The ‘Britain In Bloom’ Competition had been a godsend. Harry couldn’t really believe that he was saying that to himself, but it was true. Ever since Little Whinging had been short-listed for the Best Kept Residential Suburb, Harry’s life had changed noticeably for the better. Summer with the Dursleys had become almost bearable.

Harry knelt up and sat back on his haunches. He felt hot and sweaty and his neck was stiff. He flexed his aching shoulders, wiped a dusty forearm over his brow and uttered a sigh of satisfaction as he surveyed the view. Immaculate. Definitely a contender for the Golden Garden Award. The lawn’s neat, green rectangle was mown to pin-striped perfection, not a single errant blade of grass marred the straightness of its scissored edges. The gravel paths met and crossed at sharply geometric angles, the Welsh Slate shards glinting with a purpley grey oiled sheen, still damp from the Weedsfoe spray he had applied earlier that morning. Symmetrical triangular borders, bold in red, white and blue, gave a crisp salute to precision planting. There was not a speck of soil visible beneath the uniform brown base of graded bark chips.

“No place for slackers, boy!” Uncle Vernon had glanced up from his magazine and noticed Harry stretching. “Get to it.”

“I’m just filling the watering-can,” Harry replied levelly. He began to uncoil the hose from the wall-mounted verdigris pipe bracket and clipped the nozzle to the matching yellow fitting on the outside tap. Checking that Uncle Vernon was once more engrossed in the pages of Competitive Chrysanthemum, Harry turned the hose onto himself, letting the blissfully cold water soak his hair and trickle down his chest and back; he took a long cool swig. His wet, dark fringe flopped into his eyes and he flicked the hair back with his hand, leaving a muddy smudge across his sunburned face.

“Boy!” Uncle Vernon was shouting now. “Get a move on, boy. You’ve still got to water the hanging-baskets, tubs and the drain-guard planters, brush the moss off the terracotta wall-plaques and scrub the decking, before you’ve anything like finished, boy.”

Perhaps not so much had changed after all. But he was outside, in the sunshine and fresh air instead of being cooped up in his room, or even in that wretched stair-cupboard. Anything was better than that. At least now that he understood why he was obliged to stay at No. 4 Privet Drive during the holidays it was slightly easier to resign himself to it. It didn’t make him any less hungry or lonely, it didn’t stop him missing Ron and Hermione and the rest of his wizard friends, but it helped now that he knew the truth.

OK, so the gardening detail was tantamount to slave labour, but somehow he didn’t really mind any more. The work gave him something to concentrate on; it stopped him brooding about … No. He was not going to let himself think about it. He couldn’t. It was too painful. Too raw. He forced the hateful thoughts back down into the pit of his mind and slammed the trapdoor. Concentrate on the job in hand, Harry. Think happy thoughts. And yes, he grinned suddenly, recalling his furious reaction when Aunt Petunia first presented him with a fork and spade and a day by day list of outdoor chores. He’d almost told her to stick her secateurs in her grow-bag! But it hadn’t been so bad. After weeks of digging, mulching, raking, spreading compost and fertiliser, hoeing, weeding, mowing, trimming, watering, sweeping and planting, he was feeling surprisingly fit. His muscles ached, sure, but there was a lean, taught strength about his whole body now that he was getting to like. He was still ridiculously thin for his height, but he reckoned that if he could just tough it out this summer, once he got back to Hogwarts in September and had some decent meals again he would bulk up; maybe if he worked out a little he might end up like Oliver Wood - Gryffindor’s former Quidditch captain and House hunk. No, being sixteen wasn’t going to be so bad.

Sixteen. It was his birthday today. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it yet. He knew better than to expect anything from the Dursleys, certainly not presents; he hadn’t even expected them to remember. So he had been surprised when Aunt Petunia had greeted him that morning. Instead of her usual pained grimace, she had actually spoken to him:

“Big day for you, Harry.” Her customary nasal whine was accompanied by a supercilious sniff, “For your sort, I mean.”

Harry was amazed when she spread a scrape of rhubarb jam across his usual slice of dry bread.

“Sixteen, eh, boy? Happy birthday!” Uncle Vernon had also shown unnatural bonhomie. It made Harry apprehensive. They both looked far too cheerful. Uncle Vernon passed him the toast-rack. Harry was just beginning to feel that this unwonted politeness was even more stressful than their normal barrage of complaints, demands and instructions when a sleek brown owl glided through the open fanlight and alighted on the breakfast table. Harry automatically reached out to take the envelope, but the owl side-stepped and offered his leg to Aunt Petunia. Shrinking visibly, she took the letter and placed it unopened on her side-plate.

“More tea, Vernon?” she feigned unconcern, though the shrillness of her voice had increased by several tones.

“Just read the bloody thing, you silly woman,” he answered gruffly.

‘He stays until September.’ Only four short words, but their effect on the Dursleys was catastrophic. Aunt Petunia dropped the parchment and recoiled as though she had just found herself sitting next to a goblin. Uncle Vernon, jowls quivering, red-faced and spluttering, heaved himself to his feet and roared through a mouthful of half-chewed streaky bacon:

“Get out of my sight! Get back to work!”

It was only when Harry was safe in the privacy of the potting-shed that he had a chance to think about what had happened. He realised that, for some reason, the Dursleys had been expecting him to leave. To leave, that very day. They couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

So, there he was back on his knees amongst the bedding plants, dead-heading Begonias. The Dursleys hated him again, the world had forgotten his birthday, he was tired and hot and hungry - life was back to normal. He smiled to think that a month ago he wouldn’t even have been able to tell the difference between an Aster and an Antirrhinum. But the competition rules had been fixed and inflexible: all entries to be ready for judging by 1st August. Under the exacting direction of Aunt Petunia he had fast-tracked in botany, rapidly learning not only to identify but to nurture the trays of identical plugs, seedlings and cuttings that filled the greenhouse.

The ornamental show-piece of the garden was a large rectangular border, divided by obsessively trimmed lines of dwarf box, into the triangular blocks of the Union Jack. Planted in a dramatic (and to Harry’s untrained eye, quite hideous) contrasting scheme, wide rows of scarlet Salvia abutted white lines of Alyssum, with closely-spaced Lobelia forming the blue.

The patriotic colour-scheme was echoed relentlessly throughout the rest of the garden, in tubs, window-boxes and planters. Even the water-feature played ‘Rule Britannia’ and squirted jets in time to the music from the crown of a two foot resin replica of Britannia herself, who ruled the ripples in wobbly majesty from a plastic plinth amongst the marsh irises. Harry often wondered if the Dursleys had ever sung the words, especially the last line.

“Oi, Potrix!” Dudley yelled, using the latest in a very long line of offensive nicknames. “Get us a beer.”

Harry sighed and fetched a chilled can from the patio drinks cooler, marginally out of Dudley’s reach. He resisted the temptation to shake it and handed it over obediently. Dudley grunted and lay back on the floral cushions of his recliner, sweltering, pink and oiled like a raw sausage on a barbeque. His fat head nodded inanely to an inaudible beat – Harry noticed two spaghetti wires trailing from his ears to his top pocket; at the same time he was staring with rapt attention at his left wrist, where his chunky digital diving chrono had seemingly transformed into a tiny television screen. Dudley was into miniaturisation in a big way. Micro camcorder, wrist-watch TV, mini-disc… Mini-brain, thought Harry dismissively.

Since the end of term Harry and Dudley had maintained an uneasy truce. For the most part they ignored each other, or exchanged insults without resorting to actual violence. Harry’s policy had been to keep his head down and endure the ‘holiday’, wishing away the weeks until he could return to his real life at Hogwarts. He remembered how he had fretted and chaffed this time last year, how he’d felt so angry and excluded. He’d grown up a lot since then.

“BOY! Get that bloody bird off my pergola!”

Uncle Vernon was gesticulating angrily, pointing down the garden to where three strips of trellis, entwined with rampant Morning Glory, spanned the gravel pathway. Harry looked up and was delighted to see Hedwig, her feathers dazzlingly white against the mass of blue trumpets. She had been absent for two days and he had been starting to worry. In her talons she was carrying a thick buff envelope.

Harry didn’t know how long he had been sitting on the end of his bed. He knew he was cold. The pale summer evening had finally faded into darkness; the moon, unnoticed, had tracked a path from the far left of his window and was now silently approaching the right-hand frame. An occasional muttered chirp heralded the dawn chorus. It must have been about four a.m.

He sat holding the folded letter in both hands. Just holding it now. He wished he hadn’t been in so much of a rush to read it. He had been so convinced that it contained a birthday surprise: perhaps the Weasleys were coming to collect him, or some special present was on its way. But this… Fine birthday this had turned out to be.

He stared out of the window, barely focussing, his brain making no sense of the layered shapes looming in infinitely deepening shades of grey. A darker shadow slipped for an instant into a patch of clear moonlight and just as quickly blended into the night. A cat? But Harry had caught a flick of white - an urban fox then. Or some Animagus from the Order keeping tabs on him. You couldn’t trust anybody these days.

He felt numb. He sat on the end of the bed and held the letter in his hands, the parchment stiff and coarsely textured beneath his fingers. He felt as though he had squarely eye-balled the Basilisk. He wished he had. No, he’d choke on the Mandrake Potion now. He couldn’t bring himself to read the letter again. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Harry drew up his knees and hugged them to his chest, rocking slightly. Around him his whole universe was slowly imploding and he was being sucked inward and downwards towards that immeasurably dense darkness from which no light escapes. All that remained of his former life was that notional curve in the fabric of space.

It was dawn before he finally curled up on top of his covers and slept, the letter still clasped to his breast.

“Get up you lazy good-for-nothing lump! Busy day. Get a move on.” Uncle Vernon’s voice hollered up the stairs.

Harry knew that if he didn’t appear in seconds then Dudley would be sent up to drag him out of bed, by his hair, by his ear, by his foot, to fling the threadbare covers back or to chuck a beaker of cold water over him where he lay. He sat up groggily and blinked several times as though that would clear his mind of sludge. He just had time to slip the letter under the floorboard before he heard Dudley’s footsteps pounding up the stairs and his panting bulk filled the doorway. He seemed disappointed to find Harry already dressed.

“Dad says you’ve got to come down straightaway and give the ‘Feature’ a final trim before the judging,” he announced with a self-important sneer. “No time for breakfast. Hurry up.”

He stumped away heavily. Harry could hear the Smoothie-maker whirring downstairs in the kitchen, and a few seconds later Dudley sauntered across the lawn and slumped onto the sun-lounger, in his hand a tall frothy glass with a pink paper umbrella.

The Dursley’s enthusiasm for the ‘Britain in Bloom’ Competition was sustained by three factors: civic one-upmanship, free manual labour and exceptional delegation skills. Thanks to Harry’s efforts they stood a realistic chance of success in the General Garden section. But to have signed-up for the Special Feature category was an act of overweening folly. Whatever had possessed them?

The front lawn of No. 4 Privet Drive was the consecrated site for Aunt Petunia’s entry in the ‘Topiary Tub Tableau’. In keeping with the ‘There’ll Always be an England’ theme, she had chosen her majestic subjects: the Lion and the Unicorn. The three foot high box sculptures were battling it out for the crown in wooden half-barrels, hand-painted with red and gold heraldic motifs. Purchasing the un-shaped shrubs and containers had been expensive, and the Dursleys were protective of their investment - Harry had been allocated several weeks to ease an identifiable lion and unicorn from the uncooperative leaves, and was thereafter required to maintain their animal perfection with a daily grooming.

Harry plodded out to the shed to fetch the clippers. His head was thumping and he felt hungry and tired and … …in no mood for a confrontation with Dudley. Unfortunately, the fat slug was oblivious to signals.

“Potty-Potrix!” he summoned, imperiously. “I’ve left my memory chip on the telephone table.” He waved a microscopic digital camera languidly. “Go and fetch it.”

“Go get it yourself!” Harry snarled.

Dudley’s watery blue eyes widened, and he seemed to inflate with pompous outrage. Harry was reminded of Aunt Marge. Before Dudley could speak Harry had rounded on him, brandishing the secateurs:

“One word, Dud-head, just one word, and I’ll prune you! Got it?” he threatened. Dudley nodded, speechless, choking on pink, milky bubbles.

Sometimes it is the innocent who suffer. The lion and the unicorn, blameless beasts, copped it that morning. Harry clipped aggressively in time to a bitter refrain - phrases from the letter that he couldn’t get out of his mind. He cut as though the bushes were there for a complete restyle, not just a trim. The entire horn and most of the mane ended up as sweepings on the ground.

“Oh God, I’ve really gone and done it now,” he muttered.

What were his chances of convincing the Dursleys - and the judging panel - of the existence let alone the superiority of those traditional folk heroes, the seal and the Shetland pony?

Forestalling the inevitable, Harry retreated to his room.

The letter was from his father, James Potter.

Harry gazed at the extravagantly large, florid hand-writing, the exaggerated curlicues and quill flourishes and thought about James. James, as he had seen him in photos, in the Pensieve, in the Mirror of Erised, in his tutors’ fond descriptions. James, always so confident, so suave and dashing, assertive, handsome, intelligent; James, ruthless, rash, a bully, a prankster, cruel, undisciplined and arrogant. Which James had written this letter?

Individual words and phrases, half-remembered from the night before, were jostling in his mind, shoving themselves rudely forward to ensnare his attention. He had to force them back into an orderly queue. He knew he had to deal with them systematically, logically or he would go mad. He didn’t trust himself with their brutal truths.

He unfolded the letter once more and traced his finger over the embossed Potter family crest, a gold Merlin’s Star, entwined with a single red Dog-Rose, its petals picked out in gold.

The language was formal, declamatory, even stilted in places, as though it had been written for publication, or at least with an audience in mind.

Harry, my dear son,

If this letter reaches you on your sixteenth birthday, as it is charmed to do, it will mean that your mother and I are dead. I am speaking to you from beyond the grave. So be it. In these violent, dangerous times it is impossible to envisage any other outcome.

The Death Eaters grow bolder and more powerful by the day; the attacks more vicious, more targeted. If you survive - please Merlin, may you survive – I have made provision for your care.

There is money in the Potter family vault; the property is all held for you in trust. My dear friends Black and Lupin will see to it that you want for nothing, and Professor Dumbledore will always, I am certain, have your best interests at heart. They are good people, Harry.

I wish I could be there to see you grow, to mature, to take your rightful place in the family, to claim your birthright as a Potter. In spite of everything, you are a dear, dear child, you are my son and I love you.

The first page of the letter ended there. Harry wished he had never turned over.

You are sixteen now, Harry. You are no longer a child. You will know that, in the wizarding world, sixteen is traditionally considered to be the age of Attainment. It is time for you now to put your childhood behind you and enter the adult world. You must redress the wrongs that I have been unable to right. It is time for you to defend your inheritance.

Harry had absolutely no idea what the age of Attainment signified. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia obviously thought it meant that he was old enough to leave home.

I hereby charge you, Harry, with a most sacred obligation. As a father and as a scion of the Potter line, I name you as my Muntaqim. I designate to you the duty of the Rite of Natqah.

If these terms are unfamiliar - and they are rarely invoked these days - I’m sure Dumbledore will explain at ponderous length. For now, know that this is an ancient, venerated and binding tradition, with its roots in Eastern lore. It is strong magic, Harry. You are to be my Avenger. The duty is the Rite of Revenge on one who has committed an unpardonable

offence against my family name, against a person I love.

Why were wizards always so hung up about their family and blood lines, wondered Harry. This stuff sounded more like something Malfoy would have come out with. Wouldn’t it be better to let bygones be bygones? He would have thought so, if he hadn’t already read the next page. He turned the paper, unwilling to confront the hateful words a second time.

The script on this final sheet was tighter, more cramped, constrained as though the writer had agonised over every word. Harry read pain in each line.

You are to exact revenge, Harry, against a man who has ruined my life. He has taken from me everything I hold most dear - my honour, the good name of the House of Potter, the love of my beautiful wife.

At the mention of his mother, Harry felt his throat tighten.

If you do not perform this duty, you risk losing everything. If your right to the Potter estate is ever called into question, if you are tested in the Attainment ceremony, the Rite of Natqah is the only way to justify your claim. Otherwise you may be disinherited. You will be an outcast, just like him.

Like who? This bit didn’t seem to follow on clearly. It was almost as though James were putting off getting to the point. Why should anyone want to test him about his family? And there was obviously more to this Attainment thing than he had realised.

The Death Eaters are evil men, Harry. They are corrupt, unprincipled, remorseless animals. I pray that by the time you read this, they are but a bad memory from the troubled past. I hope that man is long dead - may he burn in eternal hellfire. If you are thus exonerated from the Natqah,

this letter will serve as proof of my intent.

Should he be getting a lawyer to decipher all this?

In the months before you were born, many half-blood witches were captured by the Death Eaters. The women were shared out, like toys or sweets, like playthings…

My darling Lily was one of them. They didn’t kill her then, but they might just as well have done. I can hardly bring myself to write this, Harry, but you must know the truth. Lily was ‘violated’ by a young Death Eater, and you were conceived. She has never been the same. Never my Lily again. She’s become so sad, so withdrawn. You are the only joy in her life, Harry. She cannot love me any more; she says she is tainted, unclean, unworthy. That fiend has stolen her from me, robbed me of my chance to raise my own family, brought dishonour upon my House.

Harry felt sick. He was the bastard child of a Death Eater rapist. James was not, had never been, his father. But his mother had loved him. She had loved him… she had loved him…

Now that you are sixteen, we can no longer protect you from the shameful truth. The ‘Patersimilis’ spell that has so long concealed your identity will lose its potency. Your genes will reassert themselves. You may start to resemble your biological father. Your mother recognised him from our time at Hogwarts: his name is Severus Snape.

Take revenge on this man, Harry. Prove yourself worthy to be my son.

Your loving father,

James Potter

Who knew about this? Dumbledore? Remus? Had Sirius known and never told him? Had they all been protecting him again, all these years? Protection? Mockery, more like. It was so humiliating, so patronising! Who knew? When were they planning to tell him? They’d let him live one lie for eleven years - and then substituted it with another. All that ‘happy families’ crap! Lily and James Potter, the Golden Couple. Inconveniently dead, but golden nonetheless. All lies!

Did he know? That man… that …snake. Harry couldn’t bring himself to say the name. His stomach clenched at the thought. The image taunted him: the viper, venomous, predatory, sinking his fangs into his mother as she lay helpless and terrified, poisoning her life, while a jeering gang of Death Eaters clapped… Had he known, all along ?

Harry folded the letter carefully and placed it back in its envelope. Then he folded that and poked it into the breast pocket of his shirt, next to his heart. Today was the 1st August. He would return to Hogwarts for the start of the new term on 1st September. That gave him one month in which to plot his revenge.

