Author's Note: This chapter is what gets me the PG-13 rating, folks. Darkness ahead (though nothing I didn't steal from the excellent novel by John Hersey entitled The Wall. I would like to say in advance that I don't want anybody to be offended, or hurt by this chapter, or anything like that. Lord knows I'm not a fanatical Zionist, but Rachel (one of the characters) is, and she's fairly aggressive about it. So, in case there should be any pro-Palestinian people (or just anti-Israeli, or anti-Zionists) out there, these are not necessarily my political views, and please don't jump down my throat.

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.

PART THREE: HARRY

Chapter One

The first thing he noticed was that where it had once been blue and sunny, it was now dark, and the pavement that came rushing up to meet his cheek was cold and wet. He lay there for a moment, stunned, unable to think or move. The logical questions eventually became apparent to him, and he began to wonder (still without getting up), where was he? Somewhere across the world, obviously, or there was no reason for there to be a difference in the daylight...unless there was it was a very bad storm, or, maybe...but who knew? With a sudden shock, he realized that he wasn't quite sure what his name was. He knew what it was, he must, but as he reached for it, for the familiar sounds of it, it slipped away, and he was unable to catch a f irm grasp on it. Panicking, he attempted to remember other things--where he was from, who his parents were, who his friends were, what exactly he had been doing five minutes ago--but it was all slipping away, so quickly and subtly that he could actually think that the knowledge was still there, just...not. Gone, all of it, and within the next few minutes, it was as if his life had begun with that fall on the pavement, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd just fallen off of a roof and lost his memory. For a few more moments, he just lay there, marveling at the complete erasure of his life.

Then, a sound began to penetrate the fog surrounding his mind. It was a tinkling, exquisite music played on an instrument that he did not know. It played a tune that he felt he should recognize, but somehow could not, and he lay there transfixed at the sound of it.

The music cut off abruptly as there were shouts (In German, he realized wildly, Oh, help.) and the sound of running jackboots on a wet pavement. He realized suddenly that if he did not get up the shouters would find him, and he had a hunch that that would not be a good thing.

So, heaving himself painfully up from the pavement, he began to run, somewhat hampered by the pain in his side from hitting the pavement. He wasn't sure if he would have been able to continue on his own, but luckily, a hand shot out of the shadows, and a hoarse voice whispered, "Amkho?"

"What?" he stammered out, uncomprehending.

"What, is he English!" And then, in English, "Come. Quickly."

Given little choice, he followed.

Rachel Apt sighed heavily, and rested her head on her arms. She would much rather be sleeping right now than reviewing the depressing ratio of Resistance ammunition vs. projected Nazi ammunition, but she couldn't help it--the figures needed to be known, the fighters needed to be informed, the strategies needed to be made. For the fifth time that hour she glanced at her watch. Dolek was still out with his concertina, irritating the Germans--though she knew that he knew the secret ways of the ghetto more than anyone, and that he always managed to escape unscathed, she still worried. They hadn't told anyone yet about that night after Noach's reading, or the days that had followed--she blushed slightly, and firmly returned to her reading, wincing as Rutka's baby let out a screech and she shushed him.

It was a half hour later when Dolek returned to the bunker, and when he did, he was not alone. Feeling some slight trepidation, Rachel looked up to see a slight boy of maybe seventeen with untidy black hair and green eyes. She had never seen him before--a fact which, while it might have seemed unremarkable to the casual observer, was quite remarkable indeed given that the occupants of the ghetto were by this time so few that everybody knew everybody, whether they wanted to or not. In any case, the boy looked harmless enough, though she was racking her brains to try and figure out where he'd come from.

"Rochelle," Dolek said, "I found him in the street. He did not know the password, but he was running from the soldiers."

She looked at him, slightly incredulously, and then focused on the boy.

"Where do you come from? What is your name?" she asked him, but his face remained blank, though somewhat confused and a little frightened.

"He doesn't speak Yiddish," Dolek informed her, "Or Polish, or German. I think he might be English."

