A/N: Unrelated to the earlier chapters, here are scenes never reached by the plot of Footsteps of the Boy Who Lived - a Harry Potter SI obviously.

Michael was still wondering about that when they were sitting in Hagrid's hut after the game, being made a cup of strong team. Ron was rather despondent over Gryffindor's defeat, but Hagrid was trying to be optimistic about the team's prospects against Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

"Snape?" Hagrid said, when he voiced his thoughts. "Can't see why he'd be limpin'. Poppy Pomfrey'd fix him up a treat if he got hurt."

"There is that," Michael said thoughtfully.

"But why wouldn't he go to her then?" Hermione asked. "What sort of injury wouldn't he want anyone to know about?"

"Something embarrassing?" Michael speculated. "But what could be embarrassing about hurting his leg? It's not like he got bitten on the bum or anything."

There was a small explosion of tea as Hagrid guffawed. He explained himself with an anecdote about an accident Snape had had back when he was a student. Apparently, through either his own carelessness or connivance on the part of Harry Potter's father (Hagrid winked broadly at that point), Snape really had been bitten on the bum once, and quite publically as well.

Hermione looked scandalized at first, but Hagrid was a surprisingly good storyteller and soon she was giggling along with the boys at the embroidered tale. The only thing that detracted from Michael's amusement was that the story almost certainly explained why Snape was so determined to give him a hard time.

"So if it's not something embarrassing," mused Michael after they had stopped laughing, "what other reason could he have? Something shameful? Not just an accident or something?"

Ron shrugged. "Maybe something bit him, there's supposed to be all sorts of things in the Forbidden Forest."

"But why would he hide that?" Hermione asked. "And what would Professor Snape be doing in the Forbidden Forest?"

"Could have been collecting potions ingredients," Hagrid offered. "He does that sometimes."

Michael frowned. "Perhaps. But he'd not have had much time to do that lately – we're just at the end of the week – he's had classes until now, and he'd hardly go looking for ingredients in the dark, would he? Is there something in the castle that could hurt him like that?"

"Not unless he got Fluffy mad at him," Hagrid said with a chuckle.

The three students looked at each other. "Fluffy?" Michael asked leadingly.

"M' other dog," Hagrid explained, slapping Fang casually on the back of his neck, with enough force that it would probably have floored any of the three youngsters, although the dog scarcely noticed the impact. "Bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year - I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the -" He trailed off suddenly.

"Never mind," Michael sighed. "Something else that you can't talk about, I suppose."

"Yeah, that's Top Secret, that is," Hagrid agreed. "Don't ask me anymore."

"But what if Snape's trying to steal it?" Ron asked.

Hagrid shook his head. "Rubbish. Snape's a Hogwarts teacher, he'd do nothin' of the sort. Now, listen to me, all three of yeh - yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel an' it's no business of anyone's but them."

Michael raised one eyebrow at Hermione. "So, Quidditch," he said, changing the subject.

.oOo.

One night in mid-December it began to snow and when Michael looked out of his window the following morning he saw several feet of snow on the ground. A few days later the lake froze solid and the few owls delivering mail at breakfast looked rather hard done by when they arrived, many of them requiring attention from Hagrid before they could return to their sources.

Since Michael didn't have anyone to send owls to anyway, he wasn't bothered by this and he spent one weekend skidding around on the lake, wrapped up in several layers of robes as a defense against the cold. He'd convinced a couple of older Ravenclaws to help him transfigure a spare pair of shoes into ice skates and the next weekend he couldn't even get onto the ice, it was so crowded by students with improvised skates. The hold outs, usually from pureblooded families that disapproved of 'muggle games' fumed but there wasn't really anything they could do about it.

Everyone was looking forward to Christmas and to going home for the holidays. While some rooms were heated by huge fires, Hogwarts wasn't all that wind proof and the corridors were icy, adding to their usual hazards. Most of the classrooms were on the chilly side as well and the potions dungeon and greenhouses were positively freezing – although in the former case they could at least warm themselves at their cauldrons.

The last Herbology class before Christmas, Draco Malfoy felt brave enough to have another go at Michael. "I do feel so sorry for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home," he said and looked pointedly at Michael. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle sniggered, obviously pre-advised of the correct response.

"Angling for an invitation, Draco?" Michael asked cheerfully. "Sorry, the Christmas celebrations at my place are only open to family and friends… and we're not exactly friends, are we?"

"Hogwarts isn't exclusive," Draco sneered.

"I'm not staying at Hogwarts," Michael said cheerily. "I thought that you meant you were." He had given serious consideration to staying over at Hogwarts but after a week of frosty weather he had decided he'd rather live in his trusty (and magically heated) tent than hole up in Hogwarts and die of boredom. Besides, he was running out of books to read.

When the class was over Professor Dumbledore was waiting just inside the door that entered the rest of the castle. "Ah, Harry," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "I believe it is over time that we had a little chat, do you not?"

Michael gave him a puzzled look at then shrugged. "Hal," he said as he followed Dumbledore up a staircase he'd not used before.

"Pardon?"

"I prefer Hal, not Harry."

"Ah," Dumbledore said, nodding wisely. "I shall have to remember that then, shan't I, Hal? Can't go around calling people by the wrong names."

At the top of the stairs Dumbledore simply crossed a corridor and waved vaguely at a gargoyle that sprang aside to reveal another narrow staircase. At the head of this one was a stout door and behind it what could only be Dumbledore's office. The professor seated himself in a comfortable looking chair behind the broad desk and Michael did not wait for an invitation before sitting in a chair opposite him.

"Can I offer you a lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked.

Michael gave him a puzzled look but took one of the offered sweets, thanked him and placed it in his mouth, using his tongue to push it into one cheek so that it bulged out squirrel-like. Then he looked at Dumbledore expectantly.

"Now then, Hal," Dumbledore said. "I have received a rather puzzling letter from your relatives. I wrote to them, letting them know where and when you could be collected from King's Cross Station, but it seems that they haven't seen you at all since Hagrid took you to Diagon Alley on your birthday."

Michael shrugged and said nothing.

Dumbledore sighed. "Hal, did you go back to your family that night?"

"No."

"It's not safe for you to be out on your own, Hal. Why didn't you go back?"

"I couldn't find them," Michael said reasonably. "I don't know where they live." This, he felt, had the advantage of being the exact and absolute truth.

There was a long moment of silence as Dumbledore met Michael's eyes, his own gaze serious. "May I ask why you did not ask for help in that case?" he enquired at last.

"Well," Michael said. "I thought about that, but then I figured they didn't seem at all that happy about my being a wizard, so I decided to take a little holiday. And I was having such a wonderful time that I'd quite forgotten about them by the time September rolled around."

"Where did you go, Hal?" Dumbledore asked, his voice sounding intrigued.

"Oh, a few different places," Michael said cheerily. "I rented a room for the first week or so and then I went camping."

"Life on the open road can be very dangerous, Hal," Dumbledore warned. "I understand that you wanted to stretch your wings a little, but you're too young to be on your own like that."

"Doesn't seem to have done me any harm," Michael replied cheerfully.

"That is very fortunate," Dumbledore said. "Now, can I count on you to stay with your family over Christmas?"

Michael shook his head. He'd already given it some thought but spending time with anyone who'd known the real Harry Potter well would be far too risky – they'd almost certainly realise that there had been suspicious changes and that he knew almost nothing about them. "I have other plans," he said cheerfully.

Dumbledore's face lengthened. "I must insist Hal. Either you go to your family for Christmas or you stay here at Hogwarts."

Michael frowned. That was a no brainer – Hogwarts was the only alternative that wouldn't lead to the revelation of his identity. But what business was it of Dumbledore's where he stayed? After a moment, he decided that there was no use arguing. "Hogwarts," he muttered, looking at the floor, and got out of his chair, heading for the door.

"Hal?" Dumbledore said in a surprised voice. "What's the matter?"

Michael looked at him and then cracked the lemon drop between his teeth, swallowing the fragments. "Nothing," he said at last and left the Headmaster's office.

He had only descended a few steps when Dumbledore reached the top of the stairs and called: "Hal, one moment more please." Michael paused and a moment later Dumbledore passed him a light package about a foot square and containing something soft – clothing of some sort, Michael thought.

"A little present for Christmas," Dumbledore said lightly. "I was meaning to have the House Elves deliver it, but since we are speaking now it would seem a shame not to give it to you now."

Michael could not disguise his surprise at the gift but remembered his manners and stammered his thanks before going down the stairs again in a somewhat better mood than he had been in a moment earlier.

.oOo.

When Michael finished his next class he found Professor Snape, Hagrid, Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley glaring at each other in the hallway above the Potions dungeon. Malfoy and Ron would have just had potions class with Snape, Michael remembered, which explained their presence. Hagrid, on the other hand, was encumbered by a very large Christmas tree.

"He was provoked, Professor Snape," Hagrid protested. "Malfoy was insultin' his family."

"Be that as it may," Snape said silkily. "Fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid. Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn't more. Move along, all of you."

"So it's okay to insult other people's families?" Michael asked innocently from behind Snape. "And they're not allowed to do anything about it?" He looked at Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, all of whom had stopped to look at him before they tried to push past the tree. "Because I've been meaning to ask, Malfoy – do your thieving ways extend to your whole family? 'I'm the toughest wizard in the land,'" he said in a nasal imitation of Malfoy's piping voice, 'and I can steal anybody's toys - and do it in broad daylight, which makes me a pureblood instead of a thief'."

"Ten points from Ravenclaw," Snape snarled as Malfoy went red. Only the fact that Crabbe and Goyle were between him and Michael stopped the blond-haired boy from lunging at him.

"Sauce for the goose," Michael said cheerfully, "Sauce for the gander. It's not so much fun when the boot is on the other foot, is it Professor?"

Snape glared at him. "That's five more points, Potter," he said.

"For or against?" Michael replied with a grin.

"That's a total of twenty points from Ravenclaw," Snape hissed. "Watch your step Potter, you're headed for the same bad end your father met."

"I'm sure I can come up with something new and impressive as bad ends go," Michael said lightly. "Perhaps you can experiment with them first, Professor – boldly going where no Wizard has gone before."

Snape snarled and stalked away, his dark cloak swirling around him. With the confrontation over and Michael looking at them now, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle scurried away past the tree, leaving Michael to look at Hagrid and Ron. "Hi guys," he said cheerfully. "How are you doing?"

"Merlin, Hall," Ron gasped. "How do you keep baiting Snape like that? He took twenty points off you."

"Nah – he took twenty points off Ravenclaw," Michael said cheerfully. "So what? Points aren't important."

"I don't know if your Housemates will see it like that, Hal," said Hagrid. "Still, it's too late now. Tell yeh what, come with me an' see the Great Hall, looks a treat."

He was right about that – when he managed to set up the tree in the hall, there were a total of twelve Christmas trees, sparkling with tiny icicles or candles provided by Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. As well as that, the walls were hung with holly and mistletoe until the huge room with its enchanted roof looked more like a forest grove than a castle hall. The students perched themselves at the bottom of the Ravenclaw table to watch Professor Flitwick trailing golden bubbles across the last tree's branches. Sometimes, Michael observed, it was a positive education simply to watch the Professors at work.

"How many days you got left until yer holidays?" Hagrid asked, sitting down for a breather now that his part of the work was done.

.oOo.

Michael had no intention at all of staying at Hogwarts however. The morning that most of the other students packed away their trunks, he shoved everything he had back into his rucksack and draped the invisibility cloak over himself. Then, with a grin on his face he followed a little group of students as far as the main doors where they were climbing aboard a convoy of carriages (horseless carriages it would appear) that would take them to the station.

It would be far too crowded aboard the carriages for Michael to ride undetected, but that was fine with him. It hadn't taken him long to realise that his absence would be discovered long before the Hogwarts Express reached King's Cross and it would be quite easy to have someone find him at the station since he would have to leave through the portal to Platform Nine.

There was, however, an alternative. Students in the Third Year were allowed to visit the village of Hogsmeade, a Wizarding community less than an hour's walk away from Hogwarts. Although he'd never been there, the route was easy enough to work out so before the first carriages had even left Hogwarts for the station, Michael was scurrying though the snow towards the little village.

Rather than pausing to look around (interesting as the town appeared, time was somewhat urgent) he put the cloak away and made his way quickly into a Pub named the Hogshead. It was a thoroughly disreputable little place, which meant of course that no one looked twice as he walked in with his hood up, dropped a sickle into one jar on the mantelpiece and took a handful of glittering powder from the other. The fire roared high and green as he threw the powder into it and his gulp was as much one of anticipation as it was of fear. Then he muttered "Diagon Alley," and stepped into the flames with confidence that he did not really feel.

The passage through the floo made him want to throw up. It seemed as if he was spinning wildly from one fireplace to the next across the country and he rather wondered if anyone would use Floo travel at all if it wasn't so much faster than Muggle means. Nothing lasts forever however and eventually he was spat out of another fireplace and landed quite hard on the stone paving of Diagon Alley.

London was evidently as lousy in the weather department as Michael had expected, so rather than snow, the paving was covered with puddles as a result of the thin but persistent drizzle that rained down on Michael as he clambered to his feet, checked that his rucksack was secure and ducked around a corner from the public floo. Fortunately, the lousy weather left the streets fairly clear and he found his way quickly to the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.

In the cover of the yard, away from prying eyes, the boy lowered his hood and pulled a rather battered pointy hat out of his bag, one that would likely cover him better against the rain. Michael had been reading up on concealing charms ever since his conversation with Dumbledore. He couldn't manage a Fidelius charm, which seemed to be the most powerful such spell, but there were easier spells and he had layered several of them on his watch before leaving Hogwarts. It had stopped working previously but now he found a new use for it, anchoring charms that should keep anyone from magically tracking him as long as he wore it. The tent in his bag had been prepared in just the same way, and as long as he was in it, it would take quite a bit to locate him.

With the hat concealing most of him from view, Michael choked down a string of liquorice he'd managed to obtain from one of the Weasley twins. (He wasn't sure of which one, since he couldn't tell them apart. "This is too confusing," he'd told them, "I'll just call you both Bruce.") He hated liquorice, but this time the damn stuff had the pleasant side effect of giving him an aged face, a long white beard and hair to match. He looked like a Mini-Dumbledore.

Stepping into the Leaky Cauldron, Michael took off his hat, and flicked it back towards the door to rid it of any excess moisture. Then, with a polite nod to Tom behind the bar, he punched the crown of the hat, causing it to reshape the pointed top into something more like a broad-brimmed cowboy hat and flipped his cloak off, rolling it into a bundle that tied neatly onto the top of his rucksack.

Then, protected from the rain by the heavy overcoat he'd been wearing under his cloak he trudged out of the Wizarding World and into the cold streets of London, heading for the nearest subway station. It was less than an hour since he'd left Hogwarts, and with a bit of luck, another hour would having him headed out of London in some random direction. He was free and clear – if his charms were working as he had hoped then nothing would stop him now.

.oOo.

Christmas passed in a quiet blur for Michael. He was sure that there would be a terrible fuss about finding him so he'd been sure to make sure he was well out of the way of everyone for the duration. This wasn't particularly difficult for him – invisibility cloaks being such handy little items, he'd simply covered himself up with his invisibility cloak anytime it would be inconvenient to be spotted, which it would have been for the first night. The first train he'd caught out of London had taken him to Portsmouth, and on a whim he'd snuck aboard one of the cross-channel ferries. He felt a bit bad about welching on the fare, but he was already a fugitive from the almighty Dumbledore so he didn't feel like worrying his conscience too much.

Once he was in France, a bus took him out along the coast and he set up in what was probably a campsite during summer months. Right now it was almost deserted, most people having better things to do for Christmas. Once his tent was up and done, all he had to do was get some food – the shops were accustomed to English visitors even though it was out of season to them, so no one looked twice at an ordinary looking young boy making purchases every few days.

There were plenty of books in his tent – the secondhand bookshop he'd found in Portsmouth had had a bumper day as he waited for the ferry – and he'd brought some notebooks if the urge to write hit him. They were also useful for his homework, which he managed to get done in the first few days and after a while he started rewriting a couple of the text books from Hogwarts. The books were all traditional hardcovered tomes, not at all like the colourful textbooks that Michael remembered from his own High School. His own efforts were probably pretty amateurish, he admitted privately, but if nothing else the work was good revision.

.oOo.

