A/N: Oh f(censored) it. I underestimated again. Those of you wanted more chapters may rejoice – we still have at least three to go. Obviously some subconscious part of my brain doesn't want me to finish this story and keeps drawing it out just to spite me. Damn you, subconscious mind!

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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It seemed strange that, after all these weeks, Harry had never actually been in Frank's cottage before. It had just been caution – Harry had done everything he could to keep Wormtail from realising how much he talked to Frank. So the old gardener had always brought him cups of tea outside under the wattle tree, but never invited him into the cottage after Harry had refused the first time.

It seemed even smaller inside than it looked from without, sparsely furnished with a rusting electric stove, a sink, table and chairs. A huge wireless radio squatted on a chest of drawers in the corner beneath one of the small windows with their thick, wobbly glass. There were spider webs clinging to the ceiling and a single bulb hanging down like the root of some tree upstairs. The walls were covered in shelves with all manner of tins, boxes, bags and cases. Seeds, dried foodstuffs, herbs, books, yellowed photographs, and a strong smell of spices from the tins above the stove. A coal range sat next to the stove, with a pair of socks drying on a wire above it.

Harry had to step over the iron ladder as he came into the room, with Frank shutting the door behind him. The ladder stretched from the far corner of the room, right under the table, and came to rest against the door of the cupboard under the sink. A sheet was wrapped around most of its length, so that it looked like a huge white caterpillar lying on Frank's floor.

"Bloody thing trips me up every time I walk through," Frank grumbled as he bent and took a hold of the sheet, his back creaking. He grunted and dragged on the covering. Harry took a hold of another corner and helped to reel the cloth in. It made a shushing noise as it slipped off and Frank rolled it up in his arms.

Harry gawked at the ladder that Frank had built. It was exactly to his specifications. Each cast-iron pot, their sizes varying along with the lengths of their handles, was welded together, rims to bottoms, so that the handles formed alternating rungs on either side. Solder had squidged out from the joins at some places, running in silver drips down the sides of the pots.

"Right," said Frank, sounded very matter-of-fact. He went to push the chairs away so they could get the ladder out from under the table. "Let's get out of here."

There was one problem. The ladder was too heavy to lift.

Harry knew he should have predicated this. Each pot weigh at least three kilograms, so twenty-five of them was as heavy as a large man. Frank was fit and healthy for such an elderly man, but he was still old, and he got pains in all his joints. Harry had been fit last time he had flown a broomstick, but that was a year ago now. Underfed, unexercised and having not yet started his teenage growth-spurt, he was no stronger than Frank.

After twenty minutes they had gotten the end of the ladder out the door, and already both were exhausted.

"This isn't going to work," Harry panted, leaning on the doorframe. He did not know how long they had before someone came out to check on him, but he suspected it would be less than an hour. They had to get over the wall before then.

"Wheelbarrow," said Frank, massaging his wrists.

"The thing's three metres long! How's it gonna fit in a wheelbarrow?" Harry shot back irritably.

"I've got a spare," Frank answered calmly. "Come on, lad."

It took another quarter of an hour to get the ladder as far as the wall. They managed to balance it between two wheelbarrows, with Harry walking backwards holding the front one. Plus another ten minutes of levering and pushing, and trying not to touch the strength-draining stones, before the iron ladder finally settled against the wall with a clang. The top of it cleared the wall by about a foot.

Looking up at it, Harry nearly whooped with pride. This was it. They were free. He cautiously reached out and touched the nearest rung of the ladder. A tingling ran up his fingers, but the awful weakness that the stones of the wall produced did not come. Grinning back at Frank, he put his feet on the bottom of the ladder and began to climb.

At the top, he leaned as far over as he dared. The wall was a foot thick, so he would have to jump out a way in order to clear it without touching it. And it was a two and a half metre drop on the other side. Harry swallowed, looking at the thick grass eight feet below him. If he broke his leg before he'd even got out of sight of the house, escaping was going to be very difficult.

