The little village of Godric's Hollow, a place where wizards and Muggles alike live in peace and harmony was yesterday night, on Hallowe'en, brutally attacked by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, who left behind the trail of a slaughter and murder of the most pure of lives: He brought death upon an innocent fifteen month-old boy, Harry James Potter.

James Cygnus Potter and Lily Nicole Potter, parents to Harry James, had been rumoured to be in hiding for quite some time because they were suspected to have been marked as the next victims of You-Know-Who. Shortly after the birth of the small green-eyed boy, the Potters disappeared, vanished, and few people have been able to spot them ever since. The true reason for seeking refuge in hiding hasn't been as of yet publicly divulged, but it is widely known that both Potters are extremely powerful and accomplished wizards, and that was thought to be the reason for being targeted.

However, it seems that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was never after James and Lily Potter, but after their son. What threat could a fifteen month-old pose against the darkest of the Dark Lords? What did the late Potter Heir have that marked him from birth to die at the hand of You-Know-Who? Whatever it was, it was enough reason for Him to seek and kill the child mercilessly.

The Healers have revealed after a post-mortem analysis the child had suffered from a prolonged exposure to both the Cruciatus Curse and the Bone-Breaking Curse, but wasn't killed until struck with the Killing Curse. They have stated that even if he hadn't been hit by the deadly Unforgivable, the child had too many broken bones to live a normal life and the torture he had endured was enough to incapacitate him permanently, driving him into insanity. Disturbed, a Healer informed that some kind of unknown but very dark curse had been placed upon the infant, but none of the Healers at St Mungo's feel they are any closer to deciphering which curse was casted on Harry James, they can only fathom it was something that caused the boy pain beyond anything believable. After reading the clinic results, one cannot stop the tears leaking down one's face, horrified by the pain that innocent boy suffered until he was struck by death.

But one must ask, "how was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named able to find the Potters? What sort of concealment charm did the family use to seek protection?"

Now, one week later, the Secret Keeper willingly gave away the information and Harry Potter is dead.

But what isn't known is that the Potters switched the Secret Keepers only three days ago, thinking it would be safer since Black would've have been too obvious for a choice: Sirius Black did not reveal their whereabouts, rather their other childhood friend, Peter Pettigrew.

Pettigrew, the fourth member of the infamous boy-band at Hogwarts, the so-called "Marauders", has been working actively in You-Know-Who's service for more than a year, leaking all the secrets of the Potter family and from many others of the Light side, leading to the deaths of Gideon and Fabian Prewett and the McKinnons. Yesterday night, after the Potter boy was murdered, Pettigrew was apprehended by Aurors and almost killed by his former friends, Remus Lupin and Sirius Black.

Held at the Ministry under the influence of Veritaserum, Pettigrew spilled all of his secrets to the revolted members of the Wizengamot. He was judged guilty of his crimes and sentenced to be Kissed in the morning.

No-one knows how, but Pettigrew has escaped from a Ministry cell and is now at large. Any sightings of Pettigrew should be immediately informed to the authorities.

But for now, let us pray silently for the innocent life that has been lost. Harry James Potter will be buried today in his babyhood village at sunset, surrounded by those who loved him while he lived.

For baby-photos of Harry James Potter, turn to page 4.

If the murder of the youngest of the Potters, barely committed one week ago, hadn't been enough to satisfy You-Know-Who's savage murdering urges, yesterday night a full-scaled slaughter took place in three households, the Weasleys' Burrow, the Tonks' Seawood Cottage and the ancestral Longbottom Manor, leaving no child or adult alive.

As the sun rose over the horizon, three enormous Dark Marks were spotted, one next to Ottery St. Catchpole, where they Weasleys lived, one in Northern Wiltshire, dwelling of the Longbottoms and another near Brighton, home of the Tonks' family. Knowing what they were about to find, the Aurors dashed right away to the Apparition borders at the three places, only to find that all of the previous wards had been brought down. Fear and angst in their faces, they walked into the houses.

One can only wonder in pure horror what the Death Eaters must have done to Alice Longbottom if a fully-fledged Auror like Scrimgeour finds himself unable to talk about it. Nevertheless, the pure extermination of the last members of the old Longbottom family is something that will surely create an even bigger fear within our hearts than before, knowing how well protected and safe they were, much more so than the rest of the wizarding dwellings.