Harry flung down the mirror in disgust. It was happening already. His face looked somehow narrower, the eyebrows bushier, the down on his top lip darker. And as for his hair… The thick, black locks swung forward across his face; he tossed his head back angrily.

“I’m getting this cut,” he vowed in exasperation.

His room at The Leaky Cauldron must have been the smallest in the whole building. There was barely room for his trunk and Hedwig’s cage. It was no more than he deserved though. He hadn’t been able to book from the Dursley’s, so had simply turned up and taken whatever they had left. The Knight Bus, as alarmingly unpredictable as ever, had eventually collected him from Privet Drive in response to a message he had sent to Stan via Hedwig. He now had one afternoon in Diagon Alley to buy all his supplies for the new term before catching the Hogwarts Express the following morning.

The last month had been far from pleasant. Sabotaging expensive topiary was a mortal sin in the Dursleys’ eyes. Harry had not gone unpunished. Preoccupied with punishment plans of his own, however, Harry had been largely indifferent to pain and privation. It had been rather a Pyrrhic victory for Uncle Vernon.

Harry pushed open the door of Wizard Whiskers and marched straight up to the bearded barber. He had to do this now, straightaway, before he lost his nerve.

“I want it cut short,” he said, “very short. Really short. A ‘Number One’, all over.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” The barber hovered his clippers reluctantly over Harry’s luxuriant head of hair.

“Positive,” Harry confirmed. “Go for it!”

In five minutes it was all over. Harry ran an uncertain hand over his shorn dome. It felt spiky but soft. When he put his glasses back on, a punk-headed stranger stared back at him from the mirror, the lightning scar aggressively visible with no fringe to soften its jagged edges.

The breeze felt unnaturally cool on the back of his neck as he strolled self-consciously down the cobbled Alley towards Flourish and Blotts. He was convinced that every warlock, witch, goblin or wizard he passed was staring at his scar. Perhaps he could do something to divert attention from his forehead…

“Harry? Is that you Harry?” a tentative voice called from across the street. A moment later he was engulfed as Hermione flung her arms around him in a welcoming hug. He hugged her back, breathing in the warm, familiar smell of her skin and hair.

“Oh Harry, I’ve missed you so much!” she exclaimed, beaming at him. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”

“What does it look like?”

“It looks as though you’ve just escaped from prison, or you’ve joined the army, or something. You haven’t … have you? I mean, you haven’t been in Azkaban all summer, or anything weird like that?” she faltered.

“Might as well have been,” he said, moodily. “Not that anyone would have noticed if I had.”

“Don’t be difficult,” she said. “You know Dumbledore told us not to have any contact with you. You know, in case it got intercepted, or drew attention…”

“Come off it, you think they don’t know where I live ?” Harry retorted irritably.

“How should I know? Look, don’t be like that, Harry. I’m really pleased to see you. Don’t spoil it.” She took his arm. “I’m meeting Ron in the bar at the Leaky Cauldron in five minutes,” she continued. “You’ll come, won’t you? Or did you have to buy more stuff?”

In the excitement, Harry had completely forgotten what he had to get.

“Oh, quills, ink, the usual. And the books, of course,” he ad-libbed.

Hermione gave him a reproachful look.

“You’re meant to have read those over the holidays.”

“Well I’ve had other things on my … I’ve been busy, OK?”

The warm, smoky air of the Leaky Cauldron wrapped them in a beer-stained blanket the moment they stepped in. ‘Why can’t they open a few windows on a glorious day like this?’ Harry thought, wrinkling his nose. Spending practically all day every day outdoors for the past eight weeks had turned him into a bit of a fresh air fanatic. ‘It’s so stuffy and hot in here. I can’t breathe.’ Funny, it had never bothered him before. Through the haze they could see Ron sitting at a table with two other boys. Even though they had their backs to him, their identical ginger heads identified them instantly.

“Fred! George! Hi Ron!”

At the sound of Harry’s voice they all looked up. Their smiles froze.

“Whoa, mate! That is one major bad hair day!” The twins were perversely impressed. “Is that for real, or is Tonks just a really bad teacher? Ow!”

Hermione had kicked Fred’s shin. She flashed them both a meaningful look and mouthed, “Sore point…”

Ron gave him a limp salute,

“Welcome aboard, Captain. Lieutenant Weasley reporting for duty.”

“Huh?” Harry was confused.

“Don’t take any notice of him,” Hermione explained, “He’s been talking utter rubbish all week. No one has a clue what he’s on about. He’s obsessed with some stupid television programme.”

It seemed that Mr Weasley, working for the Department for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, had impounded a malfunctioning television set. It had been bewitched so that the on-screen characters acted out their own independent story lines, irrespective of the screenplay.

“It was hilarious. The Muggles were all in uproar. They take TV very seriously,” Hermione went on. “For instance, Mr Darcy got killed by an exploding blunderbuss in episode One, and Elizabeth Bennett eloped with a bloke called Brandon from a completely different series, and Hercule Poirot ran off with the vicar’s wife and went to open a Bed and Breakfast in Cleethorpes!” She paused for effect, but all this was lost on Harry who was banned from watching television at the Dursleys.

“Ron’s Dad was reprogramming it for weeks - literally - and Ron sort of got hooked on this space thing. He’s totally incomprehensible now - not that that’s much of a change.” She gave Ron an affectionate grin.

“Affirmative,” Ron agreed. “Prune juice, anybody? Or tea, Earl Grey, hot?”

“We’ll stick to Butterbeer, thanks.”

It was too good an opportunity to miss. Harry didn’t know when he was likely to bump into Fred and George again.

“Psst. Could I, um, have a word?” he asked. “In private?”

George tapped the side of his nose knowingly,

“Say no more! Nod’s as good as a wink to a blind Basilisk. Outside, five minutes.”

Harry sighed. The whole Weasley family talked in riddles. He excused himself and slipped out into the September sunshine, blinding after the dimly lit bar.

“So, what’s the trouble, my young benefactor? Want to increase your investment? You don’t want the money back?” the twins suddenly looked worried.

“No, nothing like that.” Harry reassured them. “I need a favour.”

“Ask away.”

“I want … I need you to teach me to Apparate.”

They stared at him in shock and concern.

“Whew! You don’t ask for much, do you? That’s a big ask, Harry. You know it won’t work within Hogwarts because of all the wards and everything, so that means … Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I know I’m underage,” Harry by-passed the question, “but I wouldn’t ask unless it was really important.”

“Look, mate… sorry, but no can do. It’s too risky. And where would you practise? You can’t go sneaking out of the grounds every time.” George pointed out the obvious drawbacks, but Fred’s eyes were sparkling mischievously:

“It wouldn’t hurt just to teach him the basics…”

Ron and Hermione were also staying at The Leaky Cauldron. Their pre-booked rooms were much bigger and more comfortable than Harry’s. They arranged to meet up again later, once Harry had finished shopping. In Flourish and Blotts he handed his reading list to the assistant who began methodically to select volumes from the packed shelves.

Harry nipped between the narrow, dusty aisles to the ‘advanced’ section at the back of the shop. He scanned the spines quickly, looking… well, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but he felt he would know it when he saw it. One book caught his eye : ‘Magical Mobility’. A glance at the contents page told him that this was precisely what he needed. He’d have to get the rest from the Hogwarts’ library.

“How could you?” Hermione was very upset. “How could you do that to yourself, Harry? It’s horrible. It looks ghastly. It’s so… so… common!”

“Are we talking about my hair again?” asked Harry, “because, if we are, I’m off.”

They were in Ron’s room later that evening. Dinner had been rather tense: Ron kept asking for Klingon delicacies with names that made him sound as though he was about to start spewing up slugs again; Hermione had been on the brink of tears throughout the whole meal. They both kept looking at him askance. Neither of them believed that he had spent the entire summer gardening.

“The hair’s bad enough!” Hermione cried. “But I’m talking about that awful ear-ring!”

“He’s Bajoran. Ear furniture is a sign of cultural identity,” Ron offered.

“Shut up, Ron!”

Without waiting for Harry’s reply, Hermione continued her tirade,

“How could you be so stupid? Getting your ear pierced? You must be mad. Wizards really aren’t into body-piercing. Bill just about gets away with it because…well, we all know he’s a nutter. But you! Dumbledore’ll have a fit. I’ve been ignoring it all afternoon because I thought it was a clip-on and you were wearing it for some kind of sick joke. I never dreamed it was real. What were you thinking?”

Harry twisted the offending stud gingerly. His ear-lobe was still rather sore.

“Oh, so it’s alright for Bill to have one, but not me? And what about Kingsley Shacklebolt? Huh? Are you saying I’m not ‘cool’ enough to carry it off? If you must know, I thought it might draw attention away from my scar. Nobody ever looks at my face; they always stare straight at my scar. I decided to give them something else to look at.”

“And make yourself look like a thug in the process?” Hermione interjected, coldly. “And the hair?”

“Not that it’s any of your business. I was so sick of people peering at me to see if it really was my scar under my fringe. If they want to see it so much, well, here it is !” Harry stood up and began to pace the room, arms folded defensively. He could feel the sharp outline of the letter in his top pocket, a stiff paper shield above his heart. Just knowing it was there strengthened his resolve. Hermione watched him uneasily.

“Listen to yourself, Harry. You want people to be able to see your scar, but you don’t want them to look at it? It doesn’t make sense. You don’t know what you want!” She stood in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders,

“What do you want, Harry?”

“I don’t know,” he answered meekly.

Harry slipped back comfortably into life at Hogwarts. The castle was his home, its halls and corridors his territory, its rules and routine the only security he had ever known. After six years, the magnificence of its formal ceremonies held no terrors for him; its vagaries and unpredictable changes elicited amusement rather than panic.

With the other sixth form Gryffindors he had watched with a sense of indulgent superiority as the Sorting Hat decided the fate of the quaking and extremely small, or so they seemed, first years. He had barely listened to Dumbledore’s speech, (something about ‘new challenges, old challenges’), and when the magical banquet appeared and gasps of delighted surprise filled the air, he relaxed with a smile and the feeling that he was back where he truly belonged. Hermione felt it too. Squeezing his hand under the table she whispered,

“Good to be back, isn’t it?”

At HighTable the staff were talking animatedly. Harry let his eyes travel along the row of familiar faces. Flitwick, Trelawney (re-instated, obviously), Madame Hooch, Professor McGonagall, Sprout (already rather mud-stained) and, next to her, Professor Grubbly-Plank. So where was Hagrid this time? Further along, half awake, his head propped on his hand, was Professor Lupin. He had been stifling yawns all through Dumbledore’s introduction, (“We are delighted to welcome back Professor Remus Lupin as teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts…”), and now looked as though he might fall asleep at any minute. Hermione had noticed him on the train, curled up in the corner of a carriage, dead to the world, and he had slept for the entire journey, so they hadn’t had a chance to speak to him yet. Harry wondered how close it was to the full moon.

At the far end of the row of teachers sat Professor Snape. Harry stared at the sallow face, the greasy dark hair, the hooked nose and felt himself tense. A chill of loathing tingled down his spine and he gave an involuntary shudder. Sensing him, Snape looked up and for a moment their eyes locked, black versus green. Harry forced himself to hold the gaze for a fraction longer than necessary, an act of defiance. It’s never too soon to start.

Over at the Slytherin table there was much hilarity, most of it at his expense, Harry guessed. He acknowledged Malfoy with a nod. Ron caught the gesture and, gagging slightly on his mouthful of pie, he remonstrated:

“Consorting with the enemy, Captain? What do you think this is, the Neutral Zone? Resistance is futile.”

When Harry didn’t reply, Ron turned his attention back to the important things in life: pudding and pumpkin juice.

“Ten Forward’s done us proud tonight. Replicators been working overtime.”

“We don’t know what you’re on about, Ron,” Hermione countered. “But if you are disparaging the amount of work that the house elves have done to get all this spread ready…”

“No, it’s all fantastic. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It just, sort of, comes out,” he apologised.

Harry had already taken a fair amount of stick for his hair. Now the Slytherin faction came in for the kill.

“Hey, Baldy,” drawled Malfoy. “What’d you do? Swallow your mother’s Exfoliating Potion? Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot - you don’t have a mother! Or a father! Dear, dear. How remiss.”

“So how is your father, then? Heard from him at all? Are they allowed letters in Azkaban?” Harry retaliated, more viciously than he’d intended.

“Touché, Potter!” Malfoy recovered quickly, but Harry realised that his gibe had hit home.

“Look, I didn’t mean …” The last thing he wanted to do right now was to antagonise Malfoy.

“You’ll keep, Potter. You’ll keep.” The Slytherins ambled off.

That had hardly resolved the hair question. His fellow Gryffindors were equally agog. Harry produced his cover story:

“Jiggler Nits. Billions of ‘em. Awfully itchy. Had to have my head shaved.”

“Yuk!”

“Nasty!”

“Poor you!”

The reactions ranged from sympathy to distaste, but Harry noticed that his classmates had, en masse, taken a step back. He wondered if anyone would dare sit next to him in class.

Harry practised Occlumency now every night. Even in those first moments of shock and revulsion after reading the letter, he had known that this skill would play an essential part in his plan. In the final weeks at the Dursleys’, while the August sun blazed and his Begonias blossomed, he practised, locked in his room.

He practised now, at bedtime, breathing deeply, emptying his mind, stilling his thoughts, burying his consciousness further and further within himself and sealing it there, a seam of energy, unreachable, un-mined. A sheer rock-face stood sentry to his thoughts. He firmed, reinforced, strengthened, honed, buffed and polished it from slate to granite to marble… It had to be diamond, or crystal, at least, before he could be certain that Snape would find no crack, no foothold.

He was sleeping better too. It was weeks since the last nightmare had screamed into his dreams. Were his defences already so strong, or was Voldemort laying low, secretly regrouping? His scar had also been quiet, on the whole. It throbbed sometimes, occasionally it gave a twinge, but it too seemed to be biding its time, waiting and clandestinely plotting.

Hermione was being so sweet and protective. It would be a shame to deceive her. She would be useful, though, in her concern. Ron? No, Ron would get too emotional; he’d give the game away. Resistance is futile? He mustn’t be told anything. He’d be upset, of course, but he’d get over it. He’d come round to his way of thinking in the end. What other way was there?

The others… the others would prove more problematical. Need to tread very carefully there, very carefully indeed…

Harry had selected his NEWT subjects based on the idea that he was going to become an Auror. He wasn’t even sure that that was what he wanted to do any more. Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms and Potions (with subsidiary Herbology) formed the core of his time-table. Professor McGonagall must have pulled a lot of strings to get him accepted in Potions - he certainly hadn’t achieved an O grade in his OWL. Ron had failed his completely. He had opted for Muggle Studies instead - much to his Dad’s delight.

Hermione had found it extremely difficult to drop any subjects at all.

“I don’t mind giving up the Study of Ancient Runes, but I’m really good at Arithmancy. Perhaps I could do an extra non-examination course, just for fun.”

“Whatever turns you on. We’ll stick to Quidditch.”

Hermione was sprawled on the couch in the Gryffindor common room, reading the Daily Prophet, with Crookshanks draped over her knee like a shaggy, ginger sheepskin. Although they now had access to the sixth form annexe - an attractive, well-equipped quiet study room, with a 24 hour juice and toast bar – they still preferred the main room with its crackling fire and squashy chairs.

“Anything happening in the world?” asked Harry. “I’m so out of touch.”

Hermione scanned the headlines critically,

“This rag’s getting almost as bad as The Quibbler. Listen to this: ‘Wiz-kids? Scandalous rise in teenage pregnancy. Ministry makes a move,’” she quoted. “Forget it. What else? …er, ‘Outbreak of Scale and Tail Disease amongst Hebridean Black Dragons. Five cases reported.’ …er, ‘Natural Front demo against Magically Modified wheat’.”

She flicked through the pages to the business section. “What about this? ‘Record Rise in Rural Refurbishment’!” she scoffed. “See what I mean? Have all the sub-editors OD’ed on Alliteration Gums? This used to be a serious paper!” She threw it to the floor in disgust.

“If you’ve finished with it, can I have the Sports page?” asked Ron, apologetically.

“That cat is getting disgustingly fat,” commented Harry.

“Yeah, what’ve you been feeding him? Feline supplement Number 34?” Ron looked up from his article on the Chudley Cannons.

“If that’s one of your silly quotes,” said Hermione severely, “you’re making it up. They don’t have cats in space.”

“Data does. Harry’s got a point, though. Crookers is a bit of a tub.”

“No he’s not. He’s cuddly and boo-ti-ful!” Hermione bent forward and buried her face in the pale golden fur.

“Seriously, though, he’s different,” said Harry. “All he does is sleep all day. He used to be so …”

“Vicious?” suggested Ron. Harry ignored him.

“Active, Alert. Cunning. Didn’t you ever watch him hunting Doxies? He used to be mobile, Hermione, for goodness’ sake!”

She gave an embarrassed shrug,

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“Notice?”

“That he’s a little more ‘relaxed’ than he used to be.” She tickled Crookshanks under the chin and he craned his neck up in ecstasy then rolled over onto his back with all four woolly paws in the air.

“Relaxed?” said Ron, “He’s virtually vegetative!”

“My parents had him ‘done’,” explained Hermione. “You know, the ‘snip’,” she added, sotto voce.

Ron winced and stroked the fluffy tummy in sympathy.

“Bad luck, old boy. Life’s a bitch. No more ‘lean, mean killing machine’.”

Harry had a thoughtful expression.

“I wonder if it works on people,” he said.

“I can think of one vindictive bastard who might benefit,” laughed Ron.

“History is littered with examples,” Hermione began humourlessly. “Think of the eunuchs employed as harem attendants or functionaries at the Oriental courts, or under the Roman emperors. Or the castrati in Italian opera…” she broke off and gave Harry an incredulous look. “You’re not serious? You don’t mean Snape?”

“Why not?” said Harry coldly, “He deserves it.”

“That is one mental image I could have lived happily without.” Ron grinned. Then, seeing that Hermione was distressed, he changed the subject.

“How about a game of Wizard Chess, Harry?”

“Maybe later. I’ve got some stuff to do. I’m going to the library.” Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

Whoever scheduled Double Potions for first thing on a Monday morning had to be a complete sadist. Harry decided that Snape must have arranged the time-tables. He took a desk at the back of the class and tried to look inconspicuous. From the minute he had woken up he had been steeling himself for this moment: if he could just get through the first Potions lesson without cracking and giving the game away, then he knew he’d be able to keep himself in check.

