The Spell

Some Harry Potter nonsense by BJ Edwards

Snape sat in his study, his chin resting on the steeple of his fingers, his eyes transfixed on the potions that were arrayed in a neat row on the shelf in front of him. Sighing, Snape reached out and held one of the bottles to the candlelight and shook it gently. The pale green liquid sloshed inside the glass bottle, sending little sparks of light dancing on the dungeon walls. Snape replaced the bottle on the table and picked-up another potion. The ornate, tall bottle contained ruby red liquid that seemed to froth and bubble. "To sweeten the blood." Snape whispered to himself. Snape put the bottle down and unfurled a scroll. He took a deep breath, and began to read. After a moment, irritation overcame him and he shook his head. The prep was appalling. The student, a second year boy, whose name escaped Snape, didn't even know the difference between a poison and a venom. Snape made a mental note to give the entire class detention because they were all morons, and Snape hated morons, despised people with lazy, sluggish minds. Snape's mind was a rapier, his intellect a keen blade. Most of his colleagues and all of the students had broom handles for brains –dull and blunt. Snape got to his feet and paced the grey flagstones. He stopped, his dark eyes resting on a bookshelf. He took down an ancient book that was bound in dark green dragon skin. He opened it and the old velum creaked. The book, 'Taming The Dark: A Guide To Forbidden Potions by Maluchia The 4th' was one of Snape's most treasured possessions. A gift from his grandfather, it had never left Snape's side. Even as a child at Hogwart's, Snape had loved it, marvelling at its illustrations and archaic and beautiful language. He rested his eyes on a passage, and he felt his heart beat slow, his muscles relax. The passage, one he had read a hundred times over the past few years, spoke of another, older book by Maluchia the 2nd. This tome, Snape knew, was too dangerous for the school library, even the forbidden section. This book could only be found in Dumbledore's private collection. Snape closed the book with a snap. Dust puffed into the air, and Snape replaced the book on its shelf. He would have to bide his time. The old fool wasn't going to just let him borrow it, it was too special, too rare and precious. The book, 'Potions Of Dusk And Night' would have to be stolen, and to steel it, Snape had to wait for Dumbledore to be away at the inter wizarding chess tournament in Austria, where he was to defend his title.

Snape sat down heavily in his favourite armchair, closed his eyes, and filled his head with glorious thoughts of detentions, punishments, and snow. Deep, crisp, white snow, that would, in a few short weeks, cover the castle and its grounds. Snape liked snow. It told no lies – it betrayed everyone. No non-magic person can pass through snow without their footprints telling a tale. No non-magic person can pass soundlessly through snow. And no non-magic person can look at snow without romance blossoming in their heart. When Snape looked at snow, he saw an ingredient. Melted snow was a fantastic conductor of magic and was the basis of many of his potions. One potion in particular, Cafinalis, called for snow-water, three fairy tongues, oak leaf, holly berries, powdered Nasdar horn and seven werewolf whiskers. The potion can only be brewed under a moonless sky and distilled on the winter solstice. The result, a magnificent and simple liquid that turns off the pain receptors in the brain, allowing the drinker to do all kinds of seemingly miraculous things. But, for Snape, the snow signified another propitious event. Snow meant Christmas, and Christmas meant an empty, or close to empty school – something that he relished. Peace, quiet, calm. No shouting, chattering children, no crazy hormones. No... Snape tore his mind away from the cul-de-sac in which it was venturing. "In three weeks. "he breathed. "I will have the book, the potion and Hogwarts will be safe."

Harry sat in the common room, the fire blazing cheerfully, the moonlight hugging the windows. He felt pleasantly full after dinner. Roast beef, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, cauliflower cheese and vegetables, followed by sticky toffee pudding and thick yellow custard, all washed down with a tankard of pumpkin juice. Harry felt relieved, he had finished his prep, had finished Quiddich practice and now had the evening to himself. Harry loved to fly in the winter. Soaring in the cold, starry sky, the trees below glinting with frost, darting in and out of turrets and towers, icicles glinting. The great lake a silver mirror, the Forbidden Forest a blanket of cotton wool.

"All right Harry?" Harry twitched slightly. He hadn't notice the boy come into the common room and sit down.

"Oh, yes, fine thanks. You?"

"Very well thanks Harry." The boy fixed him with a myopic stare. He was a first year, but Harry couldn't remember his name. "Hagrid asked me to ask you if you wanted to come to tea tomorrow."

"Oh, Ok, thanks."

"That's Ok Harry." The small, blonde boy smiled. "I just saw Hagrid in the Great Hall. That's when he asked me to ask you."

"I see." Harry yawned, wishing he had gone with Hermione to the library.

"I mean," the boy continued. "If Hagrid had seen you, he'd have asked you himself. He wouldn't have asked me to ask you, that would have been a little strange."

"Of course." Harry mused.

"I'm going to do my prep now." The boy sighed.

"Ok." Harry said cheerfully.

"Can I get you anything Harry? Anything at all?" Harry shook his head. "A drink? Some food?"

"No."

"I don't mind Harry."

"What's your name?" Harry asked, irritation beginning to build inside him.

"Malcolm Gladwell."

"Go away Malcolm. I want some peace and quiet." Malcolm nodded and swallowed nervously.

"Only, I mean, I want you to know that I don't believe what they say about you."

"Oh?"

"I don't. They're lying."

"What is it they say about me?"

"That you are... well, I mean, some people say you're not very, well, nice." Harry scowled at the fidgeting boy.

"And who says these things?" Harry asked coldly.

"I, I can't remember." Malcolm's bottom lip began to tremble.

"Don't cry," Harry said, patting his shoulder. A fat tear oozed down Malcolm's cheek. "Go away now Malcolm." Malcolm backed away and stumbled into a chair and sat down heavily. "I asked you nicely." Harry said. Without a second thought, Harry flicked his wrist and muttered the word, "Crucio!" Malcolm screamed and Harry smiled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, students, staff." Dumbledore began. He wore a blue caftan, and on his head rested a fez at a jaunty angle. His robes sparkled with glittering stars and moons, and his beard shone bright white in the watery sunlight. There was silence. Everybody stopped eating their breakfasts and put down their cutlery. "This morning," Dumbledore continued. "I am going to Austria. I will defend the honour of our school, and my title." The hall erupted in applause. "Thank you. Enjoy your breakfasts." He smiled and strode out of the hall.