Michael was just following a circuitous path back to the Ravenclaw Common Room when he heard a gasp from behind him and saw that Professor Flitwick had just emerged from behind the Gargoyle that shielded the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office.

"Mr. Potter!" exclaimed the little man. "Where did you come from?"

Michael blinked and then grinned. "Well, mother and father were very fond of each other, and nine months later…" he said, tailing the statement off with a wink.

From the look on the face of his Head of House, he wasn't going to be making a living as a comedian any time soon.

"Filius? Is there something wrong?" asked a voice from behind Professor Flitwick and Dumbledore came into view, halting as he saw Michael. "Hal?"

Michael replied with a little bow. "Such lot of fuss about little old me," he said lightly.

"Hal," Dumbledore said, a sad expression on his face. "I'm very disappointed in you."

"I'm shocked to hear that, headmaster," Michael replied, his face a picture of innocence. "I really can't think of any possible reason."

Professor Flitwick frowned. "You told me, Hal, that you would be staying at Hogwarts over the Christmas holidays."

"Why, Professor," Michael exclaimed. "That's a terrible lie. I'm surprised I can't see your nose growing. I said no such thing to you."

"You did, however say so to me," Dumbledore pronounced.

"I recall implying that, yes."

"But you didn't do that, did you?"

Michael scratched his head thoughtfully. "No… no, I don't think I did."

Dumbledore sighed. "I told you then Hal that it was not safe for you to be out on your own. And you agreed that you would not -"

"Liar."

"What?" Dumbledore asked after a moment.

"Liar. One who tells lies," Michael expanded. "Stop trying to put words into my mouth."

"You agreed to stay at Hogwarts, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, rising to his feet. "And you have caused no small amount of concern by failing to do so."

"Now that would be the lie on my part," explained Michael without a trace of remorse. "I could already see that arguing with you wasn't going to change anything. And you hadn't presented any arguments that changed my mind. So why waste time arguing?"

"Mr. Potter," Flitwick said, drawing himself up to his full height. "If you cannot be trusted to keep your promises to members of staff -"

"What promise?"

"You will be in detention," the Head of Ravenclaw pronounced firmly. "For the rest of the year."

"Then I will contest that punishment," Michael shot back. "Who, precisely, do I go to to have you overruled? No, never mind, I'll find out on my own."

"I very much doubt that the Board of Governors will -"

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I would prefer to avoid taking this to the Governors, Filius," he said somewhat regretfully. "However, Hal, if you cannot be trusted to obey instructions from the staff then I will have to restrict your movements."

"It is no business of yours Headmaster, what I do when I am not at Hogwarts," Michael said, rising to his feet. "And it is no business of yours where I am during holidays."

"I am responsible for your safety, Hal."

Michael shrugged. "Are you going to chase down all the other students to ask what they did on their holidays?"

"Whether you like it or not, Hal, you are not just another student. Voldemort still has many adherents… followers -"

"I know the word," Michael snapped.

"They would be only too delighted to get their hands on you," Dumbledore warned.

Michael nodded. "I'm sure they would. But if I let fear of them rule my life, trap me inside a little box, then they've already won. It's a short step from there for them to be 'They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' and the rest of Voldemort's bull- uh, garbage."

"I know the word," Dumbledore said wryly. "Hal, I will not let you wander around England where you are vulnerable."

Michael shrugged. "Oh well if that's the problem then why didn't you say so? I wasn't in England."

"You left the country!?"

Michael paused. "If you make this a prison, gaoler," he said flatly. "Then as the prisoner, I assure you that I'll make every effort to leave. And I won't return here again."

He left the office, returning to Ravenclaw Tower, and neither of the two professors stopped him.

.oOo.

His eyes went wide and his face went absolutely white. Michael wanted to whirl around more than anything else in the world, but he found that he could not bring himself to move as much as a muscle. His heartbeat was loud in his ears as he saw reflected in the mirror a whole crowd of people standing behind him. Nor were they just any people…

A large, plump woman with brown curly hair that didn't reach her shoulders was in front, her face freckled and wearing a warm smile although there were tears gleaming in her eyes. A tall, balding man with greying black hair and intelligent eyes stood beside her and his arm was around her shoulders to offer comfort.

Tears were in Michael's eyes as he reached back towards where they should be but his questing fingers found nothing. They were merely an illusion, existing only in the mirror and Michael fell to his knees, resting his forehead against the mirror and gripping the frame tightly as he saw two children, a girl with dark brown hair and a young boy with close-cropped blond curls standing with them.

Behind the little group were others. A short, stooped old man with salt-and-pepper hair stood with an erect white-haired matriarch and an elderly woman with smiling eyes sat beside them. More men and women were with them, for the most part as couples and around each were their children - ranging from infants barely old enough to walk to adults themselves.

Tears were pouring down Michael's face and he tore off his glasses and buried his face in his hands. "Mum…" he sobbed. "Dad… everyone… I miss you… I miss you all so much…"

In front of him, the image of a tall, slim boy in his mid-teens, with a high forehead and an unruly mop of golden blond curls, hid his own blue eyes behind freckled hands in reflection of Michael's own anguish.

.oOo.

Michael stared at the sight of Neville Longbottom lying on the floor of the corridor outside the library. "Are you okay?" he asked. The other boy's legs appeared to have been stuck together somehow.

"I'm alright," Neville said trying to climb to his feet.

It was surprisingly difficult for him and Michael groaned. "What happened – do you need to go to the hospital wing or something?"

"No – it was Malfoy," Neville admitted. "He said he'd been looking for someone to practise the Leg-Locker Curse on."

"Riiight," Michael sighed. "Maybe you should return the favour sometime," he suggested. "Do you remember the counter-curse?"

Neville hesitated and then shook his head. "No," he confessed.

"Right then," Michael said briskly. "Get your wand out and I'll walk you through it. This way you don't have to worry about it happening again."

.oOo.

"Hagrid," Michael pointed out firmly. "Even if Malfoy doesn't tattle on you, someone's bound to notice Norbert when he's bigger than your whole cabin. You can't keep him hidden forever and even Dumbledore can't keep you here if they want to throw you in jail."

Hagrid bit his lip. "I-I know I can't keep him forever, but I can't jus' dump him, I can't."

Michael sighed, "I know. But he can't stay here either. Where do dragons live anyway?"

"Romania," Ron suggested. "My brother Charlie, remember?" His face lit up. "That's it! Charlie loves Dragons. He can take care of Norbert and put him back in the wild when he's old enough!"

.oOo.

"But Hal - what if You-Know-Who's with him?"

Michael thought about that for a moment. "Well, if you could tell Dumbledore to hurry…?"

The girl looked like she was about to cry and then she moved closer to Michael and hugged him fiercely. Michael blinked and for a moment, frozen with surprise, he did nothing. Then, very slowly, he relaxed enough to wrap his own arms around her shoulders. "Is it, er, Hug-A-Hal Day' or something?" he asked lightly. "I'm not complaining, mind, but it's nice to know that sort of thing."

Hermione sniffed and let go of him. "Hal - you're a great wizard, you know."

Michael smiled and cupping her face gently with one hand, with great daring, he kissed her lightly on her other cheek. Her face went red at the affectionate contact. "You and Ron are the best friends I've ever had," he said simply and lifted the small bottle to his lips.

The liquid inside was incredibly cold and he could almost feel the icy sensation creep through his body. Without waiting to dispose of the bottle he walked away from Hermione, who was already downing her own bottle, and stepped into the black flames.

He couldn't feel them at all, but for a moment, as they surrounded him, the flames were all he could see or hear, they were the entire world to him.

And then the moment was over and he stepped into the last chamber, a small room that contained only two things – or rather, one thing and one person.

Stood at the far end of the chamber from Michael was the Mirror of Erised.

And between him and the mirror, turning to look at the new arrival, was Professor Quirrell.

.oOo.

"To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."

"To the disorganized mind," Michael replied, "Everything is the next great adventure."

.oOo.

The room went very still. The Slytherins' smiles faded a little. Michael gave an incredulous look at Dumbledore and muttered: "He wouldn't! Not now!"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, only to fade slightly as he saw Michael direct a hostile glare at him. "Ahem," he said. "I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes..."

"First - to Mr. Ronald Weasley..."

Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish with a bad sunburn.

"...for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house fifty points."

Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be heard telling the other prefects, "My brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall's giant chess set!"

At last there was silence again.

"Second - to Miss Hermione Granger... for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points."

Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly suspected she had burst into tears. Gryffindors up and down the table were beside themselves - they were a hundred points up. "Third - to Mr. Neville Longbottom..." said Dumbledore. The room went deadly quiet "There are all kinds of courage. It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award Gryffindor house fifteen points."

The din was deafening. Those who could add up while yelling themselves hoarse knew that Gryffindor now had four hundred and twenty-seven points – moving them from last place to second.

Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell silent.

"Finally," said Dumbledore, smiling. "For demonstrating the intelligence of Ravenclaw, the loyalty of Hufflepuff, the courage of Gryffindor… and dare I say it, the cunning of Slytherin… I award fifty points to Mr. Hal Potter."

There was a stunned moment as Ravenclaw House added fifty points to four hundred and twenty-six and compared to result to Slytherin's four hundred and seventy-two. They had won the House Cup.

Michael glared along the table at Dumbledore. It was one thing to award points. He didn't really care about that. But setting everything up so the Slytherin's thought that they had the Cup and then ripping it away from them publically? He rose to his feet, pushing away Terry when he tried to restrain him. "How many points would it cost to me to suggest that you publically apologize to Slytherin House, for raising their hopes and then kicking them down in public?" he asked the Headmaster loudly. "You could have given the points at any time… but you had to do it now? With their banners already on the walls?"

There was a stunned silence.

"Perhaps," he added caustically, "You should also apologize to me for your shoddy and obvious attempt at bribery. My favour is not bought, Mr. Dumbledore – a concept that you will find in a dictionary under the word honour, something you clearly lack."

"Five points from Ravenclaw," Professor Snape announced in a silky voice. He caught Michael's eye and nodded grudgingly, although the boy doubted that Snape's feelings about him had changed in the slightest.

One at a time, Ravenclaw House stood and slowly marched away from the Great Hall and from Michael. He sat down again, now the only person at the entire table. There was scattered applause from the Slytherins but it died out in embarrassment when no one else clapped. Malfoy looked as if he'd bitten into an apple only to find a worm within it. Winning the House Cup was one thing – having to owe it to Michael was another matter entirely.

Filius Flitwick had paused before following his House out of the Hall. Dumbledore nodded to him. "I will have the feast served in your Common Room, Filius," he said quietly. He clapped his hands together and food appeared on the tables.

Michael ate alone that night and when he returned to the Ravenclaw Tower, the other students avoided even looking at him. After a moment scanning their ranks, he shrugged and went to bed. He would, he supposed, have been surprised by any other reaction.

.oOo.

It took quite a while for the mass of students to leave the Platform. A guard stood at the barrier to let them leave a few at a time – it would have given away the whole game to have students emerge from a seemingly solid wall in a continuing stream.

"You must come and stay this summer," Ron said to Michael. He looked at Hermione hesitantly and then added: "Both of you." Hermione blinked and then smiled. "I'll send you an owl," the redhead offered, "let you know when."

"Thanks," said Michael, "I'll look forward to it – I'm sure I can get an answer to you somehow, even if I have you paint Pollyanna black so she can sneak past the muggles."

The crowd moved around them as they moved towards the barrier again. Michael waved back to those few who said things like: "Bye, Hal!" or "See you, Potter!" – very few of them were Ravenclaws.

"Still famous," Ron grinned at him.

Michael grinned back, "Not out there," he said, pleasure evident in his voice. "Out there in the real world I can be nicely anonymous."

Michael, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway together.

"There he is, Mom, there he is, look!" It was Ron's younger sister, Ginny, but she wasn't pointing at Ron. "Harry Potter!" she squealed. "Look, Mom! I can see him!"

"Be quiet, Ginny, and it's rude to point." Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them. "Busy year?" she said.

Michael smiled. "Just a bit," he understated. "Thank you for the fudge and the sweater you sent me for Christmas, Mrs. Weasley."

"Oh, it was nothing, dear."

"Ready, are you?" It was Dursley, still purple-faced, still mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Michael, carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary people. Behind him stood his wife and Dudley, looking terrified at the very sight of Michael.

"You must be Harry's family!" said Mrs. Weasley.

"In a manner of speaking," said Uncle Vernon. "Hurry up, boy, we haven't got all day." He walked away.

Michael rolled his eyes and looked around for a moment before turning to Ron and Hermione. "Don't forget to write," he said. "See you when I see you."

"Hope you have - er - a good holiday," said Hermione, looking uncertainly after Dursley, shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant.

"Oh, trust me, I will," Michael replied with a wink and lifted his rucksack onto his back before trotting off in the opposite direction from that which Dursley and his family had gone in.

Hermione's eyes widened as she realised where he was going but by the time she could say anything, Michael was out of sight and heading for the freedom of the streets.

"I wonder how long Dursley will wait," he muttered as he crossed the road towards the nearby station of St Pancreas.

.oOo.

A few days later, Michael was set up for the summer, his tent set up in a park hundreds of miles away from London. Before he found himself in a hut on an island, trapped in the body of Harry Potter, he had lived nearby and even if no one here remembered him and his family or friends – it was as if none of them had never been here – the city was much as he had remembered it. The park was mostly a large spread of grassy hills, with a playground at one end, several football fields and a small golf course. It was nothing like as pretty as the other park he remembered being in town, but it was close to the local library and was spacious enough that he could set up his tent and once the protective wards were up no one seemed to notice him. With that done he settled in and began to enjoy the summer.

That phase lasted about a week. Then he worked on the homework that he'd been set for the summer. After a week of work he concluded that it was all finished. Then he was bored again. The trouble with living within five minutes of the library he'd grown up near was that he'd already read just about everything they had that he cared about. However, it was there that he found the perfect way to keep himself busy. On the noticeboard for the library an advertisement caught his eye.

Apparently one of the schools in the town was holding classes over the summer for students to play catch up or prepare for the next year. Michael was no fonder of schoolwork than most school children but he was also aware that he was probably not going to be doing so well at all the things he'd been learning for two years before he found himself going to Hogwarts. So a few days later, he caught a bus towards the middle of the city and walked over to Queen's Park High School to sign up for a set of classes that would keep him more or less up to date with second year class material.

While they weren't all that entertaining in and of themselves, Michael found it kind of interesting to go to a normal school for a while. And after a few weeks he found all the old material was coming back to him. He even managed to find a company that would send class material out to families who home schooled and grade it if it was sent back. He made a careful note of their information. He'd probably regret it once he was at Hogwarts but if he could get the classwork sent to him there, which would be tricky to arrange, then he might be able to keep up with normal classes like maths and history and the like, all of which he would be expected to have if he were to get a job outside the Magical World.

.oOo.

Harry Potter could honestly say that he'd never been as happy in his life.

Admittedly, he wasn't entirely Harry Potter any more, but that was beside the point.

He'd gone to sleep on the cold floor of a hut far far out to sea and when he'd woken up he'd been in a comfortable bed in a completely unfamiliar bedroom. The room might not have been very large - just big enough for a bed, a desk, a bedside table and a small bookcase crammed with books he didn't recognise. Hung on the back of the door was a school uniform - not the grey dyed clothes he'd been provided for Stonewall High or the silly-looking get up that Dudley was stuck with at Smeltings. Instead there was a blue blazer with a crest on the breast pocket, a v-neck sweater to wear underneath, a simple blue tie with thin gold stripes and grey slacks. A pair of polished black shoes were next to the bed.

Harry could hardly resist trying them on, but he was sure that they couldn't be for him. Tentatively he reached for the door only to shrink back as he heard a door open and feet walk past to descend some wooden stairs. As he relaxed again - the footsteps had been heavy, those of a grown man - he noticed something odd. His forearms looked odd - paler than he had expected and heavily freckled.

Looking around he spotted a small mirror on top of the bookcase, attached to a little stand with a hairbrush and a few other items. It was too dark to see anything so he cautiously drew back one of the curtains. Outside was a small street, with only a few houses, that rose up the side of a hill towards a rugged grassy area that looked nothing like the rigidly sculpted park of Little Whinging. The sky was grey with high clouds that were too light to seriously threaten rain. He was a long way from home, he realised.

