Disclaimer: The plot of this story and all characters except Harry, Ron, Hermione and Cotton Mather, belong to me. Harry, Ron, Hermione are all JK Rowling’s (sadly?) and Cotton Mather was a real person who lived in Salem, Massachusetts in 1692. The facts concerning the Salem Witchcraft Trials are all true.

February 1st, 1998

Prologue

The village of Hogsmeade was covered in a thick blanket of snow. Hogwarts students were spending one of their few days of freedom roaming around the village stocking up on pranks, sweets and bottles of Butterbeer. The surrounding shops were decked in various Christmas decorations: Holly, mistletoe and glittering stars covered windows and doors. Although Christmas had passed quite some time ago, no one felt like taking down the decorations, especially since the weather was still suggesting that winter was going no where.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were trudging through the packed snow, making their way to the Three Broomsticks. The second term of their seventh and last year in Hogwarts had begun and it was a taxing time, due to the approaching N.E.W.T examinations. The three friends wanted to take as much time to enjoy themselves as possible before the more strenuous studies began.

‘Hurry,’ moaned Ron, his teeth chattering in the icy wind. ‘I can already smell the Butterbeer.’

The weather was unbearably cold. Even though Harry had packed on his clothes and he was wearing a thick woolen cloak, the cold wind still cut through, chilling his insides. Harry could hardly wait to get to the cozy pub, where he could have a bottle of Butterbeer which was sure to warm him up. He, Hermione and Ron quickened their pace as much as possible, considering the three feet of snow that had fallen the previous night. Soon they reached the pub. Just before they could enter Harry caught sight of something glinting in the snow, something which reminded him of the Golden Quidditch Snitch.

‘Hey, what’s that?’ he said, pointing.

Hermione forced her way over to where Harry was pointing and plunged her arm into the snow. Shivering she pulled it out again holding a small copper colored piece of metal. She walked back to Harry and Ron and held out the item.

‘It some kind of medal, I think,’ she said.

Harry took the object into his gloved hands. It was heavy and circular. Its outer edges had strange engravings carved onto it. In the center of the amulet was a small button.

‘Look at this!’ said Harry. Hermione and Ron leaned closer.

‘It’s a button,’ said Ron, looking entranced. ‘What d’you think it does?’

Ron reached forward to touch it.

‘No!’ said Hermione, grabbing onto Ron’s arm but it was too late.

Harry felt his feet being swept off the ground and his stomach lurched as he felt himself speeding somewhere. He tried to let go of the amulet but his hand was stuck as if glued or frozen on. A feeling of vertigo came over him and he closed his eyes, wishing that he could stop. Somewhere nearby he heard Hermione gasp. Harry opened his eyes again and saw a whir of color whizzing by. Everything was going much to fast, as if he were on a roller coaster that had lost control. A feeling of nausea rose in Harry’s throat and he closed his eyes again, praying it to stop.

Then suddenly it did. Harry’s feet rammed onto solid ground with such force that he was sure something had broken. Thumps beside him told his Ron and Hermione had landed too. Harry was just about to open his eyes when something smashed into his head and he was enveloped in endless darkness.

**

A/N: Okay, this fic is rated PG-13 for some gory chapters coming later on. If I feel that there isn't too much gory-ness I'll change the rating. Feedback would be wonderful... tell me what your thinking!

February 1st, 1692

Naima Becker was sitting near a large tub full of soapy water, washing the breakfast dishes. She sighed despairingly and brushed her long curly black hair out of her eyes. She hated house work with all her heart. What she wouldn’t give to be outside, in the snow, exploring and enjoying the weather! But a women’s place was in the house, as her mother reminded her every morning. Now that she was twelve and almost an adult, she had responsibilities and she knew better than to shirk her duties, especially under her mother’s watchful eye. That didn’t stop her dreaming though. She was ever looking for an adventure, a chance to meet new people. Having lived in the small town of Salem all her life, she rarely met anyone she didn’t already know. Her mother couldn’t understand where Naima got her yearn for adventure, but Naima herself expected she got it from her father. Samuel Becker was a well-off merchant who spent much time out, visiting various places in the world. Just last month he had visited India, to buy striking Indian goods and spices which would defiantly improve business.

Naima wiped off the last plate on a dish rag and put it away. Then she picked up the large tub and walked out the door to drain the water. A small smile spread on her face as she stepped into the icy wind. Maybe she could spend a little time outdoors without her mother noticing. She put down the tub by the side of the large house and looked around. There had been a snowstorm the previous night and three feet of snow covered the ground. Despite the freezing wind, Naima’s sealskin coat kept her warm as she looked at her large home. She knew she ought to be thankful for such a huge home, but a small cozy cottage would take less time to clean. The house was a two-and-a-half story building, made of bricks, layered with strong oak wood. The house was still quite new, and the wooden boards gleamed. The house’s exterior was very beautiful. Five large circle shaped, frost covered windows decorated each of the outer walls. The red roof shingles gave the house a warm, cottage-y look. The house was different from most houses in Salem. Aside from its large size, the fact that it had been constructed with stone and wood was a strange thing.

Near the house was a large stable, where the horses and cows stayed during the winter. Naima and her family had not kept pigs or chickens that winter.

Naima stepped away from the house, after grabbing a small club sitting by the door of the house. Naima had promised her father that she would take it with her whenever she went even a few feet away from the house. Although Naima never had reason to use it, she followed her father’s orders. Times were bad, and the war had spread everywhere. Danger could come in any form.

Near the house was a small forest. Naima was swinging her bat around carelessly, contemplating going into the forest and wondering whether her mother would kill her if she found out, when she heard three loud thumps behind her. Her back stiffened and she tensed. Who was there? Her heart began to pound against her chest and she made her decision. She quickly turned around and swung her bat hard, at three dark shapes, huddled on the snow covered ground. She swung her bat harder hoping she could knock out the three burly-looking figures. Once, twice, three times her bat made contact with a sickening crunch. She stopped and looked down at the people who had sneaked up behind her, thinking that it would serve them right if they were dead. The three people were lying on the ground, unmoving, but Naima didn’t dare move closer, in case they were trying to trick her. She decided to call her mother who was up in the house, mending some clothes. She hurried to the door, stopping on the way to dump the water out of the washing tub, and then hurried up the stairs to the third floor.

‘Mother!’ she said, when she entered her mother’s sewing room.

‘Finished with the washing, dear?’ asked her mother. Samantha Becker was a beautiful woman, who looked less than her thirty-seven years. She had long auburn hair and twinkling light-blue eyes. Her mouth always seemed to be smiling.

‘Yes, Mother, but you don’t understand,’ said Naima hurriedly. ‘I went out to dump the washing water—’

‘Don’t tell me you went off adventuring, dear,’ said Samantha, looking stern.

‘Mother! Listen!’ Naima said. ‘Three people sneaked up on me and I knocked them out with that club Father makes me take outside. They’re lying in the snow right now, but I didn’t want to go near them, in case they are fooling. Will you come down with me to see who they are?’

‘Very well, Naima,’ replied Samantha, looking weary. ‘I do hope this isn’t one of your tricks.’

‘No, Mother,’ said Naima, grabbing her mother’s hand and pulling her out the door.

They reached the door, and Naima was relieved to see that the three figures still lay in the snow. Samantha gasped.

‘My word,’ she whispered, walking closer.

Now that her mother was with her, Naima had no fear of getting near the three figures. She hurried close, wondering if she had killed them after all. She knelt down by the nearest body, her mother right behind her, and turned it over. Naima gasped in surprise. It was a boy who was actually almost a man, and quite a bit older that Naima herself.

Her mother hurried over to examine the other two bodies. One was a girl with bushy, brown hair and the other was another boy with flaming red hair.

Samantha looked reprovingly at her daughter. ‘Naima, you should have looked before you swung your bat! These are just children! I’m sure they meant no harm.’

Naima looked back at the boy she had turned over. He had jet black hair and a strange scar on his forehead. Naima was looking at the scar curiously, and was just reaching out to touch it when she noticed that the boy’s lips were blue and the skin around his eyes was turning darker. His breath was coming out in icy puffs which meant that he wasn’t dead so then he must be…

‘Mother!’ she shrieked. ‘He’s freezing!’

Samantha was already on her feet. ‘How long did you leave them out here?’

Without waiting for an answer she continued. ‘We’ll have to take them inside. Go and prepare three beds by the fire on the first floor, and be quick!’

Naima ran inside and took out three straw mats and put them near the fire. Then she covered the bedding with white cloths and ran back outside. Samantha had lifted up the boy with black hair and was hurrying him inside. Soon all three were on the beds near the fire.

Samantha knelt down next to the three adolescents and began pulling off their wet clothes. All three of them were wearing cloaks of wool and strange black robes over some kind of uniform. The girl had on a long woolen skirt and a blouse while the two boys had on thick black shirts and pants. Samantha removed the wet cloaks and robes and set them near the fire to dry. Then she covered all three with the thickest, warmest buffalo-skin blankets.

‘Their garments are so strange. Why are they so thin?’ said Naima touching the fabric.

‘They must be new to Salem,’ answered Samantha. ‘Maybe it does not get so cold where they are from.’

‘Still, only the poorest families use wool. Surly they could have afforded seal skin!’ Naima exclaimed. ‘Their other garments do not suggest that they are deprived.’ She pointed to the clothes the children still wore.

‘We do not know the conditions of their lives, Naima,’ said Samantha, reprimanding. ‘Not all people are as blessed as we are. I wonder why these three are not with their parents.’

Naima nodded. She was suddenly very envious of the three youths lying before her. They must have such wondrous adventures if they were travelling without adults to keep them in check.

Samantha stood up. ‘Keep the fire strong, Naima. They will become deathly ill if they are not warmed. I am going to make some hot soup for them to drink. The poor dears would not be lying here if it weren’t for your carelessness, so now we must care for them as best as possible.’

Naima nodded again and stoked the fire. She watched the three teenagers, looking for any sign of their awakening, but none of them moved. She continued to stoke the fire guiltily. She had been the cause of this and now she must quietly suffer the consequences. As Naima sat by the fire, she noticed that the raven-haired boy was clutching something in his hand: Something which was glinting in the firelight. Naima reached over and tried to pries his hand open. It was some kind of copper medallion. Naima gazed at it inquiringly, wondering what it had been given for.

Soon Samantha returned with a small bottle in her hands. Samantha’s father had been the town doctor before he died. Samantha had learned a lot from him and she used her knowledge to help the town’s folk when a certified doctor was unavailable.

‘Here,’ she said, handing Naima the bottle. ‘When they wake up, make sure to give them some of this. It’s a warming tonic. It’ll help to take the chill away.’

Naima took the bottle and set it down on the wooden floor. ‘Look, Mother,’ she said, handing Samantha the copper pendant. ‘This boy was holding it. What do you think it is?’

Samantha turned the pendant over and looked at the engravings on it. ‘I can not say, Naima. It looks like a medal… maybe this boy did something to receive it as a gift.’ But as Samantha handed the medallion back to Naima she looked slightly disconcerted.

Naima stayed by the fire for the rest of the day. Not one of the adolescents had stirred and Naima only left them to eat. At around ten at night the boy with the scar began to shiver. Naima, seeing him suffering from these spasms, panicked.

‘Mother!’ she shrieked.

**

Harry slowly returned to consciousness. His head was hurting horribly and his whole body was feeling numb. As his brain slowly started to come back to life Harry realized he was cold. Horribly cold, colder than he’d ever been in his life. He began to shiver. Harry tried to stop the shivering, to control the trembling, but it wasn’t possible. He shivered harder and faster. Although his body was colder than it had ever been before, his brain still seemed to be working. He slowly began to hear voices around him.

‘Why are they shivering so much?’ a soft voice asked.

‘It’s the body’s way of warming up,’ replied another, slightly deeper voice. ‘Quick, give him the tonic.’

Harry felt someone lift up his head and something touch his lips and the next thing he knew a hot peppery liquid was being forced down his throat. He tried to cough but his body refused to cooperate and the liquid slipped down his throat.

The first voice spoke again. ‘Look, the others are waking up too.’

‘Give them the tonic too,’ said the second voice. ‘It’ll keep away any harmful illnesses.’

Harry realized that both the voices were female voices. He struggled to open his eyes and heard Ron’s groggy voice saying: ‘W-Where a-am I-I?’

Harry forced his eyes open. He was lying in a large room by a roaring fire whose warmth he couldn’t feel. Nearby, Ron was sitting up and Hermione was stirring. Harry looked around and saw a young girl and an older women looking down at him and his friends. For a moment Harry just looked at them trying to figure out where he was. After a while, when he was unable to find any information in his brain, Harry rolled onto his side, still shivering uncontrollably. A sudden, inexplicable urge to sleep came over him and he felt his eyelids shutting of their own accord as warmth spread over his body.

From under a warm blanket of darkness Harry heard someone say something.

‘No!’ said a voice. Someone was shaking him. Harry tried to moan, to pull away but whoever it was kept on shaking him.

‘No!’ he heard the voice say. ‘You mustn’t sleep, child! In such a state, sleep will be the death of you.’

Harry pulled his eyes open again and saw that the women was shaking him, her auburn hair falling over her shoulders and her blue eyes filled with determination.

‘That’s it dear,’ she said, smiling. ‘Wake up now. We have some food for you.’

She lifted him up pushed him against a wall, in a sitting position. Harry tried to control himself, tried to stop the shaking and tried to keep his eyes open. He looked around and saw that Ron was also sitting against the wall and that Hermione was being roused by the girl he had seen earlier.

Harry looked down as something was pushed into his hands. The women handed him a bowl of hot soup but Harry’s shaking hands couldn’t hold the bowl steady. He felt ashamed that he was unable to hold a small bowl of soup but the women didn’t scorn him. She took the bowl from him and set it down on a tray, which held two more bowls brimming with hot soup.

‘Naima!’ the women called. The girl looked up from helping Hermione into a sitting position. ‘Give them their soup and help them eat if they need it.’

Naima nodded and took two soup bowls from the tray and handed one to Ron and one to Hermione. Both of them seemed to be able to hold their bowls, which embarrassed Harry even more.

‘I’m sorry…’ he whispered, hoarsely, as the women picked up his bowl and made to feed him.

‘Don’t be, sweetheart,’ said the women, smiling kindly. ‘I’m Samantha Becker and this is my daughter Naima. You three wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her, so it is our duty to help you. Do not be ashamed.’

Harry nodded slowly and curled up, trying to keep warm without shivering but it wasn’t much help. Samantha quickly fed Harry the soup. Ron and Hermione finished quickly too and Samantha stood up to take their bowls to a washing tub standing in the corner.

Slowly Harry felt himself getting warmer and was quite warm when Samantha walked up, although he was still shivering slightly.

‘You three should get some sleep. It is very late. You may keep these beds.’ She gestured to the bedding on the floor. ‘Naima and I sleep on the second floor. If you need anything feel free to wake us.’

Harry, Ron and Hermione nodded. Naima and Samantha left the room.

The three friends crawled to the beds but none of them lay down.

‘Where are we?’ asked Ron.

‘And how d-did we get here?’ added Harry through chattering teeth, wrapping the soft blanket around him.

‘That amulet,’ said Hermione. ‘Where is it?’

Harry stopped a moment as everything came back to him. The amulet… Ron pressing a button… the horrible speeding feeling… the darkness. He looked around for the pendant.

‘I thought it was in my hand,’ he said, worriedly. ‘One of them must have taken it.’

‘That amulet did something,’ Hermione whispered. ‘It transported us here when Ron pressed the button.’

Ron looked mortified. ‘So that’s why you tried to stop me!’

Hermione nodded. ‘It was something we found on the ground. You should’ve known not to touch it!’

‘So where are we?’ asked Harry. ‘Or when are we?’

Hermione looked around for something. A piece of paper caught her eye and she hurried over to get it. She brought it back and held it up. Harry saw that it was an old-fashioned newspaper called the Salem Gazette. On the right-hand corner there was a date. It said February 1st 1692.

**

‘1692!’ said Ron, in awe.

‘We’ve been transported into the past!’ exclaimed Harry, snatching the newspaper away from Hermione and looking it over. ‘To Salem, Massachusetts… that’s in America, isn’t it?’

Hermione nodded slowly. ‘Actually in 1692 this area was known as New England. It’s still far to travel though.’ she said in amazement.

‘Forget the travel distance! We’ve been transported 300 years into the past!’ exclaimed Harry.

‘Why did that thing bring us to this time?’ asked Ron.

‘I don’t know… but I do seem to recall something about Salem from History of Magic. Something to do with magical people,’ said Hermione, thinking hard.

‘You only seem to recall?’ said Ron, incredulously. ‘This has to be a first: Hermione Granger unable to remember something!’

Hermione swatted at Ron with her hand. ‘Very funny!’

Ron smirked. ‘So do you remember now?’

Harry was deep in thought. He too seemed to remember something about Salem, Massachusetts. It was one of the few interesting topics Professor Binns had ever taught. Just then it came to him and at the same time Hermione gasped.

‘The Salem Witchcraft Trials!’ they said together.

‘The what?’ asked Ron, looking from Harry to Hermione in confusion.

‘The Salem Witchcraft Trials!’ said Hermione. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what they are!’

‘Okay, I won’t tell you,’ said Ron. He turned to Harry. ‘What are they?’

‘Well,’ began Harry, ‘I only know a little. Maybe Hermione should explain.’

‘In February of 1692, many adolescent girls living in Salem experienced bouts of fits and seizures,’ recited Hermione, sounding uncannily like Professor Binns. ‘Doctors were unable to understand the cause of these fits and they began to press the girls to give the names of the ‘witches’ who afflicted them. Pressurized the girls began to name names and eventually by October 1692 twenty people were executed even though there was no firm evidence against them. Special witchcraft courts held trials and the trials were so influenced by the community, the members of which wanted to see people dead for their children’s sufferings, that many people were forced to confess to deeds they hadn’t done. Innocent Muggles and even witches and wizards were hanged.’

Ron raised an eyebrow. ‘Harsh.’

Hermione nodded her agreement. ‘If its February, then the fits will be starting soon… We have to be careful not to do any magic while we’re here! Who knows what these people can do.’

‘So what really caused all those fits, if it wasn’t magic?’ asked Ron curiously.

‘Oh, most of it was magic. People performing Dark Magic were attracted to torturing young girls and children. Followers of Dark Wizards didn’t hesitate to hurt young people. No one ever caught the true culprits though… innocent muggles were the main victims of the trials,’ replied Hermione.

‘Most?’ asked Harry.

‘The muggles of 1998 have a theory that some special kind of fungus called ergot infested the grains used in Salem and caused a disease that had the same symptoms of fits that the girls suffered. Ergot also causes hallucinations. I suppose that theory is also quite possible,’ replied Hermione. ‘But because the doctors of 1692 had no idea of fungus infestation, they assumed that witchcraft was to blame and they weren’t entirely wrong.’

Ron was staring at Hermione as if she were from another planet. ‘Where do you get all this from?’ he asked amazedly.

Hermione ignored him. ‘We have to be careful. We can’t even mention anything to do with magic!’

‘What should we do with our wands?’ asked Harry quietly.

‘Hide them, I guess,’ replied Hermione. ‘Here give them to me.’

Harry and Ron handed their wands to Hermione, who looked around for a moment.

‘Why not there?’ said Harry, pointing to a loose floorboard.

Hermione nodded, lifted up the bored and pushed the three wands underneath. ‘Remember where they are. We might need them later.’

‘Let’s get some sleep now,’ said Ron, yawning. Harry and Hermione heartily agreed and soon the three friends were fast asleep in front the blazing fire.

**

A/N: The explanation of the Salem Witchcraft Trials that Hermione made and the Ergot theory are all real. The Ergot theory is thought to be the reason of the fits the girls experienced.
Phew, that was one long chapter. Feedback would be a great treat! Pretty please?

February 2nd, 1692

Harry awoke the next morning, warm and comfortable on the soft straw mat. He opened his eyes to see rays of sunlight shining through the glass paned windows. Next to him Ron was still asleep but Hermione’s bed was made up. Harry sat up, rubbed his eyes and pulled on his glasses to see Hermione walking up to him carrying a pile of clothes.

‘Good Morning, sleepyhead!’ she said cheerfully.

‘’Morning,’ replied Harry.

Hermione walked over to Ron and nudged him with her foot. ‘Wake up, Ron!’

Ron groaned. ‘Whassatime?’

‘Its eleven in the morning and time to wake up,’ replied Hermione, dumping the clothes on Ron’s head when he didn’t move.

Harry noticed that Hermione had changed her clothes. She was now wearing a long brown dress and a crisp white apron.

‘When in Salem live as the Puritans do,’ said Hermione when she saw Harry looking at her. ‘We have to blend with the crowd while we’re here. Most people wear clothes like these. They’re very comfortable.’

She handed Harry some clothes of his own.

‘Puritans?’ asked Harry, looking at the clothes Hermione had handed him. They didn’t look very comfortable to Harry: A collared shirt and thick coarse brown pants. After soft robes, cloaks and modern Muggle clothes, these rough garments didn’t look inviting.

‘Yes. The Puritans were the first settlers of New England,’ whispered Hermione. ‘They broke away from the Church of England and came to New England to spread a pure, ‘godly’ branch of Christianity, away from the corruption of the Church of England. I think their religion is called Congregationalism.’

‘How is it,’ said Ron, looking bleary-eyed, ‘that you know everything about everything, Hermione?’

‘I study Ron. And I don’t know everything about everything,’ said Hermione. ‘Hurry up and get changed! According to the Puritan way of life we have to work from sunrise to sunset and it’s already eleven. Samantha is letting us stay until—’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘—we can find a way out of here… which means until we can get back to 1998.’

Ron groaned. ‘We can’t get back to 1998 and we have to do house work?!’

‘Yes, now hurry up. It’s your fault we’re here so you’d better stop complaining.’

Ron grinned sheepishly. Hermione left and Harry and Ron quickly slipped into their new clothes. Harry was just putting some heavy boots on when Samantha entered the room.

‘I do hope the clothes fit,’ she said, smiling. ‘They belonged to my brothers and I’ve kept them for sometime. Hermione said they’d fit you.’

‘They fit just fine,’ replied Harry, politely. ‘Thanks very much.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Ron, buckling his belt.

Samantha nodded her head approvingly. ‘It was my pleasure dears. Now you may take a quick breakfast and then it is off to work. Hermione says you are willing to work for your keep as long as you are here and I do need some help around the house. My husband has gone on another trip and we have no men to go to town. We are running out of rye.’

Harry and Ron agreed to the breakfast and promised that they would run any errands Samantha needed done.

Harry entered the large kitchen. It was a warm, cozy looking room with an old-fashioned stove in the corner. For 1692 it was quite modern though, and Harry had to remind himself that he was living in the past, at least for now. The pipes of the stove ran into the ceiling where there was probably a chimney. On one side of the kitchen stood a few large tubs, used for the laundry and dishwashing. A large window looked out onto the front lawn which was still covered in thick, glittering snow. Harry noticed Hermione hanging clothes on a long clothesline, and for a moment he wondered how long it took the clothes to dry in the cold. In the distance Harry could see a forest and a large piece of empty land possibly used for growing crops. In the middle of the kitchen was a large wooden table made of oak. It was well cared for and the wood was not rotting. A few shelves on the other side of the room held plates, bowls and eating utensils along with a few large cooking pots.

A small staircase led to a door level with the kitchen floor which Harry supposed, was the entrance to the cellar.

Samantha invited Harry and Ron to sit down at the table and put two bowls of steaming porridge in front of them.

‘We have only a little maple syrup left from the spring so we must use it sparingly,’ said Samantha, setting a small jug of thick golden syrup on the table.

Harry took the jug and added a few drops to the mash and mixed it in. The syrup was so strong and sweet that even a small amount gave a lot of taste.

Samantha sat down at the table with Harry and Ron. ‘Naima, my daughter says you were holding this in your hand last night.’

Samantha held out the copper amulet that was responsible for transporting Harry, Ron and Hermione to 1692.

Harry took the amulet. ‘Yeah, I was holding this.’

‘If I may inquire… where did you get it?’ asked Samantha.

‘I picked it up in the snow,’ replied Harry.

Samantha nodded. ‘I see. Do you know what it is?’

When Harry shook his head, Samantha continued. ‘From the markings on it, I would say that it has something to do with the occult and magic.’

Harry looked up, surprised while Ron choked on his porridge.

‘Yes,’ said Samantha, misinterpreting their reaction. ‘The markings imply that the item is used for some sort of witchcraft.’

‘Oh,’ said Harry, trying to sound scared. ‘What should we do with it?’

‘I advise that you take it to town and put it in the position of our magistrate or maybe you ought to give it to the clergyman, Cotton Mather. Both may want to investigate it. We have been having an increase in the practice of black magic in Salem. Just yesterday news came of a young girl who suffered from horrible fits. Her mother has been imprisoned for suspected sorcery.’

Harry heard Ron gulp next to him. Harry was beginning to get worried too. ‘We’ll hand it over to the clergyman or magistrate right away Mrs. Becker.’

Samantha laughed. ‘Please, call me Samantha. Mrs. Becker makes me feel old. Well, I must get on with my sewing. Naima can direct you to town— she’s outside with Hermione. She’ll tell you what you need to get and give you the money. Have a good day, boys.’ She stood up and left the room.

Harry and Ron quickly finished breakfast and then pulled on the sealskin coats Samantha had lent them. They walked out into the snow covered world.

Hermione was chatting animatedly with Naima, looking perfectly at ease doing the housework. She waved Harry and Ron over when she saw them.

‘Hello! Finished breakfast? This is Naima Becker. Naima these are my best friends Harry Potter and Ron Weasley,’ Hermione said.

Naima smiled at each of them, her black eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Such strange names you three have! They sound quite exotic. Old England must be such a wondrous place. I’ve never been there myself but it can hardly be as dull as people describe it.’

‘Oh, it defiantly isn’t dull,’ replied Harry, smiling. ‘Hermione, could we have a word?’

Hermione nodded and excused herself. Harry led her and Ron to the front wall of the house.

‘Look, we got it back,’ said Harry, holding out the amulet. ‘Samantha told us that these markings have something to do with magic. We should go now before people get too suspicious.’

Ron nodded but Hermione looked dubious. ‘I don’t know. If we disappear right now, what will everyone think?’

‘Who cares Hermione?!’ exclaimed Ron. ‘We’ll be gone anyway! And why aren’t you worried about changing history? You should be hysterical with worry right about now!’

Hermione looked at Ron. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

She held out her hand to touch the medal but Harry hesitated. ‘Er- why don’t one of you hold it?’ he asked.

‘Why?’ said Ron.

‘I think it has some kind of draining powers. I was the one holding it yesterday and I couldn’t hold a bowl steady, while you two could. I don’t want a repeat of that experience.’

Ron shrugged and held out his hand for the amulet. Harry handed it to him and put a hand on it, as did Hermione. Ron reached with his other hand a pressed the button. Harry closed his eyes, waiting for the speeding feeling, but it never came. He opened his eyes.

‘Why are we still here?’ he asked, looking around.

Ron pushed the button a few more times, but to no avail.

Hermione looked panicky. ‘It must have lost its power. It only had enough magic to transport us one way!’

‘We’re stuck in 1692? Forever?!’ Ron looked mortified.

‘What about changing history and everything?’ asked Harry, looking at the medal as if it were trying to trick them.

‘Well… if we look at it logically, whoever made this amulet must have taken precautions against changing history. If he or she were planning to travel back here to live, they must have arranged for everyone’s memories to be erased or something, automatically. They couldn’t have sneaked around all their lives,’ said Hermione.

‘So there’s probably no danger in us being here,’ said Harry.

‘No danger… except for the fact that we can’t use magic unless we want to be hanged!’ exclaimed Ron.

‘Well, we’ll just have to adjust… until I can figure out a way to get us back to 1998. Now we’d better get back or Naima will get suspicious.’ Hermione whispered.

Harry and Ron nodded and they walked back to Naima, who was still hanging clothes.

‘Ready to go to town, Harry and Ron?’ asked Naima as they approached. Harry replied in the affirmative.

‘Well, here is the money,’ Naima said, handing Ron a bag of coins. ‘We need a small bag of brown sugar and one sack of flour, oats and rye each. Just follow that path—’ she pointed to a small path which had been cleared of snow, ‘—until you get to a town. You can not miss it.’

Harry nodded. ‘Okay, thanks. See you two later.’

Hermione and Naima waved as Harry and Ron set off down the path. The town was a good three miles away and Harry and Ron had to stop a few times to catch their breath. It took them about an hour to reach the small town of Salem.

The town was quite large, considering that it was 1692 and that New England had only been colonized at the beginning of the last century. Harry could see a blacksmith and a carpentry shop. A shoemakers shop, a wagon maker’s shop and masonry’s also stood along the path. Further on were a small General Store, a bakery and a church. In the distance stood a small red schoolhouse surrounded by a few apple trees. On the other side of the path was a large building which had the word, MAGISTRATE, engraved on the wooden doors. Harry could also see a few trade carts stacked with fur, utensils and iron. The town was surrounded by cottages and houses of various sizes.

Harry and Ron entered the General Store. The small store had the wonder smells of sweet syrups and new fabric. Harry looked around. Near a large window stood large barrels full of various items, toffees wrapped in golden paper, brown and white sugar, salt, rice, corn kernels, cinnamon sticks and miniature bags of chocolate.

Behind the counter long shelves were stacked with circles of yellow cheese, butter molds and sacks of various grains. Other shelves held wax candles, boxes of matches, large and small pieces of glass used for windows and small toys for children who had collected enough pennies to buy them. Boxes of molasses and large bags of granulated white sugar leaned against one of the walls. Meat hooks hung from the ceiling with large slabs of red meat for families who did not raise animals.

Also behind the counter stood a portly man, probably in his mid-thirties, helping some customers. He was laughing, a jolly laugh that made his belly shake and the skin around his eyes crinkled in joy giving him a cheerful appearance.

Harry and Ron waited at the counter until the store keeper was free. He handed a customer a mold of butter and then stepped over to where the two friends stood.

‘Welcome lads! How may I help you?’ asked the shopkeeper. He looked them over quickly. ‘Are you two new to these parts? Can’t say that I’ve seen you before and I know most everybody in Salem.’

‘Yes, we’re new here,’ replied Harry. ‘We’ve just come from England. We’re staying with the Becker’s.’

‘Well, I see! Welcome to Salem. You’re welcome to settle down here. God knows this town could use a few more young able men. I’m Christopher Andrews, Mr. Andrews if you like. What do you need?’

‘Well,’ said Harry, searching his memory. ‘We need a small bag of brown sugar and a sack of rye, oats and flour each.’

Mr. Andrews nodded and bustled off to retrieve each item. He brought three large sacks and a small bag back. ‘Here you are, sirs. That will be half a pound.’

Harry handed the coins Naima had given them to Mr. Andrews who nodded. Harry passed two bags to Ron and lifted the other two himself and the two friends left the shop.

On the path Harry stopped.

‘Should we go give the amulet to the magistrate like Samantha said?’ he asked Ron.

‘Well, we can’t use it can we?’ replied Ron.

Harry nodded his agreement and they turned around, heading towards the magistrate’s building.

Inside a young man was sitting at a large desk. Harry went over to him.

‘Erm- excuse me… are you the Magistrate?’ he said.

The man looked up at him and nodded. ‘And who may you two young lads be? Newcomers?’

Ron nodded. ‘We’ve recently come from England and we’re staying with the Becker’s just out of town.’

The magistrate nodded. ‘Yes, I am Magistrate Hawthorn. How may I help you?’

‘Well,’ began Harry, ‘My friends and I found this amulet in the snow yesterday and Mistress Becker says that the markings indicate witchcraft. She suggested we hand it over to you for investigation.’

Ron held out the copper amulet. The magistrate took it and looked it over a few times.

‘Yes, Mistress Becker is correct. The markings do suggest this amulet’s use in sorcery. Thank you for bringing it here boys.’

‘Sir, if you wouldn’t mind, have there been any more reports of witchcraft here?’ asked Harry curiously.

Magistrate Hawthorn looked at Harry warily. ‘Not since yesterday. A young girl was taken ill and her mother has been brought in for questioning.’

‘The girl blamed her own mother for the fits!?’ cried Ron, incredulously. The Magistrate nodded and Ron looked disgusted.

‘How do you know it was witchcraft?’ asked Harry, before he could stop himself. He felt Ron stamp down on his foot and was glad the magistrate couldn’t see their feet.

‘The fits the young lady suffered have no medical explanation. Also the girl was playing with tea leaves before she began to convulse. Such sorcery is an open invitation for the devil and black magic,’ replied the magistrate.

‘But she was just playing with tea leaves! It was probably just for fun, to try and tell fortunes. Divination is such an obscure branch of magic,’ exclaimed Harry. Ron stamped on his foot again, this time harder. Harry realized his mistake a bit too late.

The magistrate squinted up at Harry. ‘How much do you know about divination, boy?’

‘N-Not much, sir,’ replied Harry, realizing he had gone too far.

‘Then I suggest you not to interfere in the business,’ said the magistrate, by way of dismissal.

Harry and Ron turned and left the building.

‘Good going Harry! He’ll be sure to suspect us. I’m sure he already does,’ said Ron worriedly.

Harry agreed. ‘Yeah, I think I sort of went too far. Maybe he won’t think too much of it though.’

‘You just hope he doesn’t get any ideas! I’d like to live the rest of my life happily, thank you very much. It’ll be your fault if he decides to arrest us.’

Harry laughed. ‘Don’t worry! He won’t! What can he do?’

**

A/N: The Puritans were a real sect of people who had separated from the Church of England. I’ve tried my best to reproduce their way of life but please forgive me for any mistakes.
Not as long as the last chapter but I hope I'll get reviews anyway...

February 3rd, 1692.

Harry wiped drops of sweat off of his forehead. Although he was standing in the freezing snow, shoveling was still making him hot. Next to him, Ron was still pushing his shovel through the thickly packed snow, grunting.

‘I can’t take much more of this,’ said Ron, plopping down on the snow.

‘Me neither,’ replied Harry. ‘I didn’t think shoveling snow was this hard. I guess I’m out of practice. I haven’t shoveled the Dursleys front porch since before I got into Hogwarts.’

‘It never snows this much in the England of 1998,’ said Ron, rubbing snow on his face.

‘There’s more Global Warming in 1998.’ Hermione had joined the boys outside.

‘What are you doing out here already?’ asked Ron. ‘And who cares about global heating or whatever?’

‘We finished making the bread long ago. Naima was just showing me how to read tea leaves—’ Hermione looked amused ‘—as if I didn’t know how to already. Samantha says you should come in for lunch now. Actually, its called dinner but you know what I mean.’

Ron sprang up happily. ‘Lunch, dinner, who cares? It just means food!’

‘You can finish shoveling afterwards,’ added Hermione quickly.

Ron’s smile drooped considerably.