The thought of being in the same room as Snape, breathing the same foul air contaminated by his mere presence, let alone speaking to him, gripped Harry with a sick fury. Just the sight of the man made him want to spit in his smug, supercilious face, to hit him, to smash him, break him, hurt him - really hurt him - and make him pay for all those years of cupboards, hunger, locked doors, bruises; pain and grief and loneliness and lies...

He clenched his fists, tightly squeezing imaginary lemons, then relaxed his fingers to release the tension. ‘Not this, not this, not this…’ he repeated to himself, ‘let it go, let it go, let it all go…’. As the Occlumency training kicked in, Harry felt his hatred subside; mirror-smooth cliff walls encircled his mind.

The dungeon door opened and Professor Snape swept into the room, in a swirl of black fabric. His boots made no sound whatsoever on the flagstone floor as he strode to the front of the class.

“Abbot, Boot, Brocklehurst, Granger, Malfoy, Parkinson, Potter. All present?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Potter!”

“Sir?” Harry couldn’t believe he was being singled-out already. He hadn’t done anything - yet.

“Front, Potter. This is a NEWT class. Students do not skulk at the back.” With a minimal movement of his finger he indicated the empty seat on the front row next to Draco Malfoy. Then he turned to the class:

“If any of you are having second thoughts about your choice of Potions as a NEWT subject, kindly leave the room now.”

Nobody moved; they barely dared breathe.

“Some of you,” Snape continued menacingly, his gaze focussed directly on Harry, “are here on sufferance, against my better judgement, and are on probation. Any lapse in standards - of work or behaviour - will result in instant dismissal from the class. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

While Harry was moving his bag and equipment, Snape had picked up an official looking letter from his own desk. He now read it, frowning.

“Very well.” They heard him mutter.

Turning to the seven students he addressed them in tones of undisguised contempt:

“The Ministry of Education has, in its wisdom, instructed that the first lesson of the term shall take the form of a ‘revision of principles, procedure, and best practice relevant to the subject in question, making appropriate use of visual aids and mnemonic material wherever possible’.” He paused for a moment, thinking, then continued with disdain,

“Loath as I am to reduce your education to the level of a parlour game, we shall therefore re-cap. Thus…”

He flicked his wand at the black-board and three large flamingo-pink letter ‘P’s appeared.

“The three keys to successful Potion making: Preparation, Precision, Patience.” As he spoke, the words wrote themselves up on the board in Snape’s own impeccable script. He continued smoothly:

“Potion making is an exact science. It requires attention to fine detail, a high level of concentration, meticulous documentation and…” he referred to the Ministry letter with a snort of disgust, “… observance of Health and Safety Guidelines (p325, #5, para. 4b).

“Long hair – if you have it - ” he directed a malicious smirk at Harry, “is to be tied back and jewellery removed. Cauldrons will be maintained in perfect brewing order at all times. They are, under no circumstances, to be used as flowerpots, planters, receptacles for unspeakably unhygienic items of Quidditch equipment, or…” his glance now rested coldly on Hermione, “…cat baskets.”

As he spoke he glided silently between the desks, critically checking their scales, their slicing implements, pestles and mortars. Harry flinched as the man passed behind his desk.

“Correct terminology can be vital to the success of a potion,” Snape went on. He sounded bored now - this part of the spiel was evidently a stock routine - but Harry could tell that beneath it all he was passionate about his subject. He really gets off on this garbage, Harry thought.

“If the recipe requires an ingredient to be powdered, it is not to be crushed; ground does not equal grated; a solution is not the equivalent of a dilution; boiling is not necessarily synonymous with bubbling; simmering may or may not involve steaming; one strains a sediment but skims a scum; a whisked Potion will differ from one that is whipped.”

With another deft twitch of his wand, he replaced the pink Ps with a silvery green acrostic:

Sequence

Timing

Utensils

Direction

Ingredients

Origin

Utilization

Safety

The words shimmered in list formation for a moment, then one by one marched across the board and dived into a graphic of an empty cauldron.

Unamused, Snape concluded his resumé:

“The essential elements to consider in the preparation of a potion are, as you see, the sequence in which the ingredients are added, the timing of such (also referred to as the ‘interval’), the utensils i.e. copper or gold cauldron, wooden or metallic spoon, the direction of stirring, the origin of the ingredients - that can make an incalculable difference to the final result – the use to which you intend to put the eventual product, and, of course, the safety aspects which we have already covered. Are there any questions?”

To say Harry was flabbergasted was an understatement. He chanced a quick grin at Hermione and raised his eyebrows. Looking equally stunned she gave him a ‘thumbs up’. In five years of lessons he had never heard Snape say anything even remotely helpful, constructive or explanatory about the brewing of potions. Why hadn’t he told them all this at the beginning, when they needed to know it, not when they had spent five years painstakingly finding out the hard way by trial and error, learning by their mistakes and earning themselves innumerable detentions in the process? Survival of the fittest? He knows his stuff, Harry grudgingly conceded, but he’s still a bastard.

The ‘bastard’ gave a final, dismissive glance at the Ministry letter then touched it with the tip of his wand. For a second the paper hovered, then began to crease and crumple and curl at the edges, ripping itself into uneven fragments which jerked a few times in mid-air then crumbled to dust and disappeared with a whispery whine. Snape turned back to the class, a curiously satisfied expression twisting his sour features.

“Enough infantile theory,” he barked. “Potter, Parkinson, Boot, Malfoy! Come here!”

Hesitantly they approached Snape’s desk. On it he had lined up four identical glass phials, each containing a clear, colourless liquid.

“There is one further fundamental point to consider when dealing with potions. You will each choose a bottle and, at my instruction, you will drink the contents.”

Four heads nodded glumly.

“Malfoy!”

Draco stepped up with a confident swagger, picked up the nearest phial and, without hesitation, swallowed the liquid. Snape caught him as he pitched forward, unconscious, and lowered him to the floor.

“Sleeping Draught,” he commented matter-of-factly. “Parkinson!”

After some dithering, Pansy selected the centre of the three remaining bottles and sipped it nervously. The class watched, entranced, as the colour of her clothes and body began to change and blend, adopting and mimicking the black, grey and brown shades of the wooden table, the board, wall and floor until she was virtually indistinguishable from her surroundings.

“Chamaelixir. Similar in its effect to a Disillusionment Charm. Limited in its application. An Invisibility Cloak is more versatile,” Snape said, shooting a barbed look at Harry.

Boot was next. He took a brave gulp, grimacing as the bitter taste hit the back of his throat. They all stared at him expectantly.

“How are you, Boot?” Snape asked him, casually.

“Actually, Sir, I’ve got a lousy hangover. Wish we hadn’t smuggled that Firewhisky into the dorm last night. I’ve hardly been able to keep my eyes open all morning.”

“Indeed? A singularly enlightening demonstration of the effectiveness of Veritaserum, I think. Ten points from Ravenclaw. And, finally, Potter!”

Fourteen eyes were fixed on Harry as he raised the tiny phial to his lips. He paused for an instant, bracing himself for some kind of painful humiliation. He wouldn’t have put it past Snape to poison him. At the very last moment, when the acrid fumes rising from the liquid were already misting Harry’s glasses and stinging his face, Snape lunged forward and swatted the phial out of his hand. It crashed to the desk, the glass shattering on impact. Immediately the stench of burning wood filled the classroom as the caustic potion scorched through the desk lid and began searing its way into the drawers, while corrosive drips ate little craters in the stone floor.

“And that is concentrated Streeler venom.”

Harry returned to his seat in shock. The Professor administered antidote to the other three then, nonchalantly flicking a few drops of neutralising anti-venom about the room, he directed his wand at the desk.

“Reparo!”

Like a film played backwards in slow motion, the wood began to rebuild itself before their eyes.

“And what conclusions can you draw from that little experiment?” Snape demanded icily. Hermione raised her hand.

“We have to be careful…”

“That is stating the obvious, Miss Granger. And …?”

“Don’t drink potions?” suggested Hannah Abbot. Snape gave her a withering look.

“BE WARY OF UNKNOWN SUBSTANCES!” he exclaimed in exasperation. “Treat them with the utmost caution and suspicion. Use your common-sense - if you possess any. None of you knew what these liquids were. Yet you drank them because I gave them to you. You trusted me. Why? TRUST NO ONE!” he hissed.

Harry suspected that the subject had now widened to include more than just potions.

Snape checked his watch.

“As we now have only a short time left, we shall prepare a relatively quick, uncomplicated potion, designed to combat biological infestation of creatures such as Chizpurfles . It can be sprayed - onto upholstery, for example – or taken by mouth as an infusion if the problem is of a more personal nature.” Snape gave a malevolent sneer. All eyes were on Harry. Determined not to react, he set his jaw and began chopping peppermint leaves.

The bell rang at last and the class packed up their equipment, thankful to have survived.

“Oh, Boot?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Detention, after supper tonight.”

Harry felt that, for once, he had got off lightly.

“I’m worried about him, Ron.” Hermione laid down her quill. For once they were making use of the annexe as the main Gryffindor common room was swarming with first years, playing a heated game of ‘Truth or Trick’. Her Charms homework (‘Ten inches on the benefits and disadvantages of the Conspicuous Nose Charm’) lay unfinished on the desk before her.

“First there’s all that weird business with the hair and the ear-ring, and now… There’s definitely something wrong, something he isn’t telling us. He’s so… …so preoccupied. And he’s spending all his free time in the Library. That’s not like Harry. We’ve hardly seen him all week. He hasn’t even been to visit Remus yet.”

That last point upset Hermione more than she cared to admit. The full moon had coincided with the start of term, so Remus had missed the first three days completely, and he was still looking pasty and frail. Their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson had been very tame.

“I think he has a pretty rough time of it when he’s not at Hogwarts. I don’t think he can really afford to buy the Wolfsbane potion every month.”

She was fond of Professor Lupin and it distressed her to see him so haggard. The hostility, prejudice and sheer physical suffering he had to put up with in the outside world incensed her beyond measure.

“He’ll be better now he’s here and Snape can brew his stuff for him regularly.” Ron tried to reassure her.

“But wouldn’t you think Harry’d go to see him? I thought he cared. And, come to think of it, have you noticed how tired Harry is too? Isn’t he getting enough sleep?” She didn’t know whether to be annoyed with Harry or anxious.

Ron pondered for a moment.

“I think he’s having nightmares again. He keeps mumbling in his sleep. I can’t hear what he’s saying though. Something about a ‘car’ and ‘attack him’?” Ron tried to remember the words, but his mind was as blank as a fresh parchment.

“Hey, what about him and Malfoy?” he continued in sudden indignation. “What’s all that about? They’re speaking to each other, for Merlin’s sake! Makes you sick.”

“They actually sit together in Potions,” Hermione revealed. That was news to Ron. “Snape started it, ‘cos he wouldn’t let Harry sit at the back, but they do it automatically now. And there’s another funny thing: Harry and Snape haven’t had an argument all week.”

“Now that’s just not natural,” Ron agreed. “Perhaps Snape’s brainwashed him with all that Occlumency. Or done a Vulcan Mind Meld.” He spread his fingers and positioned them over his cheekbone and jaw.

“And there was I thinking we could get through an entire conversation without any bizarre space references.” Hermione stood up decisively. “Come on. We need to have a talk with him and sort this out. Let’s go and find him. Bet you a Chocolate Frog he’s in the Library.”

“Just hang on a tic while I change out of this jumper. It’s too tight. All my stuff seems to be getting small all of a sudden.”

“You’re growing, Ron. People do.”

“No, I mean really small. Tiny. Like it’s been shrunk. I think the house-elves must have mixed up a Shrinking Spell with their detergent or dusters or something.”

“That’s right. Blame them for everything. Hurry up, will you?”

The Fat Lady was reclining with her feet up and a large goblet of red wine in her hand.

“Off out?” she complained as they climbed through the opening. “And I was planning an early night.”

“We won’t be late,” Hermione promised.

“Cheers!” The portrait smiled.

They set off purposefully down the corridor.

“You know,” Hermione began. Her voice had that thoughtful, analytical quality that often preceded one of her better ideas. “Harry’s been asking the teachers an awful lot of odd questions lately. Do you remember that stuff he was asking Professor McGonagall, about the implications of animate versus inanimate Transfigurations? He asked her something about dimensions and changing sizes, I’m sure, because she started talking about the dangerous side-effects of Reducing and Inflating Charms. Said that Aunt Marge had been very lucky, and that Harry should have learned his lesson by now. I think she told him to talk to Professor Flitwick.”

“I saw him with Professor Binns on Tuesday,” Ron recalled. “And Harry doesn’t even take History of Magic any more. What’s he up to?” Belatedly he made the connection and stared at Hermione, perplexed. “You don’t mean Harry’s shrinking my clothes? Whatever for?”

Harry slammed the book shut with a sigh. (At the far end of the Library Madame Pince tutted her disapproval.) He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He’d been poring over ‘The Origins of Economic Sorcery’ for nearly two hours and he was still no nearer to discovering exactly what was involved in the Age of Attainment ritual. He felt stale and irritable and he had a wicked headache.

It had taken him three consecutive nights of sneaking out of the dorm in his Invisibility Cloak and searching through the ancient, dust laden tomes in the Restricted Section before he had even found the book that Professor Binns had unwittingly suggested: ‘Al-Ashtaar - Legacy of Mystic Materialism.’ And then another long night of peering at the dense text with his wand dimly on ‘Lumos’ before he’d found any reference to the Rite of Natqah and the duties of the Muntaqim.

At least he now knew what he was letting himself in for. If he’d understood correctly - but he was by no means sure that he had - once he had performed the Rite of Revenge and dishonoured Snape, his own claim as the heir of James Potter was legitimised, irrespective the results of the Attainment tests (whatever they were). If, on the other hand, he had to submit to the ritual tests before he’d had a chance to get back at Snape, then his claim on the Potter estate was null and void. Not only that, but he would be obliged publicly to acknowledge Snape’s paternity. The very thought nauseated him.

Before he took any decisive action he wanted to ascertain his exact legal position as defined in the Rules of Attainment. He had found several allusions to it, but the archaic phraseology and legal jargon had him baffled. He stared dejectedly at the notes he had just taken:

‘…on the death of the stated parties on or before the Attainment date but before the Annulment date, assuming annual value growth of said property guaranteed in proportion to the claimant’s Initial declaration, whichever is the higher…’

It didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t even sure if it were relevant.

It was no good. He would have to rope in Hermione to help him. It was time to tell her the truth - well, an edited version of the truth. The notion of Snape’s being Harry’s long lost parent would, no doubt, appeal to her romantic sensibilities. He could play on that.

Having reached a decision, Harry felt more positive than he had done for days. Under Madame Pince’s vulturine gaze he returned the heavy book to the ‘Reference’ shelf, and left. He needed some fresh air to clear his head.

Draco Malfoy was alone in the Quidditch changing rooms. After practice the other members of the Slytherin team had gone on ahead, leaving him to secure the Bludgers and wipe down the brooms. There were drawbacks to being the captain. He started when Harry walked in.

“Malfoy.” Harry acknowledged him with a nod.

“Potter.”

The two boys eyed each other in silence. Harry was the first to yield,

“Malfoy, what I said the other day, about your father…”

“Forget it!”

“No. Just let me say this. I didn’t mean it and I’m sorry. OK?”

Malfoy made no reply, but neither did he walk away. Harry was encouraged to continue,

“Over the summer I had to deal with a lot of… …of stuff, about my father, and I know it’s tough.”

“Are you trying to be funny, Potter?” The blond boy’s hand had moved closer to his wand pocket. Harry tried to sound sincere.

“No, actually. For once I’m not.”

Malfoy shrugged and picked up his chamois leather.

“Nice broom!” Harry said, appreciatively.

“It’s the latest model. A Firebolt FIT - that’s Flame Injection Turbo.” Malfoy showed off his new acquisition proudly.

“Does it handle well?”

“Terrific acceleration and brilliant manoeuvrability. Turns on a Sickle. Your lot won’t stand a chance!”

He stopped, self-consciously aware that he had been carrying on a normal conversation with Harry Potter. Harry lifted his standard Firebolt ruefully, and asked,

“Do you, er, want to do some flying? Chase a Snitch, or something?”

Malfoy registered surprise and slowly shook his head.

“Another time, Potter. But, thanks.” He left the changing room. Harry allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. The seeds he had sown were sprouting nicely.

Professor Lupin opened the door and ushered Ron and Hermione inside.

“Come in. Come in. It’s lovely to see you. Harry not with you?”

His sitting-room was rather shabby and sparsely furnished, with two scuffed leather Oxford chairs, ox-blood red in better days, but now a faded tawny colour, darkening to the original rich mahogany around the buttoned back. A balding Turkish rug with all the knotting tassels frayed off lay on the floor in front of a huge, blazing log fire.

“I seem to feel the cold these days,” Lupin said, by way of explanation.

“How are you, Remus?” Hermione asked gently. Blushing, he busied himself with the tea-pot and cups, and settling a large copper kettle on its tripod over the flames.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he answered vaguely. “It’s so good to be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts again after all this time. I’ve got a really practical, wands-on syllabus lined-up for you - make a change from all that theoretical woffle you did last year. Though, of course, some of you did address that little problem by yourselves.”

“Just as well we did!” said Ron hotly.

Remus turned his face away, his whole body suddenly very still. Hermione guessed he was thinking about Sirius.

“We can never be sufficiently prepared,” he murmured. “Such a waste.”

Then, pulling himself together, he addressed them with a determined smile,

“So, where’s Harry this evening? Quidditch practice? He’s not gone and got himself in detention already?”

“We thought he might be with you. We’ve just looked for him in the library and he wasn’t there,” Ron answered. “Have you seen him?”

Lupin couldn’t conceal the look of sadness that wiped his face. He shook his head.

“Is there a problem?”

He listened with growing concern as they detailed the events of the past week, his expression grave.

“Has he mentioned his scar, at all?” he questioned them.

“No. Well, yes, if you count the bit about people seeing it. But he hasn’t said that it’s been hurting,” Hermione said.

“And you say that he goes out almost every night, and you have no idea where he goes?”

“Nope.”

After a while they moved onto other topics: life at the Burrow, Hermione’s summer holiday in Portugal, the ignominious relegation of the Chudley Cannons, quarantine measures being implemented to control the Dragon Scale Rot outbreak. Reluctantly Hermione got to her feet.

“We’d better be going. We told the Fat Lady we wouldn’t be late.” She approached Lupin. “Thanks for the tea. It’s really great to have you back, Remus. Can I give you a hug?”

Professor Lupin blushed again.

“Silence please, Gryffindors! I have an announcement.”

Professor McGonagall took up a position near the fireplace and looked sternly over the top of her square spectacles. The House hushed. There was an air of suppressed excitement. Was she going to tell them the date of the next Hogsmeade weekend, or about a forthcoming Quidditch tournament or the Halloween Ball?

