A/N: Well, I passed Statistics. I'm a big wobbling pile of relief for that. The rest of my marks were pretty much as expected. Also I have had to make an adjustment to the timeline: Lupin's capture and Frank's departure take place in the FIRST week of August, NOT the third as previously written. Sorry 'bout that, hopefully no one will notice.

Today's chapter – a patchwork of POVs. We have reached critical mass, people! The plots are colliding!

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

---------------------------------------

It seemed as if even Wormtail was acting more twitchy than usual. He had even given up his usual habit of lurking in dark corners and scurrying down the hallways as close to the wall as possible, and had spent the last three days hiding in the room off to the side of the kitchen, where the big fireplace was location – and with it, Harry suspected, the only Floo connection in the house. Perhaps it was just that Harry was nervous about Frank and whether or not the old gardener would be able to find Sirius, and now he was imagining that something was up. But it was difficult to tell.

Perhaps Wormtail hadn't told his master that Frank had left the estate, and was frightened his deception would be revealed. But if Wormtail had really suspected Frank of treachery, surely he wouldn't have allowed him to leave at all? There must be something else bothering the man. Harry just counted it as a blessing that with Wormtail avoiding him even more than usual, he couldn't reveal his own anticipation.

He was certain Frank would find Sirius. How could he not? And before the week was out, the wall of the Riddle estate would have been breached and Harry would be free… it was strange, thinking about that. Even though he wanted it to happen more than anything, he couldn't quite imagine it. It was as if he'd been a prisoner so long he no longer knew what it was he was working so hard for.

He brushed this thought aside. There were other things to think about. Perhaps Frank would be able to contact Sirius, but Sirius wouldn't be able to get over the wall. Or perhaps he just wouldn't want to come alone and needed to gather more wizards – after all, Wormtail might also be able to summon help if he realised the manor was under attack. If it did come about that no one from the outside would be able to get over the wall, Harry and Frank had another plan in reserve. The iron ladder which Frank had painstakingly constructed over the last few weeks was half-finished. Once it was complete, Harry was certain he could climb over the wall himself. If help was close at hand, he wouldn't have to go far…

In his mind, he plotted out every possibility. If his rescuers (he had no names for them except The Rescuers, since all he knew for sure was the Sirius and Moony would be there) got right into the Riddle house, there might be a fight. Harry would surely have to act as a shield for his rescuers, since the Death Eaters didn't dare hurt him. If, on the other hand, he had to climb over the wall to meet them on the other side, he would have to go during the day. He couldn't get out of the house at night, since all the spells on the doors and windows had been strengthened. Where would it be best to put the iron ladder? How could he distract Wormtail long enough to climb over the wall? Would Frank be safe once he had escaped?

The third night after Frank had left for London was the full moon. Harry had almost forgotten, though now that he could see the sky again it should have been easy to keep track of the phases. He was to preoccupied with thoughts about what he was sure was his forthcoming escape, so preoccupied that he nearly walked into the strange man in the hallway.

It was early in the evening, the sun, low in the sky, was casting a rosy glow on the Riddle house, but very little of it was getting through the grimy windows. Harry had been out in the garden and had slipped back inside when he realised how the evening was getting on. His glazed expression disclosed the fact that he was not even trying to watch where he was going when the man walked through the kitchen doorway into his path.

Harry just managed to pull away before he collided with the wide figure. He snapped out of his thoughts and stared. There was a stranger in the house. An enormously fat but rather short stranger, with a ragged silver moustache and the sun shining off a completely bald head. He wore a black cloak over a maroon jacket which looking rather the worse for wear: it was made of velvet, but was unwashed and had an assortment of different buttons. It hung loosely on the stranger, as if he had lost some weight – though Harry could barely believe that this man could have been any more fat than he already was.

"Ah!" said the stranger, his eyes brightening a little. He snapped his fingers as if catching his words out of thin air. "Just the man I was looking for! Here we are," and Harry realised he was holding out a large goblet filled with a smoking topaz liquid. He recognised it as the Wolfsbane potion he had been taking every day for the last week.

Harry stared at him for a few moments before he found his voice. It had been silent since Frank had left and was croaky from disuse. "You're not supposed to be here," he said stupidly.

The fat man smiled, his moustache twitching. "What's that, m'boy?"

Harry flapped his hands hopelessly. "You have to leave! If Wormtail catches you – no one's allowed in the house – they'll kill you, don't you understand?" He didn't know who this man was, or how he had gotten in, but he was certain that if the man didn't leave at once, he was going to meet some big trouble.