She struggled to bring up some of her English from the back of her brain, where it had been relegated as a result of its relative irrelevance. Finally, she haltingly brought out:

"Are you English?"

The boy's face relaxed into a smile and he began babbling away in profound relief.

"Wait!" She lifted a hand, half laughing. "My English no good. I don't understand."

A disappointed "oh" came from the boy, who became subdued.

"What is your name?" she asked.

A look of frustration flickered across his face. "I don't know," he said, "I can't remember anything." As she raised her eyebrows, he continued, picking up speed until he was incomprehensible once more. Again, she told him to wait, and then went to get Noach.

Noach was sitting writing when she found him (Typical, she thought, wryly), but he looked up when she came in.

"Yes, Rachel?"

"Noach," she said, "Dolek found a boy tonight, in the street running from the Germans. No one knows where he came from, he seems to have amnesia, and he onlyspeaks English."

Noach's eyes widened slightly behind his thick glasses, and he rose wearily from behind his table. "And, as I am the only one here who really speaks English, you came to get me."

"I'm sorry, Noach, truly," she apologized, "but my English is terrible, and Dolek can speak it but can't understand barely anything."

The dried-up little man smiled, and squeezed her hand. "It's all right, Rachel. It'll make for a nice change of pace to see another face."

He was very confused. The man who'd grabbed his wrist, instead of taking him directly to safety, had led him through an immensely confusing set of passages and what his nose suspected were sewers, all winding around themselves. He was sure a few times that he was going in a giant loop, and he hoped fervently that his companion, who was carrying a small piano-like instrument under one arm, knew where he was going. When they finally emerged in a small, underground bunker common room, he assumed by the clatter of noise and warmth that this was their final destination.

Now, he was trying to come to grips with his new knowledge--one, he knew something about himself: he was English. Two, he had somehow appeared in a war zone where nobody really spoke English except for an exceptionally ugly girl whose broken English was fairly good, but who couldn't understand anything he said, and whose admittedly beautiful eyes had widened in dismay when he'd attempted to explain himself. Now, she had told him to wait, and he was doing as he was told, while trying to come to grips with the notion of coming to rest in a war zone (or at least a country under some sort of dictatorship) where no one spoke any English. All in all, he concluded, not the optimum circumstances for an amnesia patient.

The ugly girl was coming back with an equally ugly man, who looked a little bit like a dried-up rodent and whose eyes were nearly invisible behind his thick glasses. Glasses. He reached up to his face and realized that he was wearing glasses. Something else I know about myself: I wear glasses. Well, you've got to start somewhere, and suddenly, he had to fight down a completely inappropriate giggle.

The man looked at him seriously. "My name is Noach Levinson," he said in-oh joy--English, "and I speak a little English. Rachel tells me that you do not know who you are?"

Relieved at the chance to explain himself, he began a long string of confused babble that began with "Yes, I can't remember anything, and I don't know where I am, and I just appeared..." and trailed off to "and I have no idea what's going on!" Belatedly, he added, "Thank you for saving me from those guards."

Noach smiled. "You're welcome." He said something to the large man that had brought him safely to the bunker, and the man laughed and said something. "Dolek tells you not to be a fool, what else could he do in those circumstances?"

He let a small smile escape his lips. "But--where am I? What is happening?"

"Ah. Yes. Well. I have some notes on the matter, a sort of history, that you may read in depth later, but to begin with, you are in Rachel's bunker. This is Rachel, Rachel Apt, the leader of this squadron of resistance fighters" put a period after "fighters" and either capitalize "Here" or use -- to set off that phrase here he indicated the ugly girl, "this is Dolek Berson," this was the large man who had rescued him, "and, as I said, I am Noach Levinson. Do you know the year?"

"Uh..." he racked his brains for a moment, and then was embarrassed to say, "No, I don't."

"The year is 1943, the month is April, the date is the twenty-ninth, and you are in the Jewish Ghetto in Warsaw, Poland." He smiled ironically. "Welcome."