But not only were the Longbottoms attacked, but so were the Weasleys and the Tonks'. When Aurors reached Seawood Cottage, it was only to find it in shambles, completely destroyed and burnt down. Not much is known about what happened to the three members of three family, parents Andromeda and Ted Tonks and six year-old girl Nymphadora, since there was nothing left of their home but a pile of soot and ashes. It has been, however, confirmed that they are dead because none other than Bellatrix Lestrange left a message for Aurors to find it, claiming that "she was the one responsible for cleansing the unforgivable filth her sister Andromeda had thrown upon the Black family" when she married Muggleborn Ted Tonks.

To find that someone could do that to her own brother-in-law, let alone sister and niece is something that can only make us wonder whether there is something that can stop these hideous attacks. Whether there's some morality, some line the Death Eaters do not dare to walk over. At abominations like these, a journalist can only think from time to time if it would be better if all of us, witches and wizards alike, were wiped off the map and left the Muggles to live peacefully, ignorant to the deadly power we magical people hold.

But the worst attack, worse even than murdering a sister and a niece, was the attack on the Weasleys. Kingsley Shacklebolt, who has recently joined the Auror ranks, has been said to have been moved into St Mungo's Hospital this morning due to the trauma inflicted upon him at the sight of what has been done to the Weasley family.

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office and his wife Molly Weasley, formerly Prewett and sister of the late Fabian and Gideon Prewett, lived peacefully near Ottery St Catchpole, at The Burrow, a warm place that homed all seven of their children: William (11), Charles (9), Percival (5), the twins Fred and George (3), Ronald (1) and Ginevra (3 months-old).

For some unknown reason, the Weasleys, having removed his eldest son William from Hogwarts at the beginning of September, had decided to go into hiding,, as had before them the Potters, the Longbottoms, and the Tonks'. The reason why all of these families needed to be concealed so obviously from the rest of the wizarding world is still unknown, but there is no point in denying that these close and outrageous deaths are all interconnected. But as all the wards and previous protective magic failed the three former families, the Weasleys were attacked yesterday night too.

Not much has been revealed about their deaths, it has been only said that there were no Killing Curses, only a real bloody massacre. It has been leaked, however, that by the time the Aurors came, nothing could be done, that it had literally been a total butchery.

'It's the worst thing I've ever seen in my entire life,' Healer Davis says, 'if I didn't know that I was truthfully awake, I could've sworn I was trapped in the most terrible of nightmares. You don't even know what they did — to have to separate pieces and bits of bodies, depending who they had belonged to… And we still haven't found out anything about the youngest of them, little Ginevra and her brother Charles… I shiver at the thought of what they must have done to them…'

After this last and brutal statement, one can only hope that somehow these disgusting acts of murder will someday stop, that those guilty for committing such heinous crimes will be apprehended, brought to justice and swiftly executed. One can only hope that someday, someone will come and defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and thanks to that person we will all be able to live in a world where we don't have to fear for our lives and the lives of our innocent children, a world where fellow pureblood and Muggleborn are treated the same, as people, a world where we can live peacefully and breathe freely, happy to know we are a part of it.

Yesterday night, the last of the Light's forces clashed against the Dark army in the South of England, spreading the battle from Southampton to Brighton as the sun set over the horizon leaving a bloody trail behind in its descending path. Dumbledore's last men, a miscellaneous group of trained Aurors, Unspeakables, Ministry officials and old students loyal to him followed him into the fight, knowing it might be their last day on earth, fighting for our freedom.

The battle went on and on, with the death toll increasing by the minute. No side went to make prisoners of war, they threw all caution to the wind in front of Muggles and struck with the deadliest spells they knew to bring down the enemy. Not many things are known from the final battle apart from the blinding beams of light thrown at every side and the mounting numbers of dead bodies from both sidelines.

But the Light side wasn't being favoured. There were too many Death Eaters, too many werewolves, vampires, giants, banshees… and when it seemed that nothing could get any worse, You-Know-Who appeared, striking Dumbledore's followers one by one in a quick succession.

