Harry stared at the envelope in his hands for a long time, unable to speak.
His throat worked; a sharp, aching bitterness rose behind his eyes.
If the letter had been from Cassandra herself—if it had been filled with the usual sharp insults—he would not have felt nearly so wretched.
But in his memory Cassandra had always been proud.
A proud young lady, carefully protected by her father and her brother.
He had never once seen her look truly sad, let alone cry. She had shone like the sun itself, so bright that no one dared look at her directly.
And yet…
Still silent, Harry carried the letter to the window.
The night wind stirred his untidy black hair. Moonlight lay soft and silver across the glass. He lifted his face, searching the face of the moon for some trace of her.
Through that pale disc he seemed to see a girl whose pride had been shattered, curled up alone with her knees drawn to her chest, reading the same letter over and over until her tears blurred every word on the page.
Why…?
His heart twisted with a dull, insistent pain.
Draco and the portrait of Septimus watched his back without speaking. Draco had no idea what the letter contained; Septimus knew the whole story only too well.
Harry remained at the window, lost in the moonlight.
He remembered every small moment he had shared with Cassandra at school. No matter how hard he tried, he could not imagine that proud, self-assured girl hiding in a room and weeping in secret.
Suddenly the sorrow felt almost too heavy to bear.
If he had not been careless that day—if Ranrok's blow had not struck true—he would never have been thrown into 1991.
Would Cassandra still be the sheltered, proud young lady she had once been?
Would Vivi still be frozen in time, instead of watching her little brother grow up inside Nurmengard?
Might he even have prevented Pobby from becoming a unicorn at all?
"Potter."
Septimus's voice broke the silence.
Harry turned back to the portrait.
"I recall you knew another young lady at school besides Cass," Septimus said. "If memory serves, she came from the Austro-Hungarian Empire—Miss Grindelwald, was it not?"
Draco's eyes widened again in pure, unrestrained curiosity.
He knew perfectly well what the name Grindelwald meant. In his view Gellert Grindelwald, though labelled a Dark wizard, had been far more formidable than the Dark Lord who called himself Lord Voldemort—not necessarily in raw power, but in overall presence, in charisma. Voldemort bound his followers with fear; Grindelwald had bound them with the promise of "the greater good."
And now it appeared Harry had known the man's sister?
Draco felt rather like a weasel let loose in a melon patch—darting about in every direction, determined to miss nothing.
"Viratia Grindelwald," Harry answered. "Gellert's elder sister. You knew of her?"
"Yes. That was the name. Cass mentioned her more than once." Septimus gave a cold little snort.
His lips moved as though he meant to say more, yet in the end he kept the words to himself.
Every Christmas Cassandra had told Harry that her father and brother were far too busy for her to come home, so she must remain at school and keep her "little attendant" company. In the summer after fifth year, however, she had returned to the manor. When her brother Ignatius pressed her for details, he learned that the boy she had kept for five years had been stolen away by a girl she had only just met.
Septimus had offered no comment at the time. He had simply drunk a great deal of beer.
"Cass told me that after you vanished, Miss Grindelwald shut herself inside that 'love nest' of yours and devoted herself to the study of time magic. I never heard of her again after that—"
"I suspect the foolish girl tried the same thing Cass did—attempting to travel through time. You might still find her in that cottage."
Septimus fell silent for a long moment.
"I hope Cass is with her," he said at last. "If you find either of them—bring her back. Even if all that remains is… something she left behind. Let me see it."
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He did not dare tell the portrait that Cassandra was nowhere to be found in the Map Chamber or in the Slytherin study.
"Cassandra will be all right," he said, though the words lacked conviction even to his own ears. "You needn't worry, Mr. Malfoy."
Septimus gave a short, derisive laugh.
"Have you anything else to say? If not, you may leave."
It was a clear dismissal. That Harry had not produced any sharp retort was, in Septimus's view, already evidence of considerable self-restraint.
The portrait's thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the summer after third year…
A wild-haired boy landing a broom—Cassandra's gift—smack in the middle of the manor gardens, then solemnly asking whether it would be safe to leave it there.
Even as a painting, Septimus felt his painted heart seize.
Quick—someone fetch the heart potion!
Harry carefully refolded the letter, placed a protective charm upon it, and returned it to its hiding place behind the frame.
At the door he paused.
"One more thing, Mr. Malfoy."
"Speak."
Harry patted Draco's shoulder. "Wait outside."
"Yes, Harry." Draco obeyed at once.
When the door had closed, Harry lowered his voice.
"I hope you will keep my secret."
"Why?" Septimus's eyes narrowed.
"You know how troublesome it becomes once people start digging into one's true identity. I would rather spend that time searching for your daughter than being studied like some rare specimen." Harry shrugged.
Septimus regarded him for a moment, then nodded.
"Very well. I shall keep your secret for now—even from my own descendants."
Harry smiled, satisfied. It was pure mischief, really. He did not particularly care if the truth came out; he simply enjoyed tormenting Draco a little longer.
As he stepped into the corridor the words of the letter returned to him.
Wiltshire… Malfoy Manor stood in Wiltshire. Cassandra must have returned here after Trelawney dismissed her, then taken whatever family treasure she needed from the vaults.