Looking back at the mirror, he saw a high forehead and freckled cheeks that matched the forearms he'd seen. A mass of unruly blond hair - paler than Dudley's, almost golden - was sticking up in all directions and crooked white teeth were set in a cleft jaw. He rubbed his eyes and so did the boy he saw. Looking at the door again, he realised that he was tall - more than five feet tall.

He sat down hard on the bed. What was going on? Where was he? Why didn't he look like himself anymore? Had the Durselys got rid of him, as they'd so often threatened?

There was a letter on the desk and he picked it up, hoping that it would tell him something useful about where he was. It was addressed to a boy called Michael and welcomed him to a School - not Hogwarts School of Magic, as he'd half expected, but to what seemed to be a grammar school, catering to the smarter students. Michael was apparently transferring into the third year of the school. The crest on the letterhead matched the one on the jacket when Harry compared the two. Doing so he noticed that a nametag was inside the jacket. Obviously this was Michael's school uniform and Harry realised that it would fit his new body perfectly.

It had indeed, and it appeared that it was time for Michael's first day at the school, or at least that was what Harry gathered from the tall man who'd offered him breakfast when he ventured downstairs. There was a dining table at one end of the long room that ran from the front of the house to the other and Harry got a bowl of cereal and a glass of apple juice for himself, with some prompting from the man, who seemed to find it amusing that 'Michael' was so excited he'd forgotten where everything was in their new house. The man then provided bacon and a poached egg that were almost as good as those Harry had learned to make for Aunt Petunia. He put the dishes in the kitchen, by the dishwasher, and imagined how jealous Aunt Petunia would be of this family for having a luxury like that.

In the main room there were a lot of photos - on the walls, on top of the mantelpiece, along the top of the piano. Looking around, Harry saw that almost all of them showed one or more of what seemed to be his new family - two boys with blond hair like his, one several years younger than the other (he appeared to be the older), a dark haired girl who seemed to be between them in age, the man from the kitchen and a large, slightly plump woman with a mass of brown curls and a smiling face. Evidently Michael wasn't a new arrival in the family - his face was everywhere. The most recent picture showed him and the dark haired girl standing on the small patio outside the kitchen, Michael in the uniform that Harry now wore and the girl in what was evidently the female version.

And, much to Harry's surprise, everything had gone very well. No one had suspected that he wasn't the same boy who had been there the night before. He and his sister had been guided to their school by a girl from across the road who went to the same school, a huge and imposing building a few miles away in the next village. No one knew him there of course, and the teachers accepted the occasional difficulty he had in class as being due to his old school not having been as challenging. Which was true after a fashion.

By Christmas, Harry had quite forgotten about having to keep his grades worse than Dudley and was almost caught up. Without being the victim of Dudley's bullying he had been able to make friends with the boys and could play gleefully on the heath at the end of the street with his new brother. And at Christmas, his life was officially complete - he'd had almost a dozen presents, from cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents.

At last, he had a life that he could be happy about.

.oOo.

"You've been told to get all Lockhart's books, too!" Fred (or possibly George) said, looking over Michael's shoulder at the letter. "The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan - bet it's a witch." Mrs Weasley didn't seem to like that comment and the twin (whichever of them it was) prudently retreated from the conversation to spread marmalade on his toast.

The other twin looked cautiously at the adult Weasleys. "That lot won't come cheap," he said. "Lockhart's books are really expensive..."

Michael winced. "I was afraid you'd say that," he muttered. "Seven expensive books is going to make an absolute mess of this year's budget. Don't suppose anyone feels like splitting the costs?"

"Are you okay, mate?" Ron asked.

"I can manage," Michael said in an annoyed voice. "It'll mean not buying stuff I wanted, but I won't be out anything important."

Mrs Weasley was looking worried. "I'm sure it will be alright," she said. "I expect that we'll be able to pick up a lot of your things second-hand."

Michael nodded absently, then blinked. "For that matter," he said thoughtfully. "We don't all need copies – Fred and George won't have DADA at the same time as either Ron or I so we could go shares on, say, two copies of Lockhart's books and simply pass them around depending upon who needs them at any given time. That way we could save a bunch of money and get good copies, rather than second hand ones – I'd rather not have to worry about missing pages."

The Weasley's looked at each other thoughtfully. "Well perhaps three copies," Mrs Weasley said thoughtfully. "Ginny and Percy would need to use them as well."

"I'd forgotten about that," Michael admitted. "Sorry Ginny," he added.

Ginny muttered something, blushing furiously and followed up by accidentally putting her elbow squarely into the butterdish. Michael winced as he saw the strands of wool that remained there. Don't eat the butter for the next couple of meals, he noted, but decided against embarrassing her by pointing out the gaffe – it was hardly her fault that she was a bit clumsy.

"Morning, all," Percy said briskly as he walked in, wearing his prefect's badge. "Lovely day." He pulled back a chair to sit down but then stopped and lifted a rather battered looking owl from it, where the bird had apparently collapsed after some great exertion.

.oOo.

Outside Gringotts, the group parted ways. Percy was muttering about needing a new quill, while the twins had simply spotted Lee Jordan on the street and went off with him. Mr. Weasley offered to take Hermione's parents to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink so that they could recover from their brief immersion in the Wizarding World while Mrs Weasley took Ginny to a secondhand robe shot for her uniform.

This, of course, left Michael, Ron and Hermione together and at a slight loose end. "We'll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks," Mrs. Weasley instructed before she left with Ginny. "And not one step down Knockturn Alley!" she shouted to Fred and George.

The three friends strolled off down the cobbled street, that reminded Michael of parts of York, up near the Minster. Of course, Diagon Alley was probably just about as old as those ancient streets. Three ice creams cost only a few knuts and they each got their preferred flavour to slurp down as the wandered from shop window to shop window. They saw the twins and Lee in a joke shop, and missed seeing Percy in the shop where they bought their ink and parchment – probably because Ron insisted on spending quite some time staring longingly at a violently orange Quidditch strip in one window.

They finally came across the Prefectly brother in a tiny junk shop. Michael had been before – it was a handy way to pick up his needs without depleting his vault too badly, and he nodded politely to the owner before they started looking through the junk. Percy was stood by one of the narrow bookshelves, deeply engrossed in a small book called 'Prefects Who Gained Power'.

"A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers," Ron read off the back cover of the book. "That sounds fascinating…"

'Deadly dull', Michael translated to himself while Percy snapped irritably at Ron.

"'Course, he's very ambitious, Percy, he's got it all planned out... He wants to be Minister of Magic..." Ron told Michael and Hermione in an undertone as they left Percy to it.

"There's nothing wrong with a little ambition," Michael said thoughtfully. "But it can burn you up if you don't learn to restrain it."

"Percy practically takes a bath in ambition," Ron muttered.

"If you treat the office of Minister as fit only for scum," Michael pointed out, "then you can hardly complain when only scum seek it out. Who knows, Percy might make a good job of it."

Flourish and Blotts was exceptionally busy that day. A large crowd was trying to push their way into the store, making it almost impossible for the three twelve year olds to get through the much larger women who seemed to make up most of the assembly. Michael scratched his head and was wondering what was causing this when Hermione squealed and pointed up at the large banner hung out of the windows of the upper storey.

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

MAGICAL ME

today 12:30 P.m. to 4:30 P.m.

"We can actually meet him!" Hermione squealed. "I mean, he's written almost the whole booklist!"

"Looks like his book's going to be sold out the minute they put it on the shelves," Michael replied. "It's not on the booklist is it?"

Ron shook his head. "Not that one. They'll have plenty of the others though – Mum says that Flourish and Blotts get sent a copy of the booklists in advance to make sure the get enough in."

.oOo.

Lockhart looked over at the comment and then looked past Ron and saw Michael standing behind him. His eyes widened and he jumped to his feet. "It can't be Harry Potter?" he shouted in a delighted voice.

Michael groaned and tried to hide behind Ron but the crowd parted around them and Lockhart plunged towards them, seizing Michael's arm and pulling him towards the front. Michael latched onto Ron and the redhead was towed after them. Lockhart, not realising that he was dragging two boys not one, turned and tried to shake Michael's hand.

"Help!" Michael shouted as loud as he could. "Get this weirdo off of me!"

Lockhart's set grin faltered as the camera clicked and captured the image of him obviously overpowering two young boys. He let got of Michael. "Now now Harry, no need to be shy," he said brightly.

Michael glared. "I'm not the Boy-Who-Lived," he spat. "For chrissake, I can't even walk around any more. No wonder Harry prefers hanging around with Muggles. You're all daft!"

"You're… not Harry Potter?" Lockhart said hesitantly.

"Do you grab every kid with glasses?" Michael snorted. "I just look like a bit him, that's all." With a snort, he turned his back and headed for the crowd. The cameraman reflexively snapped another picture and Michael felt a hot rush of anger. He turned a burning glare upon the man and blinked as the fury seemed to rush out of him. There was a sharp crack and the lenses of the camera shattered. The cameraman's jaw dropped and he looked at the camera with dismay. Michael blinked, recovering his scattered wits and then shrugged and walked on, the crowd parting in front of him.

.oOo.

Louder than anyone however was the voice of Hagrid as he waded through the crowd towards them. "Break it up, there, gents, break it up -" In an instant he had pulled the two grown men apart and scowled at Ron and Michael until they backed off from Draco, who was doubled over on the ground as a result of Michael jamming a knee into his stomach. The boy also had a bloody nose from Ron's jab to the face and his father was probably going to have a lovely shiner after Mr Weasley had caught him in the eye with an Encyclopedia. For their part, Ron and Michael were unmarked while Ron's father sported only a cut lip.

Lucius Malfoy glared at them and then thrust Ginny's old Transfiguration book, which he was still holding, at her. "Here, girl - take your book - it's the best your father can give you -" he said maliciously and then swept out of the shop, followed hastily by Draco when the boy saw Michael smiling nastily at him.

.oOo.

"Why didn't you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?" Professor Flitwick said sadly to Harry.

Michael met his gaze stonily. "What for?" he snorted. "You made it entirely clear last year that you wouldn't believe me if I said there was trouble. So why waste my time when it's perfectly evident that I have to handle my problems myself."

Professor Flitwick looked taken aback and Professor Snape snorted. "Feeling persecuted are you, Potter?" he sneered.

"Don't you have a small kitten somewhere to bully?" Michael replied contemptously.

"You should show respect to Professor Snape," Flitwick chastised.

Michael rolled his eyes. "I try to respect him, Professor, really I do. But it's very difficult because he's such a smeghead."

"Mind your language," snapped Professor McGonagall.

"Do you even know what it means?" Michael asked mildly. "In any event, Snape has yet to give me any reason to respect him – in fact, if Hogwarts had a code of conduct for Professors to follow he'd be out on his arse."

"Mind your language!" Snape snapped a moment before Flitwick said, "Hogwarts has got a code of conduct for Professors."

"Do you not enforce it?" Michael sneered, ignoring Ron's shrinking back against the wall, out of the line of fire. "Or does it give Professors permission to blatantly sabotage student's grades? Or subtly do so, for that matter?"

"What are you talking about?" Flitwick asked. "I have never -"

"Last year, Professor Snape dropped half the potions I made all over the floor of the Potions class and docked points for letting him getting away with it and did likewise when his other instructions were obeyed – I was particularly impressed by taking points for letting other student's potions fail when he clearly forbids interference in other student's work," Michael spat. "And I seriously doubt if I'm the only one who deals with that crap off him or that I'm the only one to report it. End result? Nothing. The lot of you let him get away with it so you're all responsible."

.oOo.

"Hal," Dumbledore said, a little plainitively. "Why do you find it so difficult to admit that I might sometimes know things you don't?"

Michael's lips curled into a smile as he recalled reading words almost identical over the winter. "Start with your unwillingness to tell me these things."

Dumbledore was silent a long moment. Then, "I'm afraid there is something to what you say," he replied. "But there were strong reasons for not talking of such matters."

"Then perhaps we should discuss this inability to tell me," Michael suggested, somewhat ironically. "Tell me now why you didn't trust me then."

"It wasn't a matter of trust," Dumbledore insisted.

Michael gave him a dubious look. "Is it okay to tell me now what it was?"

Another, longer silence followed. "No," the old professor finally said "Not yet."

The twelve-year old boy turned toward him, with a struggle, keeping his features composed and his voice level. "Then nothing has changed," Michael said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, "nor ever shall. You still do not trust me."

"That isn't true," Dumbledore answered, glancing at Ron. "It is just that this is not the proper time or the proper place to go into these matters."

"Whatever," Michael snorted. "So, is there anything else that you would like to say?"

Dumbledore frowned. "Just one more thing, Hal. At the end of last year you criticised me for raising House Slytherin's hopes of winning the House Cup and then dashing those hopes. But did you not do exactly the same thing to your own House?"

Michael paused and then his mouth twisted as if he tasted something unpleasant. "'I'm afraid there is something to what you say'," he threw the headmaster's words back at him. "There is a fine distinction – I didn't raise the hopes of Ravenclaw in the first place. Still, I'll try to be less like you in future."

.oOo.

"All right, Harry? I'm - I'm Colin Creevey," the boy announced said breathlessly and stepped nervously towards them. "I'm in Gryffindor. D'you think - would it be all right if - can I have a picture?" he asked hopefully, raising his camera.

Michael frowned. "A picture?" he asked. "What of?"

Colin came closer. "Of you! So I can prove I've met you," he said. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move." Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and Michael held up his hand to stop him from continuing.

"I suppose it's possible," Michael said mildly. "You can take one if you really want," he added.

Colin looked ecstatic. "Do you think your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?" he asked, with an imploring look.

.oOo.

Michael looked down at his paper and read:

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart 's favorite color?

2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?

"Oh you have got to be fucking kidding," he muttered and flipped through the rest of the questions until he reached the last one:

54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Incredulously, he checked the questions again, then crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room where it bounced into the wastepaper bin by the door. Lockhart, absorbed in scribbling something at his desk, didn't notice although several students did. Antony Goldstein looked absolutely shocked that 'The Boy-Who-Lived' would misbehave in class. He said nothing, however, as Michael produced a rather battered book from his bag and began to read it.

Half an hour later, Lockhart paused in collecting the papers, standing over Michael, who had his head bowed as he read the little book. "Where's your test paper, Harry?" he asked, flashing a grin at the boy.

"What?" Michael asked, looking up.

"The test paper," Lockhart said, in the tone of someone jollying along a slower friend.

"Oh, that," Michael said, as if in belated understanding. "In the rubbish."

"What!?"

"Well, it was rubbish, so I figured that that was where it belonged," Michael said absently, returning his attention to the book.

"I'm sure that you didn't do too poorly Harry," Lockhart laughed.

"I was talking about the questions," Michael said flatly. "This is a class in Defence Against Dark Arts, not a bookclub for lonely housewives."

Lockhart stared at Michael in mute incomprehension. "I don't know what you're trying to get at Harry," he said.

"You've succeeded in making a worse impression than your predecessor," Michael replied. "Which takes some doing, I can tell you."

Lockhart flashed his 'famous smile'. "Harry, Harry, Harry," he chuckled. "I can understand that you feel a little overshadowed…"

Michael stared at him in disbelief. The idiot apparently was that self-absorbed. Then he snorted and let that turn into a cheerful laugh. "Oh you're perfectly welcome to your celebrity," he said mildly. "It's your pathetic efforts as a teacher that annoy me."

Lockhart shot him an irritated look but then smoothed his face. "I'm going to have to take points from you, for that Harry," he said with feigned regret as he walked back to his desk. "Which House are you in?"

"Slytherin," Michael replied with a straight face, ignoring the rather strange looks he got from the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws in the room.

"Five points from Slytherin then," Lockhart declared. "And let that be a lesson to you."

There was a snigger from someone at the back of the class, but Lockhart missed it as he bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it. "Now then – to business. Be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

A hush fell on the room as the students stared intently at the cage. One of the Hufflepuff girls sank low in her chair and tried to hide behind her textbook, barely peeking over the top of its shielding bulk.

"I must ask you not to scream," the teacher said in a low voice. "It might provoke them." With a dramatic flourish, Lockhart whipped off the cover. "Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."

Michael's jaw dropped open. In appearance, Cornish pixies were, essentially, smurfs – eight inches tall with blue skin and pointed faces. Once the cover had been removed, they started jabbering in shrill voices and bouncing around the cage like two-year olds with far too sugar in their systems.

