**Hi peeps!! I'll tell you what; holidays are disappearing like they only lasted a couple of days. No time to lose, I guess.

NOTE: An especially long chapter today, as it's Christmas. Don't get used to it!

Disclaimer: forgot this last time. Er.

Disclaimers are stupid, They don't mean a thing, Sue me for this, And I'll be so mad I'll hit you over the head with a very hard frying pan and an oversized spanner.

Thank you.

I think it is time that I explained all the different inverts and font styles I'm using for different situations. I don't want anyone unable to follow the story. If you get it, skip this part.

"Writing in Italics and Speech marks are in Parseltongue - snake language."

'Writing in inverted commas means the words are appearing in the magic diary or on Harry's hand.'

This is a thought being transferred onto paper

'Writing in Italics and inverted commas is. well; actually that's a secret. Now, that wasn't too hard, was it?'

Weird chapter coming up, but then most of them are, aren't they? Once school starts (in the story) I might have to change the title. That'll confuse a lot of people. **



"Captain Harry Potter, the best seeker the English team has seen in years, heads towards goal. Can it be - aw! Interception by German chaser Futmann, and Potter speeds downwards. Has he seen it? Is it - no! Incredible diversion pulled off by the England captain there, German Seeker Holffwud crashes to the ground. Wait a moment! Potter's off again, oh, this is the real thing this time YES! I don't believe it! HE'S GOT THE SNITCH!"

Harry awoke with the roar of the crowd ringing in his ears. For a moment he wondered what had woken him. Then he felt a pain in his left hand. A kind of dull throbbing.

It felt strangely familiar. Like in second year, in the chamber of secrets.

Harry froze, hardly daring to take out his hand and look at it. Had Sleeve suddenly had a change of heart about just whose side he was on? Or had he never been on Harry's side?

Slowly, fearfully, Harry ran his fingers down across his palm. Funny. He couldn't feel a wound.

When he finally plucked up the courage to look, it wasn't a snake bite, but it was nearly as bad. He gasped in surprise.

Words were flashing across his hand, and then disappearing.

'Harry? Harry, where are you?'

Harry stared. "I'm right here," he said to his hand.

The words continued to come. 'Harry! Wake up!'

Suddenly Harry remembered Sirius' words that he had seen in the book.

'The words appear onto the palm of my hand. I think them onto the page.'

Harry concentrated. I'm here he told his hand, and to his delight, the words appeared on his hand, in the handwriting the book used when people used it in this fashion.

'I'm here.'

'Harry! At last!'

'I was asleep.'

'I realise that, you ass.'

'I thought I couldn't do it this way?'

'So did I, but I had to try, didn't I? It's already six o'clock!'

Harry glanced at his watch, and then remembered it didn't work. He took it off in disgust, and glanced at the sundial by his bed.

There was no sun up yet, but it showed the time anyway, in the form of a ray of light emitting from the centre of the structure. Sirius was right.

'Blow.'

'Too right.'

'That you, Remus?'

'Yes it is. Now get the book, Harry, quickly so we can get started.'

'Why don't we just do it this way?'

'There is a reason for the book, Harry. Go fetch it.'

Harry threw one final thought at his hand I'm not a dog before getting up to fetch the book. Sleeve hissed impatiently as he shifted the duvet.

Quickly as he could, Harry grabbed his quill and ink, and penned his name in the gap.

'Finally,' said the book's default. 'What on earth were you dreaming about, Harry?'

'Quidditch,' Harry put simply.

'Ah,' came Remus' hand. 'That explains it.'

'It was a good dream though,' Harry tried to explain. 'First one for months, see. A normal dream.'

There was silence for a moment (not that any sound actually commenced during these lessons).

'Do you think he's planning something?' said Sirius' words. It didn't say whom the question was addressed to.

'What, Voldemort?' asked Harry.

'Later, Harry,' Remus insisted.

'Oh, right. Still theory today, huh?'