Judging by Septimus's manner, the old man felt no lasting resentment over the theft. He still loved his daughter as fiercely as ever.
Harry had no intention of prying further. Family matters were best left to the family. When Cassandra returned, father and daughter could settle it themselves.
Cassandra…
Where was she now?
Apart from the fact that she had once returned to the manor, he had nothing—no trail, no clue.
He would have to start asking questions in more places.
Draco was waiting in the hallway.
"Harry, what did you and my great-great-grandfather talk about?"
"Matters between elders. Best not to ask."
"Elders?" Draco repeated, still failing to grasp the full weight of the word.
They were the same age as students, yet Harry had been classmates—and close friends—with Draco's great-great-aunt a century earlier…
"That's right." Harry shot him a wicked little smile. "Outside you may call me Harry if you like. But when it's only the two of us… haven't you considered what the proper form of address ought to be?"
Draco's mind began to race, sorting the generations one by one.
Cassandra was Grandfather's aunt… Father's great-aunt… his own great-great-aunt…
And she and Harry had been close—close enough, perhaps, that she had even liked him.
Harry clearly still felt something for her as well…
Inspiration struck. Draco decided a little flattery might not go amiss.
"Great-great-uncle?" he tried cautiously.
Harry ruffled the boy's blond hair.
"If she ever heard you call me that, you'd be in serious trouble."
"Why?"
"We were only friends. Good friends." Harry sighed.
He still did not know how to define what had existed between him and Cassandra. By every outward sign she had spent most of her time looking down on him. He had always told himself they were simply friends—somewhere between ordinary friends and very good ones.
Yet she had chosen to cross time itself for his sake. Perhaps she truly had regarded him as a close friend after all.
He refused to entertain Draco's suggestion of romantic feeling. A girl as proud as Cassandra would never have fallen for someone like him.
And even thinking such a thing felt vaguely disloyal to Vivi—though Vivi had never been his girlfriend either.
Before the leap through time he had still been only seventeen, little more than a sixth-former in the Muggle world.
Enough. The urgent task was to bring them both back safely. He would not fail Vivi, and he would not fail Cassandra.
Draco made a small, private face of pure disdain.
Legendary wizard? This was the legendary wizard?
Brilliant with magic—hopeless with feelings.
Still, he wisely kept the thought to himself. Being subjected to Legilimency once had been quite enough; his head had felt ready to explode.
They left Septimus's room and wandered the corridors for a while longer. Draco, still very much a boy, could not resist chasing the white peacocks a few steps whenever one came into view.
"That was my first flying broom," he said, pointing to a small, rather battered model on a stand. "I'm going to try out for the Quidditch team next year. I know I won't fly as well as you—you're incredible. Were you a Quidditch star back then as well?"
"No. The Headmaster in those days was Phineas Black." Harry's expression grew complicated at the mere mention of the name. "Headmaster Black forbade Quidditch matches on school grounds."
"That's dreadful!" Draco declared with genuine outrage.
For all his pure-blood upbringing, he loved Quidditch with a pure and burning passion. The discovery that any Headmaster had once banned the sport was enough to earn that Headmaster his lasting dislike.
Harry held out his hand.
"What?" Draco took it, puzzled, and found his own hand shaken firmly twice.
"In our day," Harry said with a grin, "there was a saying: if you hate Headmaster Black, you're one of us."
"Absolutely!" Draco nodded hard. "I always thought Dumbledore was a terrible Headmaster—now I see there was someone even worse."
"Why do you think Slytherin managed to get along with the other three Houses in those days?" Harry asked, smiling. "We all shared a common enemy: Headmaster Black."
Draco laughed.
"If I'd been a Slytherin then, I expect I'd have made friends with Gryffindors for exactly the same reason."
"Slytherin House was very different in those days," Harry said, a touch of nostalgia in his voice. "Honour mattered more than blood status. Excellence was the goal. And now? Apart from Miss Farley, how many sane people are left in Slytherin? Yourself included."
Had a first-year Potter said those words, Draco would have bristled and argued. Coming from the legendary wizard, however, they met with almost no resistance.
"You're right," he admitted.
"So the change starts with you, Draco." Harry clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "When there is time, I'll tell you about the friends I made in Slytherin—Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt."
He cut off whatever further questions Draco was about to ask.
"It's getting late. I have a friend waiting at the Leaky Cauldron who needs feeding."
Draco reluctantly swallowed his curiosity.
"All right. Just don't forget."
"I won't."
After taking his leave of Lucius and Narcissa, Harry Disapparated from the manor grounds.
"He truly is the Saviour, isn't he?" Narcissa murmured, gazing at the empty space where he had stood.
Lucius inclined his head in quiet agreement.
"Father, Mother," Draco said suddenly, "he's not only the Saviour—he's the legendary wizard from a hundred years ago as well!"
Lucius felt a familiar spark of irritation rise.
"I think you had better—"
Draco cut him off, words tumbling out in a rush.
"We went to the room with Great-great-grandfather's portrait. He recognised Harry at once. If you don't believe me, come and ask him yourselves."
Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a long look.
Could the boy actually be telling the truth this time?
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