"Good afternoon, Grandfather," said young Draco respectfully, rising from his chair and bowing as Abraxas entered the drawing room at Malfoy Manor. "Happy Christmas. I hope you're well?"

"As well as can be expected at my age." Abraxas beckoned to his grandson. "Come here and let me have a look at you. How're you liking Hogwarts?"

"Very well, thank you, sir." Draco came forward, stopping a few paces away from Abraxas and standing comfortably, his hands linked behind his back. "I've joined the Hogwarts Music Society, and I hope to try out for my House Quidditch team next year. My Defense teacher praised my accuracy in spellcasting, and Professor Snape said my Potions skills were adequate."

"Snape." Abraxas curled his lip at the thought of the underbred half-blood who haunted his recurring nightmares, the ones in which his world had crumbled into ashes ten years prior, and through which he searched endlessly for the boy who now stood before him. "And how's he treat you as Head of House, then?"

The boy stiffened, and Abraxas frowned. "What's the matter with you?"

"Sir, I…wasn't Sorted into Slytherin." The words emerged reluctantly, but clearly, as Draco stared over Abraxas's left shoulder. "The Hat said I wouldn't do well there."

"Bookish, are you?" Abraxas huffed, though he couldn't say he truly minded. A pureblood wizard ought to have some brains, after all. "There's no shame in Ravenclaw, I suppose. Or even Gryffindor, if you can put up with the barbarians. Just so long as you're not…" He stopped, reading the answer in the set of the boy's jaw, the squaring of his shoulders. "Now just a moment here!"

"Father, I didn't realize you'd arrived," said Lucius, stepping into the room behind him. "Happy Christmas to you."

"Don't you 'Happy Christmas' me, boy!" Abraxas wheeled to face his son. "Answer me this! How did your son, the heir to the House of Malfoy, end up Sorted into Hufflepuff, of all places? Do you have any idea how this looks?"

"Of course, Father." Lucius smiled, with what appeared to be genuine pride, and crossed the room to stand beside his son, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It looks as though Draco is an unusual young wizard, and as such, certain others find themselves drawn to him. Such as the prodigy who so astounded us all, ten years ago, by surviving a curse which was thought to be unstoppable." He looked down at the boy. "Is this not the case, Draco?"

Draco nodded quickly, and Abraxas let out a long breath. "Very well, then," he grumbled on the end of it. "I still don't like it, but if it's bringing you into his sphere…I assume you're taking full advantage of that? Ensuring he understands the truths of our world, making yourself indispensable to him?"

"He trusts me behind him with a wand, sir." Now Draco's eyes sparkled with the true spirit of the Malfoys, and Abraxas sighed in contentment. "Maybe he shouldn't, but he does…"


XxXxX


"All hail Captain Wolf, and his fine and lusty crew!" Henry stood on a broad branch of a tree in the woods behind the house at Tudor Lane, waving his stick-sword in the air to the cheers of Ron, Jean, and Pearl from below. "The three rivers be ours, with every boat that passes paying us tribute! Next we go north, to command the passages of the lakes, and then—"

"Not so fast, there, Captain," said a voice in his ear, and a blunt point prodded him in the small of the back. "Drop yer blade. Yer ship now be under the command of the Gray Fox."

"Gah!" Henry obediently dropped his sword, turning his head a fraction to glare at Mal, who was grinning broadly. "Curse yer sudden but inevitable betrayal! How did ye sway me crew to yer side, ye faithless dog?"

"He pays better," called Jean. "Cookies on the barrelhead."

"We won't have to work so hard with him in charge." Ron tossed and caught a snowball.

"Besides." Pearl beamed brightly. "He's cooler than you are."

Henry's glare at Mal intensified. "You bribed her to say that."

Mal shrugged. "It's still true."

"I know." Henry sighed. "All right, Captain Fox, the ship be yers. Where shall we sail?"

"Wotcher, you lot," a new voice broke in. "This a private party, or can anybody join?"

"Dora!" Pearl turned to charge at her older cousin, who went to one knee in the snow, the better to receive a flying tackle-hug. Henry and Mal descended the tree with more haste than style, as Jean and Ron also converged on the new arrival, all calling cheerful greetings as they came.

"Hate to get in the way of some good pirating," said Dora when she'd hugged or knuckle-rubbed everyone, her hair shimmering from red to blue to gold and back again, "but there's a limited-time offer on the table up at the house." She smirked. "They were handing out sports tickets at the office again last week. Only this time, they weren't for a local event, so the takers were a bit more limited than they sometimes are…"

Pearl gasped. "You didn't," she said breathlessly. "Dora, no way!"