'Yep,' came Sirius impudent reply. 'Bet you love it.'

'Oh sure. I'm up to my ears in it. Wendy - that's Professor Little - she's got a really big thing about it.'

There was nothing for a while.

'Harry - what's she like?' asked Sirius.

Now that was strange. Why did he care what Wendy was like? Was he afraid she was a Death Eater in disguise? Well, he wouldn't be too surprised, considering her talents, but really, she was far too - well, nice - to be one of the enemy.

'She's Ok.'

'She's healthy?'

Weird question, Harry thought. Then he remembered.

'Oh, of course! You went to school with her, didn't you?'

'How did you know that?'

'She told me. Well, she told me she went with Remus and my parents.'

'Yes, but'-

Remus quickly wrote over him. 'That's enough, Sirius.'

Sirius appeared to have relented. 'All right then,' he said. 'Let's get to it.'

By the time they had finished theory animagi lessons, Harry seriously needed a Pensieve.

'So, are you going to tell me then?' he asked.

'Tell you what?'

'The reason for the book.'

'Oh, right! Well, wait till we're gone, and then have a flick through. You might be surprised.'

'Although this way is kind of cool.'

'That is so not helping, Padfoot.'

'I thought you never needed help.'

'Are you ever going to let me live that down?'

'No.'

'Seriously.'

'I always am. That's what they named me for.'

'Your way is cool, Sirius, but you know why Harry needs the book, don't you?'

'Of course I do. But you've got to admit, it gives a whole new meaning to the words 'palm reading'.'

Harry burst out laughing at that, and it took him a while to calm down. He just couldn't get the image out of his head, of Professor Trelawny grabbing his hand to see the lines and reading things like, 'another of the famous golden rules.'

By the time he'd calmed down, Sirius and Remus had gone. He flicked through the book, page after page of blank diary entries that were never used.

In a sudden burst of inspiration, he turned the book to August 28th - today. Nothing happened.

He was just about to give up, when he saw a line forming. A line, right in the centre of the page, in thick black ink.

And then the words:

YOUR NAME HERE: _____________________________

Rather dubiously, Harry obeyed. He wrote his name clearly on the space, and waited.

But instead of just one line, the whole page filled up. Filled up completely with words.

Puzzled, Harry read the first lines.

'Finally. What on earth were you dreaming about, Harry?'

'Quidditch.'

'Ah. That explains it.'

'It was a good dream though. First one for months, see. A normal dream.'

'Do you think he's planning something?'

'What, Voldemort?'

'Later, Harry.'

'Oh, right. Still theory today, huh?'

'Yep. Bet you love it.'

It was all there. Their whole conversation. At the bottom were two little blue arrows, one pointing upwards, and the other pointing down. When he touched the 'down' arrow gently with his quill, the words moved up the page, as if on a computer, until a whole new set of words were shown, continuing what the other page could not fit.

Harry realised that he could now look over the things that Remus and Sirius had explained to him whenever he wanted to.

It looked like this book was going to surprise him at every turn.

By the time Harry got down to breakfast that morning, he was very much awake, and excitedly anticipating the next morning, when he would be attempting to make his first shape change.

"Morning, early bird," Wendy greeted him. Why was she always the first to notice when he entered the room?

"What time you get up this morning, Harry?" asked Hagrid with a smile.

"Six," said Harry cheerfully.

Everyone around the table winced. "And you're happy about that?" asked Professor Sprout.

"Of course," said Harry. "Best night's sleep I've had for months."

Everyone else looked a little wary, and Hagrid looked livid, but Wendy said quickly, "Was it a good game, Harry."

"Roaring," said Harry dreamily. Suddenly he snapped out of it. "Now you're going to tell me you can dream hop," he accused his teacher.

"Not at all," said Wendy.

"How, then?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes!" said Harry, and several other people who looked astounded.

"All right. Your father always looked that way when he'd been dreaming either about Lily, or Quidditch."