And that's when Albus Dumbledore turned on his feet and faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It has always been said that the Headmaster was the only one You-Know-Who ever feared and it appears to be so with a reason. Long-time friend Elphias Doge revealed excitedly this morning that he had never seen anything like it before, that their fight had been a true duel between real titans, magic cracking the air, but no sound coming out of their mouths, the most impressive of the powers being displayed as both fought for their lives. It was a very well matched duel, the two combatants tremendously skilled and powerful, but in the end only one could win and Albus Dumbledore triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with a final Killing Curse.

The Ministry is now a complete pandemonium, parties are breaking out in broad daylight, everyone is celebrating out in the streets, Death Eaters are being apprehended as I write this article, Muggles are being Obliviated, children are wandering freely along the streets, Dumbledore's being toasted at every wizarding home.

WE ARE FREE!

For seven days the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot has proclaimed that You-Know-Who is back, that he was never truly gone, only biding his time until he could regain his body — but no-one, dare I say it, wanted to believe him, no matter how hard Albus Dumbledore has fought for our freedom, no matter that he was the one that brought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named down over a decade ago, giving us all these ten years of peace and content.

Minister Cornelius Fudge was reluctant to hear any of Dumbledore's words and even got as far as proclaiming him senile and inadequate for the position of responsibility he held in Justice, but never had the opportunity in only a week's time to ban him from the Wizengamot and strip him of all of his medals and awards as it was rumoured he intended to do. But now, with the crushing evidence of You-Know-Who's return, the Minister is in for a deal of trouble for not acknowledging Dumbledore's pleas to take immediate action against Him and his Death Eaters.

One week ago, on the 3rd of April, a date that symbolised the conquer of good against evil, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named by means of some most mysterious object that was being kept at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for sake-keeping, returned from his previous state of a mere spirit into is all-time feared human form, aided by the inconspicuous Professor Quirinius Quirrel, who had been secretly helping him all this year, first attempting to steal the object that had been before lying in the Gringotts' vault that was broken into last 31st of July, and then throughout the academic year, although how he managed to do that is still unknown. From the moment Dumbledore realised the object, which he didn't dare to reveal to the open public, was removed from its apparently safe hidden place, he knew that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back and tried to pull all of his strings at the Ministry to build an army against him again, but few listened to the Chief Warlock.

But now the evidence he is back is incontrovertible, and we must brace ourselves for what is to come. There are still many Death Eaters that were not apprehended the last time, the most dangerous and notorious of them being the Lestranges, Bellatrix and Rodolphus, who are widely known for their cruelty and the pleasure they take in breaking their victims.

The Ministry will soon publish some pamphlets for the safety of our families and send them to our homes.

May Merlin have mercy on our souls.

'Indeed,' said the Ollivander, his face scrunched in concentration. 'Now that will be all. If you could please leave seven Galleons on the counter before you leave,' he continued silkily as Harry blushed and went straight for his pouch. 'Excellent, Mr Anonymous. Now this meeting between you and me will remain a secret, and no harm shall befall us.'

'I expect I shall be hearing a lot from you from now on. Good day to you, Mr Potter.'

Tue sday, 9th of June 1992

We have all been feeling for quite some time that old Minister Cornelius Fudge was not up to the job, we have on numerous accounts protested, saying that Fudge lacked proper wizard pride and that his methods of leading such a powerful nation as Britain were insufficient; but until yesterday, none of our rightful complaints were acknowledged: yesterday night Cornelius Fudge was voted out of his office by the newly reformed Wizengamot and Barty Crouch Junior appointed as the new Minister for Magic.

Harry wiped the sweat off his forehead, for it had been a very tiring day. He removed his sticky shirt from his body and slumped on a couch in front of the chimney, kicking off his shoes and socks in one movement and pouring himself a glass of Firewhiskey. Stirring his glass cautiously, he smiled as he remembered the time Ron had convinced Ginny, Hermione and himself to get drunk. Well, actually convinced Hermione and himself, Ginny was all for it since the beginning.

He sipped a bit from his glass. He'd rather drink like this, slowly, enjoying the whiskey, rather than getting his brains fried with too much of it. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind running through all the things he had done that day.