“Professor Dumbledore has received a communiqué from the Ministry of Education…” a groan rippled through the students. What now?

“Following the publication of a recent White Paper on the subject of underage pregnancies amongst the wizard population…” She looked distinctly uncomfortable; one of her long fingers absently twisted a wisp of dark hair that had escaped from her bun.

“…we have been informed that all students of NEWT level are required to participate in a series of compulsory lessons in Practical Parent-craft.”

The age divide became instantly apparent, with years one to five gloating in unrestrained glee, while the year sixes and sevens gaped at one another, frankly appalled. Professor McGonagall held up her hand,

“Quiet now. The first lesson will take place today, and I, as Deputy-head and Head of House, have volunteered my senior Gryffindor students to take the first turn at this ‘parental role play opportunity’,” she quoted from a pamphlet bearing the Ministry crest.

“Professor Grubbly-Plank has been raising a litter of Dranda Bear cubs, which I have transfigured into ‘human infants’ for the purposes of this ‘learning experience’. Each student will be issued with a cub which will become his or her responsibility for the entire day. They will accompany you to lessons and meals; you will be required to dress, feed, change and, if necessary, bathe the ‘infants’ and show concern for their well-being at all times. You will be marked on how well you succeed in caring for these babies. If you forget them, ignore them, injure them, neglect them or show a lack of care and compassion in any way, it will be evident and you will lose marks. I shall be back in five minutes.” She left the room rapidly.

The hubbub in the common room became deafening.

“What is a Dranda Bear?” asked Harry, dismayed.

“They’re quite cute,” said Ron. “They’re about the same size as Crookshanks, but bear-shaped, except for the long tail, and the snouty nose and the pointy ears…”

“So, not much like a bear at all, then?” said Harry.

“They are furry, with paws. But if you part the fur they tend to be a bit, kind of, scaly underneath.”

“OK. But do they bite?” Harry was not happy.

“Bound to,” said Ron, cheerfully.

Professor McGonagall returned, accompanied by Madame Pomfrey who was pushing a large, coach-built pram. Sitting up in it were seven babies, apparently human and about six months old.

“Dean, Seamus, Lavender, Neville, Harry, Ron and Hermione!” called the Professor. “Come and choose a child. Then go into the annexe. Madam Pomfrey will give you each some supplies for the day. One further point: no magic. If we find that you have been using Peaceful Potions or Hushing Hexes or even,” a smile tweaked her lips, “Cleansing Charms, you will be disqualified. It need hardly be said that the marks will go towards your House totals.”

After an hour or so of ‘baby basics’ with Madam Pomfrey, Harry’s head was overloaded with information on sterilizers, preparing bottles, nappy rash, teething, nap routines, burping, bath toys and a mysterious substance called ‘posset’.

His baby, whom he had unimaginatively named ‘Bear’ had howled non-stop all morning, despite his clumsy attempts to shut it up. Hermione, whose little boy, Lancelot, had been asleep for two hours, was unsympathetic.

“What can you expect if you give him a silly name like that,” she said. “How are you ever going to ‘bond’ with him?”

For reasons that he refused to go into, Ron had christened his baby girl ‘Troi’. She sat placidly on his lap sucking her thumb and being generally winsome, while Ron cooed and chatted to her in a high, sing-song voice. He appeared to be telling her a long and complicated fairy story about an encounter with giant space jellyfish at some place called Farpoint.

Harry, already harassed since he had just identified Bear as the source of an extremely noxious odour, was suddenly dealt a double-whammy.

“Oh no!” he groaned. “We’ve got Potions this afternoon.”

“You know what McGonagall said about ‘neglect being evident’…?” Harry remarked as they staggered down the steps to the dungeons, struggling with the pastel, padded ‘baby essentials’ shoulder bag (‘converts into a multi-textured playmate and machine-washable changing mat, water-proof backed’), their books, their Potions equipment and the babies themselves. Lavender and Hermione, Harry had noticed, both instinctively carried the cubs supported by one arm and sitting on their hip on what, he assumed, must be some invisible child-bearing shelf. When he had tried it, Bear had immediately slithered down his leg, screaming, and would have crashed to the ground if Harry had not grabbed him by his long, whiskery, pointed ears…

Hermione gasped in horror.

“You mean the Transfiguration wears off?” she exclaimed.

“I think it’s more a case of getting diluted by negligence,” said Harry.

With a show of bravado they entered the classroom. There was no sign of Snape; Harry exhaled in relief. He dumped his bags and extricated Bear from the back-pack in which he had been riding like a papoose – for once reasonably serene – and propped him up on the desk.

“I can see the family resemblance, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, “especially about the ears and snout.”

Harry did a double-take. He could have sworn that Bear’s nose had been quite normal a minute ago. Hannah and Pansy crowded round to give him a friendly stroke.

“I’LL TAKE THAT!” Snape had emerged from the store cupboard.

“Potter. Granger. Give me the creatures,” he demanded in a glacial tone.

“They’re not creatures, Sir, they’re babies.” Hermione remonstrated.

“Are you arguing with me, Miss Granger?” You would need to be very bold or very stupid to argue with Snape. “Whatever these objects may look like, essentially they are still immature Drandas. Do not mistake appearance for reality.”

Harry’s stomach gave a sickening jolt.

Grasping each infant firmly by the scruff of its knitted cardigan, and holding them at arm’s length, Snape deposited Bear and Lancelot in a wooden playpen which had materialised at the far end of the classroom. The dungeon reverberated with their screams of protest.

“You can’t put them in a cage!” Hermione objected.

“I can and I will. I do not intend my lesson to be disrupted by grunting animals for the sake of paying mindless obeisance to some fatuous Ministerial dictat.”

The babies’ wails grew ever more piercing.

“Silencio!” Snape shot his wand at the noise. The quiet was stunning.

“But we’ll be disqualified if we use magic!” Hermione cried, outraged at the injustice. The Potions master addressed her coldly.

“Get your facts straight, Miss Granger. First, you have not used magic. I have. Second, the creatures have not been damaged. If you lose marks it will be because your ‘maternal instincts’ were insufficient to defend your ‘young’ from my intervention. You have simply been negligent in your care.”

Harry, who had been listening in mounting disgust, could contain his rage no longer.

“So that’s your speciality, is it? Childcare?” he spat angrily.

Snape pivoted to face him, his dark eyes venomous.

“What did you say?” he hissed.

Harry swallowed and bit his lip. Now was not the time. Not yet.

“Nothing, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Damage limitation. Snape gave him an inscrutable look.

“I will not be spoken to in that manner. Twenty points from Gryffindor. Now, to work!”

It was impossible to concentrate on brewing the Insatiable Appetite potion while, out of the corner of their eyes, they could see Lancelot and Bear thrashing, flailing and bawling silently in their soundproof cage. By the end of the lesson both ‘parents’ were emotionally exhausted.

Harry hoisted Bear up by his scaly tail and shoved him under his arm. Hermione’s face was wet with tears as she nuzzled Lancelot’s downy grey fur.

“I could kill Snape!” she sobbed. Harry said nothing.

Back in the common room they sadly placed their babies on the floor where they trotted off on all fours to join three other recognisably Dranda cubs gambolling on the hearth rug, uttering squeaky growls and gnawing the chair cushions. Neville was still dandling a child on his knee: it was a pinky green colour and only slightly hairy, but otherwise human.

“I’ve had a lot of practice at looking after things,” he told them. He didn’t need to elaborate. Harry touched Neville’s shoulder in wordless commiseration.

“Yeah, mate,” he said.

“Sshhh!” Ron put his finger to his lips and hushed them. “Troi’s just had her bottle, and I’ve only this minute got her to sleep,” he whispered, his eyes glowing with paternal pride.

Harry drew the thick red velvet curtains closed and sat cross-legged on his bed. He pulled out his father’s letter and read it through for the nth time. Just holding it made him feel better - braver, stronger, more determined. It was his only link with his father - his father, James Potter. He heard the words spoken aloud in James’ voice - the voice he knew from the Penseive :

“Take revenge on this man, Harry. Prove yourself worthy to be my son.”

He closed his eyes. Again he saw his mother, prone, struggling, surrendering… and afterwards, irreparably damaged. Damaged? That was the word he had used in class today. Were people - half-bloods – no more than objects to him? No more than transfigured Drandas?

“Take revenge on this man, Harry…”

It had seemed so straightforward when he was making his plans at the Dursleys’. Straightforward, necessary and just. Satisfying a debt of honour. Like a duel, sharp and decisive. A duty owed to his father, his family, his mother…

“…against a man who has ruined my life.”

Harry could feel himself trembling.

But it was all so difficult now, so much more complicated. The planning, the research, the preparation, the practice; lying to Ron, lying to Lupin - God, he hadn’t even spoken to Lupin yet! - winning-over Malfoy - Hell, he was even starting to like Malfoy - all the pretence, deceiving Hermione, taking advantage of her friendship and generosity and… …and day after day forcing himself to be civil to that bastard, Snape!

Sometimes he thought it would be easier - quicker, less hassle - to confront Snape and get it all out in the open. Or, preferably, to zap him with an ‘Unforgivable’ while his back was turned. But Harry did not want to spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. That was one of the reasons he’d spent so long labouring over those unintelligible legal treatises - he had to know exactly where the authorities drew the line between an act of justifiable revenge and criminal assault.

Did Snape know? Did he suspect? Did he care? Had he ever even considered the possibility that Harry might be his son? Every Potions lesson, every meal time in the Great Hall, Harry would find his eyes drawn to the Potions master, the same questions hammering relentlessly in his brain. Did he know? Sometimes their eyes met and a white-hot current of pure hatred would surge through Harry’s system. He had never imagined himself capable of hating anyone - even Voldemort - with such a ferocious, focussed intensity. It was empowering, liberating. It gave him a sense of true purpose, of control. But control manacled to a crazed, demon anger. A savage anger that made him want to rant and scream and rage, to exact a terrible revenge - like an ancient god: like a wrathful, revengeful, fearful, powerful god.

He’d kept that demon locked in a stair cupboard, shut in a barred back bedroom, subdued and servile, until James’ letter had given him permission to set it free.

But instead of revenge, what was he doing? Behaving like a weak, impotent child! Checking legal references like some nerdy archivist? Timidly hiding his identity behind a freaky haircut? Waiting, watching…? Sneaking around making contingency plans? Playing Quidditch? Shrinking jumpers? Bathing bear cubs? Smiling?

Why didn’t he just ask Snape? Or tell him? Put an end to this grating uncertainty? Harry didn’t want to alert him, to put him on his guard. At first Harry hadn’t figured out what he wanted, but now he knew. He wanted to be in control. He wanted to hold the trump card. He wanted to play with Snape, in the knowledge that he, Harry Potter, had the winning hand. He wanted to look into the eyes of that clever, controlled, arrogant, evil man and see doubt, uncertainty and fear.

And when he did, he, Harry, would croon like a contented Manticore .

Harry had to admit that it had been an inspirational lesson. Professor Lupin was back on form. He had begun by making them fetch all their copies of ‘Defensive Magical Theory’, the text prescribed the previous year by the unpopular DADA teacher, Professor Umbridge, and chuck them in a heap. He then instructed them to form a circle and on the count of three to direct at the books whatever destructive spell came to mind. One, two, three…!

“Incendio!”

“Fragorfacio!”

“Fragmentio!”

“Putrefacio!”

In seconds it was like Bonfire Night in a fireworks factory. Books exploded in sizzling fragments, their pages fizzing and popping, crisping at the edges, scrolling into blackened, crumbling curls. Multi-coloured jets of flame circled the room, weaving sparky patterns in mid-air; phrases in fiery writing flared briefly then drifted upwards in smoky wisps; the words ‘Death to Umbridge’ flamed red for an instant, then flickered out, a glowing trace lingering in the mind’s eye… The body of the fire burned fiercely, reducing a year’s frustration to an ashy memory.

“Lovely and warm!” laughed Professor Lupin. “And cathartic!”

Last year every class had begun with the dread words “Wands away”. Professor Umbridge had made them discuss Defence Against the Dark Arts from a theoretical perspective, consider it from a legal, moral and ethical point of view, make qualitative and quantitative evaluations of defensive spell structure and analyse its potential and real impact on wizard welfare and magical delinquency - but they had never cast a single spell.

“This year the emphasis shall be on practising defensive magic,” Lupin announced. A warm cheer greeted this statement. Lupin’s enthusiasm was infectious.

“We’ll start with techniques like Disarming, Blocking and Deflection and... wait, there are a couple more, I can never remember them all. Oh yes, Dispersal, Reflection and Reversal (or vice versa - I always get those last two muddled up.) We’d better begin with some of the lighter curses and work our way up as you get the hang of it. Of course, we shall be stopping well short of the three Unforgivables - you all know what they are, don’t you : Cruciatus, Imperius and Avada Kadavra?

“We probably should also spend some time of the role of ‘intent’ in curse casting. That should keep us going until at least Easter.

“As a precaution, for the duration of each lesson I shall be putting a 50% Debilitation Charm on your wands - to avoid any unfortunate accidents, you understand.” Lupin beamed at the class.

“Phasers on stun!” Ron commented.

At the end of the lesson Harry volunteered to stay behind to help eradicate the scorch marks and repair the broken glass. Even with wands at half-power some of the Disarming Spells had been forceful enough to send the opponents’ wands ricocheting round the classroom, and Seamus’ had shot straight through the window pane.

“Can I have a word with you, Sir?” Harry asked. Remus gave a friendly nod.

“Come along to my study, Harry. There’ll be a nice fire there and we can have tea. It’s never too early to have tea. Or too late. Anyway, it’s getting chilly in here now that the fire’s gone out. That was a bit of a laugh, wasn’t it?”

“Are you always cold, Remus?” Harry asked, grinning.

“I’m fantastically cold! For 90% of the month, anyway. No fur,” he added, in case Harry had missed the point. “Surely you can appreciate that problem!” he teased. Harry passed his hand over his shorn hair.

“Looks awful, doesn’t it?” he admitted.

“Not one of your best ideas, my boy.”

They settled in front of the fire, nursing mugs of weak, scalding tea.

“Wouldn’t win any prizes,” Remus joked, “but it’s hot and wet.”

Harry sank back into the Oxford chair, the firm arms cradling him like a large, brown, leathery paw. He detested himself for what he was about to do. How could he deceive this kind, gentle, trusting man, who had always been his friend? Why couldn’t it have been Lupin who was his father, instead of Snape?

“You’re looking better, Remus,” he said, “better than you did at the start of term.”

Lupin gave a self-deprecating smile.

“Yes, yes I am, thanks. Severus has been ‘customising’ my Potion - much more effective than anything I can buy over the counter. It has helped a lot with the pain.”

Harry’s scalp pricked at the mention of Severus’ name. Couldn’t he escape the man for one minute? He shifted in his chair and tried to assume a ‘look’ that was both careworn and vulnerable.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you before, Remus,” he said. Guilt, regret, sorrow.

“I’m just glad you’re here now.” The man responded warmly. “What did you want to see me about? Anything in particular?” He studied the boy compassionately.

“You know, I’ll always help you, Harry, if I can. If there’s a problem. Harry, is there a problem? Is there anything I can do?”

Harry sat in silence, with downcast eyes. Count to 100, or at least 75…

“It’s just…” Harry began at last.

“Yes…?” Lupin leaned forward in his seat

“Oh, nothing.” Don’t rush it.

“Ron said you’ve been having nightmares,” Lupin prompted, concern clouding his features. Harry jumped imperceptibly. He dragged his gaze up with a show of reluctance. Lupin was playing right into his hands!

“Sometimes I do. But it’s alright, really. It’s fine. I’m fine.” Protest a little too much…

“Nightmares about being ‘attacked’, and a ‘car’?” The professor furrowed his wide brow, trying to remember Ron’s exact words. He had said enough to give a cue. Harry thought quickly. Had he been talking in his sleep about the ‘Muntaqim’ and the ‘Rite of Natqah’? How much had he said?

“It’s the same dream, over and over again. Night after night.” Harry allowed a note of alarm to creep into his voice and prayed that he sounded convincing. “They’re attacking us, and we can’t get away!”

“Hey, slow down a bit! Who’s ‘they’ and ‘us’? Who’s attacking you, Harry?”

“The Death Eaters. Hermione and I are surrounded by a whole gang of Death Eaters - twenty, maybe more - and they’re closing in on us. They’re going to kill us and we can’t escape. We can’t escape!” Harry gave a good approximation of panic. “And then, somehow, I find this… …this Portkey in my pocket. And we get out, just in time. Only just in time. If it hadn’t been for the Portkey…” He dropped his head into his hands and drew in a long, broken breath.

Remus put a comforting arm around his shoulder.

“Take it easy, my boy. It’s just a dream.”

“NO! Can’t you see, it’s not a dream. It’s a vision! It’s a prediction! I’m seeing the future - mine and Hermione’s! All this is really going to happen!”

Lupin ran his fingers through his shaggy, tawny hair and, clearly agitated, began to prowl around the room.

“Have you told Professor Dumbledore? He should know about this. Or even Professor Trelawney. And what about your scar, Harry? Does it hurt? Is You-Know-Who one of the Death Eaters who attack you?”

Harry nodded, with a subtle hint at hysteria:

“I can hear him laughing and ordering the others to kill us. I always wake up with my scar burning.” He rubbed his forehead at the ‘memory’.

“Remus, I need you to help me. Please help me.” This time he didn’t have to fake the catch in his voice. This was far too important. This was vital; if he failed now, it might jeopardise his whole plan. This was his safety net.

“What can I do for you, Harry?”

Harry looked straight up into the face of his friend and saw only concern, caring and a sincere desire to help.

“I need you to Authorise a Portkey,” Harry said.

“I’ve just been to see Remus,” Harry told Hermione. He couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.

All this time he’d been counting on Professor Lupin’s friendship, but he hadn’t banked on his blasted integrity. The man was just too decent, too responsible, too damnably honest. Harry had expected Lupin to raise a few practical objections - legality, for starters - but he’d thought he could tap the old Marauder spirit in him and appeal to his sense of adventure to persuade him to do this one special favour.

Portkey Authorisation could only be performed by a qualified adult wizard in full-time employment in one of a number of specified professions. ‘Teacher’ was on that list. Unfortunately ‘associate of the criminal fraternity’ and ‘fence for stolen goods’ were not listed, otherwise Harry could have gone straight to Mundungus, who would have asked no awkward questions. The Portkey was the one piece in his puzzle of deception that Harry could not put in place by himself. (No, actually there was another. He was on to that though.)