Harry stared at her. Then he smiled. Then he chuckled, and soon the whole room was laughing along with him. The laughter was short lived, however.

As the meagre collection of owls swooped gracefully into the room, the large barn owl circled just outside the window.

When the other owls left, they gave it a wide berth. The envelope dangling from its leg was smoking.

Harry stood up. "You coming in?" he asked the owl. It seemed to regard him scathingly for a few seconds, before entering, circling the room a few times, then dropping the letter onto Harry's head.

Or rather, onto the chair where Harry would have been if he hadn't thrown himself out of the way just in time. The envelope exploded with a loud 'BOOM!'

The high-pitched, evil laughter echoed around the room once more. Harry would have been paying more attention to it, if a strange smell hadn't just entered his nostrils.

He wondered what on earth it could be. He had never smelled it before. His eyes started to sting, and there was a foul taste in his mouth that defiantly wasn't from the sausages.

Everyone else was backing away from the remains of the envelope. Harry however, made his way towards it, ignoring his streaming eyes and suddenly weak limbs. One of the pieces right in front of him was still smoking, as were some others, this one bearing the torn legend, '-ry Potte-'

"Potter!" Called Professor McGonagall. "Get away from there!"

And then he realised. It was the envelope that was producing that smell, and Harry was willing to bet that the smoke now curling around his body and entering his lungs was some kind of poisonous gas.

Without even thinking twice he whipped out his wand and threw up a shield, but his fogged brain couldn't concentrate enough for it to solidify his defence.

Come on, he willed it. Protect me. Come on.

But it wouldn't do it. The transparent, flickering wall of silver let the smoke through in tendrils.

As the shield disappeared, Harry fell to his knees. He couldn't even see the teachers now through the enveloping gas fog.

And then a voice, an echoing, yet awfully familiar voice.

"Not dead yet, Harry Potter? What a shame. What a pity. Don't you worry now. This lovely fog will send you to sleep."

Harry couldn't answer. His throat just refused to function.

"I hate to see a good man wasted, Potter. You should have joined me when you had the chance. Oh, well. It's too late now. You would have made a useful ally. All those people you killed."

Harry managed to choke out, "What?"

"Oh, don't try and deny it Harry. You have to understand this one day, you know. But since this is your last day, I'll try and explain it to you. The world is better off without you Harry. Because of you, an awful lot of people died."

"They died because of you," Harry said, his voice barely audible.

"Oh, no, Harry Potter. Think about it. That boy in the graveyard, your parents, Peter Pettigrew."

"What are you talking about? Peter Pettigrew's alive!"

"Yes. Such a shame. It is a wonderful romance though, isn't it?"

Harry couldn't speak a word. His throat choked, and suddenly he couldn't breath.

"Oh yes," came the low hissing voice of Voldemort, taunting him. "I forgot one. I trust you read about that little girl in the paper. hmm. Darling, her name was. Can't remember the other name. Stupid little name, it was. Anyway. You can add her and her mother to the list Potter."

Harry fought for breath, willing something to come into his lungs.

"Oh yes Harry. You have to understand. You helped me return. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be half as powerful as I am now. Everyone who has died since that day would not have died - without you."

It might have been Harry's imagination, but suddenly it seemed as if the voice was coming from far away all of a sudden. His eyes were clear. His throat unblocked, and he inhaled a whole lungful of air and let it go.

"Harry!"

The smoke was dispersing, and coming towards him out of the mist, was.

"Wendy?"

"Harry! You're all right!"

Harry sat up. He took long deep breaths.

"What happened to that shield, Harry?"

"Too weak. couldn't hold it. too much fog. it was stupid."

"Of course it was stupid!" shrilled Professor McGonagall. "What on earth did you think you were doing?"

"I was looking at the envelope."

"You idiotic boy! That was toxicas fatalis, the mist of death! You're lucky at least two of us knew the counter curse."

