and prodding he’d received from Dr.
Pomfrey. He recognized some of the other faces in the room from the times his mother had let him
see the outside world through her eyes. There were “Aunt Ginny” and “Aunt Victoria”, the silly one
known as “Uncle Ron” and the jolly round one with the warm smile called “Grandma Molly” who loved
to sing songs and tell stories. He was sure that he could get to like her. Most important of all,
there were the ones he’d come to know as “Mommy” and “Daddy”. Just knowing that they were near made
him feel warm and safe. The outside world was a strange and frightening place, but it was nice to
know that he had friends here.*

********

“How does it feel, *Dad*?” Ron asked softy as Harry held his son for the first time.

“A little overwhelming,” Harry said. “It’s not every day somebody hands you a brand new life and
says ‘Here, don’t screw it up’.”

“You’ll do fine.” Ron patted him on the shoulder. “Just remember that it’s no sin to ask for
help if you need it. As far as Mum and the rest of us are concerned, you three were already
family.”

“Speaking of which… Ron…? We’ve been meaning to ask you and Victoria… That is… If—God
forbid—something should happen to Hermione and me…”

“Did you even have to ask?” Ron put his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “As long as there is
breath in my body, this little fellow won’t end up living in a cupboard under the Dursley’s
stairs.”

“That goes for all of us, Harry.” Molly said.

“Of course,” Ron grinned, “we might have to dye his hair red and paint freckles on him, so he
won’t feel out of place.”

Harry Potter lifted his glasses long enough to dab a tear out of his eye, then looked up at the
beaming faces that surrounded him. After all the years of misery with the Dursleys, Harry never
believed himself capable of experiencing such joy. It was almost as if the bad times had never
happened. At last he had the loving family that he’d always dreamed of. The only thing missing were
the baby’s grandparents—and yet, Harry suspected that somehow they were here too.

“So, what about a *name*, you two?” demanded Ginny. “He can’t go through life being called
‘Oy, Mate!’”

“We’d already agreed,” Hermione, told them, “that if it was a girl, we’d name her after my
mother and if it was a boy, we’d name him after Harry’s father. We also agreed on one other person
we wanted to name him after… How does ‘James *Ronald* Potter’ grab you?”

“A pity,” came a gravelly voice from the doorway. “I’ve always thought the name ‘Horace’ had a
rather dignified ring to it.” Mr. Rumpole swept into the room carrying an enormous bouquet of
flowers for the new mother, a Paddington Bear for the baby, and a bottle of “Château Thames
Embankment” from Pommeroy’s Wine Bar with which to toast the parents’ good health. Everyone thought
he was going to drop his entire load when he saw his client standing in front of him holding his
newborn son instead of back in his cell at Newgate Prison. No matter how brilliant an escape artist
Harry was, there was no way, short of magic, that Harry could’ve beat Rumpole to the hospital given
the traffic in downtown London at that time of day. “Well,” Rumpole said with some astonishment,
“Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”

End of Chapter Six



[1] Matthew 19:14

[2] Anon.

[3] Zsa Zsa Gabor.

[4] William Wordsworth



7. And A Little Child Shall Lead Them
-------------------------------------

Brian Hendrickson Normal Brian Hendrickson 4 3 2002-11-08T01:07:00Z 2003-09-08T20:33:00Z 8 5209
29692 247 59 36463 9.3821

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. Horace Rumpole, AKA “Rumpole of the Bailey” and all related
characters and situations were created by John Mortimer. No money is being made and no copyright or
trademark infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:** Thanks to Haggridd for his most excellent Beta skills and steadfast moral
support.

CHILD’S PLAY

Chapter Seven

“…and a little child shall lead them.”

Isaiah 11:6

“I suppose I do owe you an explanation, Mr. Rumpole. You’ve worked very hard on my behalf and I
think you deserve to know the whole truth.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Harry?” Ron asked warily.

“Before you say anything further, Harry,” Rumpole interjected, “I should warn you that
attorney-client privilege extends only so far. If a barrister has any foreknowledge of future
criminal activity—”

“I just want you to understand,” Harry interrupted, “that no one else was responsible for my
breaking out of prison. I don’t want anyone else to suffer for my actions.” A thought suddenly
struck Harry and he reluctantly handed the baby back to Hermione. “Is there anything on your desk
back at your Chambers right now, Mr. Rumpole?”

Rumpole eyed the magician suspiciously. “A legal brief concerning a certain Mr. S. Fasen of
Kent, arrested for interfering with a young boy in a Piccadilly Station lavatory.”

“Right.” With that, Harry vanished. Ron had quietly moved into position just in time to rescue
the bottle of plonk that Rumpole had brought as a gift to the new parents before it dropped from
the barrister’s hand. Ginny quickly slid a chair behind Rumpole just in case his legs gave out, but
somehow he managed to remain standing—at least until Harry reappeared and handed him the brief from
his desk. It took a couple of good stiff belts from Rumpole’s present before he was in any shape to
listen to Harry’s explanation.

Harry patiently recited his entire history, with occasional interruptions and observations from
the others. He even decided to explain about Hogwarts and how Hermione had come to them from a
parallel universe.[1] Rumpole took another couple of stiff belts for *that* to go down
more easily.

“I suppose,” Harry admitted, “technically speaking, I am breaking the law.”

“But if he has,” Hermione interrupted, “then so has Lucius Malfoy and his no-good progeny!”

“I assure you, Mr. Rumpole,” Harry concluded, “that we don’t worship Satan, we don’t kidnap
children off the streets, we don’t make blood sacrifices, and we don’t dance naked about stone
circles in the dark of night.”

“Can you imagine, Mr. Rumpole?” chuckled Molly.

“Looking at you, Mum,” laughed Ron, “I imagine he’s doing his best not to.”

“Harry is a husband and a father just like you, Mr. Rumpole,” Hermione concluded the recitation.
As she sat in her hospital bed nursing her infant son, Rumpole fancied that Mrs. Potter resembled
some old master’s interpretation of the Madonna and child. “We’re simply ordinary people who’ve
been granted an extraordinary gift.”

Harry was basking in the glow of new fatherhood and it was clearly difficult for him to take his
eyes away from his newborn child. Silently Harry cursed Lucius Malfoy for robbing him of these
precious moments with his son.

"Blessed indeed is the man who hears many gentle voices call him father.”[2] Horace
Rumpole’s eyes began to dew a little as his mind turned back to the pride and the joy he felt when
he first held his own son, Nicholas. “The brains of the family,” Rumpole had always called him, now
a Sociology Professor at the University of Miami in the U.S. and perhaps the only significant
contribution to Western Civilization to come out of his marriage to She Who Must Be Obeyed.