He had woken up from a nightmare before the break of dawn drenched and hyperventilating, but thankfully it had nothing to do with a Voldemort-induced night terror. No, it was a just one simple and everyday nightmare, nothing special and psychedelic about it; but it was still terrifying. He guessed all that rubbish he had read from the newspapers and his own anxiety had triggered it, because his dream was certainly related to everything he had learnt over the last few weeks in the new unwelcoming land. Still, at the end of the day he couldn't really remember what it had been about, so it wasn't really that important.

After having taken a shower, he had decided to continue setting up the wards of the house he had recently bought. It wasn't much of a home per se, since in his opinion home was where they heart is, and his heart was somewhere very far away, but it was welcoming enough. It had cost him more than he thought it would, but then again, it was a comfortable two-floor house with a nice garden on the outskirts of Edinburgh, and besides he had never had any proper education when it came to Muggle finances. He snorted in his drink at the mental image that crossed his mind, featuring a patient Uncle Vernon explaining to a clueless Harry about money and how to invest it wisely.

His house was nice enough and it would certainly do for headquarters of the resistance he was planning on starting soon enough. After having made sure the basic wards were up, he crossed his fingers and closed his eyes and called for Kreacher, hoping that the bond between Master and House-elf worked between cross-worlds. To his utmost delight, it had worked perfectly and now Harry had some company and the reassurance he would be properly fed, no more mushrooms and no more berries, nothing else but succulent and mouth-watering homemade meals, thank you very much. Well, if he ever saw Mrs Weasley again, at least she wouldn't have to fuss over him saying that he was underfed.

So now the wards had been set up and he had decided to use Kreacher as the Secret-Keeper for the Stranger Sanctuary, as he had decided to call his newly acquired house, Well, it made sense to call it that, he was a stranger in a forsaken world, someone who shouldn't even be there, and since he was planning on defeating the current dictatorial regime and ban everyone who bore the Dark Mark or had ill intentions towards him from the house, it could be perfectly called a sanctuary for those in need. The final wards he wanted to set up were a bit more complicated and considered to be Dark Magic. It wasn't as horrible as the Cruciatus Curse or anything of the sort, but it required a blood sacrifice from the person who wanted to build the protection, and that was something that was heavily frowned upon in the Light circles.

Still, it would be the ultimate protection against Death Eaters, he just needed a fellow wizard he trusted enough to carry it out. Kreacher, as a House-Elf, was magically powerful, but he was blissfully ignorant when it came to the ways of Dark Magic and theoretical knowledge. No, he needed someone from his side that actually knew about the Dark Arts, someone like Snape; although he wasn't that sure he would enjoy having his former Potions Professor in that situation, with his bat-like tendencies and disrespectful ways angering him. One thing was sure, there was no way he would let a woman look over him. No, thank you; it was bad enough to have another man in that position, let alone letting a woman fuss around him when he had to perform the ritual naked. No way, he probably wouldn't be able to concentrate on the wards, he'd be too embarrassed.

Sighing, he got up and went to the nearest table, where he had spread a pair or maps and plans and a couple of confidential files. Who knew that blackmail and coercion could work so well in the underground London when wearing his frightening Unspeakable robes. He was still at a loss as to why people seemed so unnaturally scared of him dressed like that. Granted, he wasn't looking especially friendly wearing black from head-to-toes, his green eyes shining from the black hole that was his face from time to time; but to have a mother run away from him, screaming for bloody murder? To have Borgin stuttering incoherently? Well, he was intimidating dressed like that, there was no point in denying it since it was the truth, but he certainly didn't consider himself as if he were Voldemort in the flesh!

He took another sip of whiskey. 'Ares… Ares… Who are you?' he mused, placing the glass on top of the table and rolling the maps up, tying a band around them and moving them towards the nearest shelf. He had heard that name mentioned whenever he made an appearance, next to the name "Innominabile", but he still didn't have a clue as to what people were talking about, and he didn't want to dig in too deep, he needed to keep his identity well hidden until it was time to reveal himself.

