...

"I understand," she said, "Dinner will be at eight."

She left him by the Thoroughfare. He knew the way to the market well by now – it had quickly become his favourite place in the city. It always seemed so alive. He made his way there in a sombre mood, thinking about his mother.

He would always love her, of course, but she felt distant. He didn't remember her at all. He wished he could, so that he had something to hold to when he doubted. It wasn't that he had anything against mudbloods. He'd never even met one. It was just so inconvenient. If only she had been Pureblood.

Harry knew that what he was feeling was selfish. How could he hold his mother's birth against her, just because it made his life a bit more difficult? His father had obviously seen something in her, something which caused him to defy his family and station. And Marissa called her "one of a kind".

Harry just wished he could've known her so he could see it too.

Eventually, he arrived at the market square.

It was much larger than he had originally thought, back when he passed through with Thomas. There were archways in the walls leading to more stalls, and beyond them even more. It was very easy to get lost, each direction looking the same. Even so, Harry knew by now how to get to his favourite stalls. He went to one of them now, letting the banter of the shopkeepers wash over him, the simple, honest labour of these people washing his worries away.

That was why he liked the market so much. The Potters didn't understand. To them it was just a heaving mass of the great unwashed. But to Harry it was a refuge. The world that Thomas occupied was lavish and often awe-inspiring, but it demanded a lot of you. It was easy to forget, among the talk of politics and armies and alliances and laws, who you were or what you wanted. It was so easy to forget that he was Harry Potter who did the weeds at Privet Drive, and become Harry Potter, heir of a noble house.

It was even easy to forget that he loved his mother, and that he didn't care about blood.

So he came here to remind himself of what life was really about. The simple things. The things he enjoyed, not the things he was supposed to enjoy.

At the moment, that meant doughnuts.

He'd been surprised to find it, right in the heart of wizendom. A stall in the market, selling Muggle doughnuts, the sweet smell of the cooking dough drawing a large crowd. It had probably been started by an enterprising mudblood, but it might have been a wizard, stealing the idea from the Muggle world – such things were not unheard of. Whoever they were, they did very well for themselves.

Harry approached the stall now, rummaging in his pockets for some of the coins the Potters had given him. He joined the back of the queue, prepared for a long wait, but before he could get settled the man at the counter called out to him.

"Can I help you, young master?"

Harry looked around, making sure that the man wasn't talking to anyone else. Seeing no one else step forward, he walked up to the counter, keeping an eye on the queue. Not one of them raised a protest. They just stood there, watching him with open curiosity. Looking back at them, Harry realised what had given him away.

It was his robes. Everyone else was in simple work-robes in varying states of shabbiness: a single, rather loose, black robe with no adornments. Harry, on the other hand, had 3 layers, each one of the finest material. His black inner robe covered him from neck to ankle. High collared, it was buckled to be tight around the chest but flared after the knees; over that he wore a close-fitting outer robe, a kind of long waistcoat that fell to the mid-thigh. Its buttons were made of silver, and there was a barely visible pattern of vines embroidered into the fabric. And over it all he had a heavy cape, tied around his neck and falling to his feet, lined in navy with a soft, silky material.

The overall result was that he stood out from the crowd. It was like a Muggle wearing black tie to the supermarket.

"Er, yes, please. A bag of jam ones, please," Harry said over the counter, not certain about being at the centre of attention.

"Certainly, sir," the doughnut-man replied, flicking his wand. A bag flew into Harry's hands. He could feel the warmth through the paper. "That's seven bronze, sir."

Harry counted out seven Sestertii and placed them into the man's waiting hand. Thinking again, he took out another two and gave him them as well. He did, after all, skip the queue.

The man thanked him and Harry turned away, off to find somewhere to sit and eat. He didn't have to walk far – there was a fountain near the centre of the square, and benches around it. Harry looked around. A few children, roughly his age, were sitting at one of the benches, laughing and eating. He walked over to them and sat down.

They stopped laughing.

"Hi," Harry said, opening the bag of doughnuts, "I'm Harry."

None of them replied. They just sat there, looking at him like he was an alien. One of them, a girl a few years younger than he, started speaking.

"I'm Esmee - ouch!"