“And you say our beloved the Honorable Mr. Malfoy, M.P. is one of you as well?” Perhaps it was
the Château Thames Embankment starting to take effect, but the old barrister’s brain was finally
beginning to click again.

“That’s the strangest part about this whole thing.” Harry said, “He’s one of us and yet he
insists on persecuting people with magical abilities. He doesn’t even seem to realize that by
hooking up with Gilderoy Lockhart and his church, he’s actually helping to sponsor a sanctuary for
our people.”

“Doesn’t realize?” mused Rumpole with a wry smile. “It hardly sounds like the Lucius Malfoy we
all know and love, does it?”

Hermione’s ears pricked up. “You think he knows what Lockhart is up to?”

“I should be very surprised if he hasn’t known all along.”

“But what’s his game?”

“Power, my dear Mrs. Potter,” Rumpole informed her, “Remember what I said before about providing
both the problem *and* the solution?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “He whips up anti-witchcraft hysteria all over the country. He drives
magic users underground, only to provide them with sanctuary—” Harry slapped his forehead with the
realization. It was all starting to fall into place. “—in order to bring as many of them as
possible under one roof!”

“‘Elementary, my dear Watson.’” Rumpole was like a schoolmaster patiently leading his pupils
toward what should normally be a foregone conclusion. “They are a mind-boggling source of power.
All he has to do is plug into the wall socket.”

“That’s why he needed my journals!” Hermione gasped. “It wasn’t just Dennis and Crabbe and Goyle
and Lockhart! He wanted to set up his own school of magic.”

“More like ‘indoctrination center’ knowing Malfoy.” Harry corrected. “You can learn to use and
control your powers—so long as you use them for the greater glory of Lucius Malfoy—or you can take
your chances with the angry mob he’s stirred up against you. Talk about ‘Hobson’s choice’!”

“Talk about ‘stupid Hermione’!” she said to herself. “I’m supposed to be the one with all the
brains! I should’ve worked it out ages ago.”

Harry kissed his wife on the forehead, then sat down next to her on the bed and gently caressed
his son’s cheek with his finger. “You did have other things on your mind, darling.”

A hospital orderly opened the door and looked right at Harry. His eyes grew wide but he quickly
recovered his composure. “Sorry! Wrong room.”

Rumpole was suddenly struck by a thought.

“Harry? Apart from the people in this room, who knows you’re here?”

“Dr. Pomfrey—but I’m sure we can trust her.”

“What about nurses, technicians, orderlies?”

“A few of them. Why?”

“I was just pondering why Mr. Malfoy was so insistent that Harry be locked up while his wife was
giving birth.”

Harry sighed. “He *wanted* me to break out of jail!”

“Just the proof he needs to show that Harry really does use magic,” Ron agreed “but where does
it get you? Not much point in tossing Harry back into the Nick if they know he can leave any time
he wants to.”

“True enough,” Rumpole mused, “but it might be the one thing that finally turns the public
against him.”

“And Harry can’t expose Malfoy without incriminating himself even more,” sighed Hermione.

“He’s probably got people his watching the place.” Rumpole pointed out. “Harry, kiss your wife
and your son good night and get back to your cell on the double!”

Ron, Molly and Ginny pulled out their wands.

“I’ll take care of the orderly,” Ron said. “You get the nurses.”

“If you happen to run into Mr. Malfoy or any of his supporters,” Rumpole told them as they were
leaving, “remember to act appropriately outraged that Harry “missed” the birth of his son. It might
help with our case in the long run.”

The orderly who had peeked in on them was just dialing the pay phone.

“Mr. Malfoy--?” he said just as Ron tapped him on the shoulder.

At the other end of the phone line, Lucius Malfoy grinned at his son, Draco. This would be the
proof he needed to get that meddlesome Harry Potter out of the way for a long while. He could hear
someone muttering on the other end of the line—it might have been “obliviate”—but he couldn’t make
out what they were saying. “Hello? Hello?”

Finally the orderly spoke up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy. I thought I saw Harry Potter here earlier,
but it turns out I was mistaken. I’ll call you if I really do spot him.”

Before Malfoy could reprimand the man for wasting his time, he had hung up.

*******

“In view of Mrs. Potter’s condition,” Mr. Justice Featherstone decreed from the bench, “the
court hereby grants the defendant’s request for a recess. Shall we say, a fortnight?”

“Thank you, my Lord. I should also like to request that your Lordship reconsider our second
application for—.”

“Out of the question, my Lord!” Claude Erskine-Brown leaped to his feet.

Sir Guthrie heaved a sigh of exasperation. “I have already ruled on the matter of bail for your
client, Mr. Rumpole.”

“My Lord, might I point out that my client—who has never had so much as a parking ticket in his
entire life, I might add—was led away in chains while his wife was giving birth to their son! I
would suggest that these proceedings constitute a far greater threat to society than does Harry
Potter!”

“Outrageous, my Lord!” bellowed Sam Ballard, the lead prosecutor.

“On that, my learned friend and I can agree, my Lord!” Rumpole shot back.

The judge loudly banged his gavel for silence. “That will do, Mr. Rumpole. This court is not
unsympathetic to your client’s circumstances. I will allow Mr. Potter supervised visits to the
hospital to see his wife and his son.”

*That’s the way, Guthrie old darling,* Rumpole smiled. *I knew you had a backbone in
there somewhere! But for my client’s sake, we still have to put on the show, don’t we?*

“Visiting his wife and child in manacles with two of London’s finest standing over him,
truncheons ready?”

“Take it or leave it, Mr. Rumpole.”

“If your Lordship pleases,” Rumpole bowed humbly.

“Very well. This court is in recess. We will resume in two weeks.”

“Be upstanding!” The bailiff called as Sir Guthrie left the courtroom.

“A very impressive performance today, Sam.”

“Soapy” Sam seemed caught off guard. “Really, Horace?”

“Oh yes. I never saw Lucius Malfoy’s lips move the entire time you were speaking.”

“Have a care, Rumpole,” Ballard growled, “*God is not mocked. For whatsoever a man soweth,
that shall he also reap*.”

“Galatians 6:7, ” Rumpole noted. “Well as long as we’re doing our Sunday School lessons, how are
you on the Gospels? ‘*Take heed that no man deceive you. For many shall come in my name, saying,
I am Christ; and shall deceive many*.’ Matthew 24: 4,5,” Ballard had no answer. “Here endeth the
lesson.”

******

“A small victory, Harry,” Rumpole reassured his client in the visitors’ room, “But a victory
none the less.”

“I know why Malfoy is after me,” Harry sighed, “and your colleague Mr. Erskine-Browne seems to
be in it only for the publicity—but what’s Mr. Ballard’s story? What’s he got against me?”