Harry looked up as Professor Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick came rushing towards him.

"Are you all right, Harry?" asked the Headmaster.

"I'm fine," said Harry, getting up and brushing himself off. "Honest."

"And what exactly," said Professor McGonagall slowly, as if trying to control herself. Was so fascinating about the container in which this foul device arrived?"

Harry picked up the piece he had been looking at, singed and no longer a threat to anyone.

He passed it to his angry teacher, who took a look, sniffed it, and then held it away from her face.

"What is it?" asked Wendy, who still knelt beside Harry. "What is it, Minerva?"

Professor Sprout looked over her friends shoulder at the words.

'ry Potte'

"That's not ink," said Professor Sprout slowly.

"What is it then, Professor?" asked Hagrid, torn between concern for Harry and curiosity,

Professor McGonagall looked up at him. "It's blood," she said.

"There you are," said Wendy, dumping the armful of books onto the table. "Take them, read them, learn them. They're all so simple you won't even need me."

Harry snorted. He knew for a fact that at least three of those books had to have come from the restricted section in the library.

"Well, simple for you," she said with a genuine smile.

"Why do you have to go?" Harry asked for the third time.

Wendy rolled her eyes and started packing a day bag. "I told you. I have important business at the ministry."

"But how can you? You've been out of the country for fourteen years."

"That's why they want to see me."

"What, to catch up on the news in other parts of the world, you mean? That hardly seems important."

"Sort of."

"That means no."

"I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it."

Wendy pulled the drawstring tight and looked him straight in the eyes. "Harry. You be careful, right? Pull out that shield as soon as you see danger coming."

"You're only going for the day. What could happen?"

"A lot could happen in twelve hours, Harry. And don't rely on those new curses we've tried either. They could just as easily fail on you as that shield did this morning."

Even without her saying it Harry could tell she was disappointed about that.

"If you must use them, wait until you have time to think about them. And no waiting around. No more accidents, right?"

"All right, all right," said Harry, feeling a little angry that she was treating him like a small child off to play at a friend's house for ten minutes. "Go, have a good time."

As she hurried out of the open doorway, he could have sworn he heard her say "That'll be a bloody novelty," and then she was gone.

Not wanting to go up to the dormitory again, Harry decided that he would read his books down at Hagrid's house.

He hadn't been down there for a while after all, and it made him chuckle at the havoc Hagrid would wreak once he had knowledge of those curses.

He took his time walking through the grounds, trying to find a memory for every distinctive part of the grand Hogwarts gardens.

The lake of course, he'd rather not think about.

There was the old gnarled tree he, Ron and Hermione had sat under to discuss the Philosopher's stone! Heck, that seemed an age away now.

He skirted the Quidditch pitch, as much as he loved it, there were still a couple of resistant hedges hanging around the edge there.

And the Whomping Willow. well he had enough memories there to make up for all the places he'd cheated on so far.

At last he reached Hagrid's cabin. When the friendly giant of a man saw who it was he pulled Harry into a bone crushing hug.

Harry eventually managed to escape inside the house. "Don't you think I'm getting a bit old for that Hagrid?" he remarked airily.

"Never, 'Arry," he said. Harry groaned, and Hagrid laughed.

"Fancy a cuppa? I was just making one."

"Yeah, all right, thanks."

Hagrid busied himself with the teapot and kettle. "Aren' you meant to be in lessons?" he asked Harry as his teenage friend heaved his bag of books onto the table.

"Wendy's gone off. She's at the Ministry."

Hagrid nearly dropped the teapot, but he tried to hide his evident surprise as he poured out two cups of steaming tea.

"Oh? Got trouble, 'as she?"

Harry looked up at him. "No. I don't think so anyway. She just said they wanted to talk to her."

Hagrid shook his head, and placed Harry's cup in front of him with a spoon intact. He stirred his own tea to cool it, seated opposite him, smiling distantly.