He twisted around to lot back at Frank, standing with his hands on his hips at the bottom of the ladder. He flashed Frank a thumbs-up, then put one foot on the top rung of the ladder and straightened his back with his arms spread as if in preparation for flight. The wind rushed across the wall but he kept his balance, tensed the muscles of his legs, and jumped.

He hit the ground before he even knew he was falling and let his legs collapse under him to cushion his fall. For a moment he lay there on the grass, in the late-afternoon shadow of the wall, knowing that he had not been this far from the Riddle house for twelve months and that it felt wonderful, and the sky looked wonderful, and he was free. It made him want to just go to sleep with the safe, joyous feeling and never have to think about being a prisoner again.

Except that soon someone was going to notice he was missing. Harry sighed, rolled onto his front and got to his feet, resisting the temptation to steady himself on the wall. It was possible the enchantment was not effective on this side, but there was no need to take chances. One ankle had twisted and jarred as he landed but the pain was already fading to nothing, so he assumed he hadn't done himself any damage.

He craned his neck back, but the top of the ladder was only just visible. "Frank!" he called. "Hurry up!"

A minute later, Frank's head appeared over the top of the wall. His face was pale, his shoulders hunched and he shivered as he looked down at Harry. "You know, lad," he called down, "I think I might just stay here, aye?"

"You can't!" Harry replied. The wind rushed past again, nearly drowning out his words. Frank clung to the top of the ladder and turned his face away from it. "Frank!" Harry shouted over the wind, "If you stay here, the Death Eaters will kill you as soon as they find out I'm gone!"

Frank gave a pained look as if Harry was asking him to cut off his own thumb. Finally he answered. "Alright. I'm coming." He climbed to the top of the ladder, but being slightly taller than Harry, he had further to jump to clear the wall. He was also too frightened to let go with his hands before he jumped.

Harry raised his arms. "Aim for me," he called. "I'll catch you as best I can."

Frank raised his grizzled eyebrows. "The hell you will," he grumbled, and then he jumped.

Harry tried to grab him as he plunged to the ground, but the old man had landed further away and crumpled into the grass. He lay still, his legs folded at an odd angle. Harry sucked in his breath and dashed to help the elderly gardener. He imagined Frank smashed on the ground with his old bones poking through his skin and blood trickling down his face and thought, Oh, God, I've killed him! As he knelt to touch Frank's shoulder, the old man shifted and raised his head.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked frantically, sounding close to tears.

"Fine," Frank wheezed, as Harry helped him slowly to his feet. "Ouch," he hissed and put his hand on his back. "That," he said, picking a bit of grass off his knee, "is something best left to younger folk. Now, are we leaving, or are we leaving?"

Harry looked wobbly with relief. He grabbed Frank's hand and pulled him away through the long grass towards the forest. Frank loped behind him, glancing back uneasily to get a last glimpse at the towering wall of the Riddle estate, with the roof of the lifeless house peering over the edge. That garden had been his home for more than fifty years. Leaving it was surreal, as ill favoured as sticking a fork into a toaster. Would he be able to return to his garden and his little cottage once all this was over? Maybe not until the mysterious owner of the house had been arrested and locked away as he deserved, but then, perhaps, Frank would be allowed to go back to his roses and his lawns and never have to think about conspiracies and kidnapping again. Or maybe this was the last time he would ever see the Riddle house. He looked ahead again.

Harry's black, tangled hair was bobbing in time with his footsteps, and his hand was small and warm in Frank's own brown and wrinkled palm. And suddenly Frank felt a huge need to protect the skinny, green-eyed boy who had barged into his life and so utterly destroyed his peaceful existence. Protect him at any cost.

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"How far is it to the village?" Harry asked as they stepped out onto the rutted gravel road. The two outlaws had cut through the forest for as long as they could, but they were going to get lost if they kept at the tangled scrub. Besides, it was hard work making their way through the overgrown woods around the village. Frank was looking tired and worn already, and Harry squeezed his hand and gave him a quick smile, which was returned wearily.

"Less than an hour," the old man answered quietly.