Snape was secretly afraid of Harry. Not just because he was unpredictable and strong, but because he reminded him so much of his father, James. Snape hated the way Harry swaggered down the corridors, his sycophantic friends, Ron Wheasley and Draco Malfoy always by his side. Everyone seemed to be deluded enough to believe the hype. So what if Harry was quite good at wand work. During his Legitimancy sessions, Snape had sensed darkness within Harry. A thinly veiled vortex of evil that was aching to be released. Snape knew, that given time, Harry would eventually lose control, his mask would slip, and he would wreak havoc and destroy the wizarding world as Snape knew it. Snape had spoken to Dumbledore, had pleaded with him to do something, but the headmaster had just smiled and offered Snape a toffee. Frustrated, Snape had ran to his study and in darkness, decided that he would be the one to destroy Harry before his cult grew.

The defence against the dark arts teacher, Sir Galvos Pelanor stood in the centre of the classroom, his beautiful dark green armour shining. He was a rarity, the first half-blood teacher to work at Hogwarts. A tall, strong man who had a knack of making lessons interesting.

"So," he began, taking off his great helm and placing it on the desk in front of him. He never wore robes, only armour. He was proud of his heritage, one of the few magical knights who helped fight the great Darkness in the first scourge. "So, what happens if you lose your wand in combat?" A forest of hands shot in the air. "Miss Granger." Hermione smiled shyly.

"If you're a good enough wizard, you don't need a wand."

"True. But many of us need wands to amplify our magic."

"You fight." Harry offered, noticing Hermione's red cheeks.

"Indeed. Come class, we go to the Room Of Requirement." Sir Pelanor left the classroom, his students trooping after him.

The room was bare, apart from marble benches that ringed the walls. The students took their seats and Sir Pelanor stood in the centre of the room, the floor covered in sand. The walls and ceilings were invisible – all that could be seen was blue sky above and all around. It was as if they were in a floating amphitheatre that hung in the blue, winter sky.

"Duelling," Sir Pelanor cleared his throat. "Isn't just about wands and magic. Some creatures, such as the mighty Grandak can drain a wizard's magic in an instant. If that happens, you only have your body, and if you're lucky, a blade. We're make it easy. Jonson, you first." Simon K. Jonson, a tall, muscular boy, strode to the centre of the ring. Sir Pelanor waved his wand, and Jonson was covered in plate armour, a great sword in his hand. Sir Pelanor toyed with the boy, like a lion with a mouse, his sword moving in silver patterns like a tiny comet. Sensing his students' were becoming bored, Sir Pelanor tripped Jonson and put the tip of his sword against his throat. "Well done! good work." Pelanor said good heartedly and helped the boy up. The students paired-off and sparred with blunt swords. Sir Pelanor guided them and gave comment, improving their form and technique.

"Right." Sir Pelanor began. "Stand down. Next week we're return to unarmed combat. The week after, we'll fight real monsters." Sweating and chatting, the class filed out. Apart from Hermione who stood demurely by and watched Sir Pelanor collect the training swords.

"Excuse me." She cleared her throat. A lock of hair stuck to her forehead and she perspired gently.

"Miss Granger, how can I serve you?"

"Will you show me a move please sir. There's a boy, he... well, he likes me a bit too much if you get my meaning." Sir Pelanor did indeed get her meaning. His life in service had been dedicated to defending damsels and protecting honour. Slowly, he took off his armour and stood in the centre of the sand wearing only an under shirt and long under trousers. Hermione stood in front of him in her under slip. "Grab me." Sir Pelanor said. She grabbed his wrist and instantly found herself on her back in the sand. Sir Pelanor moved quickly, his body heavy and hard, he came to his knees and pinned her with his chest. "You need more practice." He whispered. Hermione smiled up at him.

Harry and Ron sat in their History Of Magical Creatures lesson, bored and tired. The teacher, professor Melissa Trundle, stood in front of the black board, her small blue eyes watery. Her grey robe was new, her white hair trailing down her back and over the floor. In it was secreted a variety of wands, sticks of chalk and quills. Whenever she needed something, she simply gathered in her hair and fished out watt she required, then let the hair go, to trail once more behind her like an immense white snake.

"SO," she smiled. "We know all about griffins, unicorns and Muldigrims. Any questions?"

"What about Centaurs?" Ron asked.

"What about them?"

"Where do they come from?"

"Good question" Neville grinned.

"Centaurs are half man, half horse. There are lots of creatures like them in mythology. You can work it out for yourselves."

"We can't. We need your help Professor." Harry said politely.

"If you insist." She puffed her cheeks and shrugged her narrow shoulders. "Long ago a woman had sex with a horse."

"Must have hurt." A girl whispered. Giggles filled the room, but the professor did her best to ignore it.

"And, for some inexplicable reason, long ago, a woman had a baby and it became a centaur."

"What about Mer people?" Neville asked.

"Same."

"Somebody shagged a fish!" Ron laughed.

"That's enough!" She had tried to separate Harry and Ron, make them sit apart, but it never quite worked. She was used to fielding difficult questions, but never in her seventy-years of teaching had she known such insolence. "Next lesson we will learn about The Voldemort." The class fell silent, every eye looking at her. "They are rare, only five have been known. They are powerful, they are very dangerous." Questioning hands rose into the air. "Save your questions. Now be gone to your next class." The students filed out noisily, and Professor Trundle sighed.

"Hello Harry, hello Ron." Luna smiled.

"Hi Loony." Ron said good naturedly.

"Have you seen my Sentalaks, I seem to have lost them?"

"What are Sentalaks?" Harry asked.

"Little creatures who live in puddles of sunlight. Their cousins, the Mantaleks live in puddles of moonlight. At noon, the Sentalaks dance. If you're very quiet you can hear their music. I had a family as pets. They lead short but beautiful lives."