"Poor old Ali," he said. "Never gets a moment's peace, she don't."

"Ali?"

Hagrid coughed. "Er. nothin'. Just her old name."

"Her old name?"

"Yeah. Her name at school 'ere. She changed it when she moved out."

"Why?"

"Oh, I dunno." Harry could tell he was lying, but decided not to press the matter any further.

"So," said Hagrid. "What you doin' all day?"

"Oh, I don't think I'll go uneducated," said Harry with a grin, showing him the books.

Hagrid whistled. "You readin' all them by tonight?"

"Only the important bits."

They kept at it for about four hours. Harry learned more curses and advanced spells and charms that day than he had ever done in his life.

Of course, he couldn't very well try them out on one of his best friends and teachers, but he somehow managed to learn each and every one off by heart.

Then of course, he got tested on them.

Hagrid opened a random page in one of the books. "Er. the houndicas curse?"

Harry racked his brains. "I know this one."

Hagrid smiled.

"Oh! That's the one where they get set on by rabid dogs!"

"Right! And the incantation?"

"Erm. houndicastras?"

"Ye don't sound as if ye're sure."

"I'm sure."

"Well done."

Hagrid leant back in his chair. "Well Harry, we've been through pretty much every spell in them books. Let's take a break."

Harry shifted in his chair. He could feel a question coming on.

"Harry. over the summer. when you was in that fight with your cousin."

Harry looked up, surprised. With everything else that had been going on, he'd clean forgotten about the Dursleys.

"They hurt you before that, din' they? Your aunt and uncle?"

Harry sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."

Hagrid suddenly reached over and grabbed his arm, and he nearly yelled in shock.

The huge man stroked the area where the break had been gently. "I know ye don't want to, Harry. But you will have to, one day. You can't keep it inside ye."

"Oh yes I can."

"Harry."

"What?" He was angry now. It was no one else's business! Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

"I knew someone a lot like you when he was your age. He was same year as your father. He was in the same place you are once, Harry."

That rang a bell for some reason. Had someone already mentioned it?

"He tried to keep it locked away. Then when he couldn't keep it in anymore, he told your father. Your father told me, and I told Madam Pomfrey."

Harry stared into his lap. Then he said, "Wasn't he angry that you'd all nosed into his private life?"

When he dared to look up, Hagrid's eyes were full of hurt.

"I'm sorry," said Harry.

"You got a lot on your mind. Just remember there are people who care about you and want the best for you."

"Ok." Harry sighed. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure."

There was silence for a minute. Then Harry remembered something.

"Hagrid, didn't you say you were doing something over the summer with Madame Maxime."

"Ah. Tha's all done now."

"But what was it?"

"I can' tell you that!"

Harry rolled his eyes, and they resorted, as usual, to talking about Quidditch.

When he left the cabin later that evening, the huge pile of books back in the bag slung across his shoulder, he thought back over the amount of times Hagrid had avoided his eyes during those conversations, about Professor Little, the boy in his father's year, and Hagrid's job over the summer.

The Boy Who Lived, Harry thought bitterly. More like, The Boy Who Lived Four Times But Still Never Gets Things Explained To Him.



The Returno Maximus.

This is perhaps the most advanced form of summoning or recall in existence. For this charm, you need not know what you are looking for, where to search for it, or how far away it is.

The charm is 'returno maxmus!' and needs ten times exactly the amount of power behind it more than a simple Accio charm.



Harry looked at that passage for a while.

"You appear to have been staring at that page for a while now," said Sleeve, who had regained his favourite position by the fire once more. "Is it not customary among humans to turn the page, and read what is on the other side?"

"Yeah. I was just wondering if this would get me the Marauder's Map back."

"The."

"Marauder's map. My Dad and his friends made it when they were in school."

"How fascinating."

"But I don't know what happened to it at the end of last year. I lent it to a Death Eater by mistake."

