"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

*

Disclaimer: Much to my surprise, Harry Potter still doesn't belong to me. When is J.K.R. going to get a move on it and sell me the Potterverse?!

A/N: This chapter may seem a trifle slow, but it's necessary. Hope you lot like it anyway – let me know what you think! It's pretty long – but it may have to tide you over for as much as two weeks, since I'm coming up to exam-time.

Thanks to Jedi Cosmos, anime girl, Kitana, TheNovice, Nicky, Rose Fencer, Luna Rose, Giesbrecht, Tarawen, Jeva, Vanessa, Shadow Chaser, tsuki tatsu, Aurora Wolf, Charlie, Sailor Hylia, Phoenix, Prongs, Xaiver, TheRedFeatheryPlug, tolkienite, spangle star, Eva Phoenix Potter, kaydee, Renai, Padfoot's Heir (and anyone who has reviewed since I last checked) for their reviews.

As always, responses to questions and comments are down at the end of the chapter.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

CHAPTER SEVEN

And now another head was emerging from the tip of Voldemort's wand . . . and Harry knew when he saw it who it would be ... he knew, as though he had expected it from the moment when Cedric had appeared from the wand . . . knew, because the man appearing was the one he'd thought of more than any other tonight . . .

The smoky shadow of a tall man with untidy hair fell to the ground as Bertha had done, straightened up, and looked at him . . . and Harry, his arms shaking madly now, looked back into the ghostly face of his father.

~ Harry Potter in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

* * *

"I still don't believe it," Harry said hollowly, and folded his arms to emphasize the statement. "He's messing with my mind and you're a Death Eater." He felt terrible as soon as the words were out of his mouth, because his da – the *Death Eater* looked as if someone had knocked him down, beaten him with a two-by-four, run over him with a gigantic lorry, and then murdered his whole family … oh, wait a minute, someone practically had.

For another minute they stared at each other, green eyes at grey, then the older wizard looked away, an expression of strained resolution creeping onto his face. "You're right," he said dully, voice still slightly uneven from the Cruciatus curse. "He's – we're lying to you. You're not related to him at all – he's just … just … just saying that to hurt you."

Harry felt as if someone had ripped the ground out from underneath him. For a moment he stared at the man, reeling mentally. Was that it? Was that the real explanation? He wanted it to be true, he wanted to know, without the shadow of a doubt, that Voldemort was no ancestor of his, that he could still hate the man who'd killed his mother – his parents – that he didn't have Slytherin's blood in his veins. But he also wanted his father to be alive.

And he knew, now, that it was his father.

He might not want it to be, for accepting that his dad was alive meant accepting that his dad was Voldemort's son, but it was. Even if he went through the rest of his life with a thousand logical reasons why the man wasn't his father, he would always be certain, absolutely certain in his heart, that he had sat on a dark blue couch next to his father … and pushed him away. He couldn't have said what had convinced him, but … no actor could have reacted to Voldemort's words like that.

The man was still talking, his voice hitching slightly. "I'm a Death Eater – he put an illusion charm on me that makes me look like … like your father. It was to get you to touch the portkey, like he said. Now I'm supposed to try and persuade you to agree not to fight him any more."

"So … he doesn't want me to fight him any more because I almost killed him in June with that … er … that conflagration hex?" Harry asked softly, hands curling into anxious fists.

The man hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded slightly. "Yes – yes, that's why."

He really doesn't know. He doesn't have any idea what happened in June. He's not a Death Eater. He's lying to me now, lying to me to protect me from the truth. He's …

He's my father.

Dad.

"So he was telling the truth." Harry hadn't meant to say anything at all, but the exhausted, frightened words came out anyway.

The man … his dad, James Potter, turned to look at him, eyes startled behind his glasses. "No – weren't you listening? I said – I said … " He trailed off as Harry leaned forward slightly, staring at him as if in a trance.

He really looked just exactly like the photos.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I – I'm sorry. I believe you now … Dad."

"No!" James protested, his eyes as wild as his uncombed hair. "He – I – you don't have to – it's – it's …" He looked down at his hands helplessly. "You don't have to … I know you don't want to believe him, Harry."

For several minutes, the two Potters sat quietly on the sofa, each staring down, turning matters over in his own mind. Harry looked up first; James followed suit a moment later, feeling his son's eyes on his bent head.