"Kill me?" the man blinked, his expression befuddled, then his eyes creased into a smile once more and he gave a deep chuckle. "Goodness, no, you've got the story all wrong! Pettigrew knows I'm here, he let me in. He's just in the other room… I popped out to bring you your potion, that's all…"

Still smiling, he waved the bitter-smelling goblet under Harry's nose.

Harry realised the significance of the black cloak and the man's presence and a lump of disappointment settled in his stomach. "Oh," he said, hunching and sticking his hands in his pockets in the most unfriendly manner he could manage. "You're working for them."

"Now, now," the man spluttered, his cheeks reddening. "Don't think…I mean to say…well I haven't much of a choice, m'boy!"

Harry shrugged and shuffled along to the stairs. He'd heard that argument before, from Wormtail. The disappointment swelled a little in him. For a moment there, he'd thought – he'd hoped – that the man was somehow from outside, coming to help him…but no. He was a Death Eater.

At the bottom of the staircase, Harry turned back to glare at the fat man, who was holding out the still-smoking goblet with a distressed look on his face. At that moment, Wormtail appeared in the doorway behind him. He was looking sweaty and irritated, and he had to squeeze past the stranger to get into the hallway.

"There you a-are," he said as his eyes fell on Harry, and he snatched the goblet out of the fat man's hand and scampered across to Harry. He thrust the goblet into Harry's hand so roughly some of it slopped out on the wooden floor where it hissed on the varnished wooden. "Drink it, quickly now, there's only an hour u-u-until sunset."

Harry swilled the smoking liquid in the goblet then gulped it down as fast as he could, wincing at the stinging hot drink. Wormtail, wringing his hands, had already turned back to the fat man, saying. "Y-you had better get downstairs…"

The fat man wilted a little, letting out an enormous sigh.

"Downstairs," Harry echoed. The only downstairs in the Riddle house was the basement where Harry underwent his monthly transformation. "But I'm going to be downstairs once it gets dark," he said.

Wormtail shot him an exasperated look. "No, you're to return to y-your room for the tonight. Don't try to break down the door, I-I'm going to e-enchant it," he looked positively terrified at the thought of casting a spell to hold a werewolf at bay behind a flimsy wooden door.

Harry liked the idea of being in his room because it meant he would not be chained when he was a werewolf, but wanted to know why he wouldn't be in the basement as usual, and what the fat man would be doing down there. However, as he opened his mouth to ask, three men came out of the kitchen. One was tall, and wearing black robes and a cloak to match the fat man's. The other two were slightly shorter and dressed in ragged brown robes. One was a skinny man with a bushy, greying beard. The other was thickly-muscled, his robes pulled tight over his broad chest, and his matted hair falling away from a whiskered face that was dominated by a cruel grin.

Wormtail gave a whimper and the tall Death Eater stepped aside as Wormtail stumbled towards the other two new men. "What a-are you still doing h-here?" Wormtail cried piteously. "It's moonrise an hour! Y-you must leave…!"

The thickset man looked down at Wormtail disdainfully, his tongue moving behind his yellow teeth. His eyes flicked across the room at Harry, standing at the bottom of the stairs, and Harry gave an involuntary shudder. The thickset man spoke, his voice a rasping kind of bark. "I wanted to see the boy."

Wormtail put his hands to his face despairingly, and wailed. "Yes, y-you've seen him now, y-you've delivered what you came here for… now won't you please…just…leave?"

The thickset man laughed, hugh, hugh, and he and his skinny companion turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

Harry sat down on the bottom stair, his stomach churning from the bitter potion. He was thinking back to all those months ago when he had set the curtains on his room on fire, and a Death Eater named Dolohov had followed Wormtail back to the Riddle house. Wormtail's master had ordered the man's memory obliviated for that accidental discovery. But now there were four Death Eaters wandering around in the front hall, and nobody was even kicking up a fuss. What was going on?

Did this mean that Wormtail's master was no longer concerned about his servants discovering Harry's whereabouts?

Harry, still clutching the goblet, wrapped his arm around his knees. Hurry back, Frank, he thought, I think we're running out of time…

As the two remaining Death Eaters trooped away down the hall, Wormtail suddenly seemed to remember that Harry was still there. Sounding on the verge of hysteria, he pointed upwards and shouted, "You! U-upstairs…now!"

---------------------------------------

"Albus!"