His hours in the Library had not been wasted - he’d planned for every eventuality, except Lupin’s non-cooperation. Even the restriction about travel to and from a pre-determined location (‘Applications will be authorised for Portal Entry from designated locations only…’) could be by-passed with a modified Displacement Spell. Goodness knows, he’d practised it often enough. What hadn’t he practised? He’d been so diligent in Transfiguration and improved his grades so dramatically that Professor McGonagall had moved him up into the ‘advanced’ group - much to Hermione’s chagrin: she liked to maintain her intellectual edge. He’d practised transfiguring things of increasing complexity, until he could turn a full grown Crup into a broomstick and back again in two flicks of a wand. (The Crup was never very enthusiastic about this and bit Harry more than once.)

He’d repeated the Reducing Charm so many times he could cast it in his sleep - and, apparently, had been doing, judging by the number of Ron’s clothes, left strewn about the dorm that had mysteriously shrunk in the night over the past few weeks. (The Expansion Counter-Charm was all very well, but was, for some reason, ineffective on woollens.) Metallic objects worked best - Harry supposed it was something to do with being ductile. He could confidently reduce his cauldron to the size of a teaspoon and back with no detrimental loss of form, durability or brewing power.

He’d even addressed the problem of traceability, in case Lupin didn’t want to be identified as the Authoriser of the Portkey. It would mean that Lupin would have to be put under a short-term Identity Hex, but it would only need to be for a few minutes while the application was being validated. It was no big deal.

Had all that effort been for nothing? Because Professor Oh So Law-abiding Remus Bloody Lupin was too scared to take a risk? Harry had asked, then pleaded; he had cajoled, persuaded, argued, demanded, but to no avail. Lupin was adamant. Harry had even - embarrassingly - resorted to emotional blackmail:

“You don’t care if the Death Eaters kill me.!”

Still Lupin had declined to get involved.

“How can you ask me to do this, Harry?” Lupin had looked at him sadly. “Do you want me to lose my job? Have you any idea how difficult it is for a werewolf to get work? I’m sorry, but I can’t help.

“The use of Portkeys is strictly regulated for special occasions only. You’d never get one licensed for your own personal travel. If it were as easy as that we’d all have them. Why do you think we have Floo Powder? Why do we Apparate? It’s not on, Harry.

“Besides, you will be putting both yourself and Hermione in danger. What if something goes wrong and I have colluded in this crazy scheme of yours? Do you want me to have that on my conscience?

“If you want a Portkey you must go to Dumbledore.”

Harry had anticipated resistance, but not an absolute, point blank refusal.

The plan had been so simple – or did he mean naïve?

1. Get an object (preferably metallic!) and have it Authorised as a Portkey for one-way (return) travel to Hogwarts from a specified location such as The Three Broomsticks.

2. Apply the Displacement Charm so that this location could be altered at will.

3. Transfigure and Reduce the Portkey object into something smaller, more discreet and easily portable - something that wouldn’t automatically be taken if his clothes or belongings were lost or confiscated - for example, an ear-stud…

And, Hey Presto! You have an Emergency Exit. Or not. Who was he kidding? He was up against a competent wizard here, not some weak buffoon like Lockhart.

Harry felt stymied. Part of him wanted to give up the whole stupid vendetta. If he had misjudged Lupin, maybe he was wrong about everything else too. What was the point? He hadn’t asked for this. Why couldn’t things go back to being how they were? He’d been fine being ‘The Boy who Lived’, resisting Voldemort, butchering the Basilisk, evading Dementors… Battling those external enemies had been bad enough; fighting the conflict within himself was far worse.

He just wanted to be ordinary and happy. Was that too much to ask?

Harry realised that Hermione was observing him anxiously. He’d forgotten she was even there.

“You missed lunch. We were worried about you. Harry, what’s wrong?”

“Let’s go for a walk.” He wanted to get out of the building, into the sunshine, away from everything and everybody.

They strolled into the grounds, away from the castle and towards Hagrid’s cottage. It was shut-up and forlorn, awaiting the return of its master. They turned and walked slowly in the direction of the lake. The trees, still in leaf, but yellowing already, with smudges of gold and ochre, were perfectly reflected in the glassy surface. It was nearly the end of September. Today was bright and calm, with a little warmth still in the early autumn sun, but the forecasters had predicted that a cold snap was on its way soon, with rain, possibly gales. That would mark the end of the summer. They’d better make the most of what was left of it. They walked, side by side, close but not touching.

Stopping on the shingle, his hands thrust into his pockets, Harry stared out over the still water, sightlessly watching his last scruples sinking. With a sudden, angry gesture he wrenched the ear-stud from his ear and hurled it as far as he could throw. It disappeared with a tiny ‘plip’. The mirrored trees shivered, then trembled then quaked as the ripples extended to the shore. For a long time neither he nor Hermione spoke.

Finally Harry broached the subject:

“I got a letter, in the summer. A letter from my father, from James.”

He didn’t tell her everything. Not about the rape or the Rite of Revenge; not about the ‘plan’ or the Portkey. Just that the Attainment tests would prove that Snape was his biological father.

“And that’s why I had to cut my hair,” he ended, flatly. “It was starting to get long and, well, greasy. Like his.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. She had linked her arm with his, and now she held it tightly, her eyes glistening. At last she turned her face towards him:

“Oh, Harry, this is huge,” she said softly “It’s almost too much to take in. It’s scary. I can’t believe that Snape, of all people, is your father. And that you’re OK about it. It’s so weird.” A thought struck her: “Does he know? Have you told him?”

“No. And I’m not going to. You’re not to tell him either. Nobody knows, except us.”

The ‘us’ sounded strangely intimate. They both noticed, and the word floated in the air between them, a delicate bond of confidence and shared secrets. Harry tried to explain:

“I want him to like me for myself. Not because he feels he is suddenly under some kind of paternal obligation. Can you understand that? I will tell him, but not yet.” Did that make sense? Would Hermione buy it?

“Since the summer,” Harry continued, ”I’ve been trying to get to grips with all this stuff about who I was, and who I am now - and trying to work out how I feel.”

“And how do you feel?”

Harry searched for the word:

“Unbelievable!” he said.

“Here it is! In ‘Dynastic Law: Constitution and Reformation’, page 286.” Hermione hefted a massive volume onto the desk. “It was the definition you needed?” She ran her finger down the page, skimming the text. Then she quoted:

‘ Test of Attainment: to ascertain inheritance entitlement upon attainment of majority (16 years). Test pertaining thereto; forensic establishment of blood connection (male line) to validate claim to property or title.’

“It’s just a blood test, Harry. What’s all the fuss about? Or are you squeamish?”

Harry shoved aside ‘Memoirs of a Missionary Mugwump’ which had momentarily caught his attention.

“Is that all?” he sounded crestfallen. “I thought it was going to be some ghastly ordeal. All the books I’ve read talk about the ‘ritual’ and the ‘ceremony’ and ‘enduring the test’ - I imagined I was going to have to fight a dragon at the very least. I thought it was going to be like the Tri-Wizard Tournament all over again.”

“Well, I expect they tart it up with all sorts of ceremonial nonsense – incantations, special robes, that sort of thing. And maybe in the olden days it was an ordeal, having your blood tested. So, problem solved?” Hermione was always so practical and efficient. “When are you having it done?” she asked.

“Dumbledore hasn’t mentioned anything, so I’m going to keep quiet and put it off for as long as possible,” Harry replied. “It’ll give me longer to work on Snape.”

She gave him a knowing wink.

“Don’t be late for Quidditch,” she reminded him.

If it hadn’t been such an utterly far-fetched idea, Harry might have thought that Malfoy was waiting for him. Certainly the rest of the Slytherin team was long gone and, even though the Quidditch equipment was safely stashed, their Captain was still hanging around the changing room. His training robes and face were splattered with mud, his normally neat blond hair pushed back scruffily behind his ears.

“Tough session?” Harry greeted him.

“Oh, hello Harry. Yeah, we’re training up a new Beater and he’s a complete troll. But he’ll be formidable once he gets the rules. Your lot won’t know what’s hit ‘em,” he added hurriedly, the Slytherin in him surfacing briefly.

Harry wasn’t sure at what point they had moved onto first name terms. It had happened, and he didn’t want to draw attention to it by making any comment. And Malfoy wasn’t so bad when he was on his own, without Crabbe and Goyle.

Malfoy was rubbing his hands together, blowing on his fingers.

“Wear gloves if you’ve got them,” he advised. “It looks nice out there, but once you get up high, above the stands, there’s quite a breeze and it’s perishing. Quite a wind-tunnel effect coming off the tower too - enough to deflect the Quaffle.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember.” Harry smiled.

Malfoy picked up his sports bag, ready to leave.

“Draco…?” Harry stopped him. “I need to talk to you about something. Not now. Can I meet you later, after supper?”

Malfoy nodded, his curiosity piqued.

“It’s social suicide, but OK. Astronomy Tower, 8pm?”

Just then there was a shout from the pitch. The boys stared skywards. Ron was already flying, his broom moving in erratic jerks, accelerating fast then halting, doubling-back, looping and diving. His faint cries could just be heard:

“Warp factor 9 - Engage!” Zoom!

“Inertial dampers failing!” Wobble!

“Kolvoord Starburst - ignite the plasma trail!” Swoop, dive, swerve, turn, accelerate.

“Eject the Warp Core! Slow to ‘impulse’…” Landing…

Malfoy watched Ron with disdain.

“Is Weasley completely mental, or is his broom jinxed?” he asked.

A small gaggle of spectators had gathered to observe Ron’s antics, but, as far as Harry could tell, none of them was maintaining eye-contact with Ron’s cavorting broom.

“Mad as a Mandrake!” Harry agreed.

“Well done, Mr Potter.” Professor Sprout handed back his test paper. “A pleasing improvement on last term’s result. Some of us are late developers. Better late than never, I say.” She waddled off, stiff-legged, her muddy Wellington boots reaching half-way up her short thighs, making it impossible to bend her knees as she walked.

Harry was astounded: he had come top in the Herbology test. He’d dropped a few points on the ‘Herbal Identification’ section, but on all the questions to do with sowing, propagation, germination, pricking-out, watering and pruning he had gained full marks. What was it his Aunt Petunia had been preaching at him all summer? ‘We reap what we sow.’ She would be horrified if she knew she had been furthering his magical education.

Professor Sprout stumped back into the greenhouse carrying a smallish paper bag in her plump hand.

“Can you give this to Professor Snape for your next lesson?” she asked Harry, “And be very careful not to drop it.”

Potions classes no longer filled Harry with terror. He had always hated Snape. From the moment they had met he had sensed a mutual dislike, a natural antipathy to one another, which Snape had fostered through his unrelenting intimidation and bullying tactics. Harry’s hatred had been borne of fear, helplessness and injustice. James’ letter, however, had legitimised this hatred, giving it a direction, a focus, a goal. The hatred had become manageable, a strength, not a sign of weakness. When Harry looked at Snape now, he felt not cowed but superior.

And, ironically, as his fear lessened, so his brewing skills increased. He even found himself enjoying making the potions, appreciating the subtleties of the delicate recipes, and savouring the finesse of the intricate techniques.

If Snape was aware of this change in attitude - and Harry had, more than once recently, caught the Potions master eyeing him with a questioning, contemplative frown on his face - he was scrupulous not to compliment Harry on his performance. He remained as distant and coldly aloof as ever.

He stalked into the dungeon now, silencing the class with a scowl. There was an air of waspish irritability about him this afternoon; a man not to be crossed. Without preamble, he shot his wand at the blackboard where a complex list of ingredients and instructions immediately appeared.

“Proceed!” he barked.

They did not need telling twice.

Harry studied the Potions master, searching for some outward sign, some evidence… …of what? He wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as though the Dark Mark would surround him like a visible satanic aura.

In the Astronomy Tower the previous evening, Harry had at one point steered the conversation to the subject of Voldemort. Guarded, but not hostile, and censoring his words with care, Malfoy had informed him that, yes, the Dark Lord was indeed regrouping, attempting to re-establish his power-base, his supporters joining in secret cabals throughout the country. A meeting was planned for that very night. All the Death Eaters would be summoned to Voldemort’s presence to pledge their allegiance.

Malfoy wouldn’t say exactly how he had known the time of the Death Eater gathering. Harry assumed he still had contacts amongst Voldemort’s inner circle, even with his father, Lucius, imprisoned in Azkaban. For all Harry knew, the entire Malfoy family could be concealed under those anonymous white hoods. Presumably it was only a matter of time before Draco took the Mark himself. The precise source of the information was immaterial to Harry, just so long as it was accurate.

Suddenly uncomfortable under Harry’s scrutiny, Snape glanced up from the scrolls he was marking. Harry noted, with some gratification, that he did look tired. The idea of Voldemort’s having given Snape a hard time was hugely appealing.

“Concentrate on the Potion, Potter!” he warned.

Yet again their eyes locked sights on each other, primed and ready to fire.

Harry stood up. Slowly and deliberately he moved towards Snape. The class steeled themselves for a show-down. Harry placed a paper bag on Snape’s desk.

“Professor Sprout asked me to give you these, Sir.”

When he spoke, Snape’s voice was quiet, smooth, business-like - and laced with menace.

“This week we have been considering the speed at which a Potion will take effect, and evaluating the factors which influence the rate of absorption into the body.

“These include… …anyone?” He threw the query at the class, but without waiting for a reply continued impatiently, “ …dilution, toxicity, viscosity, the carrier medium - whether a liquid, paste, poultice, vapour or tincture - the method of administration - inhalation, ingestion, injection - and the physical condition of the recipient.

“Last lesson we compared the retardant properties of which four decelerants? Potter?” The question hit Harry like a sniper’s bullet.

“Um…”

“Viper’s Tongue, Spungewort, Arachnium and Powdered Slothshell!”

Snape spat the answer. “Today we are studying Accelerants. The most commonly used is the Puff-Pod. Easily cultivated, widely available, this plant has powerful properties of dispersal and propulsion. A minute quantity is sufficient to render the effects of even a slow-acting poison virtually instantaneous.

“I will provide each of you with a Puff-Pod,” he said, reaching into the paper bag. “Handle it with caution. They are extremely volatile.”

Harry examined the small, non-descript pod that Snape put in front of him. It was about the size and shape of a Fwooper’s egg, rusty brown in colour and with a hard, brittle casing. He had seen one before. Fred and George used them, treated with Sparkle Spell, as a propellant in some of their larger fire-crackers. The twins had also been known, at the height of their Filtch-baiting campaign, to leave the pods lying in the corridors like tiny, organic land-mines, awaiting the feet of unwary first years.

“The only safe way to…” Snape began, but was cut short by a gasp of dismay from Pansy Parkinson. She had picked up her Puff-Pod and had accidentally let it slip into her bubbling cauldron.

“STAND BACK!” Snape roared. “GET AWAY FROM THERE!” Diving across the room he flung himself between the cauldron and the stricken students.

“GET DOWN!” he screamed, spreading his arms and cloak out wide to shield them from the blast.

The cauldron erupted. Spores, ash, potion magma and soot vented upwards in a molten dust storm. A dense mushroom cloud of gagging smoke billowed through the room; the air was thick and gritty with reeking fumes.

Harry took charge.

“OUT!” he shouted. “Crawl out. Don’t breathe.”

They gained the corridor, eyes streaming, and lay on the floor coughing and clearing their clogged lungs.

Hermione was the first to notice that Professor Snape was still inside the classroom.

“Do you think he’s OK?” she asked in alarm.

“Don’t see why not. It’s only dust,” Harry replied scathingly.

She regarded him reproachfully and, too late, Harry remembered that he was supposed to care.

Snape had taken the full force of the explosion. He was still standing, in shock, by the remains of the cauldron, covered from head to foot in a choking layer of dust, dark flakes of powdery ash and congealing splatters of potion.

“Are you alright, Sir? You’d better sit down.”

Harry took Snape by the elbow and guided him to a chair. The Potions master submitted, unable to speak. He took a few dry, gasping breaths, then sneezed violently three times. Clouds of dust flew up as he moved, only to re-settle.

“Draco!” Harry ordered, “Get him some water!”

Harry allowed his hand to rest lightly on Snape’s shoulder.

“You’ll be alright, Sir.” he said gently.

Snape gave him a long, searching look, uncertainty vying with distrust. The moment lengthened. Then he snapped:

“Get your hand off me, Potter!”

He rose shakily but decisively to his feet and directed his wand at his plastered robes.

“Vestimenta purgo!” he croaked. “Now, clean this place up! Fetch Filtch. Where’s Parkinson?”

“What’s going on, Potter?”

The voice was icy enough to be Snape’s, but it was Malfoy, accosting him in the corridor. “What was all that about? One minute you’re telling me you can’t stand the sight of him, that you hate his guts, and the next minute you’re nursing him like some injured Puffskein. What am I supposed to think? All that rot about ‘honour’ and ‘revenge’ - you didn’t mean a word of it.”

“It’s all true, Draco, Merlin’s honour!” Harry took the Slytherin aside and lowered his voice:

“That was just a red-herring, to keep him guessing. Did you see how he was, sort of… …disconcerted? I don’t want him getting too suspicious. He might take precautions. Or tell Dumbledore. Anyway, I had to do something to shut Hermione up. I do hate him and I am going to get revenge. And if you don’t believe me, you can use this!”

Harry indicated a tiny, glass phial hidden in the inside pocket of his cloak.

“What is it?”

“Veritaserum. I nicked it just now, in all the fuss.”

The Slytherin looked impressed.

“You’re on. Tonight? In the Owlery?” Malfoy walked quickly away.

“Who’d have thought one little seed pod could make so much mess?” Hermione joined Harry on his way back to the common-room. “I wouldn’t like to be in Pansy’s shoes right now.”

“Snape wasn’t too chuffed, was he?” Harry smiled at the memory.

“Wasn’t it lucky it was a Painless Potion we were brewing,” laughed Hermione, “otherwise it would have scalded him.”

“Yeah, a real pity,” agreed Harry, not listening.

Hermione took Harry’s arm and gave him one of her little squeezes.

“I was so proud of you in there, Harry. You were great. The way you took charge, and everything. And how nice you were to Snape. You’re really trying with him, aren’t you? It’s wonderful to see the two of you making friends.”

Harry thought grimly, ‘I’m not going to make friends with him, I’m going to kill him.’

The Owlery was almost deserted. Most of its nocturnal inhabitants were out hunting their suppers of mokes, voles and mice or, in Pigwidgeon’s case, beetles. Only three pairs of round, black eyes witnessed the arrival of Harry and Malfoy. A dark, spangled Long-eared Owl raised his ear tufts in sudden fright, but then relaxed, uttering a low, apologetic coo. Hedwig’s perch was empty.

