Chapter 7:

"Marilyn can feel something from within the tomb. Something powerful. I feel it too. Something, or I should think, someone, is using a great amount of both Enchantment and Design below. But she says there is something else, a third force, distinct from the magical arts we know of. A force of hate."

From the Diary of Merlinus Caledonensis; Earth, 537 Common Era.


Harry's September was far harder than it should have been. He was placed in first year, as Dumbledore had said he would be. But Harry didn't think he was having as easy a time of it as Dumbledore predicted he would. Using the faerie blood wand thankfully allowed him to at least use the strange magic without his hand going numb, and he got most of the spells the teachers taught him on his first try, but the homework… the homework was really killing him. He spent hours longer trying to write his essays, and often he threw them out because his handwriting was so poor even he couldn't read it. He'd never spent time getting comfortable with writing, he hadn't had the means, and using a quill and ink only made it worse. Things got slightly better when he managed to steal a normal everyday ink pen from a sixth year (he could use the ink from his inkwells to refill it), but he still spent most of his nights writing and rewriting – with a dictionary borrowed from the library so he could check spellings. He made great use of his French curse words – the conservative Wizards seemed especially affronted by his continued and inventive uses of the word 'fuck' as a noun, verb, interjection, adjective, adverb and even as an article.

It also didn't help that everyone in first year (except the Slytherins) wanted to partner up with him. On some days he even had to break up fights. Every time one started, he went and profusely apologised to the teacher of the class.

Professor Flitwick loved him. He would hold Harry back after his classes so they could discuss charms and duelling. Harry didn't mind. He liked Flitwick, and Charms was by far his favourite subject. It was from Flitwick that he and Mak finally got a comprehensive explainer of the two Magical Arts. Flitwick explained that the Art of Enchantment was initially comprised of six disciplines – Abjuration (magic concerning defence and healing), Conjuration (magic concerned with creation or summoning), Transmutation (magic pertaining to the transformation of substance or perception), Divination (magic referring to the manipulation or discernment of the past or future), Necromancy (magic concerning the manipulation of life and death) and Evocation (magic concerning destruction). Most modern wizards used the word enchantment simply to speak about any magical effect. In the present, the old six discipline system wasn't adhered to. Instead, magic was taught depending not on its original intent, but on its result.

The Art of Design – Harry's brand of magic – was apparently extinct in the modern era. At some point in history, Wizardkind had lost the ability to use it. Numerous old texts still spoke of it, and the six forces employed by its users, called Imagineers – Charge, Life, Strength, Decay, Fusion and Division. According to Flitwick, all sources agreed that users of Design all had a strange affinity with those of the faerie blood. Harry had an inkling of why the art might have been lost. The Pact of Truth. With no faeries, you couldn't have any new Imagineers. He'd thought about telling Flitwick this, but Mak had asked him not to. She was already annoyed that so many people knew about her, and wanted to try and keep a tighter grip on the information from now on.

He was relatively good at Defence Against the Dark Arts, though they'd only learnt three spells in the class as yet: the Disarming Charm, the Shield Charm, and the Stunning Spell. Professor Lupin, the one who apparently knew Harry's parents, had yet to say a single word to him, in or out of class. He wouldn't even meet Harry's eyes. He decided that if Lupin didn't want to talk with him, Harry was glad to let him. At least there was one person in the bloody castle that wanted nothing to do with him.

History of Magic… well the less said about that catastrophe, the better. Basically, Binns was an idiot and Harry spent the lessons writing his homework for other classes. Astronomy was what he expected it to be. Up late, staring at stars and identifying constellations. Herbology was alright he supposed; if you enjoyed learning about plants. Harry was a deft hand at it, owing to his years of experience in the Dursleys garden, and Professor Sprout commended him on his outstanding ability to tell which plants were poisonous and which weren't. He didn't have the heart to tell her he wasn't a Herbology genius, just someone who'd gone through a lot of trial and error.

Transfiguration was where he struggled the most, and his after-class sessions with Professor McGonagall had nothing to do with extra credit and all to do with passing. No matter what he or Professor McGonagall tried, he couldn't perform even the simplest transfiguration. His match remained a match. It was only after he noticed Professor McGonagall staring at Harry's shackle that he realised.

"I can't do it because Design doesn't allow for transfiguration. I've never been able to transform an object into something that it isn't, only bend its shape and nature. A stone floor can become a wall, but it can't become a duck." Professor McGonagall had agreed with this but said there should still be a way. She excused him from her classes towards the end of the month so she could do some research into the matter.