"One thinks that this particular action might not have been wise."

It took Harry a while to realise that this was Sleeve's idea of a joke.

"You could be right there. Only thing is, it's really valuable and dangerous if any other Death Eaters get their hands on it."

"Ah."

"Plus, Sirius will kill me when I tell him I've lost it."

"Hmm. One thinks that perhaps, instead of sitting there talking and debating with yourself, you should try it out to see if it works."

Harry laughed.

"Now why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you are a human. When it all comes down to it, Snakes are quite a lot smarter than humans."

"Does that make me stupid?"

"Not at all. You are part snake yourself, so you are nearly as clever as I am, especially as I am only a very young one still."

Harry decided not to argue with Sleeve at the sudden dismissal of his species.

"All right."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Are you going to persist in your debating or will you try the spell?"

"Oh. Right."

Harry stood up. This was risky. If whoever had the map now had a tracking devise on it, he'd be swamped by either Ministry Members or Death Eaters before the night was out.

"Returno Maximus Marauder's Map!"

Nothing happened for about a minute. But then, Harry reasoned, it might have a long way to go.

And then it came, soaring through the evening sky like a very thin, papery owl. Harry caught it with a leap of the heart. He had done it. First time, and he had completed the most complicated form of summoning charm in the world.

Somehow he resisted the urge to whoop with exhilaration, and whispered to the map, "I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good."

He hadn't really expected it to work without his wand, but it did. The lines and labels spread across the old piece of Parchment.

He glanced at his own name. Then he checked on all the Professors, who were all in their offices, except.

What had Hagrid said? Her old name. She changed it before she moved out.

There, on the fifth floor, in the Defence against the dark arts classroom, was a dot and a label bearing the legend:

Alula Little.



Oh hell. Where was he now? This was unusual, mostly due to the fact that he couldn't see any immediate danger from Death Eaters. It looked about midnight, and there was a Muggle Postman. Now that was strange. He was cycling up the road. .

Norman cycled ferociously up the road towards his home in the dark. The sooner he got back, the sooner he would be tucking into a nice meal of Shepard's pie.

As he turned a corner, he could have sworn he had seen a figure dressed all in black disappear into the shadows.

Curious, but not wanting to intrude, Norman made his way cautiously up the side alley where he had seen the figure disappear to.

He could at least five figures up ahead, creeping stealthily up the back alley and onto the path that led only up the hill where Mr. Anderson lived. The one in front was tall, half as tall again as the others that trailed along behind his confident stride.

Unable to satisfy his curiosity, Norman got off his bike and left it leaning against the gate of a nearby house.

There was a very still air for some reason, end of August that it was. Norman followed the figures at a steady pace, knowing he was stalking but these men looked as though their aims were not correct. Norman would have to correct them if he was right.

May God have mercy upon you if you are out to cause trouble, thought the young postman.

Eventually they reached the bottom of Mr. Anderson's hill. But instead of turning away from the path, as Norman had expected, they continued on it, marching sedately up the winding road between neat rows of shrubbery.

Norman might well of imagined it, but he could have sworn he had seen one of those bushes fly out of the figure's way at one point.

They seemed to be seeing the way by sticks touched at one end with fire. Odd.

Suddenly, for no reason at all, Norman was gripped with an icy fear. He felt as if he could not move left nor fight for fear of being noticed by the figures in black.

He was about to turn and run when the large part of him that loved God above all else stepped in.

Are you just going to stand by and let these creatures do the devil's work?

Norman bravely stood his ground. Then, after a moment's thought, he moved around to the opposite side of the hill and began to climb.



William had just packed away his potion ingredients for the night, when he heard a loud knocking on his back door.

Cautious, and with his wand up his sleeve, he went into the scullery. Who could be calling at this time of night?

He had the surprise of the decade when he opened the door. It was Norman, the Muggle policeman.

Norman opened his mouth to say something, then broke off. William followed his gaze down to the stick of knarled wood he was holding like a weapon in his hand.