.oOo.

Michael frowned at the sound of chanting from the other side of the common room. "Loony, Loony, Luna," carolled two voices, "Loony, Loony, Luna."

Craning his neck he peered around the back of the armchair that he was ensouced in and spotted a pair of third years – Cho Chang and Marietta something-or-other throwing a bag back and forth across that side of the common room. Between them a small blonde girl that he didn't recognise was trying to catch it. She looked a bit like one of his cousins, which reminded him eventually that she was one of the first years that he'd seen sorted, Luna Lovegood.

At first he thought that the older girls had conned Luna into helping them with practising a Chaser pattern – he was pretty sure that Cho was Quidditch-mad and Marietta was a friend of hers. But then Luna turned to face him and he saw moisture glistening in the corner of her eyes. With a sigh he pulled his wand out of his robe's sleeve and flicked it casually. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said clearly, and the bag came to an abrupt halt in mid-air before lowering itself into the surprised Luna's hands.

"Don't you have breakfast to get to?" Michael asked, and Luna nodded eagerly before scurrying out of the common room, bag in hand. He wasn't sure if she'd forgotten the older girls entirely, was late to meet a friend or simply scatterbrained, but he didn't suppose it mattered.

"Who asked you to butt in?" Marietta snapped at him.

"Professor McGonagall," he replied calmly.

"What!" Cho gasped, looking around as if she expected the Deputy-Headmistress to jump out of some dark corner.

"Didn't you get the speech?" Michael asked casually. "The one she gives before the Sorting, about a House being like a family? I wouldn't let anyone treat my sister like that, if I had one. So why would I let you treat Luna like that?"

"It was just a bit of fun," Marietta whined.

"If you wish to continue with your own bags, then do so by all means," Michael replied somewhat distantly. "Taking someone else's without their permission is another matter."

.oOo.

"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape," said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. "He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry - you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!"

"Wouldn't it be good if they finished each other off?" Ron muttered in Michael's ear.

"Probably too much to hope," Michael replied regretfully. "We might be rid of Lockhart though," he added hopefully on seeing Snape's expression. It was even more vindicative than those usually directed at Michael in potions class, which took some doing.

The two Professors turned to face each other and Lockhart bowed flamboyantly, a gesture that Snape returned with a curt jerk of his head. Their wands were raised and aimed for the ceiling, something that would presumably change in just a moment.

"As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position," Lockhart announced. "On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course."

"Spoilsport," Michael muttered, loud enough to be heard by half the students gathered there, elicting a wave of giggles.

"One - two - three -"

On the count of three the two wizards, moved their wands, each aiming at the other. Snape was a hair faster and cried out "Expelliarmus!" With a flash of crimson light Lockhart was hurled violently backwards off the stage, not stopping until he hit the wall. He slid down it slowly, finally coming to rest on the floor, a dazed look on his face.

There was burst of cheering from the crowd of Slytherins around Malfoy and Michael applauded politely. The duel had, after all, been a win-win proposition for him. Hermione, on the other, had covered her mouth with her hand and looked horrified. "Do you think he's alright?" she asked nervously.

"Who cares?" Ron asked.

Unfortunately, Lockhart recovered swiftly and rose to his feet, a trifle unsteadily. He'd lost his hat en route to the wall and his hair was no longer in its usual perfect waves. "Well, there you have it!" he told them all as he returned to the platform. "That was a Disarming Charm - as you see, I've lost my wand -" One of the Gryffindor girls had picked it up and handed the slim wand over. "Ah, thank you, Miss Brown - yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy - however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see..."

Snape scowled. Clearly he did mind Lockhart saying so.

Whether it was blithe obliviousness or a previously well-concealed survival instinct was unclear but Lockhart did not dwell on his assertion. "Enough demonstrating!" he said brightly. "I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me -"

It was Snape who reached Michael, Ron and Hermione first as the two Professors sorted through the crowd. "Time to split up the dream team, I think," he said with his characteristic sneer. "Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter -" He looked over his shoulder. "Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let's see what you make of the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger - you can partner Miss Bulstrode."

Millicent Bulstrode was a particularly muscular Slytherin girl – she looked, if anything, rather more intimidating than Crabbe or Goyle and didn't return Hermione's weak smile. Where she was unfriendly, Malfoy was positively oozing smugness as he strutted over. The confidence all slipped away however as Michael turned to Snape with a broad smile on his face.

"Why Professor," the Ravenclaw said cheerfully. "And here was me thinking you didn't like me. And now you give me such a delightful early Christmas present – Draco on the end of my wand." He waved to the suddenly confused blond Slytherin. "Come on Draco, let's settle our differences… once and for all."

"Face your partners!" called Lockhart, back on the platform. "And bow!"

Sadly, Malfoy wasn't stupid enough to take his eyes off Michael as he inclined his head. Michael didn't bother with any gesture of respect for his opponent at all. He didn't, and he didn't care who knew it either.

"Wands at the ready!" shouted Lockhart. "When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents - only to disarm them - we don't want any accidents - one... two... three -"

Malfoy cast his spell on 'two', which was annoying but didn't particularly surprise Michael. It felt as if he'd been smacked hard over the head by something, but it wasn't actually a disabling blow. Michael's "Expelliarmus!", on the other hand, spun Malfoy almost full circle as his wand was torn out of his hand in a flash of crimson light. A quick leg-locker curse took out the off-balance Slytherin's legs from under him and he landed hard, smacking the point of his jaw on the floor.

"Stop! Stop!" screamed Lockhart while Snape took the more productive step of shouting "Finite Incantatem!" to dispel the effects that were running riot through the room.

Most of the effects, anyway. There was still a haze of smoke through the room and more than half the students were on the floor as a result of the brief exchange of spells. Ron was supporting his opponent, the boy having taken the brunt of whatever Ron's notoriously unpredictable wand had accomplished this time. Hermione was still moving although Millicent Bulstrode had her in a headlock that she didn't release until Michael pointed his wand squarely between her eyes and opened his mouth to curse her off the Gryffindor.

It took several minutes to restore order, mostly as a result of Lockhart's inept instructions and several of the would-be duellists left the room, heading for the infirmary.

"I think I'd better teach you how to block unfriendly spells," said Lockhart, with a nervous glance at Professor Snape. "Let's have a volunteer pair - Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you -"

"A bad idea, Professor Lockhart," Snape said with a twisted smile. "Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox." Neville's round, pink face went pinker.

"It wouldn't happen if you weren't strong," Michael advised the other boy under his breath. "Practise more and you'll get it under control."

"Since you're such an authority, Potter," Snape said sarcastically, "You and Malfoy can be our volunteers."

"Remind me to get you a dictionary for Christmas," Michael muttered as the volunteers moved into the middle of the hall and the crowd spread out around them.

"Now, Harry," said Lockhart. "When Draco points his wand at you, you do this." He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked and Michael covered his eyes with his hand and counted to ten.

Lockhart quickly picked the wand up again. "Whoops - my wand is a little overexcited -"

Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too, rubbing his jaw where he'd hit it on the floor. "Scared?" muttered Malfoy, so that the crowd couldn't hear him.

Michael simply smirked and chuckled lightly.

Lockhart, oblivious to the little moment of dramatic rivalry, cuffed Michael merrily on the shoulder. "Just do what I did, Harry!"

"Don't be daft, I plan to win."

Fortunately for his ego, Lockhart wasn't listening. Instead he opened his mouth and announced: "Three - two - one - go!"

Malfoy raised his wand quickly (on the 'three' now that he had an attentive audience) and bellowed, "Serpensortia!" The end of his wand exploded. Michael watched, slightly puzzled, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor.

Ignoring the commotion, Michael flicked his wand. "Petrificus Totalus," he said casually, freezing Malfoy – the Slytherin had foolishly lowered his guard to gloat at the effects of his spell. A second application of the spell turned the snake what was effectively a statue before either Snape (who didn't seem in any particular hurry) or Lockhart (who was too busy brandishing his wand to actually cast anything) responded.

There was a pause as the students realised that the duel was over. Michael used the time to stroke the snake's head gently, recalling from past visits to zoos that snakeskin was neither cold nor unpleasant to the touch and then to poke Malfoy in the chest, toppling the other boy backwards onto the floor.

"You were supposed to use the charm Professor Lockhart showed you, Potter," Snape observed silkily.

Michael shrugged. "I don't think throwing my wand away would have contributed anything," he replied amiably. "Besides, the shield spell only protects against direct hexing," he added. "It would be a waste of time against a conjuring like that." He waved his wand and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke.

.oOo.

Michael had a rather idiosyncratic perspective on the 14th of February. He'd never been terribly romantic, so it had always stuck his mind more as the birthday of his first girlfriend than as Valentine's day. He didn't link the girlfriend to romance because, basically, they'd only been five years old at the time. So he was momentarily taken aback by the state of the Great Hall on the morning of Valentine's Day.

Large pink flower arrangements decorated the walls. Confetti was falling from the ceiling (heart-shaped confetti!) which was displaying a perfectly clear blue sky rather than the clouds that were actually dominating the weather this early in the year. He looked over at the Gryffindor table and saw that Ron Weasley was so nauseated that he was barely eating while Hermione Granger was giggling helplessly. Fred and George Weasley were not evident, which more or less eliminated them as culprits – they'd not have wanted to miss the look on everybody's faces if they'd been there.

With a wave of greeting to his friends in Gryffindor, Michael looked around the room to find the culprit. It didn't take more than half-a-second to realise who was at fault. Gilderoy Lockhart was standing behind the teacher's table and wearing the most revoltingly pink robes that Michael had ever seen. Either Gilderoy had lost a bet or he had actually managed the extraordinary feat of being stupider than Michael had given him credit for. Given that he was actually waving his arms for attention, Michael could only presume that it was the latter.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" the resplendently pink moron shouted. "And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all - and it doesn't end here!" He clapped his hands and in response the doors to the entrance hall opened to admit a dozen dwarves, all wearing golden wings, carrying harps and displaying matching surly faces. Lockhart beamed even wider and identified the dwarves as: "My friendly, card-carrying cupids!"

"They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn't stop here! I'm sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you're at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I've ever met, the sly old dog!"

These descriptions did not appear to please either professor in the least and Michael felt a surprising pang of sympathy for Professor Snape. Fortunately it was quite brief and so he didn't feel it was necessary to approach Madame Pomfrey for treatment despite the worrying symptom.

.oOo.

The 'card-carrying cupids' spent the rest of the day barging into classrooms to deliver valentines to various students and occasionally to teachers. Michael was quite prepared to ignore them – he suspected that Fred and George had been sending quite a number of valentines calculated to be embarrassing – but late that afternoon his own turn came as he headed for the transfiguration class.

"Oy, you! 'Al Potter!" the dwarf bellowed down the corridor, pushing people out of its way as it came.

Michael groaned. Getting a 'valentine' was not on his list of things that he wanted to happen that day. Whipping out his wand, he glanced around and noticed that no teachers were in sight. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said and the dwarf squawked as he was hoisted into the air. "Do you think you'd bounce if you went over the bannister?" he asked the 'cupid', who was stretching his legs desperately towards the floor but coming short by an inch or two. "Or would your wings support you?"

"Put me down!" the dwarf shrieked.

"There's down," Michael pointed out, edging the dwarf slightly towards the stone rail that marked the edge of the corridor. "And then there's down, if you see what I mean."

"I've got a musical message to deliver to 'Al Potter in person," the dwarf wailed.

"I've got a meeting with the floor for anyone who delivers it," Michael replied flatly. "Spread the word to your pals. 'Al Potter' is off-limits."

"That'd be murder!" came an even louder wail that rose nastily in pitch as the Dwarf found himself moved back to right over the rail. "Alrigh', alrigh'! Whatever you say!"

Michael paused for a long moment and then held out his hand. "Give me the damn valentine."

Nervously, the Dwarf produced a slip of parchment and Michael accepted it before letting the dwarf settle back to the floor. Without unfolding the parchment, Michael held it up to one of the torches that lit the corridor and watched it blacken and burn away, dropping the last shreds onto the floor.

.oOo.

Alone of Hogwarts teachers, Gilderoy Lockhart was unaffected by the somber mood that hung over the school. He pranced into the classroom, brimming with exuberance. "Come now," he cried, beaming around him. "Why all these long faces?"

The students exchanged annoyed looks and Michael, resting his face on one hand, rolled his eyes irritably.

"Don't you people realize," said Lockhart, speaking slowly, as though they were all a bit dim, "the danger has passed! The culprit has been taken away -"

Michael laughed sarcastically. "A convenient scapegoat has been taken away, you mean."

Lockhart shook his head. "My dear Hal, the Minister of Magic wouldn't have taken Hagrid if he hadn't been one hundred percent sure that he was guilty."

"The Minister of Magic, under political pressure by the noisy pureblood fanatics who paid for his election campaign, arrested a member of staff for the sake of appearances," Michael replied amicably. "I make a point of keeping tabs on the movers and shakers, Professor… The Minister has no more idea than you do what person or at creature is at fault."

"I flatter myself I know a touch more about Hagrid's arrest than you do, Hal," said Lockhart in a self-satisfied tone.

"You do indeed flatter yourself," Michael shot back.

.oOo.

"Dammit," Michael growled and with a quick look around the chamber for threats he dashed over to her, holding his wand in one hand and lifting her head off the floor with the other. Her face was shockingly chilled, but when he pressed two fingers against the pale skin of her neck he could feel blood pulsing through her carotid artery. Alive then.

"Wake up," he whispered. "Wake up, Ginny."

But she did not respond. Instead a soft voice came from behind him: "She won't wake."

Michael whirled, rising to his feet heedless of Ginny as she tumbled away and his wand came around to aim at the heart of the tall, black-haired boy who leant against one of the chamber's huge pillars. Michael's eyes narrowed as he realised that the boy was blurred slightly around the edges – not immaterial as were the ghosts of Hogwarts, but at the same time, not entirely of the material. The light of Michael's wand also made it clear who the boy was.

"Riddle me this;" Michael said in reply, "Riddle me that. A Basilisk is not a spider, Tom; why would you think that?"

.oOo.

Michael gulped, but gathered his courage and dropped his wand as he leapt for one of the stone pillars, picking one that was well away from Ginny and Tom Riddle. He'd already guessed what he would have to face down here but he'd had no time to come up with anything special, anything clever. All he could do was hope that the conversation with Riddle hadn't been long enough for the potion he'd taken to wear off.

"What do you think you're going to do, Harry?" Riddle asked, mockingly. "What can you do against Slytherin's legacy?"

"Muggle magic," Michael answered, grabbing hold of the pillar, wrapping his arms around it and bracing himself for what he would have to do.

"'Muggle' magic?" Riddle sneered. "Muggles don't have magic, you fool."

"Wizards use wands and spells," Michael gasped, taking a deep breath and aiming for the length of serpent that had already descended from the statue. "The ingredients for muggle magic are a little different."

Riddle snorted. "Like what?"

Michael's lips peeled back in a manic grin. "Brute force and ignorance!" he howled as he wrenched at the pillar with all his strength.

For a heart-stopping moment there was no movement, but then stone grated upon stone and Michael launched himself into a staggering run away from the collapsing ceiling arches, carrying the pillar like an huge, unwieldy caber.

"IMPOSSIBLE!" Riddle shouted in disbelief, but Michael's attention was elsewhere.

Caber-tossing was an obscure sport that Michael had heard of but never seen, however, he had tried throwing a javelin or two back when he was at a school where sports encompassed more than flapping around on broomsticks. He didn't think any sportsman had ever tried throwing a stone pillar that must have weighed several tons – much less tried to aim it at a moving snake. Nonetheless, with a scream that was half-fear as he felt the potions effects fade, he hurled the pillar length on at the statue and the snake that dangled from its mouth, grabbing the end of the pillar once it was past him and using the last dregs of his strength to drive the pillar on and on until it was cracked, splintered and shattered, just like the statue that he had targeted.

Then, momentarily exhausted, he fell to his knees and watched dispassionately as the front three yards of the Basilisk flopped and died, severed entirely from the rest of the body by the crushing weight of ton after ton of fallen stone.

"Inconceivable," Riddle muttered, watching the same scene.

"You keep saying that," Michael smirked wearily. "I do not think that it means what you think it means." He reached aside and picked up the Sorting Hat from where it had fallen off his head as he ran with the pillar. Swatting it against his thigh to remove the dust, he considered putting it back onto his head, but then reconsidered.

