The autopsy results were everything Edgar had feared. No heart attack, no diseases. No drugs, no poisons, not even aspirin. The only thing in Nancy Bell's stomach was the half digested remains of breakfast--oatmeal, grapefruit and tea. There was no cause of death at all; she was just...dead.

"I don't believe it," Fay said. "There has to be something. People don't just drop dead for no reason at all. There has to be a cause."

Edgar said, "Oh, there's a cause all right. It's just not one we can detect."

"What's that mean?" she snapped back. "Are you giving up?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Kray," Edgar answered. "I'm not giving up. Just commenting on the results. We'll just have to do this the hard way. The same way we do every case. Question everyone. Look at everything, no matter how improbable. Eliminate every possibility, no matter how strange or how unlikely."

Fay looked at him from her blue cat's eyes and nodded. "Where first then, Inspector?"

He considered and said, "The girl's room, her effects. And we need to know what happened to her bag. That might have a lot to tell." He added, "At least we know one thing."

"What's that," she asked.

"The girl never had her picnic lunch, did she? The autopsy shows it. She died before she could have that romantic date you dreamed up." Fay frowned in thought.

"Not necessarily. She could have met someone. They could have..." Her voice trailed off.

"They could have what?" Edgar asked. "She didn't take any drugs. The autopsy showed that. And if she had a date, where is the fellow?"

Fay said, "Maybe the date is the one that did her. She met him on the sly, and he was a serial killer."

"Maybe," said Edgar. "Maybe."

The Bells lived in a semi-attached house in a newer part of town. The girl's room, a serene space in blues and greens and creamy whites, was far more orderly than Edgar's room had been when he was sixteen. The thought of himself at sixteen was something he didn't like to dwell on, so he turned his attention to the details of the room. Fay had begun searching the drawers of the plain pine chest, unearthing nothing more than the ordinary clothing of a teenager: T-shirts, jeans, socks, and a lone pair of hose, presumably for the rare dress-up occasion. The student desk was orderly and well supplied. A top drawer contained pens and highlighters in a small organizer, along with small push-pins for the fabric covered poster board hanging on the wall. The second drawer held notebooks, some filled with notes on history and literature. There was also an agenda with daily appointments, which was filled in with subjects for study rather than dates or appointments. Edgar scanned through that one hoping there would be an entry or two out of the ordinary. There was nothing at a first glance, so he set that aside for a more thorough look later on. The third drawer was more interesting. A series of charts were drawn in plotting the movements and conjunctions of stars and planets--and Edgar noted that the charts were just as meticulous as the rest of her room. One chart was for a Scorpio and he thought, paydirt. He set that aside also for a more thorough look.

The small bookcase had a variety of books. Classic mysteries, a few romances, a shelf of poetry and standard authors - probably for school- and a whole shelf devoted to astrolgy and divination. There were several astrological encyclopedias complete with extensive charts for finding one's moon sign, one's rising sign and other planetary influences based on one's birthdate and location. There was a book on dream interpretation, one on the I Ching and one on how to interpret the tarot. He removed the whole lot from the shelf and flapped through the pages of the books to see if any of them held letters or other memorabilia, but there was nothing. Fay looked at the things he had set aside and made a face. It was obvious she thought he was on a fool's journey, wandering off the beaten path in favor of a winding alley in which he would be lost. He wasn't so sure she wasn't right.

"It's funny," she said. Edgar turned to look at her.

"There's no picture of the mother anywhere here," Fay said. "I inferred from the Superintendent and from the father that she was close to the mother. What happened to her, do you suppose?"

Edgar said, "One more question to add to the list. Do you see anything else?" Fay shook her head. There had been nothing under the mattress, nothing remarkable in the wardrobe, and the blue bag was still missing. Edgar gathered up the chart and the books and agenda and carried them downstairs to the kitchen where Mr. Bell was seated staring at nothing.

Edgar said, "Mr. Bell?" and when Bell looked at him he said, "We're going to take these few things for further examination. The Sergeant will give you a receipt." Bell did not react. Edgar said more sharply, hoping to gain the man's attention, "Mr. Bell, we'd like to ask you a few more questions. Do you mind if we sit down?"

Bell said, "Why ask? You will anyway."

Feeling as if he were pushing a large load uphill, Edgar sat and pulled out his notebook. "What did you and Nancy talk about when you saw her last?"

Bell stared at his hands and picked at a hangnail on his right index finger. He looked back up at Edgar and said, "We talked a little before she left. But it was just her saying she'd be back to help with the late afternoon and dinner trade."

Edgar said, "What about the night before, was there anything special you talked about? Friends? boyfriends?"

Bell shook his head, then seemed to pause. Reluctantly, as if the words were pulled from him against his will, he said, "The night before, we talked about her Mum."

Fay drew a breath beside him but Edgar jumped on the question first. "What did you say?"

Bell looked down again and then out the window into the distance. He turned back to look at Edgar and said, "Nancy asked where her Mum had gone, what she was doing the day she disappeared. I wish I never told her," he added bitterly.

Edgar exchanged the briefest of glances with Fay and said, "Tell us, please. We want to find out what happened. Why she died. Maybe they're connected."