‘Okay,’ said Harry, gratefully. After so much work, he was very hungry.

Harry and Ron stowed the shovels in the stables and hurried into the house. The smell of fresh bread wafted through the kitchen door. Ron sniffed the air.

‘That doesn’t smell like normal bread,’ he said, as they entered the kitchen. ‘It smells more… spicy, somehow.’

Samantha smiled. ‘Yes, that is because it is rye bread. Rye gives more spice than wheat. Most families avoid rye bread but I quite like the taste.

She and Naima were standing at a counter cutting loaves of bread. Hermione was setting bowls onto the table.

Harry and Ron sat down and Hermione joined them. Naima set a bread platter full of fresh rye bread down on the table and sat down next to Hermione.

Samantha set a steaming china bowl down on the table. It was full of a yellow mash. The smell told Harry that it was some kind of corn mash. There were also some drumsticks from what Harry suspected to be a turkey. Harry was so hungry and he knew that Samantha was very kind to be providing food for them, that he didn’t think of complaining but he was missing the Hogwarts feasts more and more.

The corn mash was filling and had a wonderful taste and the turkey was a good side dish. Harry quickly ate and pushed back his chair.

‘That was wonderful Samantha,’ he said politely.

Samantha smiled and nodded to Naima who was gathering the dishes. ‘Naima prepared today’s meal after she stopped fooling around with false fortune-telling. You should thank her.’

‘Oh,’ said Harry. ‘Well, thanks a lot Naima.’

Naima blushed and hurried away to dump the dishes in the washing tub. Samantha got up and left the room, saying she’d be working on the sewing on the second floor.

Ron turned to Hermione a soon as they were alone. ‘So, have you figured out a way to get us back to 1998?’

Hermione shook her head dolefully. ‘I have no books or anything here. I have no idea how to get us back.’

‘So we’re really stuck here?’ asked Ron, looking hopeless.

Hermione nodded miserably. ‘I think so… yes.’

The three friends were silent for a moment overwhelmed by their predicament.

‘Everyone must be so worried back home,’ said Harry, voicing everyone’s thoughts.

‘I don’t understand how this could have happened,’ said Hermione. ‘Why are we stuck here? I thought that maybe something would automatically send us back after a while but it’s been three days almost.’

‘There must be a way out!’ said Harry. ‘No one could want to exchange 1998 for 1692 forever! Why did I ever stop to look at that stupid medal?’

Ron opened his mouth to say something but just then a loud scream echoed through the house.

Harry looked at the door and then back at Ron and Hermione. All three got up and ran into the living room.

Naima lay on the floor twitching and clawing at her skin. ‘Help me!’ she screamed. ‘It’s eating me!’

Samantha ran into the room. ‘Naima! What is it?’ she said, obviously frightened.

Naima didn’t answer but grabbed her throat. ‘I’m choking! Help me, I’m choking!’ she yelled.

Samantha looked at Harry, Ron and Hermione. ‘She’s having fits! Hurry, help me get her into bed.’

Ron ran forward and with his help, Samantha lifted Naima up and hurried her to a bedroom on the first floor and set her down, Harry and Hermione hurrying after them.

As soon as Naima was laid down she began to convulse horribly. Samantha ran out of the room and returned with a cloth soaked in a brown liquid. She pressed the cloth to Naima’s mouth. It didn’t seem to help but Samantha relaxed.

‘It is okay. She will be fine, I’m sure,’ said Samantha, ushering Harry, Ron and Hermione out of the room. She went back into the bedroom and shut the door.

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged worried glances.

‘This is bad,’ whispered Hermione.

‘That was what you meant by fits?’ asked Ron, looking terrified.

Hermione nodded. ‘I wonder what made her get them,’ she mused.

‘The bread,’ said Harry thoughtfully.

‘What?’ asked Ron.

‘The bread, it was rye bread. Rye is a grain, isn’t it? Remember what Hermione said about that fungus?’ replied Harry, excitedly.

‘That must be it!’ said Hermione. ‘The rye in Salem must be infested with ergot!’

‘But no one knows about ergot here,’ said Ron fearfully. ‘Who will they suspect for witchcraft now?’

‘They can’t be suspicious of us,’ replied Hermione, firmly. ‘As long as we act like reputable Puritan teenagers and don’t mention magic at all, no one can think we have anything to do with it us.’

Harry thought Hermione had a point but Ron still looked worried.

‘I don’t know Hermione,’ he started. ‘Even the local Magistrate didn’t seem to trust us. Harry started babbling about Divination in front of him. What if they manage to dig up something else against us?’

‘They won’t. I’m sure the magistrate just thought Harry was trying to be smart or something. Anyway, first someone has to accuse us and no one will do that,’ replied Hermione assuredly.

Another scream erupted from the bedroom. Harry looked at it nervously. Ron went up and put an ear to the door.

‘No, Ron!’ hissed Hermione, but Ron waved a hand signaling her to be quite. Suddenly Ron went horribly pale. He hurried back to Harry and Hermione.

‘You won’t believe this—’ but he was cut off by the bedroom door opening. Samantha came out, her pretty face hard and angry, her mouth a thin line. Harry didn’t like the look in her eye. She was reminding him of Professor McGonagall.

Samantha strode up to the three friends and looked at them with cold eyes. ‘Which one of you put a spell on my daughter?’

**
A/N: The fits that Naima experienced have the following symptoms: First a slight feeling of dizziness followed by skin irritation which Naima described as being eaten. In the actual cases of fits the girls described the skin irritation as being bitten by tons of tiny insects. The afflicted would also see a variety of colors but I couldn’t fit that into the story. The choking feeling follows.

Ergot did infest the rye in Salem due to their harvesting and marketing methods. Rye bread was rarely used by families as well-off as the Beckers but as it was the main grain infested by the ergot and I wanted to add it into the story. Samantha’s explanation that she enjoyed the taste seemed reasonable.

Reviews!! Yes!! Make me happy!! :)

February 5th, 1692

Harry could hardly believe what was happening. He, Ron and Hermione were sitting in the small Salem Court. Nearby Samantha Becker sat with Naima in her arms. The girl was still suffering from convulsions but Samantha had been order to bring her along.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were attending a witchcraft trial, where they were the suspects.

Samantha Becker had gone to Magistrate Hawthorn the previous day and explained Naima’s illness to him. She had no doubt that her guests had brought the devil into her house and she demanded that the authorities take some kind of action. Although there was no true evidence Samantha insisted that their sudden appearance into Salem and the amulet they had been found with suggested their participation in the occult. Moreover, Magistrate Hawthorn had not forgotten Harry’s Divination blunder the first time they had met and felt that it was suspicious that Harry seemed to know so much about it. Magistrate Hawthorn agreed to issue a warrant for their arrest.

However, while the magistrate agreed that the cause of the fits was indeed witchcraft, he didn’t believe that all three of Samantha’s guest’s were to blame, so he ordered a trial to take place. Harry, Ron and Hermione’s insistency that they had had nothing to do with the fits was completely ignored.

Harry was astonished at the change of attitude Samantha had shown towards him and his friends. She had changed from a kind, hospitable and cheerful women to a spiteful and cruel person. The day after Naima had been taken ill, the 4th of February, Samantha had banished Harry, Ron and Hermione from her home. They had been forced to take up residence in the small pub in Salem Village.

The Magistrate had given the three friends a choice: they could attend the trial peaceably or they could be sentenced to death immediately for suspected sorcery. Hermione had told the magistrate that they would readily attend the trial, to prove their innocence. Harry and Ron thoroughly agreed: they didn’t want to be condemned for a crime they had never committed.

Harry’s thoughts returned to the present as Justice Mallrow entered the courthouse and sat down at the Justice’s Table.

‘Will the accused please raise his or her hand?’ asked the Justice.

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged glances and then raised their hands together.

The Justice looked surprised and turned to Magistrate Hawthorn who was seated near by.

‘Three people have been accused, Magistrate?’ he asked incredulously.

‘No, Justice Sir. Only one of the three seated is a witch but we have no idea whom that person may be.’

‘And you plan to find out in this trial?’ asked the Justice.

‘Yes sir,’ replied the magistrate.

‘Very well,’ said the Justice nodding. ‘Who is the afflicted?’

‘Naima Becker, twelve years, daughter of Samuel and Samantha Becker, both of whom are reputable Puritan members of the Salem Village Church,’ recited the magistrate.

Justice Mallrow nodded. ‘Thank you, Magistrate. Take your position please.’

Magistrate Hawthorn stood up from his desk and walked over to the stands where Harry, Ron, Hermione, the Beckers and the spectators were sitting.

Justice Mallrow cleared his throat. ‘Today, on the day of February 5th, 1692, this court shall witness the trial of two people, both of whom have been suspected of witchcraft. One of the suspected in a mere child, one of the three guests in the pure home of Mistress Samantha Becker, a respectable Puritan indeed.

‘The other suspected person is a woman, mother of an afflicted child. Mistress Emily Warberk was the only person present in the house when her daughter, Mercy Warberk, was taken ill with fits.’

Justice Mallrow looked down at the first bench of the stands, where Harry and his friends were seated. Harry turned his head slightly and saw that a young woman was also sitting on their bench. Emily Warberk looked terrified and was constantly twisting her hands on her lap. Harry felt a twinge of pity for her. How awful to be suspected of harming your own daughter!

‘We shall begin the trial!’ said the Justice. Harry looked up at the Justice uneasily.

Justice Mallrow turned to Harry, Hermione and Ron. ‘Why have you chosen to afflict Naima Becker, when all three of you had been taken graciously into her mother’s home?’

‘We didn’t do anything to Naima,’ replied Harry boldly.

‘We have cause to believe that one of you did, young man. The evidence speaks for itself,’ said the Justice, sternly.

‘You have no true evidence,’ spoke up Hermione. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong.’

Justice Mallrow raised an eyebrow at Hermione. ‘Your sudden appearance in Salem Village and this young man’s—’ the Justice nodded towards Harry ‘—interest in witchery speak for themselves.’

‘That’s not evidence! That’s just guessing,’ retorted Ron. ‘Maybe Harry was just curious!’

‘Furthermore,’ continued the Justice, ignoring Ron, ‘The fact that you claim to have come from Old England just recently when it is common knowledge that no ships have reached our shores since October, suggests deceit.’

Harry opened his mouth to argue but the Justice just kept on talking him.

‘I am sure all those present find it quite possible, that one, if not all, of these three young people sitting before me are indeed guilty of witchcraft!’

A murmur of agreement spread through the crowd of addressees sitting behind Harry. Harry could feel himself growing hot with rage. This trial was not at all fair. They weren’t even being given the chance to defend themselves!

‘I now would like to call Mistress Becker forward for she has uncovered a piece of evidence so ghastly, that none of you seated here will have a doubt in his or her mind that witchcraft was indeed the cause of young Naima Becker’s illness,’ said Justice Mallrow.

Harry watched Samantha stand up and walk forward, wondering what kind of evidence she could have uncovered and where from.

‘I,’ began Samantha, ‘Have uncovered a piece of evidence that will not only prove the use of the occult but this thing shall also tell us which one of these adolescents performed magic on my daughter.’

Samantha pulled open her bag and extracted a small something covered in a white cloth. She handed the packet to the Magistrate, who was still standing nearby.

Harry leaned forward apprehensively as the Magistrate opened the pack. It was a small ratty-looking book. The Magistrate held the book up and Harry heard Hermione and Ron gasp next to him. Harry squinted at the book and felt a jolt of shock run through him. The book was titled: Pocket-Book of Spells and Charms.

The Justice smiled grimly. ‘As you can see such a book of spells is obviously used for witchery!’

‘You don’t know it belongs to us!’ cried Hermione.

For a moment the Justice looked as if he were about to agree with Hermione but Samantha interrupted him.

‘Oh, we do know that it belongs to one of you,’ she said. ‘Open the front flap, Magistrate, if you please!’

The Magistrate obliged willingly. He flipped the cover open and read aloud. ‘This book is the property of Hermione Jane Granger.’

**

Harry felt his stomach plummet and he was sickened to see that the Justice looked positively gleeful.

‘Well, Mistress Becker this is indeed a surprise!’ he said.

The crowd was muttering viciously. Harry could hear them saying ‘Witch! Kill the Witch!’

Hermione looked horrified. ‘Y-You have no proof that’s mine!’ she squeaked.

‘I think the fact that this book was found on the robes you were wearing when you first arrived at my house is enough proof,’ snapped Samantha.

‘Well, in my opinion that is sufficient proof to close this case. Do the viewers agree?’ the Justice asked, looking at the gathered crowd.

The crowd gave a roar. ‘Execute her! Kill the Witch!’

Harry suddenly felt cold all over. This was happening all too fast.

The Justice raised a mallet and brought it down on the table with a smart tap. ‘Case Closed! Sentence: Execution of the Witch Hermione Jane Granger, by hanging, on the 7th of February, 1692!’

**

A/N: The actual court trial probably would have been harsher and the Justice would have used less obvious evidence. Mostly the suspects would be asked to look at the afflicted child and due to the look the child would coincidentally begin to have fits. If the child did convulse the suspect was condemned to death immediately. Because the records of the trials are so few, I haven’t been able to reproduce the trial perfectly but I hope it is good enough.

February 6th, 1692

Harry sat on the cold hard floor, feeling completely alone. He and Harry were visiting Hermione in her cell at the Salem Prison.

Hermione had been carted off to the prison immediately after the trial. Harry and Ron had tried to convince the Justice that she had had nothing at all to do with Naima’s illness but the Justice refused to listen. After the trial he became much warmer to the two of them; his attitude suggested that he pitied them for having a witch for a best friend and not knowing about it. He obviously thought that both Harry and Ron were still in shock and they had not realized that Hermione was a witch and someone to fear.

Mistress Emily Warberk who had also faced trial on the same day as Harry, Hermione and Ron had also been convicted and she was due to be executed along with Hermione.

Harry looked at Hermione and his heart twisted with fear and pity. In some ways Hermione was lucky. She had been allotted a cell of her own; the warden had probably taken pity on her since she was so young. Most of the other prisoners had not been allowed their own cell. The large hall had a row of cells on either side, but most of them were empty. Accused women and men were lying of the stone floor pathetically, moaning and weeping. The convicted littered the floor and none of them had bothered to try to look respectable: all of them were facing inevitable death.

Harry couldn’t imagine what Hermione was facing at that moment. She was doomed to be hanged and neither one of the three friends knew what to do. Harry and Ron had gone to try and fetch their wands from Samantha’s home, but she refused to allow them in, fending them off with a gun. She was not as sure as Justice Mallrow that Harry and Ron were innocent.

Hermione’s head was resting against the long iron bars of the cell door. She was staring listlessly at the floor, having succumbed to her doom when neither Ron nor Harry could find a way to help her. Harry wanted nothing more than to comfort her, to reassure her that they’d eventually find a way to get her out, but he found nothing to say. There was nothing to say. How were you supposed to comfort a person who had the weight of inescapable death on her shoulders?

A lone tear slipped down Hermione’s cheek. Harry felt even worse.

‘I wish I had never seen that stupid amulet,’ he whispered angrily. ‘This all is my fault!’

Ron had his back rested against the large iron bars. He reached out and punched Harry softly on the shoulder.

‘Don’t blame yourself mate. There’s nothing we could have done. It was all fate.’ he said.

Fate, thought Harry bitterly. Fate was such a horrible thing. Fate had decided Harry’s destiny long before he was born, by means of a prophecy, and fate had now doomed Hermione to die.

‘Is this how you feel all the time?’ asked Hermione, smiling weakly at Harry.

Harry could only shake his head. He had never faced certain death. As many times as he had faced Voldemort there had always been a faint light of hope in his heart that he would survive no matter what. He always had hope. Looking at Hermione, her brown eyes empty, as if she had been kissed by a Dementor, her usually bushy hair lank, Harry knew that Hermione had no hope left that she would live. The feeling had to be worse than anything Harry had ever experienced.

Harry could feel a lump growing in his throat. One of his best friends was about to die and he couldn’t do anything! He felt like ripping his hair out in frustration.

Hermione suddenly burst into tears. Harry turned around quickly and reached through the bars as Ron did the same. Hermione took their hands and squeezed them tightly, as if she were holding on for dear life. Harry realized that in a way, she was.

‘I-I don’t want to die,’ she sobbed. The lump in Harry’s throat grew. Ron looked utterly miserable.

‘There has to be something we can do! There has to be!’ cried Ron, hysterically, forgetting his earlier words to Harry.

‘There isn’t Ron, we’re tried everything. You just said so yourself,’ replied Harry.

‘I was wrong, we haven’t!’ said Ron, a mad gleam in his eye. ‘We could break her out!’

Harry stared at Ron sadly. ‘There are three armed guards outside, Ron. We don’t even have our wands.’

‘No! There must be something we’re forgetting!’ said Ron, madly.

Hermione wiped away her tears. ‘Don’t Ron,’ she whispered. ‘It just makes it worse. There’s nothing left to do.’

Ron nodded slowly, trying his best to control his feelings. ‘You’re right.’

Harry looked at his two best friends and for a moment wondered what would be happening if he had been the one convicted. He imagined himself staring up at the gallows. For a moment he actually felt the thick rope being placed around his neck and tightened. Harry shuddered involuntarily.

Just then a guard stepped over to them. ‘Oy! Visitin’ times are over!’ he said.

‘Since when?’ asked Ron, forcefully. ‘No one told us about any specific timing!’

‘Since I said so! You can take it out with the warden if you’s got some problem with it,’ the guard spat out. He stepped over a few people and walked over to Ron. ‘Now get!’

Ron stood up, angrily. ‘No! We just got here!’

‘Ron, no!’ whispered Hermione fretfully.

The guard sneered down at her. ‘The witch is givin’ some good advice, boy. Best listen to your wicked friend.’

Ron made to spring on to the guard but the burly man was much too fast. He weaved around Ron, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and threw him bodily towards the door.

Ron growled in anger but Harry hurried over and signaled him to be quite.

‘We’re leaving, don’t worry!’ Harry said to the guard.

Harry pushed Ron out the door after he (Ron) had finished waving to Hermione. Harry turned back momentarily.

‘We’ll think of something Hermione, don’t worry,’ he said, trying to sound confident.

Hermione smiled feebly at Harry. ‘Sure,’ she said, waving goodbye.

Harry waved too and hoped against hope that his words held some meaning. He had no idea what he planned to do. Whatever it was, he only had one day to do it. It was already late evening on the 6th of February.

**

A/N: The execution of a witch would never have been so quickly after the trials. Most of the suspects would be imprisoned for around six months before they were hanged. Also the suspects were treated ruthlessly during this time. Torture was expected and many people died from the horrid conditions even before their death sentence was made official or before it could be reverted.

Men were also accused of practicing magic as I tried to tell the reader in the fourth paragraph. However, from what I gather only one man was ever hanged for being a ‘wizard’. In the trials, women were easier to suspect since they were involved in phenomenon like life, which were at the time thought to be somewhat supernatural. Also women were thought to be weak and suggestible, making them easy targets for the Devil. This was all just prejudice, of course.

February 6th, 1692
Later

A/N: I know that it’s been a while since I posted last. I had major writers block and then I suppose I just lost interest. But I’ve got the story back on track and I’ve written quite a bit so hopefully, I’ll post regularly until this fic is finished. I’ve read all feedback posted (thanks to everyone) and I’d like to say a few things here. Firstly, those of you who thought that the spell book was planted on Hermione, you are right. It was planted for a reason. That’s all I’m going to say about that. ;) Other than that, many of you have been commenting about my historical accuracy. I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible, but the reason I’m writing this story is to write it. Harry Potter in Salem felt like a cool idea to me and I wanted to experiment. Although I’ve tried my best to be accurate, some things will always be wrong. So thank you Readers for supplying me with info. I’ll do my best to use it. Forgive me if I get things wrong despite your attempts to help this story be as true it history at possible. Sometimes I just get a wicked idea that I have to stick in, whether it agrees with facts or not. :) In closing, READ AND FEEDBACK!!!

Harry and Ron crept up to the door of the Becker home. They had both agreed that they should try to get their wands back at least, for Hermione. Giving up was not an option. Not when Hermione’s life was in so much danger.

Harry let out a sigh and stopped in the shadows near the house. ‘Okay,’ he whispered. ‘Remember, we’ll ask nicely for our clothes and then we’ll tell her how horrible Hermione is and act like we hate her. Got it?’ Harry knew full well that it was the most childish plan in the book, but he hadn’t been able to think of anything else.

Ron nodded and then shook his head. ‘She’ll never believe us.’

‘She will,’ said Harry firmly, trying to believe himself. ‘She has to.’

Harry took a deep calming breath and then strode forward, out of the shadows, and knocked on the door.

Harry and Ron heard a shuffling noise from behind the door and the murmur of muffled words. Harry looked at the door apprehensively.

A few moments later the door was slowly pulled open a crack and two brown eyes stared out at them.

‘May I help you?’ asked an unfamiliar male voice cautiously.

Harry glanced at Ron and then turned back to the door and said, ‘Er- could we speak to Mistress Becker?’

The man was automatically on the defensive. ‘What is your business?’

Harry swallowed. ‘I- we were her guests here, a while ago.’

The shock was apparent in the man’s eyes. ‘You! You get away from my home! Leave my wife and daughter alone!’

Ron raised his eyebrows. ‘Who are y-?’ but Harry interrupted him.

‘Samuel Becker?’ he asked quietly.

The man’s eyes widened even more, showing great fear ‘Wh-what do you want?!’

Harry groaned inwardly. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. He took a deep, calming, breath.

‘We’re here to get our clothes, sir. We left them here by accident?’ Harry said slowly.

‘We’ve burnt all your clothes!’ said Samuel harshly. ‘They were probably cursed!’

‘Cursed!’ Ron burst out indignantly. ‘Our clothes weren’t cursed! They were just normal clothes!’

Before Samuel could reply, a small voice interrupted him.

‘Who is it, Father? Who is it?’

It was Naima Becker and she was peeking around the door frame, trying to peer through the little crack that Samuel was poking his nose through.

‘NAIMA!’ thundered Samuel. ‘What are you doing out here? Get back inside!’

‘But Father!’ said Naima happily. ‘They’re my friends!’

Harry smiled down at Naima, wondering if she was feeling better, and then turned back to her father. Next to him Ron was shifting his weight from foot to foot in agitation.

‘I- we- we aren’t witches, sir. That girl was, but we’re done with her. Let her rot,’ said Harry, making sure he sounded a little disgusted.

It seemed to work a little. Samuel opened the door a little more and Naima galumphed out, and looked up at Harry and Ron happily.

‘Would you like to come in?’ she asked sweetly.

Harry was about to jump at the chance when Samuel growled under his breath. Harry stepped back cautiously and then looked at Samuel hoping he’d let them in.

Samuel looked both Harry and Ron over for a long time. It was as if he was trying to see where they were hiding their wands. Harry wished he could tell him that their wands were currently hidden under a floorboard in the Becker home, and that that was the only reason he and Ron were visiting.

Samuel sighed a little and then opened the door all the way, calling to his wife as he did. Harry’s heart jumped and he leapt forward, Ron right at his heels.

Harry stepped into the warm, familiar house just as Samantha exited the kitchen. Samantha stared at them for a moment. Harry heard Ron gulp. Then something seemed to click in him. Ron suddenly pasted a smile on his face.

‘Samantha, hello,’ he said smoothly. Harry’s jaw almost dropped from its sockets. ‘We’re really sorry about Hermione. We had no clue. I mean that book that she had! It was obvious. Harry and I were in denial I suppose. She’s tricked us for such a long time really.’ He shot Harry an urgent glance.

Samantha blinked in confusion. Naima was jumping around Ron joyfully saying something about how here father had returned as soon as he’d heard about his family’s predicament and that they had allowed a witch to stay at their home. Ron smiled down at Naima, but his smile was tight and his green eyes were smoldering. Harry sidled away from the three quietly. It looked like Ron wouldn’t be able to keep up the act much longer. He had to do something. Glancing at Samuel, who was moving towards the stairs pausing to look fondly at his daughter before disappearing from sight, Harry moved a little closer to the hidden wands.

As he moved away slowly, Samantha’s anger melted away. ‘Yes, well, she was a witch, dear. She must have had you two under enchantments.’ She shuddered.

Ron grinned weakly. ‘I suppose so…’ He said more but Harry tuned out the conversation and turned his eyes towards the fireplace that Harry and his friends had slept by on their first day in the Becker house. He knelt down by the loose floorboard Hermione had stowed their wands under. Just then he heard a strangled cry from behind him.

‘Harry, watch out!’ Ron cried in a choked voice.

Harry spun around, still crouched low. His nose scraped a shiny metal surface, poised over his head. Samuel Becker had managed to sneak back downstairs and he was now standing above Harry with a shovel in his hand. Harry froze. He was positive one good blow would knock him out. Samuel was not a weak man. His bulk and muscle proved that.

‘Looking for these?’ came Samantha’s voice. Harry glanced at her, still frozen in place. She was pulling two long wooden sticks from her apron pocket. Harry saw Ron’s eyes widen. It had all been a ploy. A trick. They’d known that Harry and Ron would return, because they’d found their wands. Harry felt like kicking himself. Now instead of finding a way to free Hermione, they had gotten themselves trapped as well.

Harry switched his gaze to the shovel suspended over his head. Samuel Becker glared at him. ‘One false move, son, and I won’t hesitate to use this. No one hurts my family and gets away with it.’

Harry gulped. And then got an idea. A plain and simple tactic: diversion. ‘What are you going to do to us?’ he asked. As expected both Samuel and Samantha turned to look at him, leaving Ron partially unguarded. Harry gave his friend a quick glance. He hoped Ron would get the idea. He wasn’t known for being the brightest person.

‘We’re going to turn you in,’ said Samuel. Harry saw Ron move towards Samantha out of the corner of his eye and he made his move. Harry grabbed the shovel Samuel was holding in an instant and yanked it towards himself. Caught unawares Samuel staggered forward and almost fell over Harry. Ron leapt forward and snatched the wands from Samantha’s extended hand as she moved forward slightly out of concern for her husband. Samuel roared in rage and raised the shovel over Harry. Harry slid out of the way just in the nick of time. Meanwhile Samantha grabbed the metal fire stoker and smashed it into Ron’s face. Ron yelped and clutched at his face and dropped the wands in his agony. Harry jumped up and ran for the wands but Samantha got their first. She scooped up the wands and tossed them into the burning fire. Harry yelled out in surprise and ran to the fire. In a moment of stupidity and panic he pushed a hand into the fire. He brought something out and quickly stuffed it into his pocket, shaking his burnt hand. The skin was peeling from the heat. A roar made him look up. Samuel had raised the shovel and brought it bodily down on Harry’s back. Harry cried out in pain, but stood up and ran for the door. With Ron at his heels, the two friends left the Becker house, to shouts, screams and sobs from Naima. They didn’t stop running till the reached town. They stopped to catch their breath, looking back down the empty road. They’d failed. Samuel and his wife would have succeeded in killing both Harry and Ron if they hadn’t run for it and their wands were in the fire. Gone.

‘What did you get from the fire?’ Ron gasped, hands on knees, sporting a hideous black eye which was almost swollen shut.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the very end, about a centimeter, of one of their wands. It was still smoking.


**

February 7th, 1692

Harry and Ron were running out of time and ideas. They had tried to work the only bit of the wand that they’d been able to retrieve but it was useless. It had lost its core and it was just a piece of wood now. Harry hadn’t even been able to make it spark. The only thing it was good for was a toothpick.

They had spent the rest of the night, trying, in vain, to find an argument good enough to postpone the execution. Harry had thought they could tell the people that Hermione was pregnant and that they should allow her baby to be born before they killed her. That would buy them some time, at least. But, as Ron said, why would they bother? Surely they wouldn’t allow the child of a witch to be born, especially when they had never told anyone that Hermione was married. Which she wasn’t. Unmarried mothers were thought to be as evil as witches. The townsfolk would probably take it as an excuse to kill her in an even more barbaric way than hanging.

Harry couldn’t understand any other way out. If he and Ron didn’t have their wands to fight and they could think up no lie worth telling, there was little else they could do. It wasn’t possible to physically fight their way to Hermione, since the whole town was alert and wary. Although Ron had said that if they went through with hanging Hermione, he’d tear the limbs off each and every one of them, whether he survived or not.

Harry and Ron trudged over to the pub in Salem Village. Perhaps they’d be able to stay there, since they’d been kicked out of the Becker home and they needed a place to sleep. The snowfall had not abated and it was still very cold. And they had completely lost track of the time. What time was it? What day was it? Neither of them knew, and neither of them wanted to think. Panic was rising in them, and both were beginning to lose all hope that Hermione would be spared. As they approached the pub Harry noticed that a small crowd had gathered in the field behind the pub. Harry nudged Ron.

‘What do you think is going on there?’ he asked.

Ron looked up. ‘Dunno… d’you reckon we should go check it out?’ he asked, looking uneasy.

‘Yeah, let’s go,’ said Harry. He was suddenly feeling very worried. Something about that crowd was just not right.

It was still quite dark, although Harry could see pink on the very edge of the horizon. As Harry and Ron approached the throng of people, the ominous feeling grew. The crowd was murmuring excitedly. Children had been bundled up and brought out, holding sticks of peppermint, as if there was to be fair that they were all going to.

Harry and Ron stood on the sidelines, waiting to see what was going on. In the distance Harry could hear wagon wheels trundling along the brick pathway to the field.

The crowd began to cheer, hoot and jeer. Harry looked at Ron in surprise. Ron shrugged, looking mystified.

As the wagon came into view Harry saw that it wasn’t actually a wagon but a cart; a cart which had long iron bars attached so that people could see the inside.

Next to him, Harry heard Ron gasp.

‘Look, Harry!’ he cried, craning his neck to see above the crowd’s heads. ‘They’ve set up gallows over there! This is the execution!’

Harry swiveled his head to the cart and squinted at it. He could just see two people standing inside the cart. Harry grabbed Ron’s arm. ‘Hermione’s execution!’

Ron turned deathly pale. ‘What have they done to her?’ he said, hoarsely.

For Hermione was bound in thick chains. She looked out at the crowd defiantly but Harry could tell she was afraid.

‘H-Harry, we have to do something!’ squeaked Ron, still white. ‘This can’t happen!’

But Harry didn’t know what to do. His brain had gone numb and his feet were rooted to the snowy ground. It wasn’t until that moment that Harry realized what was actually going to happen. A wave of shock poured over him as he realized that Hermione was really going to die.

Ron was shaking Harry’s shoulder. ‘Harry! We have to do something! Snap out of it!’

Harry stared up at the gallows. Hermione and Emily Warberk were already being stood on ladders.

Harry felt cold all over but he began to push to the front of the crowd. Ron followed him. By the time they had reached the front, the women already had the rope around their necks. Harry was shocked into action.

‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘You can’t do this!’

The executioner turned. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ he said, reaching out to push Emily Warberk off her ladder.

‘NO!’ yelled Ron. He jumped forward but men from the crowd grabbed him arms and held him back. ‘Let—me—GO!’ he screamed.

Behind him Harry could hear the crowd chanting. ‘Kill! Kill! Murder the witches!’

A sudden rage came over Harry. Behind him, young children where watching the execution, as if it were something enjoyable. The crowd was rooting, unable to contain their excitement. It was completely barbaric.

‘You have to stop!’ he shouted. ‘They’re innocent!’

‘Kill the witches!’

‘It’s not humane!’ cried Harry, desperately.

‘Slay them!’

‘Humane!’ snorted someone behind Harry. It was Magistrate Hawthorn. ‘And what they have done to our children is kindly? They are evil! They are witches! They deserve to die!’

The crowd roared their agreement. ‘Do it! Kill them!’

‘You have no proof! It wasn’t witchcraft! It was fungus! Your grain is infested!’ shouted Ron.

‘How dare you insult our farmers and harvesters? Our grain is the purest in New England!’ yelled the Magistrate.

The crowd booed at them, still chanting. Harry looked around: time was running out!

‘Exterminate the witches!’

The Magistrate turned to the gallows. ‘Finish it, before they do something regrettable!’

‘NO!� Harry yelled running up to the executioner but three men jumped on him holding him down.

‘Finish it!’

Harry watched in horror as Emily was pushed off her ladder. She swung a few times and then came to a stop. Her face turned purple and then slowly blackened. Emily struggled against her ropes, trying to stay alive, but it was no use. Her struggling stopped in mere seconds.

‘Yes!’ screamed the crowd. A young girl in the crowd was crying and calling for her mother. Harry supposed she was Emily’s daughter and looked away in disgust.

Harry turned his head to look at Hermione, struggling to escape the grasp of the men who were holding him back. She was watching Emily sway. Her eyes met Harry’s and Harry could hardly stand the look she gave him. He knew she must be feeling betrayed.

A spurt of rage gave Harry strength and he pulled out of the grasp of his captors. He looked around quickly and saw that Ron was still struggling against seven men who were holding him back. Harry turned back to the gallows and saw that the executioner was approaching Hermione.

‘No!’ Harry grunted and ran to the executioner. Behind him the crowd screamed.

‘Stop the boy! Kill the witch!’

Harry pulled back his fist and hurled a punch at the executioners face. The man was taken by surprise and he fell back. Harry quickly went to Hermione, climbed up her ladder, and tried to get the rope off her neck.

‘It’s going to be okay! We’ll get you out!’ he said, more to comfort himself than Hermione.

Tears were pouring out of Hermione’s eyes now. ‘I don’t want to die, Harry’

A lump rose in Harry’s throat as he tried to untie the knot of the noose. He was suddenly praying like he’d never prayed before. His heart was thudding against his chest, threatening to pop out.

Hermione looked at Harry. Her gaze flicked over his shoulder. ‘Goodbye, Harry,’ she sobbed. ‘Tell Ron.’

‘Do it now! Get her!’

Harry stopped for a moment, shocked. Then something smashed against his head and the ladder flew out from under his feet. Harry’s hand slipped from the rope he was trying to untie. He fell for a moment and instinctively grabbed the first solid thing his arms got a hold of.

A choking sound, nearby. Ron’s anguished cry. Harry suddenly knew what he was holding onto: Hermione’s legs. Harry involuntarily opened his eyes and looked up. A cry escaped his lips.

Hermione’s face was slowly changing colors. She struggled against the ropes, clawing at her neck. Harry felt numb, a feeling of nausea grew in his throat but he couldn’t let go.

Hermione’s face turned blue, then purple, then black. Her eyes rolled back into her head. Her lips parted and the last breath escaped them.

Harry finally let go and fell a few feet to the snowy ground. He picked himself up and stared up as Hermione’s body slowly swung to and fro like a large pendulum. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth…

Harry put his head into his hands. The executioner had punched Harry and pushed the ladder away. Hermione was dead.

‘The witches are dead! God bless us all!’

The crowd was still cheering and shouting. Harry felt someone tugging at his arm. It was Ron.