Dumbledore was standing in the hallway below his office, watching the sun set below the distant mountains across the forbidden forest. The green lawns of Hogwarts seemed tinged with gold, and the mirror of the lake had turned to glowing red to reflect the sunset. The whole castle, emptied of its students, seemed to be caught in the boughs of sleep, awaiting September when it would awaken and be filled with noise and life once more. The old headmaster turned to see Professor McGonagall hurrying at the corridor towards him, her robes rustling against the stone floor.

"Minerva," he nodded in greeting. "I did not expect to see you here outside of term time."

"I'm searching for you – I heard…" she faltered as she caught sight of Dumbledore's face, devoid of its usual humour. "It's true, then?" she said quietly. "We've lost another member of the Order?" she came to a halt in front of the headmaster and folded her hands in front of her. "I see. It did seem too good to be true. Even after that attack at the muggle orphanage, not a single fatality within our ranks," she sighed. "But no good times last forever."

Dumbledore nodded. "And I fear, my good Minerva, that it never rains – as they say – but it pours."

McGonagall glanced at him curiously, but he had returned his gaze to the rapidly disappearing sun and did not elaborate. Wondering if she was being dismissed, she made to ask him if he would be returning to Grimmauld Place, but before she began to speak, something caught her eye. Frowning, she looked at Dumbledore's right hand and saw that it was black and charred, like a plant that had died.

"Have you been injured?" she asked, gesturing at the blackened hand.

Dumbledore raised his arm and looked at it as if he'd only just noticed something wrong. He shook his head and smiled faintly. "Yes, by my own sluggishness."

"Will it heal?" McGonagall asked in concern. "How did it happen?"

Dumbledore ran one pale, clean finger over the back of his blacked hand and winced. "No, it will not heal. How it happened…" he turn his head to look at McGonagall. "I do apologise, Minerva, but some things are better left secret. As long as you are here, would you care to take tea in my office? We are in mourning, this day, but it does not mean we cannot enjoy a lovely raspberry tea that I have recently procured. And it was always a favourite flavour of Remus's – so, a drink to him, perhaps…"

"Thank you," McGonagall smiled.

After speaking the password, Dumbledore stood aside to let her through the door to his office with a wave of his hand and a characteristic smile. As he followed her in, the smile faded a little as his thoughts returned to her question.

His hand, wounded beyond repair. It was unfortunate, but he felt that so far he had been unaccountably lucky. The black-stoned ring of Marvolo Gaunt was broken, and with it a piece of Voldemort's soul destroyed, but this was not the first. A diary, dated half a century ago, had been taken from the manor of Lucius Malfoy when it had been raided the year before at the beginning of the school term. Dumbledore had destroyed that diary. And he had destroyed a cup with the Hufflepuff crest on it, which had been found nestled within the walls of Hogwarts itself, a hiding place that had disturbed him greatly. Then there was the snake which had accompanied Voldemort wherever he went – it too was gone, slain by a traitor within Voldemort's ranks, nearly costing the spy his cover and his life.

And that left two – a golden locket with the Slytherin 'S', and a black-haired, green-eyed boy.

As he closed the door behind him, Dumbledore glanced back as the final rays of the sun sunk away and vanished, and the gold and red light shining across the Hogwarts grounds began to diminish, mourning a Gryffindor.

---------------------------------------

A dull ache was all that he was aware of at first, a throbbing pain in his head, the weak sting of a recently healed wound. Then, slowly, the rest of his senses returned to him, one by one. His nose was full of inhospitable scents, mildew, bodily smells of sweat, a harsh smell that was familiar but he couldn't yet place. He could hear someone moving nearby: the soft murmur of boiling water, and a person grumbling, too quiet for him to pick the words.

He opened his eyes, blinking to clear them. Slowly, trying to minimise the shooting pains up and down his neck, Lupin raised his head and took in his surroundings.

Soft candlelight illuminated the room. It was small but long, about four metres by ten, and made of dusty bricks and rotting plaster, cold and damp by the look of the moss growing in the cracks of the concrete floor. A single window faced him, high on the wall: through it, he saw a dark, twilight sky, with the last red rays of the sun sinking out of sight. To his right was an unlit stairway leading straight up and away, apparently the only passage in or out.

A table was set against the wall in front of him, and a man wearing a long black cloak was standing with his back to Lupin, busying with something. He shifted a bit and Lupin saw what was making the sound like water boiling: a small cauldron was standing on the table, hissing over a buttery yellow flame. Two dark-coloured bottles and a tarnished silver goblet were sitting beside the cauldron: the man with his back turned was stirring the potion slowly. White smoke flowed out of it, dissipating before it reached the surface of the table.

