Still half-doubtful, Lucius followed Draco into the room that held Septimus's portrait.
His caution was understandable. The man in the painting was his own ancestor—one of the few people still living (in a manner of speaking) who had actually known that particular Potter. Great-great-grandfather had once carried a certain weight in the wizarding world; he was hardly the sort to be easily deceived.
Influence? Well… his influence in Britain had been only slightly greater than Voldemort's.
The moment they entered, Draco hurried eagerly to the portrait.
"Do not disturb me unless it is important," Septimus said, clearly suffering from a severe case of waking-up-wrong-side-of-the-canvas.
"Great-great-grandfather!" Draco beamed. "Father and Mother refuse to believe that Harry is the Harry from a hundred years ago. Please tell them—"
Septimus looked down at the foolish child with an expression of profound weariness.
Even without the promise he had made to Harry, being woken from a perfectly good sleep would have been reason enough to remain silent. Portraits needed rest too.
The combination of the two grievances produced a rather dangerous smile.
"Lucius."
Lucius bowed at once. "Great-great-grandfather."
"I have never doubted your skill with money," Septimus said, casting a pointed glance at Draco. "But looking at your son, I am beginning to doubt your skill at raising children."
Lucius turned a truly murderous stare upon Draco.
Draco swallowed hard.
Great-great-grandfather, why won't you just tell the truth?!
He spun, intending to flee, only to find Narcissa blocking the doorway.
"You are quite right, Great-great-grandfather," she said smoothly. "I have long felt that a more traditional approach to discipline would better suit the modern child's constitution. Excessive leniency is hardly beneficial to a young person's healthy development."
Under Draco's despairing gaze, Lucius and Narcissa each seized one of his arms and dragged him from the room.
Not long afterwards a series of piercing shrieks echoed through Malfoy Manor, startling a whole flock of ravens into flight.
Harry had fully expected the suffering that awaited Draco, and he was thoroughly enjoying the thought. Perhaps a little of James Potter's mischievous streak had rubbed off on him after all.
From the Malfoys he had also gained one useful piece of information.
The family possessed neither angel feathers nor basilisk fangs, yet Lucius had pointed him toward a promising lead: the home of the legendary French alchemist Nicolas Flamel.
Nicolas. Harry knew the name well.
He and Vivi had once been guests in that very house. Vivi's parents had been close friends of the Flamels despite the enormous difference in age. When Vivi's father was still a small boy, Nicolas and Perenelle had even held him in their arms.
In terms of both seniority and years lived, few in the wizarding world could rival the Flamels.
Because the hour was already late, and out of respect for the elderly couple, Harry decided to write first and wait for a reply before making the journey.
Apparition could cover great distances. In his own time he had once Apparated from London all the way to Hogsmeade—nearly the length of the country. With the Philosopher's Stone amplifying his magic, his mastery of the spell had only deepened.
In certain branches of magic, raw power was simply better: bigger was better, more was beautiful, and brute force solved most problems.
When he returned to the Leaky Cauldron the bar was still open for business. Harry exchanged greetings with Tom, shook hands with a few friendly witches and wizards, and climbed the stairs.
Inside the room Pobby lay sprawled across Harry's bed, half-covered by the quilt and apparently fast asleep.
At the sound of the door she opened one lazy eye.
"Pobby," Harry called softly. "I'm back."
"Mmm." She sniffed the air. "I can smell it—you ate something good, didn't you? You definitely ate something good. Did you bring me any?"
Harry ruffled the soft fur between her ears.
"It would have been rude to carry food away from someone else's table. Tomorrow I'll buy you whatever you like, all right?"
"Fine… fine…" Pobby murmured, eyes half-closed in pure enjoyment of the petting.
A moment later she seemed to remember something important.
"Oh—and no coffee flavour. I don't like bitter things. I like sweet."
"Whatever flavour you want," Harry laughed. He dug a bar of chocolate from his bag. "Here—milk chocolate. Sweet. Try it."
Pobby eyed the offering with suspicion, then took a careful bite.
Her face lit up. "Hee-hee. It really is."
"Half is enough," Harry said, reclaiming the rest. "Too much and you'll never get to sleep."
"Don't worry, Harry." Pobby shook her head.
"In a few days I'm going to France," he told her. "Would you like to come with me?"
"Yes! France!" Pobby cheered. "France has so many delicious things—I love French food most of all!"
Harry gave her an approving thumbs-up.
"Then sleep. We need to be up early tomorrow." He opened the trunk. "Come inside. Tomorrow we'll go back to my aunt and uncle's house first, and I'll have Hedwig carry a letter to Monsieur Flamel."
"I don't want to go in," Pobby said, tossing her head.
Harry raised an eyebrow, then sighed. "All right. If you'd rather sleep out here, that's fine."
Pobby gave another joyful little bounce and leapt onto the bed, patting the quilt with one hoof.
"Come on, Harry—big sister will keep you company!"
"I'm not a child anymore," Harry laughed.
Her carefree manner left him equal parts amused and helpless. It was fortunate she was a unicorn; if Vivi or Cassandra ever found out…
Wait. Why had that thought crossed his mind?
Sometime in the middle of the night Harry half-woke with the vague impression that a tall girl in Hufflepuff robes was lying beside him. When he opened his eyes, however, he found only Pobby standing on the bed, dozing on her feet.
Ah—yes. Horses slept standing up.
He rolled over and drifted off again without further concern.