"Sorry Luna, but you're mental and I have no idea what you're on about!" Ron shook his head.

"That's Ok Ron. I know you don't like me, but if you see a Sentalak, let me know." With this, Luna skipped away, humming. Harry and Ron shrugged and grinned at each other, rolling their eyes.

"Potter, Wheasley!" A brawny, blonde boy in a Slithrin robe, barrelled towards them.

"Hi Draco!" Harry hugged Draco Malfoy enthusiastically.

"Are you both up for a little fun tomorrow?"

"Course!" Ron beamed. "Hogsmead, here we come!"

Candles burned in Christmas trees, and the snow lay thick. People wrapped in scarves and gloves, carried packages and bags, their breaths steam in the cold air. Carol singers sun and mince pies were washed down by hot punch. The residence of Hogsmead gave the three friends a wide birth as they walked down the lamp-lit street. They knew that when Potter, Wheasley and Malfoy were in the village, trouble was never far behind them.

"Zonko's first." Ron asked.

"Aren't we a bit old for jokes?" Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Never!" Ron said, and pushed Draco playfully into a snow drift.

"We're not going to Zonkos today, or any other shop." Harry said.

"Why?" Ron got to his feet, a snowball in his hand.

"Because," Harry said, waving his hand and making the snowball explode in a cloud of powder before Ron could throw it. Ron stared, open-mouthed at the air in front of his face. It seemed to crackle with energy and potential.

"Shit Harry, no wand!"

"I haven't needed a wand for two years. I just use it to keep the professors happy."

"That's power!" Draco said, slapping Harry on the back.

"So," Ron began, recovering. "Where are we going?"

"I'm fed-up with butter beer and children." Harry intoned.

"Me too!" Draco agreed.

"So, we're going to a pub. A Muggle pub." Ron and Draco stopped dead, their mouths open in consternation.

"But Harry, it's not aloud."

"We're seventeen and we haven't even had a drink yet. Come on Ron, let's live a little!"

"How, where?" Draco asked.

"The nearest village is Thistlemoor. It's ten miles away."

"No way!"Ron said, folding his arms across his chest. "It's cold. It's winter. We'll probably get lost and die."

"Pussy!" Draco smiled.

"Here we are." Harry said, pointing to a snowman at the side of the pavement. On his head he wore a dunces cap, and around his neck was wound a Ravenclaw scarf.

"Here we are, what?" Draco said.

"A port key. Everyone, welcome to Thistlemoor." Harry touched the scarf and it glowed with a golden light. He grabbed Ron and Draco's wrists, and they disappeared.

Dumbledore sat in a chalet with the three major mages of his order, Caspian, Jericho and Jax. They sipped thick, Swiss chocolate and ate thick slices of chocolate torte.

"Congratulations once again," Caspian said, his bolt head shining in the lamp light. Dumbledore smiled and sipped his drink.

"Thank you Caspian. I do so enjoy a little game of chess."

"And your students, how did they fair?" Jericho asked, his curly blonde hair falling to his waist.

"Very well indeed. In fact, two of them won. Which is miraculous, given the fact that I only taught them the game a month ago."

"Miraculous indeed," Caspian smiled. "Considering there was no chess tournament."

"Very good!" Jericho laughed. Jax sat as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on an invisible point somewhere up the mountain.

"I must go soon." Dumbledore yawned. "It has been most productive gentleman. Thank you for your hospitality.

"Our pleasure," Jax said, his voice soft. He got to his feet, his black and red robe flowing, his enormous shoulders filling the rustic space. "Thank you for this meeting. The information you have gifted us, will be put to good use."

"Let us hope that what we have learned will never come to pass." Jericho whispered.

"Agreed." Caspian shrugged.

"Here in the mountains, close beneath the sky, where the sun and moon kiss the crests with silver and gold lips, the magic is strong. It is the way of our order to watch and learn, we only act when there is no choice." Jax said.

"Yes." Dumbledore got to his feet. "Action is best observed, rather than indulged. I give you information, we will see what is to come." The three wizards bowed and kissed Dumbledore's hand, a mark of deep respect and love for their leader and founder.

"There is dragon fire in your veins!" Sir Pelanor laughed, deflecting a dagger thrust and ducking away from a flying fist. As gently as he could, Pelanor threw a jab. Hermione was forced to nod her head, giving Pelanor the perfect opening. Deftly, he grabbed her left elbow and pushed her right shoulder, his left foot pushing her right foot. Her body rocked, her centre of gravity shifted, and she fell. She summoned her wand, and it flew across the room and smacked into her hand. Green and blue light fizzed out of it and Pelanor was forced to retreat. Hermione advanced, a bright white bolt of energy slammed into Pelanor's kidneys and he doubled-up in agony. He fought the pain and gathered his own wand, and still Hermione advanced. He tried the Foundation Five, the basic combat spells, but Hermione's wand work was too good. Pelanor was forced to disarm her, and he did. Hermione's wand fell from her grasp as Pelanor made a pentagram of light that spun towards her and disgorged a white ball of energy that made Hermione's muscles relax. She lay on the floor, her eyes closed, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Pelanor sat next to her, her head in his lap. He stroked her hair gently and she reminded him of Eleanora, his late wife, a beautiful woman who had been slain by James Potter before Dumbledore made the very earth shake with his rage. James and Lily Potter, the killers. The leader of the cult of The Death Eaters. A marauding group of psychopaths who wanted all Mud Bloods – half wizards, half humans, to die. Their slogan, "Purify to unify." They were gone now though, thankfully Kingsley Shacklebolt and Dumbledore and his order of Grand Mages, had hunted them down and destroyed them. Then, according to legend and rumour, Dumbledore had gone mad. But, Pelanor didn't believe this. Pelanor thought that Dumbledore was as sane as they come. But, this didn't explain why Harry Potter, the son of James Potter was allowed to haunt Hogwarts. Of course, Harry didn't know anything about his parents. The Ministry Of Magic had successfully covered everything up. As far as Harry knew, he was an orphan and had no connection whatsoever with the twenty-years of chaos called "The Cleansing."