Lupin tried to stand up and found he couldn't. Groggily, he look down and saw that he was sitting in a large wooden chair, hard and featureless. His hands were on the armrests, and thin chains were looped around his wrists, binding him very tightly. He recognised the metal: it was silver, connected to chains set into the bricks of the walls. He tried to move and found there were more chains binding his ankles to the legs of the chair, biting into his skin.

Now nearly awake, panic began to bubble up in Lupin. He was trapped – captive – how? What had happened? Who? Where was he?

He took a breath and closed his eyes, trying to steady his wildly beating heart. First of all, how long had he been knocked out? By the ache of hunger throbbing in his stomach, he would say at least a day – and his lips were dry and chapped from thirst. He began to sift through his thoughts, trying to cast his mind back to last thing he remembered.

He'd Flooed Sirius, to tell him what he'd discovered – but then…then he'd heard noises: stood up, drawn his wand… the rest was just blur, madness – faces and shouting and his curses smashing off the kitchen cupboards. Fenrir Greyback – him, Lupin remembered. But how was it possible? Emmeline Vance said she had wounded him badly, and no one had heard from him since that night when he had attacked the Orphanage – he should have been dead. Greyback's face, the faces of other werewolves, and Maud…

A caustic feeling began to spread through Lupin's guts. Maud had been standing in the doorway, her hand over her mouth, and Lupin had shouted at her to run…

But she hadn't run. The other werewolves had overcome Lupin and roughly subdued him, twisting his arms behind him back until he had cried out in pain. They had taken his wand and broken it before his eyes – the snap of the splintering wood still echoed in Lupin's head. And Maud had stood and watched, and then she had rushed to Greyback's side and pawed at his arm, her face a mask of adoration. And Greyback had stroked her hair, they way you pet a dog that's fetched a stick for you, and smiled at Maud.

"Good girl," Greyback had said to Maud.

It wasn't until then that Lupin had realised who had betrayed him.

Thinking back on it, Lupin grimaced, and winced as he felt the bruises on his face. Yes, Greyback and his cronies had been very rough. He licked his lip and tasted dried blood, but whether it was from the split lip or from his nose, which felt as if it was swollen as large as a pumpkin, he didn't know. He knew he must look a mess from the pummelling, and it seemed no one had bothered to clean him up, except the gash on his temple, which wasn't bleeding any more. But the other werewolves had stopped short of actually killing him – why?

Because Fenrir had stopped them. "That's enough," his hoarse voice had growled. "We were told not to let him die. Let's get out of here." That was where the memory stopped. It was also was the part that most perplexed Lupin. Who was it wanted him alive? Not Fenrir Greyback, who should have been dead anyway. There was no answering this riddle.

Gritting his teeth, Lupin leaned back against the chair. Well, looks like this is how it ends. This was it: he was not getting out of this one. His throat constricted as a pale, heart-shaped face floated across the surface of his mind. But Tonks had always been too much for him to wish for. She was young, she would get over him. And Sirius… Sirius would act difficult, but he would move on. He had Harry to think about.

Harry…I wish I could have seen you once, at the least, Lupin thought.

His thoughts were broken by movement in the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw there was a second man he hadn't realised was in the room. He was also wearing a black cloak with the hood pulled low over his face. He looked like a very short, fat man, and he had been sitting against the wall, possibly asleep. Now he levered himself to his feet, and the man standing in front of the cauldron looked over at him.

"Think it's ready?"

"Obviously," wheezed the fat man, coming over to peer into the small cauldron. "Yes, good."

The thin man turned around and glanced at Lupin. His chin could be seen below his hood, and a smile warped his lips. "Look who's awake."

The fat man looked at Lupin as well, but he didn't reply, merely raised his hand and touched his brow in a nervous gesture, as if wiping away drops of sweat. The thin man turned back and dipped the goblet into the smoking cauldron.

"How much?"

"Half a cupful," said the fat man, wringing his hands. "Should be enough. Look – I'm almost sure it perfect – but – er – what if it doesn't work?"

"You try again," said the thin man, raising the goblet. Smoke rolled over the lip of the cup and poured over his hands. "We're going to hold on to him for as long as need be, until you get it right."

"Right," nodded the fat man. He shuffled around a little to watch the thin man, who was approaching Lupin with the goblet. Lupin snarled at him and drew away, but there was nowhere for him to go.

