Not for the first time, a playful row had broken out between Harry and Hermione. As usual it was about money or, more specifically, whose turn it was to pay. For Harry - who was far wealthier than Hermione - this idea of turns was nonsense, bordering on the insulting. It wasn't right, in his mind, that she should have to fork out for anything.

But Hermione was as implacable as a stubborn Hippogriff and insisted on paying her way.

"It is my turn," Hermione insisted, as they weaved through the crowds on Westminster Bridge. "You paid last time."

"Ah, yes, but I had a free pass, so I only had to pay for one entry ticket," Harry reminded her.

Hermione frowned bitterly. "You only had a free pass because you're Harry Potter. And I'm sure the girl on the booth made that up anyway because she hopes to get into your good books. She's a Hogwarts Sixth Year, you know. I bet she's after something."

Harry laughed deeply. "I cant imagine what! I don't think you're right about that. In any case, I didn't hear you complaining last week. You enjoyed the Magical Antiquities Museum as much as I did."

"Well, yes, I did," Hermione replied in a haughty voice. "It was fascinating. But that still doesn't make it your turn to pay again."

"Okay, let's ask our regular arbitrator," Harry quirked. "He never forgets. Pan?"

Harry called up to the coal-black owl soaring just above their heads. It had become a common, if still bizarre, sight for the population of London to see the bespectacled, black-haired boy, his curly-haired companion, and the two animals that seemed to haunt them like demons. Luckily, London was full of such quirks and curiosities, and the attention of locals and tourists alike was guaranteed to be soon taken by some new distraction or other, assuming they'd detached from their own busy lives enough to notice in the first place.

Which was something Harry had come to love about the hustle and bustle of Muggle London, on these bi-weekly visits that Hermione made to him. People were pretty much so absorbed in their own days that they didn't notice a young witch and wizard wandering around among them.

Not even when Pantalaimon swooped down to land on Harry's outstretched wand - for touching Lyra's dæmon was strictly forbidden and out of the question, a respectful situation that Harry was painfully keen to observe. He may not have realised the taboo when he first met Hermione's dæmon, but almost from their first meeting Harry was pointedly careful to keep his distance from Lyra's. As if by some sort of innate sense, Harry knew not to touch - almost as though it were akin to sticking his fingers right into the rawest, sorest parts of a gaping flesh wound.

It was the closest analogy Harry had yet been able to come up with.

But talking to Pan was perfectly fine and comfortable. And the wily old owl was always a good source of wisdom - and he generally tended to take Harry's side in these little squabbles. Harry was glad of the flapping wings of the large bird, as his face was hot and dry in the afternoon sun. The blast of air was preferable to Harry's overriding instinct, which was to pitch himself over the bridge into the cool waters racing below.

"Pan, whose turn is it to pay?"

The dæmon turned his great amber eyes solemnly on Harry. "It isn't a case of whose turn it is to pay, but who is able."

Harry looked quizzically at Pan, who returned his stare simply and plainly. Then Harry turned to Hermione, who was blushing with a sort of rueful shame, which made him shiver with the coldness of what he suddenly understood.

"Hermione?" Harry asked gently. "Are you ... having problems with money?"

It only occurred to Harry then, he didn't know if either Lyra or Mal actually worked. He had never heard Hermione say that they did. He felt terrible, then, for making such an issue about paying for things.

"I have money," Hermione offered, her voice half-sorrowful and half weak-cheeriness. It was as if she hoped Harry wasn't going to press the matter and would just let it go.

But as Hermione look out her little purple purse and dropped the half-a-dozen or so coins inside into Harry's hand, two things became very clear. The first was that he most definitely would not be dropping the matter ... and the second was that Hermione could point blank forget about paying for anything, probably for the next couple of years.

"Is this all you have?" Harry squawked desperately, his spirit crumbling inside him.

"It was all Lyra could spare," Hermione mumbled, fidgeting in her leather flats. "We have our school things to think of next week, don't forget. They don't come cheap, but with a bit of luck we'll be able to pick up some things second-hand."