Chapter two:

Israel put the papers down with a sigh. Israel. It didn't sound right to him, he didn't think it was his real name, but as Rachel said, they needed to call him something, and it was good to be reminded of what they were all fighting for. Confusingly enough, it was also the name of Rutka and Mordecai's baby. Rutka and Mordecai had been introduced to him last night, along with Halinka. Mordecai and Halinka were Rachel's brother and sister, and the differences between them all were striking. Mordecai and Halinka were both beautiful--Mordecai had large brown eyes and a sensitive sort of face, and Halinka had a doll's prettiness. Rachel, on the other hand, had a very ugly face indeed--she had an enormous nose, thin lips, and no chin to speak of, though her eyes were huge and luminous, and there was nothing (he'd noticed) wrong with her figure, though it was, as everyone's was, starved for food. There were other differences as well: while Mordeca i and Halinka both seemed somewhat spoiled, Rachel seemed to be a great well of calm and strength, something that was much needed in the ghetto.

He'd read Noach's notes now; it had taken him all night, but for some reason he thought that it was the right thing to do. He'd been right; the situation here was worse than he'd thought. He didn't think that even his most tortured imagination could come up with a peril more dire.

A few years ago, certain areas of Warsaw were blocked off from the rest by a wall, and the Jews were confined within them for "quarantine purposes". The Jewish doctors informed the Germans that the supposed typhoid risk of large groups of Jews had nothing to do with race, that typhoid was indiscriminate, and that putting five hundred thousand people into a confined space would not help, but it was to no effect; the new conquerors instituted the ghetto.

And then the deportations had started. The ghetto's own government, the Judenrat, was forced to organize the Jews into deportation. The Germans wanted ten thousand Jews deported every day. While they did not get their wish, an obscene amount of people were loaded onto cattle cars and sent off to God-knows-where. Only certain papers could prevent one from being deported; Noach and Berson both had some, and had been able to procure some for their friends. At one point, the quarreling political factions within the ghetto had solved their disputes long enough to send a lawyer named Slonim out to discover what was happening to the deported Jews. He returned with the news of Treblinka: a camp designed to slaughter Jews and other humans. They weren't sure exactly went on within the camp, but Slonim had smelled burning flesh, and seen a column of greasy black smoke rising from within its barbed wire. During this time, Berson's wife had been deported, and he hadn't known of it until he returned home that day. She was very ill at the time, and most likely hadn't made it to the camp.

Then had come the Kettle. The Germans had both reduced the area of the ghetto (proclaiming that anyone found outside the new ghetto would be shot) and increased regulations on deportations at the same time, causing a hellish three days when no one had anywhere to live and one could be deported if one were found on the street. During this time, the bunker had been founded behind the fire in a bakery.

After the Kettle, the different political factions finally put aside their differences for good, and founded fighting units. To her (and no one else's) immense surprise, Rachel had been nominated as a group leader, and Rachel's Group had been founded. The resistance had begun.

A few days ago, open war had broken out in the ghetto. It was still going on, as a matter of fact, and no one knew how it would end. The Germans were being pushed back, they were winning, but the fact remained that there were still many more Germans than there were Jews.

All of this was in Noach's notes, painfully taken and well written, with deep biographies of all of his acquaintances and the dry detachment of the historian that he was. Underneath that dried-up exterior was a warm (if shy), compassionate man.

These people were amazing, Israel realized, and then remembered that he didn't have the foggiest notion what people were normally like, and therefore all people could be like this for all he knew. He pulled the thin, wooden stick out of his pocket, and stared at it. Its mystery was the only clue towards his past, and it wasn't much of a clue. Sighing, he let his head thump forward against the desk. He was very tired...but it was important to stay awake. He might remember something. There was something important, he knew there was, it was nagging at him more every second.