The boys crossed the tower, crunching over a carpet of dark pellets, crushing the desiccated fragments of bone, teeth, fur and feathers underfoot. They didn’t expect anyone to be wanting to send an owl at that time of night, but it was just as well to be out of sight of the door. Three heart-shaped white faces swivelled silently, tracking their progress.

“So, only the questions we discussed, OK?” insisted Harry.

“Absolutely! You have my word as a Malfoy!” Draco replied, exaggeratedly pompous.

Harry could hardly believe that he was here, in the Owlery after curfew, scheming with his former arch-enemy. It was straining credibility too far to think that Malfoy might also possess a sense of humour. But the Slytherin was grinning. Harry unstoppered one glass phial and, using the tip of a quill as a pipette, squeezed four clear drops onto his tongue. The liquid burned in his mouth for a second then evaporated, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste of aniseed, menthol and something else bitter, ancient and deep.

“Are you ready?” Draco whispered.

Harry nodded.

“Right-oh. Question One: do you hate Professor Snape?”

“Yes.” Unequivocally. The word left Harry’s mouth automatically; he felt like a puppet or a ventriloquist’s dummy, with no control over his own speech.

“Question Two: Why do you hate Professor Snape?”

“Because he raped my mother.” That was the truth. Not necessarily the whole truth, but it seemed to satisfy the serum.

“Question Three: what are you going to do to Professor Snape?”

“Kill him.”

“How?”

“I am going to turn him in to Lord Voldemort.”

Malfoy pursed his lips. He had refused to believe it when Harry had first told him that Snape was a double-agent, that he had been spying for Dumbledore for over fifteen years, that he had contributed to Lucius’ arrest. But there was no doubt now that Potter was telling the truth.

“Question Five: do you intend to join the Dark Lord?”

Harry hesitated; he couldn’t pretend that the idea had not crossed his mind.

“I don’t know. I might. I just don’t know,” he said quietly.

“Honest but inconclusive,” Draco commented. “Now then, Question Six: do you, or do you not, have a ‘thing’ for Hermione Granger?”

“Hey! That’s not on the list! That’s not fair!” Harry protested, but even he was curious as to how he would answer. He heard himself saying:

“I love Hermione. But not in that way. She’s a friend. She’s really important to me.”

Malfoy had the grace to be embarrassed.

“Sorry, Potter. Simply couldn’t resist. Didn’t mean to get heavy, though. Here, you’d better have the antidote…”

Malfoy knew about James’ letter and the fact that James had put Harry under an Honour Obligation to take revenge on Snape. The only thing he did not know was that Snape was Harry’s biological father. Harry had explained the details of his plan and Draco, still smarting at Snape’s betrayal, had willingly agreed to become an accomplice.

He would give Harry advance notice of the time and location of the next Death Eater meeting.

The timing couldn’t have been better. On the Thursday morning almost a week after their conversation in the Owlery, Draco sidled up to Harry after breakfast as he was leaving the Great Hall.

“It’s tonight. Are we still on?” He hurriedly gave Harry the details.

On Thursday afternoons they had double Potions. It gave Harry the perfect opportunity to play his last solo scene before the Grand Finale.

Now that the day had finally come, Harry felt surprisingly calm. He returned to his room and took his father’s letter out of his inner pocket. It was creased and dog-eared, the parchment softened by many readings, foldings and prolonged contact with his body. He read it again, perhaps for the last time.

“James, I am your son. I will be worthy.” he said out loud. He hid the letter in a drawer, securing it with a Locking Charm. There was a distinct jauntiness in his stride that morning as he strolled to Transfiguration.

It was a miserable afternoon. Even with seven cauldrons simmering, the dungeon was still as icy as a morgue. Harry’s fingers were white and numb as he crushed porphyry crystals to a paste in his mortar with slices of Loach liver. He couldn’t remember if he had added two drops of Ptarmigan spittle or not. He didn’t care: it was unlikely that Snape would ever get to mark this particular potion. Harry waited, choosing his moment. He sensed that Draco, beside him at the desk but working independently at his cauldron, was also waiting and watching, acutely conscious of his every move.

Behind him he could hear Snape’s carping comments as he glided from student to student, criticising their progress and distributing the final ingredient.

“Mr. Brocklehurst, if your nose drips into that cauldron the potion will be contaminated…

“No. It is absurd to suppose that an albino grouse is the equivalent…

“It should be self-evident, Miss Abbot, that the counter balm would require an inverted infusion…”

As Snape approached with the sprigs of Fluxmyrtle, Harry emitted a shriek of pain and collapsed over the desk, clutching his head.

“Stand up, boy!” Snape barked, and then, as Harry continued to writhe,

“Potter! What’s the matter?”

“It’s my scar, Sir. It hurts. It’s burning!”

Snape’s reaction was immediate and urgent. He forced Harry up and pushed him firmly into a sitting position.

“Look at me, Potter! Concentrate. Focus on your Occlumency. Look at me and focus.” He spoke clearly, authoritative, imperative.

Harry felt a flush of satisfaction as he saw anxiety plainly etched in the teacher’s dark eyes. He looked wildly at Snape and cried,

“He’s summoning me. I can feel it. It’s Voldemort - he’s calling me! Don’t let him take me, Sir!” Woah - don’t overdo it.

For once Snape did not reprimand him for saying the name.

“You must resist, Potter. Defend your mind. Concentrate,” he insisted.

Harry allowed himself to go limp.

“He’s gone, Sir,” he whispered.

“Do you need to go to the hospital wing?”

Harry shook his head, but remained slumped over the desk. For a second Snape seemed undecided, then he turned formally to Malfoy,

“Draco. Potter should rest. Accompany him to his room. Return promptly.”

In the corridor Harry winked at Malfoy.

“Did you see that?” he crowed. “Putty in my hands!”

Draco viewed him with unconcealed admiration.

“That was one hell of an act. You even had me fooled! I liked the ‘Don’t let him take me, Sir’ bit. That was classic.”

“I thought that was getting a tad OTT, myself,” laughed Harry.

“Frankly, Harry, the whole thing is OTT.” Draco was suddenly serious. “Didn’t it ever occur to you to do something simple like poisoning his Firewhisky? For Merlin’s sake, Harry, Snape’s going to be called to the Death Eater meeting anyway, whether you lure him there or not. If you think about it, your entire plan is excessive - it’s steeped in melodrama. It’s like it’s a game to you. You’re actually enjoying it! For a Gryffindor, you’re really quite evil!”

“Is that a complement?” Harry was on too much of a high to be offended. He knew Draco was right - in plotting his revenge he had indulged his taste for the dramatic. An element of ostentation had seemed somehow in keeping with the macabre Gothic-romantic-Eastern rites of the Natqah revenge ritual. A dose of Streeler Venom would have been banal by comparison. Harry felt he owed it to James to exact the revenge in a style befitting the high-flown tone of the letter. There was an attractive natural justice in causing the ‘Dark Lord’ to be the instrument of Snape’s destruction.

Harry picked his way along the narrow track, slipping from tree to shadowy tree with the confidence of long familiarity. The tip of his wand glowed dimly, barely lighting the path, but he could have found his way in pitch darkness. He’d done it often enough. Reaching a tall Beech tree, he stopped and checked behind him, listening for any signs of pursuit - a tell-tale rustle of fallen leaves, the snap of a twig. He dreaded running into the centaurs or Aragog; he half expected to hear Grawp lumbering to greet - or crush - him. Silence. The dreary afternoon had decayed into a dank, sullen October evening, the clouds low and heavy with impending rain. The Forbidden Forest, hunched and gaunt, turned up its black collar against the coming night.

The Beech marked the boundary of the protective wards that enclosed Hogwarts. It had taken Harry several nights of forging deeper and deeper into the undergrowth, pausing, testing and pressing onwards, before he discovered the Spell thresh-hold. There he had made his first uncoordinated attempts at Apparating, combining theory gleaned from ‘Magical Mobility’ with the practical hints from Fred and George.

“Keep your eyes shut… Visualise the destination… Protect your head when you land… Bend your knees…”

His first few tries had merely knocked him off his feet. Then he was hurtled sideways several yards into the scrubby brushwood and brambles. With perseverance he found he could manage a short hop from one tree to the next. Within a fortnight he’d built the distance up to a hundred yards, then five hundred. Judging the landing location had been the biggest hurdle - he lacked precision; his visualisation technique was poor. But finally he felt he was ready to cope with the ‘big jump’. He just wished the ‘popping’ noise didn’t make his ears ring.

It was nearly time to go. Any minute now Draco would be rushing to Snape’s office to deliver his frantic message:

“Sir! Sir! Harry’s been ‘summoned’ by You-Know-Who!”

Would Snape take the bait? Would he hurry to the Forest, hoping to forestall Harry, only to feel the Dark Mark burning with its own peremptory summons?

Lowering his arms from the ‘brace for impact’ position, Harry looked around him quickly to get his bearings. His ears were ringing from a ‘crack’ rather than a ‘pop’ this time - perhaps the noise and volume altered depending on the distance travelled. At least he hadn’t Apparated right into the centre of a Death Eater gathering - that would have taken some explaining, if he had lived long enough.

He found himself on some kind of country lane - nowhere he recognised - at the end of a long, sloping driveway. A rickety, wooden five-bar gate, secured by a fraying loop of rope slung loosely over the gatepost, defended the entrance. An estate agent’s sign, a ‘Sold’ sticker pasted diagonally across it, lay crookedly on the grass verge by the gate, crushing the waist-high nettles. Harry clambered over, and wished he hadn’t - the unpainted wood was green and slimy with lichen. Wiping his smeared hands on his robes he set off cautiously up the drive. Large, thick leaved shrubs - rhododendrons, maybe, it was too dark to tell - towered on either side. Under his feet a yielding, soggy layer gave up the sour, fermenting smell of rotting leaves and damp soil. It was starting to rain: a chill drizzle spattered his face.

The barn adjoined a squat, stone building. Harry had an impression of thick walls and small, deeply recessed windows, but his attention was fixed on the activity within the barn. He inched forward towards the lights and the voice - a voice that was seared into his memory, that had polluted his dreams, poisoned his nightmares.

“We meet again, my most faithful Death Eaters,” said Voldemort in the thin, cruel, unearthly tone that Harry remembered so vividly. “I welcome you, my friends, my loyal followers. We are few in number now, so many of you have made sacrifices for our noble cause, but we survive. We return. The word is spreading fast that we have returned. Our time is approaching; it is near. Our star stands once more in the ascendant.”

Harry crept nearer until he could see through the wide doorway and into the barn itself. Blazing torches illuminated a large, derelict space; at one end the broken timbers of old stalls and mangers showed that it had once housed animals. Now just some stray wisps of hay, straw stubble trodden into the mud floor and a lingering, musky, faecal aroma were the only traces of its former use.

Nine masked and hooded shapes stood in a loose circle, their gaze uniformly focussed on the tall, skeletal, cloaked figure at their head. At the sight of him, Harry felt adrenalin kick into every cell of his body; his heart raced with a strange exhilaration, part fear, part fey anticipation of the coming exchange. The evil, red eyes caressed the group as Voldemort paced the circle, hissing in greeting or admonishment to the assembled Death Eaters.

Harry searched the circle for Snape. His stiff, upright bearing and commanding presence normally singled him out instantly in any gathering, but here the anonymous figures were indistinguishably stooped and obsequious. It seemed to Harry as he watched, however, that one of the Death Eaters was sneaking covert glances beyond the immediate circle, scanning the dim corners of the barn, his eyes sliding into the darkness outside the doorway, before slipping back to rest upon the Dark Lord. It had to be Snape. Harry shrank back into the shadows. He watched in voyeuristic fascination at the sight of the stern Potions master so round-shouldered and subservient.

‘The bastard can act,’ thought Harry. ‘I suppose that’s pretty important, if you’re a spy.’

“Explain your presence, Potter-child, ssnake-sspeaker!” The hiss came from low down, in the grass. Nagini was coiled at Harry’s feet, his scaly arrow-head raised, poised to strike. Instinctively Harry dropped into Parseltongue:

“I have a message for Lord V-…” he stopped himself just in time, “…for your Master. I mean him no harm. Take me to him, Nagini.”

Moments later Harry stood in the centre of the circle, face to face with Voldemort.

The wide, white face twisted into a rictus of triumph, the blood-red lizard eyes gleaming with complacency.

“This is a night of surprises. My friends, I am honoured. I have a visitor. The indomitable Harry Potter,” he sneered. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Can I safely assume that your pitiful minions are hovering out there in the bushes? That at some secret signal the mighty wrath of Dumbledore will be unleashed? Pray silence while I salute my nemesis!”

“I am alone.” said Harry.

“Alone? A bold, some might say foolhardy, move.” Voldemort’s vertical pupils narrowed in suspicion. “Do not treat me like a fool, Harry Potter. Do not attempt to deceive Lord Voldemort. If you are lying, I will enjoy extracting the truth from you.” His laugh was mocking, mirthless.

“I’m not lying,” said Harry, fighting to keep his voice neutral. This was not the time to show emotion. “I am not here as your enemy, my Lord.”

The title caught Voldemort’s interest. Two words he had never expected to hear from the lips of The Boy Who Lived. Stretching out a pallid, fleshless finger he tipped Harry’s head up to look him straight in the face. Excruciating pain sliced through Harry’s scar as Voldemort penetrated his mind. When he stepped back he was smiling, a smug, conceited, self-satisfied smile.

“So. I see sincerity, Harry Potter, and disillusion, suffering and anger. You are not my enemy, and yet, you are not wholly my friend. Your old friends have failed you; you now turn to me. You hope we may come to an understanding, a meeting of great minds… And you have, I perceive, brought me a present...”

Harry wondered how much detail Voldemort had gleaned from that momentary incursion. He had been concentrating on maintaining his ‘mirror wall’, to let surface thoughts only be accessible to the Dark Lord’s mental predation. He knew that in any sustained attack Voldemort would overrun his defences, but in this light skirmish his Occlumency barriers were still holding. And Voldemort’s doubts were assuaged. He was positively gleeful, his vanity stroked.

Harry felt elated, buoyed with the confidence of the self-righteous. His was the power to dispense justice, to right a wrong that had been too long concealed. His was the power to choose… Snape’s fate lay in the balance, in his hands…

This was Harry’s moment of victory and vindication. A proud moment, the culmination of his weeks of planning - the moment when he and James would finally be avenged.

He addressed Voldemort, speaking loudly and clearly, so that the whole circle of Death Eaters could hear.

“I have come here tonight to expose a traitor, my Lord. A man who has spied on you and betrayed your trust for fifteen years. A liar, a deceiver, a cheat who has pretended to be your loyal supporter, while he was secretly working for your enemy, Dumbledore.” Harry paused, moistening dry lips. Voldemort pushed his livid face close - Harry gagged at the rancid stench of serpent breath.

“His name, boy?” he spat.

“His name is Severus Snape.”

Harry sensed a scuffle behind him and Snape, clamped in a double arm-lock and propelled by a burly Death Eater on either side, was brought before Voldemort.

“You have disappointed me, Severus.” The red slits glittered maniacally in the sockets of that hideous snake-skull; the voice smooth, venomous, edged with fury, sharpening to shrillness.

“On your knees, you treasonous scum! You shall feel how Lord Voldemort rewards a traitor!”

He raised a wasted hand, one long, bony finger pointing at Snape, then he lowered his arm. Vindictive delight cracked his ghoulish face.

“Let us give our young informer the pleasure…” he smiled grotesquely. “Go ahead, Harry Potter.”

Conscious that at least six Death Eater wands were aimed directly at him, Harry took out his own wand. His body thrilled with a savage desire to inflict pain on the kneeling man.

“CRUCIO!”

Snape did not scream, but dropped to the ground, his body contorted in appalling agony. Harry’s thoughts flash-backed to that lonely graveyard by the headstone of Voldemort’s father, Tom Riddle - he remembered only too well the agonising pain of the Cruciatus Curse, a pain ‘like white-hot knives’ that had made him feel as though ‘his very bones were on fire’.

Impassive, Harry watched Snape silently shuddering on the floor of the barn. It felt good.

Voldemort turned to one of the Death Eaters.

“Clarkson, escort our young friend and see that he enjoys the benefits of our hospitality. I have a little further business to ‘discuss’ with Severus…”

The hooded man seized Harry roughly by the arm and growled,

“C’mon, Scar-boy!”

Voldemort reprimanded him,

“The boy is our guest, Clarkson. And, by the way, ‘Expelliarmus!’”

Harry felt his wand slide out of his pocket.

The cellar hardly rated as Five Star accommodation. Clarkson had steered Harry through the front door of the stone building that abutted the barn and into a poky, low-ceilinged hallway. It was echoing, empty, uninhabited. At the end of the hall there was a narrow door which Harry supposed might lead to the kitchen or out-houses. Instead, it opened onto a flight of stone steps, leading steeply downwards. They were worn lethally smooth, their front edges rounded or crumbling. There was no handrail.

“Make yerself at ‘ome!” Clarkson shoved Harry through another door and slammed it shut. His retreating footsteps could be heard mounting the steps.

“Lumos!” he shouted back as an afterthought.

Three rusting wall-sconces lit themselves, green and gold flames slicing the black space into flickering facets of light and dark.

The cellar was below ground level, an area about twelve feet square. The earthen floor sloped noticeably away from the door, dry and sandy at its highest level, becoming increasingly damp as the ground fell away, and ending in a brackish puddle on the far side of the room. Water dripped now and again into this puddle from a cracked glazed grating in the roof which must have been at ground level outside.

The mustiness of age, damp and mildew curdled with more acid smells: urine, blood and fear.

Harry claimed the moral high ground and settled himself down on the sand to wait.

An hour, at least, passed before they brought Snape. The thick, oak door was kicked open. The same two Death Eater thugs manhandled him into the cellar. As they released their grip on his arms he stumbled and slumped to the floor. The door closed with a solid ‘clunk’ as the heavies departed.

Snape lay face down, not moving except for the intermittent spasms - the aftershocks of the Cruciatus - that jolted through his body. The air sickened with the throat-catching, clagging smell of burning fabric and flesh.

Harry made no attempt to help. He observed the twitching form coldly for a moment, then feigned to ignore it.

Why had Voldemort thrown them into this prison together? Why had he not killed Snape when he had the chance? Did he intend to torture them both? Voldemort’s sadism was notorious. Yet Harry was unhurt. Was that a mark of gratitude or merely a delaying tactic? How did it fit in with Voldemort’s twisted schemes?