"Don't stop." Hermione said. Pelanor cleared his throat and moved his hands away. "It's nice."

"Sorry Hermione. It, I mean, everything got out of hand. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I enjoyed it." Hermione said quietly. "Kiss me.. Pelanor's heart threatened to beat out of his chest. His code was being tested, his moral fibre stretched. He was a professor and a knight, a man of arms and magic, honour and deeds. She, she was a seventeen-year-old student in his care.

"I cannot." He said. "I want to, but I cannot." Hermione reached up and stroked his cheek.

"Please." She whispered.

"What the fuck are you three wearing!" the man said. He stood outside the pub, smoking a cigarette. It looked like a nice, welcoming old building, surrounded by fir trees. Laughter and chatter spilled from the pub, and a Christmas tree illuminated the frosty ground. Harry, Ron and Draco looked at each other, then looked at the man. He wore a pair of jeans and a thick jumper. The three friends wore wizard's robes and hats against the cold. Harry knew the man was mocking them because they looked different. Part of Harry knew it wasn't the Muggle's fault, but the other part, the greater part, felt humiliated and angry. "It's not sodding Halloween!" the man laughed, puffing on his stinking cigarette.

"Come on Harry, let's go." Ron said gently.

"No." Harry said firmly, fighting to control the tsunami of anger that threatened to drown him. Thankfully, the man finished his cigarette, put the butt in the bin and stepped inside the pub.

"What are we going to do?" Draco asked.

"We'll just take off our hats and robes and walk in." Harry said confidently.

"That's why I like her so much," Harry slurred. "She's smart and crazy. Spends far too much time with Pelanor though." Ron and Draco looked at each other, and Harry finished his pint. Because neither of them had Muggle coins, Harry cast a glamour on the barman. Every time Harry went to the bar, the barman thought, or rather, was sure, Harry had paid. This meant that drinks flowed freely and intoxication was insured.

"Pelanor's a Mud Blood." Draco said.

"Shouldn't say that mate," Ron said. "It's not right. Kind of discriminatory."

"What did you say?" Harry grabbed Draco's wrist.

"He's a half blood." Harry paled.

"So what!" Ron shook his head.

"And he's teaching u!" Harry trembled with outrage.

"She's an amazing witch." Draco slurred, sipping a glass of single malt.

"Yep," Ron said dreamily. "I wish I was half as good as her."

"I want her." Harry intoned.

"Come again?"Draco said.

"I will have her."

"Define, have." Ron said, sipping his lager.

"Do I need to draw you a diagram?" Harry chuckled. Ron smiled and Draco shook his head. "What's wrong with you Malfoy?" Harry asked.

"I reckon old Pelanor got there first."

"Don't be daft, he's a teacher!" Ron smiled.

"I know, but no smoke without fire." Harry brooded, his eyes distant, his face set. Then, suddenly he sprang to his feet and went to the bar.

"Drinks!"Harry said, carrying a tray of shots. "Oh, and Draco, don't ever say anything like that again, do you understand?"

"Like what?"

"About Hermione and Pelanor. It's rubbish, do you understand?" Draco nodded his head. "Because I'm going to have her."

"Will you use magic Harry?" Ron slurred, his eyes unfocussed.

"Maybe." Harry said, downing a shot and trying hard to fight the nausea. Ron was about to say something, when the man from outside walked past.

"Trick Or Treat!"he laughed and tapped Harry on the shoulder. Something inside Harry snapped. Slowly, he got to his feet and looked into the man's face. Harry's fingers twitched and the man's heart convulsed in his body, filling his chest with blood. With a surprised expression, the man sank to the floor, dead before his head smashed into the edge of the table. Ron and Draco looked revolted, and were about to say something when Harry heard laughter from the other end of the bar. He was convinced that they were laughing at him, and his blood boiled. A middle aged man with a smile on his face flew through the air and thudded into the wall. A moment later, a streak of red light hit him and blood poured from his ears and eyes. The pub went quiet, every eye in the room boring into Harry's flat gaze. Green sparks erupted from Harry's fingertips and the beams began to creak and groan. His wand now in his hand, the tip glowing, Harry painted purple and crimson sparks in the air and the beams fell, crushing and maiming. Sluggish from alcohol, Ron and Draco were slow to react. Harry, his mind as keen as a new blade, pushed his friends through the door with a wave of energy. They half ran, half fell into the Christmas tree. Harry grabbed the port key, a candy cane, and the three of them disappeared.

Snape stood in Dumbledore's study, a small, black book clutched in his hands. He froze, something shifted in the shadows. He raised his wand, then lowered it when a familiar figure stepped forward.

"Severus, what are you doing?"

"Minerva, let me go."

"The head master will be back tomorrow."

"Dumbledore is old, and indecisive."."

"Maybe, maybe not." McGonagall said, taking a seat in a leather armchair. "I have learned not to take Dumbledore's words seriously, but his deeds... I take those very seriously indeed."

"Don't make me use my wand." Snape said wearily.

"You intend to go through with it?"

"Yes." Snape nodded. "Potter has grown too strong, too dangerous."

"Yes." McGonagall said. She looked tired, her face haggard.

"We can no longer contain him, protect the world from him. We have failed."

"Severus, wait, we can talk to Dumbledore, maybe there is another way."

"We both know there is not." Snape sighed.

"You are going to raise the Voldemort?"

"Yes, it's the only way. He is powerful enough to defeat Potter. If we wait any longer, even a Voldemort will not be strong enough."

"And what about Dumbledore's order? Jax, Caspian..."

"What about it?" Snape cut in.

"Surely they can subdue Potter?"

"No." Snape said flatly. "They cannot."

"There must be another way." McGonagall played with the hem of her robe, stretching and tugging it nervously.

"I don't think there is."

"How long?"

"Mid winter."

"Be careful Severus." McGonagall said. Snape looked at her, a tear clinging to the corner of his eye.

"I will." He said. McGonagall got to her feet and planted a tender kiss on his lips.