Bell frowned and said, "My wife, Sarah she was, went missing sixteen years ago. Nancy was just a baby, less than a year old. Nancy was just like her, looked like her, and had her talent. Sarah liked to go for a walk now and then. The day she went missing, she was walking by the river up to Little Hangleton. It's not more'n a twenty-minute walk if you follow the river path. Sarah was supposed to be visiting a friend of hers there, but she never showed up. She never showed up anywhere ever again. Just, went missing."

Fay interrupted, "Did you report it to the police? Was there an investigation?"

"Course I reported it," Bell said angrily. "I reported it that same afternoon, not two hours after she left, when her friend called to ask where Sarah was. First the police, not Superintendent Hoskins, the old fella, Davis, said it was too early to do anything. They had to wait for at least twenty-four hours because she could have just changed her mind and forgot to tell anyone. I told 'em Sarah wasn't like that, but Davis didn't listen." Bell drummed his fingers on the old kitchen table. He said bitterly, "If they'd looked sooner, maybe she'd have been found. They never found her. After a couple of days they started dragging the river, looking for a body, and they started asking me questions, like I had something to do with it, only, of course, I didn't. Sarah, she was it for me. And now Nancy's gone, too." He put his head in hands and wept.

Fay looked, for the first time Edgar had ever seen, sorry she had asked a question.

Edgar said softly, "Maybe this time we'll find him."

Bell said, "Find who?"

Edgar said, "The one that killed them both."

Fay gasped and said, "Isn't that a bit premature, Inspector?"

Edgar said, "I don't think so. Two mysteries in the same family and both connected to the same place? I don't think so." He turned back to Bell and said, "Can you give me the name of the friend she was to visit? Sarah, that is?"

Bell said, "I can give it to you, but it won't do you any good. It was Jane, Jane Gordon. She lived at Priory Lane in Little Hangleton, but the house is closed up now. She died a couple of years ago. Cancer, it was. She never believed Sarah just took off either. They were that close, you know. Best friends."

Edgar thanked Bell and left, mentally ticking off the list of things to do next. Get the autopsy report to read. Review the reports of the other two missing girls more thoroughly. Call Superintendent Masters. Talk to Hoskins, about Sarah Bell. Get the reports on the deaths of Frank Bryce and the others from years ago, the Riddles. Check out Little Hangleton. See if anyone knew anything however small, about Sarah Bell, Frank Bryce or Bryce's employers.

"You're not going to tell Masters that the girl's mother was actually murdered, are you?" Fay asked. Edgar was silent a moment. She said more urgently, "You have no idea if the woman is dead. She could be living it up in London right now and no one the wiser."

Edgar said, "She could be, but I don't think so. And no, I'm not going to tell Masters the mother was murdered. There's no body. The disappearance and the coincidence of the location will be included in the report. And he'll have to be told that there is something to investigate, even if he doesn't like it." He turned to Fay and said, "You do believe there's something to investigate don't you?"

She said, "Yes. I just don't know what, or whether it's murder. And I think we should have someone in London redo the tox screening. Check further for any oddities. I think the drug angle can't be entirely eliminated yet."

Edgar said, "I agree," and was surprised to hear her add, "Otherwise, they might as well have been done to death by magic. Some voodoo curse or something. It's odd, no question about it." Edgar felt, once again, that frisson of fear climbing up his spine.

"Magic?" he said, "I wouldn't have thought you believe any such thing exists."

Fay looked at him with her blue, blue eyes and said, "I don't."

The kitchen was deserted when Harry got back. He listened for a moment and made straight for the fridge when he didn't hear Aunt Petunia anywhere. He found an open carton of milk and downed it in one gulp right from the carton. Rooting through, he grabbed a half of a loaf of bread, some cheese and ham and a couple of apples and fled upstairs with his booty.

He devoured two sandwiches and an apple and stowed the rest under the loose floor board in case Aunt Petunia was difficult at dinner again. He made a half-hearted effort to clean up his room, stuffing his robes back in his trunk and stacking his books on top. He supposed he ought to study, but as he hadn't yet received his results from his O.W.L.s, he didn't know what subjects he would be taking yet this fall. He flopped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Hermione would have told him to read up on Dark Arts Defense, just in case. Ron would have told him to take his mind off everything and play quidditch, or read about quidditch strategy. But neither appealed to him. Harry wondered what Dumbledore would recommend--practice Occlumency, he thought. Bitterly, he wondered if Sirius would have lived if someone had explained why he really needed to block out Voldemort. He thought it quite likely that he would not have done any better at it even if he had practiced. But at least he wouldn't have been fooled in the same way. He would have known better. But that wasn't quite fair. Hermione had known better. She had warned him, and he had ignored her. They had all warned him in one way or the other, even if they hadn't told him everything. He just hadn't listened.

Miserably, he thought he ought to practice Occlumency. Even without Snape, he could try to seek some kind of calmness, some kind of control. Because maybe next time he wouldn't just be seeing though the snake's eyes. Maybe next time, he would be the snake again, and he didn't know if he could stand another episode like that. He closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind of everything. Images of the past two days swam before him. Dudley saying, you're not so brave at night; the gang surrounding him; Uncle Vernon yelling; Aunt Petunia blocking the refrigerator...Anger boiled up again.

He opened his eyes and stared out the window. There were fluffy white clouds flying in the blue summer sky. He tried to replace the images, the anger, with an immense field of blue. The whole world was blue. His heart was blue and it was the blue of an ocean of unshed tears. He felt as if he were betraying Sirius, by seeking this false empty, calm. Sirius deserved his grief. Sirius deserved his anger and desire for vengeance. Finally, unwillingly, he slept out of sheer exhaustion.