"So," Harry said quietly, having decided to put off reacting to the overwhelming situation. "What happens now?"

James blinked. "You … you really do believe me, Harry?"

Harry hesitated long enough to make up his own mind, irrevocably. For better or for worse, this man was now, in his own heart and mind, his father, back from the dead. "Yes."

The lost look melted out of James's eyes almost instantly, replaced by delight. He started to grin, then stopped, evidently recollecting his surroundings. They stared at each other a moment longer, then both smiled tentatively. But neither could think of anything to say.

James broke the suddenly awkward silence with a question. "Was what he said true – about why you're alive, I mean?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. The curse did bounce off of me. It made him vanish, and I got this scar. See?" He flipped up his bangs – they needed cutting again, but he couldn't help noticing that his dad's hair was hardly in better shape. James glanced at it, wide-eyed.

"So, you –"

"Defeated Voldemort as a one-year-old?" Harry asked, unable to keep the slight bitterness out of his voice. "Yeah. But I didn't even do anything. It was Mum –" He broke off instantly as pain flashed across his father's face.

"No, go on," James insisted, his voice wavering unsteadily. "What … what happened? I know Lily's … dead …" His eyes moved away, staring past Harry with a haunted expression. "Dead …"

Harry pulled back slightly. James really didn't quite look "all there," and Harry wondered, for the first time, just how that fourteen-year-wait in … in wherever it was that Voldemort had mentioned … had damaged him.

"It was because Mum died for me," he finished, his own voice not quite steady. "She wouldn't get out of his way, and he cast the killing curse on her. Dumbledore said that was what protected me." James nodded slightly, then pulled his glasses off to rub at his eyes. Harry looked away politely. While studying the blank cement wall, something else occurred to him. He turned back quickly, and demanded, "What were you saying about 'Peter'?"

James stared at him, adjusting his glasses. "What … ? Oh – Peter!" Now he looked thoroughly confused. "He was here," he said uncertainly. "I mean, not here, but … wherever it was that I woke up. I … I think. I thought it was him … no, it was him. He told me you were alive."

Harry interrupted him firmly. "Peter Pettigrew is a Death Eater."

That remark did not get any of the responses he had expected. James stared at him for a moment in incomprehension, then suddenly laughed, his laughter edged with hysteria. "Oh, so all of my friends are Death Eaters now? What's next – I'm one myself? Lily was? You are? Professor Dumbledore is? Professor McGonagall? Bartemius Crouch? Frank Longbottom?"

"I know what I'm talking about!" Harry shouted.

James quieted instantly, and stared at his son through grieved eyes. "But Peter –"

"He's the one who betrayed you to Voldemort!"

"He said Sirius did it," James said quietly, numbly. "He said Sirius did it, and they put him into Azkaban."

"Sirius didn't do it," Harry insisted fiercely. "Sirius is innocent! Wormtail was the one who was the spy – he was your Secret Keeper, wasn't he?"

"Sirius is innocent?" James repeated hopefully. "You mean – Sirius is – you mean Peter was wrong?"

"Well, the Ministry did put Sirius into Azkaban, but he didn't kill anybody, and he wasn't, isn't a Death Eater."

James's eyes went wide. "Azkaban? And he didn't … he's innocent … and they put him into Azkaban?" Harry watched his father's face run a gamut of expressions – from shock to horror to anger to grief – and remembered that he had been told that, out of all of his friends, his dad was closest to Sirius.

"He escaped," Harry said hastily, "and he's not insane or anything. And I know he's innocent." He was about to add that Dumbledore knew too, but, at the last moment, he recollected that Voldemort might well be listening to their conversation. He clamped his mouth shut, wondering anxiously if the Dark Lord had been eavesdropping. It was a very disturbing thought.

James looked up slowly. "Are you staying with him, then? Peter said …"

"No – the Ministry doesn't know he didn't betray you and Mum. I'm staying with the Dursleys. I don't even know where Sirius is right now," he added for the benefit of any invisible listeners.

"What about Remus?" James demanded. "You said he was alive, back in that house – is he?"

Harry blinked. "Well, of course he's alive."

James pulled his glasses off again, blinking hard. "So Peter was lying to me."