Suddenly the fat man spoke. "And…er…what if it does work? What are you going to do with him? And…me?"

The thin man looked over his shoulder at the fat man. "Him? I suppose he'll be given to Greyback. You? I don't know. You'll have to wait and find out," he finished nastily.

Lupin wriggled against the chains binding him to the chair. There was something very familiar about the potion, though the smoke was thicker, the smell slightly different. He did not know for sure that what was in that goblet was what he thought it was, but he knew he did not want it anywhere near him, either way.

The thin man grasped Lupin's chin in a vice-like grip and forced his head back in a practised fashion. He ignored Lupin's struggles completely, as if he was doing nothing more routine than changing a light-bulb. With one hand, he managed to force Lupin's jaw open.

"Come on, it's not poison.," he said with a sneer as tipped the goblet into Lupin's mouth.

The potion was hot and bitter: it tasted foul, and familiar. But he had to drink, or inhale. To keep himself from choking, he swallowed, and the man kept pouring until all of the potion was gone. Then he released Lupin, who gasped and leaned forward, racked with coughs. Some of the potion, topaz-coloured, had spilled down his chin and dripped onto his robes, and it smelled awful. His head was spinning, and he retched violently, his stomach squirming as the hot potion hit it.

"Don't throw it up, now," said the thin man, slapping Lupin on the back until his coughs subsided. "We'll just force down another goblet, and you'll be all covered in sick, won't you?"

"Go hang yourself," wheezed Lupin, coughing again. It felt as if half the liquid had gone into his lungs rather than down his throat.

The thin man just laughed, and turned back to his companion. "How do we know it has worked?"

The fat man pointed at the window, and all three of them turned to look at it. The red sunlight was gone, now: only the faintest glow remained as the deep blue night spread across the sky.

"We'll know," said the fat man, "soon enough."

The thin man leaned against the table and crossed his arms. "And at midnight, we give him the second one?"

"Yes," nodded the fat man. His voice was shaking. "The third at dawn."

The thin man nodded, and yawned widely, showing several missing teeth. "Gonna be a long night, sitting down here. Suppose we're not allowed to play with him a bit?"

The fat man trembled, and his voice was laced with badly-concealed revulsion at the idea of 'play'. "You won't want to. He's a werewolf, remember."

The thin man laughed as if this was a particularly witty joke. "Alright, no fun. I guess you're not into that sort of thing anyway. Fancy a game of cards?"

The fat man shrugged and shuffled back towards the corner of the room. The thin man pulled a scruffy pack of exploding snap cards out of his pocket and sat down beside him, sorting them quickly.

Lupin bent his head, his throat stinging. Now he knew how long he had been knocked out, and what night it was. He could feel it, approaching steadily, inevitably. And this explained the silver chains and the potion: it had, indeed, been what he thought it was: Wolfsbane. But with something slightly different added to it.

Across the room, the thin man said in a jovial voice. "Hope I get to watch them throw him to Greyback's lot. Should be good fun, eh? Won't they bite him?"

"Won't matter," said the thin man, who sounded slightly ill. "If it works, he'll be immune."

"Oh, well, I suppose they'll kill him pretty quickly anyway," shrugged the thin man.

Through the window, the clouds had cleared and the sky was black and speckled with stars. A light that was not sunlight, but clear and silverly, was flowing into the room. Lupin's chair had been carefully positioned so that the moonlight struck his face as it rose, and he felt a shiver run through him, his muscles tensed. He wanted to cry out, but his throat had seized up. The familiar prickling sensation broke out over his skin, and the silver chains bit into his wrists as he began to transform.

-------------------------------------------

"I said that I was not to be disturbed, Wormtail…"

"I-I came to tell you, master…we think it's worked…"

Silence.

"O-of course, we'll wait…to make sure…but so f-far…"

"Thank you, Wormtail. You may go."

With a jolt, Neville awoke, his stomach lurching as if he was aboard a ship in rough weather, his forehead burning as if he had fallen face-down in a fireplace. He kept his eyes closed until his spinning head began to steady, pressing his hand to his forehead and gritting his teeth against the pain.

At last it subsided and he rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom and wishing his Gran approved of dreamless sleeping potions. Not that they would help, not against nightmares like this. But at least he'd be able to get back to sleep afterwards.

Knowing from experience that he wouldn't be getting another wink of sleep tonight, he lurched out of bed and rubbed his eyes with a yawn. He flicked his slippers out from under his bed – they were shaped like bunnies, but Gran wouldn't buy him new ones until he'd worn the old ones out – and picked up a jacket from the back of his chair. He was drenched in cold sweat.