Harry went to two class of Potions. If it had just been the verbal attack the first day, or his general attitude, Harry wouldn't have cared, though it was still pathetic. No. Harry wouldn't let himself be in a room with Severus Snape because the oily haired motherfucker had tried to mind-read him. Harry, Mak and Snape all learned the same thing that day. Harry's bond to the faerie not only allowed him to see lies, it also protected him against mental manipulation. Both of them had been blown across the dungeons classroom when the man tried it. After that, Harry refused to attend a single potions class. It was only after Professor McGonagall made him explain why he wasn't going, that she convinced him to try again – on the condition that she supervise in secret – using her cat form – to ensure Snape didn't try anything again.

No surprise. He did. He started a lecture about why being famous didn't mean you could skip classes, took 50 house points from him, then in the middle of his talk, attempted again to read Harry's mind. The resulting explosion caused poor Demelza Robbins to lose every hair on her body. Professor McGonagall had been furious, and the incident was all over the school within the hour. Harry was exempted from all future potion lessons.

Harry's three elective classes were held with the third years, which meant he had Ginny in two of the three – Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes. Apparently, Ginny's eldest brother Bill was a Cursebreaker and had convinced her to take the class. Harry worked with Ginny in both – as otherwise she was left alone. He found he enjoyed the time he spent with her. So much so that, aside from Charms, the classes he had with her were the ones he enjoyed the most.

He was decent at Runes. He had been right, it wasn't much different to learning a new language, though being able to write out words made it so much easier. Care of Magical Creatures was fun for a whole other reason. Hagrid may not have been the best teacher, but he clearly loved his job, which more than made up for his questionable methods. In his first month alone he got to meet Hippogriffs, Nifflers and Occamys. He and Ginny had begged Hagrid for the chance to take care of the Nifflers, but he'd explained – with no small degree of reticence – that while he loved their enthusiasm, that was a fifth-year assignment.

That left Arithmancy, which was so easy he could do it in his sleep. The class was made up of mostly Purebloods, which meant that none of them had learnt any maths. At all. So far, the only thing they'd covered was the order of operations. He'd said as much to Professor Vector, and she'd admitted it was a problem she faced every year. She relished the few Muggleborns and half-bloods who chose the class. Harry and Mary Lou Sanderson from Ravenclaw were both Half-Blood and both from the human world. By virtue of being the only students who even knew what algebra was, they instinctively partnered up and spent most of the class working on problems at the back of the room.

He was ever thankful for the private room though. He could lock the door, which was the only way to keep his 'fan-club' off him. It consisted mostly of girls – though there were some guys too (looking at you Colin and Dennis) – from first through to fifth year. Only the two NEWT level years had no one following him. And it wasn't limited to Gryffindor either – though they certainly made up the highest percentage. Nope, there were Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws as well. The problem he faced was that he wanted to be kind to everyone. He would engage the regulars in conversation, ask about their days, their classes – partly because he felt awkward walking around with them and not speaking, partly because he didn't want to be rude. But because he was so accommodating, his legend only grew, drawing more and more people. It was a perpetuating cycle that Mak found hilarious. Ginny thought the craziest thing about it was that he still wanted to spend time with her when he had all these other people around him, fawning over him. He'd laughed and told her that was precisely why he did hang around with her. Ron tried to get close to him, but he seemed terrified of Ginny, and as such was nowhere to be found when Ginny was nearby. He didn't mind really, he much preferred Ginny's witty humour to Ron's sucking up. It also hadn't taken long to figure out Ron was most likely on Evil Gandalf's payroll.

Only the Slytherins never went near him, though many looked like they wanted to. Ginny explained to him that Slytherin House had a dark reputation because Voldemort and most of the Death Eaters – his lackeys – had come from that house, and most of the students there now were sons and daughters of the Death Eaters that escaped being sent to prison by virtue of being rich or Pureblood. It was also apparently, Draco Malfoy's fault. The platinum blonde twit had gotten it in his head to hate Harry for… reasons? Harry hadn't even spoken to the man. Nobody he talked to could agree on why, but Malfoy was apparently using his sway in Slytherin to order a strict ban on any communication with Harry or those he spoke too.