The atmosphere at dinner was even more tense than usual. Dudley hadn't shown up, which wasn't unheard of, but it was really quite rare for him to do so without saying something to Aunt Petunia. Harry ate his dinner in silence, while Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia talked to each other and pretended he didn't exist. He sat there and waited for the evening news to come on and pretended, in his turn, that he hadn't noticed Uncle Vernon's irritation at his presence. The top news that night was the report on the possible serial murders.

A bright red headline flashed on the screen - Special Task Force Investigation: Day One. The announcer said in his plumy voice, "And now, an update on the series of mysterious deaths being investigated by Scotland Yard. We'll take you now to the steps of Victoria Street and the home of the Metropolitan Police Authority." The screen switched to the exterior of the central police headquarters. Reporters were clamoring to ask questions of the same officer who had been on the previous night.

The officer stopped halfway down the steps and said, "We are announcing the formation of a Special Task Force for the investigation of serial murders. Detective Inspector Edgar Bones, an experienced Homicide investigator from the Met will coordinate the investigation into the deaths of three teenage girls. Each of the districts where victims were found have a primary offficer assigned to their local site, and our officer will liaise with each to ensure that information is shared equally with all districts for the quickest possible resolution of these cases. I want to emphasize that we still do not know the cause of death in any of these three cases. It has yet to be determined for certain whether in fact any of them were killed or whether there was some unidentified natural cause that has not show up on the autopsy. We are asking that the public call in any information they may have regarding the last days and hours of the three victims."

A split screen flashed up the hotline number and pictures of the three girls. Harry couldn't help noticing tonight just how young they all were. None of them looked older than sixteen or seventeen. Aunt Petunia was muttering,

"They're all girls. It's all right then. They're all girls." The police officer had finished speaking and walked away without answering any of the reporters' shouted questions.

The announcer cut back in and said, "And now, from York, we have an interview with the man who discovered the body of the York victim." Harry noticed, too, that the girl no longer had a name. She was simply and forevermore "the York victim."

The reporter said, "This is Clive Dartmouth, a local physician and avid hiker. Dr. Dartmouth, can you tell us what you know?"

The physician answered, "Well, it's like this. I was hiking a bit out of town and I stopped off beside a layby for a rest. I noticed what I thought was a discarded shoe, but when I looked again, I realized there was something more there. When I realized it was a young girl, I examined her to see if she was ill and needed help She had no pulse and was quite cold, so I knew she had been dead for several hours, possibly longer. A superficial examination showed that she had no physical injuries, and of course, the autopsy showed no cause of death at all. The girl had not had a heart attack, she had not taken drugs and as far as we could tell, she simply died."

The reporter asked, "Dr. Dartmouth, you did notice one peculiarity about the death, didn't you?"

"That's right," the doctor replied. "The girl had an expression of absolute terror on her face." The reporter gasped dramatically, even though he must have known the answer.

The doctor added, "It's not unusual for a dead person to have an odd expression for a short while after death, but in my experience, such expressions usually disappear after several hours. In this case, the victim looked quite simply terrified. I can't say I've ever seen anything quite like this. It's a real novelty."

The report moved onto the international news, and then to the sports. Harry sat there staring at the screen long after the commercial for the latest model SUV had flashed by, followed by the one for a new Masterpiece Theater drama. Uncle Vernon had tired of seeing Harry there.

"What are you doing here? Why are you watching that? Your lot isn't on here. You don't see any of your freaky friends on here."

Harry said quietly, "I hope not. I really hope not."

Aunt Petunia said, "What do you mean by that? You don't mean those girls were killed by...killed by that Voldemort?"

Harry looked at her. He said, "Don't you even know how she died?"

"She got blown up by that..." Petunia couldn't bring herself to say the word.

Harry said, "No. She wasn't blown up. She died just like them, without a mark on her. That's what it's like when the Killing Curse is used. You simply die, and it doesn't leave a mark. You're just...dead."

He didn't wait to see her expression. He didn't want to hear his Uncle's voice. He got up and opened the door to go out. Somewhere. Anywhere away from them. Only there was someone in his way. Several someones. Dudley, and two more men. One of the men was the policeman from the night before and he had Dudley's arm in a tight grip, to keep him from running, perhaps. The other was wearing a regular business suit like Uncle Vernon and a very serious expression. He saw Harry and said to the other one,

"This him? The other kid?" The other policeman nodded and Harry felt his stomach sinking down to his knees. He couldn't imagine why they were here and asking after him. He gawped at them and turned back away, but there was nowhere to go.

Detective Sergeant Griffiths of the Greater Surrey Police had had a long day, and would have liked to be home with his feet up, a pint of ale, and a plate of lo mein from the Chinese takeout down the street from his tiny apartment in town. Instead, he was here at Number 4 Privet Drive, in Little Whinging of all places, investigating a bunch of kids from one of the tidiest and most respectable suburbs in all of Britain. Officer Jackson insisted there was a gang of teenagers who were on the brink of moving from petty shoplifting, the occasional illicit smoke, and beating up the neighborhood kids to a more serious level of crime. They had caught the lot of them standing on the corner of Magnolia Road, passing a single joint from one to the other. They had been to each of the four other kids' houses and put the fear of god and the police in them right in front of the parents. This was the last of them and likely to be the toughest.