"Good evening Mr. Anderson," began Norman, still staring at William's wand, which he had lowered.

"Don't you mean good morning?" asked the old potion maker.

The postman actually blushed. "I didn't mean to intrude," he said. "But I thought I ought to let you know."

He trailed off, as if unsure of how to phrase his words.

"Let me know what?" said Mr. Anderson, starting to feel a little annoyed at being caught in his nightshirt, even if it was midnight.

At that moment there was an enormous explosion as (although neither of them realised it at the time) the front door was blown off its hinges.

"Erm. about that," continued Norman, turning pale. "Old friends of yours, s.sir?"

It was in that next second that William Anderson felt something he had never thought he would ever feel again. Fear.

He spun around. Nothing yet. It might take them a few minutes to find him.

He knew that he, on his old legs with a wand that hadn't been used in duels for twenty years, didn't stand a chance. But Norman, for the moment at least, did.

"Run," he said, softly.

"Sir?"

"Run!"

"Should I fetch the police?"

"Curse it man, there isn't time! Just RUN!" And he slammed the door in the terrified Muggle's face. Silently William prayed that he would make it to safety. At least he would have done something right with his life in helping him.

Harry stood in the middle of the scullery, watching as the wizard man closed the door on the Muggle.

He had followed that postman all the way up from the bottom of the hill, but he wasn't in the least bit out of breath.

He studied the face of the old Wizard, contorted with suppressed fear and sadness.

He knew without thinking that the man was going to die.

They were getting closer now, he could hear their footsteps.

Why doesn't he just run? Said one half of Harry's brain.

Because he would never make it, said the other half.

At that point, the old man seemed to regain himself. He raised his wand and walked, straight through Harry, into the kitchen. Harry, without wanting to, followed him. They were there, waiting for him, but facing the opposite wall.

There were not as many as usual. Only five including the Dark Lord himself.

But then, Harry realised bitterly, Voldemort doesn't need an army to defeat this old, defenceless wizard. Heck, he doesn't need anyone!

So is he doing it because he wants to show off to his followers how good he is, or because he's not taking any more chances? He went to my parents' house alone, and look what happened to him that time.

But there was no chance of this guy reflecting the killing curse. If Crucio didn't kill him first.

"Good morning," said the old man, in a strangely calm voice.

Now that the moment had come, William was no longer afraid. The Death Eaters all spun around as one, and with a chill that ran down his spine, Mr. Anderson found himself looking into the eyes of the most feared Dark Wizard for a thousand years. Lord Voldemort.

He stood his ground.

"Ah," Lord Voldemort hissed. "William James Yuri Andrew Samuel Anderson, I presume?"

William frowned, and the Dark Lord hissed with laughter. "What a mouthful."

"My friends call me Will."

"How nice for you."

"I don't suppose you know anything about that though, do you?"

"How do you mean?"

"Because you don't have any friends."

Voldemort laughed again, more forcefully and cruelly this time. "I have no need of friends, Mr. Anderson. But I have even less need of enemies. You have interfered for too long. It is time for you to die."

"I know that," said William as though it was obvious. His insides had disappeared, and he seemed to have lost control of his senses. Was he enjoying this?

"It's been creeping up on me for a while now. Tiresome thing, old age. You're right, it is time. I don't suppose you'd like to do the honour of finishing the job off for me, would you?"

Lord Voldemort stared at him. "You are a fool, William Anderson."

"Look, will you just get on with it? What kind of a Dark Lord plays with their food before they eat it?"

"The best kind. Crucio."

Harry had known it was going to hurt, ever since the first sarcastic remark. The more they fought, the more it hurt, that seemed to be the rule. But the rules didn't say how they had to fight.

His scar exploded with pain the second the curse hit. He could barely see the old man writhing on the floor in agony through the mist of his own pain. It had begun.