To ease the nagging, he picked up one of Noach's many books, a book of painting, and began to leaf through it. As the page fell open to a painting of a red-haired girl, he gave a huge yawn. When he'd got his mouth under control again, he looked down at the painting, and felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. He knew this girl. He glanced at the title of the painting quickly, hoping that it would have some clue, but the words--Portrait of a Young Venetian Woman--meant nothing to him. That face, though...

He stared at it for a long time, at the quick, intelligent look in the girl's--no, woman's-- warm brown eyes, at the angle of her head to her neck, at her wavy red hair, and all the time he wondered, What does this woman mean to me? Why, out of everything, do I recognize her? Perhaps he studied this painting in school...but it wasn't the painting he recognized. The Renaissance dress she was wearing wasn't familiar to him at all. But those eyes...

Noach came into the room. "Israel," he said kindly, "You should try to get some sleep."

Israel turned to Noach wildly. "Noach," he said, "What is this painting? I recognize this girl!"

Confused, Noach picked up the book. "This is by Albrecht Durer...maybe you studied it in school?"

Israel was doubtful. "Maybe..."

Noach smiled. "Well, at least you seem to be getting your memory back. Go to sleep; Rachel will take you to Yitzhok this evening.

He remembered the name Yitzhok from his day's reading. Yitzhok was the name of the somewhat extremist leader of the resistance movement. He gulped, and Noach laughed and led him to bunk down for a few hours rest.

Yitzhok had proved to be every bit as intimidating as Noach had described him. A muscular young man who glowered at Israel, he fired questions at him that Rachel had to field and answer as Noach translated for the poor boy.

"But is he Jewish?" Yitzhok was asking now.

"We don't know, Yitzhok, but does it really matter?" Rachel was getting angry now. "He's in trouble, that's all that matters. He's not one of them, we're bound to protect him. He could help us."

"How?" the leader sneered, "By showing the Germans exactly where your bunker--and mine, too, at this point--is? Yeah, big help, thanks, Rachel."

Rachel scowled at him. "He was running away from the soldiers. He was terrified. I know it doesn't sound likely, but he might've been some kid overlooked by the both of us who got knocked on the head and his parents got killed. It's entirely possible that there's no one left who knows who he is."

"And it's entirely possible that he's a Nazi spy! Listen: if he's not Jewish, how can we trust him?"

"Well, how do we know that he's Jewish or not?" Instantly, Rachel regretted her words, for of course there was a simple procedure for determining the Jewishness of a male. Sighing, she turned her back while Yitzhok told Noach to tell Israel to put his pants down. Apprehensively, he complied.

"Hah!" Yitzhok exclaimed in triumph, "Not Jewish!"

After Israel had pulled his pants back up, confused, Rachel turned around and continued arguing. "So, not Jewish, not trustworthy? Fine state we're in, then, if it's the Jews against the world. I can't see us winning that! The British and the Americans are against the Germans--if he's one of them, he's on our side."

"Yes, but if he's a German spy, then he's on their side!"

"He doesn't speak German, Yitzhok! Dolek tried, and he didn't understand."

"Maybe he was pretending."

"Oh, come off it, Yitzhok."

In the meantime, Noach turned to Israel. "Do you speak German, Israel?"

"Um..." he thought hard. "No. I don't think so, anyway. I might know a few words, like, achtung, or, mein Gott, but I don't think I can say anything else."

"His accent in German is pretty bad," Noach told the other two, "I don't think he's German."

"Unless he's faking it," posited Yitzhok.

"Oh, come ON, Yitzhok!" Rachel cried, and the argument would have continued for quite awhile had Noach not sneezed at that particular moment.

"Gesundheit," said Israel, automatically, and Rachel and Noach burst out laughing. Reluctantly, Yitzhok smiled as well.

"Yitzhok," Rachel said, wiping her eyes, "Listen to that accent. You can barely recognize the word. And it was automatic; it couldn't have been faked. Come on."

"Well...all right," Yitzhok agreed grudgingly, "But he works in your group. You found him, you take care of him."

"All right."