“You really want my opinion, Harry?” Rumpole chuckled, “From one old heretic to another? Instead
of accepting the universe as it is, contradictions and all, ‘Soapy’ Sam Ballard (like most of us)
has the audacity to insist that the place actually make sense. Personally, I think the Greeks and
Romans had the right idea. Their Gods are just as moody, capricious and unpredictable as we are.
Old Zeus takes a fancy to some kid named Alexander one day and lets him conquer the known world,
then the next thing you know, the old boy wakes up with a hangover and the city of Pompeii is
covered in molten lava.”

“So? What does that have to do with me?”

“For persons like Sam, religion is an all-or-nothing proposition. Either every word of the Bible
is literally true—the world was created in six days beginning the 24th of October, 4004
B.C.—or it’s all meaningless, even the bits about ‘thou shalt not kill’ and ‘loving thy neighbor as
thyself’. They build their faith like a house of cards. You take one card away and the whole thing
falls down.” Rumpole lit up another cigar. “For awhile in the late eighties, Sam Ballard devoted
himself almost exclusively to cases of ‘Satanic Ritual Abuse’—all that business about ‘recovered
memories’. You know, out of the clear blue sky waking up one morning to recall that your family was
the real-life version of the cast of *Rosemary’s Baby*. It became an obsession with him—but
not because he was particularly interested in helping abused children. I think what he was really
doing was looking for tangible proof of the supernatural.”

Harry was finally beginning to grasp Rumpole’s meaning. “If he could prove that Satan exists,
then by his logic, that would also prove that God exists.”

“You are his ‘Holy Grail’, my dear Harry,” said Rumpole. “By convicting you he will have, at
least in his own mind, made his *prima facie* case for the Almighty. The Bible is true—at
least his version of it. God is on his throne and eventually the bad guys will get it in the neck
just like it says in Revelations.”

******

“Harry Potter is going to be completely exonerated,” Hermione said into the phone. “Once this
trial is over he’s going to be in even greater demand than before. So if you don’t act now, he may
not be able to do your little show.” Hermione and the baby sat in the nursery of Potter Manor in
the big old rocking chair that Molly had given them. Even with all of Harry’s troubles, it still
felt good to be home.

As he nursed at his mother’s breast, little James Ronald Potter looked up at her with a puzzled
expression. *Apparently, she was playing some strange game known as “Hardball” with the man on
the telephone. He wasn’t quite sure how the game was played but it seemed to involve getting the
man “over a barrel”. He did understand that whenever Mommy was playing, she thoroughly enjoyed
herself—so much so that she almost forgot to burp him when he had finished eating.* James was a
big boy, however, and took care of it himself.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, trying not to giggle at her son’s outburst, “I didn’t catch that.”
She kissed the boy on the forehead and began gently rocking him to sleep. “How much? Well…” She
considered for a moment. “I suppose we could do that, given that it’s for charity and all… All
right. Give my regards to Her Majesty. Good-Bye, your Royal Highness!” Her son’s eyes had closed
and he was now fast asleep, so Hermione gently laid him in his crib and covered him with the little
quilt that Molly had sewn for him.

Later, as Hermione prepared for bed, there came a loud creak from outside in the hallway as if
someone was climbing the stairs. She tensed. Ginny had been rather moody of late so Hermione had
insisted that she take the night off and go out with her friends. She was all alone in the house—if
you didn’t count the resident ghosts.

The door opened and a man’s silhouette appeared in the doorway.

“I know you,” Hermione gasped, “You’re that desperate criminal who escaped from Newgate
Prison!”

The figure stepped into the room and closed the door.

“You’re going to tear my clothes off and ravage me, aren’t you?”

The figure moved closer.

“What makes you think I’d do something like that?”

Hermione pointed her wand at the door, locking it.

“Because you’re not getting out of this room until you do.”

Harry Potter scooped his wife into his arms and carried her to bed.

*****

Hermione awoke as she felt Harry getting up. “It’s not morning already, is it?”

“I just want to spend a little time with my son.” Harry said softly. “I hardly get to see
him.”

“He’s fast asleep, Harry,” she pointed out, grabbing his arm. “I have to feed him again at two
o’clock. If you’ll wait a little while, you can see him when he’s awake.”

“You’re just too clever for your own good, you know that?”

“I know.” She stretched out her arms to him. “Now come here. You have no idea how much I’ve
missed making love with my husband.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.”

There was a knock at the door.

“It’s almost midnight!” Hermione said, checking the clock. “Who on earth could that be?” She got
up and put on her robe. “You’d better stay up here Harry. Just in case it’s someone who doesn’t
know about your ‘conjugal visits’.”

“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Potter.” Perhaps it was because he could no longer use
magic, but the Reverend Gilderoy Lockhart didn’t look nearly as immaculate as usual. In fact, he
seemed rather ordinary looking. It wasn’t anything specific. His suit was neatly pressed, his tie
was straight, his hair was combed, but for some reason he just didn’t have the “sparkle” that he
had before. The irresistible magnetism was gone. Added to this he seemed tired, as if he hadn’t
been sleeping well. “I have some information that I guarantee will get the charges dropped against
Harry.”

“I assume you’re not here out of the goodness of your heart.” Hermione eyed him suspiciously.
“What do you want in return?”

“It’s very simple. I want my powers back.”

“So you can go back to conning little old ladies out of their life savings and pretty young
girls into the sack, all in the name of the Almighty?”

“Of course, we must all stand on principle. That’s ever so much more important than clearing
your husband’s good name so he can stop sneaking out of prison every night.” He called up the
stairs. “You’d better stay where you are, Harry. Malfoy’s got people watching the house.”

“And you’re not worried about them seeing you here?” Hermione was growing impatient.

“Without my powers, Lucius Malfoy doesn’t really care what I do.”

“How can I be sure that whatever you’ve got will really help Harry?”

“Well, for one thing,” smiled Lockhart, “I know what you could do to me if it didn’t.”

“Good point,” she agreed. “So? What is it?”

Lockhart shook his head. “Oh no. You don’t get anything until *after* I get my powers
back.”

******

A few minutes later, Lockhart grinned as he levitated the coffee table off the floor.

“Satisfied?” Hermione checked to be sure all the drapes were closed as Harry came downstairs to
join the discussion. She could imagine Malfoy’s people outside jumping to the conclusion that she
and Lockhart were having an affair behind Harry’s back.

“Perfectly.” They sat down at the dining room table. “Did you ever wonder how Gregory Goyle
managed to figure out which spells to use in order to molest Miss Herringbone?”

“I’ll grant you,” Harry agreed, “that if brains were gunpowder, between the two of them, Crabbe
and Goyle couldn’t blow the top off of a tube of toothpaste. You’re saying that someone else showed
him what to do.” Harry considered the alternatives. That would seem to leave only two
possibilities: Dennis or *you*.”