Norman would not run. No. The Lord, it seemed, had given him this task, and he would accomplish it. They didn't call him 'The Thirteenth disciple of Christ' for nothing.

He made his way carefully around to the front door, which was blown off its hinges and reduced to splinters. He waded his way through the mess.

He could hear voices from up ahead, in the direction of the back door. One of them was a soft, hissing voice, the other was unmistakeably Mr. Anderson's.

The parlour was wrecked. So was the hallway. It was clear that these black figures were not here for tea and biscuits.

At last he reached a solid oak door, flung wide open. He didn't dare step around it, but stood behind it, listening to the continuing conversation inside. The words he heard dripped with malice.

"The best kind. Crucio."

And then, to Norman's utter horror, the air was suddenly filled with screams. Screams of pain and agony. They were Mr. Anderson's screams. And... something else. it sounded like a boy. A teenage boy whose voice had not yet broken. But why?

The screaming stopped, almost abruptly, and the young postman heard the sound of someone getting to their feet. Two someone's.

Then a voice, and it was defiantly not Mr. Anderson.

"Have you had enough? Would you prefer me to finish it now?"

"I said that at the beginning, didn't I? Goodness me, young people never listen any more, do they?"

"I would hardly refer to myself as 'young' Mr. Anderson. Young means foolish."

"Too true. Ah, I remember the days when you yourself were young and foolish. Not a shred of mercy. You let your men die by their hundreds simply by drinking things left for them to find. Extremely sensible of you I must say. Made things a hell of a lot easier for me."

"You know that I would not be here if you had not killed all those men before your potions lost their sting."

"I do. But you'd only be after some other bugger who got saddled with the job. Best that it's me, really."

"Are you sure? Crucio!"

Norman felt the pressure build up his ears as two sets of piercing screams filled them. He could not stand this any longer. Something had to be done.

I expect it's a record, thought Harry as he fell to his knees. No one's lasted as long as this guy so far, and he's by far the eldest.

His throat was sore from screaming. But he'd been hit with this curse (through other people and directly) so often that it gave him a sort of immunity to it. It didn't hurt so much, and his brain was somehow able to function through his body's unpredictable actions.

The curse faded. But as the last remnants of it were still dying away, someone else entered the room. Harry stood up.

It was that Muggle postman. "Stop!" yelled the man. "In the name of Christ, stop!"

And then he froze and stared, unmistakably, at Harry.

Harry stared back at him. So did everyone else. Then Voldemort made a motion with his hand, "Goyle."

The burly Death Eater marched up to the Muggle postman. He didn't even bother with a wand. He grabbed a heavy wood chair from the table and cracked it over Norman's head. The result was that he cracked his skull.

Harry rushed over to him, going through Goyle as he did. He knelt down beside the dying man.

Norman gazed straight into the boy's green eyes. What was he doing here? His eyes were filled with tears as he whispered, "I'm sorry."

The outlines of things were fuzzy all of a sudden. "You are forgiven," whispered Norman. He didn't know what the boy had done to be sorry for, only that there was no evil in him.

And with those words, the Thirteenth Disciple of Christ, died.

"Norman!" yelled Mr. Anderson.

"Tut tut.," said Lord Voldemort. "Getting Muggles to fight your battles now, are you? No Muggle is going to save you now."

William threw aside his wand. He could no longer use it, he lay on the ground like a sheep prepared for butchering.

"you're just a monster, aren't you?" he said. "You're a bloody monster. May you burn in hell."

"I do not ever intend to die, Mr. Anderson. Goodbye. Avada Kadavra!"

There was the familiar flash of green light, he looked up, and Harry-

Was back in bed. It took him a few seconds to realise that throughout the whole interview, Voldemort had not used his wand.

**Tell you what, would you be really mad if I didn't post a thanks for this chapter? It's 24 pages long already and I want to go to bed and I bet you want to read it as soon as possible. So there you have it. Please Review! I need the moral support. **