"How many?" Henry asked over top of this.

"Eight." Dora grinned at the exultant shouts which greeted this number. "And I'm not your only visitor today, either. Weren't you expecting a certain friend of yours and his parents to pop over here at some point?"


"Neville!" Jean threw open the back door, stamped the snow off her boots, and hurried inside to greet her friend. "Merry Christmas! I didn't expect to see you here so soon."

"Neither did we, but Dad was able to wrap things up faster than he thought." Neville picked up River, who had been winding around his ankles. "Gran's taking care of Trixie while we're gone, which is probably a good thing. She doesn't like other cats very much. Trixie, that is, not Gran."

"Trixie doesn't like anyone, from what I've seen," said Mal, toeing off his boots and setting them on the tray by the door which would collect any melting snow. "But that's a story for another day. Dora said she brought—" He sighed happily as he caught sight of the coruscating slips of parchment occupying the center of the kitchen table. "And there they are."

"Streelers tickets!" Pearl jumped into the air, once, twice, three times. Ryan caught her at the peak of the third jump and swung her around, careful not to bump into anyone as he did. "We get to go to a Streelers game! When is it, Daddy, when, when?"

"Today." Ryan winced at his daughter's gleeful squeal and set her hastily back on the floor. "Well, that's a definite yes. Who else wants to go?"

Henry, Mal, and Ron shot their hands into the air, and Thea laughed, shutting the door behind them and Dora. "However did I guess," she said. "Dora, you're obviously coming, since it's your treat. Neville, Jean?"

Two brown heads shook back and forth. "It sounds a bit noisier than I'd like," said Neville. "Besides, Mum was saying there's a magical wing of the natural history museum here, showing the co-development of the magical and Muggle ecosystems, and how they both changed when people started arriving from Europe."

"And we maintain a museum membership, which means we get a certain number of guest passes every year." Gigi smiled. "So I count seven going to the game so far. Assuming you two are both in," she said to Ryan and Thea, who nodded. "That still leaves one ticket…"

"Not for me," said John, rubbing the side of his head. "Maybe next week I'd be up for it, but today the museum sounds more my speed. Frank, would you care to go?"

"I must admit I've always wanted to see Quodpot played live." Frank looked over at his wife. "If you're sure you don't mind, love?"

"Oh, go on and enjoy your exploding balls." Alice stopped as the younger portion of the room collectively choked on their laughter. "Perhaps I should phrase that differently…"


XxXxX


"Do you really think Sirius could be alive?" was Harry's first question when he had enough brainpower to speak again. "But how, when the Ministry reported him dead?"

"I was trying to think that through myself, and I came up with at least a possibility." Letha rubbed her left elbow, her eyes distant and thoughtful. "Dementors are blind, and even Ministry personnel often see only what they're expecting to see. And Sirius had another form available to him, one nobody knew anything about." She stroked her hand along the back of an imaginary dog, making Harry grin. "If he'd heard that another prisoner had died, it's just possible that he might have been able to slip out as Padfoot, steal the body from its coffin, and leave it behind in his cell, hoping that whoever came to check on him wouldn't bother to run an identity test." She sighed once. "It's far-fetched, to say the least."

"But it is possible. It could've happened." Harry swallowed against the ache of combined hope and fear now tightening his throat. "And if he is alive—if he tricked the Ministry, and he's out there somewhere—" He tried to remember when he'd last experienced this feeling, and suddenly placed it. "Can I show you something?" he asked.

"That depends." Letha raised an eyebrow at him. "Is it illegal, messy, or dangerous?"

Harry stifled a laugh. "I don't think so," he said. "I mean, it might be dangerous, I can't be sure, but not the other two."

"In that case, certainly." Letha got to her feet. "Let me leave a note on the door in case Meghan comes back. I don't want her wandering around the castle unsupervised." She shook her head, conjuring parchment and quill, then beginning to write in a flowing hand. "That child may take after me in looks, but she's got every bit of her father's spirit. Right along with his lack of regard for sensible behavior."

And that answers the question of whether she's anything like Pearl.

Harry turned to gaze out the window of Professor McGonagall's office, seeing without really noticing a furious snowball fight in progress on the grounds below, and for one second allowed his incredulous grin to emerge. Of every moment so far where his dream-life had intersected with reality, he thought this might be his very favorite.