He scratched the back of his head and sat down again, trying to focus into clearing his mind. He had been practising his Occlumency shields daily and, very slowly, he could see that he was improving. He would never be a natural Occlumens like Voldemort or Dumbledore, not even one as skilled as Snape, but he could get to be proficient enough in the subject. He had learned from Kingsley that the first step into succeeding in the matter was to be at ease with himself, not blissfully happy, but comfortable with the person he had become. A few months ago that proposition would have been laughable, but right now Harry felt much more at ease with his personality. If he was content with the person he had grown into, then it wouldn't be too difficult to immerse himself in his own mind and stay there comfortably. However, if one were over-confident or arrogant, he would never reach the mind in his soul, for he would become too distracted and marvelled by its surroundings. The key was equilibrium: he knew who he was, he knew he had more things to live for rather than die battling. He wasn't arrogant, but he was more confident in his abilities than he had ever been before. He was taking control of his own life, he wasn't letting someone else decide for him; he wanted to fight because he wanted to live his life to its fullest, not because it was his destiny.

Breathing amply, Harry focused inwardly, searching for his mind, deep within his soul. About one minute later, a gleaming castle came into view: Hogwarts. As he had seen in his Animagus Potion-induced vision, the form his mind had taken was the gleaming castle he had always called home, where he felt the safest and the warmest, where his best memories had happened. He entered and smiled at the sunny ceiling, making his way towards past the Gryffindor table and into the corridor that led him to the Transfiguration classes, where he had placed all of his thoughts and knowledge about the matter. He opened and grinned at the increasing shelves, packed with little orbs that represented what he had learnt. He approached the shelf dedicated to his Animagus abilities and picked the one he had been gradually filling with his latest training, turning into a phoenix. He hadn't improved that much on the transformation, but at least he was able to produce a beak and some red feathers. He then placed the orb back to its rightful place and cast a pair of cleaning charms on the classroom; it helped to keep his memories intact and not become distorted with random thoughts.

He exited the classroom thoroughly satisfied and walked past the Charms corridor. He had designed his mind in such a way that thoughts and pieces of information came faster and more accurately than they ever had before. If he had learnt to organise his mind before he came into Hogwarts, he was sure he would've been one of the best students of his year. But as it was, no-one could ever be at the top of the year with a mind that looked like World War III.

He kept his adventures in the third floor beneath the trapdoor in what had been Fluffly's room. He kept the good times with his friends in the Gryffindor common room, his private moments with Ginny in the Room of Requirement; everything related to battle and Voldemort down in the Chamber of Secrets, where only a Parselmouth like himself could gain access to; his darkest hours and grief in Dumbledore's office, where Fawkes would try to lift his spirits; his Patronus-worthy memories hidden in the Mirror of Erised…

All in all, Snape would have been proud of the vast improvement Harry had made in the subtle art of Occlumency. He was actually aching to try Legilmency, but he knew better than to practice it before he had mastered its opposite, he could end up locked, spilling all of his secrets.

He smiled once more and retreated from his mind, opening his eyes. He stood up and went to his bedroom. Waving his hand, he lit a fire and covered himself with the warm duvet. He sighed comfortably - tomorrow would be another day.

Tomorrow he would start his Horcrux hunt: Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

Tuesd ay, 23rd of June 1992

None of us ever thought Albus Dumbledore capable of committing such atrocity, but yesterday morning he was found and brought down by His Excellency the Dark Lord after having murdered our esteemed Minister's insane father, Bartemius Crouch Senior.

Th e path to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was practically deserted on that Hallowe'en evening. The streetlamps lit the cobbled street dimly, giving the area an eerie glow. Harry walked quickly, hidden under his Invisibility Cloak, not wanting to linger around, just in case someone noticed some strange happenings or some headless voice talking.

It barely took him a couple of minutes to reach where the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black should have been, between number eleven and number thirteen. But there was nothing between them, no number twelve. That could only mean one thing.

'Grimmauld Place is under the Fidelius.'

Fidelius or no Fidelius, Harry knew that nothing could prevent its rightful owner from entering the property, because if it did, it would be usurping something that was entitled to him, and the charm wouldn't work properly. He would have to find out who had cast it and what his intentions were, though. If they were on the same side, the Grimmauld Place could be used for whatever the caster wanted; if not… well, he may humour him for a while. Bearing in mind that no matter how the door should appear to him because he had both the Black blood running through his veins and he had inherited the Black legacy from Sirius when he died, he approached the fence and cleared his throat.

'I, Harry James Potter, grandson of Dorea Black and heir to Sirius Black, command the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black to open its doors to me,' he ordered in an authoritative voice.