"He's a filthy traitor, and it's all his fault!" Harry snapped fiercely, irrationally angered that his father was so upset about Wormtail. "He's – he's a dirty rat! It's his fault I didn't get to grow up with Sirius – he framed Sirius – and it's his fault Mum's dead and you were dead, or whatever – and it's his fault that Voldemort's back, and Cedric is dead, and it's his fault that Professor Lupin lost his job, and it's his fault that we're here now, and – and – and …" He paused, and looked down. "Would you kill him, knowing all that, if you had the chance?" he asked quietly. "Or let someone else kill him?"

James was looking extremely shaken. Slowly, he shook his head. "It wouldn't be my place to kill him," he said softly, staring blankly at the wall. "I would hope that if I meet him again … I…" Quite suddenly, he buried his face in his hands. "How could he?"

Harry half-opened his mouth, then shut it again. He wanted badly to tell his father what had happened in the Shrieking Shack and what had happened in the maze at the Triwizard Tournament, to be assured that none of it was his fault, that he had acted well … but it somehow did not seem like the right time. And he was afraid, afraid that he would see disappointment and condemnation in those grey eyes. Instead, he looked down at the arm of the couch, studying the weave of the fabric.

"It's all my fault," he heard James mutter into his hands, the words muffled but audible. Harry whipped his head around to stare, round-eyed with astonishment.

"What's your fault?"

"This whole bloody mess," James whispered wretchedly. "Lily – and Peter – and Sirius – and everything that's happened to you … I should never have married Lily … She'd still be alive and happy if I hadn't been such a selfish, thoughtless fool. And Sirius wouldn't have had to go to that bloody awful place, and Voldemort wouldn't have gone after Peter…"

Harry felt obscurely distressed – and even a trifle angry at his dad's pessimistic attitude. "But you didn't know," he said firmly. "Voldemort said you were unaware of your … er … you know." He didn't really want to say it – saying it would make it a fact that had to be discussed and thought over and dealt with … and he had no intention of dealing with it now, tomorrow, or anytime within the foreseeable future. "You didn't know until after you'd married Mum."

"But I did," James said quietly. "I –"

Harry gaped at him, head spinning. "You knew about that – that – that stupid prophecy thing, and you married Mum anyway?!" The unspoken "how could you?" rang in the air between them.

"Not about the prophecy," James insisted, raising his head. "If I'd known about that, I'd never have put her in danger – never! But I knew about … about the other part. My mother told me after I graduated – right before she died. She told me who I was, and all that, but she said he didn't know. She said he didn't have any way of finding out where I was, or who I was, said that I was safe. So I just … pretended it never happened, I suppose. I tried not to think about it, because I didn't think it mattered." He lowered his head again, staring at the floor, and bitterness crept into his voice. "I was wrong."

Harry was silent, and, after a moment, James went on bleakly. "It was a bit of a shock when he 'spoke to me' like he mentioned. I was sure I was going to die – his Death Eaters had caught me, I was unarmed, injured, and bound, and here was You-Know-Bloody-Well-Who himself in front of me. Then he told me that quaint little story he just told you, including that cursed prophecy, which he actually *believes*, curse him, and I wished he had killed me. He was threatening Lily and my friends if I didn't bring you to him as soon as you were born – and Lily was expecting any day. A year seemed like an awfully long time when he offered it; I was sure I could find a way to keep us all safe by the time it was over. But I couldn't bring myself to tell Lily or the Headmaster or even Sirius because … well, because … because it's so …"

"I know," Harry said flatly.

James looked over at him penitently. "I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry. I never wanted you to know … I …"

"It's okay," Harry said meaninglessly. He was struggling, mentally, with two conflicting desires – on the one hand, he desperately wanted James to stop talking about the whole hey-look-we're-related-to-Voldemort business, and on the other, he needed to know what had happened. And James seemed to need to talk about it – Harry got the impression that, since the very first day he'd found out about it, he'd been keeping it bottled up tighter than Professor Snape's hair-cleaner.

"So," he finally said, looking back at the arm of the couch and plucking at a stray thread, "what … what happened when – well, when the year was up?"

"He came to me," James answered, his voice soft and dull. "I was an Auror, you know, and I was guarding – a place – and he just appeared. There were anti-apparition wards up, so I don't know how he did it, but … well, we talked. I told him I wouldn't do it, and he didn't take it very well. He started breathing out threats against you, and Lily, and me – saying he'd get you anyway, and I'd be sorry, I'd wish I'd never been born. I don't think he's used to having people say 'no' to him. That's probably why he goes around wreaking havoc – Sirius always says …" James stopped suddenly, his face twisting. Then, the story forgotten, he looked at Harry, eyes wide and anxious. "How is Sirius, Harry? Is he still … Sirius?"