Harry glanced at the sky. They'd already lost the sun behind the tops of the taller trees, but he estimated they had several more hours before moonrise. Once they reached the village, it was a matter of finding shelter for his transformation and calling for help as well. There was a faint chance – the very thought made him giddy – that they could somehow contact wizards before the sun had set, and Harry might even be able to reach 12 Grimmauld Place before he transformed. But as he didn't yet know how to contact anyone, that was a faint chance. In the meantime, they had to be prepared to stay hidden from any Death Eaters that came to search the village.

"You sure you can find us somewhere to hide?" Harry asked uncertainly.

Frank nodded. "Ian Suttles, The barkeep of the local pub, is a decent fellow. He won't turn us away, and he won't hand us over either. You said you'd have to stay in someone's basement for the night – well, Ian's got a wine cellar that will probably do."

Harry nodded. He could hole up in there for the night and in the morning…in the morning everything was going to be solved…

Would Sirius come to collect him? Or had Sirius truly forgotten about him? Hermione and Ron hadn't, or not the way Frank had told it. Maybe they would come with Dumbledore to take him back to Hogwarts. Or maybe Aurors would come. That was a frightening thought. For as long as he and Sirius had been fugitives, Harry had been taught to fear and avoid the Ministry who had wanted him dead. He would have to be careful not fall into their hands.

I'm going home, he thought again, relishing the taste of the words.

That was the last time he thought them that night.

From somewhere behind them, there was the crunch of gravel under heavy boots. Harry's head whipped around. In the green shadows under the trees, cloaked figures were moving out onto the road. Black-cloaked figures with white masks and wands drawn.

A roaring seemed to fill Harry's ears, an aural soup of fear and the pumping of his heart. He tightened his grip on Frank's hand and then his legs were moving of their own accord and he was running, dragging the old man behind him. All his fatigue was gone, his feet slamming into the gravel so hard chips were flying up and bouncing off his jeans, he ran faster than he had ever flown on a broomstick…

Very distantly, muffled by the pounding of his blood in his ears, Harry heard a voice cry, "Avada Kedavra!" He didn't even register the words, but out of the corners of his eye he saw a green light flash out, barely visible in the bright sunlight, and then suddenly Frank's weight was much more than it had been a moment before.

He turned as Frank fell forwards, still holding tightly to Harry's hand. The boy, not thinking to let go, was dragged forward with him. He realised Frank had tripped and he dropped onto one knee to help the old man onto his feet.

But the gardener wasn't moving. Harry swore badly, and shouted, "Frank!" in a voice that sounded high, thin and terrified. Why wasn't he moving? He thought of the green flash. It must be a freezing curse, he thought in despair, rolling Frank over. The old man's face registered mild surprise, his eyes gazing blankly at the blue sky above them. "Frank, get up," Harry grunted, taking the gardener under the arms and trying to drag him to his feet.

The black-cloaked figures were running towards him now, four of them, their wands pointed straight ahead and their feet making, crash, crash, sounds on the road. One of them shouted, "Don't shoot, you idiot! You might have hit the boy!"

"I never miss!" another bellowed in return.

Harry was beyond panic, now. There was a white-hot terror rushing through him. He couldn't think. He had to leave Frank, because the old man was petrified and neither of them would get away if he didn't run now…but they would kill Frank if he left him behind…run now! His brain screamed but he was still dragging Frank under the arms and he couldn't leave him…they would kill him…

…and why wasn't Frank breathing…why wasn't he moving…

The Death Eaters had drawn level and circled around him. Harry let Frank go and twisted on the spot, searching for a space between the swishing black robes through which he might escape, but the circle was tightening. He raised his fists, gasping in short little breaths because this wasn't how it was supposed to go, and something was wrong with Frank…

"Oh, don't try and fight us, Potter," one of the black-cloaked figures said in a smooth, cold voice. "It really would be much easier for everyone if you came quietly."

"What did you do to Frank?" Harry panted, stepping protectively over the old man's skinny body and digging his heels into the gravel for balance, one leg on either side of Frank's chest. "Make him right again!"