‘W-We have to get out of here!’ he said, close to hysterics. ‘I think I did wand-less magic on those guys back there!’

Harry looked over Ron’s shoulder and saw the men sitting on the snow covered ground, recovering form the shock of the unsaid spell. Harry knew they’d be getting their second wind soon.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, looking back at Hermione again. Then he remembered her last words to him. ‘Hermione said goodbye.’

Ron nodded, still looking pale and almost unaware of his surroundings. Harry caught sounds of the men yelling something.

‘Come on, we have to go,’ said Harry. He and Ron ran out of the field. By silent agreement they did not stop to go to the pub or anywhere else. Harry could hear the men shouting something. They kept right on running. One mile… two miles… three miles… Harry didn’t know whether it had been a minute since the execution or an hour. He just kept right on running, running as if he could escape the horror.

Finally when he and Ron could go no further, they stopped. They had reached a bare stretch of snow-covered land. Neither of then knew where they were. Neither of them thought much of it. Harry sat down in the snow, unseeingly. Next to him Ron was sobbing into his hands. They had lost Hermione… forever.

**

February 8th, 1692

Harry and Ron had been walking all day. They had no clue where they were. Harry had a vague feeling that it was probably around eleven in the morning, but he couldn’t be sure, since there was no sun. His disorientation didn’t help. Harry couldn’t tell exactly how long he and Ron had been on foot. All that was on his mind was the execution. The sky was covered with thick gray clouds and it was snowing lightly. The ground was still covered with thick hard-packed snow, making it difficult to walk. The weather seemed to reflect Harry’s feelings and looking around, he only felt more depressed.

They had been trekking through a flat stretch of land ever since Harry and Ron had run away. They hadn’t seen a single house or even the vapors of smoke from a far-off chimney.

Since they had seen no trace of civilization, there was little need to stop and rest. Neither Harry nor Ron had thought of food as they had left Salem Village and so they were traveling on empty stomachs.

Harry could hear Ron’s teeth chattering behind him. Their sealskin coats weren’t helping to keep out the cutting wind. He continued to walk on, shielding his face against the wind as he tried to catch sight of the tell-tale wisps of smoke wafting out of a smokestack. There was nothing.

‘L-Lets stop for a w-while, Harry!’ said Ron through chattering teeth.

Harry turned around and grinned in spite of himself. Ron’s nose and cheeks were flaming red from the cold and along with his flaming hair his whole head looked like a ripe tomato.

‘Fine,’ he shouted over the whistling wind. ‘We’ll stop… but where?’

He motioned to the flat landscape before them, indicating that there was no shelter from the cold.

Ron looked around. ‘I think there are some trees or something over there!’

Harry looked to where Ron was pointing. He couldn’t see anything but white, but he supposed it was worth a try. He and Ron made their way over to where Ron had indicated.

Ron had been right. There was a small forest of trees, all of which were covered with snow. Harry and Ron stepped inside. The sound of the wind was muffled by the trees and after so much noise the quiet seemed eerie.

‘I have no clue how you managed to see these, but good one anyway,’ said Harry, whispering by instinct. The silence gave him the strange feeling that the forest was home to things that wouldn’t enjoy being disturbed. Or maybe the feeling was due to his experiences in the Forbidden Forest, back at Hogwarts.

‘Thanks,’ said Ron, looking around.

Although the small forest was sheltered from the snow and noise, it was still very cold. The forest floor was covered with thorns. Harry looked up and saw that most of the trees were evergreen, which explained why they hadn’t shed their leaves in the fall and let in the snow. The pine trees weren’t immune to the wind, however, which was why the ground was covered with needles.

Ron was examining the pine-needles. ‘These would probably make soft beds… soft compared to the ground.’

Harry nodded. ‘We should probably stay here until the storm is over. Then we might be able to find something to eat.’

‘We could always eat crickets,’ said Ron holding up a squirming insect.

‘Right…’ said Harry, staring at the cricket. ‘You can’t stand spiders but crickets are alright, are they?’

Ron threw down the insect. ‘Lots of people eat crickets!’

‘Yeah and I think those were the same people who worshipped the warthog, so thanks, but no thanks,’ replied Harry. He looked up. ‘Do people eat pine cones?’

Ron shrugged, picking up one of the pine cones that lay on the pine-needle-covered floor and tried to break it open. A few seeds rolled out but they didn’t look very appetizing.

Harry flopped down onto the pine-needle bed next to Ron.

‘Another night on an empty stomach,’ moaned Ron, playing with the wing-like seeds of the pine cone. ‘I can’t stand much more of this.’

‘You’re acting like we’ve been out here for years. The only way to get food in our stomachs is to get back to Hogwarts, and I don’t have a clue how to do that,’ responded Harry.

‘Hey!’ said Ron, his face lighting up. ‘Maybe we could apparate!’

‘Apparition for a few miles is okay,’ started Harry, ‘but I don’t think it’ll get us three hundred years into the future.’

Ron wasn’t going to be let down that easily. ‘Well, what if we traveled to the Hogwarts of today? I know it exists! We could ask whoever is there to transport us!’

‘You can’t apparate onto Hogwarts grounds,’ replied Harry, tediously. ‘Remember?’

‘Yeah…’ said Ron quietly and Harry knew his mind had wandered to Hermione. ‘Well- Well, maybe we could get to London and go on foot from there!’

‘I don’t know about you, but I have never tried to apparate three thousand plus miles. I’d probably splinch myself in an instant,’ countered Harry.

Ron finally gave up. ‘Well, if you’re planning on being that stubborn, there really is no way out of stupid wherever we are.’

‘Its plain logic,’ replied Harry.

‘Yeah… sure,’ said Ron distractedly.

**

Harry and Ron spent the rest of the day listening to their stomachs growl and to the sounds of the screeching wind. The forest wasn’t a perfect shelter: the bitter wind still slipped in through the trunks of the surrounding trees.

Harry’s mind kept wandering back to Hermione’s death, no matter how hard he tried to push the subject away. Unconsciously, he was blaming himself for everything that had happened. If he hadn’t seen the glittering amulet in the snow that day, they never would have been transported to 1692.

Sometime in the afternoon, after he had mulled over Hermione’s death for a few hours, his mind switched to other thoughts. For some reason, he couldn’t help thinking that maybe he had found the stupid amulet for a reason. Although he couldn’t really understand what the reason was. Maybe it was a plan of Voldemort’s: Maybe he thought Harry would have been hanged in the witchcraft trials. That obviously hadn’t worked though. Voldemort wouldn’t have tried such a backhanded maneuver either. He liked to show people he was responsible for the things he did, and he surely wouldn’t have allowed Harry to die without lording it over him that he had finally defeated The-Boy-Who-Lived.

When he questioned Ron about the theory that they had been sent to 1692 for a reason, Ron just stared at him and asked him if he had gotten snow in his ears, but Harry still couldn’t push the feeling away. Something was telling Harry that he was here for a reason. Who would have been careless enough to let the amulet drop in the snow? Especially considering what it could do. No, whichever way he looked at it, Harry was sure someone had planned this all. Whoever it was was defiantly in need of some mental help. Hermione had lost her life because of the stupid amulet, and it didn’t look like he and Ron were much better off, even if they were still… alive. If they went without food for much longer Harry was sure the results would not be pretty.

**

February 9th, 1692

‘Look!’ yelled Ron excitedly.

The previous day’s storm had finally ended. It was a bright, sunny morning but still not warm enough to melt the snow. Harry and Ron had trudged through the snow, their feet getting colder and colder and their noses growing redder and redder, when finally Ron had yelled out.

Harry shifted his gaze to where Ron was pointing and his heart leapt. Just above the misty horizon and the snow-covered earth small furls of smoke were visible. It could only mean one thing: civilization.

Harry and Ron hurried forward but when they saw where the smoke was coming from, their excitement turned to dismay. Harry had been expecting to find a house or a cabin, somewhere they could get food. In front of him stood a ramshackle old shed, smoke furling out of a hole in its roof.

‘Who could be living there?’ wondered Ron.

‘Probably some poor, old farmer… he won’t have anything to spare,’ replied Harry, disappointedly.

‘Let’s go see, anyway,’ said Ron as he walked forward and knocked on the rickety wooden door.

Harry and Ron waited but no one answered. Ron knocked again… still no answer.

‘What now?’ asked Ron, sadly. Neither of the two friends had eaten in almost two days.

Harry slammed a fist against the door, frustrated. Just then a shot echoed in the air and a large hole appeared just above Harry’s fist which was still resting against the door. Harry jumped back.

‘Get away from my house!’ yelled someone as another few shot-holes appeared in the door. A thin man with brown hair and beady little eyes came running up to Harry and Ron, his shotgun cocked, a package under his arm. His face was bright red and he was still yelling, adding a few colorful words in between sentences.

Ron stepped forward. ‘We weren’t doing anything! We just wanted some foo— Ack!’ Before Ron could finish his sentence the skinny, red-faced man shoved his gun into Ron’s throat.

‘I don’t care what you wanted or needed, you’re on private property and you’ll pay if you’ve stolen anything!’ the man growled.

Harry pushed the man’s gun away from Ron’s neck. ‘We didn’t steal anything!’

‘Not yet!’ retorted the man.

‘Look! All we want is some food,’ said Ron, massaging his throat. ‘We haven’t eaten in days.’

The man looked at Harry and Ron suspiciously, taking in their tattered clothes covered by their coats. ‘I guess I could give you some food,’ he said reluctantly.

Ron sighed with relief and happiness. The man threw his weight against the rickety door and it flew open. He beckoned Harry and Ron to follow and stepped into the shack.

The hut was sparsely furnished. Harry assumed that this was not a regular home to the man. There was a large rocking-chair to one side and a small coffee-table nearby. A few cupboards had been built and they were stacked against one of the walls of the shack. There was no fireplace. A stove sat in one corner, below the hole in the roof. A small mattress lay on the floor. A trunk sat at its foot, overflowing with clothes and bedcovers.

The man knelt next to the cupboards, pulled them open and began digging through the contents, muttering all the while.

Harry glanced at Ron. Ron shrugged. The man acted like a lunatic half the time and the other half he was completely normal. Why was he living out here, in such horrible weather?

Harry cleared his throat. ‘Erm- excuse me…’

The man gave a cry, bumped his head on the top of the cupboard and emerged, looking annoyed. ‘What is it? I told you I’d give you some food! Hold your horses!’

Ron raised his eyebrows and Harry tried to say something else, while the man’s head was safely out of the cupboard. ‘Yes, we know… but who are you?’

The man blinked and then stood up. He dusted his thin hands on his brown coat and extended one for Harry to shake. ‘Stephen C. Cooper, at your service, sir,’ he said solemnly.

Ron sniggered again but Stephen ignored him and pompously shook Harry’s hand.

‘May I ask your names now, sirs?’ Stephen asked, glaring at Ron as they shook hands.

‘I’m Haaa— Samuel Mercer,’ said Harry. Ron gave him a strange look but Harry slammed down on his foot before he could open his mouth. ‘This is my friend Christopher Reddy.’

‘Nice to meet you, Samuel, Christopher,’ replied Stephen. ‘What are you two boys doing out here in such weather?’

‘We’re traveling,’ replied Ron, suddenly realizing that people in Salem might still be searching for them and that keeping their true names a secret was a good idea as was keeping their recent whereabouts private.

‘Ah! Travelers! Boys of my own heart!’ cried Stephen blissfully. ‘I left home to see the world too!’

Ron smirked. Harry gave him a look of warning. ‘So, Stephen, about that food…’

‘Yes, yes, of course!’ said Stephen, waving his hand, as if food wasn’t at all important. ‘So where are you headed boys?’

‘No where special,’ said Harry, carefully.

‘Yes, we were just roaming around but we haven’t had food in days, sir,’ added Ron hurriedly.

Stephen looked at Ron scornfully. ‘I always travel with a tight belt.’

‘Yes, well, that’s apparent,’ replied Ron, just as rudely, looking at Stephen’s thin frame. ‘Wolves won’t get any ideas if they spot you, ‘eh?’

Harry sighed. ‘Look Stephen, we hate to impose on you like this. We’d just like some food and then we’ll leave you alone.’

‘I never have any visitors! Why does no one ever want to stay?’ Stephen pouted. Ron rolled his eyes.

Stephen finally managed to pack a day’s worth of food for the two boys: A loaf of bread, some roast chicken, butter and a bottle of milk. It wasn’t much but Harry and Ron didn’t complain. Just the sight of the bread had made their mouths water.

Stephen insisted that both boys stay for an hour or so, since he rarely ever had guests. He explained that he had always wanted to see the world. He had talked about it so much that his wife had told him to go and travel and hadn’t let him return to the house. She obstinately told Stephen that until he was out of his mania for traveling he would not be allowed back inside.

‘That’s why I live out here,’ he said waving a hand around. After a few more minutes of chatting about nothing, Stephen stood up and picked up the package he had had with him outside and peeled it open. Harry and Ron leaned forward curiously. It looked like a large sketch of a scene in the snow. Stephen looked at it proudly and then handed it to Harry for a better look.

Harry stared at it for a moment and then choked. The scene was of the day that Hermione had been executed. It depicted the gallows, with Hermione and Emily Warberk dangling by ropes, dead, as the crowd cheered. The pencil sketch was extremely articulate and Harry could read the expression on every face as easily as he could read a book. Harry swallowed hard, smiled at Stephen and handed the sketch over to Ron. Ron paled as soon as he realized what the illustration was of and laughed weakly as he handed the art back to Stephen.

Stephen hadn’t noticed their strange reactions. He grinned pompously and took the sketch back.

‘Great isn’t it? I was actually there when it happened! I saw everything. It was amazing, really enlightening,’ said Stephen as he set the drawing down.

‘R-Really?’ asked Ron, shakily.

‘Oh, yes! I mean, one of the girls was only sixteen or seventeen! To think even young people can be witches and make deals with the Devil. I wouldn’t have thought it possible but there you go! Good thing they’re dead! I mean they hurt young girls! How cruel can you be?’

‘Wasn’t the hanging cruel? They had no proof that those girls were witches! It was all just touch and go!’ cried Harry, before he could stop himself.

Stephen raised an eyebrow. ‘You weren’t there! The crowd was so energized! These girls were evil! I heard they held the trials too and our justices are all fair.’

Harry and Ron glared at Stephen. Both of them wanted to get out of the stupid old shack quickly.

‘I think it’s time for us to go, Stephen,’ said Harry. ‘Thanks for the food.’

‘What? Why? Wait!’ cried Stephen.

‘Sorry, we really have to go,’ said Ron quickly. ‘Come on, Harry.’

Harry grimaced as Ron revealed his real name but he hurried to the door with Ron all the same, hoping that Stephen hadn’t noticed anything. Stephen wasn’t stupid, though.

‘Harry?’ he said, jumping up and barring the boor with his body. ‘I thought you were Samuel?’ Stephen glared at Harry suspiciously.

‘I-I am,’ stuttered Harry. ‘Ron always calls me Harry as a joke!’

Ron slapped his own forehead. Stephen yelped.

‘Harry? Ron?’ he said looking from one boy to the other. ‘I know who you are! You two are those boys who ran away from Salem! I heard all about it! Your best friend was hanged that day, the day I drew that picture!’

Harry groaned inwardly. Stephen had a gun and he knew who they were.

‘You two are witches!’ he yelled, looking fearful.

Ron gulped. Harry felt cold all over.

Stephen had a mad glint in his eye. ‘I’ll capture you, take you to Salem, become renowned and then I can really go see the world: the rich world!’

Harry stepped forward. ‘You don’t know what your saying, Stephen! How could we be witches?’

‘Wizards, then!’ said Stephen, still looking crazy. He stepped forward too. ‘There is no escape boys! Capturing witches pays good money!’

Stephen leaped forward to grab Harry and Ron, but they were too quick for him. Harry ducked under his arms while Ron jumped out of the way. Stephen stumbled and fell.

‘Let’s get out of here!’ said Harry heading for the door. Just then a crack echoed in the air and two more holes appeared in the door. Harry and Ron froze.

Harry was about to push the door open when something poked painfully into his back.

‘You two aren’t going anywhere!’ snarled Stephen, pushing the gun harder against Harry. Ron stepped forward but Stephen was ready.

‘DON’T MOVE!’ he shouted. Ron froze. ‘I won’t have you escaping!’

Ron spoke. ‘I’ll curse you! We are wizards, after all!’

Harry thought it was a good idea considering their situation but Stephan just laughed. ‘I could kill you and your friend faster than any spell you could do!’

Ron backed away. Harry’s brain, exhausted from lack of food, began working overtime, trying to figure out a way to escape. He decided that distraction was as good a plan as any.

‘We haven’t done anything to you, Stephen! Let us go!’ said Harry slowly, throwing Ron a meaningful glance.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter that you haven’t done anything yet!’ said Stephen. Harry felt Stephen relax the gun that was still poking in Harry’s back. ‘A few more minutes and you might have blasted me into oblivion! You can’t trust witches! Now, I know that by experience but if you are allowed to escape who knows—’

Stephen had begun to monologue. It was an excellent opportunity for Ron. He slowly crept out of Stephen’s view. As quietly as possible he moved behind Stephen and reached out carefully. Stephen was still making his I-know-everything-about-witches speech. Harry held his breath.

Ron reached forward and was about to pull Stephen to the floor when Stephen spun around looking right at Ron. Ron moved forward but Stephen was ready. He stepped back and – crack! Ron staggered backwards, clutching his left arm to his chest. Stephen grinned evilly. Harry spun around, half-panicking, and slammed himself into Stephen. The thin man fell to the floor and was momentarily stunned. Harry grabbed Ron and heaved him out the door. Then he turned around again, grabbed Stephens’s gun, which was lying on the floor, and ran out the door. Harry pulled the door closed and jammed the gun in between the doorknob and the door, hoping it would keep Stephen from following them. He ran and pulled Ron up, who was sitting in the snow, moaning.

‘Run!’ Harry cried. ‘He’ll be out any second!’

Behind them Stephen was already trying to get the door open.

Ron looked horribly green but he stood up and ran. Harry followed, looking back to see that Stephen had escaped. A few bullets whizzed past Harry and one grazed his cheek. Finally the gunshots stopped. Harry and Ron ran into a small glade of trees and flopped down on the snow, breathing hard. They could still hear Stephen yelling curses at them from his small hut.

**

February 10th, 1692

‘We can’t go on like this!’ moaned Harry, rubbing his growling stomach. Behind him Ron said nothing.

Harry turned around. ‘Are you okay?’

Ron shrugged, his left hand hanging limp at his side. Drops of blood were dripping from the bandaged wound. It was obviously hurting Ron a lot.

Ron’s wrist had apparently been shattered when Stephen had shot him. Thankfully there was no worse damage but Ron’s wrist was still horribly painfully. Pain, no food and no sleep: not a good combination. Not to mention the recent depressing, painful events. Harry was beginning to worry about Ron. There was still danger of infection and Harry didn’t know what they were going to do if the wound grew any worse. He’d managed to get the bullet out (with a stick, and it hadn’t helped that Ron was yelling in his ear), and a few ripped scraps of cloth from his now ratty shirt was enough to wrap it up for a while. But only a while. And neither Harry nor Ron could afford to rip up their shirts completely because the weather was still cold and unpredictable.

Neither Harry nor Ron had slept the previous night. It had begun snowing once again and both of them had remembered that sleeping in the freezing snow could kill them. They didn’t want to take any chances. Both knew what the other had spent the night thinking: Why hadn’t they been able to save Hermione?

To Harry’s surprise, the pain from Hermione’s death was ten times worse than the pain he had felt when Sirius had died. Hermione was, simply, the sister he had never had. And he had failed her. Failed her completely. But Harry also realized that Ron was probably feeling worse than him. Ron had never had to face the death of a loved one, and now Hermione, the one he probably loved most, had died. In front of their eyes, she had been taken away. In the cruelest manner possible. Harry shook his head, trying to shake the thoughts that were filling it away but as soon as he tried to empty his mind, his grumbling stomach began to ache with hunger.

In their hurry to get out of Stephen’s shack, Harry and Ron had also forgotten the bag of food he had packed for them.

‘Could we stop for awhile, Harry?’ asked Ron, softly.

Harry looked at Ron and nodded. ‘Yeah, sure.’

They sat down where they were. Once again, the landscape was a flat, snow-covered area. There was no shelter anywhere except under the trees. But the trees were no protection from the cold. It was snowing lightly and the wind was blowing, chilling Harry and Ron to the bone. Their clothes were torn and tattered and extremely worn out. Harry suspected that they had walked a few miles since the previous night. He had no idea why they kept on walking or where they were going but it seemed the right thing to do. Sitting in one place wasn’t going to keep them alive and there was a chance that they would reach a town if they kept on walking.

For a few seconds neither Harry nor Ron spoke, but Harry soon found the silence unbearable, especially since there was absolutely nothing moving around them and it was beginning to feel like he and Ron were the only living things in the world. Harry wondered if he should talk about Hermione, that maybe talking about it would help, but he felt sick as Hermione’s name floated from the back of his mind (where he had pushed it earlier) to the front.

‘What will we do about food?’ murmured Harry.

‘There has to be a town nearby!’ said Ron as he carefully piled snow onto his broken wrist. ‘We’ve been walking for so long…’

Harry flopped down onto the snow, spread-eagle: he was already so cold that lying in the snow wasn’t going to have too much effect on him. ‘Maybe we should try to apparate.’

Ron looked at Harry. In the cold, his blue eyes looked like ice. ‘Where to?’

‘I don’t know! If I did we’d be there already,’ snapped Harry, frustrated. ‘The key to Apparition is to concentrate on your destination. Since we don’t know where we want to go, I have no clue if we can even Apparate, let alone where we’ll Apparate too!’

‘Sorry,’ said Ron, glaring at Harry.

‘We should have asked Stephen where the nearest town was.’

‘Right, and get a few more holes blown into our bodies,’ snorted Ron, angrily.

Harry lifted his head to look at Ron. ‘So, should we Apparate? It’s obvious that staying here is doing nothing except helping us argue.’

Ron shrugged. ‘If you say so, mate.’

Harry blinked. Ron hadn’t called him ‘mate’ for quite some time. Trudging through the wind and snow had not helped their friendship flourish and both boys had been irritated with the other for quite some time, even though neither of them had really mentioned it. Just like they hadn’t really mentioned Hermione since she had died.

Harry stood up and Ron followed, reluctantly pushing the snow off of his arm.

‘Maybe one of us should help the other, you know, side-along, so that we end up in the same place,’ said Harry.

Ron nodded. ‘You go ahead.’

Harry grabbed the forearm of Ron’s good hand and closed his eyes and concentrated on traveling a few miles forward, where ever that was. All he could see in his mind was blinding white snow. The familiar suffocating feeling of being squeezed tightly came over him.

In less than a moment the feeling vanished and Harry slowly opened his eyes, praying that something had happened and that they hadn’t gotten themselves splinched.

Harry’s heart fell as he opened his eyes. There was snow everywhere, just like before… exactly how he’d pictured it in his mind… there was nothing to tell them that they had even traveled a mile.

Next to him Ron gave a whoop of joy.

‘What’re you so happy about?’ muttered Harry without looking at Ron.

‘Turn around, stupid!’ yelled Ron joyfully.

Harry spun around and gasped. It worked! he thought joyfully.

It wasn’t a city or a village exactly, more like a group of houses: a neighborhood. But it was better than nothing. Harry and Ron hadn’t seen any real civilization since they had left Salem Town (they never considered Stephen to be a part of civilization after he practically blasted them out of his shack).

‘Shall we go check it out?’ asked Ron grinning in spite of his shattered wrist. He looked the happiest Harry had seen him look in days.

‘After you…’ replied Harry also feeling amazingly ecstatic.

They walked over to the small crowd of houses and looked around. It seemed to be a make-shift village. A small path cut through the snow and wove around the cottages. There was a small shop to one side that seemed to sell everything a person could need for a short stay in the wilderness: food, clothes and utensils. Harry’s mouth began watering instantly, when he read the word ‘food’, on the sign. Trying to ignore his stomach, Harry looked back at the many houses. On closer inspection Harry saw that the twenty-some cottages were all shabbily built: someone had made a quick job out of them. A few roughly chopped wooden boards hurriedly stuck together formed the walls of the houses. Not one of them had windows. The chimneys were lopsided and seemed in danger of collapsing. The entire neighborhood seemed in danger of being pushed over by the fierce northern wind that was blowing at the time.

‘How do people live here?’ wondered Ron, poking the finger of his good hand into a large hole in the wall of one of the houses.

‘What if people don’t live here?’ said Harry worriedly.

Ron looked at Harry and grinned mischievously. ‘If no one lives here we can steal all the food in that shop!’

Harry rolled his eyes but he couldn’t help thinking that it was a good idea. He was so hungry that even stealing seemed acceptable if no one was using the food when they stole it.

Another bitter wind blew around them and Harry pulled his coat closer to his body. ‘Well, let’s go knock on some doors before we steal anything to check if anyone’s around. We don’t want to be sent to death row for stealing!’

Harry regretted his choice of words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Hermione, dead, hanged… it all came back in a painful rush of memories. Harry glanced at Ron and saw that he too looked grief-stricken all of a sudden.

‘Anyways…’ started Harry but he couldn’t go on. Ron just nodded once and walked forward to bang on the door of the nearest cabin with his uninjured hand.

When no one came to the door, Harry and Ron moved to other houses, but to no avail. Either no one was living in the small village or no one was home.

Ron threw up his hands and groaned. ‘Now what?! We can’t leave without anything!’ he said frustrated. Harry heard his stomach grumbling and knew what that ‘anything’ was.

Harry sat down in the snow and shivered. ‘This is getting to be our normal routine—having no food.’

Ron continued to stomp around angrily. ‘No food and too much snow! If I had a wand—’

But Ron’s threat was cut off by a loud, deep yell. A gun-shot sounded. Harry didn’t have to look around to understand what was happening.

‘Oh, not again!’ he moaned, putting his head into his hands.

A group of large burly men was running towards Harry and Ron. Harry stood up and watched the men run nearer.

‘Any plans?’ Harry asked Ron.

‘Surrender?’ said Ron, lifting up his arms as a few more shots echoed through the air.

Harry raised his hand to give Ron a hefty blow to the head, mostly to knock some sense into him, but he was stopped short by a rifle being dug into his ribs.

‘Who’re you? And what are you doing here?’ said a stocky man, with blond hair and a maniacal look on his face, as he poked Harry with his rifle.

‘We’re nobody and we were looking for food… we weren’t going to steal anything! Just taste test!’ blurted Ron.

The man raised an eyebrow and poked Ron with the gun instead, while his comrades watched. ‘Were you, now?’

Another man stepped up, looking more dignified. ‘If I may ask,’ he began. ‘Who are you and what business do you have here?

Ron was busy stuttering so Harry spoke. ‘We’re just travelers and we were looking for some food but no one lives here.’

‘We live here!’ replied the gruff, gun-poking man. The other men nodded their agreement.

‘We didn’t know that,’ replied Harry. Ron nodded.

The gun-poker didn’t seem to want to believe their story but luckily for Harry and Ron, the dignified man seemed to be in charge.

‘I am Mr. Douglas Grant,’ he said, holding out a hand to shake. ‘I oversee the work going on in the Lynn Iron-Smelting Plant, near here.’

‘Lynn?’ asked Harry, shaking Grant’s hand.

Douglas Grant nodded. ‘Lynn is a town a jump, skip and a hop away from here. The town has established an iron smelting plant near here, where we work.’

‘The first Iron-Smelting Plant here,’ added the gruff man proudly. ‘Benjamin Jefferson, at your service.’

Harry shook Benjamin’s hand too while Ron just glared at the man for boring a hole in his back with a gun.

‘The smelters live here, in this village,’ said Grant, gesturing at the pack of roughly built houses. ‘It’s safer to put a plant up here, away from the town. And it helps the men concentrate on their work.’

Douglas Grant walked forward into the circle of houses and pulled the door open of the largest one.

‘Please come in,’ he said to Harry and Ron. To the rest of the men he called: ‘You’re dismissed! Take a break, men.’

**

February 10th, 1692
Later

Harry and Ron stepped into the house. As Harry glanced around, the first thought that entered his mind was, What happened to the holes? It was definitely not sparsely furnished, and Harry assumed that only the most important people stayed in this house. A large cushiony couch stood in the corner, a stone fireplace added to the décor. A table and a few chairs were scattered around the room, but it gave the place a home-y look. The walls were covered with a light shade of paint. A stove sat against a wall. In fact, the house looked as good inside as it looked horrible on the outside. And to Harry and Ron it was like heaven. There seemed to be no holes in the walls or any reason for the house to look roughly built. There were no windows either but it didn’t seem too bad.

‘Sit down, boys,’ said Douglas, not unkindly. Harry and Ron sat on the chairs while Douglas bustled around and quickly conjured up a tray of tea and biscuits from seemingly nowhere. Harry instantly began to salivate.

‘Eat,’ said Douglas firmly. Harry took a biscuit without any hesitation and took a moment to look Douglas over. He was a tall man, well-built and around forty. He was wearing modest clothing: a white shirt, breeches and a clean, crisp brown coat. Large, thick boots covered his feet and he wore mittens made of some kind of thick cloth, over his hands. A mop of grayish-blond hair sat on his head and a few laugh-wrinkles sat on the skin around his eyes. He had a long strangely shaped nose that almost didn’t belong, as if an artist had planned to make the nose differently but in the middle he changed his mind about the shape and improved as well as he could. Harry did a quick double-take as these thoughts ran through his mind. Douglas’s eyes. Harry stared at Douglas’s eyes for a good few minutes. He couldn’t tear his own eyes away. There was something about his eyes. They were blue, bright-electric blue and they gave him youth. Although the wrinkles and the gray hair suggested that Douglas was nearing old age, his eyes insisted otherwise. But that wasn’t what drew Harry’s attention. No, it was something else, something unnatural. Something was telling him something… but he didn’t know what either something was.

Harry pulled his gaze away when he realized Douglas was speaking to them.

‘What are you two doing out here?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure you can’t be traveling, or you would have been prepared better.

Harry looked at Ron and Ron looked back. Harry knew that they shouldn’t say anything about why they were really roaming around Massachusetts in the winter but something was telling him that it was okay to tell Douglas. Harry sighed. That stupid ‘something’ was sure to get him into trouble if it didn’t stop telling him strange things.

‘You’re right,’ replied Harry almost involuntarily. ‘We’re not traveling.’

Ron gaped at Harry. Harry shot him a look that said: ‘Keep your mouth shut while I try to figure out how to get out of this!’

Ron snapped his mouth shut. Douglas continued talking, as if he hadn’t noticed the exchange of meaningful glances between Harry and Ron. Maybe he hadn’t noticed, thought Harry.

‘So why are you here?’ he asked.

‘We-ll,’ said Harry drawing out the word. ‘We were in Salem a while ago and…’

‘And?’ urged Douglas.

‘Our friend got accused of being a witch,’ replied Ron, sadly.

‘And so you decided to pop up here in the middle of no where because someone made fun of your friend? Good plan,’ said Douglas nodding wisely.

Ron scowled. ‘No, our friend was hanged you dunce!’

Douglas raised an eyebrow at the rudeness but said nothing about it. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ muttered Ron. ‘Too bad you weren’t the one being lynched.’

Harry kicked Ron under their table. ‘We had to leave. We were friends of a ‘witch’ and they refused to believe that we were innocent.’ He emphasized the word witch.

‘I see,’ said Douglas, putting his long fingers together. Harry stared at him. There went that strange something in his brain again, trying to give him a message.

‘So who was this friend?’ asked Douglas, conversationally.

‘Her name was Hermione,’ replied Harry slowly and sadly. The memories were still so painful. Douglas nodded. ‘She was just our friend. From… school.’

Douglas nodded again. Then he said: ‘She has just moved on. Grieving will not help her or you.’

Harry looked up at him. Where had that come from?

Ron spoke up, angrily. ‘She was our best friend… You expect us just to forget about her?’

‘I expect you to cherish her memory, since that still remains with you, but you should not keep cherishing her soul as that has moved on to, hopefully, a better place.’

Ron snarled. ‘That’s still like forgetting her.’

‘No of course it isn’t!’ said Douglas. ‘You keep her memory in your heart, ensuring that she is not forgotten but you accept that she has moved on and that gives not only her soul freedom, but you too!’

Harry thought about Douglas’s words. ‘It’s like your saying that death is okay. Something… good.’

‘Not good, exactly,’ started Douglas. ‘But, not bad either. She has moved on. She has not ceased to exist. Instead she has begun the next adventure. It is not worse than this life and it may even be better. She may be watching you, and enjoying herself.’

Harry listened to Douglas and something went off in his brain. Something that Harry lost grasp of as soon as it clicked. He tried to figure out what he had realized but he was unable to remember.

‘Death is okay,’ said Douglas softly.

Harry sighed and took a sip of his steaming tea. The hot beverage warmed him right up, going to the tips of his fingers and toes. Harry sighed again, this time contentedly. He was feeling warm for the first time in a few days and to him a few days seemed like forever. Ron seemed to have gotten lost in his thoughts momentarily (probably thinking of a way to kill Douglas) but now he spoke again.

‘Death is okay? That means you think all the killing going on in Salem is alright?’ he said, obviously trying hard to contain his anger.

‘Never said that, did I?’ said Douglas with a flourish. ‘Death is okay, it should not be regretted because what has happened has happened and would have happened anyway. But killing people is not okay, especially if there is no real legitimate reason.’

Harry grabbed another biscuit off the tray. Where had this conversation started off? All of a sudden they were discussing death. Death. Harry knew more about that topic than he’d ever let on: His parents, Cedric, Sirius and now Hermione.

‘Where do you think Hermione would be now if she hadn’t died?’ Douglas was asking.

‘With us!’ retorted Ron. ‘Here, safe and sound and happy!’

Douglas shook his head. ‘You mean cold, wet and starving?’

Ron just pouted stubbornly. ‘If she hadn’t died we would never have come here.’

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ replied Douglas pleasantly. ‘You may have left anyway.’

And as Harry thought about it, he realized Douglas was right. They would have left eventually. Somehow. They had to get back to their own time, eventually, no matter how long it took. But that still didn’t mean that Hermione’s death was all hunky-dory, goody-goody joy-joy, move on with your lives people; that she would have died even if she hadn’t been hung.

Ron rolled his eyes. He obviously didn’t agree with Douglas either.

‘I’m not saying she would have died under your care,’ Douglas continued. ‘I am only trying to impress upon you the… probability of death. She would have died eventually. It is the path all of us must take… the one thing that actually distinguishes us as human. The grief you feel now, you would have felt someday, whether it was to be sooner or later. Whether your friend was young or old when she moved on, here or there. It would have happened.

‘I will die and you will die, and the men outside will die, and we shall all continue walking our path. Your anger and despair at Hermione’s death has been ever increased because she was hanged on a false accusation. Had she died a somewhat more peaceful death, it would have been easier to bear.