She was cut off by one of the older boys kicking her in the shin.

"We have to go," he said, and they ran off, laughing once more as they went, occasionally stealing glances back at him.

Harry sighed and bit into a doughnut. He'd tried speaking to the kids here on several occasions, always with a similar result. Perhaps I should buy a simpler robe, he thought, before dismissing it. Marissa would never let him leave the house looking like one of the 'common people'.

"You shouldn't worry about it, you know," a voice drawled, "you're better than that."

Harry looked up. A boy was standing in front of him. A boy like him, or at least like he was meant to be: posh robes, posh voice, straight back. He had a handsome face, familiar in some way, and long black hair falling to his shoulders. After a moment, Harry remembered what Marissa had taught him.

He stood up and pulled out his wand. The boy pulled out his own, and they lightly rapped the wands together; the tap made a light clack and a few motes of light glimmered for a moment before disappearing.

"Harry Potter," said Harry, introducing himself as he put his wand back up his sleeve.

"I know," said the boy with a smile - or a smirk. "I'm Titus Black. Walk with me? I'm heading to the station."

"So you're a Black," said Harry as they walked off, "any relation to Sirius Black?"

The boy laughed.

"My name precedes me!" he said, apparently happy, "Sirius Black is my father. Did you see him at the parade?"

"Yeah, and at the Willow," said Harry, "though I still don't know what the parade is for."

"Well then, you've got the right idea! It's not really for anything. Except perhaps father's ego. Well, that's not quite true – it's a changing of the guard. Father's Legion is to take up the duties of the Home Legion, here in Britain. The current Home Legion will leave for Africa in a few days. After that the Saharan Legion will come back on leave."

"So they rotate?" said Harry.

"Exactly," replied Titus, "though I doubt McLaggen's Legion will get much leave. The war in the Sahara isn't going as well as hoped, I hear. That's why they're coming up with this new Legion." Titus sighed. "But what we really need is Merlin back. In the old days he'd just stomp over there and smack people around 'til they did what he said!"

"I guess," said Harry, "I don't see why we need the Legions at all though. I mean, everyone is always talking about how powerful the Lords are. Why don't they deal with it?"

"Well, they do, sometimes," Titus replied, "but it usually has to get pretty desperate before it comes to that. And anyway, Lord Hale is fighting in the Sahara, so a Lord is doing something, at least. Anyway, enough about the war. I get too much of that at home! Father says you'll be starting at Hogwarts this year."

"Yeah," said Harry, "what's it like? Are the lessons fun?"

Titus shrugged.

"They're all right, I suppose. Charms is fun. You get to blow stuff up in Alchemy. Latin and Mathematics are boring. The best thing is Quidditch, by far."

Harry had heard of Quidditch, and seen pictures of it in Thomas' papers, but hadn't seen a game yet. He was looking forward to it – to his mind, there wasn't much more exciting than a sport played in the air. Though some of the tackles looked rather dangerous.

"I've never seen it," Harry said, "do you play?"

"A bit," said Titus, "I'm on the Gryffindor team, but I'm only on the subs for the school."

"Is it painful?"

"Oh, we don't play full-contact like in the league!" said Titus, surprised, "we're only third years, after all. We don't know how to fly yet, so we have to use brooms. But the 7th years do, and that gets pretty rough. But I haven't heard of anyone ever dying, so I guess it's safe enough."

Harry wasn't quite sure if that counted as "safe". He looked at Titus to see if he was being mocked. As far as he could tell, Titus was being completely serious.

He'd noticed that wizards had a rather blasé attitude towards injury. He supposed that when you could re-grow limbs, crippling injury was less of a concern.

"You'll get to see us play at Hogwarts. After seeing a game you'll come around! There's really nothing like it," said Titus.

"I'll take your word for it," said Harry with a smile.

"As well you should!" cried Titus dramatically, "Let no one doubt the word of the most Noble House of Black!"

Harry snorted in amusement. He'd seen the measure of Sirius Black's 'nobility'. Titus coughed.

"Yes, well, it has more effect when my great grandfather says it. You know of Lord Black, of course?"