For a moment none of them seemed to know what he was talking about, then the white-masked man with the cold voice glanced at the body lying prone on the ground. He started to laugh. "What do you mean, make him right?"

"Take off the curse!" Harry shouted. "Don't you hurt Frank – he didn't have anything to do with this…"

They all got the joke and began to laugh, deep guffaws and high little titters, and Harry couldn't understand why. He didn't understand what was so funny, his head still dizzy and his lungs flapping frantically in his chest to get enough air. And why wasn't Frank breathing, what had that green light been, and why did it look so familiar?

Why was he thinking about his mother? Harry blinked, swaying as if he was going to collapse. The Death Eaters had stopped laughing now and were closing in towards him like crows around a carcass, holding their wands at the ready. He could hear his Mother crying, "Please, don't hurt Harry…" and that cold,

high voice replying, "oh, I won't kill him…no, I won't…I'll just kill you…"

And then there had been a green flash.

"No," Harry bent and tugged at Frank's collar. "No," it came out as a croak. "Get up, Frank. It was just a petrifying curse, that's all it was, now get up!"

"He's dead, Potter," said the cold voice. One of the other Death Eaters jumped at Harry and grabbed his arms, pulling him away from Frank, who could not be dead, who absolutely could not be dead. Harry yelled and fought him, flopping and wriggling like a fish, but the man picked him up as if he was nothing more than a sack of rice and dragged him away. The body they left lying on the sun-warmed gravel, unmoving, with the blue sky above and the trees leaning over the road on either side like the pillars of some huge gate.

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"Be careful!" Hestia squeaked as Sirius stepped out onto the doorstep and stopped, gawking in surprise.

A muggle farm truck was impaled in the front wall of number thirteen Grimmauld Place, having missed number twelve by about a foot – probably thanks to the Fidelius charm. The front of the truck was completely mangled and pouring steam from under the crushed bonnet. Shard of debris from the car and large chunks of wood from the house were strewn across the street, some sticking upright in the lawn of number twelve like a rain of javelins. A rugged middle-aged muggle with a ciggarette dangling from his lower lip was jogging towards the wrecked vehicle, shouting in horror and clutching at his greying hair. "My truck!" Hestia heard him scream. "My truck!"

The muggle couple who lived in number thirteen had come charging out of their house, having to push away hunks of weatherboarding to get the front door open. The man was holding a screaming baby and the woman was crying. "Oh my God!" with her hands to her mouth. One of the other neighbours, a scrawny woman in a yoga outfit, came sprinting towards the truck from across the street. "Is anyone hurt?" she yelled at the couple whose house had been subject to this unexpected attack. "Is there someone in the car?"

There was someone in the car. Someone in the driver's seat who was slumped against the wheel, the seatbelt cutting into his or her shoulder. "Who is that?" Hestia hissed.

A deep growl crescendoed in Sirius' throat, culminating in a yell, "It's Maud!"

He was right. He was ready to murder someone.

As Sirius moved to leap down the steps, Hestia grabbed the back of his collar with one hand and the frame of the door with the other. She clutched as tightly as she could to both, but it was all she could do to keep him from flying at the wrecked car and its occupant. Sirius strained against her grip, and Hestia clung to the doorframe with the tips of her fingers, so that a sort of tug-of-war ensued for a few moments between Sirius and the doorframe, with Hestia acting at the rope.

"I'll kill her!" Sirius roared. "Let me go, Hestia, I'll kill her!"

"Fine," Hestia muttered, feeling his shoulders click from the effort of holding Sirius back, and let go of the doorway. The two of them tumbled down the front steps and landed in a heap at the bottom, getting their dress robes tangled as they fought to stand up. Sirius scrambled to his feet first. Hestia grabbed his wrist as he straightened and pulled herself up with him, and they both dashed towards the car.

The muggle neighbours were gathering around the driver's door, babbling to each other. Sirius cleared the crowd with the sheer force of his fury, pushing the rugged man aside, Hestia following at his heels.