Pobby watched him settle, then quietly exhaled in relief.
Early the next morning Harry woke with a crushing weight on his chest.
He opened his eyes to discover Pobby's large head resting squarely on his ribs. She was clearly dreaming of something delicious; her mouth worked steadily as though chewing.
"Pobby…"
He could barely breathe.
Did she have any idea how heavy a unicorn's head felt to a twelve-year-old?
"Hmm?" Pobby scrambled upright, noticed his difficulty, and gave his chest an affectionate nudge with her nose.
"All right, all right—first things first. Let's brush those teeth."
To Harry's mild astonishment, even after so long in the forest her teeth remained brilliantly white. He felt a twinge of envy.
"Ith my teef vewy white?" Pobby mumbled while he held her mouth open.
"Very white." He brushed thoroughly, then offered her a small basin of water. "Rinse."
Pobby obediently spat—straight into Harry's face.
"Haha!" she laughed, delighted.
Harry wiped his face with resigned patience and set the towel aside.
"Breakfast first, then back to the Dursleys. You'll need to wait in my purse for a while."
"Purse?" Pobby stretched her neck. "What purse?"
"Compensation from Gringotts," Harry explained. "They failed to protect the property Vivi left behind, so this is part of their apology."
"There was something like that?" Pobby asked, curious.
"You'll understand once Vivi returns." Harry patted her head. "When he goes to Austria to settle accounts with Gellert, I'll take you along—front-row seat."
"You mustn't forget," Pobby said in a soft, eager voice. "I love watching scenes like that."
Harry promised at once. Interesting spectacles were never to be wasted on anyone less than a good friend.
"One more thing, Harry," Pobby added. "Since Gringotts is covering the cost of searching for the materials, if you find any alchemical ingredients in France, make certain *they* pay the bill…"
Harry's eyes brightened.
"You're right, Pobby. That is an excellent idea."
After a quick breakfast at the Leaky Cauldron and settling the bill for the past two nights, Harry Apparated straight into the Dursley kitchen.
It was early morning; the family was still at breakfast.
Uncle Vernon held a cigarette in one hand and a copy of *The Guardian* in the other. As a man who firmly believed he ought to be running the country, he was unusually fond of that particular newspaper.
"I want more bacon," Dudley announced. "I'm still hungry, Mum."
"There's plenty in the pan, darling," Aunt Petunia said, eyes shining as she gazed at her substantial son. "We must fatten you up properly… the school food sounds dreadful…"
She never finished the sentence.
Harry spun into existence in the middle of the kitchen.
The three Dursleys froze. Petunia and Vernon screamed in perfect unison.
"I think the thing that makes you even more uncomfortable just came back," Dudley said. His fork clattered onto the table. A second later he recovered, lifted a hand, and waved. "Hi, Harry."
"Hello, Cousin." Harry pulled out a chair and peered into the frying pan. "Ah—bacon. I believe I ought to have a little more myself."
Dudley grinned at him, a little foolishly.
A year apart, and he had actually missed his cousin—especially the Chocolate Frogs and Cauldron Cakes Harry always produced. The mere memory was enough to make his mouth water.
Harry showed no hesitation whatsoever. He had eaten almost nothing that morning; the Leaky Cauldron's breakfast had been truly awful. He had given most of it to Pobby, who had accepted every offering without complaint. Harry had watched her with mild concern. Could eating so much be healthy?
"I believe I made myself perfectly clear in my letter!" Uncle Vernon's face turned an alarming shade of purple. He slammed his fist on the table. "In this house we do not allow that kind of—of *trickery*!"
"Good morning, Uncle," Harry said, as though he had not heard a word. He turned to his aunt. "And good morning, Aunt Petunia. You look several years younger."
He was not merely being polite. Beauty potions from the wizarding world were vastly superior to any Muggle product. Freckles, age spots, fine lines—everything vanished almost instantly.
Aunt Petunia's expression softened at once.
"I brought you something," Harry continued, drawing a neat packet of beauty potions from his purse. "You seemed to like this sort of… medicine, so I thought you might appreciate a few more bottles."
He carefully avoided any word that might suggest magic. When in Rome, after all. At the Dursleys' he was a Muggle; in the wizarding world he was a wizard. Harry had long since learned to move comfortably between the two.
"Thank you," Petunia managed, forcing a smile.
The sight of the gift—and the undeniable evidence of its effectiveness—softened Vernon's attitude as well.
He gave a short grunt and settled back into his chair.
"Just… keep your tricks out of sight of the neighbours," he muttered. "Or there'll be trouble."
"And this is for you, Uncle." Harry produced a lighter. "I bought it at Harrods last time."
The deliberate mention of Harrods did its work. The shop was famous for luxury goods; a gift from there was a clear mark of respect.
Vernon accepted the lighter with a barely audible "Thanks."
Harry smiled, reached across, and helped himself to a rasher of bacon from Dudley's plate.
"You didn't bring *me* a present!" Dudley protested.
Vernon and Petunia stared at their son in pure astonishment. Someone had just taken food from Dudley's plate—and Dudley had remained calm.
"Oh, my dear cousin," Harry said in an oily, drawn-out tone that sounded suspiciously familiar, "of course I brought you a present. But first, allow your poor cousin a little breakfast. He hasn't eaten yet this morning."
Petunia's eyes widened as though she had seen a ghost.
One year away, and her nephew had begun to sound exactly like that greasy little bat…
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