Ginny explained a lot of things about Wizarding Culture to him, most of them highly disturbing. Ginny was the only person he let study in his private room with him; they spent a great deal of time watching the logs burn in the fire, practising their Ancient Runes. He also helped her out with her Muggle Studies homework. Mak and Ember would often vanish to… wherever it was they went when not with Harry or Ginny when the pair of them were together.

So, Harry's September was consumed with frantic study; learning how to write correctly; being nice to his crazy stalkers; Ginny; avoiding his mind-reading professor; hanging out with his cool professors; Ginny; being worried about Mak; more Ginny; handling being famous; and did he mention hanging out with Ginny?

He was summoned, once again, to the Headmaster's Office after Breakfast on the first of October.

When he entered, Professor Dumbledore was already present, with Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Lupin standing beside his desk. Okay?

"Harry," Dumbledore said, "please take a seat." Harry did as he was bid, Mak on his shoulder, and sat down on one of the plush armchairs in the round room, facing the desk.

"Harry, I've just been speaking with your teachers concerning your progress so far this term, and I have to say, you've certainly made a splash."

"Thank you, I think?" Dumbledore chuckled.

"Professor Sprout, Professor Vector, Professor Sinestra, Professor Flitwick and Professor Lupin have all given permission for you to move up into the second-year classes, provided you read through the coursework for the rest of first year." Harry nodded.

"Thank you, Professor, Professors," he said, directing his thanks to Dumbledore, then to Flitwick and Lupin, both of whom nodded in return.

"Professor McGonagall has informed me of your issues with Professor Snape, and you will be pleased to know that I have reprimanded him severely and am certain he will not attempt such actions again. At the feast this evening, Professor Snape will give you a formal apology, in front of the entire school." Harry resisted the urge to smirk, though Mak did a little dance on his shoulder. "I have also been contacted by a previous associate of mine, former Professor and now famous Potioneer, Horace Slughorn, who has expressed interest in teaching you his highly acclaimed potions course through private lessons to catch you up to where you should be. If you are amenable, I will let him know, and he should be available to start classes with you after Halloween." Harry paused, thinking about it. He'd read through his Potions textbook, and the class did seem worthwhile. Plus, turning down private lessons with a Potioneer would be rather stupid, even if the only reason he'd gotten them was because of who he was.

"Of course, I'll be willing. It's certainly not an opportunity to pass up," he said. That and it would put a burr in Snape's hat.

"Excellent. I'll send the reply this evening." Then Dumbledore's expression deepened slightly.

"Harry, Professor McGonagall has related to me your troubles with Transfiguration and your theory as to why this might be. After engaging in some research of my own, I have concluded that you are right. However, I believe that, even with your unique brand of magic, transfiguration should be achievable. Therefore, I will permit you to be excused from further transfiguration classes. Instead, in the company of Professors Flitwick and Lupin, and occasionally myself if I have the time, we will attempt to discern what exactly your limits are." Harry's eyebrows went very high indeed at that statement. He hadn't been able to remove the shackle on his own, and here Dumbledore was offering to remove it for him?

"Understand that I am placing a great deal of trust in you. If you break this trust, the lessons will be terminated immediately. The binder will remain on until we are sure you will not attempt to run away and are comfortable that you can control your powers." Harry sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Very well. I have not yet explained to Professors Flitwick or Lupin of what it exactly is you will be attempting to learn. I felt that it was not my place to share." His tone implied he expected Harry to share the secret of his own volition. He didn't make the obscene gesture he wanted to at the statement. He was getting what he wanted after all, and if Flitwick and McGonagall could teach him more about his powers, he certainly wasn't going to turn it down.

"Mak," he said, "could you become visible, please?"

"Only because you asked nicely," she said. Harry didn't see any change in her, but Flitwick gasped in shock, and Lupin's jaw fell open slightly.

"That's impossible," Flitwick exclaimed, "the Pact of Truth…"

"Still holds," Dumbledore assured, "I checked the Heart-Stone myself. It remains as strong as the day it was forged, and the Pact remains active. I do not understand how it is possible, only that it is."

"That's why you asked me about Enchantment and Design. You're an Imagineer!" Flitwick said.

Harry held up his right arm. "Not at the moment I'm not."

"Illa est un teneb ira," Mak said, pointing at Dumbledore. Flitwick flinched, but the others didn't know what she meant.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I leave this study in your hands Minerva, Filius. I doubt I'll have much time to give you, but I will do my best."

