The following Saturday found the three friends, yet again in the library. However, it was worth noting that they were in considerably better spirits than they had been last Saturday. This was as a result of several things.

The first of which was a letter that James had received on Monday morning during had received an envelope containing two pieces of paper. One was a brief note from his father apologising for any hurt the misunderstanding between them had caused, which had, yet again, triggered his guilt reflexes, and the other was a copy of an article from the prophet printed at the beginning of his father's sixth year. The article was short, but honest, and detailed both Sirius Black's death, and innocence, and offering an apology to his friends and family.

Though the response filled James with a hollow sort of victory, it had alleviated the oppressive guilt he had felt sense sending the letter, and had reinforced his conviction that they needed to lessen their relentless search.

As a result of this, they hadn't spent any time in the library since last Saturday, and had, instead, spent their time enjoying themselves (as well as doing their school work of course). The week had consisted of sneaky trips to the kitchens, sneaking out of their dorms under the cover of the invisibility cloak, and even a visit to see Hagrid.

They had decided therefore, that they were liable to spend some time in the library. They didn't have any work to do, and they hadn't allowed the mystery of James' dad to consume their lives. So they headed up to the library, and gathered around the table which they had successfully claimed as theirs during the first week of school.

James had his chin resting on his hands, Matt was slumped across the table looking suspiciously like he was asleep, and Ali was drawing patterns up her arm with a biro. They had arrived at the library, full of good intentions, and the (misguided) intention of pulling out some copies of the prophet, and having the mystery solve itself before their very eyes.

In reality, they had arrived at the library, taken one look at the vast number of copies of the prophet, and collapsed at their table.

"What are we going to do, then?" asked James, lifting his chin from his hands, and sitting up a little straighter, "Because if we're going to do nothing, I'd really rather go somewhere with comfier chairs…"

Matt snorted, and he too sat, dispelling the illusion of sleep. "Well, I don't really fancy going through all of those copies of the prophet. Is there anything we can look at the might be in an actual book?"

Ali looked at Matt with raised eyebrows.

"What?" he asked, "I do read you know." He looked to James for support.

"He does," said James, wrinkling his nose, "He's rarely without one in the dorms. Boring, but there you are."

"So," said Matt with renewed enthusiasm, "Books. Where shall we start?"

"Well," said Ali, finally speaking up, "We think there's a link between James' dad and Voldemort." She broke off, and began to twirl a lock of scarlet hair around her finger. James' eyes narrowed – that was a sign that she feeling anxious. "How about, well, the war?"

There was a silence between the three, broken only by the sounds of the other library users, chairs squeaking, pages being turned, and other whispered conversations full of indistinct words. The war was, without question, a sore point in recent history. It was almost a taboo, such was the avoidance that surrounded it. People were unwilling to bring it into conversation, as it was impossible to discuss it without reliving the losses that it had entailed. As a result of this, the books on the subject were scarce, and often lacked any real detail.

Yet, it was the most logical place to start. Though James was unsure whether the library would even have any books about it, he had to admit that if they wanted to uncover new leads, then they might have to look into things which they would rather not. If they wanted to establish what this link between Voldemort and his father was, then the best way to do this would be to try and follow Voldemort's life back until they found said link.

Finally, James looked up from his hands, and found that both Matt and Ali were waiting for him to respond. Of course, he realised belatedly, she wasn't asking both of us, just me. Neither Matt nor Ali have lost family in the wars, she was making sure I was okay with it. She knew, like me, that this was the place to start, she was just looking out for me. He smiled at his friend's thoughtfulness, and nodded absently.

"I agree, but do you think there will be any books about it here?"

"We can't know until we look," responded Matt, "I think we should split up, because if there are any, they'll probably be spread over a few categories…"

As it turned out, there weren't any books about Voldemort in the library at all. When they had been unable to find any themselves, Ali had plucked up the courage to ask Madam Pince.