"The pictures are frozen, the phoenix asleep. I will not tell Dumbledore. Go Severus. Take my broom."

Sir Pelanor stroked the scabbard of his favourite sword. With a heavy heart, he put it in his trunk along with his armour, books and other weapons. He was leaving, going to a monastery in Ireland to atone for his thoughts. He had come perilously close to dishonouring Hermione. He had fought the hardest battle, the battle with himself. Proudly, he had won, but it had been a difficult victory. He had wanted so much to touch her, to... he shook his head and glanced around his room for the last time. He had written the head master a scroll, had left it outside his study. In it, Pelanor had explained everything, every detail. He had no secrets from Dumbledore, none at all. Pelanor had even explained how her hair had smelled, and how much he yearned to be with her. He explained to Dumbledore that he was in love with her, and must leave. And now, mid-night beckoning, he made his way out of his room, out of the castle and into the night.

Sweating and panicking, tears running down their cheeks, Ron and Draco stumbled towards Hogwarts. Harry walked casually ahead of them, a slight smile playing on his lips. He felt calm and at ease, his heart rate slow, his breathing controlled. He gazed at the starry sky and then at the turrets and towers of the great castle, the moonlight spilling over the parapets and spires, casting the landscape in a pale, ethereal glow. Harry saw all these things but took no pleasure from them. He saw them in a cold, calculating way, rather like a snake weighing-up the relative attributes of its prey. Sir Pelanor, his mind elsewhere, walked away from the castle. He marvelled at the beauty of the night, a Snowy owl moving like a silent ghost over the trees. His heart was heavy; he regretted so much and wished his life had been different. He knew the Potter boy was at Hogwarts when he took up the teaching post. Pelanor and Dumbledore had discussed it for hours, getting through piles of crumpets and pots and pots of tea.

"You should have been in your rooms hours ago!" Pelanor said. "Where have you been?" Harry stood as still as a statue. "Harry, are you well?" Pelanor asked.

"Ron, Draco, go ahead of me. Use the opening charm I taught you to get into the castle. Go to bed and everything will be fine, I'll make sure of it." Nervously, Ron and Draco shambled away, leaving Pelanor and Harry to stare at each other.

"You've been drinking!" Pelanor said with consternation.

"How was it? Go on, tell me. What was it like?"

"Go to bed Harry."

"Do not patronise me!" Harry shouted.

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Hermione. You and Hermione. I'll go to the Ministry, get you sacked, sent to Azkaban."

"For what?" Pelanor said levelly.

"For touching her. She's mine."

"Hermione is neither yours or mine. For your information Mr Potter, I haven't touched her, not in the way you mean. That is why I am leaving, because I am a man of honour. Miss Granger is a witch of rare ability. She has the heart of a dragon and I wish her long life and happiness."

"I don't believe you." Harry said quietly. "You know I like her, you're just humouring me, lying to me."

"No Harry, I a am not." Pelanor said gently, touching Harry's arm. "Come on, everything can be mended when the sun rises."

"No." Harry said flatly. "This can't be mended. You're one of them, one of the watchers. One of the special wizards sent to tame me."

"No Harry." Pelanor shook his head. "I'm here to make sure everyone is safe."

"No." Harry breathed. "You're lying. You're just a filthy Mud Blood!" With this, Harry took out his wand.

Hermione couldn't sleep. For the first time in her young life she knew what a broken heart felt like. Logically, she knew that the relationship was doomed – he was a knight, a teacher, and she a student. But, in the three years she had known Sir Pelanor, her feelings had grown, had blossomed into friendship, admiration and love. She enjoyed every moment she spent with him. He was strong and gentle, kind and bold. She thought about him all the time and wanted just one thing – she wanted him to make love to her. But, honour had one the day, and now Hermione stood in her room and gazed out at the night, tears streaking down her face. Pelanor had been her best, her only secret, and now she had nothing but books and scrolls. She closed her eyes, and then opened them again. Something moved in the grounds far below. Two dark shapes against the bright snow. Streaks of light, the sound of struggle. Hermione blinked and shook her head. She grabbed her mini telescope from her bed-side table, her owl watching accessory, and put it to her eye. When she recognised the people in the snow, she gasped. Without a moment's hesitation, she dressed hastily, grabbed her wand, and ran.

Snape stood in the misty gloom, the end of his wand glowing gently. He picked his way through ancient gravestone and weathered monument. Here a statue of a long dead witch, wand raised to the heavens. there a moss-covered statue of a long forgotten wizard, sitting in a marble thrown. It was an eerie place, even for Snape. Shadows seemed to gather and move, skeletal trees swayed in the breeze, and the clouds covered the moon. Eventually he found the mausoleum, a squat, round building made of black Onyx that shone dimly. He put his wand against the door, and heard a click. He put his shoulder to the door and walked down a flight of damp, timeworn steps. There it was, a black sarcophagus, resting in a pool of dark water. He looked at the floor's grey flagstones – one more step and it would happen. He took one more step, and it happened. Out of the darkness figures glided, each hooded and featureless. Snape knew that even now, they were probing his mind, looking for weak points, areas of leverage. Snape was a skilled legitimens, and fought hard to keep their probing thoughts at bay. The robed figures stood in front of the pool and pointed their obsidian bladed daggers at Snape. Snape knew that every spell he ever knew, would be pointless against this adversary. They were Black Guardians, the most powerful of all Dementors. One touch of obsidian, one probing thought could send you insane, or cause you to take your own life. But Snape had learned from the book, had taken the potion to sweeten his blood, and learned the incantation. Silently, Snape muttered the lost and secret words and the guardians melted away, leaving Snape alone in the dripping tomb. Snape raised the sarcophagus from the pool and it rested on its chains at the level of his chest. He knew that there were charms and wards of protection. Ancient and strong magic to protect the sarcophagus, but Snape, with deft wand-work and concentration, disarmed them. Slowly, the lid smoked and cracked. Lumps of stone fell fizzing into the water and Snape gazed into the broken lid at what lay beneath.