‘But I think, maybe, that is not the only reason for your anger. Anger sprouts from fear, at times. Fear leads to anger you know. Fear of death, in this case. Fear of the unknown. Fear of where your next step will take you. The fear that maybe, tomorrow, you will meet a painful, horrific ending, or you will witness yet another painful, horrific ending.

‘What we must understand, boys, is that our lives do not end here on Earth. We all should be prepared to take the next step. We should be prepared to leave those we love, or have them leave us. We should expect the unexpected.’

Neither Harry nor Ron spoke. Ron had suddenly become interested in the floor, and Harry was swallowing gulps of warm tea as fast as he could, trying to keep tears from his eyes. Douglas’s words were bringing Hermione’s last words rushing back to him. Her last moments. Her still, dead face. Douglas’s words were also slamming Harry’s worst fear in his face. Leaving his loved ones, dieing, having to go on, go away, without knowing what would become of his friends. Having to endure pain and suffering at the hands of another, for the last time, and not being able to avenge himself and others.

Douglas stood up and picked up the, now empty, tray. ‘I suggest you boys stay here for the night. I’ll pack some food stuff for you and you can head over to Lynn Town tomorrow.’

Harry nodded, blinking his eyes and setting the tea cup down on the table. ‘Th-thanks. Er- I don’t want to impose or anything put do you know of a doctor who could fix my friend’s hand? He got shot.’

Douglas’s eye’s flicked to Ron and then down to his hand. ‘It just your luck boys, that I happen to know how to fix up this kind of wound. I’ll put something on it for you and wrap it and it’ll be as good as new tomorrow.’

**

Douglas had professionally wrapped Ron’s wrist up after dabbing it with something that stung and the two boys were settling into bed. Harry was feeling happier than he’d ever been in his life. The impact of Douglas’s earlier words had worn off and now he could focus on what was around him… a warm bed, covers: he was finally going to be able to sleep after so many nights and days of walking. Okay, the ‘beds’ were only a couple of straw mattresses covered by cloth and set near the lit fireplace and their covers were thin, furry blankets but it was better than the hard, cold, snow-covered earth. There was no fear of freezing in your sleep when you were sleeping in a warm house. Douglas had retired to a small room which he had insisted was his normal bedroom. It contained no bedding however, from what Harry had seen: it had a small couch and that was all. Harry propped himself up on his elbow and faced Ron.

Ron yawned and then said, ‘He’s crazy.’

‘Not really crazy,’ replied Harry thoughtfully. ‘He just has some er-strange ways of looking at things.’

‘He’s crazy,’ said Ron again, nodding.

‘Whatever.’ Harry turned over and lay down again, pulling the covers over him.

‘What’re we gonna do tomorrow?’ asked Ron after a while.

‘Move on I guess. We’ll have to see what Douglas says. Maybe we’ll go to Lynn like he suggested.’

‘What if Lynn is like Salem? All that witch stuff isn’t safe for two wizards is it?’

‘I dunno. I think this sort of stuff only happened in Salem.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Well, I remember reading about it and the book only talked about Salem. Like, I remember, the book said something about a four-year-old girl who had been sent to prison in Salem because she was a suspected witch.’

‘A four-year-old?’

‘Yeah, I know. She died in prison from starvation.’

‘Whoa. These people are mental!’

Harry couldn’t agree more. Superstition. That’s all it was. Superstition and fear of the unknown. Doctors couldn’t figure out what was making people so sick so they blamed unnatural things. Things that did exist but it wasn’t like normal wizards actually went around murdering muggles.

‘What was he trying to tell us?’ asked Ron suddenly.

‘Who? Douglas? Tell us? What do you mean?’

‘Well, he was going on and on about how dying was okay. Why?’

Harry thought for a moment. Ron was right. ‘I don’t know. Maybe we looked depressed or something.’

‘And he expected us not to be?’ muttered Ron.

Harry sighed, his eyes aching with exhaustion. ‘Well forget it… he was just trying to make us feel better I suppose. Anyways, I’m going to sleep. ‘Night.’

‘’Night,’ replied Ron as he extinguished the candle sitting by their straw mattresses on the floor.

After a moment of silence, Ron spoke again. ‘Mate, I keep forgetting to tell you… I never knew you read so much. Turning into a bookworm, are we? Binns would be so proud. In fact, when we get back, I’ll be sure to tell him.’ There was laughter in his voice.

Harry sat up and hit Ron with his pillow, laughing too. His heart seemed to fill with new hope as he smiled. The fact that Ron and touched the possibility that he and Harry would return to Hogwarts someday, and that he believed it well enough to joke, was heartening.

As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the velvety darkness one last thought zoomed through Harry’s brain just before he dropped off to sleep. Will we ever really accept Hermione’s death?

**

February 11th, 1692

Harry opened his eyes slowly, reluctantly. He didn’t want to wake up. He felt so warm and comfortable that his first instinct was to drift off to sleep again. But the sun refused to cooperate. A bright stream of sunlight was shining directly on Harry’s face and he could see the red colored glare, reflected blood, through his eyelids.

‘Someone shut the windows,’ Harry muttered. Then he stopped. Douglas’s house had no windows! Where was the sun coming from then?

Harry peeled open his eyelids and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He pulled on his glasses, looked around in horror and gave a yelp.

‘What! What? Help! Attack!’ yelled Ron, sitting up suddenly and screaming a load of nonsense.

Harry gaped soundlessly at Ron.

Ron just stared at Harry. ‘Mate, that’s a really bad habit. You’ve got to stop waking me up so early!’

Harry shook his head. ‘Look around you idiot! Everything’s gone!’

Ron looked and looked and looked. Indeed, everything was gone. The paint, the stove, the couch and every other piece of furniture in Douglas’s wonderful little hut had vanished over night. The house was still there but it was now understandable why Harry and Ron had thought the homes had been shabbily built. A large hole in the roof was letting in streams of sunlight, which is from where the sun had been shining on Harry’s face. A few other small holes in the walls were letting in drafts of chilly air. A gust of strong wind from the open door blew Harry’s blanket off of him.

‘But- but- but-’ Ron stuttered.

‘Where did everything go?’ finished Harry.

Harry stood up. The small side room which Douglas had slept in was empty as well. The only things remaining in the house were a small bag of food by the doorway and, of course, Harry’s and Ron’s beds.

‘Bloody hell!’ murmured Ron. ‘This makes no sense. Everything was here last night and now…’

‘Where’s Douglas?’ wondered Harry.

He stood up, pulling on his coat and walked out the open door and yelped.

‘What!?’ yelled Ron.

Harry just shook his head. There was nothing there. Nothing. No homes, shabbily built or otherwise. No store, no building of any type. So sign of life. No nothing. No people. No indication that everything that had happened last night had happened at all.

Ron had come out as well.

‘I don’t believe it!’ he screeched. ‘We can’t have dreamed it all!’

The landscape was bare. Except for the light dusting of snow on the ground, there was no movement. There weren’t even any footprints on the ground.

‘Maybe we’ve gone mental!’ said Ron in awe. ‘I’ve always wondered how it feels to be mental. Feels pretty normal if you ask me.’

‘We couldn’t have dreamed it,’ said Harry. ‘There’s that bag of food by the door. Who left that?’

Ron shrugged.

‘And we did have that talk with Douglas and he did ask us to stay the night!’

‘But there’s no Douglas here,’ Ron waved a hand at the surroundings, ‘or anywhere. Everyone’s disappeared.’

‘I- but- this isn’t possible!’ yelled Harry.

Ron stepped all the way out of the house and walked around to the back. Harry followed him.

‘Nothing,’ sighed Harry.

‘Nothing,’ agreed Ron. ‘This is bad. What’re we going to do?’

Harry completely lost. How could it be? It was all real; it had to have been real! But now that everything was gone…

Harry walked back into the empty house. He knelt by the door, took the bag of food and upended it. Food rolled every where. Two loaves of bread a full chicken, a cloth-encased bottle full of some kind of drink, and a box filled with some kind of turnover: a pastry bag full of meat and vegetable. It looked delicious. At the very bottom of the bag were two pairs of thick woolen socks. But nothing more. No letter, no note, no sign that a man named Douglas Grant ever really existed. Harry stuffed the food back into the bag angrily.

Ron came up behind him. ‘My hand is better,’ he said.

‘It is?’ asked Harry, turning around to look.

Ron’s wrist was back to normal. It was hard to believe. There was no sign of blood or a wound. Harry didn’t know much about muggle medicine but he was almost sure that even the best stuff wasn’t good enough to fix a shattered wrist. Especially not in this era when the doctors couldn’t even understand fungus-induced fits. But however impossible it was, it proved one thing. Douglas hadn’t been a dream.

‘So we didn’t dream it all up,’ said Ron.

Harry nodded. He was feeling horribly confused. ‘I—’ Harry stopped and then began again. ‘Maybe we should move on. I mean, there isn’t any point of staying here, is there? We can go to Lynn.’ A little something tickled the edges of Harry’s mind and this time he was able to grasp the notion. His eyes widened in realization… maybe… maybe… but Ron’s voice cut his train of thought short.

‘I guess,’ replied Ron. ‘If you want to risk it.’

‘What’s left to risk?’ Harry muttered under his breath.

Ron heard his words. ‘Our lives,’ he said angrily, and he strode past Harry, down the path that no longer existed.

Harry got to his feet and followed Ron, pushing his idea to the back of his mind. He could chew on that later.

**

‘A jump, skip and a hop, my foot! Wait till I get my hands of that little disappearing rat of a human. I’ll strangle him!’ Ron grumbled through chattering teeth, making a barbaric motion with his hands.

For the first time in days the sky above was clear. The stars had come out and were beginning to twinkle as the wind gained courage and blew stronger and harder, sweeping the snow clouds away. A full moon shown brightly in the night sky, the white sparkling in inky black, so that it cast shadows on the snow dappled ground.

Harry and Ron had been walking for hours, stopping only to eat and rest for few minutes at a time. They didn’t want to waste time and they knew they couldn’t afford to. Neither knew what time it was, but both knew that they wouldn’t sleep until they reached Lynn or some other settlement.

The rising wind posed a much greater threat than the snow, it seemed. Both Harry and Ron were shivering, a motion that had begun in their numb feet and spread through each limb. Their teeth chattered constantly, their breath rose in white puffs, as the icy wind sliced at their faces, bringing tears to their eyes. We could freeze just standing still, thought Harry.

‘Do you realize that we have no idea where Lynn is?’ Harry whispered to Ron.

Ron was silent for a second and then Harry heard him laugh, almost hysterically. ‘Yes,’ he said, giggling a little. ‘Why are you whispering?’

Harry had to stop his own urge to burst out laughing. ‘Shut up with the laughing,’ he said to Ron. ‘You sound insane. And I don’t know why I’m whispering. I guess it’s just too… quiet.’

‘Yeah, it is,’ replied Ron, controlling his laughter. ‘It’s like… like someone is watching us… and we’re in their little world, doing exactly what they want us to, you know? Like this is all a bunch of scenery and we’re just… going around in circles. Nothing is changing, nothing is moving. It’s just too quiet.’

Harry shivered at Ron’s description. For one thing, he’d never heard Ron sound so… un-thickheaded. For another thing, he was exactly right. It did feel like they were on a movie set acting out a very bizarre film. No birds twittered, no animals moved. There were no prints in the patches of snow on the ground, of humans or animals. The wind blew, and the leaves rustled but that was it. Besides that, Harry and Ron may as well have been the last humans on earth.

‘Remember I was telling you a few days ago,’ began Harry, ‘about that feeling that I had. That we were sent here for a reason. Maybe Voldemort—‘

Ron didn’t even bother flinching. ‘Look, mate,’ he interrupted. ‘I think you’re getting too paranoid. Even You-Know-Who wouldn’t be stupid enough to send us into 1692. What’s the point? I mean, we could easily have missed the amulet that day in Hogsmeade. Then what? His plan would have gone down the drain.’

‘I know,’ Harry said rubbing his hands together, ‘but… I just can’t get the feeling out of my head. It’s all to well put-together. It’s all too planned out. It’s almost too perfect.’

Ron laughed skeptically. His face was pained, as he said, ‘Hermione dying, running out of food, getting shot, losing our wands, running into a psycho disappearing man who loves death, getting lost in the middle of nowhere, forgetting to ask the damn directions to Lynn. You’re right, it is perfect. Perfect dream vacation.’

‘That’s what I mean. No, listen! We were transported to Salem in 1692. The time of the witch trials. It was even the perfect time, just when the witch hunts began! But there is something wrong with the story we’re living. This isn’t how it happened in history. I don’t ever remember hearing about any Emily being the first witch hanged! And no where is any teenage girl mentioned in the books. Binns never said anything either. I mean he droned on about it for weeks. He’d have mentioned that one of the first witches hanged was a teenager. It should have been in the books that Hermione was hanged. The court records would have her name on them, it would have been recorded in most history books! But it wasn’t!’

‘So,’ said Ron. ‘We changed history. Big deal.’

Harry shook his head. ‘But that can’t be right. Changing the past is a huge breach in the wizarding community. Hermione dying should have alerted the Ministry of today, because her death never happened originally. Neither did Emily’s. Shouldn’t the Ministry of Magic have swooped down on us the second Hermione died? Shouldn’t we be in Azkaban or something right now? The Ministry would have detected the change, no matter what, and they would have done something to fix it!’

Ron looked confused. ‘But that would be if Hermione had altered history. Maybe she didn’t alter history. She didn’t kill her past-self; she killed herself in the present. I mean, she got herself killed… she died… she…you know! She didn’t change her own history at least.’

‘Fine,’ replied Harry. ‘Hermione didn’t change her own history, but she did change the history of Massachusetts. The records should have told us about her and Emily getting hanged, but they don’t, do they? The real records talk about some Rebecca lady. There was no Rebecca hanged. No matter how you look at it, the history of Salem was changed. We should be back home right now, getting in trouble with the Ministry.’

Ron shook his head, as they continued to walk. ‘Still, it doesn’t prove we’re here for a reason.’

‘Look, lets say that Hermione’s dying changed history. Or even if that didn’t change history our arrival at the Becker house did. So basically we changed history but no one has busted us for it. Now look at the rest of our days here. Every time something bad happens, something else happens to make it a little better. We started out having a good time a t Salem but then Hermione… and we left and then…we met Stephen, he shot you and we forgot our food. Then we met Douglas who gave us food, a bed, and a few socks.’

Ron shook his head. ‘That’s just one little thing Harry.’

Harry groaned. ‘Look, I can feel that we’re here because someone wants us to be here! We should have been able to get back home, but that stupid little amulet was a one way! It doesn’t make sense for it all to be an accident! Why would anyone want to come here to stay here forever? When they could easily be killed?’

‘I don’t know mate,’ replied Ron, ‘but there must be a reason. We’re here by accident because I had to push that button and that is it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’

‘But, Hermione’s book—’

‘Harry, I don’t want to talk about her!’ said Ron angrily, Harry cut himself off immediately.

Just as the two friends became silent, the idea he’d had before jumped back to him, and struck him like lightning. He spun around and grabbed Ron’s shoulders.

‘He was Dumbledore!’ Harry exclaimed in a shocked whisper.

Ron gazed at Harry, giving him a look that said he was seriously questioning his best friend’s sanity. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Douglas!’ said Harry excitedly. ‘He was Dumbledore in disguise!’

Ron’s eyes widened, not in realization, but in disbelief, and maybe exasperation. But he didn’t reply. He just continued walking, moving a good distance away from Harry.

Harry sighed but gave up trying to explain his feelings. Maybe he was just being paranoid, stupid. Maybe he was just trying to look for a logical explanation for everything. The night was getting darker, the moon had set. It was pitch black around them and even the bright snow look dark blue. Harry and Ron continued to trudge forward, hoping they’d reach their destination soon, and once again, wondering how they would get back home.

**

‘This isn’t right… it’s horrible! It’s not fair to them. They’ve been there so long. They should know!’

‘Ah yes, many things in life are horrible. And yes, they should know, but as you have seen they are slowly beginning to understand, even if they don’t admit it. And as you know, even if they don’t understand now, they will soon enough.’

‘But… they’re so helpless, and… and… alone…’

A brief rustling is heard, followed by a sigh.

‘No matter how many friends you have, you always enter and leave this life alone. It is a lesson all must learn. Some earlier than others.’

Silence ensues, but it is quickly broken by an angry voice, a voice holding back tears.

‘Why twice, Professor? Why not once… only when they… we… have to face it… only when we must… why twice?’

The replying voice is tired, worn, exhausted. It sounds as though it is just waiting for it’s time to leave life behind… waiting for the eternal sleep.

‘Because, my dear, a fear once overcome, is easier to face the second time.’

**

February 14th, 1692

‘We’re alive!’ crowed Ron, sitting up suddenly, and practically falling off of the tree he was on.

Harry sat up too, rubbing his eyes wearily. ‘We are?’ he muttered. ‘Don’t talk before we get out of this tree, Ron. We might be in Heaven. Or the other place.’

‘With the tree?’ laughed Ron, clambering down the tree. He stood on the ground for a moment and looked around before calling up to Harry: ‘We’re not in Heaven, mate!’

‘Great,’ murmured Harry sleepily, ‘we’re in the other place! I’m going back to sleep, then.’

‘No!’ said Ron, cupping his hands to his mouth. ‘We’re still in 1692!’

‘Exactly,’ muttered Harry, clambering off the tree. ‘That’s what I said.’

‘Nah, this place looks much nicer after a night’s sleep,’ said Ron cheerfully, hands on hips.

‘You mean you actually slept?’ said Harry, yawning. ‘You didn’t stay up half the night, afraid that some animal would come and have us for dinner?’

‘Nope,’ said Ron. ‘Shall we move on?’

‘I suppose,’ said Harry, picking up the small sack of food. ‘Lynn can’t be too far now.’

‘I hope not,’ Ron muttered.

The boys walked and walked some more, sometimes talking, sometimes keeping silent. It was tedious, to say the least and in the flat, look-alike landscape, they could have been walking in circles for all they knew.

Sometime during midday, Harry and Ron stumbled upon a trodden-down path, through snow, grass and weeds. Knowing they had very little to lose, they followed the path. For a long time it led nowhere but forward. Or maybe it was backward. But they really had no choice but to keep on it once they had decided to follow it.

Exhaustion and lack of food was taking hold of both Harry and Ron. Although they took regular breaks to eat the small amount of food Douglas had graciously given them, they knew they couldn’t finish the whole thing in one go (which is very much what they had wanted) and so they had portioned the food to last at least three days. This meant that neither of the boys got enough food, barely a few morsels in fact, which they ate as slowly as possible, hoping to trick their minds and stomachs into thinking that they had eaten a full meal.

Still, despite the fact that they were getting some food, Harry was beginning to notice that both he and Ron were wasting away, fast. Ron’s cheeks were so hollowed out that Harry found it difficult to look at his best friend and Ron’s hands and arms were thin, bony. Harry himself found that he could count each and every one of his ribs just be pressing his hand to his rib cage or looking down at himself (this examination had been a one time thing, for even the first time Harry had had the chance look at his own chest, the initial thought that had entered his mind was: We’re going to die.). His necessary jaunts to small grassy patches behind rocks (or not so grassy patches, as they sometimes were) were becoming increasingly difficult because he knew he’d have to see his bony legs; they hadn’t been much before the situation he was in these days, but were even worse now, with less muscle and fat than a bowtruckle’s wooden body. Harry was seriously trying to calculate how much longer they’d be able to survive without three square meals a day and a warm bed.

Meanwhile, Ron had developed a strange hacking cough. For sometime Harry had thought nothing of it. In the wintry weather they had been experiencing added to the lack of filling meals and eight hours of sleep, Harry would have been very surprised indeed of one of them hadn’t caught a cold or cough or something even worse. However when Ron began coughing up small amounts of blood, Harry became increasingly concerned. He was neither a doctor nor a Healer and he had no idea what to do. All he could suppose was that something had burst in Ron’s lungs and it would heal up on its own soon enough. Harry knew, though, that this was hoping for too much and the blood was a sign that something was seriously wrong.

What it came to, in the end, Harry thought, was that they would have to find Lynn soon. Soon should have meant in a few hours of walking, but it had been two days now since he and Ron had left Douglas’s old shack and they had reached nothing and had seen no sign of a city or civilization.

Had Hermione been with them, Harry was positive she would have thought of something. Although Hermione had never really been interested in the Healing part of magic or surviving in a desolate part of the world for days at a time, she was a treasury of helpful spells and information, and she was extremely clever. She would have thought of something. Not to mention that she was capable of lending a sympathetic ear and she might’ve paid more attention to Harry’s theories than Ron, or at least she would have had a logical explanation for his suppositions being wrong. All in all, Harry was seriously missing Hermione’s comforting presence, whether that comfort was because Harry was used to Hermione getting him out of tricky messes or he just enjoyed having her around as a friend. Harry was sure that Ron wouldn’t be so depressed either, had Hermione not died. Both he and Ron had accepted Hermione’s death to some extent. Nevertheless whenever Harry realized that he could not rely on Hermione’s wit to help them out of the present situation and that she would not be just over his shoulder, ready to offer words of comfort, the pang in his heart was inexplicably painful.

At the end of the third day since Harry and Ron had left Douglas’s empty shack, the sun was clearly visible, setting in the west, leaving pretty trails of purple and blue clouds behind it. Harry and Ron stopped under a group of trees all of which had shaken off any last traces of snow to the grassy ground. The weather was finally beginning to improve, with sunny mornings, soft breezes and no snow, and pleasant nights.

‘We could try and Apparate again,’ suggested Harry, breaking the dreary silence that had settled over them. He already knew the reply to his comment even before Ron had spoken.

‘We might get lost.’ It was as simple as Ron had put it. This time they had some idea of where they were heading and neither of them was willing to lose their way again.

Harry sighed and was just settling into the tedious, lethargic silence that seemed to surround the two friends so often, when he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye.

Simultaneously, he and Ron turned to the right. There, right in the middle of the grass, in full view stood a (horribly camouflaged) white rabbit. Harry’s heart jumped into his throat and his mouth filled with water. The rabbit was so plump, and delicious-looking.

He sucked in his breath and gave Ron a warning look. They had to time it perfectly if they were going to have any chance at even getting close to the scrumptious thing.

The rabbit stood on its hind legs, twitching its ears left and right, its black bead-like eyes staring straight at Harry and Ron.

It took only two seconds. Two minuscule seconds for the rabbit to lower it self on all fours; for Harry and Ron to spring simultaneously towards the animal; for the creature to feel the adrenaline in its veins and bound away towards the bushes; for Harry to grab a stone from the ground, almost unknowingly; for him to throw it with a brute force that he didn’t know he possessed; for the stone to hit the rabbit’s skull with dull clunk; for the rabbit to fall, dead; and for Harry and Ron to freeze, staring, amazed.

Staring, staring, staring…

Ron walked forward, lifted the limp rabbit. Blood from its head streaked the snow white fur.

From the bushes the rabbit had run towards, came a rustling.

Both Harry and Ron looked up.

And both saw three small bunnies, brown-colored and innocent.

And as the two friends’ eyes met, they each knew what the other was thinking.

Is this what they had been reduced to?

Is this what they would have to become to survive?

***

February 14th, 1692

Later



It began to rain. Clouds moved in, covered the red-orange sky, blocked out the sun. Shadows, shortening just moments ago, disappeared, as the evening turned into black night, faster than it should have.



In the middle of the half-soaked, shining grass that had begun to spring up from the patches of drab earth, lay a creature, clothed in the whitest of white. A pure garment that had not provided it the safety of innocence and beauty, but had sent it to its end.



A black bead shone in the whiteness, as rain spilled onto the creature, slipping along the white, smoothing it down, causing it to glisten. Still the black bead shone brighter than the white, although it had lost its spark, lost its glitter.



Stains spread from the white, to the green, diluting in the rain, but still dark, still bright, still ominous. In the redness that spread far and fast was a sign. A sign of things to come. A sigh of tragedy. A sign of death. The crimson blood slipped further downhill, seemingly following the two retreating figures, following them into darkness, into loss, into fear. The two thought they had left death behind… were they ever wrong.



**



It was still raining when they finally arrived.



‘It looks just like Salem,’ muttered Ron flatly, red hair hanging limp in his eyes.



All Harry could do was agree.



Lynn. Harry had expected it to be a bustling town, a city. He had hoped it would be something more than Salem. Something better. Something to wipe away the imprint Salem had left on his mind. Something worth the days of walking.



It was nothing even close to what he had imagined. Homes: some large, some small. Shops: mostly modestly sized.



Not many people out walking. None actually.



A sad town. A town facing tragedy.



A town in turmoil.



Ron had spotted an inn and suggested they go there. It was probably the best place to find information.



A stone-cobbled path led from the trodden-dirt road Harry and Ron had followed, to the inn. It was a small warm-looking building, with a chimney which sent out spirals of smoke into the chilled air. Red bricks lined its walls, and empty barrels sat at its wooden door. The few glass windows it had were fogged over. A sign hanging over it said: Muller’s Inn.



Harry gazed at its welcoming aura and wondered why it didn’t make him feel any less despondent. Ron was already at the door, pushing it open. Harry expected to immediately hear loud voices and raucous laughter coming from inside. There was only silence though. It only helped to depress him more, but he followed Ron.



As soon as he entered the inn, a blast of warm air hit him, toasting him from head to toe. He could feel his rain-soaked hair beginning to dry. A man stumbled past them and out the door. Ron was looking around eagerly.



The inn was larger than it had appeared from outside. With a roomy hallway leading from the door to two large rooms on the lower floor, it gave off the air of a place of meeting. A place where the townsfolk got together to discuss happenings and to have a few drinks with their friends. The two sitting rooms were connected by a large door-like gap in the joining wall. A large fire roared in each, bathing the area in a golden-red light. A counter had been built against the far wall of the room on the right. Behind it stood a bartender, wiping wet glasses with a dishrag and chatting animatedly to a customer. The rest of the room was filled with round tables and comfy couches and chairs. The room on the left contained a large dining table, which stretched practically to the length of the room, and was surrounded by carved wooden chairs. The chairs and sofas should have been occupied, Harry thought, but they weren’t.



A stairwell led from the first floor, to the second, where Harry suspected, were rooms for people staying the night.



Harry followed Ron into the smaller of the two rooms, the one with the bartender. Muller’s Inn was quiet. Harry wondered why. It didn’t seem natural for a town inn to be empty on a dark, cold night, when the warmest place in a village would most probably be an Inn.



The two friends approached the counter, where the bartender was still in deep conversation with his only customer, who happened to be (surprisingly) a well-dressed young woman with brown hair tied tightly at the nape of her neck.



Snatches of their conversation drifted towards Harry.



‘Salem…’



‘…witches…’



‘…small children…’



‘…occult…’



Harry and Ron exchanged meaningful glances. So the mass witch hysteria had spread as far a Lynn. Harry was wondering if that was a danger sign, when the bartender caught sight of them.



‘Hello friends,’ he said jovially, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘What can I get you?’



‘Uh…’ began Harry awkwardly, ‘We don’t have any money—’



The bartender cut him off. ‘Not a problem, lads. Today, it’s my treat. No one should be without a warm drink on a night like this.’ He pushed two large flagons of a frothy liquid towards Harry and Ron, along with a plate of bread and butter.



Harry and Ron both smiled thankfully, and accepting the drinks and food, sat down at a nearby table, too hungry to bother being polite.



As they sipped their drinks (which happened to be some sort of strong beer; Harry could feel himself warming up immediately) the woman who had been speaking to the bartender a moment ago walked up.



‘May I join you?’ she asked politely. Harry saw that she was a tall woman, but not at all intimidating. On the contrary she had soft brown eyes and an easy, welcoming smile. She wore a modest dress, made out of a thick, coarse material and in her hand she held a medium sized bag that gave Harry the impression of a suitcase. He wondered if she was going somewhere.



‘Please do,’ answered Harry, smiling at her. Ron was too busy with the bread and butter, and couldn’t open his mouth to reply.



‘My name is Rebecca,’ said the woman, tactfully averting her gaze from Ron until he managed to swallow, his ears slightly red.



‘I’m Harry, and this is Ronald,’ replied Harry, feeling a little awkward. He didn’t bother hiding their name’s although he had given Ron’s full name, just to keep it more 1692. He didn’t think there was any point in alias any longer, because if people were looking for them, they’d probably have descriptions along with names.



‘You are rare visitors,’ said Rebecca, smiling. ‘In these times, not many feel brave enough to venture out of their homes, away from their fires. And you two seem more boys than men… but, of course, leaving home is a journey we all must suffer to take, whether young or old. I myself am embarking on a journey.’ She motioned to the bag that Harry had noticed before, affirming his suspicions that it was a suitcase.



Harry was silent for a moment, wondering which question he wanted to ask first. ‘Rare visitors?’ he said eventually. ‘Are you saying that there aren’t many visitors to Lynn?’



Rebecca smiled sadly. ‘Not any longer, no. Lynn Town is emptying. There were many families living here, not a week ago. But since then news has spread far and wide, and word has reached our ears of danger in Salem Village.’



‘The witch-hangings?’ Ron asked, managing to control the urge to stuff more bread into his mouth. Harry smirked at him and picked up a piece of bread, taking a small bite. Ron gave him a Look.



Rebecca seemed oblivious to Harry and Ron’s silent exchange. She nodded. ‘Yes, the witch hangings. Foolishness and idiocy has finally had its way with the people of New England. Children’s games are suddenly of the occult and illnesses are caused by black magic.’



‘So you don’t believe it’s magic?’ asked Harry surprised.



‘No, I do not. I do not live in Salem, though, and I have not heard any clear account of the mysterious illnesses. But I do not believe in magic or the occult. Logical explanations can be found for anything and everything. We just need to look hard enough. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday the answers will be clear and all of this witchcraft uproar will seem folly.’



‘So why are you leaving?’



‘I am returning to my family in Salem Village. I would like us all to leave this place together if we leave at all. And Lynn Town is no longer a suitable place to reside. The grocer has left and his stocks with him. Only the very rich or the very poor remain, the former having connections and the ability to obtain food and the latter unable to afford leaving.’



‘Aren’t you afraid of going to Salem? They’re hanging innocent people,’ said Ron, quietly.



Rebecca shook her head. ‘Afraid? No, I am not afraid. Apprehensive, yes. I do not know whether these people being hanged are innocent altogether, although their innocence in the case of witchcraft is clear. The Village of Salem is a victim of human fault, and there is little you or I can do about that. Whatever else they are, the New England courtiers are, above all, just. I have not attended any trials, of course, but their evidence of the crime must be conclusive enough to convict. And of course, they believe that the crime is witchcraft, so the punishment too, is just.’



Harry raised his eyebrows. Just when he was getting to like the woman, she came up with something that made him despise her. ‘They are killing innocent people. How is that just?’



‘They are not aware that these convicts are innocent, although they may be. They are doing what they feel is correct. The lawmakers and law enforcers are not to blame. All we can hope for is that the ones who sparked this frenzy are punished, in this life or the next and those innocents who suffered are compensated for their suffering in the next life.’



Harry opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it. He sat back, his eyebrows scrunched together.



Was she right? Could they blame Salem’s court, those people who had handed out the punishments? After all they didn’t know… they were the victims of mass hysteria. But wasn’t it true that everybody should be responsible for their own deeds? Whether nine or ninety, whether accidentally or purposely was the deed done, responsibility was something that had to be taken. And who had set off the Trials? Who had put this idea in the Salem Villagers’ hearts? Should they really take the blame for everything that had happened during the Salem Witch Trials? Was it possible to have a sparker in this situation? Wasn’t this just a strange built-up superstition that had finally taken its toll? Was it the sparker’s fault that everything had gotten so out of hand? Wasn’t the responsibility for so many deaths, so many murders, too much to take for one single person, a person who might not have even known what they were doing when they “sparked� the tumult against witches?



Harry’s head was still spinning with questions when Rebecca stood up, picked up her bag and smiled down at the two boys.



‘I wish you good luck, my friends, and a safe journey to wherever you are heading. And I hope that you find what you are looking for,’ she said, a melancholy smile on her face. Harry and Ron said goodbye and watched her leave the tavern.



‘So,’ said Ron, turning back to face Harry, his hands gripping his mug tightly, staring at Harry with an almost knowing look on his face, ‘who was she?’



Harry was still staring at the door through which Rebecca had left, her last words to them still ringing in his ears. ‘I think… she was hanged.’



The look on Ron’s face told Harry that he had guessed the truth even before Harry had said the words.



**

February 14th, 1692 -
February 15th, 1692

‘How could… we have spoken… to a woman who should be… dead?’ asked Ron, staring into space with a glazed look on his face, his voice slow and almost inaudible.

The rain clouds had almost magically transformed into thicker snow clouds, which now swam in the velvety night sky, grouping together in patches, completely covering some parts of the sky and leaving other areas bare. Stars gleamed from the bare patches, winking and blinking down at the earth. Where it had been raining only a few hours ago, it was now snowing. The flakes had fallen fast and the ground had quickly been blanketed in a layer of white five inches thick. It sparkled in the dark, looking like glitter.

Harry was almost positive that this Rebecca was Rebecca Nurse, and she had been one of the first women hanged during the witch hunts. This theory had been proved moments later by the man at the bar who, while wiping a tankard dry, and affirmed the woman’s name. All this, of course, brought up the question that Ron had just voiced moments ago.

Rebecca Nurse should have been dead by now. But Harry and Ron had spoken to her only a few hours ago. It shouldn’t have been possible, if history was playing itself out the way it should have been. And it was, wasn’t it? For if things were changing, if history was changing, then Harry and Ron would know. The Ministry of Magic didn’t allow such huge breaches of magical law go unpunished. They didn’t even let small breaches go without warning, as Harry knew full well, having received a warning for a house elf smashing a pudding in his living room a few years ago. Again, a question Harry had brought up only a few days ago, returned to his mind. Why weren’t they being dive-bombed by Ministry officials that very second? There were two possible answers: either they hadn’t changed history, or there was someone else who had traveled back to 1692 and was busy altering history and possibly being accosted by the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at that very moment. The former was proved wrong by all textbooks published concerning the Witch Trials and the latter… well, what were the odds that someone else had time traveled to Salem? Which psychotic person would come here of their own free will?

Well, someone had made the amulet. Someone who wanted to come here, otherwise, why would anyone have an amulet that transported you to the Salem of 1692? Not to drop it, and hope that some innocent bystander would pick it up and happen to push the button and thus end up to traveling three centuries previous. What were the odds of that happening?

Whatever the odds, it had happened. To Harry, Ron and Hermione of all people.

As the two boys trudged through the snow, their feet becoming wet and the slowly freezing up, not to mention the state of their noses, Harry sighed. He had no answer to Ron’s question.