"Why not?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore sighed, "that is the third reason I called you here today, Harry. I imagine this news will be all over the papers by tomorrow, but you deserve to know before the rest. This morning I received word from Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry. Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban Prison, the first person to have ever done so, and is now at large somewhere in Britain." Harry frowned.

"He's the guy who…" he drew his finger across his neck.

"Crude, but yes. He is the one who betrayed your parents to Voldemort. What's worse is that, and this is the part that won't make the papers, for the past few weeks, Black has been refusing meals and muttering a single repeated phrase in his sleep. The words, spoken to me in confidence by Cornelius, were 'He's at Hogwarts.' I can only assume that he is talking about you, Harry."

Harry huffed, folding his arms.

"Fabulous. I've got a madman after me now too. I don't suppose that will get this clamp of my wrist? I can't fight him if I've got my hands and legs tied behind my back." Professor Lupin, who looked even paler than usual, flinched.

"You will not be fighting Black, Harry. Minister Fudge has ordered Dementors, the guards of Azkaban, to the Hogwarts grounds. Black will find getting inside the castle to be quite a difficult feat to attempt. That, and we will have increased Auror security as part of the Triwizard Tournament which will be starting a few weeks from now when the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students arrive." He turned his eyes on Harry.

"Harry, I must ask you not to enter the Tournament, however much you might like to. If entered, I cannot guarantee your protection…"

"I don't need your protection, Headmaster. I've spent my entire life looking out for myself and protecting others. I've fought rapists, thieves and drug runners. Hell, I've even done some of my own thievery now and again. But in this case, I actually agree with you. I know, amazing. Entering the tournament would be colossally stupid. And I didn't intend to enter anyway. I've already got more than enough on my plate with catching up on my studies. To be honest, I've actually found myself enjoying most of them, so you can quell your fears of me running away. I have decided that I am actually getting more out of you, then you are getting out of me; therefore, it is in my best interest to stay put. And if, as you say, Black is after me, having numerous bodies between him and me is always a good idea."

Dumbledore scanned him for several seconds, no doubt trying to decide if he was lying. He wasn't, ironically. He actually was enjoying himself. The classes, if hard, were actually forcing him to put effort in. His writing was getting better, he was learning more about himself, and he was making a lot of new friends. Then there was Ginny. He didn't want to leave her behind to fall back into her depression, and… well, he just enjoyed her company really.

"Very well," Dumbledore finally said. "I'll have your new time-table put together and delivered to you by tomorrow. Go, enjoy your weekend." Harry bade farewell to the teachers and exited the office. Thankfully, his fan-club had vanished, dispersing to do other things after he took too long to come back out. Harry, relishing a chance for privacy, made his way out of the castle and towards the Black Lake, Mak flittering along beside him. He eventually found a secluded spot beneath an English Oak, and sat down, leaning against the trunk. He stayed that way for a while, just listening to the rippling of the water. Mak vanished at one point, probably going to see if Ginny was doing anything more exciting than him.

Eventually, he heard steps coming up behind him.

"Hi Gin," he said softly. Ginny groaned as she sat down and put her back to the tree.

"Why are you out here?"

"Thinking about the madman who's trying to kill me."

He recounted his conversation with Dumbledore, Mak providing emphasis and interjection where necessary. When he was done, he turned towards Mak and Ember, who were hovering together in the sky.

"Alright, Mak, I've given you a month to get your head straight. Time to spill. We need to know what's going on with you."

She sighed, sitting cross-legged in the air.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I still don't understand it very well. My memory is full of holes. It's hard, and it's driving me nuts. I have the answers, but they're just out of reach." She fixed her eyes on them.

"Faeries, and the other ancient faerie peoples, like the Goblins, the House Elves and the Veela, all come from a place called the Valley. Or, we call it the Valley. It's a… I guess you could say it's a realm of thought. We were created by the imagination, the dreams, of humanity here on Earth – we draw power from your dreams, your desires, and your goals. I don't know how, but eventually, we figured out how to travel from the Valley to your world. But the trip… we leave some of ourselves behind when we do it."

"Your memories," Ginny guessed.

"Exactly. Even, in some cases, our personality, our entire awareness. When that happens, the faeries who make it tend to become base, or animal like. They're drawn to strong dreams, or failed ones, and as a result, get blamed for causing either the good or bad result. Though I think the stories about tricksters are probably right. Either way, the Pact of Truth – a stupid name for it really, it was a death sentence – was created because wizards thought we were causing their problems. You know what happened when we all vanished. Nothing! All their shit still kept going wrong." She took a breath, calming herself.