"I've heard of him," said Harry, though only now was he making the connection between the Lord and Titus. The thought shocked him. He had estimated Titus as his equal, but he now realised that Titus must enjoy a position of privilege far above he. Nevertheless, he seemed friendly enough.

"Anyway, this is my stop," said Titus, pointing to a long staircase leading underground. Harry knew it led to one of the vast caverns beneath the city where trains came to and fro, coming to Sanctum from all over the country.

"You don't live in Sanctum?" Harry asked.

"Nah, Camelot. As much as I like Quidditch, there's something not right about living on a floating rock!"

Harry laughed and watched him as he walked away, sauntering out of sight.

The moment Harry was alone he knew he had a problem. He had no idea where he was.

"Titus!" he called out, meaning to get directions from the boy. There was no answer.

Frowning, he started walking back the way they had come. It shouldn't be too hard to retrace my steps, Harry thought.

He was wrong.

Twenty minutes later, he had managed to get completely lost. He had no idea where the market was, or even the way back to the stairway. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere - he'd never seen this part of the city before. The streets – more like alleys - were narrow and dirty, and the buildings on either side loomed threateningly, throwing long shadows.

Occasionally he'd pass shops with boarded-up windows and worn signs. None of them looked occupied, never mind welcoming enough to give Harry the courage to ask for directions.

Getting desperate, Harry took a turning onto a slightly wider street. There were even a few people down it, all of them covered from head to toe in black cloaks, shrouding their faces.

The sign declared the street to be 'Knockturn Alley'.

He hurried down it, avoiding looking at any of the strangers. A few of them stopped to stare at him, causing him to speed up. A building sense of panic was threatening to overtake him. He needed to get away from this place.

"Lost, little boy?" a voice croaked from a shadowed doorway. Harry jumped at it, his nerves highly strung as it was.

A man stepped out of the shadows. His face was horrifically scarred, disfiguring him completely. From beneath the scars a pair of yellow eyes glared, his gaze searching Harry greedily. His robe was torn and filthy, little more than a rag.

Harry took a step back.

"Those robes look mighty fine, boy," the man said, creeping towards him, "spare them for an old wolf?"

Werewolf! Harry's mind screamed.

He ran.

The man cackled and Harry knew, without having to look back, that he was being chased. He ran faster, as fast as his legs could possibly carry him, passing through arches and alleys without concern for where he was going. He just needed to get away.

"Give up, little boy!" the man shouted. He sounded close. "You can't run forever!"

He was right. Harry could feel his legs getting heavier by the moment. The man was going to catch him.

Panic rising, Harry reached for his wand as he ran. He fumbled it twice before getting a grip on the handle and yanking it out.

"Got you!" a voice shouted, right behind him, and a hand grabbed his free arm, cruel yellow nails cutting into his skin.

Harry reacted on instinct.

No idea what he was doing, he spun to face the wolf-man, brandishing his wand wildly.

"Infrege!" he shouted, no idea what he was saying.

The man howled in pain and let go of Harry's arm, the smell of burning skin filling Harry's nose.

Harry ran again. He couldn't tell if the man was still following. He could only hear his own laboured breath, only feel the burning in his lungs.

There!

A fireplace lay ahead in the alley. Hope filling him, Harry put on a final burst of speed, grabbing a handful of powder from a pocket.

"Oswald Lane!" he shouted, throwing the powder into the fireplace, filling it with green fire.

He ran in.

He stepped out on the familiar Oswald Lane, a vision of sunny perfection. It felt so wrong, so at odds with the adrenaline running through his veins. Still nervous, but beginning to calm down, he paced the short distance to number 5.

The house was quiet when he entered. He headed towards the library, hoping to find someone there. He needed to be around people. He needed to feel safe.

The door to the study was ajar, and he thought he could hear voices within.

"…yes, Harry's settling in nicely…" said a voice. It was Thomas.

Harry froze at the door, wondering who Thomas was talking to. He couldn't hear the other side of the conversation.

"…Sirius Black… no, Harry doesn't know… he mustn't know, he wouldn't understand… once he's at Hogwarts Black won't be able to reach him… whatever happens, they can't meet…"

Harry frowned, tiptoeing away as the conversation drew to a close.

What were the Potters hiding from him?