The Dursley kid was a real bruiser and according to Jackson, the leader of the group. So far, they hadn't actually found any stolen goods, though they had searched each kid and each house they'd been to. Jackson also had at least one neighborhood kid who was willing to report who'd been doing the intimidation. The story was complicated though, because the gang members maintained there was another kid who was the real bad one, the second kid who lived at Number 4. The kid had a reputation in the neighborhood: a scruffy layabout who went to some school for delinquents and wandered the streets in the summers. Interestingly, the kid who had reported the others had said the odd one had come to his rescue just yesterday. It would have been something to commend, except the kid had said he thought the other one was carrying some kind of weapon and had threatened the big bruiser with it to make him back off. So what did they have? A group of petty almost delinquents and one who was thoroughly bad? There was one other oddity. Jackson had said the main gang had been beating on the other teen, but when he had gone to break them up, the kid had denied it and insisted they were boxing lessons.

"This him? The other kid?" Griffiths asked and Jackson nodded. The kid, and he really was scruffy looking, gawped at them and turned back away, as if to run.

Almost immediately, the scruffy one said, "I haven't done anything."

Too bad, Griffiths, thought, the automatic denial, and learned so soon. A swift summing look, however, told Griffiths there was something out of kilter here. The Dursley kid had the well fed, perfectly scrubbed and groomed look of suburban comfort. The blond hair was cleanly and professionally cut, the hands manicured, and the clothes- from the designer jeans and trainers to the butter-soft leather jacket- were all in keeping with the fancy car in the driveway, the big screen tv, and the coordinated furniture in the lounge. The other kid could not have made a more complete contrast. An untidy mane of black hair crowned a thin face, which presently sported a nasty looking bruise on the cheekbone and a swollen lip. The clothes were horrendous: the jeans were worn way beyond the point of fashion, came halfway up the kid's shins, and had hole at the right knee through which a new scab showed. The T-shirt was faded and the hole on the sleeve went with the holes in the trainers. Then there were the kid's eyes, an unusual bright green, behind faintly scratched glasses. And beneath them were the faint purple shadows of sleeplessness or ill health. The thin face tensed when a gruff voice issued from the burly figure that must be the father.

"What's he done, officer? Are you arresting him? Good riddance, too if you ask me. Good for nothing..."

"Vernon!" the woman interrupted.

Griffiths said, "As to that, we don't know. We've a few questions for him, and for your son, Mr. Dursley."

The burly man had a mean look about him, which intensified as his rosy overfed face reddened in anger. "Questions for Dudley? You mean Dudley can tell you something about him and whatever he's been up to."

Griffiths said, "Not exactly, Mr. Dursley. I mean we have questions for both of them about certain neighborhood kids being intimidated, shoplifiting and a few other things. Dudley here was caught smoking a joint with his friends."

The mother said, "Never! Not my Dudley! He would never!"

Neither boy said anything. The big one's beady eyes looked baffled, as though the situation were quite beyond him. The other one looked as though he would bolt any second.

Griffiths said, "What's your name?"

"Harry Potter," he replied.

"You live here?" asked Griffiths. The kid answered with a nod.

"And where are your parents?"

The kid answered with a single word, "Dead."

The man interrupted, "He's my wife's nephew. We took him in when his good-for-nothing parents died and he's been following in their footsteps ever since."

The kid's mouth tightened, as if he would have liked to say something and the green eyes sparked with anger. Griffiths thought, hell, if ever a kid had an excuse for going bad...But if he had, it would be the magistrate that listened to the excuses. He was just the policeman.

He said, "You've been fighting, haven't you? Breaking the Anti-social Behavior laws?"

The kid said, "I told him last night, Dudley was teaching me to box, only I'm not very good at it."

Behind him, Dursley said, "Dudley teaches him how to box? Not blooody likely!" and the blond kid made a movement as if to shut his dad up.

Griffiths thought, got them. "That's not the story Mark Evans told us. He said you stopped this one, your cousin, and his gang from beating him up. He said you threatened him with something to get him to go away. That right?" The kid paled slightly and didn't answer.

"You've got a reputation in the neighborhood, don't you? Go to some school for delinquents, don't you?" The kid was shaking his head.

Jackson jumped in. "Some school called St. Brutus' School for delinquents is the buzz around the neighborhood." The constable, Griffiths thought, knew this neighborhood well. Jackson waited only momentarily for a response.

Dursley was starting to nod, but Jackson said, "Only problem is, when I check out his school, there's no such place. No such school in all Britian. You do go to school don't you? Not Stonewall, the local High School. Are you in school? Or is that another law broken, dropping out before you're of age?" Perfect timing, Griffiths thought.

The kid swallowed and glanced minutely at the Dursleys as if for guidance, but now got none. He swallowed and said defiantly, "I go to school."

"Where?" Griffiths asked.

"It's a public school," the kid replied, "its way up north." he added vaguely, and "you won't have heard of it. It's very...small and exclusive. My dad went there."

Griffiths thought, odder and odder. Though he could believe the bit about the school being out of the government system. The kid's posh accent was the only thing that went with the suburban house.

Pressing harder, Griffiths asked, "And what's the name of this school?"

The kid shrugged. "You won't have heard of it. And it's not got a web site and it doesn't advertise."

Very convenient, Griffiths thought. "And what's the name of the school?" he asked again.