"Oh, I don't think he acts serious all the time," Harry said feebly, struggling to make a joke, to break the tense pain behind his dad's eyes. "He's – he's fine. Really. Really!" he insisted. It hardly sounded convincing. James kept staring at him, searching for a reassurance that was not there, and Harry was suddenly aware that his dad was young – no older than he appeared in the latest photos Harry possessed. What would Sirius think? He'd be happy, surely; Harry was well aware that Sirius felt responsible – guilty, in fact – for James's death. But what would he think about the reason why James was alive?

Something of what he was thinking must have shown in his face, because James was looking concerned now. "He's fine," Harry repeated, and hastily added, "So – er – what happened after that?"

James was obviously frustrated and frightened by Harry's refusal to discuss Sirius. He ignored the question. "What about Remus?" he demanded desperately. "He's fine, isn't he?"

Harry nodded hastily. "Oh, absolutely. He was a professor at Hogwarts for a while – everybody loved him. Well, except Malfoy and Snape."

"Professor?" James repeated in astonishment – then, in even greater shock, "Snape?!"

"Er, yes. Snape teaches potions." He summoned a weak smile. "Sirius was surprised too when he heard about it. You should have seen what the Marauder's Map called him, though – it was hilarious." Too late, Harry recollected that he probably shouldn't have mentioned the Marauder's Map, not when it was almost certain that Voldemort was listening. "But could you finish what you were telling me about?"

James shifted, winding his hands together. "There's nothing to tell. He gave me one last chance instead of killing me then and there, and I took you and … and your mother into hiding. We stayed ahead of the Death Eaters for about three months, then … well, I guess you know what happened."

Harry nodded, hesitating before speaking again, softly. "Was it very unpleasant, the place where you were before you came back?"

A shiver ran through his dad's body, and James ducked his head, looking away. "Rather," he answered lightly, his voice superficially cheerful. "Not the pleasantest spot in the world – though, come to think of it, it wasn't in this world at all, don't you know. I'm not eager to get a return ticket." Obviously struggling to change the subject, he went on, "So – er – what's this about you being in love?"

"We're just friends!" Harry yelped indignantly. "It was that stupid Skeeter lady – she said Hermione was my girlfriend in the Daily Prophet, and she's not!" James grinned faintly, and Harry's embarrassment faded. He had succeeded in removing some of the depression from his dad's stance, and he would have been willing to stand up and dance the tango to do that, let alone answer a stupid question.

"Are you in Gryffindor, Harry?"

Harry's mouth dropped open. He was somehow deeply shocked at this display of his father's complete ignorance of his life, and he floundered helplessly for a moment.

James apparently misinterpreted his distress, for he hastily added, "It's quite all right if you're not – I mean – the other houses are all fine too, and the Hat wanted to put me – er –"

"I'm in Gryffindor," Harry said hastily. His father's face lit up, and Harry blushed. "Speaking of Gryffindor," he hurried on, "er, how about we do some 'reckless and stupid' things and try to get out of here? Because, well, I don't really want to stick around for when we have to say 'no' to Voldemort."

James blinked, smiled, and straightened. "I've never heard a better idea," he said sincerely, then paused. "Well, there was the time that Sirius suggested we cast banishing charms on those Acromantulas before they got around to eating us …"

* * *

Dudley Dursley did not understand what was wrong, but he was sure that he didn't like it. Harry was quite gone, vanished into thin air – though his father had shouted at him hoarsely when he had made use of that phrase earlier – leaving that funny stick called a "wand" – though his mother had screamed at him when he had used the word – lying on the floor in the upstairs hall. His parents were creeping about the house at a snail's pace, dark circles under their eyes. They had not gone back to bed after the incident at the front door – apparently they had stayed in the kitchen with the door barricaded until morning. Dudley couldn't say for sure, since he had fallen asleep shortly after returning to his room.

