'Mrs. Malone? Remus Lupin banged gently on the door. 'Mrs. Malone?'

No reply but the door opened when he twisted the handle. 'Mrs. Malone,' he said, walking into the old, beautifully proportioned room that comprised most of the ground floor flat.

'It's Molly, dear.' Blinking, the old lady looked up from her comfy chair.

'You left the door unlocked. Again.'

'Did I? Well. What self-respecting burglar would bother themselves with my old tat.'

'Molly.'

'Make us some tea, would you? Doesn't turn out the same when I make it.'

Hardly surprising. Molly's herbal tea was half-way to being a potion in its own right and having an actual wizard to make it never hurt. 'I'll put your stuff away, shall I?' he asked her.

'Such a good lad,' murmured Molly, as he stashed the groceries he'd brought her. Carefully, he arranged three digestive biscuits on a bone china plate along with half a peeled mandarin orange. The old woman never ate enough. The trick was not to put too much on the plate. A single wrapped chocolate from Honeyduke's joined them. Hot water went into the pot to warm it. 'I've just remembered,' said Molly. 'You've got a visitor.'

'Oh?' Tea leaves. Hot water. Lid. Tea cosy.

'Yes. Nice little fellow. Helpful. I might have taken a bit of a tumble otherwise.'

'Molly, tell me you weren't on the stairs again?'

'This is my house. Of course I want to know what's going on. If my guests are happy.'

'Molly . . .' Remus Lupin took a deep breath and found a suitable argument. 'Didn't you promise that nice Doctor Cohen you'd stay off the stairs?'

'I'm not that old.'

He took the tray through from the kitchenette and set it on a small table beside her. 'Molly,' he told her, 'you're immortal. You're also ninety-three.'

'Ying tong yiddle I po,' said his landlady and smiled with her too-perfect, National Health Service, false teeth.

He'd not the faintest idea what she meant by that. Pouring the tea, he queried: 'a visitor?'

'Yes. Said they'd let themself in. Is that a toffee?'

'Caramel.'

'I like toffees.'

'Name one chocolate you don't like.'

'Hmm,' said Molly, biting into it. Remus smiled and turned. 'You do seem to know the most interesting people,' said Molly, from behind his back. Old as she was, she was still as sharp as a tack.

'I haven't given anyone a key,' he told her. 'Some of my students are . . . resourceful.' And some, through no fault of their own, needed additional support. And it wouldn't be the first time one of them had chosen to take refuge with their tutor. He turned back to explain.

'You do what you can,' the old woman reminded him, sipping her tea.

Remus Lupin, wizard and werewolf, wondered how anyone, magical or otherwise, could consider themselves superior to someone with such a will to kindness.

'On you go,' said Molly.

Crossing the hallway, he let himself in through his own, locked, front door to discover a small person, sitting at his table, wearing a balaclava. He was surprised that the television that comprised the introduction to the course that, in his own head, he called "Muggles are not muddy peasants 101" was still switched off. By the time his magic-side clients found him, they had usually managed to lose most of the baggage but sometimes it helped. It was also an expected item in an apparently muggle home. His guest hadn't bothered with it. A pile of children's books had been more interesting. 'Is Muggles really eating green eggs and ham?' he was asked, which confirmed his suspicion.

What he'd first thought was a child with bunches was, in fact, a house elf wearing a balaclava. His wand dropped into his hand. 'No,' he replied. 'It sounds odd so that he has a good reason to refuse to eat it. It's meant to be funny. To help children remember when they're learning to read. If eggs and ham were green, they probably wouldn't be very healthy. Can I help you?'

A long pause while his uninvited guest considered him. 'This elf thinks so, yes.'

'Oh?'

'This elf is here to ask Remus Lupin, Mister Moony, sir to dinner. Family is having all of Harry Potter's favourite Chinese foods. Plus, an extra big dish of beef chow mein.

It was suddenly hard to breathe. 'Harry,' he said. Harry was the important thing. 'You know where he is?'

'Elf couldn't be taking mister Moony to dinner with him if he didn't. But first, mister Moony must be promising to keep Mister Harry Potter's secrets.'

He wouldn't be able to tell Dumbledore.

On the other hand, Dumbledore had already managed to lose the child, despite having sworn that he was safe, and perhaps, if the situation were bad, he could extract Harry without telling anyone anything. 'I swear to keep Harry Potter's secrets,' he said. The elf got up. Slender fingers wrapped around his own and then he was in what looked like a study. A man and a woman sat facing one another across a partners' desk. To one side, a girl and boy looked up from where they had been reading on the sofa. The boy was James. So much like James, there could be no doubt as to who his father was. Or, from that green, his mother.

.

There was a hand on the back of his neck. 'Head between your knees,' he was told. 'It will help.' When the world stopped swimming, he opened his eyes.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Sorry, I just . . . I tried to find you, Harry. I was warned off by Albus Dumbledore. He said that your safety was paramount. If I was going to persist in endangering you, then it would be better if I forgot all about you.'

The girl came back into the room with a glass of water and handed it to him. He took a sip and then another. 'How are you, Harry?'

'Much better now,' said the boy. 'Professor Dumbledore left me with my aunt Petunia's family. None of them liked me. There was Petunia and Vernon's bedroom, Dudley's bedroom, Dudley's second bedroom for his stuff, the guest bedroom and my cupboard under the stairs.'

'And they had him doing the housework,' the man, still sitting at the desk, confirmed. 'We were in that house. We had difficulty believing . . . Mouth twisting down, he stopped. When he began again, his tone was brighter. 'So, we have adopted him. He's now Harry Granger. No disrespect intended to his parents, just an added layer of security. That's Hermione.' With her halo of hair, Remus decided, the name suited her.

'I think he could do with a hug,' said she and then Remus had his arms full of small boy and he was breathing in 'family'. The parents introduced themselves but he was unable to process it. Finally, the wolf within him that had wanted to die and then to tear up the world, calmed and he was able to let go.

'I will keep your secrets,' he promised. 'I will protect you with my life.'

'That's what we thought,' said the mother, swinging open a glass door leading onto a small, suburban garden.

To one side of the lawn, there was a wooden table with a parasol and benches attached, designed to seat six. He took his place at one end with Harry's adopted sister at the other and Harry himself between them. The parents sat opposite, the elf materialising between them with two plastic bags of takeaway. Plates, cutlery, glasses and a jug of orange juice had also appeared. 'Ah, Dobby was forgetting,' and then he was back with a bottle of wine in either hand.

'Won't someone notice?' asked the father.

'Malfoys not noticing much,' replied the elf. 'Especially now.' Seeing Remus expression, Dobby continued: 'Dobby is free. Malfoys not knowing this.'

'Which allows our friend to use their resources to create havoc,' said the father as the elf, now seated on a cushion, got stuck into the food.

'You don't have to eat the beef chow mein.' The male muggle was putting some of everything onto his plate. 'There are plenty of other things.'

'Beef chow mein?' queried Remus, mystified.

'Song by Warren Zevon. "Werewolves of London".'

'Actually,' said the mother, 'I thought it was about bankers. "The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street" is another name for the Bank of England.'

'Wouldn't that give werewolves a bad name,' asked the father.

'Pardon?' said Remus.

A soft chuckle from the mother. 'Couldn't possibly be worse than dentists.'

'Feed me now,' said Harry.

Lyrics from 'The Ying Tong Song' by the Goons, 'Werewolves of London' by Warren Zevon and 'Feed me, Seymour' from 'Little Shop of Horrors'.