Maud, her dull brown hair strewn across her face, was slowly sitting up, clutching her head. Sirius didn't give her another moment to recover. He leaned in through the window, grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to pull her out of the car. Since the seatbelt was still holding her in place he was not very successful at this, so he just shook her instead. Several people shouted angrily at this rough treatment of a young woman, including Hestia. Sirius ignored them.

"You traitor!" he shouted. "He took you in! He cared for you! Murdering little cow!"

"What're you doing?" the young man with the baby demanded, trying to pull Sirius off Maud and hold onto the wailing child at the same time.

"Stop it!" the neighbour in the yoga outfit ordered.

"Sirius!" Hestia shouted in his ear, wrapping one arm around his neck to drag him out of the car, but it was like trying to wrestle a bear. She hurriedly tried to think of a hex to cast on him that wouldn't look suspicious in front of the muggles.

Maud's head was lolling, her hands batting weakly at Sirius, but she was too dazed to fight him off. "Harry," she said hoarsely. "Harry in Little Hangleton."

Sirius and Hestia froze. "What?" he croaked. Maud broke into a fit of painful coughing. Sirius shook her again for good measure, "What did you say?"

"For God's sake, Sirius let her go!" Hestia yelled and, in conjunction with the young man with the baby, finally managed to drag him away from the car window. She opened the door and fumbled with Maud's seatbelt for a moment, though it took her a moment to work out how to unfasten the muggle contraption. Once Maud was free of the seatbelt, Hestia draped the young woman's arm around her neck and helped her out of the seat. The rugged man with the ciggarette was groaning over his shattered vehicle, but Hestia pushed past him and sat Maud down on the lawn. She leaned her against the back wheel of the truck and knelt in front of Maud, pulled out her wand and pointed it at Maud's chest.

"Are you hurt?" she asked quietly.

"'Course I'm bloody hurt!" Maud snarled, rubbing the back of her head. "I think that bastard broke my neck. Is my foot still there?"

Hestia saw that there was a nasty gash on Maud's calf. "Episkey," She muttered, carefully blocking the spell from the view of the muggles standing behind her. The gash stopped bleeding and began to seal itself up. "Now," said Hestia coldly, returning her wand tip to Maud's face. "What did you say about Harry?"

Maud, her head leaning sideways and her hair falling in a matted veil over her face, finally met Hestia's eyes. "Harry Potter is in Little Hangleton," she said faintly. "Remus sent me to find him," her eyes flicked up to Sirius standing shock still behind Hestia, looking down at them in a mixture of murderous desire and shock. Maud coughed again and began to moan. "Fenrir will kill me," she sobbed. "He'll never take me back. He'll hunt me down like he did Remus."

Sirius knelt and grabbed the front of Maud's dress. "You gave him to Greyback," he said in disgust. "Why're you helping him now?"

Maud gave a pitiful sob. "He was nice to me. And he didn't ask me to save him. I thought he would. But he didn't – all he cared about was saving Harry and it was hurting me, thinking about what I did. He told me I had to come and tell you where Harry was, and you have to get there before dawn tomorrow. That's what he said."

More neighbours had turned up now, and all the muggles were standing around listening curiously, except for the man who owned the truck, who was still lamenting its demolition. Hestia glanced at them briefly, but as none of them seemed to be running off to call the police, decided they were harmless for the moment.

"He's alive?" Sirius asked, tightening his grip on the collar of Maud's dress. "Remus is alive?"

"I don't know. He was when I saw him."

"Is he alright?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"Why dawn tomorrow? What's going to happen?" Sirius asked savagely.

"I don't know! That's what he said!"

Hestia, hearing the muggles grumbling, reached forward and pried Sirius' fingers of Maud's dress. "Come on," she whispered, jerking her head at the crowd. "We don't want to have to Obliviate this lot." Sirius' glare didn't leave Maud's face, but he nodded. The two of them picked Maud up under the arms and frogmarched her away from the wreck, the cluster of muggles parting in front of them.

"Why did you crash into that house?" Hestia asked in a reprimanding tone.