Lockhart grinned. Even without his powers, there had still been a hint of the old Gilderoy
present. Now he practically glowed. He turned to Hermione. “I don’t mean to sound conceited, Mrs.
Potter, but when I’m with a young lady, they wouldn’t want to have their memories erased, if you
know what I mean.”

“So, it was Dennis.”

*****

Seated behind his office desk in Westminster, the Honorable Lucius Malfoy, M.P., was
disappointed to learn that Harry, Hermione, and Harry’s barrister, that Rumpole fellow, didn’t seem
the least bit shocked when he asserted that Mrs. Potter was being unfaithful to her husband. In
fact, they seemed quite amused. (Lockhart’s amusement he had taken for granted.) Lucius was far
from amused when Mr. Rumpole announced that they were planning to press charges against his son,
Dennis for sexual assault and statutory rape.

“I suppose you could say it was an experiment,” Lockhart said, practicing his testimony for the
jury. “Dennis and his friends wanted to see just what they could accomplish with their newfound
powers. Of course, neither he nor the others knew about the faulty memory charm. Now it’s just a
matter of time before the girl remembers everything.”

Mr. Rumpole was on his feet playing barrister. “Why didn’t he say something when Mr. Goyle was
caught? Mrs. Potter could have just as easily taken care of both girls.”

“Admit that the son of a future Prime Minister made such a careless blunder?” Draco looked ready
to dig a hole in the ground, jump in and pull the dirt over his head. “He reckoned he could watch
Mrs. Potter do a proper Memory Charm on Marcia Herringbone, then discreetly deal with his own
problem later—but when Mrs. Potter played her little trick on all of us, that kind of put the
*kibosh* on his plan.”

Lucius’s face was slowly turning purple. “What about evidence?” he demanded. “Are you planning
to march down to New Scotland Yard and just tell them that Dennis used magic to rape a young
girl?”

“Why not?” Rumpole asked. “Harry’s on trial for witchcraft. The more the merrier!”

“If the police don’t want to deal with witchcraft,” Hermione said, “I’m sure we could come up
with a more palatable scenario for them—a ‘date-rape drug’, for example? I can make the lab results
say anything I want them to. Not to mention the fact that we’ll have the testimony of Draco’s
minister to back us up.”

“The poor lad came to me and confessed everything in a moment of contrition,” Lockhart said in
his most pious voice. “To be honest, it was more like locker room bragging, but that’s neither here
nor there. Of course, normally I would never even think of betraying a parishioner’s confidence,
but since there was such a heinous crime involved—“

“And being neither Roman Catholic nor C of E,” Rumpole reminded them, “Reverend Lockhart is not
bound by the Seal of Confession.”

“Truly one of Nature’s noblemen, aren’t you?” Malfoy sneered.

Always the smooth operator, Lockhart simply observed, “I do what I can.”

“Let’s cut the crap, Malfoy.” Hermione’s patience was running out. “You drop the charges against
Harry and I’ll erase the girl’s memory just like I did with Marcia.”

“Father, I—” Dennis began.

Malfoy shot his son a, “We’ll talk about this later” look.

“Agreed.”

“Actually, Mrs. Potter,” Rumpole interrupted, “If the charges were simply to be dropped for no
reason, it might make people suspect that ‘the fix was in’. Given his status as a public figure,
Harry needs a clear victory in court.”

“There will still be those who believe that Harry is a servant of the devil.” Lucius said with a
sardonic smile.

“There will always be those who are willing to believe the worst of others.” Rumpole pointed
out. “That can’t be helped. But for the rest of them, being found ‘Not Guilty’ by a jury will be
more than sufficient.”

“You have my word,” Lucius waved his hand dismissively. “Harry Potter will be totally
exonerated.”

“He’d better be,” Hermione insisted, “Otherwise the deal’s off. Now, who’s the girl?”

Hermione definitely didn’t like the evil smile that suddenly formed on Draco’s lips.

“You mean Lockhart didn’t tell you?”

Somehow, in the deepest, darkest depths of her soul, Hermione knew the name even before he said
it. It was so totally in character for Dennis “Draco” Malfoy—Even so, it still felt as though she
had been kicked in the stomach when he actually said it.

“Ginny Weasley.”

Apart from her husband, Ginny Weasley was Hermione’s best friend in the whole world—the little
sister she never had. To trifle with her innocence was like stabbing Hermione directly in the
heart. They had always daydreamed about the future: James and his future brothers and sisters
happily playing with Ginny and Ron’s children in the big backyard of Potter Manor, all of them
raised as one big loving family. The girls even let themselves fantasize about the possibility of
James falling in love with a pretty redheaded Weasley girl and the two families uniting officially.
There was no reason that it couldn’t still happen. She could give Ginny back her innocence—at least
for a little while longer. There was no reason why she couldn’t still meet a nice boy someday…

The tears were burning in Hermione’s eyes.

For one brief moment, Harry was certain that his wife was going to use the *Avada Kedavra*
curse. Instead, she calmly walked over to Dennis Malfoy, whispered the word, “Bastard” and
resolutely thrust her knee into his groin.

*****

When Harry’s trial resumed, the prosecution rested its case without calling any further
witnesses. Mr. Rumpole then called the Reverend Gilderoy Lockhart to testify to Harry’s excellent
character. (The papers all noted how utterly charming and sincere was his testimony.) Rumpole then
called David Copperfield and Lance Burton to testify that the illusions they thought were
supernatural in nature were in truth highly sophisticated electronic and holographic tricks devised
by Harry’s “engineer” Ron Weasley. Ron had showed them the “secrets” of his creations in strictest
confidence, counting on their honor as Harry’s fellow magicians not to reveal them. (They both
tried to hire Ron on the spot, but he politely declined.)

The jury took less than thirty minutes to render its verdict.

“Harry James Potter,” Judge Featherstone intoned in his most officious voice, “you have been
found ‘Not Guilty’ of the charges brought against you, and you may leave this court a free man. And
may I add, on a personal note, my most humble and sincere apologies for the terrible ordeal to
which you and your family have been needlessly subjected these past few weeks. I am deeply ashamed
of the Home Secretary’s office for allowing this farce to continue for as long as it did. Perhaps
now my grandchildren will begin speaking to me again.” He turned his attention to the visitors’
gallery. “Mr. Malfoy, you can be sure that I will have a word or two to say to the Parliamentary
Ethics Committee regarding your conduct in this matter. This court is adjourned!”

******

It was sheer pandemonium outside the Old Bailey, as Harry emerged triumphant before thousands of
his loyal fans.