"I awaken you. I entreat you. I beg you. I ask you. Take the sacrament, the flesh and blood. Do my bidding." Snape whispered. The shifting mass of semi-putrefied tissue moved. Inside it an eye opened and dust turned to bone. "You are quiet in your rest, at peace in the dusk of your dreams." Snape continued. "Rise once more and obey." The mass writhed and slithered. Cartilage and blood oozed and skin grew. Snape took an obsidian athame from his robes and held it up to his glowing wand. It was wickedly sharp and as dangerous as a Cretalion shark tooth. He closed his eyes and slit his own throat, sending feathers of blood pumping into the sarcophagus. Somewhere in the mass, a tongue was born, a tongue that lapped and licked hungrily. Snape fell to the damp floor, his throat a gory mess. With the last of his strength he muttered the word Dumbledore, before he took his wand and performed the charm of binding. Snape lay dead in the tomb, and inside the sarcophagus, sinews, tendons and bones knit together. Blood vessels grew, and consciousness returned from the dark pool in which it was sleeping.

Pelanor fought hard, his weapons abandoned, forced to use magic, he was tiring, his muscles burning, his senses screaming. He had asked Harry to be honourable, to use sword, dagger or lance, but Harry had sneered derisively and cast a killing spell that Pelanor blocked with his kite shield. They had circled each other, Pelanor's wand raised defensively, and Harry's wand held casually at his side. Pelanor had asked for unarmed combat, fists and wrestling. In reply, Harry had cast two spells simultaneously, one crackled from his wand, and one from his fingertips that fluttered in front of his face. Searing pain scorched Pelanor and his head was filled with pressure. With a massive effort of will, he fought off the crushing wave, and stood fast, his feet planted in the snow.

"You're a dirty Mud Blood bastard." Harry whispered. Pelanor didn't have the breath to reply. Instead, he focussed, tried to summon the memory of his training as combat Mage. He held his wand as if it were a sword. Out of the tip of the wand, a blazing blade extended, a golden lance of light that scorched the snow and made it steam. He advanced on Harry and attacked, forcing him to defend himself with spell after spell. Pelanor moved with skill and dexterity, the flaming blade arcing through the night in dizzying patterns. Eventually, the end of the blade hit Harry's forehead and made the flesh sizzle. Harry screamed and clapped a hand to the burning wound. He shook his head with disbelief, nobody had ever hurt him before. Nobody had ever dared. Pelanor regarded Harry with interest. The boy trembled, sweat erupting from his face, the lightning-shaped scar angry and red. Harry shrugged off his robe and dropped his wand in the snow. Pelanor's wand flew from his hand and Harry raised his hands. The spell came suddenly and violently from behind him. A blazing and perfect Expelliarmus that sent Harry flying. Pelanor shook his head, and then saw Hermione in all her raging glory. She sent another spell, then another, cracking fire and pure intention making the air smell of ozone and power. Pelanor aloud himself a smile as he and the wild-haired girl attacked.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt afraid. He could feel their anger and their magic. He had to dig deep, to concentrate on the moment, employ every tactic he knew to stay on his feet. Then, in a slight loll in the battle, he knew what he must do. In his mind and in his soul he said the words and his Patronum grew. A misty, silver shape began to form, a giant scorpion, both corporeal and non-corporeal scurried along the ground, its stinger raised. Pelanor unsheathed his sword, and for a moment, Harry admired the half breeds valour. Harry sunk to the ground and watched, a half smile on his face, as his patronum struck. The scorpion, a thing of mist and shadow, part flesh, part nightmare, sent its stinger lancing through the air and into Pelanor's chest. The poison, both real and imagined, pumped into Pelanor's veins and mind and he fell back, his face damp under the winter sky. Hermione rushed to his side and cradled the knight's head, tears spilling. The ghastly scorpion retreated and Harry walked away, leaving Hermione to her grief, and Pelanor to his death.

They sat in the hall, silent and sombre. They had all liked Sir Pelanor, his lessons were always fun, and his skill and knowledge unsurpassed. McGonagall had told them the news, her sad eyes and stern face delivering the facts in clipped, no nonsense syllables. Over eggs and bacon, Ron and Draco conversed in hushed whispers, wondering why Harry was nowhere to be seen. The doors opened and Dumbledore strode in. He wore a leopard print robe and pink and gold cloak. On his head a top hat. "Chess," he boomed. "Is a good game. You are looking at the first wizard to defend his title for the twenty-third time!" a shower of chocolate chess pieces fell from the ceiling, white chocolate and dark chocolate pawns, bishops, rooks, knights, kings and queens. Dumbledore looked around the hall, and his smile faltered. McGonagall stood with the other staff, her arms crossed, her eyes downcast. He nodded courtly at her and strode out of the hall.

"He attacked a Muggle public house and murdered a teacher." McGonagall began. Dumbledore disrobed and changed into the midnight blue robes of his order. He sat in a carved wooden chair and looked regal and powerful. All traces of his public persona evaporated. "He was with Wheasley and Malfoy." McGonagall finished. Dumbledore considered her with a full and frank gaze, his blue eyes soulful and compassionate.

"I am sorry." He shook his head slowly. "We made a mistake. We tried to see the good in him, tried to insulate him from himself. There is too much of his father in him, and now we reach the last resort."

"Snape..." McGonagall began.

"I know." Dumbledore said, his Phoenix fluttering down and landing on the back rest of his ornate chair. Somewhere in the study a clock ticked and a machine whirred.

"I have sent Auras to look for Potter. Kingsley, Rosetta, Tonks, Malcanta and Michaels."

"And when they find him?" McGonagall shrugged and looked at the floor. "How is Miss Granger?"

"In the infirmary. She is exhausted."

"I do not advocate relations between students and teachers, but, between you and me Minerva, they would have made a handsome pair." McGonagall struck a tear from her eye.

"What now Albus?"

"We wait."

They shot through the sky in perfect attack formation, five silhouettes streaking through the clouds. Kingsley flew point, his broom angled downwards, darting through the clouds, the countryside a perfect patchwork, far below. He could still just about see him, a speck on the horizon, a black crow that bobbed and weaved.