The kid, he noticed, was wound even tighter than he had been when they'd been asking about the fighting. He seemed to be calculating something before he finally answered, "It's called Hogwarts." At the faint snicker from the Dursley kid, he added snottily, "It's no funnier than going to a school called Smeltings. And at least we don't have to wear orange knickerbockers with maroon jackets."

The older Dursely turned crimson at that and actually lifted a fist as if to hit the kid. The man's tiny eyes were as mean as a bull's when his turf's been invaded and Griffiths thought he'd better rethink some of his assumptions. He turned his attention back to the kid. A little more pressure ought to do it.

He said, "So what exactly were you carrying when you threatened your cousin earlier and made all the rest of the lot of them back off?"

"Carrying?" the kid asked. "I don't understand, what do you mean, carrying?"

Griffith stared at the kid, but the green eyes gave away nothing, expressed nothing but bewilderment, and perhaps fear. Decision taken, he turned to Jackson and the Dursley kid.

"You," he said the big one, "go sit over there by your parents and don't move." He nodded to Jackson, who released his grip on the other kid and gave him a bit of a shove toward the chair. Then he said, "Search him." The kid paled even more and yanked his arm away when Jackson approached him.

Griffiths said sharply, "Don't fight him. It'll only go the worse for you." He nodded again to Jackson who had backed off at the kid's initial resistance. Jackson, he knew, was thinking along the same lines as he was, if the the kid had a gun or a knife and tried to use it, things could get hairy real fast.

This time, Jackson shoved him face first into the wall and held him there whilst he patted him down, taking care to check the pockets of the jeans and the back of his waistband. The Dursely kid was grinning, and more sickeningly, so was the father. Finding nothing, Jackson turned the kid around, and Griffiths couldn't say which was more appalling, the look of terror on the kid's face or the bruises that showed on the kid's abdomen when Jackson lifted his shirt to pull out a thin wooden stick. The kid made as if to grab it back when Jackson pulled at the handle, thinking as Griffiths was, that it must be some kind of stiletto. Apparently not. It was just a single piece of wood, a little less than a foot long.

Griffiths took the stick and examined it. It was way too slender and short to be used as a cosh and would likely break if anyone tried to use it as a weapon. It looked like a conductor's baton. He supposed the kid's hair was long enough and unruly enough that he'd make the perfect picture of a musician if he had the right tux to dress him up.

He said, "So what's this? You play music? What were you going to do, conduct the orchestra while the gang beat up the kids?"

The kid opened his mouth and closed it and shoved his messy hair out of his eyes, a habitual gesture no doubt. Under the fall of the jet-black hair, Griffiths could see exposed a jagged, wicked looking scar on the kid's forehead, almost like a lightning bolt. There was a tense silence as he waved the stick in the kid's face and Griffiths wondered just what the hell was going on here.

The kid shook his head and said, "No. It's not a baton. I don't play any music."

"Well, what is it then?" Griffiths asked.

The kid said, "It's, erm...a prop. A magic wand."

The Dursleys were all looking horrified, as if the kid had confessed to some dreadful crime.

Griffths asked, "You do tricks? A magic act of some kind?" A dull flush flooded the kid's cheeks. He said with what looked like embarrassment,

"Erm...yeah."

Jackson laughed. "C'mon then. Show us a trick. Read our minds or make a bunny vanish."

The kid glanced at Jackson and a defiant, almost mischievous glint flared in the bright green eyes. He held out his hand and said, "Can I have it back, then? It's not illegal or anything, a magic wand."

Almost reluctantly, Griffiths handed it back. It wasn't illegal after all, and was nowhere near the size to be any kind of real weapon.

With a nasty grin, the big blond kid picked up a still wrapped deck of cards that sat in a designer case on a square marble game table and tossed it at the Potter kid. The Potter kid shot out a hand and fielded it as neatly as any cricket player could.

He shot a narrow glare at the Dursleys, as if to say, I'll show you, and stuck the stick, wand, back in his waistband. He unwrapped the cards and shuffled them rather awkwardly and seemed to be thinking. Some of the tension seemed to have drained out of him and he handed the deck of cards to Jackson and said, "You mix them up a bit. That way you can't think I'm cheating."

Looking absurdly entertained, Jackson shuffled the cards with far more dexterity than the kid had displayed and handed them back with a bemused grin lifting the corners of this mouth.

The kid shuffled the cards one more time, more smoothly, and Griffiths noticed he had very long slender fingers. The elegant hands could well have belonged to an artist or a musician, although the knuckles were bruised and scraped, presumably from last night's fracas with his cousin's gang. If there was one thing Griffiths was now sure of, it was that the gang had been beating on the kid and most of the bruises were probabaly from the cousin. He wondered, just briefly, whether any might be from the Uncle.

The kid fanned the cards with a bit of a flourish and said, "Go on, then. Pick a card. Any card, and don't show it to me."

Griffiths thought with amusement, the kid must have seen this on the telly. Jackson picked a card and handed to off to Griffiths--the King of Hearts.

Jackson said, "Well. What is it?"

Oddly, the Dursleys all look petrified. The kid's eyes were an incredible bright green. His face seemed perfectly calm now, and he waited for one moment before saying,

"The King of Hearts." The Aunt shuddered and the Uncle looked like he wanted to bite something, the kid maybe.

Jackson said, "How'd you do that?"

Griffiths said cyncially, check the deck, "Maybe they're all Kings of Hearts." But they weren't.