“First of all,” he told the crowd and the assembled press, “I would like to thank my barrister,
Mr. Horace Rumpole, for all his hard work in fighting these ludicrous charges.”

Accepting his ovation graciously, the old barrister then did his best to disappear into the
crowd—but not before receiving a hug and a kiss from his client’s wife and the Weasley women.

“I should also like to thank the Weasley family, in particular my dear friend Ronald Weasley,
for their unwavering support during this difficult time.” Ron and Harry shook hands as Ginny, Molly
and Victoria embraced him. “Of course, I cannot let this occasion go by without thanking one of the
two most important people in my life: She is my best friend, the mother of my son and the woman who
owns the other half of my soul—and if my wife ever finds out about her, she’ll kill me.” The crowd
roared with laughter. Hermione’s face was redder than any Weasley’s head as Harry pulled her to the
podium. “My wife, Hermione!”

Once he could be heard again over the din of the crowd, Harry continued.

“Perhaps most important of all, I wish to thank the children. Their unwavering faith in me has
been a constant source of strength to all of us. So, to all of you out there who never stopped
believing, I can only say… HIT IT!”

Seemingly from out of nowhere, Ron suddenly produced an electric guitar. A bass and a rhythm
guitar appeared in the hands of two young men dressed as prison guards. Apparently nobody had
noticed the drums and amplifiers, which had been set up on the courthouse steps. Harry grabbed a
microphone and threw off his coat. Underneath, he was wearing an old fashioned prison uniform
covered all over with the Broad Arrow. Ginny and Victoria Weasley and several other female dancers
planted in the crowd shed their own coats to reveal sexy female versions.

*“Warden threw a party in the county jail,*

*The prison band was there and they began to wail,*

*The joint was jumpin’ and the place began to swing,*

*You should’ve heard those knocked down jailbirds sing,*

*Let’s rock!*

*Everybody let’s rock!*

*Everybody in the old cell block,*

*Was dancin’ to the Jail House Rock!”[3]*

The BBC, ITV, all of the American television networks and several others from around the world
stayed on live for nearly three hours to cover what many considered to be the most incredible
performance of Harry Potter’s career.

*****

A few months after the trial, Harry and Hermione received word that their friend Horace Rumpole
had passed away.

It had happened just as the old barrister would have wanted, Harry fancied. Rumpole had just
finished presenting the defense case to the jury in the matter of a certain Darell Timson, who had
been doing his part to bring the family into the twenty-first century by getting himself nicked for
a bit of computer hacking.

By all accounts it had been as eloquent a defense as had ever been heard ’round the Old Bailey,
one of the best old Rumpole had ever put on. Rumpole then had sat down at his table, leaned back,
closed his eyes, and was gone. Appropriately enough, his last words on this Earth were, “My Lord,
the Defence[4] rests.”

Harry and Hermione were invited by Rumpole’s former protégé, “Portia”, (Mrs. Phillida
Erskine-Brown, Q.C.), to join with some of his friends and colleagues at Pommeroy’s Wine Bar to
drink one final toast of Château Fleet Street to the memory of the celebrated Old Bailey hack. The
crowd was a merry mix of fellow barristers, solicitors, former clerks, and an even a few villains
whom Rumpole had managed to keep out of the nick. Naturally the largest delegation belonged to the
Timson family, who provided the refreshments. Patriarch Fred Timson joked that they had “fallen off
the back of a lorry”. No one was quite sure whether or not he was kidding.

Rumpole’s passing seemed particularly hard on his wife, Hilda, Hermione noted. She Who Must Be
Obeyed seemed far less formidable than Rumpole’s descriptions of her. In fact, she looked old and
frail. Word was that she would soon be leaving for America where their son, Nicholas and his family
would care for her.

Perhaps it was Mr. Justice Sir Guthrie Featherstone, Q.C. who summed it up best. “Old Rumpole
may be gone, but I am sure that we shall meet again. For I know that on the Day of Judgement when I
stand in the dock before the highest court of all, and the Almighty asks, ‘Who speaks for this
man?’, a familiar figure clothed in a shabby robe made of ‘stuff’, not silk, and wearing a
moth-eaten old periwig will rise to his feet and say, ‘Rumpole for the Defence, my Lord’. I think
you will all agree that the odds of getting into Heaven for all us poor sinners will have improved
dramatically, because no matter how low our former estate, no matter how vile our sins may have
been—” At this point for some reason Sir Guthrie threw a particularly guilty look at his wife,
Marigold. “—old Rumpole will be there to argue mitigating circumstances.”

Harry could have sworn he’d heard “Soapy” Sam Ballard mutter, “God help us!”

Featherstone raised his glass. “To Horace Rumpole. Never plead guilty!”

“Never plead guilty!” the crowd responded.

*****

“Mr. Potter?”
Harry rubbed his eyes and put his glasses back on.

Standing in the doorway, covered by an oversized mackintosh and a kerchief was Mrs. Minerva
Smith, *née* McGonagall.

“Mrs. Smith?”

“May I come in, please?”

Harry led her into the sitting room and offered her a seat by the fireplace.

“Thank you.”

“Harry?” Hermione yawned. “Who is it?” She was carrying little James as she came down the
stairs. “Mrs. Smith?”

“I’m very sorry to disturb you at this ungodly time of night, but I’m afraid that you and your
wife are the only ones I can trust.”

“It’s a strange state of affairs when you trust your enemies more than you do your friends, Mrs.
Smith.”

“The irony is not lost on me, Mr. Potter.” Finally, she took a deep breath. “My father taught me
that you should always judge a person by his deeds, not his words. Whatever disagreements we may
have had in the past, your deeds tell me that you are a man of strong principles—kind and
compassionate.” She took hold of Harry’s hand. Her voice was choked with emotion. “I realize that
I’ve done nothing to deserve—”

Harry knelt down in front of her.

“Mrs. Smith, I promise that we will do everything we can to help you.”

The old woman was almost in tears as she looked at the Potter’s baby, aching to hold it.
Hermione gently placed her son in the old woman’s arms.

“So many memories…” she whispered.

She took a moment to get control of her self.

“It’s my wee Jamie—my grandson. Lately he has begun to show signs of… unusual abilities.”

“How unusual?” Harry sat down in the chair opposite while Hermione stood next to him.

“He’s able to move things from across the room without actually touching them.”

“And you want us to—?”

“I want you to *protect* him.”

“From whom?”

“From his parents—they’re terrified of their own child! They think him possessed by demons—and
from Lucius Malfoy, of course! I can’t believe it took me so long to see the truth! Neither he nor
Reverend Lockhart are truly men of God. They wish to only exploit others for their own gain.”