"We will catch him." Kingsley shouted, the wind whipping his words away and scattering them. "Pattern Delta." He said, and accelerated.

They circled and dive, bobbed and weaved. Sometimes Harry was in the centre, the Auras moving around him in ever decreasing circles, and sometimes Harry circled them, trying to bunch them together. They split, five brooms streaking high and coming out of the sun like fighter planes. Harry ascended, climbing the sky vertically, the G-forces making him feel sick. They came at him, three from below and two, impossibly from above. He panicked, sending his broom in a spin. They opened fire, five wands, five streaming bolts like bullets honing in on him. He remembered all the hours on the Quiddichh pitch and kicked his broom into a looping falcon stoop. The spells broke around him and zoomed past him, hitting two of the Auras in friendly fire. Harry heard screaming, and glimpsed two bodies cart wheeling helplessly to the ground thousands of feet below him. Harry flew low, skimming the trees and buildings. Two of them were on his tail, and he knew that the only way to succeed was to take the fight to the ground. He hated to admit it, but they were better flyers than he was, and every second he spent on his broom was a borrowed one.

"It's Ok Harry," Kingsley said. "We just want to talk to you. Take you back to Hogwarts."

"No." Harry said flatly, "You want to punish me.". Kingsley grinned and manoeuvred his broom so he was just above him. He could tell that the boy was flagging, getting more and more tired. Shacklebolt gave a hand signal and the other two Auras took-up their positions and flanked Harry. Harry smiled to himself ruefully. Once again they had under-estimated him, thought him incapable. Gripping his broom with only his legs, Harry cast a spell and Michael's and Tonk's brooms burst into green flames. Kingsley peeled away at the last possible second and watched with horror. There was nothing he could do, his friends were already dead. He reached into his robes and pulled out a silver Snitch. It buzzed and vibrated in his hands. With a wave of his wand he threw the ball into the air and it disappeared. He kicked his broom into a steep turn and fled away into the clouds.

Exhausted, Kingsley Shacklebolt slumped on a sofa in Dumbledore's study, a glass of brandy in his trembling hand.

"He is very powerful. Yes, sir, very powerful indeed." He drained his glass and Dumbledore offered him a burger on a silver plate. Kingsley bit into it hungrily. He chewed gratefully and closed his eyes.

"Report." Dumbledore said, pouring more brandy.

"All gone." Dumbledore nodded grimly. "But..." Kingsley extracted a small role of parchment from his robe. "The invisible Snitch is following him. We can see where he is." Kingsley lay the parchment on the table and they gazed at the picture that was sketched on it.

"I see." Dumbledore breathed. "A stone circle. Probably Magnabra."

"Professor..." Kingsley said, pointing to the parchment. The ink shifted, a new sketch was being hastily drawn. It depicted Harry standing in the centre of the stone circle, surrounded by what appeared to be smoke.

"At last we know." Dumbledore sighed.

"What do we know?" Kingsley asked, rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes with the heel of his hands. Dumbledore strode across his study to a picture of a snowy mountain range beneath a starry sky. He tapped the frame with a fingertip and a large, tall wizard appeared.

"Jax, it is time." Jax nodded smartly and disappeared.

Fingers gripped the side of the sarcophagus, then, the top of a head appeared, followed by a face. With effort, the creature heaved himself out of the sarcophagus and stumbled to Snapes side. The creature moved jerkily, as if walking was new and strange to him. On all fours, he lapped and sucked at the bloody wound in Snapes throat. It was as tall as a six year old child, a fragile skeleton covered in delicate, grey skin. Every bone could be seen, and the delicate tracery of blood vessels made a purple map. The creature tapped the stone with a bony knuckle and a slab slid aside to reveal a dark hole. The creature crawled to the hole, manoeuvred himself and made his way into it. His fingertips gripped the edge of the hole, and his body dangled. He let go and dropped ten feet to the tunnel below. Crawling again, too fatigued to walk normally, he reached a wooden door. With all his strength he pushed to door until it was open enough for him to squeeze through.

The creature, an ancestor of the house Elf, a servant and friend to his master, spent most of his time dead. Death meant little to him, because he didn't believe in death. Death to him, was just another nap. A dreamless sleep he slipped into until he was required.

"Welcome my friend!" the voice came out of the darkness, a familiar voice, rich and resonant as a Glorm horn. The creature, whose name had long since been forgotten, opened his eyes and was greeted by a blazing fire in an opulent and spacious room. The creature shuffled towards the fire and leaned on one of the chairs that were arrayed around the cheerful fireplace. Wordlessly, the creature pointed to its mouth. A pale hand held out a bronze goblet, and the creature spat a mouthful of blood into it. The man sipped and swallowed. "It is sweet and pure." He said. "Did he pass the guardians and release you with words?" the creature nodded his skull-like head. "Am I to be bound?"

"Yes," the creature said, a whispering, quiet voice that sounded like leaves being played with by the breeze.

"Share the names of he who binds, and whom I am bound to obey."

"Snape, Dumbledore." The creature whispered.

"I understand. It is fair and just, part of the price of freedom, the bargain of life." For a moment, the man, an ancient Voldemort called Riddle, remembered the bargain. Dumbledore could have killed him, that is what they had wanted, but Dumbledore had shown mercy, convincing the court that Riddle was the last Voldemort and despite being powerful, was neither good or evil. They had argued with Dumbledore, stating that in antiquity, Voldermorts were rare, only three born in the last five thousand years. Out of those three, two were dark, one was light, and this one, this man called Riddle, was neither. Dumbledore had stood in the court room and debated for days. Arguing that Riddle was young, a model student, that if managed, he may prove to be an ally in the future. A handful of wizards argued that he should live, but his magic must be stripped from him. Dumbledore argued that this was impossible, only a Voldemort can strip magic from a Voldemort. So, Dumbledore concluded, to preserve the world from barbarism, Riddle must live in exile, and under The Binding.