Strangely, the kid looked taken aback. "I've never done that before," he muttered.

There was a momentary pause as Griffiths considered his next move. It was getting on for eight o'clock and he was starving. He thought carefully. They were treading now on the delicate edge of cause. He still wanted to search the rest of the house and they had been admitted this far by the Potter kid (not that he'd really known what he was doing), but he had an inkling the Dursleys were going to start calling lawyers any minute.

He decided to throw them off balance again. The little magic trick--and how had he done that? lucky guess?--had diverted their attention from the main purpose of the visit.

He said, "That's a neat trick, there. I don't suppose you're just as handy with the shopkeepers' goods are you?"

The Potter kid looked about, as if he'd been struck from behind, and said, "Who, me?"

"You. Him." Griffiths said, "One of you, I'm betting, or both."

Dursley cut in and said, "What exactly are you accusing my son of, Officer?" The tone was hard, and cold, and the woman looked ready to faint. She stretched up her long, thin neck and looked at the big bruiser.

"My Dudley would never do anything wrong. If anyone did anything, it's him!" She pointed a bony finger accusingly at the Potter kid. He looked ready to bolt again.

Griffiths said, "Then you won't mind if I search the boys' rooms, will you. You're sure, after all, that I won't find anything in your son's room, right?"

The woman pursed her thin lips and said, "That's right. Go ahead."

Dursley looked like he wanted to take that back, but dared not now that permission had been granted. Both boys were looking unhappy now. The Potter kid looked on the verge of panic and the Dursely kid was shoooting glances at his parents.

Griffiths thought, bingo, they've both got something to hide. The Dursley kid, he thought, was the more likely contender for the shoplifted goods, at least, based on Jackson's report. The other one was an open puzzle. He thought there was a fair likelihood he'd find drugs of some kind. The kid was all bone and muscle and had the deliberately underfed look of a greyhound in training for the races. There were, however, no tell-tale bruised veins on his arms, only bruises from the fight, and his face and skin were clear of blemishes with the exception of the faint stains of weariness about the eyes. And the green eyes were shiny now with extreme anxiety. For a moment, Griffiths thought the kid would try to stop them, but he stepped aside when Jackson started up the stairs, and followed right behind.

The contrast between the boys' rooms paralleled the contrast between the boys' themselves. The Dursley kid's room was large and filled with all the expensive techno-toys you could imagine. TV, Nintendo hook-up, computer, CD-player with expensive wireless sound system, racks of computer games and posters of the games on the wall. The room itself was spotless and Griffiths figured the doting Mum must come in and straighten it every day. No wonder she was so certain there was nothing to find. There was nothing in the chest of drawers, which were filled with enough designer labels to stock the teen department at Harrods. A hockey stick was propped up in the corner, and boxing gloves were tossed on the floor next to them. So the boxing thing was true. The only thing at all iffy were some magazines with some very questionable pictures, but nothing all that unusual for sixteen year old boys to be peeking at. The blond kid blushed nearly as crimson as his father when they were found, but Griffiths wasn't here for that.

The Potter kid's room was a whole lot smaller and not nearly as neat. An empty birdcage sat on the desk. The wardrobe was empty except for a couple of tatty looking old sweaters that probably hadn't fit the kid for several years. The chest had a couple of pairs of socks and some elderly looking T-shirts. Griffiths couldn't see where the kid could be hiding anything to make him so anxious. Next to the floor at the foot of the bed was a large old-fashioned trunk. He opened up the lid on a jumble of books and clothes. The kid was looking really, really unhappy and seemed to be fiddling with the stage prop.

A quick glance showed the books were an odd combination of information on plants, many of which he'd never heard of, mythical beasts of all kinds, some kind of chemistry (the first page being more information than anyone would ever want about the element mercury), and a tattered volume of legends and myths about Merlin, elves, goblins and so forth. There was also a first class astronomy primer with incredible 3-D illustrations. He dismissed the myths and beastie stories as part of some English teacher's idea of interesting literature and the remainder as the kid's various science subjects from school.

Under the books was a jumble of clothes. More worn and faded jeans, a few enormous T-shirts that must have been the cousin's first, and school uniforms with dress shirts, ties and sweaters all bearing the same heraldic crest, a golden lion rearing on a red shield. There were also over cloaks, presumably for the colder weather up north, with a different crest, the same lion, along with an eagle, a badger and a snake. And the kid thought knickerbockers and a jacket were weird? All these fancy public schools had the strangest stuff.

There was also a big pewter pot, a telescope, scales, glass vials, and packets of unidentifiable powders. He pulled the first one out at random, a yellow powder, that tasted disgusting, like rotten eggs, when he touched it to the tip of his tongue. The kid looked horrified as he spat it out.

"What's that?" he demanded.

"Erm, sulfur," the kid said.

"What the devil are you doing with that?" Griffiths demanded. None of the other packets even remotely resembled the white powder he was looking for. He turned to look at the kid.

"Well?" he asked. The kid shrugged, although his face was tight and tense once more.

"It's left over from my school supplies," he said. Griffiths felt like an idiot.

"Chemistry, then?" he asked. The kid's eyes widened slightly, but he simply nodded.

"What about the pot thing, then? What's that for?" The kid shrugged again.

"Science class. The vials, too. For, erm, experiments and stuff," he added vaguely.