"I'm afraid I do have some bad news, Harry," said Letha as they walked along the corridor side by side, Harry keeping his eyes open for anything that looked familiar from his wanderings the night before. "Because I was away when you were born, I was never officially named your godmother. We'd have to go through quite a long process if you wanted me to become your guardian, and there's no guarantee it would work."

"So I probably can't live with you, instead of with the Dursleys." Harry shrugged. "That's not so bad, not when I'll be at Hogwarts most of the time now anyway. And I can still visit, can't I?"

"As often as you'd like." Letha let her hand rest briefly on his shoulder. "Once we actually have a place of our own, of course. There'll be a lot to do once the holidays are over. Even with magic to help, moving between continents is not an easy task."

"Were you in America, then?" Harry checked down several cross-corridors at an intersection, then turned right, hoping he was remembering correctly. "You and Meghan?"

"Yes, we've been living in a city called Pittsburgh. Not a huge place by Muggle standards, but one of the major wizarding population centers in the eastern part of the country." Letha glanced down at him. "But then, I don't need to tell you about that, do I?"

Harry shook his head briefly, and Letha inclined her head in understanding. They walked in companionable silence for a little while, until Harry exhaled in satisfaction at the sight of a familiar suit of armor. "Here it is," he said, pushing open the door he'd found ajar the night before. "It's some sort of magic mirror. I'm not sure what it's meant to do, but it showed me, well, you. And everyone." He heard his voice threaten to squeak, and quickly kept talking. "It's got an inscription round its top, I don't know what it says, it's not any language I've ever heard of…"

"I have." Letha stepped into the room, regarding the tall pane of glass warily. "I did some research on this mirror once, during my Healer training. It's called the Mirror of Erised, and you were right not to be sure, Harry. It is quite a dangerous thing."

Waving her wand in a graceful curve, she freed the letters along the golden frame from their places. For a moment they hung in midair, then reversed themselves in response to a brisk snap of her wrist.

"I show not your face," Harry read aloud slowly, "but your heart's desire. So this mirror…"

"Shows you whatever it is that you most deeply want." Letha laid her hand against the golden frame. "But all magic has limits, and this is no exception. You won't know, when you look into it, whether that wanting is right. Whether it's good, or sane, or even humanly possible. You have to decide that much on your own."

Steeling herself, she turned to gaze into its depths, and stood transfixed for the space of three breaths. Then she lowered her head and turned away. "It does not do," she said softly, as if quoting something, "to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

"But some dreams make your life better." Gathering his courage in both hands, Harry stepped closer to her. "They give you a place to be happy, and a reason to hope. Even when life is hard."

"That's very true." Letha smiled, though her eyes were glinting bright, and slid an arm around Harry, pulling him close to her side. "I wish, so much, that I could have come for you before," she murmured. "But a custody battle over you would have told the entire wizarding world where you were, and that you were out from under the blood wards at your relatives' home, which would put you into exactly the kind of danger that leaving you with them was meant to avoid. Death Eaters don't cooperate well as a rule, not without their Master to bring them into line, but if it meant a chance to get their hands on you…"

"I know at least one of them wanted to try for me." Harry closed his eyes, letting every part of him soak in the feeling of being held, cherished, loved. "So probably a lot of the others did too. Maybe I didn't like it much at Privet Drive, but it was better than getting killed or kidnapped by Dark wizards." He opened one eye to peer up at her. "And now you're here. So that's all right."

"Harry Potter, you are a marvel." Letha leaned down to drop a kiss on his hair. "I wish more of the world could learn to think like you."

"Maybe that should be our next dream." Harry closed his eyes again. "Once we don't need the one we have anymore, I mean…"


XxXxX


"So how do you do this again?" asked Ron, grasping the golden-yellow square of terrycloth by one corner.

"Sort of a flicking motion, but with just a little side to side in it too." Henry demonstrated, whirling his own square of terrycloth in a continuous horizontal loop above his hand. "It's hard to figure out at first, but once you get the hang of it, you'll never lose it."

"You sure about that?" Ron attempted to mimic what Henry was doing and instead lost his hold on the cloth, sending it flying over the table and into a far corner of the restaurant where the museum-goers and the Quodpot crowd had reunited for dinner. "Whoops."

"Don't worry too much. It happens to the best of us." Gigi pushed her chair back and got up to retrieve the cloth. "How about you two practice your Wicked Washcloth skills after we're done with dinner."