His mum and dad were starting at every sound, at every unexpected movement – his mother had shrieked aloud when a car had backfired in the street outside. They were both terrified, hands shaking, eyes bloodshot and darting nervously, and they kept backing into corners to converse in frightened whispers, though they stopped talking instantly whenever he tried to hear. That was the most infuriating thing of all – they were refusing to tell him what had happened to Harry, who had been at the door that night.

He wished, now, that he had not succumbed to his impulse to hide under his bed, and had listened at his door instead, as he'd wanted to. He might have heard more – heard something actually worthwhile.

Breakfast time had arrived, and his parents were still acting like jittery cats – jittery cats on hot wires in the same neighborhood as Piers Polkiss, for good measure. Neither of them had eaten anything, though Dad had drunk copious amounts of hot coffee and Mum had huddled up with a teapot. Dudley didn't particularly care – his mother was too distressed to bother him about not eating too much and he was grateful for the reprieve. There was some pretty good stuff in the refrigerator.

And that was the reason why, when the jangling doorbell broke the silence, he banged his head sharply against the refrigerator's uppermost shelf. He extracted himself, with a minimal amount of ketchup in his hair, in time to see his father make a wild grab for the shotgun. Mum was just settling down to earth after a three-foot leap into the air, and the teacup she had been holding was decorating the tile floor, thin tea spreading out in scalloped waves around it. Her shriek emerged as a faint, high squeak, and she backed into the corner, quivering like cats did when Piers Polkiss got too close to them.

"V-V-Verrrrrnon!" she whimpered, then swiveled her head to lock a wide-eyed gaze on Dudley. "Dudley, sweetums! Come here right now, and don't make a sound!"

"It's probably the milkman," Dad said hoarsely, but his white-knuckled grip on the gun denied his own belief in the assertion. Dudley nervously inched closer to the back door, ready to make a quick escape if he had to. The bell rang again; Dudley's parents remained frozen in place. It rang yet again … and again … and then, unbelievably, chillingly, the double-locked-and-barred door slid open, the chairs that had been propped against it scraping softly across the floor.

"Hello?" It was a man's voice, taut with anxiety. "Is anyone here? Harry?"

A breathless pause, and then –

"GET AWAY FROM HERE, YOU FREAKS!" Dudley's mum shrieked, pressing her back against the wall so hard that Dudley was astonished she didn't actually knock it down.

The kitchen door banged open, and two men strode in, each with one of those wands clutched in his right hand. Dudley was well aware that he was paling just as quickly as his parents; he choked down the food in his throat and backpedaled toward the outside door. No way was he getting another pig tail – and he didn't want to vanish like Harry, either.

One of the men looked at him, eyes narrowed, and Dudley instantly froze in place. He'd been noticed – he'd better just hold still now. Less chance that he'd annoy them that way. And if they offered him candy, he definitely wasn't taking it. You could bet he'd learned his lesson about that, at least.

Not that either of these men looked the type who strewed their paths with candy, cursed or otherwise. The one turning in a circle as if checking the kitchen for hidden threats looked like he had AIDS or something – at any rate, he looked thin and sick and tired and generally all-around ill, not to mention worried and stressed enough to put Dad on a Grunnings Showcase Day to shame. And the other man was even worse. He looked frantic and really, really mad – scary, too, what with being almost as thin as the other man and even paler, and that untidy ink-black hair … and he looked kind of familiar. But it wasn't a nice kind of familiar, it was creepy, like knowing you'd seen him somewhere, somewhere very bad.

At the moment, he was glaring at Dudley's dad like he would at a housefly crawling on his slice of chocolate cake. "Dursley," he snarled viciously. "Where is Harry?"

"I don't know!" Dad blustered furiously, but his face was grey and patchy and he didn't even look like he meant it. "How should I know where that brat is?"

"Brat?!" the man demanded, whipping his wand up to point straight at Dad, and Dudley decided that calling Harry names was kind of stupid – somewhere on the same level as running up and kicking the guy in the shins. Maybe even stupider, judging by the expression on the freak's face. "I'll ask this just once more," the man growled, his voice shaking. "What has happened to Harry?"