"And how were you intending to pay for new things?" Harry demanded firmly. "You'll need new robes at the very least. How did you get them last year?"

"Something called the Hogwarts Hardship Fund," Hermione confessed still using that tiny, pitiful voice, that Harry was starting to hate for the way it made his heart bleed. "It paid for the majority of my supplies and fees. I was very lucky that people here are so generous."

And Harry's heart stopped a second, as he remembered dropping coins into the collecting tin in Flourish and Blotts what seemed like a lifetime ago. Some of that money might have even helped Hermione attend school. It gave Harry a sparkling idea.

"Well, you aren't going to rely on that this year," he announced decisively. "When we get back to my parents, we'll talk about maybe sponsoring you or something. I'm not having you struggling for money, not when we have so much. And the brightest witch at Hogwarts using second-hand gear? Not if I have anything to do with it, Miss Granger."

"Please don't," Hermione begged apprehensively. "I don't want to seem like a charity case. Also, Lyra would be mortified if she knew I'd told you. You may not know it, but she's very proud. It would really hurt her feelings if she thought I'd asked you for a hand out."

Harry simply scoffed. "But you haven't. If you're so worried, I'll tell her myself, tell her I offered to sponsor you. I'll tell her that there is no shame in asking for help when you need it. We'll look at it as an investment. I need you, if we're to fulfil this destiny that your Dust has laid out for us. Who else should pay for you to be around me in that case ... if not me? Besides, if you are a charity, I can think of no worthier one I'd rather be a patron of!"

Hermione blushed shyly. "You're not going to take no for an answer on this, are you?"

"Well ... no."

Hermione bit her lip for a moment. Then she nodded almost imperceptibly. "Thank you, Harry. I don't know what else to say, but it hardly seems enough."

"I'm sure you'll make up for it ... with your homework nagging!" Harry grinned. "Oh, I'm sorry ... encouragement. I forgot that's what we were calling it now!"

"How about I give you a month of being nagged-free when we are back at Hogwarts?" Hermione grinned. "Sound fair?"

"More than fair," Harry agreed with a chuckle. "But I'm still paying for us to get up there."

Harry inclined his head towards the uppermost pod of the London Eye, which they were now standing beneath.

Hermione swallowed hard. "Oh my. Now we are under it, I see it's a lot higher than I thought. Is it really worth going all the way to the top?"

"It has a great view of London," Harry persuaded. "And don't worry, I'll be there to make sure you don't fall!"

"Promise?" Hermione asked shyly.

"Always," Harry replied, grinning a little gormlessly. That reply was a shade risky, but Hermione's cutesy little smile told Harry he'd gotten away with it.

The queue to ride the Eye was long and snaking. Harry bought their tickets and they joined the back of the line. Hermione grew more and more nervous the closer it came to being their turn, so Harry distracted her by asking how she was getting on with their homework assignments. Pretty well, she had done half of them already. And did she need any more spray for her face and scalp? Maybe a little, as it was very sunny today.

Eventually, Harry had to leave her be and allow her to prepare in whatever way was best for her. Soon enough, they were at the head of the queue and waiting for their pod to arrive.

"Now, don't forget, the pods don't stop," Harry reminded her. "So best take it at a bit of a run if you're nervous."

"You know I'm nervous!" Hermione squeaked. "Can you ... grab my hand, when we jump on? Just in case?"

Harry gulped. His palms rebelled instantly, clamming up at the prospect. Which annoyed him, as there was something oddly pleasant about the idea of holding Hermione's hand. He remembered how cool her skin was, on the one time he'd taken her hand previously, just before he went for a cosy little chat with a wild dragon.

It was an odd sort of life, when you were Harry Potter.

The one thing it did mean was being brave. So Harry swallowed a hundred nervous butterflies and turned to Hermione.

"Yeah, alright. Scaredy cat!"

That worked. Hermione grinned semi-crossly at him, and Harry covered his silly nervousness by being, well, silly.