And then suddenly, the conversation turned to other affairs, and Noach told a somewhat worried Israel that it was all right, that he could stay, and Israel breathed a large sigh of relief.

That night, he had a dream.

He was sitting on a field, in the dream, and he knew who he was and what he was, and who the people around him were: his dearest friends in the world.

Ron and Ginny looked just as confused as he felt, but Hermione was sitting there expectantly with a sort of strained expression on her face.

"Hi," she said, "This is really hard, so it won't last that long. Just let me...here." She took out her wand, pointed it to each of their foreheads, and said, quite firmly, "Memorium"

"What--what happened?" Ron said. "I couldn't remember anything..."

"Yeah, neither could I..." Harry chimed in. "Hermione, what's going on?"

Hermione smiled, and again, Harry noticed the strain. "Something--probably one of Voldemort's plans--pulled us apart during our group Apparition--and Ginny, too--and threw us back in time. He would have had to summon a kind of Elemental--"

"Like Professor Silverleaf?" Ginny asked.

"Sort of, a Temporal, which is a different race of Elementals, with kind of different abilities. They can jump through time, and somehow he got them to drag us to different times."

"How do you know this, 'Mione?" Ron asked, "I've had no memory the entire time, I didn't even know I was a wizard!"

"Remember when I put that memory charm on me? Well, I guess it held my memory in place. All I know is that I knew exactly who and what I was, but I was sick for a few weeks."

"A few weeks!" Harry said with alarm, "I've only been away for a few days!"

Ginny and Ron looked at him strangely.

"I've been away months," Ginny informed him, and Ron said that he'd been away for about a month, too.

"And I've been away about two months, too, but luckily I'm nowhere dangerous. I think that was a mistake on Voldemort's part--not that I'm complaining! What about the rest of you, when've you gone?" she asked.

"I'm in Venice," Ginny said, "in 1505. It's kind of neat, but I think there's about to be a war."

"I'm in Athens, in 1943," said Ron, "I'm staying with a nice British couple--they just kind of took me in, even though I was wandering the streets in a daze! There's a war where I am, too, though--everyone's wondering if the Germans are going to get to Athens or not, and whether or not they should pick up and get out of there."

"Hey, you're kind of near me, then," Harry put in, "I'm in the same war, same year, but I'm in Warsaw, in the ghetto. They made me a soldier," he said, somewhat proudly.

"Harry," Hermione said with alarm, "You're not in the Jewish ghetto, are you?"

"Um...yes?"

"That's really dangerous! What month are you?"

He had to think for a minute. "May. May first, currently."

"Harry! Do you remember what happened in the Warsaw ghetto in the beginning of May 1943?"

"No...should I?" Now he was getting worried.

"Yes! I--oh, damn." They were surprised to hear Hermione swear, but it made sense when the dream around them began to waver. "Look, I can't hold this any longer. As soon as I figure out how to raise a Temporal I'm going to come and get you all, okay? And then we'll go back to our time. Just--remember!"

As Harry awoke, that last word echoed in his head.

Chapter Three:

Things had actually gotten harder after that, as the knowledge of who and what he was had been counterbalanced by the knowledge of who and what he was. He knew his name, he knew his friends, but he also knew that he was even more out of place than he had thought, and that very soon something very terrible was going to happen to the people that he had come to regard as family in the short time that he'd been here.

Rachel, Berson, Mordecai, Rutka, Halinka...and of course, Noach, who was so self-effacing that he would expect to be listed last in any list. The worst part was that he could help them now. He knew how to use magic, he knew that it could help them, but he couldn't use it in front of Muggles--he couldn't alter history. The thought of the ensuing paradox made his head hurt.