Something clicked and out of nowhere a black board appeared in front of him.

'Password? You are asking for a password?' Harry said in disbelief. Now that was something he had never expected, and he didn't think Kreacher would have lied to him or given him half-truths about the matter. The problem was, what could the password be? Somehow he doubted it would be something related to sweets, the Black family didn't seem all that keen on candy. So what would the logical password for the Blacks be?

'How could I ever be so stupid?' he groaned, 'Toujours Pur!'

Out of thin air, Number Twelve Grimmauld place appeared before his eyes as gloomy and dark as always, and Harry couldn't help smirking smugly at its sight. He crossed the threshold and entered the derelict house, his nostrils being invaded by some putrid smell that made his stomach churn violently. The house was different than he remembered, it was more intimidating, more unwelcoming than it had ever been before, even worse than the first time he stepped into it, in the summer before his fifth year at Hogwarts.

'Homenum Revelio!' he whispered, but nothing happened, no-one was in the house. Breathing freely again, he waved his hand to ignite the gas lamps and walked as silently as he could past Mrs Black's sleeping portrait. It wouldn't do him much good if the blasted woman started yelling at the top of her lungs. He walked to the stairs, glancing around. He was repulsed by the house, it was even crueller and more threatening than it had ever been before; clearly Sirius didn't live there, it probably was as it had been before the Order had started cleaning it. He was amazed at the fact that Sirius had been able to live in that house for as long as he did; the Dursleys looked tame and friendly in comparison to the Blacks. He climbed the stairs to the first floor, trying to remember where the locket had been in his own world. Smiling sadly, he realised that he lacked Hermione's outstanding brains. 'Accio Slytherin Locket!'

A buzz and then one zooming sound later, the locket was secure in his hands. Smirking slightly he went for the exit, descending the stairs. He knew he couldn't linger, it wasn't safe; he had managed to get what he needed, his task was done, and now he had to leave.

'Oo ze 'ell arg yoo?'

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise. Slowly, dreading who he might find, he turned around.

A boy of his age, maybe a bit older was standing before his, brandishing his wand at him. He had dark wavy hair and bright grey eyes, his complexion was fair and if it hadn't been for the look of distrust and malevolence he had, he might have been good-looking. His mouth was twisted in a sneer and, by the sound of his familiar accent, Harry guessed he had to be French. The boy was robed in black, his hood was pulled down and his sleeves rolled up, with a clear design on his left forearm.

Damn, Harry cursed — a Death Eater!

S aturday, 15th of August 1992

We will never be grateful enough to His Excellency the Dark Lord for all of his outstanding efforts to improve the world that had been left in decay, to wipe off the unworthy from our gifted magical society, to reconstruct a place where witches and wizards should be proud of their prestigious heritage without having hooligans and terrorists besmirching our noble genealogy. But still, the Dark Lord never rests and has yet come up with a new idea to make our lives better: his new project on the British School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogwarts.

Har ry was revolted, thoroughly revolted. He had spent the last couple of hours extracting information from the Death Eater he had captured at Grimmauld Place, and he believed his stomach would never be the same again, the number of hideous acts he had learnt of from the boy, Alain Devreux. The Death Eater, if he could be called that, for he was so junior if not in their ways then in their ranks, had blurted out every single thing he knew about Voldemort and his side and had confessed every single crime he had committed in his twenty years of life. He may not have held a high position in the Dark Army, but he was certainly as cruel and barbaric as Bellatrix. He had told him under the influence of Veritaserum that he had committed his first crime at the age of fourteen, when he had raped and then murdered one of his classmates, who, in his opinion, had deserved what she got for being too beautiful and seductive, with her blue eyes, red hair and stunning body. Harry couldn't stop the anger boiling inside him, he wanted nothing more than to lash out at him, the image of Ginny being forced to do things he had never imagined possible running wildly through his brain. But the Death Eater remained blissfully oblivious to Harry's anger, and continued regaling him with tales about all the heinous acts he had done, pride radiating from his grey eyes; from rape to disembowelment, from murder to torture, from beheading to throttling.