He was exhausted, still hungry and sick and tired of Salem and witch hunts and stupid, stupid 1692. His head hurt, his legs hurt from so much walking, he was cold in places that he didn’t know could feel cold. All he wanted was to go home. Home. The word had never sounded so beautiful, so warm, so happy. Like a warm, toasty room with plump couches and a huge orange-red fire, flickering and burning merrily, where laughter and happy chatter were the only sounds you could hear, as you sat on a sofa, sinking into its warmth, half-dozing, a lingering smile on your lips… eyes drooping…

Harry could see pictures in front of his waking eyes; the snowy scenery blurred around him and a movie began to play… but it was like no movie he had ever seen or heard of…

He could see Salem Village clearly, as if he were there; it changed to Naima Becker’s smiling face; there was Samantha, telling them that the amulet was dangerous; the court trial; Hermione’s Charms book; the prison; Hermione’s pleading voice, she had not wanted to die; Gallows Hill; Emily Warberk’s sobbing daughter in the crowds; people jeering; Hermione’s blue, discolored, oxygen-deprived lips; two figures hanging by ropes… dead… dead… dead… DEAD… DEAD… DEAD… DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!

‘WHOA!’

A cry broke Harry away from his vivid, sickening flashbacks, his heart aching in his chest, tears frozen on his cheeks. He jumped, looked around frantically, ready to punch, kick, bite, to protect himself and Ron.

And then he looked down.

Ron was sprawled, spread-eagled in the snow, face down. Harry’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest, its banging loud in his ears.

‘Ron!’ he said, bending down as fast as possible, shaking his friend. ‘Ron, no, please!’

And then utter relief, relief like Harry had never felt before. It was thick, palpable relief in the air, he could have reached out and grabbed it in his hands.

Ron was sitting up, spitting out snow, giving Harry a strange, but understanding look. He patted Harry’s shoulder. ‘I’m alright, Harry. Just slipped on this bloody snow.’

Harry’s heart had not yet returned to normal speed and he seemed to have lost the ability to talk, so he just nodded, his teeth clenched tightly, trying to push back the lump that had risen in his throat.

When he trusted himself to speak again, he said, ‘I didn’t think it was possible to slip on sno—’

But his words were cut short by Ron slipping once again, and trying frantically to regain his balance by moving his arms like a windmill. It didn’t work and he landed hard.

Harry tried hard to keep his face straight and helped Ron up.

‘I don’t know why I keep slipping,’ Ron muttered in embarrassment. And then realization crossed his face. ‘Its ice!’ he said. ‘We’re walking on ice! This must be a lake or something!’ He gazed down at the ground.

Harry knelt down and brushed away a few centimeters of snow. It was indeed, ice. Hard, cold, thick ice. Harry looked a few feet ahead: more ice. Ron was right, it did seem like a lake. The snow on the ice was melting slowly, leaving the surface wet and slippery, which explained Ron’s sudden clumsiness.

Ron was now slowly sliding across the ice, trying to pump his legs like he would pump ice-skates. After a few moments he seemed to get the hang of it and was sliding with more ease. He paused, and turned around, waving to Harry a few meters away. ‘C’mon!’ he called happily.

As the only alternative to skating seemed to be slipping and falling until the ice ended, Harry too began to move his feet. It took him about thirty seconds to get used to the feeling, although it seemed more like fifteen minutes of stumbling and jolting feelings in the pit of his stomach. He began to go faster and faster, and he was so busy watching his feet that he didn’t realize that he was about to smash into Ron, until Ron yelled out.

Harry looked up just in time to see Ron’s wide blue eyes, before they crashed. They both fell in a heap, but instead of stopping, Harry’s inertia carried them further and further, their cries and shouts of surprise echoing in the air, the sounds of Ron scrabbling with his fingers to get a hold on the ice ringing in Harry’s ears, as Ron’s stomach and Harry’s back continued to act as sleds. In about thirty seconds their yelling had turned into laughter, loud reverberating, exhilarated laughter. Ron had stopped trying to halt their slide and was bust trying to turn onto his back, excitement painted on his face. Harry wondered momentarily if they were going downhill… but that was impossible, lakes didn’t flow downhill… perhaps it was a frozen over river?

They were slowing down, and Harry began to feel the friction burn that the speed of their motion and the cold ice had numbed until then. Their laughter died down, as the slowly came to a stop. Harry allowed his head to fall back on the ice, breathing hard, a grin still spread on his face. Ron had failed in his attempt to turn onto his back and now lay face down on the ice, giggling every few seconds. As the adrenaline left their veins, the two friends stood up. They were still on the ice, Harry realized after a few seconds.

‘I think we’d best walk from now on,’ he said, cheerfully. The few moments of uninterrupted, unexpected fun and mirth had left him feeling better that he had felt in ages. He couldn’t seem to wipe the grin off of his face. And by the badly suppressed chortles coming from Ron, who seemed quite unable to speak and just nodded at Harry’s words, he seemed to be feeling the same way.

A chill wind swept over the lands. Harry could feel goose-bumps erupting on his arms and the back of his neck. Stuffing his hands into his pockets he suggested they move on, and once again, they began to walk, for now just trying to get off the wretched ice.

The wind whistled in Harry’s ears, slamming snow flakes into his face, pinching his cheeks, making his nose hurt and his eyes water. He bent his head against the airstream although it made little difference. Glancing over his shoulder, he found that what had started as a small flurry of snow was now becoming a full-blown blizzard. He could hardly see Ron behind him, though he seemed to be only about ten or twelve feet away.

Harry was shuffling across what he was sure was still ice, after almost having slipped in a particularly icy area, when he heard it.

For a moment, he didn’t register the sound. It was hard to discern in the howling wind.

There it was again!

Harry narrowed his eyes and brought up his head, looking ahead, peering into the cloud of billowing whiteness. Was someone approaching?

Again.

Harry tried to place the sound as he walked… he had heard it before… but where?

Again.

It was so faint… like someone very far away was trying to chop down a tree…

Again.

No… no, it was like… yes! A gunshot! Like when Stephen had shot at them!

Again.

Who could be shooting at this time? Was someone trying to catch an animal? How could they possibly see anything in this weather?

Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

It was faster now, with less frequent intervals. Like machine gun rounds. The sounds seemed to linger in Harry’s ears, making it feel like they were popping.

Again. Again. Again. Again, Again, Again, Again.

Faster, faster, louder. Harry couldn’t understand it, what was happening? Was someone shooting at them? But it didn’t sound like shots anymore…

AgainAgainAgainAgainAgain!

A lightening bolt had struck Harry. His ears rung, his mind buzzed, his head felt like it was about to burst, his heart was hammering a tattoo on his ribcage.

AGAIN!

The ice was breaking.

A horrid feeling a nausea rose in Harry’s throat, the worst nausea he had every felt, his throat was on fire, his ears were going to pop, every nerve he possessed was sparking painfully.

A crack resounded in the air, as loud as a bomb, louder than anything he had ever heard. He wasn’t walking anymore. His hands were out of his pockets, pumping at his sides. He was yelling, louder than he had thought possible, screaming, tearing his throat: ‘RUN RON, RUN!’

Running, running as fast as his thin, bony legs would carry him, praying that Ron was following, still shouting to him, still crying out, but not turning around to check, because every second could be the difference between life and death.

A scream, a shrill, unearthly, deathly, heart chilling, piercing, wailing scream made him freeze where he was. Every instinct that had come to life seconds ago seemed to vanish, chased away by that shout. Time seemed to stop. The wind fell. The snow seemed to part, like a curtain, allowing him to see, as he turned around, pulled by unseen forces.

It was as if the earth had opened up and now wished nothing better than to pull its prey into the chasms of the dungeons it enclosed.

All in slow motion, Harry saw it:

The ice cracking right under Ron’s feet.

The large gash opening, widening, its girth increasing with every passing second.

Ron falling, straight down, in mid-step, his eyes wide, shocked, his mouth open, shouting, yelling, maybe pleading…

His mouth formed the word, ‘Harry’.

…pleading to Harry.

A rushing sound in Harry’s ears, and everything returned to normal speed, and without knowing it he was running, running faster than he had ever run.

The wind stung his eyes, whipped at his clothes and skin.

As if trying to pull him back.

As if telling him there was no hope.

And Harry saw Ron disappear beneath the surface of the now visible water.

‘NO!’ screamed Harry, his voice finally returned to him. ‘NO!’

He was there.

He skidded to a stop.

He was on his knees before he knew it.

His hand in the water, the freezing, icy, deathly cold water.

There was nothing more chilling in the world.

At this very second, even the Dementors could not match the cold that gripped Harry as he groped in the water.

Words were slipping through his lips, words he could hardly understand…

‘No, please, no, please, help me, help him, Ron, no, you can’t—’

And his fingers grasped what was unmistakably Ron’s wrist.

Something was fighting to burst from Harry’s throat, but he swallowed hard and pulled with all his might.

To no avail.

As hard as he pulled, he could not bring Ron back to the surface.

A mighty wrench and the next thing he knew he was in the water.

The cold, bad enough when just his arm had been in the water, was now unbearable.

It pushed all thought from Harry’s mind. For a second, he thought he had blacked out completely.

He had had no warning and his lungs now felt as if they would burst.

He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, somehow feeling that they would freeze instantly. And then he realized that he was still grasping Ron’s wrist.

Get to air…

It was the only thought on his mind.

**

February 15th, 1692

Get to air…

Everything was green-blue, and eerily quite. The sounds of the wind and snow above were muffled efficiently by the water. Light refracting through the ice made the green-blue color brighter, and where the water was disturbed strange shapes, silvery green snakes appeared.

Get to air…

Harry had finally opened his eyes. He needed to breathe; his lungs screamed for precious oxygen, sobbed for air. His head was heavy, his eyes drooped, he could feel his heart pumping the poisonous oxygen-deprived blood through his body. His limbs were frozen, as if he’d been put under the Full-Body Bind. All he could do was float, his fingers stiff around Ron’s wrist as the urge to breathe in began to overpower him. Blackness tinged his vision as he sank lower and lower away from the ice and air, his body heavy. Maybe it was time to die…

That small, sickening, final thought, brought Harry back to his senses. It was as if someone had pushed his head above water and allowed him one final breath. A shock went through him and his eyes shot open. His brain seemed to have received a jump start. Harry’s fingers tightened around Ron’s wrist, but he didn’t turn to look at his friend or to see if Ron was still alive. Even the thought was unbearable.

Harry could see the crack in the ice that he and Ron had fallen through. He swam towards it, pumping his arms and legs slowly, wearily, pulled back by his heavy clothes and the extra weight that was Ron. It seemed to take an age to get there.

Finally, when red and white spots began to pop in front of his eyes, Harry’s hand shot up through the water to the surface. He grabbed on to the ice (his hand seemed to freeze onto it) and pushed his head above water, gasping for air. His chest heaved, and he could here little pop sounds in his ears. His heart beat so rapidly in his chest that it was painful.

Harry pulled himself up onto the surface, cold wind slapping his face. He was coughing and choking and gasping for much needed air, but still he heaved, pulling himself back onto the ice, dragging Ron behind him.

He shivered uncontrollably, on his hands and knees, his eyes closed, as he sucked in breath after precious breath. Ron! screamed his brain, but his body refused to move until it had received its due share of oxygen.

At last, his body cooperated, and Harry spun to look at Ron.

Perhaps, it would have been better if he had been too cowardly to see if his best friend was alive or dead. Perhaps it would have been better if he had not made it out of the lake at all.

Harry was in shock. It was the only word close enough to explain what he was feeling.

There is no word in the English language, or in any language, to explain the devastating, sickening feeling that swept through Harry as he stared and stared down at what lay on the ice beside him.

It was beyond nausea; beyond pain; beyond hopelessness; beyond the feeling that the cause of a millions deaths was your fault, because you made a mistake. It was beyond feeling.

It was as if his mind had shut down from the pain and horror, as if he had fainted, but in a way that he could still see what lay before his eyes. As if the world was laughing at his mistake, even in his grief, laughing and making sure that he would never forget what he had done.

He wasn’t staring at his best friend.

He wasn’t staring at a frozen, blue, bloated corpse.

He wasn’t staring at Ron’s dead body.

He was staring at a large finely whittled cylinder of soggy wood. Exactly the same diameter that a half-starving, seventeen-year-old’s wrist might have been.

**

He sat there for a long time. He didn’t know how long: it could have been minutes, hours, days, weeks, even months. But he sat, staring, his eyes glazed.

Around him, the world seemed to change. Had he cared enough to look, he would have seen it. The wind died down, and the sky cleared. It stopped snowing. The cloudless sky was picturesque. Dawn approached. The sky lightened from velvety blue to a lighter, softer, creamy blue. The beginnings of a small golden orb peeped over the horizon, sending a heavenly glow into the sky. The powder blue transformed into a mix of pink and lavender fluff, streaking the sky magnificently. A few birds awoke, began to sing their morning songs, merry, joyous that a new day had begun. The golden orb rose higher and became more visible, shining onto the white dust that covered the ground. Shadows grew.

The sun rose to Harry’s back, casting a shadow in front of him, bathing the large branch of wood in gray. It was very big and only one part of it, a large broad branch, had been shaved and whittled to be smooth. The rest was as it had grown, with thin and thick branches and tendrils growing out of the whittled area, like claws and long, jointed fingers. One particularly curved and sharp-looking branch was broken, hanging by a thread to the rest of the wood. No wonder he hadn’t been able to pull it up at first. It had probably been stuck somewhere.

But these thoughts and sights did not register with Harry as he sat on the iced over lake, freezing and shivering and wet, staring at that large branch with his brilliant emerald eyes that glowed in the dawn, but seemed cold and distant still… like emerald ice.

The world moved on. It had no feelings, no emotions to plague it. It faced loss every single day. It faced death and disease and destruction. It moved on. The world continued to pass through time, but for those few hours that Harry sat on the ice, for him, time had stopped. The world knew nothing. It was amazing. There, right in its midst, a life had been lost. A friend grieved for a friend; a brother for a brother. But the world knew not.

It moved on.

It felt nothing.

**

February 15th, 1692
Later

Harry couldn’t bring himself to move. He knew he must, that he couldn’t sit there forever, staring at the dead branch from an unknown tree that had, in a matter of milliseconds, ruined his life.

It wasn’t sinking in. He knew that straight away. Even when he thought about it, tried to force it to sink in, repeated over and over in his mind, “Ron is dead�, it didn’t. Harry didn’t know what would happen when he did finally absorb that he had lost his very best friend in the whole world. All he knew was that at that moment in time, there was an ache in his heart and throat and both were very painful, though in different ways. He wanted both feelings to leave him and he supposed it would only happen when the actuality of the situation sunk in.

This was unhealthy. He had a feeling that it was. He was just thinking, allowing his mind to wander, but not really trying to accept that Ron Weasly was truly dead. He was just pretending that he was. Faking it to make himself feel better, to pacify the small part of him that was scolding him, in Hermione’s voice. That small part made it all the more painful and he just wanted it to be silent. Every time he felt that both his mind and body were on the verge of allowing the grief to escape the dam it was trapped behind, he reinforced the dam, strengthened the wall.

There was no reason behind it. There was no one left to see his anguish. He had no reason to hide. Would the sky scorn him for crying? Or the birds, the snow, the sun? Perhaps the branch that sat in front of him?

He pushed the thought away, and immediately, more thoughts filled its place, none of them any more pleasant. He was finally alone. In this empty wilderness, with only trees and snow surrounding him, and the sky and sun above, Harry felt more alone than he had ever felt. He had never experienced such a feeling. It wasn’t that he had never been alone. He had spent nine years of his life pretty much on his own. His aunt, uncle and cousin were a technicality that could be ignored. They weren’t with him for the nine years he had spent in their presence. He was just living in their house, eating their food, and in their opinions, invading their privacy. They had told him, continually and clearly, that he was a nuisance to them and they’d rather he never existed or that he’d died with his parents. Oh, they never actually said it aloud. The proof was there though. In their actions and looks and in the way they treated him. But even that loneliness wasn’t true loneliness. At that time, he had only spent his very first living year with people who loved him, which he could hardly remember, and the other nine with people who openly despised him. He hadn’t known, really known, when he had been eleven what loneliness was, because he had never experienced not being alone. He had wished for friends early on, when he had started school, but it hadn’t taken him long to understand that he would never have friends and that he’d better get used to it. Afterwards, he realized that remaining in his own company was safer and easier than making himself sick with worry about being a friendless freak for the rest of his life. He’d just have to cope, and cope he did. There were, of course, times, over the years, when he did wish again that he had good friends to confide in, but it was natural and those moments were soon forgotten. He was used to solitude, and he thought of it as solitude, not loneliness. Some of his teachers had worried about the fact that he had no friends but one call to Uncle Vernon—

His mind was wandering again. Wandering instead of facing what had happened. Mulling over the far past, ignoring the present. It was comforting to not think – or technically to think about unimportant things. The point of his thoughts had been, simply, that it was harder to lose something when you had had it for so long, than not to have something you had never ever had. He was alone now, and he felt it, because he had spent the last six and a half years in the company of close, close friends, people he considered as good as his family. Even when they were not at his side, they were with him, forever in his thoughts. Their faces in his mind’s eyes were comforting on long summer nights spent at his aunt and uncle’s. Memories of the good times he had shared with them brought a smile to his face even when he felt his lowest. He knew they were there, at home, somewhere, perhaps thinking of him. He had felt love and friendship, exemplary, out of the ordinary love and friendship. And losing it, after having experienced, was heart wrenching.

He was now, in the true sense of the word, alone.

His two best friends in the whole world were dead, gone away together, as he had, very, very deep in his heart feared they someday would.

Alone.

Now, sitting on the ice, still gazing at the damned arm of a tree, a breeze whistling past, shivering in his wet, icy clothes, his grief slammed at his throat painfully, squeezed his heart. He swallowed as hard as he possibly could, and finally looked up. The sun was hot on his face. It was, perhaps, a little after noon. The ice around him was broken. Large and small pieces were floating on the lake now. Water sloshed around them, jumping up onto the ice through the cracks, melting bits of snow on the broken pieces.

A tear slipped down his cheek unbidden, so suddenly that Harry thought momentarily that a rain drop had fallen on him. He brushed it away violently and looked around again. There was a leafy evergreen tree in the distance and Harry suspected that it was far away enough to be away from the lake. And of course, tree couldn’t grow in lakes or on ice. He needed to get there. He could Apparate.

Apparate.

Harry swallowed hard.

Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? When he had heard the ice crack, why hadn’t he shouted to Ron to Apparate a distance away instead of telling him to run? Why had all thought of magic completely escaped his mind? Why was it, that when he was in a dangerous situation, panicky, not thinking straight, he forgot the little piece of him that made him who he was today? Why did he forget magic? He had forgotten it during Hermione’s execution, and when she had been imprisoned and now… During all those times, they could have Apparated away. It didn’t matter if anyone saw them… using magic in front of muggles (magic-hating muggles even) was allowed in life or death situations.

Had he bothered to think Hermione and Ron would both be here today. Maybe all three of them would already be home, in their own time. Maybe they would have found a way out days ago. After all, with Hermione… she was the smartest of them, the cleverest in their year. And if he had thought, taken a few seconds to use his brain, she needn’t have died. And Ron would have been alive and he, Harry, wouldn’t be forced to face the guilt… he was the reason Ron was dead. Of course he was… there was no reason to deny it. It was so obvious. If he had just bothered to look around when he had been in the water stupidly clinging to a tree branch he would have seen, realized, and he might have seen Ron. Maybe Ron had seen Harry. He might have been conscious, he might have seen Harry in the water holding onto a piece of wood, as if for dear life and perhaps he had been calling out, waving, motioning with his hands, trying to catch the attention of his very best friend in the world. And when he realized that Harry was not looking at him, maybe he had tried to swim forward, but maybe the fall into the water had injured him and he wasn’t able to swim? Or, no, he had swam for Harry, even as Harry had gotten his second wind, but he had gotten stuck somewhere, his shirt had caught on a rock, and even as he pulled his clothes free, Harry had begun to swim away, further and further, until Ron, exhausted, stopped, his body resisting movement, but still he pushed, trying to get to surface, the will to survive stronger than the urge to breath and die… until he had been forced to stop… maybe lack of oxygen had paralyzed his brain and he had begun to see large black shadows, an omen of what was to come… and he had frozen, watching Harry swim forward, making for the surface, still dragging that branch, but moving, living… and his eyes had widened and maybe… had Ron known? Maybe… maybe he had just given up and breathed willingly, and drowned… drowned with time to think about it and watch his best friend swim away, leaving him to die. Or maybe he hadn’t even been conscious for very long and the cold water had literally frozen his heart and— NO!

Harry clutched his head. No, he had to stop thinking about this, thinking like this. He had to push it away.

He glanced back at that evergreen tree he had seen earlier, and stood up. His legs folded underneath him for so long were numb and wobbly and he almost collapsed back onto the ice immediately. Quickly he regained his balance, and stood. He did not look down at the branch, or the ice, or water. He turned to face that lone tree, turning his back to the glaring sun. Faced the try and closed his eyes, and spun slightly. The familiar suffocating feeling grew around him, and for the first time in his life Harry did not wish it to be over. Instead he wished it would continue for ever and ever until he was black and blue and dead.

But it didn’t go on. It stopped, quicker than Harry had been expecting, and he opened his eyes to see, in front of him, that evergreen tree, tall, straight and majestic. He knew that he was off the lake, even without looking, but he turned anyway, despite the fact that his mind was crying out for him not to look back.

Yes, he was off the lake.

He could see that thing sitting on the ice, even at this distance.

Just a few seconds ago he had been there.

Just a few hours ago, Ron had been there too.

Harry could see water sloshing up around the piece of ice he had been on.

Water.

Ron’s grave.

He should have said something, a prayer, a few words.

And that was when the dam finally broke. It hadn’t been able to hold in such painful anguish any longer, and it broke, fully and finally. Harry seemed to wilt as sank to his knees slowly; his head clutched in his hands, squeezing hard, his eyes scrunched up as large tears spilled down his cheeks. His mouth twisted with sorrow and finally, Harry didn’t hold back. He let the grief flow, as tears, as mournful cries. His shoulders shook with it, his back was arched and shuddering. The pain shook him, as if it had grabbed him by his shirt and was shaking him and shouting in his face and screaming in his ears. His throat felt like it was being ripped out but he didn’t or couldn’t stop the screaming, heart-wrenching sobs. Tears spilled onto half-dead grass blades peaking out from the snow, wetting them and melting the snow around them it, but if the tears had really been the pain emptying from Harry, the snow would have caught fire and screamed loudly, piercingly, and shriveled up and died a hard anguish-filled death. Harry gasped for breath, his teeth clenched tightly, but he couldn’t stop. He sobbed and tears streamed down his cheeks, trying but failing to freeze on his cheeks, but he couldn’t stop. His whole body ached and wailed with the pain, but he could not stop. And he didn’t really try.

After all, there was no one left to hear him.

**

February 16th, 1692

Harry awoke the next day, completely unaware that he had even fallen asleep. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if it was the next day. It could still be the day before. The sky was darkening, the sun setting, as Harry sat up and coughed. His throat was parched, his bones creaked and his body ached as he moved.

He had a feeling that he had slept for a day and a half. It was the next day then… or the next night technically. Sitting still, he realized that he was actually warm and well rested though when he had drifted off to sleep without meaning to he had been soaked to the skin and exhausted. In all honesty, Harry knew he should be dead. Sleeping outside in winter while drenched? It sounded suicidal. Harry rubbed his face and decided that somehow his magic had kept him warm during the night.

As he looked up at the sky, his head throbbed. Where would he go now? What would he do? Everything they had done had led them to – nothing at all. They had left Salem in hope of safety and they had found safety from the crazed muggles, but their meeting with Stephen and Douglas and Rebecca… nothing had come out of any of those encounters except questions and troubles and pain. So where was he supposed to go from here? What had he learnt? What was the next step? How was he supposed to get home?

Maybe he ought to Apparate somewhere close to Hogwarts. It was dangerous, Harry thought, after all he had never heard of anyone Apparating from one continent to another… was it too far? Or maybe dangerous was good… if he got himself splinched the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad would be on him in half a second and he could tell them what had happened… how he was stuck in the past… how two people had already been killed. He might get shut up in Azkaban for messing with time travel but at least he’d be back in his own time…

Or maybe he didn’t want to be in his own time anymore? What was waiting for him there? Ron and Hermione were dead, here, in 1692. If he returned… people would ask questions. They’d ask him endless question about why three people had gone to Salem and only one returned. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Hermione’s parents, Dumbledore, they’d all need explanations and answers. That would be the hardest part and just thinking about it made Harry feel nauseous. He’d have to explain to Ron and Hermione’s families. He’d have to retell their deaths, go over revolting details, feels the stares. He knew what they’d be thinking. They would be wondering why he hadn’t saved them, or why he hadn’t died. How had he escaped? Why had he escaped?

Wasn’t this better than that then? Wasn’t here better than there? There was no explaining to do here to distraught families, no accusing glares, no inquisitive reporters.

No Voldemort. He was free here. Nothing to worry about. No duty, no responsibility. No aching to kill the man who had murdered his parents, Cedric, and caused Sirius’s death. Here there was nothing he could do… and so he did not feel he had to do anything…

People performing Dark Magic were attracted to torturing young girls and children. Followers of Dark Wizards didn’t hesitate to hurt young people.

These girls were evil! I heard they held trials too and our justices are all fair.

To think even young people can be witches and make deals with the Devil. I wouldn’t have thought it possible but there you go!

Whatever else they are, the New England courtiers are just.

She has just moved on. Grieving will not help her or you.

Good thing they’re dead!

Wrong. There was something Harry had to do. Something important. Douglas had been right: Grieving wasn’t going to help Hermione and it wouldn’t help Ron either. Nor would sitting beneath an evergreen tree and waiting to die.

Harry knew what he had to do. And if the Ministry had a problem with it, now, then so be it.

**

It was dark and quiet in the outskirts of Salem Village. Not many people were awake, and the only lights were of small oil lanterns hanging on posts here and there to give light to those traveling on the road and the shining, unearthly light of the white moon that had risen above. The windows of the houses were shaded and no lights shone through the curtains. A lone dog trotted up the road, tounge hanging, each or its ribs visible. Suddenly the dog stopped and sat its nose sniffing eagerly at the air. It moved slowly towards what it smelled, nose sill working overtime. Its tale began to wag slowly and it whined pitifully. It recognized that smell. It was human. Humans had food. The dog crept forward, near a bunch of trees, still begging for a morsel of food, anything to calm its aching belly for a few minutes.

‘Hey there puppy,’ said a hoarse voice from the shadows of the trees. It was a soft voice, a cunning voice, a sweet, seductive voice. ‘Want a treat?’

The dog gave a muffled bark and wagged his tale faster.

‘Come here boy,’ said the voice again. ‘I’ll give you a treat.’

The dog bounded forward. It had only moved two paces when there was a bang and a flash of green light that bathed everything in a ghostly glow for a split second.

The dog was dead as soon as the light hit it.

The hoarse voice barked a laugh.

Another voice spoke, a female voice this time. ‘That’s a good boy. Enjoy your treat.’

**

‘I don’t believe it! How could you – no, I don’t even want to hear it! You’re sick! Can’t you see – don’t you understand – you have no idea what this is doing to him!’ A deep voice, a male voice.

Another voice, female, quiet. ‘He’ll destroy himself.’

A third voice, a deep voice, a calming voice, a voice to be trusted. ‘He will not.’

**

February 16th, 1692
Later
Midnight

All was now quiet in Salem Village. In one of the nearby houses a clock chimed twelve: midnight. No one would be awake at this time… midnight was the hour of witches, warlocks and Satan himself. Everyone would be safe and warm in their beds, sleeping soundly.

Crack!

A man appeared in the middle of Salem Village as if out of thin air. He stumbled slightly, and the light of a lantern hanging from a nail above a shop door fell on his face. At second glance it became clear that the man was in fact too young to be a man but too old to be a boy. His jet-black hair was mussed and looked dirty. His clothes were ripped and torn. He looked like a vagabond.

Eight days roaming the half-wilderness called New England with little food and less sleep had taken its toll on Harry. As he Apparated into Salem Village, his heart filled with a new determination, his eyes strayed to the many shops and houses that dotted the plains around him. Every single house and most of the shops would have some sort of food stuff in them. It would be so easy to just Apparate inside one of those shops and take some food, maybe grab a blanket, wash his face… he was so hungry…

His stomach rumbled in agreement, but these hunger pangs weren’t normal. They were severe and painful and they made Harry want to lean over and vomit. His legs were weak and shaky and his heart thumped eagerly at the thought of a warm meal. He could feel himself wavering… after all it would take only a few seconds to eat something… he needed to eat…

No.

He hadn’t returned to Salem to steal some food, no matter how tempting the thought of doing so was. Harry tried to concentrate. He was just turning away from a shop brimming with strips of dried venison and bacon when something caught his eyes. Harry moved forward, his stomach clenching uncomfortably. Hanging on a shop door, suspended by a rope tied to its neck was a small, emaciated dog. Its tongue flopped out of its mouth; its eyes were wide and staring. As Harry gazed at it, a feeling of nausea rising is his throat, he realized that this dog hadn’t been hanged to death. Magic had killed it. After days and days of being away from the magical world, Harry’s senses pricked at the sight of the dog and he found that he could actually feel the magic that had murdered it. It was a chilling feeling. A shiver slithered up Harry’s spine. At least his suspicion had been confirmed: there were magical folk in Salem.

The only question left to answer now was where these witches and wizards were and why they were wreaking havoc in Salem. Harry reached forward and pulled the rope off the dog’s neck. He had no idea why anyone would do this to a helpless animal. What kind of sick person would just kill a dog who looked half dead anyway? Harry took the dog around the back of the shop and left it there, covering it up with a bit of snow.

As he stood up and dusted his hands off, he sensed something. More magic.

He moved away from the shop, snow and dead grass crunching under his worn out shoes. He was hardly breathing, trying as hard as possible to sense where the magical residue was emanating from. His eyes locked on anything that moved, whether it was a leafless tree swaying in the breeze, a fly whizzing past or a bird stirring in its nest. His ears pricked at every sound. He could feel the magic, he knew he could, but where was it coming from?

And then he fell.

It was a short fall but Harry’s legs still gave out and he fell to his knees with a painful thud. But the pain hardly registered with him as he gasped in amazement. Harry had fallen straight through solid earth. There was no gaping hole above him, no place he could have slipped through. There was nothing but dirt and mud and rock all jammed together.

Harry stared at his surroundings. He had not fallen into darkness as would be expected. Instead he stood in what was obviously someone’s living quarters. Harry knew this was where the magic-feeling had been coming from. There were clear signs in the spherical room that a wizard or a witch lived in it. First the hole he had fallen through… or the solid ground he had fallen through had to have been magically made. Perhaps only witches or wizards could get through the “hole�. Besides that, the only way this shelter could exist was if the walls and ceiling had been strengthened by magic. Harry touched the wall closest to him and he found that he could easily push his finger through. Even his feet were sinking into the floor. It was moist, soft dirt. Not strong enough to hold the shelter up.

Harry’s heart raced as he gazed around the room. A table stood in the center with four chairs around it. On the table was a dirty gray mug. The room was lit by three lanterns that cast shadows of the chairs and tables and now Harry, across the floor and walls. A wardrobe stood against one curved wall and Harry walked over to it slowly and yanked the door open. Inside was a dark colored robe. More proof. This had to be home to a wizard or a witch.

Just then Harry heard something. In the thick silence, he could here footsteps nearing the “hole� he had fallen through. Harry’s heart jumped into his throat and he leapt into the wardrobe, quickly pulling the door until only a chink of light shone through into the closet. He had a clear view of the table now.

Harry had no idea why he was so nervous. The person or persons who lived here could be perfectly safe and kind. But Hermione’s voice kept ringing in his ears: People performing Dark Magic were attracted to torturing young girls and children. Followers of Dark Wizards didn’t hesitate to hurt young people. If that were true, then it might pay to be nervous. Salem Village could easily by a meeting place for dark wizards or witches. Harry found himself wondering why he was actually here. He was weak, hungry and wandless. If there really were dark witches or wizards here, then he didn’t have much chance. In fact, these could be the last few seconds of his life. Amazingly, the thought didn’t chill him as much as it would have a few hours ago. He was here to make a difference. To try and set things right. To clear Hermione’s name and the name of all the other people who had been hanged. And maybe that was worth giving his life for. Hermione had died in vain, and so had Ron. Harry wasn’t going to. He was going to make a difference in Salem even if it killed him. After all, he had changed history so much already without any Ministry interference… they wouldn’t do anything now… and maybe this was history and he was just following his destiny to the end.

Someone jumped down through the hole and Harry, so deep in his thoughts, almost cried out in shock. He muffled his gasp just in time. For a moment he forgot he was in Salem, year 1692 and not in Britain. The person (yes, person, for he couldn’t tell if they were male or female) was hooded and wore a mask over her face. A skull mask. They were dressed like a Death Eater. But no, Death Eaters couldn’t be here in Salem. It wasn’t possible. This was 1692. Voldemort wouldn’t even exist for more than a century!

The masked person moved forward towards the table and five more people entered the shelter one by one, all silent, all masked and robed. They all surrounded the table. Four sat down and the other two pulled out wands and drew up a chair, just as Harry had seen Dumbledore do a few times.

In the wardrobe Harry’s mind was buzzing. Well, they were wizards alright. Or witches. If only they would take off their masks… Harry tired to breathe as quietly as possible as he watched the masked people sit down.

After they were all seated there was a moment of silence. Uncomfortable silence, it seemed to Harry.

Finally someone spoke.

‘There’s another one tomorrow, ‘eh?’ said one of the masked figures, by the deepness of the voice, a man. Harry was surprised to hear the accent he spoke with was more American with a slight British lilt than fully British. He had, in fact, been suspecting these people to be Death Eaters. They were dressed for the part after all.

When no one answered the man, he spoke again. ‘Who’s the ailing this time?’

A woman answered, ‘Some child, of course.’ Her tone was scathing.

The man seemed to think he had made a mistake in speaking. ‘I – well, I – er – just thought—’

‘Getting the jitters are we, Adams?’ the woman said, her voice dangerously quiet.

The man didn’t answer.

Despite the fact that the woman seemed to be doing most of the talking, Harry didn’t think she was the leader. He couldn’t see her masked face, only her back, but by the way she was shifting in her chair, it seemed that she was nervous, not as confident as she sounded. In fact five of the masked people were shifting and twitching in their seats. The only calm person seemed to the being who was sitting facing the closet, so his or her mask was clearly visible to Harry.

The group grew silent and the fidgeting grew worse. Harry wondered what was wrong. They were all acting like naughty children… like they had done something wrong and they were waiting to be scolded for it… had something gone wrong?

Finally, just as Harry was thinking that the group had lapsed into a permanent silence someone spoke and everyone stopped fidgeting.