"I don't know!" Dudley's father shouted, red anger suffusing his face. "I told you, I don't know!" He brought the shotgun up defiantly, pointing it straight at the crazy black-haired man's head. "Now get out of our house and leave us alone, or –"

"Accio," the sick man said quietly, and the rifle ripped itself out of Dad's hands and flew toward the second freak. Dad's anger departed as quickly as it had come, and he backed toward the wall, shaking. The wizard … the freak caught the gun with one hand, then dropped it to the ground and sent it skittering across the tiles with a push of his foot. It came to rest against the stove at the far end of the kitchen, and the man turned toward the angry freak. "Calm down, Sirius. Hexing the Muggles isn't going to help anything."

Dudley's mum let out another shrill cry, and Dudley winced. He was beginning to wish she'd stop it – all those high-pitched shrieks were making his head hurt. "SIRIUS!" she wailed, eyes bulging in horror. "You're that murderer! Sirius Black! His murdering convict godfather!"

"Yes, and there will be more murders done if you don't start cooperating," the man snapped, and Dudley shrank back. He recognized him now – the hair was shorter and less tangled, and the beard was gone (mostly gone, anyway – the freak apparently had forgotten to shave), but it was definitely that armed and dangerous convict that he'd seen on the telly … oh … two years ago now it must be. So this was Harry's godfather … Dudley had to admit that he had never felt a greater compulsion to be nice to Harry than right now, with his cousin's freak godfather, obviously absolutely longing to kill people, less than eight feet away.

"Now – now see here," Dudley's dad stuttered, "we always did our duty by that boy. Y-you can't get angry at us for this – it wasn't our fault – there wasn't anything we could have done –"

"WHAT HAPPENED?" the freak godfather stormed frantically, looking quite thoroughly insane.

"Why don't you let me ask the questions for a minute?" the sick man put in. He sounded calm and reasonable next to the crazy convict, but Dudley could see that he was worried and upset too. Imagine – two grownup, angry freaks right in their own kitchen. He'd had nightmares about situations like this. Dimly, he wondered what the freak godfather would do if he knew about the cupboard.

"I am one of Harry's professors from school," the freak with the disease was saying to Dad, "and I'm here with Harry's godfather to find out what's happened to him. We're aware that he's been missing from your house for several hours – do you know where he's gone?"

Dudley's parents shook their heads in mute unison.

The sick freak professor pressed on. "Do you know how long he's been gone?"

"Since – since about quarter past two last night – I mean, this morning," Dudley's dad mumbled. The convict growled angrily under his breath, but quieted again as the professor asked another question.

"Do you know why he left?"

"No," Dad said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. The godfather's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

But the freak teacher from the freak school was looking over Dad's shoulder, looking toward Mum in the corner. "Petunia – do you know why Harry left?"

"Do you know these people, Petunia?" Dad demanded, looking more shocked than scared for about three seconds.

Mum unwillingly muttered something under her breath that sounded like "frendzaLilysfrmatfreakinschool," then tossed her head back and defiantly said (in a very, very shaky voice), "I'd think you'd know better than us."

"And what," the godfather snarled, "is that supposed to mean?"

"What do you mean, Mrs. Dursley?" the professor demanded more quietly.

Mum's voice rose in fear and anger. "We told you abnormal people to leave us alone! We let the boy go to that awful school – can't you at least leave him alone when he's at our house? And I don't know what kind of a sick joke that was supposed to be, or who's been lying about it, or what it all meant, but I don't want any of you people coming near us ever, ever again!"

Without warning, Dudley's dad vanished – and a rather large, slimy slug landed on the clean tiles in the exact spot where he had been standing. Dudley let out a yell in concert with his mother.

The freak godfather was looking very, very, very impatient as he lowered his wand. "If you want your husband back," he snapped, "tell us what happened – all of it!"

Mum was sobbing now, crying from a mixture of fear and strained nerves. "He was ringing the bell," she whimpered pitiably. "At two in the morning! I opened the door, and it … it … well, what could I have done? People don't just come back from the dead like that – it was all wrong!"

Dread was creeping over the faces of both of the freaks, and Dudley was getting more scared than ever. If something could frighten these two terrifying freaks with their wands and magic, it must be majorly awful. "Who was it?" the sick professor demanded hoarsely.

"It was him – that Potter!" Mum cried. "The one Lily married – but we were told he was dead!" She wrung her hands, trembling like a leaf in a storm. "What could we have done? It wasn't our fault!"

Dudley's heart dropped like a frozen stone. A dead man? Was that who had been at the door – was that who had followed Harry upstairs? Now he was glad he hadn't listened … this was much too creepy. The reactions of the two freaks did nothing to reassure him.