But his thorough interrogation had given him no answers. The boy hadn't said anything that came new to him, save for a few minor facts. Firstly, he had learnt that Sirius didn't own Grimmauld Place anymore; when his mother had passed away, Sirius had been forced to "lend" ad aeternum all the Black fortune and properties to the Lestranges, and Bellatrix had turned the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black into her hiding place until Voldemort resurrected, then she had destined it to become a place for new recruits, like Alain Devreux.

When he asked about the so-called "Innominabiles", he had been told that they were Voldemort's elite, a group composed by five all-time feared Death Eaters. No-one but Voldemort knew their true identities, no-one knew where they came from, the only well known fact was that they were the highest in the ranks, they were said to be nearly as skilled as Voldemort and as equally deadly as Riddle himself. Devreux didn't actually know the codenames of the five of them, he only knew two of them: Ares and Aphrodite. He had also told Harry that they were his source of inspiration, that whenever he killed, he thought how would any of the five do it, and that he did his best to live up to their standards so that he could one day be like one of them. It scared Harry to no end the knowledge that there were five people higher up than Bellatrix, who had simply been the cruellest woman to ever walk this Earth.

But when Devreux started talking about his dreams and aspirations, mingling it with half-truths, Harry knew that he had to draw a line and end the questioning before he got sick. If you had asked Harry what he felt about giving someone the Draught of Living Death before having interrogated Devreux, he would have said that he would never ever do that in a thousand years, but after having heard all of what the Death Eater had planned to do with Muggles, Muggleborn people and women, Harry actually felt some cold pleasure when he poured the potion into Devreux throat. He didn't kill him, but at least the Death Eater wouldn't escape to commit more atrocities unless given an antidote, and seeing that Harry's house was under the Fidelius, the chances seemed pretty slim.

He locked Devreux in a warded room and then proceeded to have a drink. He uncorked his bottle of butterbeer quite roughly and took a rather large sip, wiping the corner of his mouth with his right forearm afterwards. He was disgusted, he was angry.

He plopped down onto a couch and tried to relax, taking deep breaths. He knew that if he got worked up, there was the possibility that his magic would uncoil and lash out, and the consequences wouldn't be pretty. He could feel the muscles contracting in his body, aching to vent off some anger and frustration, but he couldn't do that. Instead, he focused on his next task: finishing the phoenix form and searching for allies.

He had to go to Hogwarts the following day; if not to find allies then to extract Ravenclaw's diadem. He wondered whether he could find McGonagall and Hagrid there, or if they could tell him what had happened to his parents and godfather, where were they were. He was extremely eager to meet them, but he was quite apprehensive too. Would they find him disappointing? Twisted? He didn't know, but he ached to know at least where they could be and whether they still wanted their son back.

'Come on Harry,' he whispered, the reflected glower in his face, 'concentrate; you can do it.'

If only he had been more aware of the date, he might have realised that that day was Hallowe'en, and every Hallowe'en night, a red-haired woman came out of her hidden location to secretly put flowers on the tomb of her deceased son.

Friday, 1st of January 1993

What would you give to a man — a deity — that has given all to his country and asked nothing in return? What could you give to a man who does everything out of the good of his heart, in a pure selfless and altruistic way? Many of us having been feeling for the longest time that we didn't acknowledge His Excellency the Dark Lord as we should, but given the fact that he wanted no Order of Merlin, no money, no power over the Wizengamot — he wanted nothing, what could we possibly ever do to thank him properly?

Th e first of November that year dawned chilly and unpleasant, the fog hiding the landscape ahead, the wind blowing ferociously around. It was the kind of day that should be spent in bed, with a fire lit by the chimney and a steamy cup of hot chocolate in one's hands, reading a book or simply doing nothing at all, only resting and relaxing.

But for Harry Potter, the resident hero in that forsaken world, that day meant the beginning of the end of the war, either for life or death, for victory or defeat. That day he would start building up the new army, a group of people who weren't afraid to die, if only they could gain back their old lives and freedom, people who, united by one person, would fight till their last breath to rid this world of Voldemort and his followers. And so he marched on that November morning towards the place he thought he would find his first allies at: Hogwarts.

Under his Invisibility Cloak, he walked from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts. He refused to call his old school "Slytherin School", if he did it was as if Voldemort had won another battle; and no matter how much of a travesty his former school looked like on that day, it would still be Hoggy Warty Hogwarts for him.