Harry lay panting on the wet grass. He felt charged and powerful, the darkness flowing through him like a tide. Everything seemed clearer and sharper, the world bright and unbelievably focussed. He had read about the ritual in an old book from the restricted area of the library. He had been preparing for this moment for years, and now he welcomed it, his coming of age and his epiphany. He leaned against a stone and pulled himself to his feet. He felt shaky, his legs not quite obeying his brain. He breathed deeply, taking in the pre-dawn air. He stroked a standing stone, eight feet of granite, ancient and as permanent as the moon. They had been put there by the First Ones, the men of emerging power. They were at their strongest at midsummer or midwinter, the light and the dark. They magnified power, took away mental barriers so full potential could be reached. Dumbledore himself had stood in the centre of the circle at Midsummer, some sixty years ago. The light had come to him like pale smoke from the circles, and he had revelled in its gifts.

"Come with us Mr Potter." Harry jumped in shock. They had come from nowhere, three men in midnight blue cloaks, each standing motionless atop a monolith. "We belong to the Order Of Midnight. Our Pendragon, Dumbledore, has charged us with the task of returning you to Hogwarts." Harry blinked into the pale orange sunrise, confused and afraid. "You must come with us and atone." The shortest of the three said.

"Drop your wand and prepare for aparation." Caspian said. "Your night is over, it is dawn." Harry weighed up his options. He could either flee or fight. Fighting, he considered, would be difficult -these men were the elite, the combat mages from the oldest order of wizardry.

"I will best you in battle," Harry said confidently. Simultaneously, the three men clutched their long staffs and wands. "What will happen to me at Hogwarts?" Harry asked, casting a spell to knock the staffs out of their hands. They stared down at him with distain, the spell didn't even make them flinch.

"Don't be silly Mr Potter. "the big, bald one said. "If you fight, it will not go well for you." Harry sighed and pretended to look beaten and crest fallen. The three wizards strode towards him and stopped six feet away. Harry decided to save his strength, to control the magic, the seething rage. He would go to Hogwarts with them, and then he would destroy them all. Everyone, every professor, every student, and even Dumbledore.

Snape felt as though he had been jumped on by a Snarfle and kicked by a centaur. He opened his eyes and breathed. It hurt, but it wasn't agony. Gingerly, he touched his throat and with relief, he realised there was no slit, wound or scar.

"You're in the infirmary." A familiar voice said. "You just appeared... some kind of aparation." McGonagall said, staring down at him. "Well done, it worked. I am very relieved." She smiled. "Don't try to talk, just rest. I'll come and get you later."

The tall, pale man stepped out of the mirror into Dumbledore's study. His face was gaunt and thin, his black ringlets spilled over his wine red robes.

"Hello Riddle." Dumbledore smiled. "Thank you for assisting us." Riddle stepped forwards and grasped Dumbledore's hand and kissed it. "There is another Voldemort," Dumbledore said. "We tried to raise him the same way we raised you, but we failed. He is bleak and angry, powerful and reckless."

"What has he done?" Riddle asked, taking a seat.

"Killed Muggles, and killed our half blood Pelanor."

"Pelanor?" Riddle looked shocked. "Pelanor of the sword, Pelanor the blade, Pelanor the smiter?" Dumbledore nodded his head.

"Yes. And, four Auras." Riddle shook his head in disbelief. "The Order Of Midnight is retrieving him from The Stones."

"Good, they will succeed."

"Riddle, we brought you here to help us. We want you to take the boy's magic." Dumbledore said gently.

"I see."Riddle sighed. "That has not been done since the times of chaos. It is difficult and cruel, like taking another's soul."

"I know, but there is little choice. If we don't take his magic, he will only grow in strength and cast everything in shadow." Riddle nodded and swallowed.

"Where do you wish to perform the rite?"

"IT is for you to decide."Dumbledore said, getting to his feet. "I will not and have not told the ministry. The last time I involved them in a Voldemort, you nearly died. I don't trust their judgment. This will be kept within these grounds."

"I understand, but what about the Muggles the boy murdered?" Dumbledore looked sad and old. He bowed his head and absently stroked Fork's plumage.

"I have seen to it. I mean, our agents have made it look like a terrorist attack."

"Agents?"

"Yes. Wizards who choose to live and work as Muggles. Wizards who are in our employ."

"Our?"

"Yes. The Order Of The Phoenix."

"Explain."

"A covert group sponsored and lead by me. A group of operatives who gather intelligence about the Muggles and occasionally cover-up certain errors we may make."

"What is a terrorist attack?" Riddle asked.

"My dear boy, I do not know. But, I am assured that they are quite popular in the Muggle world, and apparently, a destroyed pub and forty-seven dead Muggles, looks very much like one."

Harry stood in a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, the sun shining, the grass crunching with frost and snow. They stood in a circle around him, Snape, McGonagall, Dumbledore and the three wizards from The Order Of Midnight. Harry couldn't move, his legs were frozen by incantations of ice and rock. He trembled with fear, and for the first time since he was a baby, he cried. Another man strode into the circle, a man Harry didn't recognise. He was tall and pale, his bearing regal. Inexplicably, Harry's lightning scar began to itch and grow hot. Harry tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. He scratched it and it began to bleed.

"Mr Harry Potter," Dumbledore began. "You are a Voldemort. We have tried to guide you, to help you find your path, but we have failed. You have committed crimes against magic, you have wantonly murdered both wizard and Muggle. For these sins, your magic will be taken from you, your memory wiped. You will become a Muggle and live as one." Riddle strode towards Harry, his eyes blazing and terrible. He gripped Harry's face in his hands and stared into his eyes. "Do you have any last words before the sentence is passed?"Dumbledore asked. Harry shook his head and Riddle, with a trembling fingertip, touched the bloody scar. As if in a trance, he licked his finger and closed his eyes. "Let sentence commence." Dumbledore proclaimed. Riddle smiled and Harry laughed.

"I give you my magic!" Riddle shouted, a stream of energy flowing from his wand, into Harry's fingertips and into his very being.

"I have a last word professor," Harry said breathlessly. "Avada Kedavra!"

To be continued... maybe...