‘Have you tracked him down?’ spoke the person sitting directly in Harry’s line of sight.

A shiver ran up Harry’s spine and his jaw dropped. He knew that voice. No, it wasn’t possible… it couldn’t be possible. Harry’s mind buzzed and he felt inexplicably cold. How? How could it be - ?

The other five witches and wizards had frozen at the sound of their leader’s voice. Of course, the voice did belong to the leader. Who else would speak so authoritatively? And as Harry squinted in the sliver of light entering the wardrobe, keeping an eye on what was happening, the cold feeling that had encase him began to disappear.

It was beginning to make sense.

And now Harry wondered how he could have missed it…

‘No, we have not,’ replied Adams, the man who had spoken earlier. Harry’s mind returned to the unfolding events.

There was silence again and then the leader spoke. ‘I am very disappointed. I give all that is need. I take care of the girl for you, the smartest of them. I give you the responsibility of removing the other two. And you fail.’

‘We did eradicate one threat… we will eradicate the other as well—’ began another masked wizard, but the leader cut him off.

‘I gave you the perfect opening. I made sure to lead them to you. I made sure that they walked straight into the trap. And still you manage to kill only one of them. The lesser of the two. He is wandless and helpless, out in the wilderness, and still you cannot kill him. The opportunity arose after you had gotten rid of the second and you did not take it. WHAT WENT WRONG!?’

The cocky woman who had been taunting Adams earlier spoke. Harry thought she was either very brave or very stupid to speak. ‘The ice break cut us off. We were pulled under as well. He got away before we could gather our bearings. We do not know where he is.’

It was the wrong thing to say.

‘You do not know where he is?’ asked the leader in a dangerous voice.

The woman answered again, ‘It was Adams’s fault.’

The leader did not answer but Adams stood up so quickly his chair fell over. He was pointing his wand at the woman who had blamed him. ‘Of course, Mary, everything is my fault ‘eh? While you were here with Hawthorn killing some dog I was searching for the boy. So upon whom does the blame lie?

Tensions were running high. The leader still did not speak, but Mary stood up, raising her wand as well. Before she could do anything someone else also rose, stepping in front of Mary. Harry supposed it was the “Hawthorn� Adams had spoken of. He wondered where he had heard that name before… it seemed familiar.

‘We did search for the boy,’ Hawthorn said quietly. ‘And when we did not find him we returned here to report to our leader.’

‘Oh, shut it Hawthorn,’ said Adams. ‘You and Mary, neither of you have helped us at all, always taking breaks for a “bit of fun�. Was that dead dog an outcome of another bit of fun? You and girlfriend are both traitors, shirking off work for nothing.’ He turned to the leader. ‘I should do away with both Hawthorn and Mary if I were you. They endanger our existence.’

Hawthorn was about to say something, but Mary gave a screech the likes of which Harry had never heard before, and flew at Adams. Her mask fell off as she leapt and her face was revealed. She was a fairly pretty woman, round about twenty five with shiny brown locks and dark eyes. Her face was contorted with anger. Mary grabbed Adams around the waist, causing both of them to topple to the floor. Hawthorn yelled out and jumped forward trying to pull Mary off of Adams. The two unknown members of the group also rose to stop the fighting.

Harry however did not give the fight his full attention. His eyes were on something else.

He was staring at a wand that lay just outside the wardrobe, a hand’s reach away. It had fallen out of Adams’s hand when Mary had leaped at him. Harry’s heart thumped rapidly in his ribcage. That wand could be his ticket out of the whole mess…

He knelt down, and making sure that everyone outside the clothes cupboard was busy, pushed the door open a bit wider and slowly reached out to grab the wand…

**

Slowly… slowly…

Harry didn’t want to draw attention to his hand as it moved stealthily towards the abandoned wand. He could still hear the sounds of the scuffling dark wizards and prayed that all of them were still busy.

Finally his hand made contact with the wood and Harry’s heart leaped. It was so comforting to be touching the thin piece of wood that made a wizard everything he was, that for a moment, Harry forgot that the dark wizards had been talking about himself and Ron and Hermione. He forgot that they had killed his best friends and were now focusing on killing him. He forgot all of it, because now, with his hands on a wand, some hope entered him and he felt that maybe, just maybe, he could get out of all of this A-Okay.

That moment lasted for less than a second.

Just as Harry grabbed the wand and pulled it into the closet, the closet’s door flew open.

Everything went still.

The fighting dark wizards stared, frozen in the middle of punching, defending or pulling someone off someone else, at Harry. The leader was standing, mask gone, staring at the intruder. Harry was crouching in the closet, his right hand on Adams’s wand. His mind was whirring, survival instincts kicking in: How was he going to get out of this mess?

Harry jumped to his feet, and pointed his newly acquired wand at the now unmasked leader. He knew that the others would do nothing unless given orders and if their leader was in danger of being killed, no orders would be issued.

‘My wand!’ shouted Adams, untangling himself from the others and standing up. ‘He’s got my wand!’ He began to jump forwards towards Harry, but Harry immediately pointed his wand at the man. Adams froze in mid-stride.

Now their leader stepped forward, and Harry’s wand went back to her, his face contorted with anger. He wanted to kill her right there and then. She deserved to die. The hatred rising in his stomach was almost uncontrollable. But it was she who made the first move.

‘Harry,’ she said, her voice kind, the way Harry remembered it being, the way it had been when she had spoken to him oh, so long ago. There was a lifetime between their first meeting and this one now. ‘Well, I won’t hesitate to say that I am very surprised to find you here again. I did not expect it. That just goes to show you even the best cannot predict everything.’

Harry was gripping his wand so tightly that it was in danger of breaking in two. ‘It was you all along. I can’t believe I missed it…’

She smiled and Harry hated her even more. To think, he had once thought her beautiful. ‘So you begin to understand? I could not let you stand in my way Harry, not now that we’ve come so far—’

Harry was confused. ‘Come so far? What are you talking about?’ he interrupted.

She did not answer his question. Instead she went on as if she had never been interrupted. ‘In fact when you and your friends first arrived, I thought you were allies, sent to help us! Salem is not well known for being a populated wizarding town. It is as it seems: a muggle village. So why, I asked myself, would three young people arrive in Salem Village, two wizards and a witch, all of them ostensibly very able, if not to help us out? So I restored you back to health, gave you a potion that could heal you faster than any muggle medicines. Had I known then what I know now, I would not have bothered. You and your friends were not made to use the amulet that brought you to us. It was made for a much more powerful person that much was clear. Its effects on you three were so devastating that you all were already on the edge of death. Had it not been for me, then we would not be speaking now, child. I saved your life.’

‘We didn’t come to help you out! And you needn’t have saved us!’ shouted Harry angrily, but the leader strode on, ignoring him.

‘It soon became clear though, that you three were just ignorant, stupid, folly children who had no idea what they had fallen into. As soon as I saw the amulet you had arrived with, I knew. I told you the signs and markings had something to do with occult. I was amazed you never questioned me. How could any muggle, even one living in Salem Village 1692, possibly know that the amulet had magical markings? Why, even you three hadn’t the faintest idea that the markings around the rim of the pendant were more than mere scribbles. So how on God’s green earth could a muggle know?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ yelled Harry, his wand hand shaking now.

‘It was then,’ said the leader, barging on, ‘that I began to formulate the beginnings of a plan that would mean your end. As stupid you all seemed I knew that sooner or later you would get wind of what was happening to Salem and try to change it. I could see the imbecilic goodness that flowed through you and your two friends. I knew that, children though you may be, you would try to stop us.’

Harry had no idea what she was talking about, what she could mean. It all sounded much more ominous than a few hangings. It sounded like a preplanned chain of events.

The leader was still talking. ‘There are potions that can give the drinker… selective amnesia. It proves very handy when you want someone to forgot something temporarily… something that could hinder plans. So we decided we would make you forget… forget who you are. Not completely of course. You three still knew you were witch and wizards, but the usefulness of magic left your mind. So when it became clear that you three were in danger you did not think of Apparating at all. It did not even occur to you that the girl could have left her prison in a snap, that even when she was in chains, at Gallows Hill, she could have Apparated away. So one small potion, a potion which looked like maple syrup, a potion you three willingly poured over your breakfast one day became the beginning of your end.’

‘You only managed to kill Hermione!’ snarled Harry. He wanted to find a mistake in her ramblings, wipe that confident smirk off her hideous face. ‘You weren’t successful!’

Harry’s words did not have the desired effect. The leader continued to speak, ‘Our plan was to kill the girl first. She was the smartest, the brightest of you three. I could see that she would be the first to become suspicious, especially if you three sat down to recount the events that had occurred since you had arrived in Salem. I watched you from the window after I had told you to take your amulet to the magistrate. I could see then that the girl was unready to leave. You aroused her curiosity by telling her that I informed you that the amulet had something to do with witchcraft. She caught what you two did not. I appeared to be a muggle. No muggle can read Runes. But by then my potion had begun to take effect and she thought of it only momentarily. I have to say we were lucky that the amulet was taken for you three immediately after you arrived in Salem. Otherwise the girl may have examined the Runes more closely earlier and understood. The potion cannot erase what you already know. It can only make it seem unimportant. So had Hermione examined the markings at an earlier time, she would have already told you their meaning, She would have said that it had almost nothing to do with witchcraft and that had a muggle been able to read it, it would not have seemed out of the ordinary to them.’

Hatred was boiling in the pit of Harry’s stomach. A chill spread over his body from his toes to his brain. What was she talking about? Where was this going? Was she right? Had Hermione known? Had she suspected that something was wrong in Salem? Harry swallowed hard and then asked, ‘What did the runes say?’

The leader smiled. A smug smile. A smile of someone for whom everything has gone right. Harry wanted to curse her into oblivion; he wanted her to feel the pain, to die like Hermione had died, like Ron had died. He wanted her to feel the fear of death. Harry’s wand shook in his hands. How he hated her now… and still it was befuddling. Things were beginning to make sense but still… how could it be her?

‘Well, I don’t know if that is really important… I don’t think you need to know.’ And even before she had finished her sentence, Harry realized that the other five were leaving as fast as they could. They were Apparating. Harry’s heart jumped into his throat but before he could even react the leader snapped and vanished and the underground shelter fell. Mounds of dirt and rock crumbled, all onto Harry who had not even been given the time to take a final breath.

His last thought before darkness was: Samantha Becker has control of wandless magic.

**

February 17th, 1692

Naima Becker awoke. The sun was shining through the single window in her room and rays of it fell across her face. She sat up, yawned and looked around, the straw tick that was her mattress rustling quietly beneath her. Why hadn’t her mother woken her up? It was late; the sun was already above the horizon. Usually Naima’s mother would have her up before dawn to help make breakfast or fluff up the straw ticks and make the beds.

Yawning again, Naima got out of bed and hurried across her room to the small closet. The floor was bitter cold and it stung her feet. Naima pulled out a clean dress, pulled off her nightdress and tugged her everyday clothes on, along with an apron and boots, before hurrying down the stairs to look for her mother. Strangely, she was nowhere to be found. Not in the kitchen, the sewing room or her bed room. In fact she didn’t seem to be in the house at all.

Naima frowned, feeling a little nervous in the silent house. Where could Mother be? she thought as she tugged on a coat and yanked the front door open. A chill wind met her as she stepped outside, slapping her cheeks and bringing tears to her eyes.

It was a clear, bright morning. Naima could hear birds twittering in the trees near the house. The snow had all but melted and a few blades of grass were beginning to pop out of the earth. Naima sincerely hoped that another frost would not come and kill all the feebly blossoming greenery as had been happening over the past few days. Clear mornings did not mean it could not snow.

Samantha was nowhere to be seen. She was not near the stables (though there was no reason for her to be there – the stable was empty this winter) or around the back of the house. Just when Naima was about to go back inside, deciding that her mother had probably gone to town for some provisions (perhaps they had been running out?) and that it was too cold to wait for her outside, she heard footsteps.

The girl’s heart jumped into her throat. She had forgotten her bat inside even though her father had told her never to leave the house without it. And now someone had snuck up behind her and she had no protection and no mother to call to for help. The footsteps were close now, but Naima couldn’t bring herself to turn away from the front door and find out who had arrived. Her eyes were scrunched closed and her feet refused to move. She wanted to run inside and bolt the door behind her, but she couldn’t move.

‘Naima, there you are!’

Naima let out a cry, but it was a cry of joy. There was no robber or kidnapper or murderer sneaking up on her! It was only her mother, only her dear, loving, sweet mother. Naima turned around and gave her mum a big hug.

‘Mother!’ she cried. ‘Where have you been? I was worried!’

Samantha laughed softly. ‘Dear, you sound like the mother scolding her naughty daughter. I only went up to the village to meet some people. There was no need to worry.’

Naima, still hugging her mother and breathing in her lovely perfume, nodded. ‘I know. I couldn’t help it though.’

Samantha laughed again, and then gently pulled away from her daughter. ‘Come now my dear. We’ll have some breakfast and then you and I must visit Salem Village together. There is something we must take care of. I think it is finally time.’

Naima looked up at her mother, a curious look on her pretty face.

**

Immediately after breakfast they set out, bundled up in coats and scarves and mittens and heavy boots. Naima felt like a snowman in all the layers and when the wind brought tears to her eyes, she could barely bend her arm to wipe her face. She couldn’t understand why they were going to Salem Village if Samantha had just returned from there. Even when she asked her mother what she had meant by, “It is finally time�, Samantha would only answer that Naima would see soon enough.

Walking alongside her mother, Naima wondered why she (Samantha) was acting so strange. She was usually so careful in everything she did, always graceful and elegant, and never showing too much emotion. Today though she seemed… excited and jumpy. Like a child with a new toy. She had spilled some white sugar on the floor while making breakfast but she hadn’t even bothered picking it up. White sugar was so expensive that even a small amount couldn’t be wasted, her mother knew that! So what was the matter suddenly? Why had Samantha been in such a hurry?

Even now, walking down the path to Salem Village, Samantha was half running and Naima had to hurry to keep up.

The moment they reached Salem Naima realized that something was wrong, or maybe it was just different. Near the outskirts of the village there was a crater in the earth. Someone had been digging and digging hard. The hole was huge, it could have fitted Naima’s bedroom inside it. Next to the pit was a large mound of dirt. As Naima walked past it she peered down into the depths of the crater and was surprised to see that besides dirt and rock, there seemed to be a long, black, rough-looking sleeping gown lying tangled in pieces of polished wood. What was going on? Who had been digging here and why? Naima had visited Salem Village only a week ago. The hole hadn’t been dug then…

Turning to her mother, Naima was about to demand that she be told what was happening. Then she realized where Samantha was headed. Her mother was walking, no she was practically running (and dragging Naima along with her), to Gallows Hill.

**

Naima stopped in her tracks and yanked her hand out of her mother’s grasp, hoping that Samantha would stop, but it did little good. Samantha was hurrying up to Gallows Hill where the gallows had already been setup. Naima’s eyes widened in horror.

They were going to execute someone.

No, she didn’t want to be here anymore. Naima stepped backwards. She didn’t want to see a hanging, she didn’t want to and she wouldn’t! But it was like she was rooted to the spot. All she could do know was stare. And wonder what was going on and why everyone was acting so strange.

Samantha had reached the gallows and Naima could hear her yelling.

‘What are you doing you fools?!’ she shrieked to two men standing by the gallows. A chill went down Naima’s spine. She had never heard her mother speak like that.

The two men, one of whom Naima recognized to be Magistrate Hawthorn and the other a shopkeeper named Elias Adams, looked a little surprised to see Samantha angry.

‘We’re getting ready to hang the boy,’ explained Hawthorn calmly.

‘I never gave you orders to hang him!’ said Samantha furiously, striding up to the two men. Both of them seemed to shrink as she approached them. In spite of herself, Naima moved closer to hear what they were saying.

‘You said we would get rid of him. That’s what we’re doing,’ muttered Adams, looking at the ground.

Those words seemed to calm Samantha down and she nodded, taking a deep breath. ‘Yes, I did say we would get rid of him. But not like this. He shall die at the hands of my daughter.’

It took Naima ten seconds to figure out what her mother meant and when it finally registered her whole body went ice-cold. Her mother was going to make her kill someone.

‘Bring him out,’ Samantha said, and Naima tore herself away from her thoughts to see what was happening, as her heart hammered in her chest, trying to beat itself dead.

‘He still hasn’t come to yet,’ said Hawthorn but one cold look from Samantha made him turn and call to three people standing nearby. Two were women and one a man. ‘Bring him!’ he yelled to them and all three nodded and hurried away.

Bring who?! screamed Naima’s brain, Bring who?!

‘So Miss Becker is going to kill the boy?’ asked Hawthorn as they waited, walking up to Naima. ‘Is she even up to it?’ he added scathingly, having walked a circle around the girl, scrutinizing her as if she was a horse he was looking to buy.

Samantha frowned. ‘We shall soon see.’ Naima looked up at her mother, pleading, begging with her eyes. Please, I can’t… don’t make me… you know I can’t!

But Samantha either didn’t understand or wouldn’t listen. She just looked back at her daughter with firmness in her eyes and then turned to face the direction in which the two women and the man had disappeared. Naima turned too and she realized she could hear yells and sounds of scuffling. The women and man soon came into view, forcefully dragging someone forward. Naima squinted.

They were carrying a man with black hair. He was fighting with all his heart, digging his heels into the earth, kicking out at his captors. One of the women grabbed his hair from the back of his head and pulled hard. Simultaneously, the man cried out and Naima gasped.

That man was a boy. A boy Naima knew.

‘Harry!’ she whispered in horror. NO!

She would not kill him, never! She couldn’t!

Naima turned, ready to run away, but she slammed right into Hawthorn. She looked into his face and he stared back down at her with cold brown eyes. He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around, back to the unfolding scene. His grasp was firm and he didn’t let her go even when she struggled to pull out of his grip.

The man and two women had deposited Harry at Samantha’s feet. His legs were folded underneath him and his hands were bound behind his back. The man who had gone along to get Harry was, Naima recognized, Christopher Andrews the local shopkeeper. He had a fist full of Harry’s hair in his right hand, pulling so that the boy was forced to look up at Samantha. His right foot was on the poor boy’s back, pressing down hard so that Harry wouldn’t be able to move.

‘So,’ said Samantha to Harry, and she let that “so� hang in the air. In the sudden silence, Naima heard the soft sounds of happy chatter and morning brightness. A few birds chirped and a pigeon cooed. People living in the nearby houses were waking. Delicious smells floated into the area. A few children hurried out of their warm homes, bundled up tightly, and stood staring at Samantha, Harry and the others on Gallows Hill.
‘�So� what?’ Harry snarled at her. He wiggled around a bit, trying to get out of Mr. Andrews’s iron grip but the man gave his hair another yanks and with a cry Harry became still again. Naima moved a few steps forward, staring at her friend.

He looked different. The last time she had seen him he had looked healthy, well-fed and happy. Now he looked sickly as if he had been ill for a very long time. The bones in his face were clearer than usual and he had deep, dark bags under his eyes. There was dirt in his black hair and his clothes, which were honestly more like rags, were coated with grime. More than that, there was something about him… something surrounding him. Like an aura of grief and despair that Naima could almost see.

‘So,’ said Samantha again and this time she continued her sentence, ‘I think it is time we finally got rid of you Mr. Potter.’

‘I’m sure you’ll try,’ spat out Harry, a look of pure hatred etched on his face.

Samantha seemed to find this remark amusing. ‘Oh, no, I won’t try. But my daughter will. And she will probably succeed but if she doesn’t… well, we have an entire village to help “do you in�, as they say.’

She turned as she said this, looking out over Gallows Hill towards the shops and houses that made up Salem Village. Harry, Naima, Mr. Andrews and the rest of the group followed her gaze.

People were approaching Gallows Hill from all sides. All the folks who lived in or near Salem Village seemed to be gathering. Men, women and children alike were hurrying forwards. The sounds of quiet, interested chatter could be easily heard. Out of the corner of her eye Naima spotted Mary Easty a lady from Topsfield, and one of the women who had run to fetch Harry, rejoin the group on Gallows Hill. She must have run door to door, calling all the families out.

The crowd seemed a normal group of people. The elderly men and women held walking sticks and were bundled up in layers of thick shawls. The children looked like mini-snowmen, with their thick coats and hates, packed up so efficiently that only their noses could be seen clearly, already red with the cold. As Naima watched, the children and a few of the elderly were gently shunted to the back of the crowd while the able adults all stepped forward and formed a rough circle around Gallows Hill. It was like they had all come to watch a slightly dangerous funfair, from the way they were talking and smiling and the way they had pushed back the children. The only strange thing, what made everything that was happening even worse, was that every single adult in the circle was holding ready a smooth, long stick of polished wood.

A wand.

**

Samantha smiled down at Harry. Smiled at the look of pure shock on his face. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘isn’t it wonderful?’

‘What have you done?’ whispered Harry.

Samantha laughed. Laughed! Naima stared up at her mother. She loved her mother’s pure, joyful laughter. Perhaps things weren’t so bad after all? Her mother was, at least, sure of herself and Naima’s abilities. Even if Naima herself wasn’t.

‘I confess, I thought you cleverer, Harry,’ said Samantha. ‘Has history taught you nothing? Don’t you read? I’m sure history will be made to day. Today’s events will form the future… so how can you not understand?’

Naima saw Harry look at Samantha, confusion clear in his emerald colored eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but Samantha beat him to it.

‘Oh, yes, I know where you come from. That is why I am surprised… you know so little. Have you no idea what Salem is, what we have made it, what it has become?

Harry still looked confused.

Samantha seemed to find this tiring. ‘Hmm,’ she murmured softly and then sighed and waved her hand. ‘Take him away. I’ll give him five minutes to… “prepare�, while I talk to Naima.’

Mr. Andrews lifted Harry to his feet and was about to drag the boy away, when Harry shouted something to Samantha. ‘Prepare for what?’

This seemed to surprise Samantha. ‘Why, for the end, of course!’

And Mr. Andrews, cutting a path through the crowd of witches and wizards surrounding Gallows Hill, dragged Harry back in the direction he had come from just an hour ago.

**

Samantha walked up to Naima, a genuinely happy smile on her beautiful face.

‘Well Naima,’ she said, putting a finger to her daughter’s cheek. ‘Are you ready?’

Naima, still shocked from what had occurred in the last hour, took sometime to answer. When she finally looked up at her mother it was with an air of uncertainty.

‘Mother, why –?’ she began but Samantha cut her off.

‘My dear, I am sorry. I didn’t tell you what was happening in Salem because I did not want you to feel… as if you were under pressure. I felt, that if you knew, just a few miles away Salem Village was filled with many able witches and wizards… well what would you have done?’

‘I wouldn’t have been able to learn anything,’ admitted Naima in a soft voice, looking at the number of people gathered around Gallows Hill.

‘Exactly,’ said Samantha briskly. ‘You do let your feelings get away with you, my dear. I was sure you would have worried to no end and stressed yourself needlessly, thinking you could never be as good as any of them.’ Samantha motioned towards the crowd of wizards and witches. ‘I couldn’t have that. You needed to learn things and understand and practice to become the best. And the best is what I wanted you to be. And the best is what you are.

Naima gazed up at her mother skeptically. ‘Mother to this day, I have never been able to do a spell.’

‘No,’ acceded Samantha, ‘but there is a first time for everything.’ She smiled and handed her daughter a wand. ‘You’ve learnt all there is to know. And you never know, perhaps pressure is what you need to do a spell.’

There was a moment of silence between mother and daughter as Naima gathered her thoughts, gazing around slowly. Perhaps her mother was right. Some people did perform better under pressure. She had read about it countless times. Everyone had thought Uruk the Great was a Squib until a group of Chimeras had ganged up on him. He managed to kill all of them, losing only an arm and a leg. It was possible for magical prowess to remain hidden until the right time. But Naima was still uncertain and the prospect of dueling in front of what looked like all the wizards and witches from Salem and all the nearby villages still gave her the jitters. Or maybe what was giving her jitters was the fact that he mother expected her to kill Harry.

Naima sighed and then said in a small voice, ‘Mother… I can’t kill him.’

Samantha was silent in turn, frowning thoughtfully at her daughter. Finally she spoke, her voice gentle but serious. ‘I think, my dear, it is time I put it into clear words for you.

‘In this world you have a choice between two things. To do what is right for you, your family and you’re people… or to do something that will not aid your people. Your people being wizard-kind everywhere and in every time. Sometimes doing the former will mean hurting a loved one. Sometimes it will mean seeing someone in pain. Sometimes it will mean killing a friend or an acquaintance. The question is, my dear, when the time comes, which is more important? Which do you choose? Isn’t the loss of a life here or there acceptable, if all that life is doing by living is harming its own people? He is a wizard but he does not want us to become strong, to be free. I want you to have everything you deserve. I want witches and wizards alike to have everything they deserve. And they deserve strength and freedom! I am working to give our people what they want: a life where they do not have to hide their beautiful gifts from anyone. Freedom to practice their magic whenever and wherever they want. To be open about their uniqueness. I work to give your children and your children’s children a chance to live a life in a time when they rule. Where they are powerful. Where they can prosper. He, Harry, comes from the future. You know this. He lives in a world, during a time when wizard-kind no longer has to hide around muggles because there are no muggles. And what does he do? What do him and his friends do? They come here to change that life. They become traitors to their kind, all for their own selfish reasons!

‘So in the end, who do you choose Naima? Your mother or a traitor? Me or him?’

Again, silence. Thick, palatable silence.

‘You,’ said Naima finally, knowing that all her mother was saying was true. How could it not be?

‘Yes,’ said her mother, smiling. ‘Because we know right from wrong. Good from bad. Truth from lies.’

With that Samantha patted her young daughter’s head and said, ‘Well, I must see to the boy. Be prepared dear. I’m sure today you’ll manage to pull of a curse.’

Naima smiled slightly and watched her mother leave, walking gracefully through the mob around Gallows Hill. Her smile faded after a moment. Naima was sure her mother’s final words to her were meant to be encouraging but somehow… to her… they had sounded very much like a threat.

**

While Naima and Samantha began their talk, Christopher Andrews was hauling Harry back to the small abandoned barn full of moldy hay that Harry had awoken in a few hours earlier.

Keeping a firm grip on Harry, Andrews untied the hands around his wrists, slammed the boy against the long, rectangular support post of the barn and retied his hands behind the post. Bringing out another length of rope he used it to secure Harry to the beam. Then he turned away and left the barn.

Harry was finally left to his own thoughts. The last few hours had been filled with hectic activity, so much so that there hadn’t even been room to think. Everything was so different from what it had been earlier, when he had Apparated into Salem Village.

Harry simply couldn’t understand it. Samantha had managed to trap him perfectly. When their secret meeting place had caved in, Harry hadn’t had the time to think, let alone utter a life-saving spell. By all rights, he was dead the second the whole thing had collapsed. So why on God’s green earth had Samantha gone to the trouble of digging him out of his readymade grave?

It made even less sense when he considered that she was now going to kill him anyway. Or at least, Naima was.

Naima was another thing. From all the talk it seemed that she was a witch. So why hadn’t she mentioned it before, when Harry, Ron and Hermione had been staying with her?

And what the hell was happening in Salem? How was it suddenly full of witches and wizards and why did Samantha expect him, Harry, to understand what was happening? She knew he was from the future, fine, but so what?

Salem had no history of being a magical settlement. No written history, at least.

Harry blinked in sudden realization.

No written history.

All this time, since the beginning, Harry had been sure that he and Hermione and Ron had been changing Salem’s history, New England’s history. He had wondered endlessly why the American Ministry of Magic had not “caught them in the act�, why it had not realized that three time-travelers from the future were wreaking havoc in Salem.

All along the clear answer had been staring him in the face, he had even speculated upon it once, but had brushed the idea away because it was ludicrous. Impossible. It went against everything he knew.

The only reason for everything happening and this sudden lack of Ministry activity was that they, Harry, Ron and Hermione, had not changed history. And now he, Harry, was not changing history.

This was they was it was supposed to be!

Salem had no written history of ever being a magical community… what if history had purposely been written in a way that would ensure that no one ever realized what had really occurred. Not muggles and not wizards and witches.

Harry frowned slightly. All of it now made sense… all of it was completely possible. All but the part about not allowing wizard-kind to know the truth about Salem. There was no danger in witches and wizards knowing that Salem had once been crawling with magical people. But they didn’t know. Why the concealment? Why hide a magical Salem from witches and wizards?

Harry would’ve thought more about it but just then the barn door opened. A rush of cold wind entered the room and Harry felt goosebumps erupt all over his arms and naked torso. His body reflexively wanted him to curl up into a small ball to conserve heat but being bound to a wooden beam, this was impossible. Trying to control his chattering teeth, Harry looked up to see who had entered, full prepared to shower abuse on Samantha Becker if it happened to be her who had come in.

But it wasn’t Samantha Becker who had walked into the barn, looking furtively behind her as she closed the door to make sure she hadn’t been followed, before staring at Harry with a reprimanding but relieved and joyful look in her chocolate colored brown eyes.

It was Hermione Granger.

**

Harry’s mouth fell open. He stared at Hermione. Her bushy brown hair, her chocolate colored eyes, the way she walked toward him, the way she held herself, the clothes she was wearing, all of it was Hermione. She looked almost exactly the same as she looked the day she had been hanged. The only difference was her expression: she looked happy, not panicky or frightened or hopeless.

Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face. Images of what had happened the last time he had seen her kept flashing through his mind. The Gallows, the rowdy jeering of the crowds, Hermione telling him she didn’t want to die… he remembered looking up into her face, seeing the blue and black and purple blotches all over her skin after she had been hanged – he even felt the horrible revulsion he had felt then.

But here she was, standing in front of him, whole and unscathed, her eyes bright and not lifeless and her skin clear. Harry stared and stared and the absurdity of the situation slammed into him, and he felt like his mind had gone numb with the shock of seeing one of his dead best friends standing in front of him – alive. But still he actually believed it. Believed that Hermione Granger was alive and well and standing in front of him. A million and one emotions were fighting for control of his brain. Anger and shock and grief and guilt. His first instinct was to look around Hermione to see – naively, gullibly – if Ron was behind her. If she was alive, why couldn’t he be? But there was no Ron behind her, no red-head grinning at him, and Harry’s heart sank because at that moment seeing Ron and Hermione together in front of him would have been a breath of fresh air. His second instinct was to ask how she was alive – how she came to be here. His third instinct was to apologize, to beg her to forgive him because it was his fault she was dead and if he had only thought about everything that had happened and acted correctly she wouldn’t have died. And then he saw her and realized she wasn’t dead at all and it finally hit home. None of this was possible. The ridiculousness of it all had been troubling him from the second he recognized Hermione and now he acknowledged it. Hermione couldn’t be here – but she was – was he going mad?

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, laughing a laugh that was more a sob. ‘No, you died! This isn’t possible. Go away, go away!’

But she – the ghost, the apparition, the delusion – didn’t go away. She moved closer to him and hugged him and patted his back like Hermione would have done if she had been alive. And Harry could feel her hand on his back, feel her clothes scraping against his bare skin through the tattered strips of his clothes. It was real. I’m going mad, thought Harry and he struggled against Hermione’s grasp as if he could pull away from insanity.

‘Leave me alone!’ shouted Harry. His cheeks were wet and his eyes scrunched closed and he tried to push Hermione away, but it was practically impossible because he was tied to the post. Hermione finally let go of him and after a few seconds Harry opened his eyes, praying that the hallucination had vanished – and at the same time praying that it hadn’t because maybe it was Hermione and maybe she was alive.

Hermione was still standing there, looking at him stoically. And Harry, at his wits end, yelled, ‘SAY SOMETHING!’

She didn’t say anything but she did scrunch up her eyes like she was concentrating really hard on something and then right before Harry’s eyes, Hermione’s bushy hair fell limp and became auburn in color and her eyes changed shape and went from brown to blue. In a matter of ten seconds Hermione Granger had been replaced by Samantha Becker.

Harry gaped at her and then, struggling against his bindings like a rabid animal, shouted, ‘YOU BITCH!’ He straining at his bond with such violence that the rope was cutting through his very skin. ‘YOU FILTHY BITCH!’ He wanted to kill her, strangle her with his bare hands, force the life out of her, he wanted to hear her scream, plead for mercy. How dare she play with him, how dare she pretend to be Hermione?! Harry yanked at his bonds again and again, and the support beam he was tied to creaked ominously.

‘Enter,’ called Samantha calmly, watching him struggle with a look of violent eagerness in her eyes. Andrews and Hawthorn entered the barn, answering their leaders call. Hawthorn stepped up to Harry who was still trying to break free and untied the ropes around him. Harry made a leap for Samantha but Andrews had grabbed him and aimed a punch at his stomach. Harry went down, winded. Hawthorn and Andrews lifted Harry to his feet and dragged him forward, following Samantha out of the barn and back to Gallows Hill.

**

February 17th, 1692
Later

Naima was waiting. Nervously.

She clasped her hands together and then unclasped them. Clasp. Unclasp. Clasp. Unclasp.

Behind her Magistrate Hawthorn was leaning against a tree trunk. He had left a few moments earlier but had returned quickly. He seemed calm and collected as always, rolling his wand between his fingers, humming something under his breath.

Naima’s hands were drenched in sweat and each time she squeezed her hands together and pulled them apart they made a squelching sound. Hawthorn was still humming tunelessly.

Squelch, squelch. Hum, hum…

Birds were twittering in the tree Hawthorn was leaning against, jumping from branch to branch.

Squelch, squelch. Hum, hum. Twitter, twitter…

One of the birds launched off a tree branch and flew over the heads of the people in the crowd surrounding Gallows Hill. The men, women and children were whispering amongst themselves, waiting. Their voices merged together and began to sound like the wind whistling through a crack in a door.

Whistle, whistle, whistle. Hum, hum. Squelch…

A few people shifted their weight from foot to foot, making crunching noises on the bit of snow that was left on the earth and the dead grass that had popped out a few days earlier in hope of light and warmth.

Crunch, crunch. Whistle, whistle, whistle. Hum. Squelch, squelch. Hum. Twitter. Crunch, crunch. Hum…

Naima’s heart was beating rapidly is her ears. She had never been so nervous, so scared. Something sour rose in the back of her throat, stinging.

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. Whistle. Crunch, crunch. Whistle. Hum. Squelch. Hum. Twitter, twitter. Squelch…

Like whenever she was nervous, Naima began to grind her teeth. It hurt, it gave her a headache, but she couldn’t help it. Especially not now.

Grind, grind…

Hawthorn began to tap his wand against the tree, as tunelessly as he was humming.

Tap, tappity, tap, tap…

Too much noise, too much noise…

Naima could hear footsteps nearing, crunching on the snow… even over the din.

Crunch, crunch, crunch…

Too much noise.

Tappity, tap…

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub…

Crunch, crunch, crunch…

Whistle, whistle…

Hum, hum…

Twitter, twitter…

Grind, grind, grind, grind, grind…

Naima couldn’t breath.