The sick one turned paper-white and looked as if he was about to lose his breakfast. The convict staggered, actually staggered, and the expression on his face was like what you'd see if someone had just come up and stuck a knife into his heart. "Oh, God!" he whispered, and put out a hand to steady himself against the wall. "What have I done?"

"You're sure?" the freak professor demanded, looking even more upset than Mum did. "It was – it looked like – it looked like James?"

Mum nodded desperately. "Yes – just like him! Vernon thought it was Harry at first, but then Dudley said Harry was on the stairs, and we ran into the kitchen." Her words were tumbling out now, rushing over each other as though she couldn't get them spoken fast enough. "We blocked the door, and we couldn't hear anything except Harry shouting a bit – he sounded angry and upset – then Harry's door upstairs slammed and then we heard someone – him, the man at the door – going upstairs, and then we didn't hear anything else for a very long time, and when we finally came out, Harry and the – the – whoever it was – were gone! We don't know anything else, truly we don't!"

The murderer freak was leaning against the wall, hands splayed over his face. He was gasping, as if he was trying very hard not to hyperventilate. The professor didn't look much better, but at least he was still standing. He turned his head slowly, fixing stricken eyes on Dudley. "You," he said, and Dudley froze, petrified. "Did you hear anything else?"

Dudley shook his head violently, then hesitated. It wasn't quite true, but … "Well," he stammered, "After Harry slammed his door, I heard the – whoever it was – come up, and he was talking only I couldn't hear him because, er, because … well, I was under my … I mean … I wasn't listening, so I couldn't hear him, and then he started moving back toward the stairs and then I heard Harry's door open, and Harry yelled 'wait,' and started saying something else, and then it suddenly went really quiet." He paused, took a deep breath, and finished, "and then when I came out of my room, Harry wasn't in his room or anything – there was just his wand – I mean, that stick – on the floor in the hall."

Both freaks jumped violently and stared at him. He hadn't thought they could look any more startled, but now the sick one looked as if he wished he was dead, and the convict one looked as if he'd just heard Harry was dead or something. "His wand?" the godfather whispered hoarsely. "He hasn't got his wand?"

"Where is it?" the professor asked in a slightly-more-steady voice.

"Where it was," Dudley whispered. "We haven't … er … touched it."

Both men turned and walked out of the kitchen, ignoring Mum's frantic demand that they turn Dad back into himself before they leave. Dudley hesitated, then crept after them. He didn't think they would hurt him, not now – and he was still curious.

He crouched on the stairs (rather uncomfortably, since the steps were rather narrow and he, well, wasn't), and listened to them as they stood in the hall.

"That's Harry's wand, all right." That was the sick one, sounding as if he was in serious shock. "So he's defenseless against Voldemort. He's probably already dead."

"No." That was the crazy godfather, his voice desperate and edging on hysteria. "He's not dead – Dumbledore said we'd know if he was dead. That's one of the charms, just like the one that told us he was gone from here. He's still alive. And if he's still alive after seven hours, it means that Voldemort's not going to kill him right away. We can get him out, rescue him. We can. We've got to!"

A short silence, and then the professor said, "You're right. We'd better go back and tell Dumbledore what … what happened."

The godfather caught his breath, really sounding as if he was going to lose it. "Oh, God – it's all my fault. We should have told Harry – what was I thinking? I should never have tried to keep it a secret - we should have told him about that stupid article and then he wouldn't have gone with that – that – that Death Eater, or whoever it was. I'm never going to forgive myself for this – if Harry dies, I'll –"

"If Harry dies," the sick freak cut in, his voice suddenly as hard and cold as diamonds, "we'll hunt down whoever was responsible for stealing James's body and using it to lure Harry away, and we'll make him wish Voldemort had killed him."

Dudley gulped, feeling oddly sorry for whoever had just earned their anger.

"Do you think Harry really thought that it was … that it was – him?" The freak godfather sounded utterly miserable, and when the professor answered, he didn't sound much better.

"If he was yelling 'wait,' he probably did. I wonder what – no. No point in wondering. Come on, Padfoot, we'd better go. Get Harry's things – his owl, his trunk – make sure to get the cloak. We may need it. Hurry."