Then their pod came. It slowed to a crawl, moving no quicker than the average escalator. Even so, Hermione gripped firmly onto Harry's hand and they shuttled forwards, before leaping onto the car and making for a prime spot at the back of the viewing area.

"See, that wasn't so bad," Harry told her. Then he looked down. "You can, er, let go of my hand now. I-if you want."

Why had he stuttered? Harry didn't have an answer for that, nor why he'd laced the last few words with undisguised hope ... that Hermione didn't want. But he was left disappointed when she slowly (Harry didn't want to think reluctantly) disentangled her digits from his. But his mood lightened a moment later when Hermione curled a fist into the material of his long-sleeved top.

"I'm still holding on," she told him unabashedly, when he looked questioningly down at her hand. "You did promise."

"I did," Harry confirmed. "But look - you're missing all the sights."

Then he spent the rest of the ride pointing out all the landmarks of London, from St. Paul's to the Monument, to the Tower of London a little way in the distance. Hermione took it all in with her receptive curiosity, letting Harry talk as he explained that the height of the Monument was the exact distance to Pudding Lane, and the baker's shop where the Great Fire was started in 1666. Harry liked telling Hermione things just as much as she liked hearing them, and it was all too rare that this dynamic happened this way around, so Harry enjoyed it while it lasted.

Then they were hopping off the ride and back into the sweltering heat of the mid-July sun. Harry wildly wondered just how hot it would have to get to start a second Great Fire, and if all the water of the Thames would be enough to put it out. He and Hermione discussed this as they made their way back over Westminster Bridge towards the Houses of Parliament. From there it was a short walk West along the river to Brompton Road tube station.

Disused now on the Muggle Underground, the station was the access route to the Merlin Line, the special Magical-only line on the Tube network. Harry liked the gold livery of the trains, and the new seat moquette, which depicted a wand and a cauldron. Hermione thought the cauldron looked more like a pumpkin, and they argued this all the way to Immore Alley station, at the Northern end of magical central London.

A quick orbit around (for Harry was barred from entering Immore Alley until he was at least seventeen) and they found themselves in the familiar setting of Diagon Alley. There was a substantial crowd gathered around Flourish and Blotts and, like moths to a flame, Harry and Hermione were drawn close to see what all the fuss was about.

And Harry's mood took a quick nosedive south.

"A Special 'Magical Me' Event," Harry read from a loud poster in the window. "Get your copy of the international bestseller signed by the international best wizard himself - Gilderoy Lockhart! Get down early! Crowds guaranteed! Gah! I'd rather eat my own toilet waste. It has the same validity as Lockhart's books! Oh no, it's on Tuesday ... the same day we're coming for our school things!"

Hermione giggled next to him. "Harry, that's not very kind. Why are you so convinced Lockhart is such a fraud?"

"Just look at him!" Harry sniped bitterly, pointing at the moving image of a simpering Lockhart on the poster. "Look at that face! If he'd Travelled With Trolls and all that other stuff like that would his hair be that pristine, his smile that immaculate? His teeth look more like piano keys, for Morganna's Sake! No, he's full of himself ... and a lot of other stuff besides!"

Hermione giggled again and clung to Harry's arm in her mirth. That improved Harry's mood without even trying. But it swung away again a second later, as a familiar drawl spoke from next to them.

"Ooh, looking forward to meeting your hero, eh Scarhead? Perhaps looking for some tips on how to milk your fame? Or the best way to sign autographs, maybe?"

"Shut up, Malfoy!" Hermione snapped angrily. "You leave him alone. Harry never asked for his fame, and he's certainly never milked it!"

Malfoy sneered back. "How does it feel, Potter, to have a girl stand up for you all the time? I'd be ashamed, if it were me."

"I don't mind it, but if we're talking about emasculation, at least my father doesn't have girlier hair than my mother," Harry returned silkily. "That's something I'd be embarrassed about, if it were me."

"Don't you talk about my parents like that!" Malfoy scowled angrily, rounding on Harry, who immediately reached for his wand.