Too much noise!

TOO MUCH NOISE!

‘SHUT UP!’ she screamed, spinning around to face Hawthorn and the gathering crowd. ‘SHUT UP!’ SHUT UP NOW!’

They did. Immediately. Staring at her. Shocked.

Naima turned back around, trying to breath. She still couldn’t.

And now there was silence. It was much worse than the noise.

The footsteps she had heard earlier were closer now and Naima turned to meet them. Her mother was back. With her were Christopher Andrews and – Harry. He was struggling furiously against Andrews grasp but to no avail. Samantha was holding two wands in her hands: one was her own, the other looked brand new. Naima could feel her own wand in her hand and she looked down at it. Her heart seemed to miss a beat and she gulped. She knew what she had to do and why… but she was still afraid and as nervous as it was possible to be. She knew what she had to do – but she didn’t know if she could do it. Why was Samantha so intent on having her fight with Harry? It would take two seconds for her to do it herself or ask one of her cronies to do it for her. Why make such a big deal out of it? To show her power? To make sure everyone understood that Samantha was the leader? Naima didn’t know. There were too many questions. And not enough answers.

Naima looked at her mother. What now?

Samantha looked excited. Her blue eyes were shining and a small smile played at the corners of her lips… but Naima could see that it wasn’t normal excitement. It seemed more animalistic. A sort of restless excitement, like a cat who was about to make a kill. Like a cat who couldn’t wait to taste the blood.

As soon as Samantha entered their line of sight, the people who had been silenced earlier by Naima’s outburst, broke into speech again, whispering amongst themselves and pointing at Naima and Harry. A few were laughing, looks of eager anticipation on their faces. Two old men jeered at Harry as Andrews hustled him forward, following Samantha.

As Samantha moved closer and closer, the crowd automatically spread to make room for her.

‘We’re going to hold a duel,’ she announced, as if everyone didn’t already know. The crowd didn’t seem to mind though – they went wild. Naima shivered involuntarily. She had never seen a hanging, nor did she want to – but the girls in the village had told her about the ones they had attended.

The rowdy crowds.

The cheering; the jeering.

The “witches� with frightened looks on their faces.

Peddlers, candy sellers and toy makers doing business, selling to children in the crowd as if it were a fairground and not a hanging ground.

The energetic shouts of ‘Kill the Witch!’

And when the convicted was hanged, calls of ‘God has saved us’ and ‘Long live Salem’.

Naima had never been to a hanging before – but she was sure that standing here, right now, she knew exactly how it felt to attend one.

Naima shivered again as her mother spoke.

‘A duel between my daughter – and this traitor.’ As Samantha said the latter part of her sentence, Andrews pushed Harry forward and then stepped back into the crowd. The large group of people, on Samantha’s words, immediately arranged themselves into a large but tight circle, surrounding Harry, Naima and Samantha.

All the adults in the crowd pulled out their wands.

‘Today we shall finish what we have begun!’ said Samantha in a ringing voice.

This was what the crowd wanted – they went wilder than before.

‘Yes!’ they cried almost as one.

‘Today we complete the purge!’

‘Yes!’

‘Today Salem becomes the first all-magical settlement in history!’

‘Yes!’

‘Today begins our freedom’

‘Yes!’

‘Today marks a NEW ERA!’

‘Yes!’

‘With the end of this duel and the traitor we shall begin to spread our work to other towns and villages. We will never stop at Salem. We will go on, continue our work, and ensure that our children and our children’s children continue our work, until the world as we know it belongs to Witches and Wizards!’

‘YES!’

And with that Samantha turned to Naima, smiled, handed Harry a wand and said, ‘Fight!’, before melting into the crowd.

**

Harry faced Naima.

He was still in shock from what had occurred in the abandoned barn. Each breath he took was painful and Harry felt like he had to concentrate to even make his lungs suck in precious air.

The significance of what had happened was only just beginning to occur to Harry.

Samantha Becker was not only practiced in wandless magic – she was also a Metamorphamagi.

Harry’s heart rate jacked again as images of Samantha pretending to be Hermione flashed through his mind.

She’s dead! a voice in his head scolded.

And Harry knew it. He didn’t need reminding.

But he so wished she wasn’t.

He needed her here. Her and Ron. Needed them more that he could say.

For the first time since either of them had died - died, just the word made his heart ache – he wondered what had happened to them. To Hermione and Ron. What happened after death? He had never had time to give it much thought. The days after Hermione’s hanging he had spent his time trying to cheer up Ron, or thinking of new ways to cheer Ron up. Now that he had a moment to think he began to wonder. Were his hopes that they were now together just fanciful wishes? Maybe.

The only way he could find out what came after death was to die.

And he wasn’t about to do that.

Of course, he would die eventually.

But he shoved that thought away and barricaded the feeling that came with that thought into the deepest chambers of his heart. It was a feeling that had become more and more familiar over the past few days, occasionally escaping the iron-hard walls Harry had unconsciously built to try to contain it.

Every time it pushed out, Harry pushed it back in and reinforced the wall.

Because if he allowed it to roam free inside him, he was sure it would consume him.

Like hate, fear could eat you alive.

Destroy you.

Maim you.

And still leave no physical signs of damage.

And Harry wasn’t one to let a newfound fear consume him.

Never. Never. Never.

Loud jeers brought Harry back to reality. He gazed at the crowd distantly. They were growing impatient, stamping their feet.

Harry’s legs were feeling weak and wobbly and the edges of his vision seemed blurred and shadowed. The crowd’s yelling seemed fainter than normal. He could feel something between his fingers and he looked down at his hand to see the wand Samantha had handed him. It was shorter than his wand and made of a different type of wood.

Harry didn’t like it.

And for the first time a pang of something like grief stabbed him – at the loss of his wand.

His eleven inch, Phoenix feather cored, holly wood wand. One of a kind, but still part of a couple. It had shared the same core as Voldemort’s wand. Two different feathers, from the same Phoenix’s tail.

Dumbledore’s Phoenix.

Despite that small link to Tom Riddle, Harry had been fond of his wand. He couldn’t imagine having another, but it had been burnt to a crisp at the Becker household – and Harry hadn’t even thought about it. Until now.

And the only reason he was even thinking about it now was because he wasn’t ready to face the situation he was in. His mind was wandering – trying to avoid the problem, change the subject.

Harry shifted his position slightly to gaze at Samantha. Unlike the people in the crowd, she looked calm and at ease. Happy to wait. She looked as beautiful as she had they day Harry had first met her, Harry observed vaguely. She didn’t deserve her graceful beauty. Not after everything she had done and was doing. Harry’s gaze flicked back to Naima. She had obviously been trained well. Her dueling stance was correct; her wand was aimed and positioned perfectly. But her eyes were glazed and she seemed lost somewhere in her thoughts. For a brief second her blank eyes cleared and she gazed at Harry fearfully, nervously… and then her eyes clouded again.

Harry wondered what she was thinking.

He liked her very much and he couldn’t imagine wanting to fight her… and by the looks of it, she didn’t want to fight him –

The thought had hardly had time to go through his mind before Naima visibly tightened her grip on her wand. Her eyebrows connected and her eyes cleared. She was going to attack.

Harry quickly raised his wand, ready to defend himself if the need arose.

**

The crowd suddenly roared in expectation. This was what they wanted – a fight to the death. Samantha’s small smile grew and her eyes gleamed with excitement. This was the moment of truth – for Naima, for Samantha’s plan, for everything. It all depended on whether or not Naima could kill the traitor. And if she didn’t – well, there would be time to think about that later on.

**

Naima’s heart was beating at ten times its normal pulse. She felt light-headed. The edges of her vision seemed unusually bright and shiny. Her mind was screaming “attack�. Her heart – her heart was fighting valiantly against her mind but it was losing its battle. Samantha’s voice kept ringing in her ears. What would her mother do if she didn’t kill Harry? No – there was no choice – she had to please her mother. But – Harry looked so – and Naima liked him so much… she couldn’t kill him. But she had to. Samantha’s voice sounded in her mind again: “In this world, you have a choice between two things.� Two things – her mother, or Harry? The choice was simple – easily made. There was only one sane answer. There was only one person she knew she could trust with all her heart and soul – her mother.

And so she would attack.

And so she would kill.

She raised her wand, aimed it, registered that Harry had done the same across from her – his stance was defensive though. For a split second this put Naima off and she almost lowered her wand… he wasn’t going to attack her, even though he knew she was going to kill him. And then Naima’s eyes moved to Samantha. Her mother was standing in the middle of the crowd, an almost smug smile on her face. When she realized Naima was gazing at her she gave one small, quick, encouraging nod.

That one nod sealed Naima Becker’s destiny. Sealed her fate. Sealed the length of her life. Sealed the day on which she would die. Sealed the way she would die.

With that nod, Naima’s confidence grew, and she looked at Harry again. And attacked.

Only thirteen and she was not only skilled in all forms of magic, but also skilled in Non-Verbal spells. A small flick of her wand, a tiny movement, almost a feint, hiding the destructive power of the spell, behind that small, weak flick.

A small flick.

A thunderous sucking sound as if the world was collapsing into itself.

And then the deafening explosion.

The blinding light.

Screaming and shouting and crying.

Pain erupted in Naima’s head and she blinked in confusion, even as she fell to the earth –

She hadn’t cast that spell.

**

Even as Naima flicked her wand – an almost unnoticeable movement – Harry’s mind was frantically recalling all defensive and protective magic he knew. Anything that would stop the death that was fast closing in on him. And just as he found the perfect spell, the perfect shield –

The world exploded.

In a spilt second everything went from bad to really, really bad.

Harry couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. But he could still feel.

He crashed to the ground, and a sudden intense pain made him yell out. Blood – blood was slipping down his chest in streams. His eyes were open but still he saw only white. His ears registered only chaotic noise – the noise was enough to make him cry out again. He wanted to cover his ears, block out the sound, but he couldn’t. His arms were pinned down – his entire body was pinned down. People were on top of him, crushing him. Screaming, flailing people.

And just as quickly as the world had exploded – it was silent again.

Ringing silence all around.

The screams and cries had stopped.

The only sound was Harry’s breathing – short, ragged breaths. The breathing of a dying person.

And then he heard something else. People talking, close by.

‘Damn, it was really as bad as they said,’ muttered someone.

‘I never thought – right under our noses… boy, heads are going to roll because of this, you can bet on it,’ another, rougher voice, replied.

‘Are they all dead?’ asked the first man.

‘Most are, I should say. Not all though… there were too many for them all to have died. Damn it! I can’t believe we didn’t hear about this!’

‘Salem never was supposed to be crawling with witches and wizards. It ain’t our fault.’

‘Yeah, easy to say, but like I said, heads are going to roll.’

‘How many d’you think they got?’

‘Quite a few from the reports. Not that it matters, they were just Muggles and most won’t be missed. I have a feeling some of the Muggles are probably still alive though. Imerpius-ed most likely. If they had started mass murder we would have been on them in a second. Smart is what they were – smarter than us. Using Muggle methods too…’

‘What’ll we do about the Muggles who lived?’

‘Oh, the Minster has a nice plan – intelligent. He knows how the….’

The two men moved out of earshot.

Harry tired to move again, pushing off the bodies that were holding him down.

Bodies.

Harry couldn’t help uttering a cry of disgust as he pushed away corpses, some of them with their eyes still open, their mouths still screaming, fear etched on their faces. From what he could tell, the only reason he wasn’t dead too was because he had been thrown backwards into the crowd and their bodies had shielded him from the spell.

Harry pushed his way to fresh air and gasped, rubbing his arms, trying to get the feeling of being under so many dead people to go away. He kept low, looking for the Ministry officials. There were about ten of them, standing some thirty feet away from the large crowd that had assembled to see the duel. The crowd had been transformed into a mound of corpses.

At the thought, something sour touched the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, pushing himself out of the mound, but still keeping low – he didn’t want to be caught. And then he saw her –

It –

Samantha.

Dead. Clearly dead. With a smug smile still pasted on her face, her eyes open and glittering.

Harry let out a muffled moan, stumbled off of the mound of carcasses and threw up.

He was wiping his mouth, his arms and legs weak and shaking, when he heard something. He spun back to the pile of dead and stunned people. A hand was moving, trying to push a way out. A small, fair hand, poking out of the mound about ten feet from where Harry had just extracted himself.

Naima!

Harry hurried forward, all weakness forgotten and pulled Naima out and away from the bodies.

She was shivering and shaking, her eyes wide. Harry stopped for a second, about to ask if she was okay, when out of the corner of his eyes he saw something that made him panic.

The Ministry officials were returning to the collection of corpses.

‘Back here,’ hissed Harry, and dragged Naima behind one of the nearby shops. After a few seconds, he peered out from behind the shop wall. It seemed like the Ministry’s people hadn’t seen him or Naima, from the easy going pace at which they were ambling forward at. They seemed in no great hurry to reach the mountain of dead and unconscious.

Good.

It would buy himself and Naima some time. They had to escape. Harry was in no mood to be caught and put on trial. Or worse, killed. He’d had more than enough of the Ministry in his own time and country. And this was 1692. Who knew what the normal punishments for illegal time travel was in this century.

Naima had obviously recovered slightly from the shock of what had happened in the last few minutes because now she whispered to Harry, ‘What’s happening? Who cast that spell?’

Harry turned back to her. ‘The Ministry is here.’

Naima’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. ‘The Ministry of Magic? Here? Why?’

Harry frowned. Didn’t Naima know what her mother had been up to over the past few weeks?

‘Well—’ Harry paused and frowned again. On second thought, Naima’s question was reasonable. What – or who – had aroused their suspicion? Why hadn’t they acted earlier when Samantha had begun… doing whatever she was doing? Why had they chosen to take action now? It couldn’t have been the duel. Naima first spell hadn’t even had time to materialize before the Ministry had arrived. The only possible explanation was that they had finally become aware of what was happening in Salem right under their noses. Harry wondered briefly who had tipped them off. And why they hadn’t figured everything out before. From what Harry had heard of the two Ministry officials’ conversation, they had been completely unaware of the problem in Salem. “Heads are going to roll� one of them had said. Sounded like the American Ministry wasn’t as on top of things as they should have been.

Finally Harry answered Naima, with a brisk shake of his head. ‘We haven’t got time to think about that right now. We ought to get out of the village or they’ll find us and cart us off to the Ministry.’

‘My house,’ said Naima simple.

‘Excellent, let’s go.’ Harry grabbed Naima’s arm and Disapparated.

Or he tried to Disapparate.

He tried again, but nothing happened. Harry looked around, slightly perplexed. Why couldn’t they Disapparate?

Hermione’s voice floated to the top of his mind, bringing a pang of sadness with it. ‘You can’t Apparate or Disapparate anywhere in Hogwarts.’

Of course. Anti-disapparation charms. The Ministry would have cast them to make sure no one escaped. Harry and Naima would have to get to her house on foot.

‘Okay,’ muttered Harry. ‘We’re going to have to make a run for it.’

Naima nodded and beckoned Harry to follow her. She peeked out from their hiding place to check in the coast was clear and then tiptoed forward.

Harry, following her, felt a number of emotions fighting for control of his mind, and possibly his face. He was worried, very worried, about what would happen if he and Naima didn’t get to her house. And even if they did get to her house, what then? Where would they go from there? Guilt bubbled inside him as he followed his young friend. Her mother was dead – Naima didn’t seem to realize it. Should he tell her? Or should he save it for later, so that Naima would be unable to insist that she be shown the body. Harry would never let her see Samantha’s body – it was just… wrong. There was something horrendous and frightening about her body, her dead smile. She hadn’t even realized that her death had caught her.

Someone yelled. Harry, his thoughts interrupted, glanced over his shoulder and felt panic pump through his vessels. Two of the Ministry officials had seen them – no they had seen him, Harry. Naima was shielded by a tree she had run behind but Harry had been out in the open for a split second.

‘HEY!’ yelled one of the men.

‘Harry!’ hissed Naima urgently, waving her hands frantically, telling him to hurry. Harry ran, joined her behind the tree, but he knew it was too late. He at least, had been seen. In a split-second, he made his decision.

‘Stay here,’ he ordered Naima, and jumped out from behind the tree and made a shoot for the pile of human carcasses. The man who had called to him earlier shouted again. Three men and a woman had joined the two Ministry men who had spotted Harry first. One raised his wand, aiming at the teenager. Harry, running, looked around frantically and finally spotted what he needed. A wand. In a dead woman’s hand, a wand, still clutched in her fingers. Harry yanked the wand away, ignoring the shudders of disgust that coursed through his body. And there was another. Harry pulled the second wand out from underneath a young boy and held it in his left hand. He’d give it to Naima later. Just then he did a double take. A dead man’s body, lying nearby. Harry had seen that man before. Where –? Lynn Town! The barman. He had been the barman at the inn Ron and Harry had stopped at. But there was no time to figure out what the barman’s body meant: The Ministry people were getting closer. A Stunner missed him by a nose. Harry jumped away from the bodies and ran back to the tree Naima was hiding behind. He threw her the spare wand and yelled, ‘RUN!’ She caught the instrument deftly and shot out from behind the tree. A blast of blue light smashed into the tree and incinerated it. Harry spun back to face the approaching witches and wizards. What were they doing? Aiming to kill? Harry threw up a shield and prayed Naima would do the same, but then he realized something. The Ministry people were attacking him not Naima.

He began to run, following the girl, throwing up shield after shield with his wand as he moved. He didn’t think he could do much damage to any of the Ministry officials and so his best chances of survival lay in defense.

As it was, he was pretty much wrong. The shields his spells made were never strong enough to stop the most complex spells and the fact that Harry was exhausted and starving made the spell even less effective. One correctly aimed spell shattered the feeble shield and hit Harry in the side. He was thrown back and slammed into the wall of the grocers shop with a groan. Harry blinked, tried to get up, but collapsed against the wall, his body riddled with pain.

‘Harry!’ cried someone. Harry blinked again, trying to remember where he had heard that voice, trying to stay conscious. The black edges around his eyes were closing in.

‘WAKE UP!’ screeched the same voice and someone rapped him hard on the head. Harry blinked again and the blackness slunk away as if defeated. Harry’s vision cleared. Someone had grabbed his arm, was hauling him to his feet. Someone – invisible? No, Disillusioned! Naima. The rap on his head, Naima’s wand. Harry glanced down at himself. He had been Disillusioned too.

Naima dragged him behind the nearest shop. ‘Oh God,’ she muttered. ‘Can you walk? We have to get you out of here!’ Harry leaned against the wall for support. The pain from the spell that had hit him had faded almost immediately, followed by a strange numb feeling in his side from his abdomen to his right knee. And Naima’s voice, the urgency in it, scared him. He looked down at himself, but he couldn’t see anything except patches of snow and grass and earth. The Disillusionment Charm – he couldn’t see what had happened. But for some reason, the area where the spell had hit him… even through the charm it seemed strange and wavering, like smoke. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He had a feeling Naima had Disillusioned him on purpose. And not to escape the Ministry.

‘Can you walk?’ Naima repeated, her voice coming out of nowhere. She still had a camouflaged hand on his arm. Harry stopped leaning against the shop wall and put weight on his legs. His right leg wanted to fold underneath him, he felt lightheaded and strange and shivery all over his body. But he nodded. And then remembered she couldn’t see him anymore than he could see her. He said yes. Naima sounded relived when she answered.

‘Okay, come on then. We’re almost at my house.’ Still holding onto to Harry, she ran forward. Harry forced his legs to move and ran with her. He didn’t know if the Ministry was still behind them or had lost them. He didn’t know whether they honestly were close to Naima’s house or whether she was just saying it to make him feel better. He didn’t know whether the earlier urgency in the thirteen-year-old’s voice and now the unhidden relief were because she was just concerned that he had been hurt or extremely worried that the spell that had hit him would kill –

Harry pushed the thought away and tried to think of something else. It didn’t matter though – as soon as he had shrugged his last thought off, his mind decided it didn’t have enough energy left to think and pretty much shut down. He kept running with Naima but he didn’t see anything on the way, didn’t register how long they had been running. He saw nothing and heard nothing and remembered nothing. He just ran. There was no real emotion in him – no real emotion but fear. Everything was a big blur until a few minutes later – or maybe a few days or months – he was sitting on a chair, next to a half-dead fire, in the Becker household.

**

Naima removed the Disillusionment Charm on herself and pushed Harry down on a chair next to the fire. The all-out panic she had been feeling ever since that spell had hit Harry faded and left in its place a dull, throbbing fear. Harry had gone quiet and even though Naima couldn’t see him through the Disillusionment Charm, she had a feeling his eyes were closed. She considered taking the charm off him and then decided against it. Seeing it – what that spell had done – seeing it would make it worse. And Naima didn’t want to see it ever again. If it had scared her so much she didn’t even want to think about what Harry would do when he saw. She rushed over to the bookshelf and pulled out every volume on Healing Spells she could find. She flipped madly, page after written page, stopping to skim through seemingly relevant scribbles, before thumbing through the book again. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a signal description of any spell that would heal anything like the wound Harry had. Naima’s heart was in her throat and beating furiously. She felt choked and afraid. She bit her cheeks hard as she flipped, hard enough to draw blood, but she didn’t realize it, didn’t notice the metallic taste on her tounge. She went through every volume, her anxiety increasing as the pile of yet to be read books grew smaller and smaller, until she had flipped through every book and still found nothing and was almost mad with panic. And in all this time, Harry had uttered neither a cry nor a word.

Naima sprung up from the floor where she had been sitting by the books and rushed over to the chair. She grabbed Harry’s Disillusioned body and shook him hard. ‘Harry? Harry! Please!’

‘It’s okay,’ he murmured softly, and Naima wanted to scream from relief. ‘I’m just tired.’

‘I can’t find anything – there’s nothing – I – what did they – no spell—’ Naima was stuttering badly in her dread.

Harry was silent again for a moment and then he spoke, his voice still low. ‘Take off the charm.’

Naima refused outright but Harry repeated himself and he sounded so dangerous for a moment that Naima didn’t dare disobey. She tapped him on the head for the second time that day with the wand Harry had given her earlier, and removed the Charm. She didn’t want to look again, but she did. Almost as if the gruesome wound was a magnet, her eyes were drawn to it. For a moment, she and Harry stared at the injury. Then Harry looked up, his green eyes met hers, and she saw that they were filled with emotion. Exhaustion, weariness, pain and fear.

All he said was, ‘You’re not a Squib.’ Still in that soft, hard to hear whisper.

Naima was put off for a moment. ‘How did you know?’

‘Your mother – she told me when we were returning to Gallows Hill. For the duel.’

Naima nodded and would have said something but Harry cut her off.

‘She – died. Samantha. I’m sorry.’

Naima was silent for a long time. For the longest of times, she stared at the wooden floor, not saying a word. And then she nodded. ‘My father – he’ll come back from his trip soon. I’ll be okay.’

‘He’s a Muggle?’

Naima nodded. Then, sensing Harry must want an explanation, she added, ‘My mother did love him – and me. She didn’t want to get rid of dad – like she was the others. And even when she thought I was a Squib…’ Silence and then, ‘I know what she was doing was wrong but…’

‘She was your mother,’ Harry whispered and Naima nodded again. She returned her gaze to Harry’s face, made sure that she did not look at that wound. Even then an image of it flashed in her mind and she had to swallow hard – it was nauseating.

They stared at each other for a few seconds and then Harry said, ‘I’m – this is it, isn’t it? I can almost feel myself slipping…’ He trailed off and touched some of the blood seeping out of the injury. Naima didn’t see him do it but she knew it anyway. She wasn’t looking at it and neither was Harry.

‘Can you just…’ Harry began and Naima nodded again before he could say another word. She knew, she had known from the moment she had finished flipping through the books. She had known what it would come to.

‘What will I do with your – the –?’ Naima couldn’t say it and Harry didn’t make her say it.

‘Vanish it,’ he suggested in a faint voice. ‘Destroy it. You’re not a Squib.’ Naima nodded again. It was easy to say – harder to do.

There was silence and then together, they said, ‘I’m afraid.’ And again, together, ‘It’ll be alright.’ They laughed soft, unhappy laughter. Laughing only because things should never have come to this – this wasn’t supposed to be the ending. Things were not supposed to be this way.

‘I don’t even know,’ began Harry softly, ‘if I’ll be with them.’ Naima didn’t need any explanation – she knew, just knew, who “them� was.

‘Wishful thinking,’ he continued. ‘You wish that – you try to make it seem a better thing by pretending you’ll see them again but who knows… no one can tell us what happens… after.’

Naima felt tears coming to her eyes. Why must it come to this? Why did he have to – why was he dying? ‘You will be with them,’ Naima tried to say, but it was difficult to talk around her tears. Harry seemed to have understood though, because he gave a last small smile. Even when he smiled, Naima could see the sheer terror he was feeling. He didn’t want to die. Why did he have to?

‘Better get on with it,’ he said, an encouraging note in his voice, even as it grew fainter. Naima nodded, stood up, and looked at Harry’s living face for the last time in her life. She couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye – she hadn’t known him long enough for it to mean anything to him (or so she thought) - and she had known him just long enough to feel the pain of parting. Neither of them said another word to each other again.

Naima raised her wand, and in a blast of green light, it was done.

**

1998

Death was nothing. The last image that registered in Harry Potter’s mind was a pretty young woman and a flash of green light and something light and shimmering and beautiful slipping… slipping out from him, and then traveling over him. His eyes tried to follow until the gleaming thing vanished over his head and he could no longer follow it’s path, but his eyes continued their journey… they didn’t seem to want to stop… and rolled back into his head. And that was it. His soul was gone. He was dead.

**

What he did see, in the darkness, was not death. It was life. He saw images, people. Like a dream. Sometimes Madame Pomfrey, the Hogwarts Nurse, standing over him, a highly sympathetic look on her face. At other times Ron and Hermione’s faces would float towards him, and during those times, he’d try to call out to them, but it was little use and he was enveloped into darkness again before he could realize that he hadn’t managed to utter a sound. A man with white hair and glasses and a ridiculously long beard visited his death dreams as well and Harry had two names to go with the blue eyes that filled him with a strange thing called hope, every time he saw them. One name was Dumbledore and the other, Douglas. But the moment he tried to fit just one name to the man, who of course could not have two names, he would slip back into the black of death. His most frequent dreams consisted of light, blinding light, and pain. Pain that made him scream out at the light, and he tried to move and struggle and escape but something was holding him down, pinning him to his nightmare.

And during all this, the one thing that Harry always understood was that he was dead, and death was not something that could be reversed. And if this was how death was to be, memories and dreams and nightmares and pain then he would go mad very soon.

And just when he was about to give up, by succumbing to his death and madness, it all ended. One day, the images he saw in death did not disappear, but remained, bright and sparkling and he could see every face clearly and he could watch as long as he wished and stare as much as he liked, because the darkness did not call him back. It just vanished. And it seemed the faces that he had seen earlier, instead of being splashed with fear and concern and weariness, seemed now to be marked with laughter and happiness and tenderness. And most of all relief.

Some days later, though Harry could never be sure if the time had passed slowly or quickly, whether it was the same year or the next, Ron and Hermione sat with him, next to his bed in the Hospital Wing and explained, simply, that they were not dead. Harry was still having trouble coming to terms with it. Finding that his friends were whole and healthy had been a shock and he had been afraid that it was just another trick, something like what Samantha had done… it seemed so long ago. Ron and Hermione assured him that they were alive and that he was alive as well. They explained the only thing they knew was this: The only way to escape Salem had been to die. They knew nothing more, but they had been told that Dumbledore would explain.

March 1st, 1998

On the first of March, exactly one month after the day Harry, Ron and Hermione had been sent to Salem, twelve days after Harry’s return and one day after his recovery, Harry, Ron and Hermione were summoned to Dumbledore’s office. It was time for him to explain. He asked them to sit, looking tired and old, but with that same twinkle in his blue eyes, and began to speak.

‘I am sure, that after having experienced Salem, you will want an explanation. I am about to give you that explanation. I ask only that you remain quiet until I have finished – even now, it is very difficult to remember. The human mind has been manufactured to remember only one life, and my mind is no different. You three have lived your stories in Salem… now it is time for you to hear my part of the story.’

Dumbledore stood up, took a deep breath, and began his tale.

‘Even as a child I can remember myself being interested with history – perhaps more than interested. I would find certain topics, certain events which would interest me so much that I would become simply obsessed. One of these events was the Salem Witch Trails. I found only mentions of the Trials in the history books kept in my parents’ library, so I went searching for more information. I read about everything, the trials, the accused, the victims, the manner of their deaths, and the theories about poisoned bread written by Muggles, the wizard assumption that Dark Wizards had something to do with the fits the children experienced. I read up on names and dates and places and origins. If it had anything to do with the Salem Witch Trails, I studied it.

‘My parents never tried to stop me. They were used to my obsessions. The Witch Trials were not the first. In fact, they encouraged my reading and learning, knowing that it would aid me in the future. It was not until my nightmares began that they began to regret their decisions. After reading everything on Salem that I could get my hands on, I began to suffer strange dreams and nightmares. They came frequently and were always very detailed. Even now, so many years later, I can still remember them perfectly. Though each dream was different, they had a few similarities. Mainly that each dream took place in Salem, Massachusetts during the Witch Trials and that almost every single dream had the same two people in it. The few that didn’t have both of those people always had one of the two. Their faces were always clear in my mind, whether I was sleeping or not.

‘Being the son of highly intelligent parents was a lucky thing. My mother and father immediately connected my strange, overzealous obsession with Salem and the nightmares and came to the only possible solution: reincarnation.

‘There is almost no proof in the wizarding world that reincarnation occurs. The human brain was not manufactured to recall more than one life and so it is very rare that anyone realizes that they have lived a past life. In edition to this, very few people are reincarnated in the first place and to find a person who has been reincarnated and actually remembers his or her past life would be very difficult indeed. Therefore, when my parents realized that it was very possible that I had lived a past life, they were very eager to help me remember my past life as accurately as I could. They wanted to learn exactly why some people are reincarnated and why others are not.

‘They didn’t use any extravagant means. All they did was buy me as many books as they could find on the topic of the Salem Witch Trials. My nightmares became less nightmarish and more like normal dreams. As soon as I understood what was happening and why, the fear factor in my dreams vanished. I was as eager as my parents to know why I had lived a past life. My parents sat up during the night, and when I awoke from my dreams, they recorded every detail that I could remember. It took a very long time, and a lot of patience, but eventually my mother and father and I had the general picture of my past life, though my dreams never followed any specific order. It was not a story being played out night after night. Just a bunch of jumbled up and forgotten memories being brought out into the open. Sometime we were unable to put the events in any order and we were always sure that some things, a few small details, were missing.

‘After a time the dreams ended. As if my mind was saying it had given us all its information. The excitement of the discovery – finding out that I had lived in Salem, Massachusetts in a past life – wore down. Life moved on. I didn’t think very much about my Salem life until years and years later. A day I will never forget. Probably a day you three remember very well. Your first night at Hogwarts.

‘I had, of course, known you, Harry, long before you arrived at Hogwarts. I knew both your parents and when they died, it was I who delivered you to your aunt and uncle in Surrey. It was impossible though, to recognize you for who you were when you were young. I couldn’t have known, the few times I saw you, who you were… where I had met you. But when you entered the Great Hall, along with the other first-years students, I got a shock. Your face brought back another face – a face I had only seen in my dreams. You, I realized, were one of the two boys who had entered my nightmares so often, all those years ago. You were the only boy who made a continual appearance in my Salem dreams. The other person was Mr. Weasley, but only a very few of my dreams contained him. I was amazed beyond words. I wanted to know what this meant, your appearance at my school – how you could be here, so young, but still have been in my reincarnation dreams of Salem. Simply, how were you and Ron in Salem then and at Hogwarts now? Had you time-traveled there? Had I perhaps sent you? Unanswerable questions, but I asked them of myself all the same.

‘Six years later, I was in a small pawn shop that is situated near Hogsmeade. I have always enjoyed visiting pawn shops, both Muggle and wizarding pawn shops. They carry the most interesting items at times. During that specific visit I saw a most interesting piece: a small bronze colored amulet, with a button in the middle and the most interesting runes around it. I bought it and left the shop. As I was returning to the castle, I decided to stop at the Hog’s Head and have a drink and a chat with the barman there. Before I left the pub I checked my pocket, to make sure the amulet I had bought was still safe. I returned to the castle and went up to my office and found, to my great surprise, that my pocket was empty. Somewhere between the Hog’s Head pub and the castle, I had lost the amulet. I consider myself quite apt at keeping my possessions safe. I was sure that no one and picked my pocket. There are spells to protect yourself against pickpockets and I had cast them all ahead of time. Visiting the Hog’s Head without such protection is foolish… the people in that pub are not completely honest. So I was sure the amulet had not been stolen, and as my pockets have no holes, I could not have dropped it. I did not return to Hogsmeade to search for it, however. My opinion has always been that if you lose something from your pocket, even after taking all necessary precautions against such a loss, then the object in question has probably left your pocket for a very good reason.

‘I recalled the runes on the amulet, the small button in its center, the fact it was a Hogsmeade weekend for the students as well. And I also found myself thinking about my life in Salem. I suddenly had an idea, a suspicion. If it was proved true, then it would solve a little problem that had been troubling me ever since you three arrived at Hogwarts.

‘Later, I watched, unnoticed, as the students returned from Hogsmeade. I waited. My suspicions were soon confirmed. Three Gryffindors had not returned from Hogsmeade, though I knew they had gone to the village with everyone else. These three students were of course, you three, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger.

‘I returned to my office and on a sudden, unexplainable whim, wrote a letter. A letter to my past self, warning me of your arrival. I sent the letter, just the letter, into the past. Into 1692 to be precise. I did not, of course, have any idea where the letter would be deposited. But I could clearly recall a letter in my reincarnation dreams and I could remember thinking that the letters had been written in a script that looked vaguely like my own, vaguely like Douglas Grant’s. My part, the part of Albus Dumbledore, was now finished. At this point, Douglas Grant’s part begins.

‘Before sending out the letter, I had never known Douglas Grant’s full story. I hadn’t even known his name. As soon as the letter had vanished from my office, however, every single detail of the life I had once lived long ago returned to me and was suddenly fresh in my mind as if everything had happened only the day before. I realized that I had made a mistake in my letter. A small mistake, one that would have dire consequences.

‘In personality, Douglas and I are very much the same. It is something rarely heard of. Since the day my parents came to the conclusion that I was a victim – if victim is the word – of reincarnation, many more accounts of the phenomenon have come to light. From studies that have been conducted, it is quite clear that very often the person’s present personality is completely different from their past lives personality. As the soul of both is the exact same, these emotional and character differences are attributed to variations in the upbringings and environments of each person. Despite the differences in our lives, environments, backgrounds Douglas Grant and I not only look similar, but act similar as well, almost as if we are related. Of course, having had the same souls, I should say we are practically akin. As I have said though, this is a very rare occurrence. Probably another reason I was able to remember my past life without the er – aid, of Veritaserum or hypnosis. But I have digressed. My apologies.