At the bottom of the trunk were a couple of more books, magic books. One had instructions on how to make things vanish. The other had instructions on how to put people to sleep, on levtitation, on how to make a bubble around one's head! Griffiths snorted with laughter at that.

"These go along with your magic act?" he asked. He laughed again.

"Do they work as well as your card trick?" The kid stared at him as if he'd gone off his head and took a big breath as if he'd been holding it till now.

"What do you think?" he replied tersely. Griffiths turned back to the trunk the grin still at his lips. The only things left were a leather photo album and, of all things, a broom. He laughed aloud again. "That for your act as well," he asked nodding at the broom.

The kid nodded, but didn't laugh. His eyes were fixed with anxiety on the leather album. The kid made a sound of dismay when Griffiths opened it. There were pictures of a young man and woman. The man had black hair just like the kid, and the woman had long red hair and green eyes. There were pictures of what appeared to be a wedding and one picture of them with a baby. There were also some pictures of the kid with a whiskered giant of a guy, and several of him with a couple of other kids. One with red hair and freckles and a girl with bushy brown hair. They seemed innocuous enough.

"Who are they?" Griffiths asked. For a minute he thought the kid wouldn't answer.

Finally, he said, "My Mum and Dad. And some friends of mine."

He said, "I see." He handed the album back to the kid, who hugged it to his chest as if the wealth of the world were there. Jackson poked his head in and asked,

"You almost done? Find anything?" Griffiths shook his head.

"Not so far." Seeing some of the tension had drained from the kid's face, he gave the room one more survey. There was nothing under the mattress of the bed. For one minute thought, he thought he'd hit paydirt. There was a loose floor board under the bed, and Griffiths pulled it up expecting to find the missing things from his list, or something else equally forbidden. The small cavity was occupied, not by stolen goods, or packets of drugs, but by a few slices of bread and some ham and cheese. The kid was flushed again with embarrassment and avoided his eyes altogether. Griffiths looked from the small stash of food to the gaunt, bruised face of the boy and thought of Jackson saying the kid rooted about in other people's dustbins.

He said gently, "Why don't you just tell the truth. You weren't having boxing lessons, were you?"

The kid's mouth set again in a stubborn line and he said, "I already told you about that."

Griffiths regarded him closely. "And the Evans kid? What about him? Why'd you go rushing to his rescue?" The kid shrugged. Griffiths waited. Usually people would rush to fill in the silence when he waited. They explained more than they needed to. There was a faint shift in the face, as if the kid would say something.

He shrugged again and said, "They were teasing the kid. Dudley never actually touched him. It was all words. I just didn't like it, them teasing the kid. So I said something, that's all."

Griffiths said, "Why are you defending him? Your cousin? He didn't stand up for you, did he?" The kid shrugged again. Griffiths thought there was nothing more annoying than the silent shrug of a teenager. He waited again for an answer. This time, he got none.

Griffiths changed subjects. "What about the shoplifting? What do you know about that? It's his gang doing it, Dudley's, isn't it?"

The kid shrugged again. "I don't know anything about that. I don't...they're not my friends. I don't know what they do."

Griffiths thought it was worth one more try. "How much of that bruising is from your cousin and who much of it is from your Uncle?"

This time the green eyes widened in surprise. The long fingers tightened on the leather album. He said, "My Uncle hasn't...I told you, we were boxing."

Griffiths jumped on that. "What were you going to say? Your Uncle hasn't what? Hit you? Since when?"

The kid simply shook his head. Griffiths thought with frustration how difficult it always was to get even the kids to admit they were abused. No one in the tidy neighborhood would suspect it, and the Dursleys obviously reinforced to everyone how untrustworthy he was. Telling stories about some school for delinquents.

He said, "You don't have to stay here, you know." For one moment, the green eyes leapt with hope, quickly squashed. The boy shook his head.

Griffiths said, "Think about it. If you change your mind or want to add anything to what you have to say, you can call me." He held out his card and after a moment, the kid took it.

Harry put the leather picture album back in his trunk with shaking hands and thought how amazing it was that people could see a thing right before their eyes and still sees nothing. The officer had seen his wand, his cauldron, his broom, his potions supplies, even his magic books, and yet he had seen nothing odd at all. Perhaps it was simply that the officer was so firmly rooted in the idea that real magic didn't exist that he had ignored every piece of evidence and filled in the gaps himself. He wondered how long it would take for an owl to come from the Ministry of Magic expelling him for letting the Muggle see his things. Then it occurred to him that he hadn't actually done any magic, so maybe it would be all right. Somehow, he didn't think so. He'd gotten into terrible trouble second year for being seen in the Weasleys' flying Ford Anglia. This was so much worse. An actual Muggle police officer examining all his things. When he went downstairs, Uncle Vernon was shouting.

"What do you mean you're writing up Dudley for assaulting a kid? What do you mean by that? You heard him, my nephew, say Dudley hadn't done anything! What's he saying now? Did he change his story? You can't believe anything he says!" Harry felt his stomach clench and thought desperately; Dumbledore will just have to understand. I can't stay here any more. He turned back to go up to his room to pack. His Aunt was shrieking. Well, when wasn't she shrieking?

"Get down here! You come down here and tell the police the truth. We give you a home and the clothes on your back! You get down here right now!"