"We tried to flee into your world before it was put in place. The Goblins and the House Elves succeeded, but there were side effects. The House Elves became depended on people. They forged bonds similar to my bond with you to anchor them to this world. Without them, the elves begin to wither. They're pulled back into the Valley, where they are trapped, and die."

"The House Elf bond," Ginny breathed, looking sick, "Now we take advantage of them."

"Sort of. They really do like to serve. It's part of their reason for being after all. But yes." Harry shivered.

"The Goblins got off easier. They created a bond with the treasure they hoarded. Their existence is tied to their ability to gain riches and preserve them. It isn't about quantity, just the act itself. It's why they've set themselves up as bankers. It's the perfect job really, they collect and protect gold for the sake of the gold, not because they're particularly selfish or anything."

"What about the others?" Harry asked.

"The Veela tried to anchor themselves with love. They mated with humans, hoping that their bonds would hold them here. They were wrong." Mak drooped her head. "Only their offspring remain."

"It's just us now," she said softly, "but even we won't remain for long. I remember… ships. Piloted by others. Like us but born of some other power. They came, and we started to flee. Better than dying. That's as far as my memory goes. I can't remember how I made it here, or why I decided to come. But I remember something, something chasing me." Mak glanced towards the sky and fell silent.

"And the language?" Harry asked, eventually.

"Ours. A derivative of Latin. We didn't have a language before we started coming here, so we created one, based off yours."

"What was it the Goblins called you, Masella de something?"

"Masella de tastheria. It means daughter of Imagination. An honorific once used for the court of faeries."

They lapsed into silence once more. No more needed to be said, at least not now. Harry and Ginny's hands remained clasped, and Mak and Ember both ending up sitting atop them, crying on each other's shoulders for a home and a people they'd lost.


Barking, London.

Emily sat with her legs tucked under her knees, watching her father, Bran, as he read Harry's letter for the tenth time. They were sitting around the firepit in the centre of the Bunker with the rest of the defacto leadership. Or… well, there wasn't much to lead really. Half of the population had gone missing, leaving their belongings behind. They'd tried to find everyone who'd fled, but most had gone to ground somewhere. They'd found a few desperate enough to come back, but they were very few. At most, fifty people remained in the Bunker, most of them people who'd been captured when the Aurors attacked. People who couldn't remember they'd been attacked at all.

Whatever those people had done, they'd wiped people's memories of the whole thing. Not only of the attack but of Harry as well. He had vanished clean from their minds. As if he had never even existed at all. Only Bran, Emily, Sammy, Nylah, and a few others who'd escaped and come back recalled the black-haired green-eyed boy with the incredible smile and a heart of gold. Adam, despite them trying, couldn't remember a thing about Harry. But the thing was, he had empty spots, blank holes where the others would describe an event Harry took part in, that didn't add up. Tam… Tam wouldn't remember anything.

The attack, it had been too much for his body to handle. He'd had a heart attack, and nobody had been there for him. It made her want to throw-up all over again. They'd buried him under cover of darkness in a plot overlooking the Bunker, his legacy. What was left of it? Now, Harry was gone, imprisoned by - in his words - "an evil incarnation of Gandalf, with both the hat and the magic wand." She believed him. She'd seen the man, same as her father, the day that Harry had fought off the Aurors. The day that he'd… no! She would not start crying again.

That morning, while Nylah had been using up the last of their meagre supplies, pilfered and ransacked by panicking people in the chaos, a knock had come from the sewer entrance. When they'd opened the door, a man in a perfectly tailored business suit, completely bald, with dark sunglasses on despite the total darkness in the tunnel, had stepped inside. He said he was an agent from Gringotts Banking International, sent by Harry to provide magical protections for the Bunker against potential attacks. Apparently, Harry had – despite his vanishing – found the money to pay for such a thing, and the man and his team (who'd appeared out of nowhere, just like the Aurors had) went to work immediately. None of the Bunker residents had been able to tell what exactly they did, but the black-suits had restored the train station entrance – which Harry had sealed in their escape – and cleared out the stairway entrance. They had even put up what they called a 'ward' around the property above – the abandoned manor house – so that, to an observer, it would always appear dark and neglected, and any 'muggle' attempting to gain access without permission would suddenly become confused and disorientated, forgetting why they had gone to the place at all. No one had believed them. But testing it revealed that anyone trying to enter the manor by the climbing the walls or the front gate, simply turned around and walked away until someone else stopped them. But, if they entered the manor grounds via the stairs from the Bunker, they were fine. They'd set a watch in the old house, but no one had yet dared to move up there.