"Idiotic Gryffindor," Riddle snorted. "But I repeat myself. Did it ever occur to you that you could have brought down the whole ceiling and killed us all?"

Michael shrugged. "With barrel vaulting like that?" he asked rhetorically, pointing at the ceiling with his free hand. "Never happen. I'd have to take out half the pillars in the place to do that." He grinned. "I'm in Ravenclaw, cully – a thousand times more thoughtful that you Slytherin louts."

Riddle blinked and then laughed, cruelly. "There is one thing you have not thought about though," he said, raising a familiar looking wand. "Unicorn hair," he mused. "Not my preferred wand but more than adequate to finish you off. In fact, this should be even more satisfying than giving you to the Basilisk. Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me..."

Michael felt the hat in his hand squirm and then contract, as if squeezed at the sides. He grabbed in it both hands and something hard rose out of it. Seizing hold of it he drew it up and out of the hat, his grin returning as he recognised the object as a sword. More than one quote flowed through his mind and he gave voice to the one that he felt was most appropriate: "One shall stand – one shall fall."

Riddle's eyes went wide as he saw the silver sword in Michael's hand, huge rubies glittering at the hilt. "The sword of Gryffindor…" he said, almost reverently. Then he shook off the feeling and lowered the wand to aim at the boy. "Well said," he coldly. "Perhaps they'll put it on your tombstone."

.oOo.

Michael heard a moan from the other end of the Chamber and drew in a long breath, before rising to his feet. Even his aches had aches and he felt very, very tired. Slowly, he turned and saw Ginny sitting up, brown eyes flicking across the massed coils of the Basilisk to the diary on the floor and then up at Michael's face. With an effort he forced a smile, but rather than reassuring her, it caused the girl to gasp and tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Hal - oh, Hal - I tried to tell you at b-breakfast, but I c-couldn't say it in front of Percy - it was me, Harry - but I - I s-swear I d-didn't mean to -"

Tucking his wand away as he crossed the room to her, as swiftly as he could manage, Michael wondered if every damsel in distress felt so much guilt and shame.

"- R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over – and -"

Ginny was cut off as Michael reached her and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her against him. With one thumb he brushed the tears off her cheek. "Thank heavens you're alive," he said hoarsely. "I was afraid that I'd be too late."

.oOo.

"You're not going anywhere," Vernon grunted. "I may not want your strangeness here, but it's you or having half-a-dozen of your freak friends pop in and out all summer to look for you."

"And you're going to earn your keep," Petunia interjected shrilly. "You've been nothing but a burden on us for years."

"You mean aside from the money you were getting for my upkeep?" Michael asked. "I was very interested to find out about that once I took a look at my finances."

Vernon's piggy eyes narrowed. "That pittance! It's hardly enough to keep you fed!"

Michael raised an eyebrow. "I doubt even Dudley eats a thousand pounds worth of food in a month," he replied. "And since he looks like a pregnant pig and I'm quite a bit smaller, I suspect that I eat less, not more. In any event, those payments hardly matter anymore."

"Why not?" Vernon asked suspiciously

"I told the bank to stop them," Michael said. "After all, I don't live with you anymore, do I?"

"You ungrateful brat!" Petunia shrieked. "After all we've done for you!"

"You're going to go right back to the bank and having them start the payments again," Vernon ordered in a loud voice.

"Can't," Michael said shortly.

"What!?"

"The bank's in London," Michael explained. "I'm not allowed to leave the house, remember?"

"To blazes with that!" Vernon roared. "Get in the car right this instant."

"I'll just -" Michael began.

"THIS INSTANT!"

Michael shrugged and went to the door, still carrying his bag. After all, he had offered to put the bag away. It wasn't his fault that Vernon Dursley hadn't heard him out.

Within minutes they were driving back down the road towards London, Vernon driving with even more of the heavy-handedness that Michael had noted earlier. "Give me that stick of yours," Vernon grunted as they entered the centre of London. "I'm not having any of that unnaturalness of yours."

"Stick?" Michael asked. Oh, now that just wasn't acceptable.

"That thing you wave when you do your," Vernon's voice lowered even though there was no one else in the car to hear him, "Magic."

"My wand!" Michael protested.

"Hand it over, boy!"

Michel grumbled and reached into his jacket. For a moment his fingers touched on his wand and then he touched something else, long slender and wooden. That fake wand of Fred and George's, he realised. Perfect. With feigned reluctance he pulled it out and put it in Vernon Dursley's pudgy hand.

Satisfied, Vernon shoved the wand into the glove compartment.

.oOo.

It took almost half an hour for them to find a parking place and Vernon looked around suspiciously at the buildings nearby. "I don't see a bank," he complained.

"We're not parked right outside it," Michael replied patiently. "It's up that way, past the record shop."

Vernon squinted and scowled, then began to march Michael up the street. "They'd better be open," he growled.

Michael rolled his eyes. "They're open all the time," he said, his own eyes fixed on the door to the Leaky Cauldron. He waited until they were level with the door before pointing at a car across the road. "Now that's a nice car," he declared.

With a frown Vernon glared at the car. "It's a load of rubbish," he declared. "Foreign made, bet it breaks down all the time. Don't spout nonsense like that, b-" He broke off his rebuttal as he realised that he was alone. Michael, and his bag, were gone.

Inside the Leaky Cauldron, and thus quite invisible to Vernon who couldn't see the magical inn at all, Michael calmly walked over to the fire, dropped a sickle in one jar and took a handful of floo powder from the other. Behind the bar Tom looked over and his eyes widened in recognition.

"The Hog's Head," Michael said and was gone before Tom could utter the words: "Harry Potter!"

.oOo.

The second year of Harry's new life had been even better than the first. He'd had to keep working hard at school as he began his GCSEs, but he was playing almost as hard and after some pleading with his parents had been allowed to join the school football team. The P.E. teacher had been delighted to find that the slim boy was not only quick on his feet but also had quick reflexes and appeared to be entirely fearless when it came to blocking the ball. With 'Michael' on the defense, it was almost impossible for anything but a tightly co-ordinated approach by several players to get a ball to the goal, and that was before the goalkeeper and other players took part. That year, the school won the county football championship and reached the quarterfinals of the national championship.

Harry's new family went to church pretty much every week, which was something Harry had never been allowed to do. Both of his new parents preached and Harry always enjoyed seeing that. And he made new friends among the children who went to the same church, some of whom went to the same school as him. They had all sorts of activities and one evening a week there was a youth cub where he could go to play table tennis and snooker and badminton.

.oOo.

Michael braked his bike as he saw a familiar head of bushy hair walking into the park that he was passing.

.oOo.

"I'm curious," the girl said smugly. "How wide did Granger have to spread her legs to lure you in?"

Michael blinked. "What makes me curious is how young you must have started spreading yours to gain such huge expertise in being a slut."

"W-why you!"

"I don't want to know what you were doing," he added. "Although I'm sure that being as much of a pair bitches as you two are must involve some form of bestiality. But really, when did you start your careers as tarts?" He looked them over dismissively, a look that he simply copied from Draco. "Cheap tarts, I would suppose."

.oOo.

Michael gave a theatrical gasp. "Back!" he cried, waving his wand at Crabbe and Goyle. "Back, ye demons of stupidity!"

Draco blinked. "Have you gone completely insane, Potter?" he asked somewhat incredulously.

"Seemed like most obvious explanation for your increasing moronity," Michael said, suddenly calm again. "I mean, after two years I would have thought you'd have noticed that I only stomp all over you when you annoy me. It's not like you're important enough for me to actually go out of my way to casually crush, so why else would you keep annoying me, unless you enjoy public humiliation and physical pain…" He looked at Draco suspiciously and then took a step back. "Are you some kind of pervert?" he asked, raising his wand to point between the suddenly spluttering Draco's eyes.

.oOo.

Hermione frowned and checked her watch. "We can't be there yet," she said.

"So why're we stopping?" Ron asked.

There was no doubt that that was what they were doing – the train was slowing more and more, the sound of pistons fading away and the weather beating against the window with even greater ferocity.

Ron was still on his feet and he opened the door to look out but closed it a moment later. "No one seems to have any idea," he reported quietly as the train came to a halt with one last jolt that resulted in distant thuds and bangs – probably the luggage falling off the racks. Michael winced and hoped none had landed on people. Unless it was Malfoy or one of his cronies.

Then every lamp died in a single moment and the compartment was plunged into darkness.

"What's going on?" Ron asked, trying to return to his seat. From Hermione's reaction, he'd managed to stand on her feet while making that attempt.

Michael pulled out his wand. "Lumos," he said and the tip lit, spilling a blue-white light through the compartment. "Might not be anything," he said thoughtfully, but then again it might be. "Wands out."

Hermione and Ron produced their wands and Ron squinted out of the window. "There's something moving out there," he said. "I think people are coming aboard..."

The door opened again and Neville stood in the doorway, illuminated by the wandlight. "Hi Hal, Hermione, Ron. D'you know what's going on?" he asked.

"'Lo, Neville. Not a clue," Michael said. "Ron saw something moving outside though – coming aboard."

Neville gulped, nervously.

"I'm going to go and ask the driver what's going on," Hermione's announced and went to the still open door only to pause. "Ginny?"

"Hermione?"

"What are you doing?"

"I was looking for Ron -"

"In here," Michael said. "Come in and sit down -"

There was movement from beside him and Michael turned to see Professor Lupin rising to his feet. "Quiet!" he said in a hoarse voice, the eyes in his tired face alert and wary. "Get inside, girls," the Professor ordered and Ginny and Hermiuone scurried into compartment. Michael's for his part, lowered his wand. Lupin seemed to know what was going on – but that didn't say anything about his benevolence.

Lupin took a step towards the open door but it was too late.

The corridor was dark and shadowy outside the compartment, but the light from Michael's wand revealed a figure in a dark cloak stood in the doorway. It was tall – almost as large as Hagrid, though not as broad – and the hood of the cloak completely hid it's face, which Michael was grateful for – the slimy grey hand, scabbed in places and glistening as if wet, suggested strongly that the face would not be one to win beauty contests.

The hand drew back beneath the cloak, as if ashamed to be seen and Michael wondered if it would ever show itself except when it needed to, for example, open a door. From beneath the deep hood came a deep breath, a drawn out growling sound that sounded, Michael suspected, more like a deathrattle than anything a living thing should sound like. Cold swept through the compartment and the light of the wand flickered and died as Michael gasped, icy needles stabbing at his innards.

.oOo.

Malfoy's pale eyes were shining with malice and they were fixed on Michael. He leaned forwards across the Slytherin table. "Thinking of trying to catch Black single-handed, Potter?"

"Oh, I think it might require both hands," Michael replied casually.

There was a mean smile on Malfoy's face as he continued quietly, "Of course, if it was me, I'd have done something before now. I wouldn't be staying in school like a good boy, I'd be out there looking for him."

Michael chuckled. "Malfoy, if it were you then you'd be out of here alright, out of here and hiding in your daddy's robes. It is, after all, your answer to everything."

Malfoy went red.

"As a Ravenclaw however," Michael added, "I know perfectly well that your father doesn't like me, and wouldn't stand a chance in hell of fighting off Sirius Black… so I wouldn't waste my time. Anyway, I don't have to go looking for Black – I know where he's headed and when he gets there…" He smirked. "I'll be waiting."

.oOo.

"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO HARRY?" roared Black. "HOW DARE YOU FACE HIM? HOW DARE YOU TALK ABOUT JAMES IN FRONT OF HIM?"

"Harry," whispered Pettigrew, shuffling toward him, hands outstretched. "Harry, James wouldn't have wanted me killed... James would have understood, Harry... he would have shown me mercy..."

Black and Lupin strode forward and would have seized Pettigrew's shoulders but Michael raised his hand commandingly and they paused. "Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no parents," Black snarled. "This cringing bit of filth would have seen you die too, without turning a hair."

"I know," Michael said coldly. "He's probably correct that my father would have shown mercy. But I am not my father."

Pettigrew looked into Michael's cold green eyes and burst into tears. It was horrible to watch, like an oversized, balding baby, cowering on the floor.

"Harry, Harry," he wept. "What could I have done? The Dark Lord... you have no idea... he has weapons you can't imagine... I was scared, Harry, I was never brave like Sirius and Remus and James. I never meant it to happen..."

"Do you really think that that makes a difference?" Michael asked, honestly curious at what curious twist of thought had convinced this fearful little man that he could excuse his actions.

"He - he was taking over everywhere!" gasped Pettigrew. "Wh-what was there to be gained by refusing him?"

"What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed?" said Black, with a terrible fury in his face. "Only innocent lives, Peter!"

"You don't understand!" whined Pettigrew, turning to the man. "He would have killed me, Sirius!"

"He did kill you, Peter Pettigrew," Michael said, and a terrible sadness filled him. "Peter Pettigrew died and all that was left was Wormtail. Peter had friends, Wormtail had only an owner. Peter was a man, Wormtail was a rat." He ground his teeth and felt the little capsule break between them, the contents flowing down his throat like liquid fire. His face twisted but only Hermione knew what that expression meant, the others mistaking it for emotion. She covered her face with her hands and turned to the wall as power flowed through Michael's limbs.

Brushing aside Black and Lupin's protests he walked to the cringing man and put his arms around him, pinning him against his chest. "It's time for you to join Peter, Wormtail," he whispered and felt one last gasp before he twisted and felt bone and cartilage snap.

Black and Lupin both looked staggered as Michael dropped the dead body of Peter Pettigrew.

"Harry," Black gasped. "You… you killed him?"

Michael sighed. "Yeah." He took a few steps to the wall and rested one hand and most of his weight, upon it. "Give me a moment." The empty feeling that had nothing whatsoever to do with the potion receded slowly.

After a moment he turned again to look at them. "Before you start complaining," he said, "I suggest you think about what would happen to you if it was you who killed him. It's what you were thrown into Azkaban for, Sirius, do you really think Cornelius Fudge would care about where and when it happened? And there are laws about werewolves who kill people, Professor Lupin. It doesn't matter how or why."

Lupin was pale. "I don't reckon your parents would've wanted you to become a killer, Harry – just for us."

"Don't be daft," Michael said, and then sighed. "Besides it's a bit late. I crossed that line two years ago. Professor Quirell. He was after the Philosopher's Stone. Would have revived Voldemort with it. So I… stopped him. Forever."

.oOo.

Michael caught the copy of the Daily Prophet that Hermione thrust at him and unfolded it. Dominating the front cover were two pictures. The first was of Sirius Black, not laughing maniacally as had been on the previous occasion that Michael had seen him under a headline, but weary and jubilant as he stood between Remus Lupin and Cornelius Fudge. The second picture showed aurors carrying Peter Pettigrew's body out of Hogwarts.

SIRIUS BLACK EXONERATED read the headline and below it was a short column that gave the barest bones of the true story before directing readers to fuller explanations deeper inside the paper. The precise circumstances of Peter's death were fortunately not specified, only that he had died in a 'dramatic confrontation on the Hogwarts Grounds'.

"Well," Michael said at last. "I suppose that that means the Dementors are all gone then."

"Honestly Hal," Hermione snapped. "Is that all you can say?"

Michael sighed. "What would you rather I'd said?" he asked. "It seems to have worked out after a fashion." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not good with words, Hermione. You know that."

"Aren't you a bit more excited?" she asked. "Your godfather is free - the man who betrayed your parents is dead..." She looked at him and then sighed. "Are you feeling... guilty?"

"Not really," Michael said. "I suppose that should I regret it going the way that it did, but to be honest, I'm just glad that it's over. That he can't hurt anyone else."

"Well said," came a familiar voice from the doorway and Michael saw Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway of the Hospital Wing. "Peter walked a dark road for many years. From what Sirius has told me, I gather that his death was rather more merciful than that which Minister Fudge would doubtless have insisted upon."

Michael folded the newspaper and set it aside. "So," he said. "What happens now?"

Dumbledore took a seat facing Hermione across Michael's bed. "Perhaps first I should expand upon what has happened since your experience. You have slept the clock around under Madame Pomfrey's care and a great deal has happened."

"Sirius is at the Ministry of Magic, setting his affairs in order. He was reluctant to leave your side, but certain matters could not be delayed now that he is a free man again. He will return shortly - in time for dinner no doubt - and will be eager to speak to you under less trying circumstances."