He was weighing his options, thinking which way would be best for breaking into the castle and going unnoticed when a sudden noise caught his attention, like a door creaking open. Quickly he drew his wand and turned to his right. At first, he didn't notice anything different, but then, through narrowed eyes, he could see someone at Hagrid's hut, someone that wasn't the old Keeper of Hogwarts' grounds. Harry started feeling angry at the stranger, murderous at the possibility that something had happened to his old and gigantic friend. The unknown person was a male, middle-aged and tall, if his eyes didn't deceive him, sitting on the front steps of Hagrid's house. He looked weird, he was swaying and kept ruffling his dark hair, as if he was trying to shake off dizziness. Harry decided to get closer to the man, to see who had replaced Hagrid in his gamekeeping duties; as quietly and carefully as he could he walked down to the messy hut.

He could hear the man sobbing and muttering incoherently as he buried his head in his arms, and all of his previous anger towards the stranger vanished in that spot. He didn't know why, but he felt as if that anguished person was someone who didn't want to be there, someone who had suffered a great deal and had nothing left to live for. He knew that that broken man was a friend, an ally.

He stepped on a branch and stopped dead in his tracks, holding his breath, his heart beating madly against his chest. But the man hadn't noticed him, so lost was he in his own world of grief and despair.

'I'm sorry son… I'm so sorry,' he whimpered.

Harry realised that the man was drunk, heavily drunk, and by the sound of what he was saying, he had lost his son in the war.

'Damn you, Voldemort. Damn you!' he cursed wildly.

Harry lifted his Invisibility Cloak and crouched down before the sobbing wizard. It was risky, but he felt reckless and lucky, so he extended his arm and lifted the wizard's chin gingerly.

Harry gasped.

For the first time in his life, Harry looked straight into the hazel and broken eyes of his father.

DISCLA IMER:

Uni's getting more and more difficult and today I've spent the whole day at the hospital. I'm now due to listen to patients who have a several mental disorders, so I grab my notepad and the list of patients and walk to the door. I open it and find a large queue of people waiting to be treated. I sigh, wondering if I'll make it back home before 2020.

'Okay, so the next person is Mr Riddle. Mr Riddle, please do come in,' I say absent-mindedly and walk to the chair next, wondering where the blazes the doctor in charge is. Mr Riddle comes in and my eyes bulge out of my sockets. I don't dare to believe it, so I look at his medical chart.

Patient's Medical Number: 666

Patient's Name: Tom Marvolo Riddle

Patient's Mental Disease: he thinks he is being possessed by some malevolent spirit that forces him to do evil things. When his insanity takes over, he calls himself Lord Voldemort and wants people to fear him and address him as You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. When he talks, he fits in between words and sentences nonsense. If not, most of the time he is quite a nice chap, although a bit weird when it comes to his eating habits (his favourite meal is roasted snake), and hobbies (killing bumblebees). Diagnose: Potter-itis.

'Oh god, oh dear sweet Merlin, he's going to kill me,' I mutter, jerking my legs madly.

'Oh no dear, Avada. I can assure you that Kedavra I mean no Crucio,' he says softly, grinning at me. Is it me, the light, the stress or have his eyes briefly changed to red?

I grimace. 'Er, well, that's good,' I say stupidly. 'So, how are you feeling today, Mr Riddle?'

'Oh please, call me Tommy. I couldn't bear Sectumsempra if a charming young lady like yourself Legilmens talked to me so formally' he says, winking at me.

Okay, enough is enough. I get up angrily and start yelling. 'Alright! You've had your fun — now stop with your bloody joke! This isn't funny! First you send Gollum to me and now Voldemort! He's a figment of JKR's imagination, not a real person! Stop it already!' I scream at the top of my lungs, kicking the nearest table to emphasise my anger.

Riddle looks at me patronisingly. 'Dear, maybe you should be hospitalised, too, Serpensortia.'

I slap my forehead. This can't be happening to me.

A/N: For you SIYE readers, I'm dreadfully sorry it has taken me this long to post. On the bright side, I have ten chapters more to update on a weekly basis for you guys.

Cheers

Vermou th Member of the Siriusan Order