"Sorry, Mrs. Reynolds." Ron tucked his souvenir away into his pocket, returning his attention to his plate of ginger chicken. "That game was amazing," he said through a mouthful. "The Streelers only had three players left on the field by the time the clock ran out, and the Brownies didn't even have that many!"

"It's one of the ways a Quodpot game can end, if all eleven players on one side have the Quod explode on them." Mal scooped out a serving of spicy beef noodles from the bowl in the middle of the table. "A pretty common one, too. Running the clock out means both sides have good players, experienced enough to know when to pass and when to fly."

"Quidditch has more of a luck element to its timing, really," said Jean thoughtfully, holding out her plate to accept one of the coconut-crusted shrimp Dora had offered her. "If one of the Seekers happens to spot the Snitch early, the match can end right there. And if neither of them do, it can go on for hours, or even days."

"To some people, that's part of the appeal." John poured himself a glass of water, then refilled Neville and Pearl's glasses as well. "It can be hard, once you're an adult, to give yourself permission to do something you enjoy, instead of something you ought to be doing. A Quidditch match, for however long it lasts, allows you to temporarily suspend that feeling of responsibility."

"Assuming you have it in the first place," said Thea, eyeing her husband coolly.

Ryan bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means she knows you all too well." Alice chuckled, passing the teapot across the table to Frank. "You've learned responsibility out of necessity, but it's never come naturally to you, has it? Even in a moment of crisis, you might need a little extra help to make a responsible choice rather than an emotional one…"


XxXxX


Severus Snape looked up from his book as a burst of laughter caught his ear from the corridor outside his quarters.

What in the world…

"Okay, here's a good one," chirped a little girl's voice, crisp with an American accent. "It's not too long, but it repeats at the end, so we can sing it as many times as we want. Here goes!"

Severus looked down at his free hand, unsurprised to see it curled into a fist. His breath was coming short, and the familiar walls of his quarters suddenly seemed to be closing in.

This is impossible. That child exists only in my dreams. An invention of my subconscious to taunt and torment me, to remind me that even in a better world I do not deserve pure happiness. Something will always intervene.

Something such as my fictitious daughter becoming friends with the equally imaginary spawn of Sirius Black.

But if it is not my imagination—if the girl is real, and here—

The timing, Severus had to admit, worked out. Black could easily have left his girlfriend pregnant before betraying the Potters to the Dark Lord, and receiving his just dues for such an action.

In which case, he likely never knew of the child at all. A vindictive smile touched his lips. A fitting fate indeed, for a traitor and mass murderer. Though perhaps it would have been better if he had known, so that the knowledge of an innocent girl forever branded with his crimes could continue to torment him…

And all of this assumes I am not jumping to conclusions, based on a chance similarity in voices.

Getting to his feet, he crossed to the door of his office, turning the knob slowly and opening the door just far enough to peer out into the hallway beyond.

But it doesn't appear that I am.

A girl who strongly resembled a young Aletha Freeman was leading a small procession of Weasleys down the corridor, all of them singing lustily, a ridiculous song about a person with an overly elongated name which he shared with the singer.

Exactly the sort of irritating ditty Peeves most adores. No doubt he'll be bellowing it across the castle within the hour.

Closing his door with care, Severus drew his wand and placed an Imperturbable Charm on it, then returned to his chair and picked up his book, commanding himself to concentrate. Until and unless she became one of his students, Sirius Black's daughter meant nothing to him.

No matter who, in the world of my dreams, would have been bringing up the rear of that absurd little parade…

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, thinking of nothing at all, until the blurring of his vision passed him by.


Harry knocked on a familiar office door, and smiled when it was opened by the office's proper resident. "Happy Christmas, Professor Lupin," he said.

"And to you, Harry." Lupin looked more tired than usual even for him, but the happiness lurking deep in his eyes matched the breathless feeling Harry had found invading his own chest at random moments throughout the day. "What brings you here?"

"I just wanted to say thank you for the Christmas present."

Lupin frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"Move along, Peeves!" shouted Filch from down a nearby hallway. "And don't you dare start singing that blasted—"

"Ooooooh," Peeves's voice drowned out Filch's effortlessly.

"Joooohn Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,
"His name is my name too!
"Whenever we go out,
"The people like to shout,
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,
"Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la…"

"Ah, I see what you mean now." Lupin turned his head to look in the direction from which the song was emanating. "I hadn't expected her to get started quite so soon, but she may feel she needs to make up time." He sighed once, then looked back at Harry. "Pity there aren't any hosepipes at Hogwarts. I suppose a Watering Charm will do the trick, but it's just not the same, is it?"