Harry decided he didn’t want to stay and find out. As far as he was concerned, it was ‘Mission Accomplished’. Voldemort would deal with Snape. Focussing his thoughts on Hogwarts, Harry went through his pre-Apparation checklist, centring his energy, counting down to go: three, two, one … …but there was no ‘pop’, no weightless, free-floating sensation, no sudden dimensional shift. Nothing. He was stuck in the cellar.

Snape groaned and pushed himself into a sitting position, panting with the effort. A gash across his right cheek was oozing thick, slowly coagulating gobs which trailed like fat, red slugs down his face and onto his shirt. He was no longer wearing his cloak or jacket. Deep scorch-marks had reduced his shirt-sleeve to a series of burnt holes and tatters. His left forearm was visible through the shreds, a blackened, blistered mess. The singed wet cotton clung to his raw skin.

Snape glowered at Harry.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” he said, finally.

Harry returned the scowl.

“I won’t be satisfied ‘til you’re dead,” he retorted.

Shutting his eyes, Snape leaned back against the wall, cradling his arm. Harry hoped it was really painful. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from Snape - anger, vituperation, viciousness, aggression even, (he’d been relieved that the man was in no physical condition to exact reprisals), but certainly not this silence. It irritated him. He had psyched himself up for a confrontation. He felt baulked, frustrated, and the irritation simmering within him began to bubble. This wasn’t how Harry had envisaged his revenge scenario: Snape should be cringing, abject with remorse, while Harry had the power to dispense an awful justice. But it wasn’t working out that way. Snape’s silence was infuriating. Didn’t the man want to argue, defend himself, retaliate?

Harry had thought that he had vented his hatred when he uttered that immensely satisfying ‘Crucio’. But he knew now that he couldn’t leave it at that. He had to have it out with the bastard. An all-encompassing rage possessed him.

“Don’t you even want to know WHY?” he shouted.

Snape opened his eyes.

“I know why,” he said quietly.

This floored Harry. How did he know? What did he know? And for how long had he known?

“You have repeatedly made the mistake of underestimating me, Potter,” continued Snape, in something approaching his normal acid tone. “Your inconsistent, provocative behaviour over the past weeks has been suspicious, to say the least. One did not have to be a genius to conclude - especially in the light of your recent birthday - that you had received information you deemed unacceptable…”

“Unacceptable!” Harry shrieked, “You killed my mother!”

“NO!” The denial shot from Snape like an Unforgivable Curse. Then, in a more measured voice, “I did not. I was not present.”

“You as good as killed her. You betrayed her. You ruined her life.”

Even at this pitch of emotion, in this bizarre reversal of roles - tormentor and accused - Harry found he could not quite bring himself to say the word ‘rape’ in front of the Potion master. The image it conjured was too vile, too intimate.

“Attention to detail has never been your strong point, Potter. I neither betrayed nor killed your mother.”

Somehow Snape seemed to be taking control of the conversation. Harry’s demons howled within him. What did it matter? The man was as good as dead anyway.

“But you raped her! Do you deny that?” This was, after all, no time to be coy.

Snape looked down at the damp floor.

“The facts speak for themselves,” he said in a low voice.

The facts…? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Harry was incensed by the man’s clinical attitude. He couldn’t stop himself…

“DO YOU DENY THAT YOU ARE MY FATHER?” he screamed.

“I concede the possibility.” Snape sounded exhausted. “I take it you have proof?”

Harry stared at him in disgust. He wanted to hit him, smash him, annihilate that inhuman self-control; he wanted to see him beg for mercy.

“You make me sick!” he spat.

They lapsed into a hostile silence. After a while Snape fell into a restless sleep. Harry brooded for a long time, before he too slept.

The temperature had dropped sharply during the night. Harry awoke damp, numb and shivering, and hugged himself inside his cloak. It was some consolation that Snape, without cloak or jacket, would be feeling even colder. The rain that had been forecast for days was now drumming steadily on the roof-light, and a stream of drips trickled through the cracked glass. Harry got up stiffly and went and stuck his head under to catch the drips. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was. The water had an earthy, dead taste. Harry didn’t want to know.

The conversation with Snape was by no means over. Harry understood that. There were questions he would have to ask if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life haunted by uncertainty. Snape had obviously always known that he might have had a closer relationship with Harry than that of teacher and pupil, even if he had not been certain. But he had not bothered to find out. What sort of a person could be so detached? So uncaring? So lacking in curiosity? Had he known about the Rite of Revenge, or had that come as a surprise? James had said it was old magic, an esoteric ritual, which was rarely invoked these days. Snape couldn’t have been expecting it. But he must have realised that Harry’s sixteenth birthday would resolve the question one way or the other, and he had been watching for signs… Harry remembered how he had noticed the Potions master contemplating him in class, more than once…

Harry kicked Snape hard on the shin.

“Wake up! I want to talk to you.”

The dark eyes snapped open. Snape moved as though to get up, but then sat back, wincing. Harry smiled to himself, savouring his pain. When Voldemort had hit him with the Cruciatus, he’d felt as if he’d been trampled by an Erumpent.

“Did you enjoy it?” Harry hated himself for asking, but he couldn’t help it. The idea was torturing him. It was his life - the beginning of his life, anyway. He had to know.

“Did you enjoy it?” he repeated fiercely, “Assaulting my mother? Did it make you feel big?”

“What?”

It was unlikely that anyone had ever spoken like this to Snape before. Harry was perversely encouraged by the look of shock on his face.

“Or was it just a job to you? All in a day’s work. Just one more Mudblood witch?”

“Would you rather I had killed her?” Cold, disdainful.

“How can you live with yourself?” Harry demanded angrily.

“I had done worse. I had killed others. But I did not hurt her, Potter. I was careful.”

“Yeah, but not careful enough!” Harry exclaimed, crudely. A nauseating thought struck him,

“You weren’t having an affair with her?”

An unfathomable expression passed across Snape’s face. When he answered, though, it was a plain statement.

“I was not.”

“And she didn’t love you?” Merlin forbid!

“I had no reason to suppose so.” His voice was dry and cracked. He must have been desperate for a drink. Let him get it himself, Harry thought unkindly.

“But she did recognise you?” How could she have known?

“So it would seem.” Snape was giving nothing away.

“But if you knew - or even suspected - that there was a chance that I might have been… …been yours, how is it that you couldn’t be bothered to find out? When they were killed, I mean. When I was sent to live with the Dursleys?”

“What difference would it have made? It was safer not to know. It was politic to leave you with the Muggles; you would have been a liability to me. I chose pragmatism over sentiment.”

Sentiment? Did he know the meaning of the word?

“Why didn’t my father kill you himself - if he hated you so much?”

At the mention of James, Snape’s face hardened and he spoke bitterly.

“Potter? Oh, he tried; believe me, he tried. But he was incompetent - all that bluster and bravado, but fundamentally weak.” The hint of a wry smile stole across Snape’s face. “The Dark Lord was at the height of his power, Potter was in hiding, I was inaccessible - he had little chance. And with my knowledge of the Dark Arts, I was no easy target for anyone, let alone that…”

“But what about all the wizard family lineage stuff?” Harry interrupted before Snape could launch a further attack on James. They were getting off the subject. “Didn’t you care about that? I thought it was supposed to be sacrosanct. It was to my father.” Harry emphasised the last word.

“Potter!” Snape made the name sound like a curse. “Always obsessed with his image. Ever the materialist. It was so important to him to have an heir to continue the Potter line. Too proud to accept that his marriage was a failure. Never occurred to him that I would have considered all paternal rights forfeit. No son of mine… I would have renounced any claim anyway, had I been aware of the situation.”

“Couldn’t you do the maths?” Harry sniped, sarcastically.

Snape didn’t demean himself to answer that one. He got unsteadily to his feet and collected a mouthful of water in his cupped hands. He looked rough - pale, bloodstained, unkempt, unshaven. A livid bruise discoloured the skin around the open wound on his cheek. He cast a shrewd glance at Harry.

“Would you have wanted to live with me?” he asked.

“I’d rather eat Dragon dung!”

“I think that proves my point,” Snape concluded.

Harry pondered. Snape was being unexpectedly civil, unnaturally so. He had answered most of Harry’s questions. Did he feel he owed him that? Would life have been better with Snape than with the Dursleys? It was unthinkable. Perhaps if he’d never known anything else… Logic dictated that that would have been tolerable - he would have had no basis for comparison. Yet as he stared at the man a wave of revulsion and hatred engulfed him. He was here to kill him, not discuss living arrangements.

“Why has Voldemort put me in here with you?” It was another question that had been bothering him.

“Isn’t it obvious? Think about it. He’s testing you, Potter.”

“Testing?”

“Testing your loyalty, your conviction, your determination. Checking that you and I are not conspiring in some plot.”

“But I’ve already proved my loyalty!” Harry was indignant.

“You have proved to the Dark Lord that you are hot-headed, angry, defiant and - yes - courageous. You have confirmed my suspicions that you are also confused, scheming, manipulative, wilful and reckless. All admirable attributes in the Dark Lord’s estimation. But he expects more from his associates. Be vigilant, Potter, he will be watching. You will have to prove that you have the capacity for cruelty, for inflicting pain…”

“I’ve already done that!” Harry interrupted.

“Indeed.” Snape muttered with feeling, then added, “That was just the beginning.”

As if on cue, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Voldemort’s angular frame filled the doorway. He had to duck his sinewy neck a little to pass through.

“Good morning, my friends! I trust you have slept well. Severus, you are not looking your usual immaculate self this morning. Perhaps your erstwhile colleagues here can help freshen you up, before we continue our ‘conversation’.”

He waved a claw-like hand at the masked bodyguards. One of them stepped forward, grabbed Snape by the hair, wrenching his head back, and upended a flagon of water over his face. He gasped as the icy water hit him.

“Nothing like a cold shower to wake you up, and sharpen the mind,” mocked Voldemort. Sadism fitted him comfortably, like a casual old robe, worn for leisure. “I want you to be alert for our ‘discussion’.”

At a nod, the two Death Eaters heaved Snape to his feet - he exclaimed in pain as one of them seized his arm - and dragged him up the steps.

Harry was left alone in the cellar with Voldemort.

“Mr. Potter, you must think me a poor host. Tell me, how are you getting on with your fellow guest?”

Harry had already had too much irony for one day. He replied bluntly,

“Not at all. You should have let me kill him last night.”

“Well said. That was indeed a bravura performance yesterday. Impressive and intriguing. What am I to make of it? That I have found a new ally in the famous Harry Potter? Wouldn’t that be a coup?”

The red eyes bored into Harry’s head, but he was prepared. Using his hatred of Snape as a protective mantra, he blocked any deeper entry into his psyche. Voldemort found this entertaining.

“Your skills are developing, Mr. Potter. You have been a novel and stimulating opponent in the past. With the correct guidance and training, your assistance in the future may prove invaluable.” He was evidently taken with the idea.

Harry wasn’t persuaded that he wanted his life to depend on the whimsical ego of a crazed megalomaniac, but it wasn’t a good time to argue.

“It will be beneficial,” Voldemort continued magisterially, “for you to appreciate fully what is involved in the service of Lord Voldemort.”

He is actually referring to himself in the third person, thought Harry. He’s barking! Delusions of grandeur.

“You need to understand what little ‘accidents’ may befall a person who causes me ‘disappointment’. I’m sure Severus will be proud to act as an example to my newest acolyte.”

Harry felt sick.

“I’m so glad we’ve got that minor matter cleared up. Oh, and, Mr. Potter, if you were thinking of cutting short your visit for any reason, I have a Non-Disapparation Charm on this building.” Voldemort gave a fiendish, lipless smile. “Clarkson!”

Like a hooded butler, the dutiful Clarkson appeared at his master’s call. He was carrying a stoneware goblet containing a steaming, lumpy, brownish liquid. He held it out to Harry, who sniffed it doubtfully.

“What is it?”

“Be wary of unknown substances! I used to have a friend who said that.” Voldemort was almost childlike in his exultant mockery of Snape.

Clarkson looked incredulous.

“It’s soup,” he said. “What did you expect?”

Feeling foolish, Harry took the goblet and drank eagerly. The warm, reviving broth made him feel human again.

“Enjoy!” cackled Voldemort. He swept away, with Clarkson trotting in his wake.

It had stopped raining outside. Harry could tell because the steady drip had slowed to an occasional drop. He positioned the empty goblet underneath it. And there was sunshine coming in weakly through the roof-light, a rectangular patch on the cellar floor, cut into neat soldiers by the shadows of the bars. There was even some warmth there. Seduced by soup, Harry dozed.

When he woke he thought it must be late afternoon. The patch of sky visible was again drab and overcast. A hungry evening chill was already gnawing at his hands and feet, a foretaste of the devouring cold of the night to come. Harry tried to work out what day it was. It seemed as though he had been in the cellar for weeks. The cramped surroundings were beginning to feel familiar - the intervals between each drip, the mossy stonework of the walls, the corroded wall sconces, each patterned with its own rusty filigree, the angle of incline of the bumpy floor, how far the damp extended up towards Harry’s sandy corner. He had studied them all.

His thoughts rambled. If the Death Eater meeting was on a Thursday evening, it must now be Friday - Friday afternoon. Would Dumbledore be searching for him? How would he know where to look? Would it occur to anyone to ask Malfoy? Draco would surely have the sense not to give the game away. But he was definitely the weak link in this chain of deceit. Hermione would have rushed forward with her information, of course - good old Hermione - so by now they’d all know that Snape was his father. Shock, horror! Well, that could work to his advantage - he’d simply say that he had been ‘summoned’ and Snape had tried to rescue him and got caught in the crossfire. Who could contradict him? Not Snape. His scar would be a convenient scapegoat for the summoning - it was such an unknown quantity that he could make up any old nonsense about it and people would believe him - like Lupin did…

He regretted not having persevered with his plan for the miniaturised Portkey. Having an entry into the Portal network was a much more powerful, surer way of getting home than Apparating. For he was confident that he would, eventually, get an opportunity to escape. Voldemort couldn’t keep him locked up indefinitely - not if they were partners in iniquity. He hadn’t hurt him yet - that had to be a good sign. He must be half way to gaining the madman’s trust; it seemed that all he needed to do to secure it was to sit back and be a spectator at Snape’s death. That didn’t sound too arduous.

It was quite dark by the time they brought Snape back. He was barely conscious. Harry could only guess at what torments he had endured that day. He wished he had been there to witness it all.

Snape lay still where the Death Eaters had dropped him, hunched in an awkward, twisted position, as if unwilling or unable to move. His breath came in irregular, wheezing gasps. After a few minutes he rolled onto one side and retched; he was spitting fresh blood. Harry looked away.

Harry wrapped his cloak round himself tightly, closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but he wasn’t tired after napping all morning. He was disturbed too by the ugly rasping of Snape’s breathing, and the low, involuntary moans that escaped him if he moved or coughed. Couldn’t the man just hurry up and die!

“Potter…” Snape spoke at last. He sounded hoarse and very faint. “Potter, is this what you really want?”

Harry was unprepared for the question; he answered glibly.

“Yeah, like I really want to spend my time locked in a freezing hole watching you puke blood.”

“What happens to me now is immaterial.” There was a note of dull resignation in his voice that Harry had not heard before. “But this… … this will stay with you throughout your life. The mistakes we make when we are young… …the choices we make… Is this the life you are choosing? You will have to live with guilt, self-recrimination, regret… You may not always feel as certain about your decisions as you do now. Circumstances change. Feelings change. A life of duplicity is a harsh, lonely life, Potter. You are young now, you have ideals, you are still living in a world where you believe in noble causes. There is no cause so noble, Potter, that it is worth a lifetime of regret. Revenge becomes its own executioner. Think about this proverb, Potter, as you sit over there, all smug and warm and wrapped in your moral rectitude: ‘There is no revenge more honourable than the one that is not taken.’”

Harry stood up angrily.

“Don’t you dare patronise me! Who are you to tell me how to live my life? You’re not my …” The word remained unspoken.

The speech had exhausted Snape. He sank back, and seemed to sleep. Harry’s thoughts dwelled on what had just been said. It began to sound less and less like a homily and more like a confession.

‘If the bastard’s so tired of life, then I’m doing him a favour’ Harry decided in self-justification. He would have debated the point, but Snape appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness; in his waking moments a dry cough gripping his body, making him double-up and clutch at his chest in pain. His skin was developing an unnatural blue-ish tinge. Even to Harry’s untrained eye, he did not look well. He would not survive another ‘conversation’ with Voldemort.

So Harry would never know the answers. He would never discover what truths lay behind those veiled references, never find out what the man was thinking during the long, silent hours of shared captivity. Snape would take his family secrets to the grave.

Harry acknowledged to himself, for the first time, that he had unquestioningly accepted James’ version of events. Perhaps if he had discussed the letter with Dumbledore or Lupin or even - though he could hardly imagine it - with Snape himself, he might have seen things in a different perspective. But his receptive hatred had skewed his objectivity - he could see that now. And over the years Snape had done nothing to help diffuse that hatred; rather he had cultivated it. Why? Without a medical miracle, Harry would never get a chance to ask him.

Then there was that ‘confession’, couched in the controlled, remote terms of a counsellor. Even in extremis Snape kept at one remove from his private pain - but Harry was sure that he had been talking about his own life. Harry had never before considered the possibility that Snape might have a personal life, past or present; he only existed as the unpopular Potions master, a pedantic killjoy dishing out detentions and deducting House points, or an annoying hindrance to night-time sorties, patrolling the castle corridors.

Harry was aware that curiosity was undermining his resolve. He had to remind himself why they were here - certainly not for a father-and-son pep talk on personal motivation. He steeled himself. The bastard was history. You only had to look at him to see that. Harry could start counting the hours ‘til he had honoured the ultimate stipulation of the Rite of Revenge. Good bye Severus Snape - and good riddance!

At some time during the night Harry’s demons died. He dreamed they had drowned in the high tide of self-doubt that crashed over his moral absolutes, softening his lust for revenge. Maybe they had just slunk away and buried themselves in the sand. But those fiery demons that had been stoking the furnace of his hatred had surely departed, and he was left with damp ash and indecision.

He awoke to a world of altered priorities. Yesterday his goal - and it had been within his grasp - had been the death of Snape. This morning it simply seemed more sensible to try to escape.

The thick stone walls of the cellar stifled sound, but Harry could hear muffled footsteps overhead. There was activity in the cottage. He expected Voldemort to arrive at any minute.

Snape was conscious but feverish, his breathing shallow and rapid. His over-bright eyes followed Harry across the cellar. A couple of inches of murky liquid had collected in the goblet. Harry was about to drink, but then reconsidered, looking at the sick man. He took a step towards him.

“Keep away from me!” Snape hissed. “Don’t try to help me! Isn’t it enough that one of us has to die? Don’t give him any excuse…” Was that a plea?