"Remus is also at the Ministry, assisting Sirius, but will likewise return this evening. Sadly, I do not believe that he will be able to continue as Professor of Defence Against Dart Arts, but I have grown accustomed to requiring replacements for the role."

"Move Snape across," Michael suggested drily. "Any fate he suffers would be nothing but karma."

"Replacing Professor Snape would be far more difficult," Dumbledore replied. "Potions Masters are few and far between."

"Doubly so since he drives most of his students away from the subject by harassing them, fiddling their grades and refusing to let them into NEWTs," Michael observed. "I doubt that there are many Potions Masters younger than him - he drives off any potential competition."

"That is as maybe, Hal," Dumbledore said, firmly shelving the subject. "Severus has made a full recovery from his injuries and is no doubt brooding in his dungeons over injustices done. Miss Granger, as you may have surmised, was released from the Hospital Wing yesterday." He twinkled at Hermione. "I imagine that exaggerated stories of the night before last are in circulation among the students?"

At her nod, he chuckled. "Well, the truth will out, as your own actions have proven. In any event, this brings us to today. It would seem that you have a choice to make, Hal."

Michael blinked. "Indeed?"

"Hal!" Hermione protested. "Sirius is your godfather - now that he's out of prison he's your legal guardian, not your relatives."

"Oh," said Michael and then blinked. "Oh," he said again. That was... hmm, he wasn't quite sure how to respond to that little bombshell. It would be good indeed to be rid of the risk of being sent back to the Dursleys. But was he ready to give up the freedom that he'd spent three years fighting for?

"Well," he said at last. "I suppose that it's not a decision that needs to be made in a great hurry. Best that Sirius and I have a little chat about it, before we jump into anything."

.oOo.

Sirius looked awkwardly at Michael. "Well," he said, "I was thinking that since my name has been cleared, and since your parents' will made me your guardian, that you'd come and live with me."

Remus groaned. "I said to be subtle, Sirius," he griped.

The corners of Michael's mouth twitched. "For Sirius, that was pretty subtle," he commented. "he didn't say that I would come and live with him, he just said that he was thinking that I would."

"Does mean that you don't want to?" Sirius asked nervously.

Michael hesitated. "Well," he said after a moment's thought. "We can give it a try I guess. If it doesn't work out I can always go off on my own later on."

The expression on Sirius's face made it clear what he thought of it 'not working out'. Michael chuckled. "I'm kind of used to being on my own," he said dryly. "Looking after myself. Independence can be a hard thing to give up."

"Well," said Dumbledore. "I'm glad that that's been settled."

"Glad it's settled or glad you won't be chasing me all around the British Isles?" Michael asked sarcastically.

Dumbledore coughed. "A little of both, Hal. A little of both."

"Chasing Harry around the British Isles?" Sirius asked.

Remus chuckled. "There's quite the betting pool down in the staff room," he told his old friend. "Hal and Professor Dumbledore have been 'disagreeing' over where Hal spends his holidays every since his first Christmas."

"And they haven't found him yet," Ron declared. "Not until he wants to be found anyway."

Sirius's expression changed to one of surprise. "Harry..."

"Hal."

"Uh, yes, Hal. When you said you were used to being on your own..."

Michael shrugged. "Professor Dumbledore kept presenting me with the choice between Hogwarts and the Dursleys," he said. "I didn't like those choices so I went out and made new ones."

Sirius shook his head in disbelief. "You know Hal," he said, "You're making me feel quite inadequate. I was much older than you when I ran away from home and I only went to your Dad's family and stayed with them."

"It's not my fault that Gryffindors are underachievers," Michael deadpanned.

"I have to wonder though, Hal," Dumbledore said. "Would you mind explaining one part of your methods, now that there won't be an issue of you going to your guardian this summer? What did happen that first week last summer? The rest of that summer I had at least managed to make sure that you were somewhere in the British Isles."

Michael shrugged. "I spent the week sunning myself on a beach in the south of France," he replied causally. "Deadly boring although the view was nice."

"There are indeed many lovely landscapes in that part of the world," Dumbledore agreed.

"I'll say," Michael lied. "It was a nudist beach."

Remus Lupin collapsed laughing. Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black blinked and then began to laugh, one of them chuckling politely and the other howling with laughter. Hermione and Ron, for their parts, blushed furiously.

Michael winked at his friends and Ron began to laugh as well as he realised that once again, Hal had simply said something outrageous to wind the adults up. Hermione, faced with the same realisation, simply buried her head in her hands. She could imagine all too well the possibilities of well-intentioned British wizards trying to find one hormonal teenager in Muggle nudist beaches along the Mediterranean coasts, which they would be doing the moment Dumbledore's instruments stopped reporting Hal Potter as being within the British Isles. And she was quite sure that Hal would ensure that he left the British Isles for a while for that very reason - probably with not the least intention of going within a thousand miles of the south of France.

He had, after all, said that it had been boring and Hal hated nothing as much as being bored.

.oOo.

In a nondescript suburb of Sheffield a small cottage was set well back from the road. Until two months before it'd belonged to an old woman, but she had sold the place for a tidy sum, her neighbours said, and moved to live closer to her family.

It was a pretty typical street – houses paced closely side by side, with thick hedges to protect their privacy and long gardens behind them. The houses were single storey structures and thus it was quite difficult to tell what went on in them, since the hedges were too high to be looked over. All that was known of the new owner was that he was in his thirties and the guardian of a teenage boy. Occasionally they could be seen coming or going on the man's motorcycle but they did not appear to be interested in meeting the neighbours.

There was a good reason for this, of course. Sirius Black and his godson Harry Potter, were wizards – part of a magical society that existed alongside that of their muggle neighbours. Both were quite famous – one might even say 'infamous' and both had secrets. One of these secrets, Harry had kept from everyone for years now – quite a feat given that his school teachers included more than one very capable mind reader and that his new guardian was a veteran prankster more accustomed than most to looking 'underneath the underneath'.

By the way, if you walked in late, allow me to reiterate.

Three years ago, Harry Potter's body had been occupied by the mind of a quite ordinary boy a few years older than he. Michael, the new occupier of that body, had no idea how this had come to be or what had happened to the real Harry – although it was a matter that he'd given quite a bit of thought over the years. He had, however, found that life as the 'Boy-Who-Lived', child-hero of the wizarding world's rather insular mind-set due to yet more ill-explained events, did not give him a great deal of time to ponder these imponderables. Only a month ago had he managed, after much confusion, managed to defeat and kill the wizard who had betrayed Harry Potter's family to the Dark Lord Voldemort, clearing the name of Sirius Black, who had escaped from a supposedly inescapable prison where he had been confined for a decade in the mistaken belief that he was the traitor.

Since Sirius Black was also the godfather of Hal Potter, Hal had agreed rather warily to forego his usual game of hide and seek with the Headmaster (who thought that he should spend time with the Dursleys, rather than living on his own wherever the wind took him) and live with Sirius for the summer.

.oOo.

Michael raised his wand. "If you're not going to do something about this then take cover," he said flatly. Without pausing, he aimed at one of the masked wizards and started pounding him with Reductor charms. The wizard was surrounded by a shield of some kind and Michael saw it flickering under the impact of the curses.

A moment later, Ron moved up next to him and added his own curses to the barrage. "That's sick," he muttered between curses as he saw the smallest of the two children spinning like a top, far above the ground. His head was flopping around alarmingly.

"Yeah," agreed one of the twins, the two of them taking up position on Michael's other side and casting shields to block the curses beginning to be flung towards the boys by the masked wizards.

From behind the four of them, Michael heard Mr. Weasley shout: "We're going to help the Ministry! You lot - get into the woods, and stick together. I'll come and fetch you when we've sorted this out!"

"Bollocks to that!" Michael shouted back over his shoulder. "Curse the lot of them! No bloody hooligans are running me off in the middle of the night!"

"Hal!" protested Hermione's voice. "What if they fall?"

"Catch them then!" Michael snarled, then took a deep breath and resumed the rapid repeated curses he was flinging.

Bill and Charlie hesitated and then joined the line, standing beside the twin and letting lose their own charms.

"Dad, Percy!" Ron called. "Go get the Ministry organised, we'll look after the girls."

"I'll keep an eye on them Arthur," Sirius declared and stood off to one side, wand in hand but not yet casting anything as his dark eyes flickered across the campsite.

.oOo.

There was a feeling of anticipation in the air the evening that the other schools' prospective champions would arrive. The last class ended half an hour earlier than usual and all the students had to rush up into their towers (or down to the dungeons in the case of Slytherin House) to leave their schoolwork and put on their cloaks (partly because they would apparently be more presentable and partly because it was a trifle cold to be stood outside for a while)

In the entrance hall, the students were hustled into lines by the four Heads of House, ranked by House and Year. The entire chamber was a sea of black, pointed hats and black, somewhat weather-stained cloaks. Michael spotted Ron and Hermione and waved to them as he waited for Professor Flitwick, all but invisible in the crowd, to achieve satisfaction with their appearance. He saw Padma's sister getting scolded by McGonagall and fiddling about with her hair and rolled his eyes. The girl was a first-rate ditz.

One at a time the Houses filed out the door, down the steps and into a formation in front of the castle. Michael was left standing between Padma Patil and Li Su as Professor Flitwick had insisted upon alphabetical order by surname in Ravenclaw, although the other three Houses all seemed to have their own systems (or none at all in Gryffindor's case). The evening was cold and clear, the sun setting behind the mountains to the west and the moon already visible in the sky, clear and so bright that Michael could almost believe that if he reached out he would touch it.

"How do you think they'll get here?" Li Su asked quietly.

"I don't know," Padma admitted. "By train perhaps? What do you think, Hal?"

Michael shrugged, he was cold, bored and hungry – to his mind how the two schools chose to arrive was far less important than when they did so. "No idea," he replied. "Probably something flamboyant and dramatic: they'll want to underline their magical puissance or something like that."

"Aha!" called Dumbledore from his position near the back, alongside the other teachers. Michael half-turned to look at the white-bearded man. "Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

There were immediate shouts from various students as they looked for what had caught Dumbledore's eye, followed by a triumphant call by one of the older students, who pointed out over the Forbidden Forest at a large object that was hurtling towards Hogwarts.

"It's a dragon!" shrieked a first year girl.

"Don't be stupid!" a Gryffindor first year – Colin Creevy's little brother if Michael's eye didn't mistaken him – replied. "It's a flying house!"

Michael chuckled. "Look! Up in the sky," he exclaimed, sotto voice, eliciting a puzzled look from Padma and Li. "It's a bird!" Whatever it was, there was nothing birdlike about what was approaching. "It's a plane!" he added and Li's face cleared as she recognised what he was saying. After a dramatic pause, they spoke in unison: "It's Superman!"

Ravenclaw's careful order dissolved as every muggleborn and many halfblooded in earshot collapsed in helpless laughter while the rest of the house looked on in confusion, distracted as the object skimmed the treetops towards them. Eventually it became clear that the shape was a vast horse-drawn carriage – powder blue and easily the size of a house. The horses were all winged and sized to match the carriage – bigger than elephants in Michael's estimation.

Almost fifty horse hooves crashed down to earth in perfect unison and a moment later the carriage wheels also touched the ground, the entire vehicle bouncing alarmingly as the horses slowed and the entire assemblage eventually came to a halt behind the golden horses, only a few dozen yards away from the Hogwarts student body, a coat of arms (crossed wands and six stars) now visible emblazoned on the door, which sprang open to reveal a boy in pale blue robes, almost the same colour as the carriage.

.oOo.

"The Hogwarts champion," Dumbledore called, "is Cedric Diggory!"

Immediately every single Hufflepuff in the Great Hall jumped to their feet, stamping their feet on the stone floor and shouting the triumph of their House at the top of their voices. Cedric rose to his feet, grinning broadly, and walked down the aisle between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables towards the teachers' table and the door behind it. Michael started clapping and by the time that Cedric reached the door, most of Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and even Slytherin House were applauding the Hogwarts Champion.

It was several long moments before Dumbledore could make himself heard. "Excellent," he declared happily. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real -"

He broke off and his eyes widened, fixing on Goblet. Everyone in the room followed suit staring at the Goblet's flames, which had just turned crimson once more. Sparks were flying as another long flame launched upwards and a fourth piece of parchment was expelled from the ancient artefact.

Dumbledore caught the parchment automatically and stared at it for a long moment before clearing his throat and reading out the name on it.

"Harry Potter."

Michael, who had just drunk a mouthful of pumpkin juice, spat it out across the table. "What!?" he spluttered.

Around the Great Hall heads turned until everyone present was staring at him, a familiar but unwelcome event. The looks he was getting were divided between confused and annoyed. No one was applauding, which struck Michael as a mixed blessing – it wasn't a moment for applause in his opinion but the looks on their faces boded poorly for the reactions his fellow students.

Ignoring the movement of Professor Flitwick at the high table, he took another sip of his pumpkin juice and then rose to his feet. "When I find out who put my name in the goblet," he said in a clear voice that reached every corner of the room, "a pound of flesh doesn't begin to describe what this will cost them." Then he sat down.

Professor Dumbledore, who had been stooped over to listen to Professor Flitwick, straightened. "Hal Potter!" he called again. "Hal! Up here, if you please!"

Michael turned his head and looked at Dumbledore for a moment. Morag gave him a little push and hissed "Go on." He rolled his eyes and stood again, stepping over the bench and sweeping his hair back out of his eyes as he looked around the Hall with suspicious, measuring eyes before setting off up the gap between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. Everyone's eyes followed him and the whispering died down as he walked along the Hall to face the stares of all the teachers.

"Well... through the door, Hal," said Dumbledore, who wasn't sporting his usual twinkling eyes, much less a smile.

"What for?" Michael asked, folding his arms across his chest as he faced the high table. "I didn't put my name in the Goblet and even if I had, your own rules exclude me. I won't be seventeen for almost three years." Or about four months, depending on who's counting.

"Your name's come out of the Goblet, Harry," said Ludo Bagman. "I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage... It's down in the rules, you're obliged..."

"I rather think I'd like to see these rules," Michael said, fighting down his mounting fear and anger with an effort. "Binding magical contracts would tend to require at least implied consent – not just knowing my name. And I gave no such consent. Do you suppose the consequences would fall on me? Or upon the misbegotten wretch who's trying to entrap me?"

"You've been chosen to compete, Hal," Dumbledore said. "You have no choice."

"There is always a choice," Michael said firmly. "Some people just don't have the courage to pay the prices attached. I'll take my chances."

"That is as may be," the Headmaster said wearily. "Let us at least discuss this privately. We will join you shortly."

Michael shook his head in frustration and walked towards the door. Hagrid was at the end and Michael nodded a greeting to him. The large man looked utterly astonished by the events and stared back, unable to muster any of his usual greetings although the look in his eyes was at least worry rather than anger.

Opening the door, Michael walked into a small room lined by paintings on the walls and lit for the most part by the fire that roared in the fireplace opposite the door. The witches and wizards portrayed by the portraits began to whisper to each other as he walked in, but Michael was more interested in the living occupants of the room.

The three Champions were stood by the fire, backlit by its flames and looking somewhat larger than life. Of course, all three of them were rather larger than Michael. Krum brooded on one side of the fire while Fleur and Cedric stood at the other, the Hogwarts Champion looking into the flames. All three turned as the heard him enter the room, but Fleur was the first to speak.

"What is it?" she asked, throwing back her mane of silky silver hair. "Do zey want us back in ze hall?"

Michael shook his head. "There has been a bit of foul play," he said shortly. "The idi- the judges will be here shortly."

The sound of footsteps came from behind him and Michael moved aside to let Ludo Bagman into the room. The ministry official reached over and caught Michael by the arm, pulling him forwards towards the other students. "Extraordinary!" he muttered loudly. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen... lady," he greeted them. "May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion?"

"Hardly," Michael spat. "Get off of me!" He wrenched his arm away and looked at the others.

Victor Krum had straightened and his face had darkened as he looked at Michael. Cedric had a confused look on his face at the unexpected announcement but Fleur looked amused. "Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman," she said.

"You have an interesting sense of humour," Michael growled. "Some arsehole put my name in the cup and fiddled it to pick my name as well as yours. And certain idiots seem to think I'm going to go along with it."

"Your name just came out of the Goblet of Fire, Harry," Bagman declared. "It is, well, amazing, but it's quite out of our hands now."