He didn't get out of the stairwell in time, but they walked right past him without a second glance as he flattened himself against the wall, struggling to stay on his feet and take up as little space as possible. The godfather was carrying Harry's wand, and that big trunk, with the owl cage balanced on top of it, was actually floating after him.

Dudley trailed down the steps slowly as they went back into the kitchen. He heard his mother cry, "Vernon!" with a voice full of relief, and guessed that his dad was back to his proper shape. Before he reached the kitchen door, it was flung open again and the freaks strode out. Blinking, he stood still in the middle of the front room, watching them as they headed for the door. The godfather freak went out; the trunk followed him; the other paused in the doorway with his hand on the handle and turned back, pointing his wand at Dudley.

"Obliviate."

Dudley blinked.

The front door was swinging shut, and Dudley had a funny feeling that something important had just happened, but he couldn't think what it was. He grappled with the problem for less than a second before turning toward the kitchen. He was pretty sure he hadn't eaten breakfast yet, and the nagging feeling at the back of his mind could certainly wait.

No one heard the two faint pops on the suddenly-empty front porch.

END OF CHAPTER SEVEN

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Responses:

Kitana: Thanks! You really responded to Chapter Six quickly … I think less than an hour after I put it up! Wow … well, I'm afraid that your questions must remain unanswered. :^) I don't want to spoil the plot too much – suffice it to say that not everyone is as trusting as Harry.

Giesbrecht: Oh, I'd be the first to agree that it's far, far from plausible … in fact, the idea should be on the Top Ten List of Plot Twists That Should Never be Mentioned to J.K.R. for Fear of Making Her Expire from Laughter Without Finishing Book Five. But I'm delighted you approve of Harry's reaction. Bringing a bit of enjoyment to the life of another Tolkien fan makes my day! :^)

Tarawen: Thank you! You're probably right about the 'Sirius' pronunciation … even if his parents didn't originally intend for it to sound like "serious," his friends would doubtless have latched onto the possibility for puns and general teasing and altered the pronunciation.

Jeva: Wow … you really did figure it out … you're good. :-) Grandaddy Voldie? Hmm … I like it too! Well, if you think father/son bonding is really sweet, I could try to work in a Voldemort/James bonding thing … or not. ;^) In reference to your question – I really don't know. I have a feeling that Salazar Slytherin was probably the only Founder egotistical enough to set up the whole "heir" thing, but that's only my opinion. It would be cool for them to be Gryffindor/Slytherin heirs, but I don't see that happening in this story, at least. Do I like the fact that you're typing that much? Oh, absolutely! The longer a review is, the happier I am.

Prongs: Welcome! And thank you for the nice things you've said about NHP. :-)

Tolkienite: You think it's plausible?! Really?! Wow, that's one of the nicest compliments I've ever been paid – and I do not mean that sarcastically. :^) In reference to your questions – I never actually said that Voldemort did not want Harry dead. He's merely, shall we say, a bit unnerved by Harry's seemingly boundless ability to escape from death – in short, he's afraid to try to kill Harry again. He has Other Plans … deep, dark, sinister plans, which shall be revealed in twenty or thirty chapters … (insert maniacal laughter here). You're right, though – Harry's scar would probably have twinged during his interview with Voldemort. It would not, however, have been blindingly painful. My reasoning for this is that the scar seems to hurt when Voldemort is in a murderous mood, and, during most of that discussion, he was not in a murderous mood. But I should have mentioned it – consider the omission evidence of my distressing like of omniscience.

TheNovice: Thank you! Yes, things will get … interesting … next time James and Peter meet. As regards your question: I probably didn't make that 'deal' too clear – it wasn't as if James actually made a bargain with Voldemort. In an effort to persuade James to "see the light" and join the winning side, Voldemort tried to act "nice," which involved promising James that he would not tell any of James's friends/relatives that he, James, was a Riddle rather than a Potter. That promise was the source of James's outburst in Chapter Six.

kaydee: You're right, it did come out in Chapter One – but it seems not many people picked up on it. :^) Congratulations if you figured it out! Oh, yeah, Voldemort doesn't know a thing about the Tom Riddle Diary episode, like you said. Malfoy is the only one who could really tell him … and Malfoy has no intention of doing so any time soon.

Renai: Welcome! Anyone who likes CC is definitely a discerning reviewer. Hope I updated quickly enough for you. :^)

Padfoot's Heir: Awww … *blush* Thank you!