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.