Harry struggled to stay above water in the rip of raw emotion that was dragging him under.

“Stop it!” he shouted back. “Just stop that, will you? Stop protecting me!”

He stared helplessly at the man he had so long aspired to kill. Suddenly he felt lost, adrift and terribly afraid.

“Don’t blame yourself, Harry,” Snape said in a whisper.

This morning there was no sarcastic banter. Voldemort dispensed with the pleasantries.

“Boy! We are leaving now.” He was agitated and tense, the translucent skin stretched tighter than ever over the snake-like skull. “Your meddlesome friends, Mr. Potter, have been causing me no little inconvenience…”

“Are they here?” Harry tried not to betray the surge of hope coursing through him.

“Let us just say that they are narrowing the field. For a senile old fool, Dumbledore has surprisingly well-informed contacts.”

Voldemort’s eyes slithered downwards to Snape.

“Ah, Severus, I’m afraid we shall have to curtail our ‘negotiations’ sooner than I had intended. Such a shame! You have been such ‘diverting’ company over the last couple of days. I would have liked to have prepared a more ‘inventive’ farewell, in recognition of your years of dedicated service… …something more original than the customary gold wand… But, I fear, tempus fugit.”

Pitiless, Voldemort preened in his own eloquence.

“Mr. Potter, you have displayed exceptional sang froid. You please me. I shall allow you to do the honours.”

So saying, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a wand - Harry’s wand. He meant for Harry to kill Snape.

Harry had to give him credit for cunning. The plan was so simple, yet so devious. If - or rather, when - the Aurors from the Department of Magical Forensics caught up with them, what would they find? Snape dead, locked in a cellar with Harry Potter. And then, when they performed Priori Incantatem on Harry’s wand, what would they find - the Death Curse, preceded by whatever vicious tortures Voldemort had inflicted, and then Harry’s own ‘Crucio’. The spell residue from Snape’s corpse would be a perfect match.

“Hurry up, boy!”

Harry accepted the wand and took a pace towards Snape. The Dark Lord sighed in anticipation, ecstatic with bloodlust.

All the old hatred in Harry was instantly rekindled. He raised his wand. ‘This is for my mother! This is for my father! This is for the years with the Dursleys, for the cupboards and locked rooms and barred windows. This is for the loneliness and the lies! This is for my whole damned, love-less life!’

“Avada Kadavra!”

Harry shot his wand at Voldemort. Blinding sheets of green light flashed and crackled through the cellar.

Harry didn’t wait to see the results. Gambling that Voldemort’s Anti-Disapparation Charm would have been disrupted by the stronger Curse, he seized Snape and Apparated - as if his life depended on it.

He had known he wouldn’t travel far, not with two of them. But they were out of the cellar, away from the confines of the cottage. They’d got about as far as the laurel-lined driveway - Harry hadn’t seen it in daylight before, but he recognised the spongy, crunchy texture of wet leaves over gravel - but they were still visible from the barn. They had to get away fast.

“Wake up, Sir! We’ve got to go!” Harry slapped the Professor’s face - his skin was hot and clammy - but there was no response. Then Harry realised he had his wand back.

“Enervate!” he whispered frantically. Snape’s eyes opened; they were unfocussed, dulled with pain.

“We have to Apparate, Sir. You must try. I can’t do it on my own. Apparate to Hogwarts. Do you understand?” Harry cried desperately.

Snape gave a barely discernible nod. Harry lifted him, holding him from behind with his arms under the man’s shoulders and clasped over his chest. They would Apparate together.

This time there was a ‘crack’ and a ‘pop’. Harry looked up and saw the dark silhouette of a Beech tree.

‘Boy, this must be a record! I usually make it to at least Halloween before I wake up in here.’

Harry recognised the white walls, muted atmosphere and antiseptic smell of the hospital wing. He also happened to be lying in a feather bed with starched sheets and screen around it. The soft mattress felt wonderfully luxurious after two nights on the floor of a damp cellar. He sank back into its warmth and let himself float away on a gentle current. A crowd of troubles were waiting for him on the shore, beckoning, but he didn’t want to deal with them yet. He had managed to be ‘asleep’ every time anyone poked their head round the screen to talk to him.

Now he heard footsteps again, clicking down the ward, and he feigned sleep, just as a precaution. They stopped short of his bed and he heard the murmur of low voices behind the screen. He caught only snippets, disconnected phrases:

“…the same arm again. …no, far worse than that time… …multiple fractures. …critical… …lost so much…”

Critical? They must be talking about Snape. Yeah, he’d be a terrible patient; probably make Madam Pomfrey’s life hell, giving her marks out of ten for her healing draughts, criticising her pain potions.

Harry sat up and listened harder, shamelessly eavesdropping. He knew the two voices: Dumbledore’s, a soothing rumble, and Madam Pomfrey’s, almost distraught:

“Minerva is transfiguring some. But it can’t be rushed otherwise you don’t get a good cross-match. It will take another couple of hours at least. But he needs it now!”

They were talking about blood. And Snape wasn’t just being difficult.

They had moved off down the ward. Impulsively Harry stuck his head round the side of the screen and called after them:

“If it’s blood you want, he can have some of mine!”

Madam Pomfrey visibly started.

“Don’t be ridiculous Harry.” She dismissed him brusquely. “Wizard blood is very type sensitive. The chances of your groups matching are infinitesimal.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Harry wearily.

Dumbledore’s expression was serious and thoughtful.

“Do as he says, Poppy,” he advised.

Dumbledore returned in the afternoon. He sat patiently on the edge of Harry’s bed. Harry couldn’t bring himself to talk, and he lay with his back turned and his face buried stubbornly in his pillow.

“I know you are awake, Harry, and I know you can hear me,” began Dumbledore. A long pause followed. Harry wondered if the old wizard was going to sit there all day saying nothing.

“This is a bad business, Harry, a bad business,” Dumbledore finally said. “You have caused a great deal of unnecessary anxiety and suffering to all of us, not least to Professor Snape. Your generosity this morning was, of course, appreciated, but one humane gesture cannot mitigate your very disappointing conduct.

“If you are not prepared to speak to me, Harry, that is your prerogative. But I’m afraid you must listen to what I have to say. It is important. Firstly, I should tell you that we found James Potter’s letter. You must forgive the invasion of your privacy - I had to, er, over-ride your Locking Charm - but we felt that, under the circumstances, my action was justifiable.

“I, and I alone, Harry, am aware of the contents of that letter, though I am guessing that some of your friends know of its existence.”

Harry turned over and faced Dumbledore. The old man looked grave, new worry lines chiselled into his wizened brow.

“What did they say?” Harry asked. He didn’t want to get Hermione and Draco into any more trouble.

“Regrettably little,” sighed the wizard. “Peer loyalty is an almost unbreakable bond. Admirable and at times exasperating. They said merely that your recent behaviour had been unusual, that you were having unpleasant dreams and your scar was bothering you - Professor Lupin corroborated that - and that you had gone to some lengths to cultivate the acquaintanceship of Professor Snape… All very well-intentioned, but evasive, I fear, and hardly helpful.”

Harry sighed with relief. Hermione and Draco were the best! Nobody knew, except Dumbledore!

“It was necessary to destroy the letter,” Dumbledore resumed. “For that also I apologise. I realise that it was of sentimental value.”

Harry was about to protest, but the wizard raised a long, crooked finger to hush him.

“James was a talented student…” he mused.

Harry was puzzled. Was now an appropriate time for reminiscence? Perhaps Voldemort had been right about the ‘senile old fool’.

“He was original, inventive and something of a maverick,” Dumbledore went on sadly. “He could have been a brilliant student, but for that cruel streak - it got him into trouble a little too often, I recall.

“He was a popular boy, when he was here - enjoyed a lot of attention, especially from the, er, ‘ladies’. That may have been at the root of the problem. He was, I understand, rather self-absorbed, and at the same time he had a jealous side to his nature. A dangerous combination. He could be, how shall I put it, unforgiving?”

What was Dumbledore hinting at? What had James done? Harry was getting a bad feeling about this. He wished the old man would get to the point.

“James’ letter to you, Harry, is an example of how grossly he abused his talent. First he invoked an archaic ritual - The Natqah was once widely practised, though not so much in this country, but it is no longer considered legal. Even fifteen years ago it was already censured. Harry, I wish you had come to me to discuss it.”

James had suggested that Dumbledore would be able to explain the foreign terms in the letter. Why would he have done that if he was trying to get Harry to do something illegal? It didn’t make sense. How had he guessed that Harry would not go straight to the Headmaster?

“He then exploited your affection and trust, my boy. It is unpardonable. He forced you to perform the rite, to be his avenger and so to perpetuate that absurd feud with Severus.” Dumbledore’s hand was clenched in a white fist as he spoke, his voice tight with anger and outrage.

“No,” objected Harry, “nobody forced me to do anything. I just got the letter. What I did about it was my decision.”

Dumbledore looked at him sorrowfully.

“The very paper that the letter was written on was impregnated with the Obligatus Curse. You will not have heard of it, Harry, it is most obscure. Even I have only read about its use. Very clever of James to think of it. It is an indirect, tangible formulation of the Imperius.”

Harry boggled. James had used an Unforgivable Curse on him?

“I suspect you may have read the letter many times, my boy, even kept it about your person?”

Harry nodded, appalled. He felt as though he had swallowed Ice-Viper venom.

“Every time you touched it, Harry, the Obligatus would have been absorbed into your body. It is not so coercive as the Imperius, but it would have had the effect of suspending your better judgement, making you suggestible to the instructions within the text, and compelling you to act upon your darkest impulses. That is why it was essential that the letter be destroyed.”

Harry nodded again, too shocked to speak.

Dumbledore gazed at him kindly.

“Take consolation, dear boy, from the knowledge that you were not fully responsible for your actions. Now, I must go. We shall talk again soon. Now you need to rest and, possibly, reflect.” He stood up and straightened his robes.

“Professor!” Harry had one urgent question. “When exactly did you destroy the letter?”

Dumbledore calculated, counting backwards.

“I think it must have been Friday night, Harry. I know it was very late, or rather, very early. Why? Is it important?”

“No, not really,” Harry lied.

When the ward was quiet and the lights dimmed for the night, Harry slipped out of bed. He crept over to the only other occupied bed in the room and ducked behind the screen.

Snape lay unconscious. Harry hardly recognised him. His skin was ashen - not just pale, but the kind of dirty grey that Harry associated with dead things. The ‘curtain’ of dark hair now fell back from his face in damp straggles, accentuating his aquiline features. New scar tissue stretched across his right cheek in a vivid pink weal from temple to jaw. His left arm was heavily bandaged. Around his neck a small, round censer dispensed a pungent, medicated vapour. Snape inhaled the steam in laboured gasps, his breathing snatched and unnaturally fast. The rest of his body - as much as Harry could see - was a livid patchwork of bruises and abrasions. Lying there he looked older, smaller and uncharacteristically vulnerable. The prone figure bore no resemblance to the dynamic, tyrannical Potions master.

“Oh, Merlin!” thought Harry, “What have I done?”

He took a chair at the foot of the bed.

Madam Pomfrey discovered Harry an hour later when she came to check on her patient. She jumped when she saw him, her face flushing with alarm.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Potter? Get out! Go back to your own bed at once! Haven’t you done enough damage? Don’t disturb the Professor. He’s very sick.”

Even in a whisper, she managed to convey disapproval. She hadn’t forgiven him. Of course, she wouldn’t know about the letter.

‘Must think I’m some kind of murderous psycho,’ Harry realised.

As soon as she had gone, Harry sneaked back to Snape’s bedside to resume his lonely vigil. He didn’t know what purpose he hoped to serve, sitting in the darkness, watching, but he felt an inner compulsion to be there. As though his presence - like a penance - might in some way alleviate the crushing weight of guilt and responsibility that now burdened him. If Snape, sensing him there, derived some comfort, that was incidental.

To what extent would the fact that he had been under the influence of the Obligatus exonerate him? The fact that he had been under duress? But Dumbledore had said that it was not a full Curse of Compulsion, not like the Imperius. He had been acting on his own impulses. Somewhere, in his innermost core, he had really wanted to lash out. And he had enjoyed it; for a while he had revelled in it. Had the Sorting Hat been right? Were his Slytherin instincts now coming to the fore? Was this the insidious corruption of Dark Magic? Intent was supposed to be the key to successful Curse casting - well, he had meant every syllable of that Crucio.

It was Snape’s reaction that baffled Harry the most. The man who would give a detention for an ink-blot or mis-slicing a Trickle-Tuber, whose astringent tongue could scourge the class in a sentence, had uttered scarcely one word of reproach. When Harry had first found himself in the cellar with Snape he had expected to be verbally crucified.

Maybe Harry was reading too much into this; perhaps Snape was so weakened by Voldemort’s assaults that he hadn’t the strength to attack Harry, physically or otherwise, but Harry felt there was more to it. It was as though Snape recognised Harry’s need to hit back at something, and could not wholly condemn it. Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to be understood by Snape, let alone to identify with him on some subconscious level. ‘Intuitive’ was another adjective he would not previously applied to the unapproachable Professor, but his analysis of Voldemort’s and Harry’s motives had proved uncannily accurate.

And then there was Snape’s fatalistic acquiescence to his torture - was that his own private penance? For what? For the atrocities committed in the service of Voldemort? Killing? He had admitted that. Torture - maiming, brutalising, dehumanising? Wasn’t all that implicit? So at what point had he become disillusioned with the regime of the Dark Lord? Had any one incident been responsible for his change of heart? Heart? Did it have anything to do with Harry’s parents - with James and Lily? Why had Snape said that their marriage was a failure?

Harry would have to ask him. He cringed to remember how, in the false intimacy of imminent death, he had interrogated the Potions master. He couldn’t contemplate broaching such subjects under normal conditions. Would their situation ever be normal? Couldn’t they simply pretend that the last forty-eight hours had never happened - most of the school were unaware, and the few people who did know something might be persuaded to cooperate. Harry stared morosely at the pain-locked figure on the bed and knew that that was not possible. Whatever else might happen, Snape would never forget.

Harry reviewed his recent achievements. On the plus side, he had fired Avada Kadavra in Voldemort’s general direction, though he had no idea whether he had hit him. On the minus side, he had lied to his friends, deceived his teachers, broken Merlin knows how many school rules and severely antagonised - he was trying to put a positive gloss on ‘attempted to murder’ - the one person who already specialised in making his life a misery.

His faith in James, the only father he had ever thought he had known, had been obliterated. That left the paternal role vacant - to be filled by a man who had denied his existence for sixteen years, or rather who had said he preferred not to be encumbered with the responsibilities of parenthood. Harsh, hurtful words. Yet words that were belied by his every action in that cellar.

Once the very notion had filled Harry with revulsion. Now the prospect of acknowledging Snape as his father had become more of a psychological obstacle, a mental challenge, his own personal Everest. He would have to scale it before he could progress with his life. And he suspected that Snape would be climbing too. Travelling solo at first, maybe they’d team up for the final ascent. It was a steep, daunting path, and neither of them were experienced climbers. It would be tough.

Harry dropped his head into his hands and sighed. He ran his fingers through his cropped hair - already it was getting longer: more floppy, less bristly.

‘I’ll just have to get some really strong shampoo,’ he decided, pragmatically. ‘And if Ron keeps telling me to have a ‘Sonic Shower’, whatever that means, I’ll blast him with one of his wretched ‘Photon Torpedoes’.’

He leaned forward and, experimentally, took Snape’s hand in his own. It lay inert and unresponsive beneath Harry’s fingers. Harry too felt unmoved, emotionally cauterised. Was he supposed to feel loving towards this distant, intimidating man who had unwillingly apparated into his life? Feelings like that didn’t flower overnight; given enough time, they might grow.

Towards dawn, Harry found himself becoming scared. What if Snape did not recover? If he died, would everybody blame him? Would that make him a murderer? He’d never find out the truth about himself. He’d be on his own again. Again? He didn’t want to be alone.

When Madam Pomfrey arrived, Harry, over-tired and over-wrought, accosted her:

“He won’t wake up! Why doesn’t he wake up?” he cried, “What’s the matter with him?”

Calmly steering him back to his own bed, Madam Pomfrey enumerated a list of medical terms, of which Harry only understood ‘internal bleeding’ and ‘pneumonia’.

“But why won’t he wake up?” he insisted.

She smiled at him for the first time.

“I’m keeping the Professor heavily sedated to give his injuries a chance to heal,” she explained.

“Couldn’t Fawkes do something for him?” Harry asked, remembering how the Phoenix had helped him recover after his battle with the Basilisk.

Madam Pomfrey tutted.

“You would think so. But, apparently, Fawkes and the Professor are not on the best of terms. Some silliness to do with the Professor stealing a feather for one of his special potions. That was a long time ago though, when he was a student. You’d think they’d forgive and forget.”

Harry listened, valuing this little insight.

Going back to Harry’s original question, Madam Pomfrey went on,

“It’ll be a day or so before he wakes - these things take time. His lungs are in a terrible state. He’s on the maximum dosage of Skelegro too, and you know how unpleasant that is. He’s better off asleep, Harry. The minute he wakes up he’ll discharge himself - he detests being in here.”

She sounded upset. Harry looked at her curiously.

“You actually like him, don’t you?” he asked.

Madam Pomfrey blinked several times and cleared her throat.

“Well, he’s rude and ungrateful and patronising,” she said, “and he’s always the most arrogant, uncooperative patient I ever have - won’t take any of my healing potions if he can help it…”

‘He knows what’s in ‘em.’ thought Harry.

“…he’s impossible! But he’s not a bad man, Harry.”

She stopped, a little flustered. When she spoke next the matronly efficiency had returned.

“Dreamless Sleep Potion for you, my boy. Now, don’t you worry about Professor Snape. He’ll get through this. When you think of everything he’s had to go through in his life… Well, you know…”

The problem was, Harry didn’t know. He’d never taken the trouble to find out.

“Enter!”

Harry hesitated in the doorway. He had never been inside Snape’s private sitting room before.

“Come in and sit down, Potter.”

Walking with slow steps, Snape led the way across the room. He lowered himself carefully into an arm-chair.

‘That still hurts a lot,’ thought Harry, noticing.

This was going to be one of the most awkward conversations of his entire life. He and Snape eyed each other, both equally defensive, both intensely aware of the other, both bound by the memory of their days in the cellar. Harry knew it was up to him to say something - apologise, grovel - anything would be better than this gut-wrenching silence.

“I’m glad you’re not dead, Sir,” he faltered, more gruffly than he had intended. That came out all wrong. What a completely idiotic thing to say!

Snape raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Indeed? Well, that, I suppose, is a start.”