“I’m not entirely sure we can help you, Mrs. Smith…”

Harry patiently described their mission to open a school for young witches and wizards where
they would be taught to use their powers wisely and for the benefit of all mankind. At the moment
the school was still little more than an idea, but they were moving forward with their plans. They
had found a small farm in Scotland, which initially they hoped to turn into a summer camp.

“Once we have an actual place to bring the children and really start the process of learning,”
Hermione explained, “we can begin sorting out the ones who have the potential to be teachers down
the road.”

“This is a long-term project, Mrs. Smith.” Harry said, “It may not all come together within our
lifetimes, but we will have at least planted the seeds.”

“But what of my wee Jamie?” she begged.

Harry made a couple of phone calls.

“Once the purchase of the farm has been finalized,” he told Mrs. Smith, “Bill and Charlie
Weasley and their families will take charge of the site and begin the necessary work to turn it
into a summer camp. Your grandson can live with them and begin his education in magic. The Weasleys
are the warmest, most caring people you could ever meet and they have the patience and the
experience to teach your grandson everything he needs to learn.”

*****

“How can I be sure that I’m doing the right thing, Mr. Potter?” Mrs. Smith said through her
tears as she watched the car carrying her grandson disappear into the night. “I say I love him, but
I’ve just taken him away from his own family.”

*“Love is patient,”* Harry quoted, *“Love is kind.”*

*“It does not envy,”* Mrs. Smith continued, *“it does not boast, it is not proud. It is
not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does
not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes,
always perseveres...”*

Harry Potter gently put his arm around her.

*“ Love never fails.” [5]*

*
*

End Of Chapter Seven



[1] If you missed it, just go back and re-read the previous chapters, for Pete’s
sake!

[2] Lydia M. Child

[3] Words & Music by Jerry Leiber & Mike Stoller

[4] Since we are quoting, this is the British spelling of “Defense”.

[5] 1st Corinthians, 13:4-6



8. Epilogue
-----------

Brian Hendrickson Normal Brian Hendrickson 2 58 2002-11-11T04:05:00Z 2002-11-11T04:05:00Z 5 3132
17853 148 35 21924 9.3821

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:** Thanks to Haggridd for his most excellent Beta skills and steadfast moral
support.

CHILD’S PLAY

EPILOGUE
"Then I saw new heavens and a new earth..."
Revelation 21:1
As Draco Malfoy made his way into the deepest dungeons of the former Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry, he could hear a familiar voice echoing from the room where he and his
fellow students had once studied potions.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making…”

The hellish screams of the other prisoners he could block out; the voice of his old Potions
professor was another matter…

“As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic.”
The emaciated shaggy-haired figure shackled to the wall of his former classroom hardly resembled
the former Potions Master, but the softly sinister voice of Professor Severus Snape was
unmistakable as it continued to lecture to the empty seats. “I don't expect you will really
understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate
power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses.... I
can teach you—”

“—how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death.” Yeah, yeah, yeah…

“You’re late, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said, wagging a finger. “Ten points from Slytherin.”

“Haven’t you heard, Professor?” Malfoy dropped heavily into his old chair opposite the
professor’s desk. “Classes have been cancelled,” he said flatly, “It’s a school holiday.”

“Oh dear,” Snape said in mock sympathy. “Our little war going badly, is it?”

Malfoy’s head jerked up.

“What makes you say that?” he said a bit too defensively.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon. I’m sure that you’re skulking down here in the dungeons just because
you miss your old Potions teacher. You’ve no idea how touched I am.”

“Shut up, old man!” Malfoy snapped.

“It’s all right, Draco. You can’t help being the way you are. It runs in the family. Your father
is a sniveling coward as well.”

Draco leaped to his feet, fists clenched.

“Now, now, my boy!” Snape chided. “I just might be the only friend you have left. If you’re very
nice, I could be persuaded to tell our liberators that you’re a fellow prisoner…I’m not promising
anything, mind you!”

Draco wasn’t really listening. He sank back into the chair with a sigh of resignation.

“I don’t understand… Harry Potter is dead.” Draco hissed. “The prophecies have been thwarted!
The Dark Lord is all-powerful!” He walked over to talk directly to Snape. “What went wrong?”

“Arrogance, my boy, pure unmitigated arrogance. Voldemort became greedy. It’s been the same with
every would-be conqueror throughout history: Alexander, Genghis Khan, Martha Stewart… He couldn’t
be satisfied with what he had. It wasn’t enough to rule the world of magic, he had to take on the
Muggles as well.”

“But how, with all our power, could they even have hoped to defeat us?”

“Have you never wondered, boy, why we never conquered them ages ago?”

“I’d always assumed it was bleeding hearts like Dumbledore holding us back.”

“We flattered ourselves into believing that we could have conquered them at any time but we just
didn’t want to. The horrible truth is they have always had the advantage of numbers. While we spent
our time honing our spells and our charms, perfecting our potions, they were very good at getting
on with the business of being fruitful and multiplying. Now they number in the billions while we
are still a relative handful—but there was one other advantage they had that we never anticipated.
Old Dumbledore tried to warn us, but we refused to listen.”

“What advantage?”

“You mean our ‘Fearless Leader’ never told you? Well, then allow me to enlighten you as to the
true way of the world! Once upon a time, a powerful wizard fell in love and eventually took a
Muggle for his wife—”

“Stupid fool! Polluting the bloodline—!”

“No comments from the ‘Peanut Gallery’. As happens all too often, her beauty faded and her sweet
disposition changed into shrewish resentment. The woman’s constant nagging vexed the wizard so that
he could stand no more and finally resolved to be rid of her. He tried every magical method of
murder he could conceive, and yet still she lived!”

“Even—?”

“Yes, my boy. Even the Death Curse had no effect on her. Poor bastard took poison himself in the
end, for he had accidentally stumbled onto a terrifying truth—that a certain percentage of Muggles
are born with a very peculiar form of natural defense. Though they cannot perform magic themselves,
neither can they be harmed by it. They are, to all intents and purposes, totally immune.”

“Immune…?” Draco gasped. “But this is unthinkable!”

“Old Dumbledore speculated that it was one of nature’s little ‘checks and balances’ to ensure
that neither side ever had too great an advantage over the other—but I fear our His Lorship may
have inadvertently tipped the scales too far.”

“The Muggles know…?” Draco looked like a cartoon character that had just walked off a cliff and
only now realized that he was standing on thin air.

“They aren’t the sharpest wands in the shop, but they do catch on eventually. Now they’ve taken
to forming whole companies of “immunes”. I heard one of the guards say that Lord Arathorn’s
stronghold fell to one only this morning.”

“We’re doomed,” Draco moaned.

