I clutch my quill uncertainly. What should I write? How should I write it? For all I know this could never be read but then again…it could be published for the world to see. I draw back my chair and get to my feet, creasing my forehead. I close my eyes and dig my hand into my pocket. I exhale as my fingers close around my precious object. I can never loose it, but with a small smile I realise I can never keep it either. Here is my recollection of the man who risked death with the hope that Voldemort