Maud made a frustrated face. "I knew you were in number twelve but I couldn't find it. I couldn't see it because of the stupid charm or whatever it is, but I knew it had to be there. I was trying to make a noise so you'd come out and find me."

"Well, you made it," Sirius said coldly. "Didn't it occur to you to just hoot the horn a few times or something instead of ramming a truck into a wall? You could have killed someone. Possibly yourself," he said in a disappointed voice.

"I had my seatbelt on," Maud said confidently.

"How long did it take you to drive here?" Sirius pressed.

Maud shrugged. "About four and a half hours."

"Good," he whispered, glancing at the blue sky. "Then there's still time."

They had reached the space behind number twelve where Sirius parked his flying motorbike. Hestia suddenly realised why he had lead them here. "You're going now?" she said. "You're just going to fly off and get Harry?"

Sirius let her take Maud's weight and went to start up the motorbike. It gunned into life with a roar. He looked at Hestia. "You heard her," he answered over the growl of the bike as he pulled off his dress robes to reveal a more comfortable set of clothes underneath. He swung his leg over the seat of the bike. "By dawn tomorrow, Lupin said. And when the sun sets in about four hours, Maud turns into a wolf and can't give us directions to anywhere. You call Dumbledore, gather the Order and track down this Little Hangleton place. You can find me there."

Hestia looked as if she wanted to protest, but after a moment she nodded in mute resignation. Arguing would do no good. Sirius was Sirius and she couldn't convince him to be anyone else. She helped Maud climb onto the bike behind Sirius. Neither Maud nor Sirius looked happy with this arrangement, but there wasn't exactly an alternative. Maud clutched his jacket with a scandalised look on her face, as if Sirius smelled particularly rotten.

"I'll Disillusion you," Hestia said. Her voice cracked at the end and she realised there was an awful sick feeling in her stomach that meant she wanted to sit down and have a cry. She stepped up to the motorbike and raised her wand to cast the spell. Sirius leaned forward and gently bumped foreheads with her. Before she even knew she had done it, Hestia had thrown her arms over his shoulders and was hugging him so tightly she could feel the zip on his jacket pressing in her chin and his breath on her neck. "Please be safe," she whispered. "Don't die for some stupid reason, okay?"

"Okay," Sirius replied, shooting her a lopsided grin as they broke apart. Hestia rapped him on the head with her wand and the Disillusionment charm spread over the two riders and the motorbike, giving the impression that a pair of watery ghosts were sitting in the air. Sirius revved the bike.

"You point me in the right direction," he called over his shoulder at Maud, who was now clinging to him with her eyes tight shut. "Hey! Keep your eyes open!"

Maud squeaked and opened her eyes a crack. The bike jumped and then they were rising up into the air, a see-through, liquid mix of shapes. Hestia stepped back; waving her hand in front of her face as choking exhaust blew across her. She could hear Maud screaming shrilly, but it was getting more difficult to see the nearly invisible motorbike against the clear blue of the sky. The growling of the bike faded along with Maud's shrieks as Sirius turned them and flew over the roof of number twelve Grimmauld place. Hestia strained her eyes until she was certain she could see them no more.

Dumbledore, thought Hestia. Little Hangleton. Dawn.

She turned and hurried towards the back door of the house, trying not to dwell on the smell of Sirius' hair and the question of whether she was going to see him again.

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TBC

A/N: Oh, Maud, you little rodent. Driving cars into people's houses. Won't you ever learn? I guess that's why we love you – and by love, I mean 'want to strangle.'

Hey there, my lovely reviewers :D

I had to say goodbye to my best friend yesterday. She's going to University in Dunedin and I won't see her again for months. I can barely believe it. She's the only person whom I can talk to for six hours straight without getting bored. She's the cleverest, most dedicated and knowledgeable Harry Potter fan I've ever met – she's also passionately opposed to reading fanfiction. Well, Emma this chapter's for you! If you knew I was writing this story, you'd give me a clap round the head and tell me to get back to the books. Ha!