‘When my letter reached Douglas he was busy working with a group of many men and very few woman, all witches and wizards – we made a group that can be thought of the Order of the Phoenix of 1692. The Order of the Phoenix of New England. We had gathered of our own free will because the New England Ministry of Magic was much too soft, slow and not near as alert as it ought to have been. The Minister did not realize that his job was not only to keep tabs on the witches and wizards living by his laws, but also the Muggles. Our group was extremely busy in 1692. Strange rumors had been spreading about Muggles in Massachusetts, especially in and around Salem, Massachusetts. Muggles who were carrying out hangings – hangings of witches and wizards. Muggles of that time and earlier times were obsessed with “witch�-hunting. From Ireland to the New World, Muggles had begun a tradition of burning, drowning and hanging people they expected had committed the crime of witchcraft. It was a time during which Muggles were particularly afraid of magic. Usually, though, witch-hunts and the “punishment� of witches was not a cause of worry. Burning, drowning and hanging had no effect – witches and wizards could easily protect themselves with magic. I am sure all three of you have heard of Wendelin the Weird – she allowed herself to be caught and burnt forty-seven times in various disguises just to have an excuse to perform the highly enjoyable Flame-Freezing Charm. But we – my men, women and I – knew for a fact that “witches� were being killed in Salem. That is, deaths had been reported. There were only two explanations for such a conundrum: either Muggles were capturing and hanging fellow Muggles – or witches and wizards were hanging Muggles. Either one was a cause for concern. We were unsure which the true answer was until we began to receive reports of strange illnesses, ailments, girls, children suffering in Salem. This – to us at least – was suspicious, for the simple reason that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the girls in question. They were neither ailing nor poisoned. We discovered this only a day or two after we became aware of the so called diseases. One of my men, Ben Jefferson, had managed to capture one of the “sick� girls and check her over. He modified her memory after the ordeal. As repulsive as it sounds, even to me, the child came to no harm and it was necessary. We wanted to be sure of what was happening. After learning that the girls were blooming with health, we were sure that somehow, witches and wizards were behind the fiasco.’

At this point, Hermione interrupted. It seemed she could not contain herself. Looking slightly apologetic, she said softly, ‘Sorry, sir, but – the Ergot theory…?’

Dumbledore didn’t seem to mind the disruption at all. Instead he seemed pleased. ‘Ah, yes. The bread-poisoning theory. Well, as I said, the girls were not poisoned at all. The Ergot theory is flawed. The climate of Salem, Massachusetts did not suit the growth of Ergot in the grain. We know this; sooner or later the Muggles will realize it too. They will still try then, to find out the truth of the mass hysteria the witch-hunts caused but they will never find out the truth – not when even magic-folk have been kept in the dark.

‘Now, to continue. We – the Old Order, if you will – were quite positive that witches and wizards had a hand in the dilemma enveloping Salem. There was no sense in Muggles killing and capturing other Muggles, suspected of witchcraft, when their children were not ill. When there was no reason to fear witches. When nothing was going wrong. Now we needed to know why witches and wizards were hanging Muggles and hiding behind the mysterious ailment excuse. The Old Order decided to head for Salem. We set up a temporary headquarters in betweens the towns of Salem and Lynn, pretending to be workers at the smelting plant in Lynn. We did not want to draw attention to ourselves by staying in, or too near to Salem. We were now dealing with our own kind, not Muggles, and we were not eager to pretend to be Muggles around witches and wizards who by all accounts, seemed intent on murdering all non-magic people. Our magic could only offer so much protection. If the witches and wizards in Salem were practicing Dark Magic, then we had to play our cards correctly, ensure that we did not end up dying in an attempt to do good.

‘It was during our stay in this temporary base that I, as Douglas Grant, received a strange letter, one that had been found in the snow near my cabin. A letter which instructed me to be on the watch for two young men and a young lady who would soon cross my path.

‘I would have been skeptical, but during that time, when I had just discovered that magic-people were busy hanging muggles, that Dark Wizards were growing in number and power, I was running low on skepticism. I felt that nothing could surprise me anymore. After I had read through the letter a few times, I began to believe it. And there was the small matter of the writing on the parchment – narrow, loopy writing that was amazingly similar to my own slanting script. I decided to do as the letter ordered – I decided to wait for my young visitors.

‘Ten days later I was ready to give up on the letter, ready to admit that I had been wrong about its authenticity. And then, amazingly, when I least expected it, you appeared. Two of you, I should say. You were one short – the young lady in the letter was not with you. I was so shocked that for a moment, I forgot to tell Mr. Jefferson that I had been expecting two young men, and he began to shoot at you. Luckily, he was shooting to scare, not to kill.

‘I managed to recover quickly, and stop Jefferson. I invited the two young men into my house, we spoke for a time. They were distraught over a death – the death of the young woman mentioned in my letter. I was surprised that she had died, and when they told me how, my determination to solve the mystery of Salem grew. I gave you, Harry and Ron, food, a warm bed and the assurance of safety. I spoke to you about a friend.

‘But after you both had fallen asleep, when I went to see my men and explain my actions to them – I made a mistake. A mistake that changed my destiny – for better or for worse, I do not know – but that mistake is the only reason I, as Albus Dumbledore, am standing here, speaking to you today.

‘Reincarnation never meant to be a gift. It is a punishment, a curse. A curse that must have been set at one time or another, perhaps in anger, perhaps in great wisdom. I do not know. There are no records of such a curse. One simple action is all it takes. One wrong word. One wrong step. One wrong thought. An action you were not supposed to take, were not meant to take, should not have taken, but did anyway. It is impossible to predict who will live another life and who will die and begin the next great adventure. Only Fate deals with reincarnation and most people learn from experience that it is impossible to second-guess Fate.

‘As I was saying, after you both had gone to sleep, I went to speak to the rest of the Old Order. They were confused to say the least. And wary. They knew, or suspected that you two were wizards, just like I knew. Neither of you told me that you were wizards, but I could sense the magic in your blood. I am sure that you could sense it as well, even if you didn’t understand what the feeling meant. My friends wanted to know why, how, two wizards could possibly stumble upon our headquarters under normal circumstances. They felt sure that you were both spies for the witches and wizards of Salem. I could not, of course, dispel their suspicions without speaking to them about the letter I received and I was not eager to do so. I simply told them that I knew you were friends and not enemies and that you would spend, at least, the night with us. My men trusted me and they did not question my judgment of you two. However when I suggested that we allow our guests to stay with us as long as you liked, explaining about Hermione’s “death� and your troubles, they vehemently disagreed with me. As much as they trusted me, though they would allow you two to spend the night, they were not at all willing to let you stay with us for long. They did not want either of you to know about our plans and what we knew and guessed about Salem. They were trained to be wary and suspicious, and they insisted that I send you both away come morning. I told them that I could not agree – it was against everything I believed to send two troubled, weak young men back into a world which had already given them so much grief. I am probably correct in thinking that the men would have relented eventually and agreed to let you, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter, stay. If it had not been for something that happened during the night, when the men and I were all ready to retire to our beds.

‘It was small, insignificant. But it happened. A man in our group, named Lewis Abercrombie, decided to take a quick stroll after supper. He discovered, to his severe shock, that an undersized, ruffled-looking raven was perched on a tree close to the path. There are ways of discovering whether an animal is truly just an animal or if it is an Animagi. But even without spells, the trained eye can differentiate between a normal creature and an Animagi. Their markings and so on, are clear signs. Lewis immediately grasped the fact that the raven was a human in disguise and alerted the others.

‘When they discovered that we were being watched, my men dropped the notion of sending our guests away at first light and decided it was now too dangerous for us, the Old Order, to remain in our temporary base. They began packing immediately and were adamant that I leave our guests asleep and ignorant – we we’re not to take you. It was you the raven was following, and if it found out about the Old Order our entire mission would be lost. You two were too dangerous to take – so you would stay. I was against it. The raven clearly meant danger and danger first for you, and then us. My fellows wouldn’t hear a word more on the subject however, and in the end I succumbed to what I suspect is now called “peer pressure�. I said earlier that Douglas Grant and Albus Dumbledore are very similar. But we are also extremely different. If the same situation arose now, I would not make the same decision. Still, I as Douglas decided to do as my fellows instructed and not inform our guests. I left them a bag of food, and the Old Order departed in secret.

‘I was not done with you two, however. As soon as we made it back to Lynn Town, three of men decided to go to Salem Village, where they could live in secret and find out exactly what was happening in the small New England town. Meanwhile, the other people in the Old Order began to search for a new headquarters – and I decided that I would follow you both. I wanted very much to know why you were being pursued, and by whom.

‘I followed you on your journey, and watched as you reached Muller’s Inn. I realized that the bartender had been changed, but considering that many of Lynn’s residents were leaving, I did not find the new bartender suspicious. You had a conversation with a woman in the pub, which seemed normal enough, but when you came out of the tavern you seemed to be under the impression that you had been speaking to a woman named Rebecca Nurse. My curiosity was aroused. I happened to know Rebecca Nurse, She was not a resident of Lynn Town, but of Salem Village… and she was a much older woman than the young lady you two spoke to. And if the bartender had assured you that the woman’s name was Rebecca Nurse – then the only explanation was that they were both on the same side.

‘She wasn’t Rebecca Nurse?!’ snarled Harry. He was on his feet; his chair was on the floor, having fallen as Harry sprang up. His fists were curled into balls and he looked livid.

‘No,’ replied Dumbledore, ‘she was not. If I am correct, then she was—’

‘Samantha Becker,’ growled Harry, his green eyes narrowed in hatred.

‘Yes,’ Dumbledore said simply. ‘Rebecca Nurse, I knew, had been hanged in Salem, only days earlier. It seems that overconfidence was Mrs. Becker’s downfall. I cannot be sure, but I think it is safe to assume that Samantha had been waiting for you at Muller’s Inn, wanting to lure you back on the path to Salem Village. She disguised herself, and told you a story that she hoped would eventually make you feel that you had to return to Salem. She gave you only one name, Rebecca, as Ron told me, and when you on a whim asked the bartender if she was Rebecca Nurse, he didn’t know what else to do but confirm your theory – I do not think Samantha had favored him by telling him the name that would go with her disguise and he was probably under the illusion just confirming something his mistress had told you and Ron herself. It would probably have been better for her and her plans if Samantha had chosen another name.’

‘But… Metamorphmagi can’t change their voices,’ said Harry, still standing and glaring at Dumbledore. ‘She changed into Hermione back… in that place… and she had the same voice!’

‘No, Metamorphmagi cannot change their voices, but potions and magic can. She purposefully did not change her voice when she assumed the form of Miss Granger, hoping to make you realize how you had fallen into her trap, and thus torture you with that information.’

‘Trap?’ asked Ron, sounding dazed.

‘Yes… from what you and Miss Granger have told me Samantha realized that you three would interfere with her plans for Salem and eventually the world, and she was determined to get rid of you in any way possible. When you escaped Salem after Miss Granger’s hanging, she and some of her people followed you. Every person you met during your journey, Harry and Ron, aside from me, was Samantha Becker is disguise. The man Stephen, who Ron tells me first invited you into his home and showed you pictures of the day of Hermione’s hanging and then shot at you, was also Samantha Becker. She hoped to kill you both right there and then, but only managed to injure Mr. Weasley… again, I think it was her own fault that you two escaped practically unscathed… she could not resist torturing you about your friend’s death… she wasted time, and so, was unable to kill either of you.’

‘Why didn’t she just follow Harry and Ron and use the Avada Kedavra curse to kill them?’ asked Hermione.

‘Samantha Becker was being very careful to avoid detection… she did not want the American Ministry to know what she was doing and if she used magic in anyway in or near Salem, or even Lynn, the Ministry would have been alerted. Salem, Lynn and the towns near them were, and are to this day, muggle establishments with a very small minority of witches and wizards. If Samantha had used magic the Ministry would have noticed and investigated, and if they had done that her plans would have been ruined. You saw that she made sure to hang the muggles to death and not use Avada Kedavra to kill them. She did not want the Ministry warned in any way.’

Dumbledore paused for a moment, apparently to see if they had any more questions. When none of them spoke, he continued his tale.

‘It was only when you left Muller’s Inn and began your journey again that I realized exactly how much danger you were in. Whoever was tracking you, had managed to acquire a Hinkypunk, though I do not know how – Hinkypunks were not native to that part of America.’

‘We didn’t see a Hinkypunk,’ interrupted Harry. He seemed to have forgotten what Dumbledore had said before beginning his story. Harry had resumed his seat, but his face wore a dangerous expression.

‘No, you wouldn’t have. Not only was it an extremely snowy night, if you remember, but Hinkypunks are not meant to be seen. You would have only seen the light it was holding, and even then, you probably wouldn’t have realized that you were following it at all. It is the magic of the Hinkypunk. Unless you know that you will meet one, you will not realize that you are being led by one. The Hinkypunk had been forced to lead you to a lake; a lake which was covered by a very thin layer of ice.’

‘You saw that?!’ Harry said, outraged. He was standing once more. ‘Why didn’t you help?! Ron died—’

‘Ron is alive – perhaps it was better that he escaped Salem,’ said Dumbledore gently.

‘You didn’t know that he would be escaping at the time!’ Harry half-shouted. Sitting on his chair, Ron looked a little annoyed that they were talking about him as if he didn’t exist.

Dumbledore acknowledged the accusation with a slight nod of his head. ‘You are correct. It was another of my – Douglas Grant’s – mistakes. I should have helped. At the time, I was absorbed in my own duties, my own motives for following you – I could have helped. And I did not. It is, I believe, another reason for my reincarnation.’

‘What happened then? After you watched me trying to save Ron? What happened then?’ barked Harry. Hermione glanced at Harry, looking worried.

Dumbledore continued, ‘You Apparated away after some time… and I had no idea where you had gone. I suspected that you might have returned to Salem, but I was unsure. I meant to find out immediately, by communicating with the men from the Old Order who had journeyed to Salem, but I was distracted by something that happened moments after you left. A group of sopping wet witches and wizards – if my memory is correct, there were five. Their faces were covered but I could clearly hear their teeth chattering, and see them shivering in their clothes. They were arguing loudly amongst themselves, blaming each other for letting someone escape – for not killing “both of them�, as they said. They seemed afraid of some sort of punishment from their master… so two decided to return to “base� (to report to their leader I suspect), leaving the other three to search out the one they had missed. I had finally found the people who had been following you since your departure from Salem Village. And I sensed immediately, that all five had magic blood in them.’

‘Why didn’t they see you?’ asked Ron suddenly.

‘I was in my Animagus form,’ replied Dumbledore amicably, before going on. ‘Soon after that I made contact with the three men of the Old Order who had taken up residence in Salem Village. They had much to report. Things were happening in Salem very quickly indeed. Muggles had been all but wiped out; those that still remained alive had been put under the Imperius Curse until they too could be executed. There were also many witches and wizards under the Imperius Curse: those that could not be forced or blackmailed into obedience and had not yet been hanged on the gallows – yes, Samantha killed even her own kind… like Hermione. The village was now overrun with a group of witches and wizards, whose mission was to wipe out the all the Muggles in existence and any witch or wizard who stood in their way, beginning in Salem.’

‘Why, though? Why kill Muggles? For fun?’ asked Hermione.

‘A prejudice, much like the one that exists against Muggleborns today. Just as Voldemort’s plans involve purification of the wizard race, Samantha wanted to eradicate Muggles and all those who did not have magic blood. During that time, witches and wizards in other parts of the world had been forced to hide their gifts because it was a time when Muggles did tend to believe in magic. By law, witches and wizards who did not live in purely magical villages and towns (which were more than rare at the time), were forced to hide away their gifts and act as Muggles, sometimes for their entire lives. Samantha, her daughter and the few other witches and wizard native to Salem Village would have had to live as non-magic people, never using magic at all. They were not even allowed wands. It was a strict law, with a harsh punishment if broken. It is the main reason Samantha went about killing Muggles in a purely Muggle manner. I must admit, the law was quite unfair. To be stopped from using natural gifts, even in the privacy of your own home, is unjust. It was this law which sparked Samantha’s anger, caused her to begin the process of Muggle-extinction, so that she would no longer have to hide. In a way, she was not completely at fault—’

‘Don’t you dare say it wasn’t her fault!’ shouted Harry. ‘She was evil, twisted! She was a murderer! No one else was going around trying to slaughter every Muggle alive!’

‘You forget than many people, in fact, most witches and wizards in the villages close to Salem did join her. Some felt she had the correct idea, and others were coerced. And no matter what Samantha Becker did, we must always remember… villains, evil, cruel people, are never born. They are made. It is the major downfall of humanity – as many great, heroic men and women we produce, we also help make an equal amount of tyrants, dictators and criminals. It is our own doing that has led to the downfall of so many civilizations before us and someday we, the wizarding kind, too must fall, because we are unable to make life fair for all; because we create the evil amongst us.

‘As I was saying, after my men reported to me on the happenings in Salem, I decided it was time to call on the Ministry for help. From what the men had said, Salem was on the brink of chaos – this was now a job for the professionals. I alerted the officials… however, it seemed they were already preparing to go to Salem Village – someone had used magic. Immediately I rushed to Salem. Why now? I wondered. Why would they use magic now? It seems Samantha had discovered somehow that you three were not only from another part of the world, but also another time. I think that from the type of clothes you wore when you first arrived at her house – robes – and the fact that you had wands with you forced her to reach the conclusion that during your time, muggles had been eradicated, as you were not forced to hide your powers or not keep wands.’

‘They had wands – Samantha and her people,’ said Harry.

‘Samantha, if you remember, was adept in wandless magic, a skill she probably taught herself since she was not allowed a wand. She was indeed a powerful witch. The others, I suspect, managed to get wands from illegal smugglers and such areas. You may recall, Samantha’s husband was a merchant who shipped goods from various parts of the world – Samantha could have easily had him bring her wands from somewhere they were sold.

‘So – because all of you were obviously allowed to perform magic freely, Samantha quickly became overconfident, lost the cautiousness she had maintained so well since the start of her plans. She arranged for you, Harry, and her daughter to have a duel, not long after she discovered you had arrived at Salem. I think the duel was as much a celebration as a show of power. Naima Becker had been trained to be the best – by her mother. If Naima succeeded in killing you, Harry… you who had avoided death at the hands of Samantha’s closest and best group of witches and wizards, then no one would have ever dared to question Samantha Becker again.

‘The duel was just about to begin, when the Ministry finally arrived. They cast a combined spell in their panic and astonishment at what had been happening right under their noses, a spell which killed most people in the large group gathered near Gallows Hill that day. You, of course, remember what happened after that. You, Harry, and Naima tried to escape, but before you could get away you sustained a fatal injury… in the end, little Naima Becker took your life.

‘While that was happening, the Ministry people were busy reviving the few people who had survived their attack, after having lost sight of you and Naima. I had changed form as the Ministry attacked you and quickly ordered them to stop – I told them simply that you were not enemies. Almost all of the survivors were the few Muggles who had managed to avoid execution and had been under the Imperius curse. The Ministry officials gathered them up and modified their memories—’

‘Modified their memories?’ asked Harry incredulously. ‘After everything they had witnessed, the Ministry just erased all of it? They would have been missing more than a month of memories!’

‘I did not say they erased their memories. Modification usually means altering memories. That day, the Department of Misinformation was first established and dispatched. The employees of the new department modified the Muggle and magical victims’ memories, so that all of them were under the illusion that the town of Salem and surrounding villages had been suffering under a period of Muggle mass mania, as many areas of the world had been in earlier times. The memories of the inhabitants of Salem Village especially, were changed drastically. While residents of the towns surrounding Salem were forced to think only that nearby Salem Village had been conducting witch-hunts and nothing more, the residents of Salem itself spent the rest of their lives with the memories of a group of events that did not occur, but is still found in history books all over the world today. The basics of the story are that sometime in January 1692 a Salem Minister’s daughter fell ill along with other girls in the village. When the resident Muggle physician could find no cause of illness in the afflicted girls, he concluded that the girls had been bewitched. A month or so later, a woman advised the said Minister’s servant, Tituba and her husband to bake a witch cake. A witch cake is composed of rye meal mixed with urine from the afflicted children. It is then fed to a dog. The person is considered bewitched if the dog displays similar symptoms as the afflicted. The woman, it seems, hoped that the cake would help the girls identify who had bewitched them. Only a few days later however, men from the village accused the slave Tituba and two other women of witchcraft. They were arrested under suspicion. After a trial, Tituba, the woman slave confessed to witchcraft. Over time more woman and some men were accused of witchcraft as well, according to the story, some by village people and others by the “afflicted� girls. The first “hanging� took place on June 10th, 1692.’

‘Wait,’ said Ron. ‘The first real hanging took place in February – not June…’

Dumbledore nodded. ‘Yes, but according to the documents the Ministry forged and memories the Muggle and magical residents were given, the first hanging was conducted on the tenth of June. Samantha held no real trials, only mock ones (I suspect for her own enjoyment… she did like to torture her victims), and there were no written documents proving those “trials� had ever taken place. However, the Ministry wanted to make sure that everything was done “properly�. The first hanging was conducted in June, after (according to the forged story) many accusations, long trials, and imprisonments.’

‘So the American Ministry fed everyone a fake story? Did the people who were supposedly “hanged� even exist?’ asked Harry.

‘Yes, they did. In fact, the Old Order and I gave the names of the people we knew had been hanged. The one hanging that I was unaware of was Hermione’s. I, as Douglas, did not know your friend’s name, because the letter did not specify it and nor did you. I did not know that another woman had been hanged with Hermione until she herself told me. So their names do not enter records. The records of hangings are for the most part, true. Most names on the lists you can find of the victims of the trials are the names of the men and woman hanged by Samantha (both Muggle and magical), like Bridget Bishop, hanged soon after you, Harry and Ron, left Salem, and Rebecca Nurse. Other names, like Mary Easty, are names of witches and wizards who took part in the Muggle-hangings, and were killed when the Ministry arrived at Salem Village. And further names, like Samantha Becker, do not appear on any document at all. Even though she died, the American Ministry was unwilling to add her name to the victims’ list or the list of accused. She was the mastermind – she was the reason for most of the deaths that occurred in Salem in February of 1692. Even after she died, the Ministry did not want her to be given any pity. She was in no way a victim.’

‘If the peoples’ memories were modified in February, how did the Ministry make them think the first hanging took place in June? They would have gone back to their normal lives by then,’ said Ron.

‘Time-Lapse Memory Charms,’ said Hermione, a look of amazement on her face.

Again, Dumbledore nodded, ‘Exactly. A Time-Lapse Memory Charm adds memories to the target’s mind at preset intervals and removes any memories that conflict with the added memory. For example, as Bridget Bishop was hanged on June 10th, the residents of Salem, on June 11th would have memories of the hanging that took place the day before – if any person had been, say, doing their washing during the time that Bridget Bishop had been hanged that memory would be removed and replaced with one of the hanging. Or, it is also possible, that the washing memory would remain, and a memory of having heard of the hanging, would be added to the mind. It was a very technical and lengthy procedure. Never has the Department of Misinformation worked on such a large-scale after the Salem incident.’

‘Wait a moment!’ said Harry, realizing something. ‘You’re saying that the American Ministry blamed Muggles for something witches and wizards did?!’

‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore. He might have said more, but Harry interrupted.

‘And you helped them?! You gave them the names of the hanged? Why? Did you have a deal?’ he spat. ‘Maybe something like – they wouldn’t modify your memory?!’

It looked, for a moment, like Dumbledore had lost patience with Harry, but when he spoke it was in his usual, gentle tones. ‘Douglas Grant and Albus Dumbledore are very different people, Harry. I have said this before. The decisions I made as him are not the decisions I would make as the man I am now. Douglas Grant struck a deal with the American Ministry. He would aid them in their cover-up and they would not modify his memory or the memories of the members of the Old Order. Needless to say, Douglas did not put out the true story. The secrets of the Salem Witch Trials died with him… or they would have if I had not remembered my life as him. All I can say is that everything Douglas Grant did, everything I did, has only made me wiser and stronger – it has made me the man I am today.

‘The American Ministry was understandably loath to admit that something so horrible had happened right under their noses, because they had not been doing their jobs well enough. Countless murders occurred in February and they were unable to stop any of them. To this day, not a single Muggle, witch or wizard with the exception of the four people in this room, know the truth of what occurred in Salem Village and why. However, the American Ministry did do some good things, for all of wizard-kind. The introduced the Department of Misinformation, which was adopted by our Ministry that very year. And they also relaxed their magic laws, allowing witches and wizards to practice magic in their homes. We can give them some credit: they learnt from their mistakes.’

‘Sir,’ said Hermione. ‘Why exactly were you reincarnated?’

‘As I said earlier, it takes only one wrong action to be forced to live another life. I did three things that justified my punishment, as far as I can see. The first was that I decided, along with the rest of the Old Order, to leave Ron and Harry in the base we had made, without telling them that we were leaving, without explaining that we were witches and wizards, without telling them what we were doing… and without informing them that they were bring followed. The second reason is that when Ron fell into the lake, fell right into a trap, I did not aid Harry in saving him. And the third: I gave the Ministry information. I made a deal with them. I allowed Muggles to take the blame for our mistakes. And I allowed the truth of the Salem Witch Trails to die with me.’

A moment of silence, and then Ron spoke. ‘The amulet that you dropped, sir – the one that took us to Salem. What did the runes around it say?’

A twinkle became apparent in Dumbledore’s eyes. ‘It had, engraved on it, in runes, a saying. “Death is but the Next Great Adventure.� A saying I am very fond of. It was a sort of a code: it told the only way to escape from the place it transported the user to. In this case, Salem, Massachusetts, 1692.

‘And, sir – there was a time not long after we arrived at Salem, when Naima experienced a fit… was that real… or…?’

‘In my opinion, Miss Granger, though I was not watching over you as Douglas then, I think that Samantha most likely cast a spell on her daughter which caused her to experience a fit, or something like a fit. By that time, I am guessing that she was aware of the trouble you and Harry and Ron could cause her and her mission and she was eager to have you all killed as soon as possible, before you could figure out what was happening in Salem. In the end, she was forced to settle with killing only you at that time Miss Granger, knowing, I presume, that you were so far the only one becoming suspicious of her. It was also she, I suspect, who planted the Charms book on you. You had told her your name, of course. It was a simple matter of writing it on the inside… you and Harry and Ron were, understandably, panicking during your trial, and did not ask for a closer look at the book Samantha produced. If you had, you would have seen that unlike our present day books, it was written and bound by hand, like all books of that time. That would have made it clear that Samantha had not found that book on your person… but instead made it herself. She was not going to use magic to make it, which would have made it more like our present day books, since that would have alerted the Ministry.’

‘I heard...’ said Ron suddenly, a look of comprehension on his freckly face. ‘When Samantha took Naima into the room – I put my ear onto the door… I heard her telling Naima that she “had to do it� and that “I can sense trouble in them… the girl is becoming suspicious�, and some other things…’

There was a long silence in Dumbledore’s office as Harry, Ron and Hermione took in what they had heard. Harry was doing his best to keep the rage and the disappointment he was feeling off of his face. Then he remembered something.

‘What happened to Naima?’ he asked Dumbledore.

Dumbledore’s blue eyes focused on him, giving Harry the feeling he was being x-rayed, and he was silent for a moment. Then, he said, ‘She was killed.’

‘Killed?’ said Harry, a cold feeling engulfing him suddenly.

‘Yes. By the Ministry soon, after you died in Salem. As soon as the Ministry found out that a Killing Curse had been performed in Salem, they rushed to apprehend the culprit. They found Naima in her house, with your dead body near by, and instead of arresting her, they executed her immediately.’

Harry’s green eyes looked black with fury. ‘You were with the Ministry – and you didn’t stop them from killing her?’

‘I did not know what had happened – I had not seen you ask Naima to kill you. I only found out what had happened to you when you arrived back here at Hogwarts. Even to me, it looked like she had murdered you, and it was the obvious conclusion, considering that she was Samantha’s daughter and you had indirectly led to Samantha’s death.’

Harry stood abruptly. ‘Have you finished?’

‘No,’ said Dumbledore, ignoring the rudeness. ‘As much as you blame me Harry, there was little I could do to help you and Ron and Hermione without changing history.’

‘It wouldn’t have been changing history – since the history of Salem that we know is a lie!’

‘It would have been changing history. History is not what has been written on paper, but what has happened in the world. However, I admit, that if I chose, I could have brought you back to this time, saved you the horror, and I could have dealt with the repercussions later. I did not. It was my view, and remains my view, that learning about death and experiencing it, makes it easier to face later on. You died in Salem and awoke to find that your friends, your family was waiting for you. That is the lesson I wished you to learn… that death is only the next great adventure. That death is meant to occur, and that fighting it is foolish and dangerous… and that we do meet our loved ones again, eventually. There are many trials in your future Harry, and in yours as well, Ron and Hermione. Though I did not send you to Salem on purpose, I did not bring you back either. There are many horrors in store for you three – and no real way to prepare for them. By not bringing you back I only hoped to strengthen your resolve to do what is right, no matter how frightening and horrible and difficult… instead, of what is easy.’

**

Epilogue

This is how it feels to be Harry Potter, now:

You leave Dumbledore’s office silently. You feel that now, you should understand everything. Understand why it happened. How it happened. You think that, in your heart, you should feel gratefulness. For what Dumbledore has done for you. How he has done his level best to help you with what you must eventually face…

But you don’t.

There is a furnace where your heart should be and in it burns hatred and fury.

All you can think of is how your mentor, the man you trust – trusted – more than anyone has failed you. In his eagerness to aid you he has caused you unbearable pain. He has only added more horror to your life – forced you to see more death, more suffering, more of the corruption that plagues the world.

You spent a month in Salem.

It feels like ten years.

And in those ten years you have aged rapidly. You follow Ron and Hermione, but you have to drag your feet, repeatedly force yourself to focus on where you step.

Dumbledore’s words begin to haunt you. He could have saved you the torture, could have stopped you from experiencing something that, by all rights, you should never have been required to experience. Salem was not supposed to be a part of your life. It was only something to read about, something to hear Professor Binns drone on and on about – couldn’t he have left it that way?

However, I admit, that if I chose, I could have brought you back to this time, saved you the horror, and I could have dealt with the repercussions later.

And you hate him for it.

Hate that he could and he didn’t.

Hate that he is unable to see: you are not above human. What hurts others. hurts you. What tortures other, tortures you. And what they do not wish to witness, you do not wish to witness either.

You remember…

You remember the anger that enveloped you as he spoke, and how you felt once more what you had felt twice before: a snake rising inside you, a snake that wanted nothing more than the death of that blue-eyed man who stood before you. You remember the black hatred, the icy venom in the snake’s veins as he told you that Muggles had been blamed, that Naima had been killed… as he told you that he could have saved you the horror and did not.

You remember… Oh how the snake wished that his words were just another dream, another vision of death, that you could leave the room and sink back into the drowning darkness that had been your prison for twelve days. You remember the snake inside you thinking that if he had just brought you and Ron and Hermione back then they would not have died—

And in one blazing, horrifying moment, you understand. You realize… There is no snake. There never was one.

There was and is… only you.

Only Harry Potter. Only the Chosen One. Only the Boy Who Lived.

Only you.

You who hated Dumbledore with every bit of feeling you could muster.

You who wanted Dumbledore dead.

You…

It was your fault that Hermione died.

That Ron died.

That Naima died.

Your fault that Dumbledore had sought to send you to Salem in the first place.

Because he had seen something that you had been ignoring? Because he had known that deep down, you were hiding a fear, a fear even you didn’t realize you had… a fear which was not Harry Potter. A fear that Harry Potter could not have had. Not you.

But a fear you did – do – have.

As impossible as it sounds.

As incredible as it is.

A fear that no one and nothing could – can – banish. You know that now. Dumbledore has tried – and failed.

Failed badly.

And you lie down on your bed and realize.

You are alone now.

You always have been alone.

Because during the most momentous parts of life, the big comings and goings, you live and die alone.

Just you.

Your choice to turn back or move forward.

And because in the end, you must face the final, biggest transition, you know, you will always have to be alone…

And in a burst of pure hatred, fury that makes you want to scream and rage, you reach into yourself, with every drop of magic you have, to destroy the snake that hides in your heart. But as hard as you try you cannot reach it. Touch it. Destroy it.

In the end, you cannot.

In the end, you are too weary.

In the end, you know that if you were on a battlefield right now, you would just lay down and die… give up…

And in the end, you do not think you want to destroy that snake...

Because you know: you were born alone – and you will die alone. Unless you can stop it. Stop death. And the snake, the snake that resides in the furnace you call a heart, knows how to stop it.

You can embrace the snake. You can gather it unto yourself.

And you will never have to die again.

And you will never have to watch them die again.

And you will never have to be alone.

If only you become that snake.

You pull your covers over yourself and call goodnight to Ron.

You know – as intelligent as Dumbledore is, as perfect as his plan had been – there was nothing he could have ever done. It is all you.

You are the snake.

The snake is you.

And so it is yourself, you will have to fight.

Yourself, you must destroy.

And you do not know if you ever can.

You close your eyes.

And you see the snake.

And you know that you have never, ever, in your entire life, feared death more than you do know.

Dumbledore’s plan has failed him.

Has failed you.

The snake curls and uncurls, like smoke. And you hear its hiss – your hiss… its words…

Join me… join me… join me…

Your head falls onto your pillow and you sleep…

**

The End

A/N: I didn't want to put this at the top, since it would give some details of the chapter away. :) So! We have finally reached the end! I can hardly believe it - the first story I have ever completed in my writing career! :) Not a very happy ending - if I say so myself - since Harry seems to have found a fear that should not exist in him at all! The epilogue revelations warrant a sequl to this fic... but I don't think there will be one. ^_^ An enormous thanks must go to my readers and reviewers who've made this entire story possible! If it weren't for you, guys, I would have quit ages ago! So THANK YOU! Thanks also to my sister who read each chapter and yelled at me for giving such horrible cliffhangers! Those you who actually would like to see more of my writing - don't worry, more will be coming very soon. Meanwhile, check out my latest Dark/Angsty One-Shot Sweat and Blood. For the final disclaimers: Harry and Co. belong to J.K Rowling (and thank God for that, I could never write as well as her!). The style for this chapter doesn't belong to me - it was used by author Matthew Strover in the Star Wars: The Revenge of the Sith novel. The Salem Witch Trials really did occur (though not in the way I described them) and I am in no way insulting any of the poor victims of the trials - take no offense from this! Also I have used a quote in this chapter: "You live and die alone". Not my words - but I'm not sure who made the quote either. And once again, thank you for reading and reviewing and I love you all! Until next time, your faithful author-in-training: Amel