"But 'e cannot compete. 'E is too young," Fleur protested.

Bagman, rubbing his smooth chin and forced a smile down at Michael glowered up at him. "But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. Harry will just have to do the best he -"

Bagman's fatuous speculations were cut short when the door opened to admit Professor Dumbledore, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxine, Professor Flitwick, Professor Snape and Barty Crouch. Through the door Michael could hear Professor McGonagall dismissing the other students to return to their common rooms.

"Madame Maxime!" Fleur said immediately, approaching her headmistress to register her protest. "Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!"

Michael snorted. "Excuse me?" he said. "'They'? I don't recall saying anything of the sort."

The headmistress of Beauxbatons was an impressive figure at any time and when she drew herself up to her full height as she did now (head scraping the unlit chandelier hanging from the roof) she was even more capable of dominating a room. "What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?" she demanded.

At her side, Karkaroff was smiling but it was clearly masking considerable agitation on is part. "I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," he said. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions - or have I not read the rules carefully enough?" he laughed nastily.

"C'est impossible. Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most injust."

"We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore. Otherwise," Karkaroff declared, "We would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools."

Snape chose this matter to introduce his own poisonous commentary: "It's no one's fault but Potter's, Karkaroff," he said with malice dripping from every word. "Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he -"

KRAKA-THOOM!

Snape was cut off by an explosion of light and sound from the fire. Everyone jerked around to see Michael lowering his wand. "In the interests of getting this sorted before I'm old enough that it wouldn't be an issue, why don't you run along and look after your House, Professor," he said. "I'm sure you can find a first year bullying the Slytherin Quidditch team by bruising their delicate little fists on his face if you look hard enough."

"Ten points from Ravenclaw," Snape snapped automatically.

Michael spat into the fire. "That for your points," he said. "You've nothing to contribute so get out."

"Professor Snape is -" Dumbledore began.

"Neither my head of House, nor Cedric's," Michael interrupted. "He is not an official of this pathetic tournament and his contribution to each and every conversation regarding me for the last three-and-a-half-years has been rather monotonous. I know perfectly well that you've hated me since the moment I was conceived," he told Snape. "And I'm beyond caring. Either put up, shut up or grow up. Your choice."

"You arrogant little brat -!" Snape began, voice rising dramatically.

"Thank you, Severus," Professor Dumbledore cut him off firmly although the Potions Professor still glared malevolently at Michael through his curtain of greasy black hair. "You can see to your House now." Without another word, Snape left, slamming the door behind him.

"The loss of points still stands, Hal," Dumbledore continued, now looking down at Michael, who met his eyes evenly. "Your comments did not show the respect that Professor Snape is due." He looked sad when Michael shrugged indifferently. "Now, to business. Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Hal?"

"No," Michael said flatly.

"Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?"

"No."

"Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" Madame Maxime protested.

"And I had heard that the French were a courteous people," Michael told her. "It's so sad to be disillusioned."

The giant headmistress choked on her words, her face reddening.

"Hal," Dumbledore said reprovingly.

"Mr Potter could not have crossed the Age Line," said Professor Flitwick firmly. "With all due respect to his ability in charms, I doubt if anyone his age could manage to deceive it. I examined Professor Dumbledore's work myself and it was flawless."

"And yet his name came out of the Goblet," Karkaroff said smoothly. "Mr. Crouch... Mr. Bagman, you are our - er - objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

Bagman, who was wiping at his with a handkerchief, deferred to Crouch, who was standing in the shadows outside the circle of the firelight, the half darkness making him look much older than he had seemed earlier. When he spoke, however, his curt voice showed no sign of fatigue or age. "We must follow the rules," he declared. "And the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," said Bagman cheerily.

"I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," Karkaroff said, almost snarling. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."

"But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that," said Bagman. "The Goblet of Fire's just gone out - it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament -"

"- in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" exploded Karkaroff. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"

"Empty threat, Karkaroff," growled a voice from behind Michael. Turning his head he saw Mad-Eye Moody limp through the door from the Great Hall "You can't leave your champion now," the veteran Auror said. "He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"

"Convenient? I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody." Karkaroff said disdainfully.

"Don't you? It's very simple, Karkaroff," Moody said softly. "Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."

"Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!"

"More likely someone who wants me dead," Michael corrected her bleakly. "Anyone wanting to give Hogwarts a second contestant would have picked someone with better chance of winning. No, I suspect that this goes a long way beyond this idiotic game of yours."

Fleur Delacour stamped her foot. "Why do you call it foolish?" she exclaimed. "We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money - zis is a chance many would die for!"

"If you think your life is only worth a thousand galleons then I pity you," Michael said grimly. "I value mine a little higher. Which is why I'll not be participating."

A tense silence fell on the room. Ludo Bagman, whose face had grown more and more anxious as Moody and Karkaroff sparred, said: "Harry, you don't have a choice."

"You said there's a rulebook," said Michael. "I suppose that you have a copy. Let's see what this 'binding magical contract' is. Because if it's just whoever's name is dropped into it getting obligated then why not just drop Voldemort's name -" he broke off as most of the people in the room jumped and looked nervous. "Oh get over yourselves. What are you?" he gibed. "Two-year olds? Anyway, why not just drop Voldemort's name into it and let him face the consequences of being entered into a game he didn't even know he was playing?"

"Wouldn't've worked," Moody grunted. "We'd need to know his real name – not the one he gave himself."

"Thomas Marvolo Riddle," Michael replied promptly. "Want me to show you his old school pictures?"

"How the devil would you know his name?" Karkaroff demanded.

Dumbledore coughed gently. "Mr. Potter is quite correct," he said. "Before he styled himself Lord Voldemort, he was indeed Thomas Riddle, an alumini of Hogwarts. A former Head Boy in fact." Turning to Michael, he added: "Unfortunately, it would not work because he is no longer a student at Hogwarts. The Goblet would not accept the name of anyone not a student."

"I could quit Hogwarts, I suppose," Michael suggested casually. "There are, after all, other schools I could study at."

"Er, no Hal. It's too late for that."

"Okay, give me a moment." Michael said and the nodded. "Well, fortunately there is a simple solution. You lot are the judges of the Tournament and you decide what the events are. So we toss a few coins to settle on a winner and then you can fire up the Goblet again and put the names of these three into it."

"I'm sorry, Hal," Dumbledore said. "The Goblet won't light again for five years."

Michael shrugged. "No one outside the room has to know that. You can hold all the events and give out the same prizes – what does it matter that the 'real' tournament was a few coins tossed in a backroom?"

Bagman looked astonished. "Oh I say," he gasped. "We can hardly do that!"

"The rules are clear," Mr. Crouch said. "However the situation arose, Hogwarts now has two champions."

"Bollocks," Michael snarled. He walked towards the door. "I've provided you with a clear out. If you chose not to use it then the responsibility is entirely yours. But it'll be a cold day in hell before I play the puppet."

.oOo.

The crowd of Slytherin students burst into mocking laughter and pressed the badges that they were wearing, all of which promptly announced POTTER STINKS. Michael felt his temper rising but the smug look on Malfoy's face told him that a show of temper was precisely what the other boy wanted..

"Oh very funny," Hermione said sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who were laughing harder than anyone, "really witty." Ron was standing against the wall with Dean and Seamus. He wasn't laughing, but he wasn't sticking up for Michael either.

"Well, fifty percent right is pretty good for you, Draco," Michael said coolly. "How much for three of them? I certainly want to show my support for Cedric."

.oOo.

Colin's face went pink. "Professor, Mr. Bagman wants him," he said nervously. "All the champions have got to go, I think they want to take photographs..."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Well if it's just the Champions that have to go, I guess I'll be finishing the lesson," he said drily. "Thanks for letting me know though, Colin. Hadn't you better go back to class?"

"No, no, Mr. Potter," Sprout said firmly. "If you've been sent for then you'll have to go. Leave your bags here, you can finish up later."

Michael shook his head. "I was rather under the impression I'd made this clear already," he said irritably. "I don't play the damnfool game of house points and damned if I'll go along with this Triwizard's nonsense. So unless you plan to manhandle me…" he trailed off, with a challenging look at Professor Sprout. Then he grinned when she did nothing. "I didn't think so."

Terry groaned. "Here we go again… another Hal-shaped hole in our House Points," he said resignedly.

.oOo.

Only half an hour later, Ludo Bagman bounded into the greenhouse, an unfamiliar wizard and witch trailing behind him. He looked around, then pointed right at Michael. "Ah, there he is. Champion number four! Come here Harry... nothing to worry about, our message must have gone astray… it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the Champions and judges will be here in a moment -"

Michael finished carefully cutting a fruit from the vine he was working on and deposited it gently in the basket at his feet. "The message got here," he said, not wanting to get Colin into trouble. "I don't know why you sent it, but it did reach me."

"Harry, Harry," Bagman said encouragingly, "We have to check that your wand is fully functional, no problems, you know, as it'll be your most important tools in the tasks ahead."

"I do recall mentioning a time or two that I won't be participating in your silly game," Michael replied firmly and edged along the vine to the next fruit. "So you won't need to weigh my wand, will you?"

"Harry, for your own good you must compete," Bagman insisted, shooting a nervous look at the woman behind him. "The magical contract is quite binding and the consequences of your refusal must already be causing you great pain."

"Not a bit of it," Michael replied. "I suppose that I must have been right all along – I wonder what's happening to the idiot who put my name in. With a bit of luck they'll be in great pain right now." Then he frowned. "That's an interesting thought," he mused. "Whoever put my name didn't know me too well – they called me Harry, just like you do. Anyone who knew me would know I don't call myself Harry."

"What do you call yourself, Mr Potter?" asked the woman. She was an odd looking witch, her hair elaborately set in artificial curls that didn't suit her heavy-jawed face at all. Her spectacles were jewelled, her robes magenta and her crimson fingernails were at least two inches long. She reminded Michael of Dame Edna more than anything and he wondered absently if she was actually a he, like the famous Australian.

"This is Rita Skeeter," Bagman explained. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet..."

"Maybe not that small, Ludo," Skeeter said, looking at Michael with a hungry look in her eyes. "I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?" she said to Bagman, but still gazing fixedly at Michael, who clipped off another fruit and reached for a loose section of the vine. "The youngest champion, you know... to add a bit of color?"

"Certainly!" Bagman exclaimed.

"Not," Michael said. "I'm in the middle of class – go away." He turned back to the vines and twisted the vine carefully to reveal another fruit.

"Don't be like that, Harry," said Rita Skeeter chidingly from behind him and she seized his upper arm with a strong grip, pulling him back. Then she halted and gulped as the blades of Michael's clippers closed gently around one scarlet-taloned finger, not closed yet but the threat was implicit.

"You're not terribly bright, are you?" Michael said. "Physical contact without permission from myself or my guardians is a form of assault, and you just did it in front of a dozen witnesses. Now get your hand off me and maybe I won't press charges."

Rita opened her grip slowly, her face purple as Michael removed the clippers to let her withdraw her hand. The look in her eyes made it clear that she was not going to let the matter rest. "Now then," Michael said amicably. "Are you going to stop bothering me? Or shall we discuss invasion of privacy? Oddly enough I had cause to look up the laws on that a couple of years ago."

"I'm sure that the other champions will have great deal to say, Potter," Rita Skeeter said angrily. "Your entry into the Tournament was very irregular after all."

Michael smiled thinly although his guts were churning. "Any idiot can go through life without making enemies," he said. "I've faced down Voldemort, do you really think that your poison pen frightens me?"

Before the reporter could reply, the door to the greenhouse opened again, this time to admit Albus Dumbledore. His eyes had not regained the twinkle that Michael had seen in previous years, instead they were full of worry. Trailing behind him were a fuming Madame Maxine and Professor Karkaroff, along with Mr. Crouch, Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, Cedric Diggory and, surprisingly, Mr. Ollivander – the wandmaker from whose shop in Diagon Alley Michael had bought his wand, before he first came to Hogwarts.

"I see that you're still here, Hal," Dumbledore said, then turned to Professor Sprout, who had been watching the little tableau helplessly. "I'm very sorry to interrupt your lesson, Pomona," he said. "We sent a messenger to summon Hal, but he seems to have gone astray."

"Mr. Creevy delivered his message," Professor Sprout advised him tersely. "Mr. Potter declined to respond."

Dumbledore turned sad eyes upon Hal. "The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, Hal," he announced. "It cannot take place if one of our champions is not present."

Michael's eyes narrowed and he buried the blades of his clippers deep in the vine he'd been working on, an action that would certainly cost him points when the class was graded. Rising to his feet, he swept his gaze across the little group. "Well, you appear to have all three of them," he said in a mild voice. "What's the problem?"

"You arrogant little snot," Karkaroff snarled, oblivious to the fact that Rita Skeeter had taken out a piece of parchment from her handbag and was scribbling furiously upon it. "You weasel your way into the tournament and now you're actively trying to destroy it!"

"I don't know what you mean, Professor," Michael replied, his voice betraying the fact that his patience was worn thin. "I have told every one of you that I am not one of your Champions. You yourself have disputed the suggestion that I am, which might be one of the few things that we can agree upon. So I've hardly weaselled my way into anything, and my actions have no bearing on the tournament since it is nothing to do with me."

"Hal," Dumbledore said wearily. "Why does everything have to be a battle with you?"

"Largely because you insist on opposing me on most things," Michael pointed out. "Now shoo. You're disrupting class."

.oOo.

The arrival of the Daily Prophet at breakfast one morning only added to the levels of insanity that seemed to be raging around Hogwarts about the tournament. The Prophet included a very large piece on the Triwizard Tournament and Harry Potter, a 'sullen and argumentative youngster, prone to tantrums and threatening behavior, with no respect for adult authority' had a major role. Flattering pictures of Cedric Diggory, Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum backed up a story that portrayed them as the honorable champions representing their schools while 'Harry Potter' was the young and spoilt brat trying to destroy the entire tournament in a fit of pique.

If Michael had read about such a ridiculous piece of yellow journalism in a novel then he would have been entertained, and perhaps a little irritated on behalf of the victims. As it was, he was grimly furious about the whole manner, although on rereading the piece it was clear that Rita Skeeter had been very careful not to write anything that he might be able to take legal exception to – everything was an opinion, or the rephrased testimony of somone at the school.

What was particularly annoying was that he wasn't the only one caught in the mess – Rita had transformed Ron into a 'hulking crony' not too different from Crabbe or Goyle, and Hermione was apparently some sort of torrid love interest of one or both of them.

.oOo.

"The Yule Ball is approaching - a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will be open only to fourth years and above - although you may invite a younger student if you wish -"

Padma Patil and Mandy Brocklehurst promptly bagan to giggle and Mandy leant forwards to whisper something to Lisa Turpin, who was sitting in front of the pair. The professor ignored them and continued, "Dress robes will be worn, and the ball will start at eight o'clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. Now then -" and she stared around the class disapprovingly. "The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to - er - let our hair down, but that does NOT mean," Professor McGonagall went on, "that we will be relaxing the standards of behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a student embarrasses the school in any way."

The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them onto their shoulders.

"Potter - a word, if you please," Professor McGonagall called above the noise.

Michael finished packing away his notes and then seated himself on top of the desk opposite the teacher's desk, looking expectantly Professor McGonagall. She until the rest of the class had gone, and then said, "Potter, the champions and their partners traditionally open the ball."

Michael looked at her blankly. When it became evident that this was all she intended to say for the moment, he nodded encouragingly. Nothing. "And?" he asked, drawing out the word questioningly.

"And what, Mr. Potter?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Michael asked. "I'm not a champion, I can't dance to save my life and I very likely won't bother to attend the Ball at all."

"You are a Hogwarts champion and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school," McGonagall said firmly.

Michael blinked. "I rather thought I'd made myself clear," he said in a puzzled voice. "I'm no such thing and I shall not."

"This is a tradition and part of the competition," Professor McGonagall said coldly. "You have no choice in this, Mr. Potter. Get yourself a partner and while you're at it get rid of your childish attitude."

"But I like my attitude," Michael protested. "It keeps me from falling prey to the delusions that seem to afflict every adult wizard I've ever met."

McGonagall stared at him and both were reminded of a similar occasion not yet three years in the past. "Mr. Potter," she said at last, her voice firm. "We are endeavouring to save your magic and probably your life. A degree of co-operation on your part is called for."