"Excuse me, Madam," Ali began, nervously approaching the fearsome woman, "But I was wondering whether there were any books about Lord Voldemort?"

The woman looked down at her suspiciously. Luckily, she had come alone, otherwise the librarian might have been even less forthcoming. "Why do you want to know?"

"Well, you see," said Ali, throwing herself into her role with abandon, "I'm muggle-born, and people keep mentioning him. So I wanted to find out who he was, but I didn't want to show my ignorance by asking anyone." She looked up at Madam Pince with wide, hopeful eyes. The woman softened somewhat – she knew what it felt like to be somewhat of an outcast, seeking refuge in the written word.

"If afraid there aren't any in the general library. Professor McGonagall felt it prudent to remove them from the main library, in case they gave anyone misguided ideas, or some such. They are kept separately so that the NEWT Defence Against the Dark Arts students can use them for reference in their work." She paused, and looked down at the girl before her. "You can see them, but you need to get written permission from the headmistress first, and she only grants that in exceptional circumstances. I'm sorry."

Deterred by their discovery, they had retreated to the common room, unable to head out into the grounds because of the bad weather that had finally arrived.

"There's no way we'll get permission," said Matt voicing what they were all thinking.

"No," agreed James.

"So what are we going to do?" asked Ali, looking desperately at the two boys. It was clear that James had lost interest in the mystery now that people had stopped staring at him, presumably because they had finally gotten used to his presence in the school. That wasn't to say that people didn't watch him still, but there was none of the open staring that had followed him everywhere when he had first arrived. She wasn't sure how Matt felt about the whole situation, but she just hoped that if she could keep him interested he would help her to solve what had become a burning fascination in her life.

James looked at his friend, and read the desperation in her face. "Ali," he said gently, "I really do think it's time to let it go. What are we going to achieve by pursuing it so relentlessly?"

Ali frowned, and looked away. Unbeknownst to James, Matt also frowned. Though he had none of the burning desire to follow it up as Ali, he had a niggling feeling that this was important, that they shouldn't give up just yet.

Later that evening, Ali had finally given up on trying to rally the boys' enthusiasm, and had returned to her copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. James was, yet again, discussing quidditch with Michael and Daniel.

Matt meanwhile, who had quickly bored of yet more talk of a sport he had never seen, was reading that day's copy of the prophet. Whilst he objected to reading through countless back copies, he had no problem with keeping up with current affairs – he was, in fact, rather fond of doing so, a habit he had taken from his mother.

He had long since finished with the main articles, and the moving pictures no longer interested him enough to hold his attention for long, and so he was now reading he was now reading his way through the adverts in the mid pages. They weren't especially interesting, but then nor was talk of quidditch.

Turning the page, his eyes fell upon one particular advert.

SALE!

Hugely reduced prices on

Rita Skeeter's best-selling biographies:

Armando Dippet: Master or Moron?

The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore

Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?

Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived

Contact…

Matt's attention wavered as the advert continued on, his eyes kept returning to the final book. Chewing his lip, he glanced over at James. James had made it clear that he didn't trust Rita Skeeter, nor was he interested in continuing the search. But Matt wasn't so sure: yes, Skeeter might be a liar, but what he had said was true – even the most extraordinary tales have some founding in truth.

Turing his gaze from James to Ali, he contemplated telling her instead – her enthusiasm was clear, and she would definitely offer to help, but did she have the patience to sort through the potential lies, and the glimmers of truth? Matt wasn't so sure.

He didn't have to tell either of them – he could just do this himself, read the book, see if it had anything in it. If he found anything he could tell them after, and, if he really needed to, he could always ask Ali to help corroborate anything he found.

Glancing at the clock, he saw he still had half an hour until curfew. Releasing his lip from his teeth, he stood up, folding the paper under his arm. James glanced across at him, and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"I'm just going to the owlery," said Matt, thinking fast, "I've just remembered – I have a letter I want to send to mum."

"Do you want me to come?"

"No, you're okay James. I'll only be a couple of minutes."