With a translation charm and what he'd been picking up, he'd begun to be pretty fluent in Yiddish in a surprisingly short time. He'd told them that his memory was coming back, that his name was Harry and he was from England, that his parents were dead, but the rest kept eluding him. Noach said that it the amnesia was probably more repression of his parents' deaths than anything else, and Harry did nothing to contradict him. Sometimes people forgot, though, and called him Israel. For example:

Rachel had been out that day, conferring with Yitzhok and the other leaders. When she'd returned to the bunker, she'd flopped down on the floor, exhausted, and watched him entertaining some of the children with "magic" tricks. They weren't really children, anymore, he could tell--there was a haunted look in their eyes, a very adult knowingness and cynicism. A few of the adults had crowded around to watch as well.

Rachel smiled tiredly. "Usually Dolek can manage to boost morale, but you seem to be just as good at it. Where did you learn such tricks?"

Harry gave her a cheeky grin. "A good magician never tells his secrets."

She grinned back. "Well then, why don't you tell me?"

"Oh ha very ha," he snorted, and then suddenly they were both laughing hysterically, gales of glee, while the others in the bunker stared. Somewhere in the middle of the storm, Rachel began to cry, and Harry did not notice for several minutes until she began hiccuping.

"Rachel," he stared, "What's the matter?"

"Oh, God...nothing," she said, "Nothing new, at least. I don't understand anything that's going on."

When he still looked at her, she elaborated. "It's hopeless. We're running out of ammunition, and they're bringing in new recruits. The Polish Resistance wants nothing to do with us. We're all going to die, and Yitzhok insists that we die fighting."

"I thought you said..."

"Oh, I know what I said. I believe it, too--'hope above all else, better to die fighting than running,' but sometimes...I sent my little brother away from this, Israel--oh, I'm sorry, Harry."

"That's okay," he reassured her, "People just seem to keep making that mistake." She gave a shaky smile. "That's because they want a reminder of what we're fighting for. Harry, when you turned up, lost, confused, unable to understand a damn thing that was going on, with everyone dead set against you, you reminded us of ourselves, the way Jews have felt for centuries...and naming you Israel gave us hope, hope for a country where we didn't have to worry about," she waved her hands inadequately, "all this. When we find that you're an English guy named Harry Potter, it's a little disappointing. Some of us keep reverting to Israel, because it's more comforting. But we have no right to make you into something that you're not."

Touched, he said, "That's all right, really. I'm honored."

She smiled again. "We have the baby, anyway. Baby Israel." Her expression changed. "That's the main reason why I'm not sure if Yitzhok's strategy is good. Stand and fight--all very good when it's yourself making the decision, but what about the children? What about those of us that aren't in a fighting unit, that can't fight, for whatever reason? We have no right to make that decision for them. I sent my little brother away when it got too bad because I didn't have papers for myself and my family. Halinka got hers from Stefan--that was her husband, before he died--and Mordecai worked for the Judenrat, so he got some, but I didn't have any and neither did David, so I sent David away. He's walking to Zion right now...I don't know if he'll make it or not. He was very young. But it's better than staying here to be shot like fish in a barrel!"

This last came out very fast and loud, as she got carried away with herself. He wasn't quite sure what to say.

"Did you--did you talk about this with Berson, at all?" He alone knew that Berson and Rachel were more than simply friends and comrades, having come across them embracing in an obscure part of the bunker, and she knew that he knew. "Oh, Dolek feels the same way that I do--I know that he does. We've talked about it. But it's convincing Yitzhok that's the hard part. The man is that stubborn..." Her voice trailed off. "But I shouldn't be worrying you with these things. I just....needed someone to talk to, while Noach and Dolek are away."

"That's okay," he smiled, "I'm happy to listen--and I agree, by the way." But she seemed to have put any thought of it out of her head, and turned to him with a firm expression on her face. "No, right now we're going to talk about you--no one seems to have paid much attention to you recently! Can you remember anything else? What was that girl in the painting?"

He'd forgotten that. "Oh--I can remember her now. I think she was my friend's little sister, or something. I guess that girl in the painting just looked like her."

Rachel smiled. "She's pretty."

That surprised him. "Yeah," he said, consideringly, "yeah, I reckon she is."

"Were you attracted to her?" The question shocked him with its abruptness, and she could tell. "We don't have any time for pretensions or coyness here. Were you?"