The police officer in the business suit, Griffiths, said coldly, "You misunderstand, Mr. Dursley. Your nephew hasn't told us anything. We're citing your son here because the victim reported him. According to the Evans kid, your son has beaten him up no less than two other times before now. Once last year and again two weeks ago. The kid's parents are ready to sue. So if I were you, I'd be calling a lawyer, not yelling at your nephew."

The officer nodded to the Constable and said, "Take him down and write him up." He turned back to the Dursleys and added, "And one more thing. I just may be sending a Social Services officer over here to check you out. So I suggest you keep your hands off your nephew. The first thing agents looks at are things like bruises and physical appearance."

Harry thought, oh no. He had to get out of here. Fast. Uncle Vernon's piggy eyes were as cold and mean as he'd ever seen them. And Aunt Petunia looked as hard as cold as if she'd been carved out of antarctic ice.

They followed the police officers out of the house and Dudley was saying, "I didn't do anything! I didn't do anything! It was really Piers and Gordon! I didn't do anything!"

Harry ran upstairs and threw his things back in his trunk as fast as he could. He would have tried the packing spell Tonks had used, but he thought as he hadn't gotten a warning of any kind from the Ministry yet, that he'd do better to avoid any magic that might really get him expelled. He wondered where his 'guards' were. He had thought Tonks and Moody and Lupin might be around watching him as they had last year, but no one had appeared to help him. Mrs. Figg hadn't been there, and Hedwig hadn't returned. One thing Harry knew for certain, he was not going to stick around and be gawped at by Social Services agents who might want to go through his things again. He wasn't waiting for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia to come back and yell at him and then throw him out, as he was certain they would now do. He used the grocery list pad Aunt Petunia had attached to the fridge with a magnet containing a picture of Dudley to write the note. It said simply, I'm going and I don't expect I shall return. Harry. He didn't say thank you.

He dragged his trunk and Hedwig's cage out the door, onto the dark street and drew his wand to wave for the Knight Bus, but nothing came. He thought, that can't be right. He stuck his wand out again, but still, no purple bus arrived. Harry shivered and thought, it can't be. Had he been expelled as a wizard without even any hearing or notice? He started walking up the street toward Magnolia Road. There was a train stop in the center of town that went through the Richmond line straight through to London. He thought wearily, he'd try that, and if he could, he'd hitch a ride to town with any car that would pick him up.

Harry dragged the trunk along thinking gloomily that Dumbledore must be really angry with him. He must have broken twenty wizard laws by allowing that police officer to see his wand and things, but he didn't know what else he should have done. If he had fought them, they would have arrested him and what good was that? If he had done magic to get away or to make them forget--not that he'd ever actually tried a memory spelled--then he would definitely be expelled for doing magic out of school again. Especially after last year. But it seemed he had messed up anyway. The Knight Bus hadn't come for him when it should have. He thought desperately he would just have to go to London, to the Ministry, and plead with them to give him a hearing. But first he would try to get to the Leaky Cauldron and get a room and a meal. And go to Gringotts for some money. He was down to only one gold galleon and a couple of knuts from last year and he hadn't any muggle money at all.

The streets of Little Whinging were dark and empty and the waning moon gave little light. By the time he reached the train station, Harry was dead tired from lugging his trunk and nearly panicked altogether when he saw that the next train for London wasn't until six o'clock in the morning. Not to mention that it cost four pounds, and Harry had never had a total of four pounds in his entire life. He sat down on a bench and wished there were even one friendly face to talk to. Ron and Hermione were a world away. They might as well have been in another dimension. He wondered again why nobody had been around. Not Mrs. Figg, not Mundungus Fletcher, not Tonks, not Moody, not Lupin. He thought he might as well try summoning the Knight Bus again. Maybe he hadn't been far enough from Privet Drive for it to work. Maybe he'd been too close to his "home" to be considered stranded. He drew out his wand and held it out wishing despairingly for help. The Knight Bus didn't come.

Bright lights blinded him. He thought, finally, and stuck his wand back in his pocket.

He opened his eyes back up as a voice said, "You need a ride?"

He looked up at a large vehicle, only it wasn't the Knight bus. It wasn't any kind of public transport. It was a lorry with a sign that said Ruxton Transport on the side in faded yellow letters. Harry shaded his eyes from the glare of the headlights and started to shake his head.

He changed his mind in a second though and said, "Yes. Are you going to London?"

The voice said, "That I am. Hop up then. You can stow that in the back here."

Harry climbed up the high step into the lorry and heaved his case over into the back of the cab. He looked at the driver and said, "Are you sure it's okay?"

The driver took in the state of his clothes and said, "I think so." Harry flattened his hair down over his scar and tried to look trustworthy. The driver was still looking at Harry curiously. He was a man in his twenties maybe, and had curly sandy blond hair and dark eyes.

The man said, "What's your name, then?"

Harry started to say his name and then thought better of it.

"Black," he said, "James Black." He looked at the driver and thought, he looks okay. At least he didn't feel the hair on his neck stand up or goosebumps on his arms.

He said, "Who are you?"

The man said, "John Bosworth. So where are you going, James?"

Harry told him the cross street a couple of blocks away from the Leaky Cauldron. He didn't quite know why he had given a false name. It just seemed like a good idea.

Bosworth said, "I can put you down there." He continued to look curiously at Harry and said, "So what's a kid like you doing going to London? You a runaway? I don't get involved with runaways."

Harry said, "No. I'm, erm, going to visit my friends. They, erm, have a job for me maybe."