Harry nearly choked on his laughter.


"Why all the precautions, boy?" Abraxas frowned at the door of his son's study, on which Lucius had cast an Imperturbable Charm before doing the same to the window. "I can understand being careful, but this looks like you think you have a spy in the household."

"It's possible that I do." Lucius scowled at the map which lay across his desk. "We came together on Halloween, Father, myself and my…friends." A finger brushed lightly along the inside of his left forearm. "Our plan was simple. Arrive at a gathering place for Muggles, do as we pleased with them, and be gone before any word could reach the Aurors. But instead, they were waiting for us." His hand curled into a fist. "It was only by sheer luck that we all escaped unscathed."

"That's worrying." Abraxas came to look over his son's shoulder at the map, with its neat notations about dates, times, numbers and types of Muggles to be found there. "And I'm guessing you didn't tell any of them where you were going beforehand?"

"I did not. Which means, as little as I like it, that the traitor must be here." Lucius circled his hand, indicating Malfoy Manor and its grounds. "But who could have done such a thing? The house-elf's bindings should have prevented it from turning against us in that way. Draco was away at school. And I can hardly imagine what motive Narcissa might have for attempting to rob me of my freedom."

"When was the last time you swept this place for listening spells?" Abraxas tapped a finger to his ear. "Or cleaned out your gardens, or those woods in the back there? Some of the forest creatures can get uppity at times, and plenty of them are smart enough to carry tales."

"So they are." Lucius smiled, the worry sliding away from his face. "Thank you, Father, that makes a great deal more sense. Now, would you care to hear what we have planned for the day after tomorrow?" He laughed softly. "Since I hardly think you will be handing me over to the Ministry."

"If I thought these old bones would stand up to it, I'd be out there beside you," Abraxas retorted, winning a stronger laugh from his son. "Let's have it, then—oh." He broke off as a large, copper-coated figure emerged from under Lucius's desk, yawning widely and shaking out its ears. "And what might this be?"

"Draco's dog. Orion, he calls it." Lucius motioned for the animal to lie down, which it did. "He was out flying early one morning in August, and brought it home after he noticed it drinking from a stream in the woods. I was uncertain about allowing him to keep the creature, but it seems to have done an admirable job keeping him safe through his first term at Hogwarts, as well as adding an extra touch to his 'poor little Hufflepuff' persona." His eyes rested thoughtfully on the creature. "After all, a boy who likes animals must surely be fond of Muggles as well."

Abraxas chuckled. "Repeated yourself there," he said, and shared a barbed smile with his son. "Now, what were you saying?"

"Ah, yes. Our little diversion, in two days' time." Lucius bent over the map. "I've had my eye on a few different possibilities, but this meeting hall in Surrey, with their 'after-Christmas gift exchange', seems the most promising to me…"


"Goodbye, Grandfather." Draco kept his polite smile carefully plastered across his face as Abraxas stepped into the emerald flames, and as the older wizard whipped out of sight, only letting it drop when the fire had returned to its ordinary orange-yellow hue. "Thought he'd never leave," he muttered under his breath.

"That will do." Narcissa cuffed her son lightly across the ear, making him yelp. "What have I told you about being disrespectful to your elders?"

Draco grinned one-sidedly. "To only do it when no one's listening?"

"Cheeky boy." Narcissa swatted him on the other side of the head this time. "Now, I believe I have a promise to fulfill. Assuming you are still of the same mind as before?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Excellent. In that case, I shall return shortly." Narcissa tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames. Stepping into the fireplace, she announced her destination and was gone.

Letting out his breath in satisfaction, Draco turned away from the fire. "Dobby!" he called.

"Yes, sir?" Dobby appeared beside him with a loud crack.

"Let's get the guest room down the hall from mine made up." Draco started for the back stairs at a fast lope, Dobby pattering beside him. "I've got a friend coming to stay."

And if I'm remembering a certain dream correctly, the two of us together might be able to start something important…


(A/N: I did not write "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt", although I do plead guilty to singing it as a kid. A lot. I should probably take this opportunity to apologize to most of my camp counselors and teachers. Also, the Wicked Washcloth is the wizarding equivalent of the Terrible Towel (accept no substitutes). Here we go, Streelers, here we go!

One more chapter should get us through the Christmas holidays and back to school, and then things start happening at a furious pace. Though one or two interesting things did happen in this chapter, some more subtle than others. I wonder who will spot them?)