Finally, the lead black-suit have given Bran an envelope and left. An envelope containing two thousand pounds and a letter from Harry himself.

Bran, Nylah, Tam and Adam.

Whichever of you is reading this, know that I am alive and as well as I can be. The people who attacked us are witches and wizards. Apparently, they've been living as a secret hidden society for hundreds of years, and my parents were members. It's hard to explain, and I don't have a lot of time before people come to look for me, but I'm in the wizarding bank. My parents were rich, and I've organised for the bankers to send some people to the Bunker to protect it from other witches and wizards in the future.

An evil incarnation of Gandalf, with both the hat and the magic wand, has me trapped in his fortress/castle/school (no, I'm not joking). I think he will leave you alone, as he only wanted me, but I can't be sure. There's two quid in this letter; hopefully, that can pay for some food. When that runs out, I've made it so that you can go into Gringotts and get more. Nylah and Bran, I've put your names down as authorised to withdraw from my account. The hard part will be getting to the bank, as I'm not sure if you can. The entrance is hidden by magic, but I saw humans inside the alley so I think you should be able to find it if you already know where it is. There is a pub, called the Leaky Cauldron, on Charing Cross Road in London. It should be disguised as an old abandoned building a few blocks up from the tube station. When you go inside, try not to look too amazed, or the wizards might sense something is off. Ask the bartender to open the passage into Diagon Alley for you. Be careful, I think he is trained to search for imposters. The bank is the wonky marble building at the end of the street. Don't go into Knockturn Alley, or someone will stab you. Muggles, that's what they call ordinary people, are under apartheid level shit, so keep an eye on anything shifty.

In the bank, go to the teller at the end of the row and ask for a withdrawal of however many pounds you need from Harry Potter's account and show proof of identity (they might take a blood sample, they are weird). WARNING! The Bankers are actually Goblins – like from the Lord of the Rings. The ones who gave you this will be in disguise. They are not evil, but they are scary looking. Don't freak out, as this insults them. If you want to buy anything from the alley itself, you will need Wizard money, called Galleons, which you can also get from my account. Don't worry about the money, my parents were seriously loaded, and I'm apparently super famous here. Still working out the details.

I'll try and escape as soon as I can, but I've got a job to do first. I don't know if I'll be able to send word again. If not, goodbye, and thank you all for what you've done for me. Tell Emily that I'm sorry.

Harry.

The handwriting was atrocious, and there were ink stains all over the paper, but it matched up with what little he'd been able to write before, and it sounded like Harry. Now they were all wondering what on earth they were going to do.

Emily took a deep breath and stood up on shaky legs.

"I'm going to get him back," she said, summoning all the authority she could muster.

"How?" Nylah said, voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes. "We can't fight these people, Emily. They can do magic! Magic! All that science I devoted my life to, and none of it means a damn thing. It's all a fucking lie!" Nylah threw her empty Styrofoam cup into the fire, and it immediately began to melt.

"Dad shot some of them! They get hit with bullets just like we do!" Emily replied.

"If they don't shield themselves. They can do what Harry can. And what's to stop them from just mind controlling us?" Dad whispered; voice shaky. They all glanced to Sammy. She was sitting in an armchair, curled into a ball. She wasn't any worse for wear physically from her mind-rape, but she barely spoke now and hadn't left the Bunker since it happened.

"I don't know. But maybe there is a way! Harry says there is a whole alley of shops hidden in London. One we should be able to get into. The least we can do is learn more about our enemy. Maybe we can find a weakness!"

"She's got a point," Adam said. He too, had been very silent. He didn't like having his brain fried, and who could blame him.

"I'll go with you Em," James said, pulling himself up from where he'd been hiding in the darkness behind her father's couch. He had been caught in the culling too, and had no memory of Harry or the wizards.

"I owe this guy, even if I can't remember him. If we can help him, we've got to try something."

"I'll go," Sammy whispered, locking eyes with Emily. She nodded her head once before turning back to watch the flames.

Nylah sighed. "Well, I'm not letting you lot go without supervision. But we only go once the money runs out. Tomorrow we wear the best clothes we've got, and we go grocery shopping."

'Don't worry Harry,' Emily thought. 'I'm coming for you.'