He had to think about it. "I dunno...she liked me, for a long time, so I was always kind of scared of her--every time I'd talk to her she'd turn bright red and run out of the room, that sort of thing."

"But that was when she was little, right? The girl in that picture didn't look the sort to blush and run away!"

"Yeah, that stopped, I guess--we got to be friends, and I reckon we forgot about the earlier stuff, or pretended we did."

"No sense in ruining a perfectly good friendship," Rachel said smilingly, and Harry agreed.

"Yes, exactly! Who needs it? But..."

"But you've been dreaming about her now."

He stared at her. "How did you know?"

"You talk in your sleep, idiot." She grinned at him. "Her name's Ginny, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, then. Sounds like you have a crush on her."

"But," he protested, "it doesn't matter, I might never see her again!"

Her expression changed from teasing to somber. "You're right. You might not. In fact, you probably won't."

"So, there's nothing I can do about it..." For some reason this thought disturbed him, even though he knew that he probably would see her again--always assuming that Hermione figured out how to get him back. "I'm sorry, Harry..." Rachel was sympathetic. "Sometimes I wish that we could see as clearly in normal everyday life as we do in situations like this one. It's when you realize how little time left you have that you begin to take advantage of what you do have, and realize what's been there all along." With a parting remark of "I'll see you later, Harry, I've got to find Mordecai," she got up and walked away, leaving Harry with his somewhat chaotic thoughts.

So what if he did have a crush on Ginny? It would pass, sure...starting from his fourth year, Harry had had plenty of crushes, one of which had even turned into a girlfriend for a short time, but they all passed eventually...all he had to do was wait it out.

But he found himself suddenly not wanting to wait it out, and he had a sudden disdain for the word "crush". It sounded...childish, flighty, unconvincing. It sounded nothing like the powerful feeling that was roiling through his belly right about now. Could it be love? He scoffed at the thought. He was too young to be in love. That's what starry-eyed teenagers always think, and then the relationship is over within a month. Except for Ron and Hermione, he reminded himself, But they're the incredibly lucky exception to the rule. No, this couldn't be love, it simply couldn't. Sure, in the past year he'd come to rely even more heavily on Ginny's friendship than before, as Ron and Hermione's had deepened and left Harry on his own on Saturday nights. Friday nights, and Hogsmeade trips, were sacred and belonged to "the gang"--Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and whoever else wanted to join in--but Saturday night had become "date night" for Ron and Hermione, and Harry hadn't wanted to intrude. So, he'd often found himself with Ginny, and the two had grown close. But that didn't mean that he was in love with her.

Or did it? A nasty voice inside his head reminded him of something someone had once told him--Love, true love--none of your infatuation stuff--is merely the deepest friendship with physical attraction thrown in. It might start with the infatuation, but unless the friendship is there it'll never last, and it's the relationships based on the friendship that'll outlast 'em all. Think about it. He'd filed away the idea for future reference, but had never come back to it. Ginny was one of his best friends. And he did, he had to admit, find her attractive. So, according to the definition, he was in love with her. What to do with this information? He automatically shied away from telling her. She'd had a crush on him when they were kids, sure, but according to all of the signs, that crush had disappeared. No, she had no crush on him anymore--and in any case, he wasn't sure that he wanted her to have one on him. If he wanted anything, it was for her to feel the same about him as he did about her--but that was impossible. Well, he thought, Maybe merely improbable.

And he smiled.

It was later that day when Berson woke him from a dream-ridden sleep.

"Harry," he said, "We're going."

"What?" Harry mumbled groggily, reaching for his glasses.

"Tonight. We talked Yitzhok into it. We'll go out through the sewers, and there'll be a truck waiting for us. We're leaving the ghetto."

