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.