“Why do you think I switched sides—because I liked the smell of Dumbledore’s eâu de cologne?
Once I understood the truth I knew that Voldemort’s plan was a non-starter from the beginning! I
had no great love for Dumbledore or Hogwarts or Harry Potter! I was simply trying to prevent that
over-reaching fool upstairs from getting us all exterminated!”

“What can we do?”

“If you don’t already have a religion, I’d suggest that you pick one and start praying for a
miracle.”

******

The Dark Lord sat on his golden jewel-encrusted throne in what was once the Great Hall of
Hogwarts, brooding over the journal he had discovered clutched in the lifeless hands of his old
enemy. The death of Albus Dumbledore had been cause for celebration throughout Lord Voldemort’s
kingdom. (All had been ordered to make merry on pain of death.) But this news was troubling. He
understood only now that his own hubris had started a chain reaction that could end with the
extermination of all Wizard-kind. He knew that he must act quickly or his great genius would be
lost forever. There had to be a way to escape. He read the page again.

“There may yet be a way for our kind to survive,” the old wizard had written. “I have discovered
a method of traversing the barriers between dimensions. I now know that the theories are correct,
that our universe is one of many, each existing on a different dimensional plane. It is sometimes
amusing to observe our counterparts and the various romantic entanglements in which they find
themselves.”

Voldemort skipped a long passage about the divers and sundry romantic couplings that Harry,
Hermione, Ron, and Draco made up in the various realities. He was much more interested in the
passage about a particular dimension that had piqued Dumbledore’s interest.

“Hogwarts does not exist there. However, there is ample evidence that many of the inhabitants
have latent magical abilities. They simply lack a basic education in how to use them. I am
convinced that Miss Granger is the best available candidate for the journey. She is young and
healthy, and could survive the ordeal of inter-dimensional travel. Also, the two Muggles who would
have been her parents in this reality were killed in an accident before they could produce a child.
Life would be much easier for her without having to cope with a doppelganger. Perhaps most
importantly, in this particular dimension, her beloved Harry Potter is alive and well, and sorely
in need of the kind of affection and encouragement that only Miss Granger could provide him. (Why
we had the bad luck to lose our Harry when he apparently survives and thrives in so many other
realities is a mystery that I may never fully comprehend.) I am convinced that all it would take
for a new crop of wizards to be sown in this fertile field is the planting of a single seed.”

“Yes,” hissed the Dark Lord, “The seed shall indeed be planted—but it shall be I who reaps the
harvest!”

Even as the armies of the Muggle world advanced on their position, Lord Voldemort shut himself
in his laboratory and carefully followed Dumbledore’s notes in order to open a portal between the
worlds. The Dark Lord chuckled at the irony. Dumbledore’s own conceit in not burning this book
would now provide the means for Lord Voldemort’s survival.

“Find young Draco Malfoy!” he ordered the Captain of the Guards, “He shall be the one to plant
my seeds in the virgin soil of this brave new word!”

An artillery shell exploded against the outer wall of the castle. Peter “Wormtail” Pettigrew
scurried through the corridors shrieking like a banshee. “THE MUGGLES ARE COMING! THE MUGGLES ARE
COMING! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!”

“Fool!” snorted the Dark Lord, “I really should turn him back into a rat. I think I shall.”

So he did.

Voldemort could hear the cries of his “loyal subjects” in the rest of the castle as they began
to panic. No doubt they would surrender in droves, promising to be “good” wizards and use their
magic only to help their new Muggle masters. Spineless cowards!

The Dark Lord marveled at his own genius! Hovering before him in a halo of light was the portal
that would transport his protégé into this new world.

“Master”, came Draco Malfoy’s voice from the doorway.

“Excellent, young Malfoy! I have a very important task for you to perform! I—”

There was a sickening thud.

Draco Malfoy was lying face down in a pool of his own blood, his body riddled with bullets. In
the distance, Voldemort could hear the sounds of heavy footsteps running up the corridor. The enemy
was here!

He had no choice. Voldemort knew that his ravaged body might not withstand the journey, but
there was no alternative. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he leapt through the
portal.

*********

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Potter,” the policeman apologized. I can’t believe I’m
saying this. They’ll never believe this back at the precinct. “I know how upset you must be, but
could you just answer a few questions to help us with our inquiries?”

“Of course, constable,” Hermione said while she dried her tears. She had finally managed to stop
shaking. “I know you and your men are doing all you can.”

“Could you tell us what happened?”

“As I told the other policeman… We heard a noise outside. Harry went out to investigate
and…”

The constable laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I know this is hard, Mrs. Potter, but I can assure you, he didn’t suffer. It happened very
quickly.”

“Thank you, constable.” She took a minute to compose herself. “Do you know anything about the
man who did it?”

“His National Health card says his name is Tom Riddle—a transient as far as we can tell. No
fixed abode. Been in and out of mental wards since his teens.” The constable tapped his head.
“Voices. The doctors diagnosed him as schizophrenic.”

“What will they do to him?”

“He was already on probation for attacking his social worker. This was his last chance. He’ll be
locked up for good this time.”

**********

Lord Voldemort sat alone in the semi-darkness, struggling to concentrate as the powerful
psychotropic drugs he had been given began to take effect. He had a long, scraggly beard, his
clothes were ragged, and his teeth and fingertips were stained a dark yellow with nicotine. He was
in a padded cell in the psychiatric wing of Bethlehem Hospital in London. His arms were held
securely by a straightjacket.

The Dark Lord had been weakened even more than he had expected by the journey between worlds,
but that shock was nothing compared to the one he had received when he had discovered himself—his
counterpart in this universe—to be little more than a homeless vagrant. With his last remaining
energies, Voldemort had taken possession of his counterpart’s body, but something was definitely
wrong. Strange voices continually echoed through his head, and he could feel the effects of alcohol
combined with Merlin knows what other kinds of chemicals, making it difficult for him to
concentrate.

“I am the Dark Lord!” He bellowed through the static inside his head. “I am ‘He Who Must Not Be
Named’! I AM LORD VOLDEMORT!”

“Just keep telling yourself that.” came a woman’s voice from the shadows.

“Who’s there?”

“ I doubt if you’d remember me.”

“Order them to release me at once!”

“Let’s see… You destroyed Hogwarts, subverted the Wizarding world and murdered practically
everyone I ever cared about. Now I’m supposed to release you, because…?”

“I AM LORD VOLDEMORT!”

“Of course! Silly me.” She looked around at the padded cell. “So you finally decided to follow
me. You really must’ve really made a mess of things.”

“What?”

“You went after the Muggles, didn’t you?”

“How did you know…?”

“Old Dumbledore was right,” she chuckled. “You’re as predictable as the sunrise. The only
possible reason that you could have had to follow me here, would be because you’d made a total
cock-up of things back home.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“It used to be Granger. Hermione Granger.”

“Potter’s girlfriend…” Voldemort whispered.