The next days were a blur for Harry. He vaguely remember getting out, getting into the sewers, waiting beneath the manhole for hours, vaguely remembered the truck was late, that Noach suddenly had become very obsessed with time, and kept asking to see Berson's watch, that Noach talked to everyone, taking notes all the time, recording everything they said and did. He vaguely remembered that Rutka's baby, which was teething, had started to wail, and that Yitzhok had taken it and walked off into the night to silence it so that the people on the street above would not hear it and become suspicious, rocking it and crooning. He vaguely remembered that when baby Israel was returned to his mother, he was cold and blue and lifeless, and Mordecai had silenced his wife's muffled screams by pressing her against his chest, tears running down his own cheeks all the while, and Yitzhok had looked stolidly on.

He vaguely remember Berson giving Rachel a loving glance while he was talking to Noach, and the concertina--he knew the name of the instrument now--tucked beneath his big arm. He vaguely remembered that a truck came in the middle of daylight, beyond all expectations, and the mad rush that came when the people tried to get out of the sewer into the truck without the soldiers seeing them. Rachel had gone ahead to help people into the truck, and Dolek had stayed behind to make sure everyone got out of the sewer. He vaguely remembered being handed into the truck after Noach.

What he remembered very clearly, and would remember for the rest of his life, was the dread in the pit of his stomach when the soldier's whistle blew, and the driver of the truck quickly closed the back of the truck and jumped in behind the wheel to start driving quickly away. He remembered very clearly Rachel's scream, telling the driver to wait, that there were others. And behind them as the truck sped away, he heard the tinkling, exquisite music of a concertina, a sharp retort, and then nothing, as Rachel's legs gave way within the truck and she slumped to the ground, sobbing. He found that his eyes were dry.

Later, they were in the woods, far from safe, but a lot closer than any of them had been in a long time. Rachel had recovered somewhat from her earlier outburst, and, though red-eyed, she was herself again, calm, comforting, and in control: everyone's Little Mother, the nickname that Berson had given her. Harry knew that the rest of them were planning to walk to Zion, and he was unsure as to what he would do about this, as perhaps Hermione could only find him if he stayed near the place that he'd appeared here. Just then, there was a popping sound in the air, and before he knew what was happening, two of his best friends in the world had appeared about ten feet above the ground, and were now in an undignified tumble among the tree roots.

"Ooof! Ron, get your foot off of my shoulder!"

"I would, if you would move your--owww!"

Involuntarily grinning with the happiness of seeing the two of them again, Harry nevertheless noticed with trepidation the stares of the escapees around them.

After they'd stood up and brushed themselves off, Ron and Hermione noticed them as well.

"Oh, dear," Hermione summed up accurately.

"Ah--Harry?" Rachel asked timidly, "Who's this?"

"Um. Yes." Harry decided that the best thing would be to ignore the fact that they'd just fallen out of thin air, and put a memory charm on Rachel and the others before he left. Besides, he'd wanted Rachel and Noach--and Berson, his mind said quietly--to meet his friends, and he might as well do the thing properly. "Assembled former citizens of the Warsaw ghetto, I present to you Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger." Switching to English, he said, "Ron, Hermione, these are the people who've been taking care of me. That's Rachel Apt, and Noach Levinson, and Rutka and Mordecai, and Halinka..."

"Hang on," said Hermione, and then took out her wand and pointed it at her throat. "Lingua Franca" she said, and looked pointedly at Ron, who did the same. She then said, in fluent Yiddish, "It's so nice to meet you. We won't be long--we just came to get Harry. And,"--here she looked strained--"I'm so sorry. About everything." While the people around them stared, Ron pointed at them all, and said softly, "Obliviate".

"Come on, Harry," he said, "The Temporal's a bit flighty, and we don't want it to run away."

"But--I wanted to say goodbye--"

"It's all right, they won't mind--every minute 'Mione has to hold that thing, she gets a little tireder. We don't have much time."

"Oh, all right," he said, and the next thing he knew, he was running to a secluded spot of the forest, where Hermione began to wave her wand about and chant, exhaustion evident on her face.

"All right, everybody, hold on," she said grimly, and the world turned upside down again.