He padded over to his desk, cluttered with pencils, trinkets and empty sweet wrappers. Parting the curtains a little, he saw that the sky was lightening in the east, dawn close at hand, and out of sight a full moon was sinking over the west horizon. Seating himself at the desk and switching on the lamp, Neville reached for a book on Magical Water Plants which he had bought for himself. The rest of the books in his bookshelf were, for the most part, unopened and beginning to gather dust. They were titles aimed at children much younger than Neville, but his many relatives could not keep track of his birthdays, and still sent him gifts more fit for someone of seven years old than thirteen.

Neville tried to concentrate on a page about sea lettuce, but his eyes slid in and out of focus and his mind kept returning to the dream, and the cold high voice. And another man, saying, "it worked…" Dumbledore should know about this.

Neville shook his head. The dream had not been urgent, just another fragment like the many others he had glimpsed over the year. He was not going to go crying to Dumbledore at all hours of the night. Even if the headmaster always asked to know about all of Neville's dreams, Neville could write to him in the morning. He felt a little guilty, since Dumbledore might be angry that Neville had not been practising Occlumency, but Neville could deal with that. Besides, it wasn't that he didn't practise clearing his mind before he slept at night – he did try – but it was so difficult. He could never clear his mind completely…

His drifting eyes spied a crumpled ball of paper shoved to the back of his desk, and he pulled it closer and unfolded it. It was an unfinished letter, the ink now smeared and blotchy. He's written it about a week ago, on the day after his birthday, but it had never been sent.

"Professor," the letter began, "I fell asleep this afternoon and had another dream about Harry. My first since you began teaching my Occlumency. There was something different about this one. At the end of it, he looked into my – or You-Know-Who's – eyes and he said my name. As if he could see me looking out at him. I think I sort of panicked and tried to pull back and wake up, but it was as if You-Know-Who knew I was there and was trying to keep me from getting away. That's never happened before. He raised his wand and cast a spell on Harry, but I still hadn't woken up. I thought…"

That was where the letter ended, that was when Neville had crumpled it up and tossed it across his desk. It should have finished I thought I was going to be trapped in his head, that I would never wake up but somehow he couldn't tell Dumbledore this. He couldn't tell anyone. It was too horrifying a thought.

He had abandoned the letter and made the excuse to himself that Dumbledore would be angry when he found out Neville's Occlumency was not working, but that was a weak excuse.

Neville rested his chin on his hand and stared moodily out the window, trying to sort out his thoughts. He wondered, not for the first time, if they were even his thoughts, and not You-Know-Who's thoughts. And then he wondered (and this was for the first time) what if they weren't his or You-Know-Who's? What if they were Harry's thoughts?

"I have to find you," Neville muttered to himself. "I have to meet you, Harry. I'll never be able to sort myself out until I know who you are, really know."

Ron and Hermione were looking for Harry, and Neville was doing his best to help them, though hanging around with them hadn't done much good so far. They were keeping him up-to-date on everything they learned, which was mostly bits and pieces dredged from writing letters to Tonks and following Professor Jones around until she answered their questions. Hermione had even gone to Ron's house for the second half of the summer, so that the two of them could continue their investigations without the interruption of school. They hadn't told Neville they were visiting each other over the summer, presumably so that they wouldn't hurt his feelings by not inviting him, but he had overheard them talking about it in class.

But at the rate they were going, they would never find Harry without some kind of a miracle.

-------------------------------------------

TBC

A/N: I just realised I totally screwed up the timeline. Headdesk. Headdesk. Headdesk. I actually can't count…four weeks between full moons. Four! Not two, you stupid…friggin…grrrr… (Tawa reaches for a large, heavy object to hit herself over the head with…) I must have been very lucky to pass Statistics, with this kind of mental arithmetic.

This doesn't really set things back except that I must rearrange a few minor details in previous chapters. CORRECTION: The two coinciding events of Lupin's capture and Frank leaving the Riddle house to search for Sirius take place in the first week of August, not the third. I think that pretty much solves all the problems with the full moon rising two weeks early… I'll go back and change it now… (sound of profanities from off-screen.)

Not to worry, I'm sure nobody was actually keeping time. You shouldn't even notice the difference.

I do appreciate anyone picking up mistakes in the story, as I certainly haven't been able to correct them all.

Cheers for today. Next chapter – Frank gets somewhere.