“Wife,” she corrected. “Ron Weasley’s friend, and Chris and Ivy Granger’s[1] daughter,
Albus Dumbledores’s student… Shall I go on?”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Killing you wouldn’t be like killing another human
being in cold blood. It would be like killing a rat—or some other form of vermin. I wouldn’t lose a
wink of sleep over it. But, to tell the truth, I’m beginning to think it would be much more
appropriate to leave you the way you are.”

“No! You can’t leave me like this! I really will go mad!”

“And I suppose you were perfectly sane when you slaughtered all those people?”

“‘The needs of the many’, my dear,” he shrugged as if the point were perfectly obvious. “Even
the healthiest tree must be pruned occasionally in order to survive.”

“I suppose that included ‘pruning’ my family, my friends, me…?”

“I might have been a little hasty in your case,” the Dark Lord admitted. “Despite your
background, I’d heard some very flattering reports about you. They did say you were one of the most
talented witches of your generation.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed.

“It’s ironic that after all the suffering you caused—all the deaths, all the misery—that you
were finally brought down,” she stepped forward into the dim light, revealing the tiny blanket
wrapped bundle she cradled in the crook of her arm, “by a simple act of love.”

You hurt my Daddy, the voice echoed inside Riddle’s head, through the haze of medications.
You’re a bad man.

“That voice…! As I was struggling with Potter, there was a blinding light… excruciating pain…
and that voice… a baby?”

“Harry Potter’s son. Our love made flesh.” Hermione looked down and smiled as the baby wrapped
its tiny hand around her index finger. “Don’t worry, Darling. He won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“Great Merlin!” The Dark Lord gasped. “He’s but a babe in arms, yet he’s sapped all my
powers!”

“A ‘chip off the old block’, wouldn’t you say?”

Voldemort’s mind was racing. “You must give him to me! I’m the only one who could possibly bring
out his full potential!”

“So you can do what you did back home? We both know how well that worked out.”

“I admit I made mistakes—“

“Mistakes? You managed to destroy a magical civilization that had existed since the dawn of
time.” She sighed, shaking her head sadly. “Perhaps some day we’ll find a way to go back. Who
knows? It might even be possible for our children or our grandchildren to rebuild what’s been
lost.”

Voldemort smiled.

“Give me the child and I’ll tell you how to get back.”

Hermione turned and started to walk away.

“Please!” The Dark Lord was almost begging. “Your son is no ordinary wizard! He must be taught
how to use his powers!”

“He’ll be taught,” she assured him. “He’ll be taught the difference between right and wrong.
He’ll be taught compassion and understanding. He’ll be taught that his powers are a gift that he
can use to make the world a better place for all mankind.”

“Don’t be absurd! You can’t possibly straightjacket such an extraordinary child with your
simple-minded, middle class morality!” he said, entirely missing the unintentional humor of the
statement.

Hermione shrugged. “It worked for Clark Kent.” She backed away into the shadows and
disappeared.

“No! Wait! Come back!”

“Good-Bye, Mr. Riddle. Give my regards to Nurse Ratchett.” Her mocking laughter echoed eerily
across the room.

She materialized in the corridor outside wearing glasses and a doctor’s lab coat. The orderly
was too busy checking the patient’s chart to pay much attention to her. He raised an eyebrow at the
doctor’s recommendation.

“It’s a little extreme,” Hermione noted as she took the chart from him and initialed it, “but we
have no choice. He’s an exceptionally violent and dangerous case. Notify the operating room and
prep the patient for immediate surgery.”

“But a pre-frontal lobotomy?”

“‘The needs of the many…’” she said as his eyes locked with hers.

******

“Look, I’m sorry about the cat, darling.” Harry said with his trademark self-effacing grin. His
forehead was bandaged and the lump on the back of his head felt as though it were the size of a
golf ball, but all that seemed inconsequential next to the sight of his loving family waiting for
him in the Casualty Ward lobby.

“Forget about the wretched cat, Harry! As long it wasn’t you!” Hermione gently laid little James
in his pram then threw her arms around “Daddy’s” neck. “Don’t you even think about leaving me to
raise this baby all by myself!” she scolded.

“It’ll take a lot more than some scruffy old beggar to get rid of Harry Potter!” He wiped a tear
from his wife’s eye. “Better get used to it, kiddo. You’re stuck with me.” He knelt down to beside
the perambulator to speak to his son. “Especially when I’ve got so many people looking out for me.”
A grin spread across James Potter’s tiny face at the sight of his Daddy. He cooed and gurgled with
delight. “Now I don’t want you to get the idea that saving your Old Man’s life is going to make one
bit of difference in the way you’re disciplined. I’m still going to expect you to do your homework,
wash behind your ears—and no going out with girls until you’ve eaten all your vegetables!” Hermione
was doing her best not to laugh out loud in the hospital lobby. “Of course,” he said, pretending to
whisper, “if there’s anything special you’d like for Christmas or your birthday, you just let me
know.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw the constable who had interviewed her walking out
with another policeman.

“‘I’m very sorry for your loss’?” the second officer chuckled. “For a cat?”

“It was out of my mouth before I realized it,” the constable said, embarrassed. “The lady was
upset! What was I supposed to say? Some people really love their cats! They’re never going to let
me hear the end of this down at the precinct, are they?”

“At least he didn’t suffer.”

“Oh, shut up!”

As Harry stood up again, Hermione threw her arms around him once more.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll be better when we’re all back home.” she sighed as she nuzzled against his shoulder. We
just finished with the Malfoys and Voldemort showed up! What next! In her heart, Hermione knew that
this wasn’t the end of the story. No doubt there would be other enemies they would have to face in
this brave new world. There was still much work to do if they were to rebuild Hogwarts, but for now
she could relax and allow herself a peaceful night’s sleep in her husband’s arms.

“About the cat…” Harry began, “Why don’t we go down to the pet shop tomorrow…?”

“You don’t have to pretend for my sake, Harry. I know you and Crookshanks II never really got on
that well. You’re just not a ‘cat person’. Maybe this time we could get a dog? What do you think of
the name ‘Padfoot’?”

“Whatever you say, darling.” Harry raised an eyebrow. “By the way, did they ever figure out who
the old fellow was—why he tried to break in to our place?”

“He was just a crazy old man, darling.” Hermione assured him. “No one you need to worry
about.”

THE END

OF

“CHILD’S PLAY”



[1] A tip ‘o the wizard’s hat to Circe713 as I steal her names for Hermione’s parents out
of all the thousands they’ve been given by other authors. If for no other reason than I like the
way she wrote them in her stories, “Summer”, “Paris”, etc. Check them out!
http://www.astronomytower.org/authorLinks/Circe713/