But then, a squeaky little voice stopped them at a stroke.

"No! Master Draco must not be fighting. Must stop!"

Harry looked around, confused, for the source of the voice. His eyes moved down ... and fell onto a bizarre little creature hiding behind Malfoy's legs. A creature with a bulbous head, floppy ears and a filthy rag which it wore like a toga.

"Hello," Harry said in his confusion. "What are you?"

He hadn't meant to ask what, but his curiosity had taken over his tongue. The little creature didn't seemed to mind, however. He gave out a little mewl of surprise and looked up with globe-shaped eyes.

"Mister Harry Potter asked Dobby a question!"

"You know who I am?" Harry asked, surprised. The creature nodded so vigorously his ears slapped against his head like leathery flaps. "Dobby? Is that your name? What sort of creature are you?"

"This is my elf, obviously," Malfoy drawled. "And you aren't to speak to it."

"It?" Hermione spat in disgust.

"Yes, it, Granger," Malfoy scorned back. "House-elves are only one rung below Mudbloods on the social scale. Thank yourself lucky that Hogwarts took you in as a student ... and not as a slave. It must have been a close-run thing."

"Mudblood?" Harry asked, angrily guessing in his mind. "What's that?"

He rather thought he knew, but he was seething too much by the insinuation to keep his temper in check.

"Ask your mother," Malfoy sniped. "After all, she's one, too."

Harry reached for his wand, but Dobby snapped his fingers and Harry went stock-still, as if hit with Petrificus Totalus.

"Dobby is sorry, Mister Harry Potter," the elf squawked quickly. "But Dobby cannot allow Master Draco to be hurt, and Harry Potter is a very great wizard."

"Let him go, Dobby, I can take him!" Malfoy cried, wrenching clear of his elf.

"But can you take us both?"

Malfoy faltered as he looked up to see Hermione, her eyes flashing furiously, with both her wands pointed right at his face. He took a step back in the face of her ire.

"I was only playing," Malfoy backtracked, eyeing the wands fearfully. "I wouldn't want to embarrass the boy wonder in front of his girlfriend anyway. Not when there's no money in it."

Malfoy took several more steps back until he was clear of Hermione's wand-tips.

"I suppose you'll both be back here for the book signing. Maybe I'll come along to see Potter hog the limelight again. He's always good for a laugh. What is it the Muggles say? See you next Tuesday."

And with that Dobby snapped his fingers again, and whisked Malfoy away in a swirl of light and colour.

Harry frowned as he was released from his body-bind. "What was that? A house-elf, did Malfoy say? I've never heard of them. You don't really think they have slaves at Hogwarts, do you?"

"I don't think I believe anything Malfoy has to say," Hermione replied, but she lacked her usual self-assuredness as she avoided Harry's eye.

Her evasive response wasn't lost on Harry, who scowled as he processed it.

"Right, let's go and see my parents," Harry huffed. "They can tell us if Malfoy was spouting rubbish or not. And they can explain what this Mudblood nonsense is all about while they're at it!"

But as soon as they entered the east door of The Leaky Cauldron, any ideas of grilling James and Lily was quickly forgotten, dispelled by the grave look on Lyra's face.

"What? What is it?" Hermione asked quickly. "What's wrong?"

"We were supposed to have a surprise for you," James confessed. "Sirius and Malcolm were due to return from the North today. They were going to meet us here."

Harry's stomach coiled and knotted at the dark look in his father's eyes.

"But?" he pushed cautiously.

"But, there's been a problem," Lily took over. "There was an incident in the Arctic, we are still only getting details of what happened. But what we do know is that Sirius and Malcolm somehow got separated."

"And?" Hermione demanded in a business-like tone. "I get the impression there's an 'and' here."

"And," Lyra cut in grimly. "Sirius was left behind ... on the other side of the portal. It closed when Mal and Serafina came back through. We don't know how, or why, but Sirius is trapped ... marooned back in our world ... and we have no idea how we're supposed to get him back."