Michael shook his head wearily. "Is there anything else, Professor?"

Minerva McGonagall sighed. "No, Mr. Potter."

After Michael was gone, the Deputy Headmistress rested her face on her hands. "Heaven help Hogwarts if his children continue the trend," she muttered. James Potter had caused havoc more often than his son but never to such a degree. If Hal had children that were worse than he himself then she supposed that it would be time to retire.

.oOo.

It was only the next day that a third-year Hufflepuff that Michael didn't even know the name of approached him and rather nervously asked him if he would go to the Ball with her. Rather taken aback, Michael hesitated and then thanked her before explained he had no plans to attend at all although he assured her that he was very flattered that she'd approached him. Word of his intentions apparently hadn't gotten around because the day after that he was asked out by two more girls, a second year Ravenclaw (Lisa Turpin's little sister Lydia) and a fifth-year Gryffindor (who was rather determined and seemed to take even his most diplomatic refusals quite hard).

Ron found the latter immensely amusing. "She was quite good looking," he pointed out with a grin.

"Why don't you ask her then?" Michael pointed out reasonably, which shut Ron up immediately.

.oOo.

Michael had barely reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room when Ron crashed out of them, wearing a rather fantastic set of dress robes. They were mostly black, slashed with a subdued plaid along the upper arms, and a sleeveless white overrobe that emphasised Ron's broad shoulders. The monochrome outfit set off his red hair quite well.

"Mate!" Ron yelped. "These are great – where did you get them!"

Michael grinned. "I made them," he said. "Just a little hobby of mine."

.oOo.

Michael was sitting in the Ravenclaw common room, getting solidly trounced at wizard's chess by Lydia Turpin, when Flitwick entered the room. The second year Ravenclaw hadn't managed to get a date at all to the Ball and wasn't old enough to attend anyway, so she'd been moping around the common room and feeling rather left out until Michael invited her to join him in a game. It wasn't until partway through the second game that he'd found out that her parents competed regularly in national Chess tournaments and that she'd practically grown up playing the game (albeit the muggle version) whereas Michael only played occasionally and had never taken it very seriously.

He was just tipping over his king for the third time when the tiny professor scurried into the common room and looked around a little frantically before seeing Michael. "Mr Potter," he snapped, somewhat starchily. "What are you doing?"

"Losing at chess," Michael replied somewhat absently. "Why?"

"Didn't Minerva tell you?" Professor Flitwick said incredulously. "You're supposed to be opening the dancing. Why aren't you down in the Hall? Get your dress robes on, immediately."

"These are my dress robes," Michael replied, passing Lydia the black pieces and setting up his own white pieces again. The second year had shrunk back into her chair and was trying to stay out of the way of the 'conversation'. "Or to put it another way, the only robes I have other than my school uniform."

Flitwick blinked and looked at Michael's clothes. Rather than the elaborate robes of wizarding fashion, Michael was wearing a vaguely japanese outfit – a shirt-like robe on his upper body, trousers that more closely resembled a divided skirt on his lower body and a light, sleeveless robe of Ravenclaw blue over the black of rest of his clothes. Light sandals were on his feet, clearly visible below the cuffs of his 'robes'. "Alright," he said. "Unconventional, but they'll do. Now come on."

"Why?" Michael asked reasonably. "I'm very comfortable where I am. It's a cosy little spot and the company is excellent."

"You have an obligation -"

"Don't," interrupted Michael in an irritated voice. "For the record," he said flatly, "Professor McGonagall made a distinct point of telling me about the Ball and what she expected me to do. I told her then and I tell you now, that I'm not interested in playing your…" he hesitated, "foolish… game."

"Mister Potter… Hal…" Filius stumbled. "You've been arguing persistently that you are right and that every wizarding authority, and I can tell you that Professor Dumbledore has consulted dozens of experts to check the situation, is wrong. Why are you so convinced that your nomination is invalid?"

Michael shrugged. "Originally I wasn't," he said. "There was a slight degree of doubt, although I kept it close to my chest. However, once I followed the advice of the Hogwarts motto and didn't trifle with a dragon, the lack of magical retribution made it clear that I had been correct."

"And what if you had died?"

"Then I would have died."

"Just that?"

"No. Now that you mention it I would have died honorably standing against an injustice. I would have died upholding Cedric's rightful place as the Hogwarts Champion – something that you are bound and determined to slight. That matters to me, Professor Flitwick. Don't like him much, mind you, but right is right and he was chosen."

Flitwick shook his head. "That code will kill you, Hal, unless you learn to bend."

"Life kills all of us, Professor."

.oOo.

Michael jerked awake as someone prodded him painfully in the side. "Ow!" he yelped. "Get off!"

"Harry Potter must wake up, sir!" came a familiar voice.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," Michael muttered. "Just quit poking at me."

He looked around bleary eyed and then took his glasses when they were offered to him. "Dobby?" he said in surprise as he saw who it was that had been poking at him. The little House Elf was standing on the bed, a frantic look on his face.

"Harry Potter needs to hurry!" squeaked Dobby. "The second task starts in ten minutes, and Harry Potter -"

"That's nice..." Michael groaned and rolled over. "Nothing to do with me though."

Dobby caught hold of Michael's pyjama's and tugged on them. "You is supposed to be down by the lake with the other champions, sir!"

Michael groaned and sat up in the bed. "I'm not a champion, Dobby," he said tiredly. "I'm not going to play their little game – Hell, I don't even know what the task is -"

"Dobby knows, sir! Harry Potter has to go into the lake and find his Lydidy -"

"Find my what?" Michael asked, curious despite himself.

"- and take his Lydidy back from the merpeople!"

"What's a Lydidy?"

Dobby blushed and shuffled his feet. "Your, your…" he hesitated and then blushed. "The witch Harry Potter sir went to the ball with."

Michael looked puzzled. "The ball? I didn't go to the ball, I stayed in the common room and…" His face paled. "He wouldn't!"

"The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!" squeaked Dobby. "'But past an hour -'"

"Past an hour?" Michael asked, scrabbling for his wand.

"- 'the prospect's black,'" Dobby recited in a sing-song voice. "'Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.'"

Wand in hand, Michael dashed to the window. "Point me Lydia Turpin," he snapped, balancing the wand on a finger-tip. The length of wood spun for a moment and then pointed down and out of the window. Sighting down it. Michael could see the lake. "Sonofabitch," he snarled.

"You has to eat this, sir!" squeaked the elf, and he put his hand in the pocket of his shorts and drew out a ball of what looked like slimy, grayish-green rat tails. "Right before you go into the lake, sir - gillyweed!"

"Gillyweed?" Michael muttered, staring at the gillyweed, and then slapped his forehead. "Of course – to breathe underwater!"

He turned to his bags and grabbed a pair of shorts. "Dobby, I need a favor," he said. "And it's a big one."

"Dobby will do anything for the great Harry Potter," the elf announced.

"I need a broom," Michael said, stripping off his pyjamas. "A good one. Do you think you could get me Malfoy's?"

"Harry Potter does ask silly questions," Dobby said scoldingly.

"Sorry," Michael said. "Only thinking."

"Of course Dobby can," Dobby said and popped away, returning a moment later with the Nimbus 2001 held in both hands.

"What would I do without you?" Michael asked with a grin as he threaded a belt around the shorts' waistband and hung his potions pouch from it.

"All sorts of silly things," Dobby said and then clapped both hands across his mouth.

Michael burst out laughing. "You're probably right," he admitted. "Thanks Dobby." Then his eyes hardened. "Right then." He took the broomstick and went to the window. "I hate these things," he muttered and perched himself on it before zooming out of the window and into the air.

As he swooped down towards the lake edge he saw that the seats from the previous task had been moved to the Far bank of the lake and that they were packed full of wizards and witches. On the near side of the lake, a gold draped table had been set up and the judges were sat at it, the three champions standing beside them. As they spotted Harry approaching, the crowd began to babble and point, some of them breaking into applause.

Michael shivered in the cold spring air and cast a warming charm on himself before descending to hover the broom by the table. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could say a word, he was interrupted.

"Where have you been?" said Ron's brother Percy. The red-headed young man was sitting in the seat supposedly to be occupied by Bartie Crouch. "The task's about to start!"

"Now, now, Percy!" said Ludo Bagman, who was looking terribly happy about something. "Let him catch his breath!"

Between the two, Dumbledore was smiling at Michael but Karkaroff and Madame Maxine both looking unhappy. Michael swept them with an icy glare over the rim of his glasses. "You're all going to burn in hell for this," he snarled. "Every last one of you."

Dumbledore and Bagman merely looked taken aback but the other three were spluttering with indignation. Before any of them could do anything Michael lowered the nose of the broom and headed out over the lake. "Well?" he asked the other three students as he passed them. "Are you coming?"

Once he was out over the water, he took his wand out of his belt and used the same charm as before, ignoring the shouts from both sides of the water as he searched out Lydia's precise location. Only when the wand pointed directly downwards – indicating that he was right above the little Ravenclaw – did he look around. The three champions were all gone, presumably carrying out their own searches underwater. Ludo Bagman was engrossed in a fierce argument with Percy Weasley and Madam Maxine, while Dumbledore and Karkaroff stared unhappily at Michael. With a snort, Michael gave them two fingers and pulled the gillyweed out of his pouch and began to chew methodically on it.

For a moment he worried that it was having no effect, but then there was a piercing pain from the sides fo his neck and he found himself struggling to breathe. His lungs didn't seem to be working and with a hand he could feel a large slit below one ear, a gill! Without pausing to check the other side, Michael lowered the nose of his purloined broom and plunged down into the water.

Suddenly he could breathe again, but not with his mouth. Instead the water flowed through his gills and he could feel the air, or at least the oxygen, being filtered from it to sustain him. His fingers and toes felt odd and he looked at them to discover that they were now webbed. "Well," he muttered to himself. "I hope this wears off once I'm out of the water."

He couldn't see very far through the dark water – all he could do was follow his wand's direction down towards the bed of the lake. It took several minutes – the broom couldn't carry him anything like as fast through water as it could through the air – but he eventually heard singing from ahead, in the haunting tones of the merfolk.

"An hour long you'll have to look,

And to recover what we took..."

Michael paused and reached into his bag again, pulling out a small bottle and lighting his wand to check that he had the right one. The bottle had the right label and he lowered his wand. Drinking underwater would be tricky, he realised. Fortunately the potion was heavier than water, which would help. Holding the bottle carefully, he pulled the cork and capped the neck immediately with his finger, hoping to minimise the mixing of potion with lake water. Then he took a deep breath and thrust the neck and his thumb into his mouth before removing his thumb and taking a deep gulp.

There was a familiar burning taste in his mouth and he shook from head to toe as the potion took effect and power flooded through his limbs. With what he was sure was a nasty smile on his face, Michael began to descend into the Merpeople's village.

He appeared to be coming down in the middle of a village square or at least of the merpeople equivalent. There was an odd statue of a merman in the middle of the square and four people were tied to it's tail with thick ropes of weed. Around the square were a huge crowd of merfolk, although none were very close to the statue. A choir like arrangement were the source of the singing that Michael could hear.

As he came closer, Michael saw that the people tied to the statue were Cho Chang, Ravenclaw's seeker; a little girl who bore an unmistakeable resemblance to Fleur Delacourt; Hermione Granger; and, yes, Lydia Turpin. All four girls seemed to be asleep and streams of bubbles came from their mouths, presumably part of whatever charm kept them breathing under water. Michael frowned. From what he recalled of the gossip around him after the Yule Ball, Cho had gone to the ball with Cedric Diggory and Hermione had gone with Viktor Krum. Fleur had attended with Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, but he supposed that the seventh year would be assumed more competent than his champion. Or perhaps Fleur simply wasn't that taken with him.

"The whole bloody ball was a set up," Michael growled and heads turned around the square as the merfolk spotted him approaching. He would not have been surprised at that point if they had all charged at him with those terribly sharp looking spears but instead they seemed content to watch as he swooped down upon the four hostages.

For a moment he examined the thick ropes and then caught hold of one at random and contemptuously snapped it with his bare hands. There was a surprised muttering from the merpeople – the rope had been as thick as one of Michael's thumbs – but he ignored them and moved onto the next rope. In a matter of moments he had Lydia free and he used one length of the rope to secure her to his borrowed broom. Then he looked at the stone again and swam over to the little blonde girl.

"Might as well do this properly," he said softly, but even as he reached for the ropes securing her, strong hands caught hold of him and began to pull him away from the child. For all his strength, he had nothing to secure himself as half a dozen mermen dragged him backwards. "You take your own hostage," said a particularly tall merman, distinguishable by his long green beard and the shark fangs that he wore on a crude necklace. "Leave the others…"

Whatever else he proposed to say was lost as Michael, who had relaxed enough for the other mermen to lower their guard, seized hold of the Merman by his beard and shook him vigorously by it. The merman screeched something incoherent and his companions tried to put a halt to the indignity that Michael was imposing. They regretted their decision almost immediately as Michael whirled the much larger merman around and used him like a flail to batter the little squad aside.

Leaving them dazed, Michael swam swiftly for the broom again and hurled himself towards the rock again. This time he took no chances, grabbing hold of a great bundle of the ropes and bracing his feet against statue. For a moment he was afraid that even the strength granted by his magic potion would not be sufficient to defeat the sturdy ropes, but one by one they popped and came loose.

Then he had to stop again because two mermen, presumably braver or more foolish than the others, were trying to drag him away.

Michael paused, took a long, deep breath, and then lashed out with a perfectly executed uppercut that sent one of them hurtling upwards and away. He looked at the other merman and slowly his lips curled into a feral smile.

The merman shrank back.

.oOo.

Quite some distance above Michael and off towards Hogwarts, the waters parted and dazed looking Merman exploded up out of them, soaring in a parabolic arc that slammed him brutally into the waters again, just short of the cliff that the castle sat upon.

"My word!" shouted Bagman from the judge's table. "There certainly seems to be some action going on down there!"

Dumbledore, on the other hand, paled slightly. It was going to take a great deal of effort to make peace with the merfolk again if the younger Hogwarts champion was up to what the Professor rather thought he might be up to. "Oh dear," he said mildly. "I do wish that Hal would listen to instructions for once."

Beside him, Percy Weasley shook his head. In his estimation, there was no likelihood of the Headmaster's wish ever being granted.

.oOo.

Michael's head broke through the water and he gasped for breath. Above him, dangling from the damp-looking broomstick a few feet above the water in the crude harness, were the four girls, all damp and bedraggled and looking around themselves with puzzled eyes. Then, suddenly, the charms on the broom simply failed – due either to the load or to having never been intended for submerisible operations – and there were four high-pitched shrieks followed by four splashes. Waves of water doused Michael and it was a moment before he managed to push wet hair out of his face and look around.

Cho… Hermione… Lydia…

…

Spitting a curse, Michael dived down into the water. The gillyweed might have worn off but the strength potion hadn't, so he was able to easily propel him down towards the French girl, who was being towed downwards by a pair of angry looking mermen. A dozen or so more had been approaching but they reversed course as soon as they saw Michael swimming towards them. The mermen holding the frantic child released her and fled in a panic as a few powerful strokes brought him into range of them.

Seizing hold of the girl, Michael reversed course and quickly pulled his head above the water, hoisting her up so that she could breathe again.

"HAL!" he heard someone scream from behind him and shortly found himself treading water with not only a coughing little French girl in his arms but also a young Ravenclaw clinging to one shoulder and a slightly older Gryffindor treading water so close that he could feel the water swirling around his own legs as she kicked. Cho Chang was a few yards away, looking around with a puzzled expression on her face. Far away, on the edge of the water, the crowd was going wild but Michael didn't care about that.

"What happened?" Hermione demanded. "Are you hurt? Where are the other champions?"

"Didn't see them," Michael replied. "We can talk about it on the shore, I don't think the merfolk are very happy with me for some reason."

Hermione groaned. "What did you do?" she asked.

"Me?" Michael said innocently.

"I know you too well," Hermione replied drily and looked at the two younger girls. "He's a very nice boy," she told them, "but he's not always a very good boy."

"Enough talking," Michael growled. "Can you two swim?"

Lydia nodded but Fleur's sister just gave him a blank look. With a sigh, he nudged Lisa. "Okay, stay close to Hermione and Cho," he advised. Then he called on long ago life-saver classes to start swimming towards the shore on his back, kicking vigorously as the potion began to wear off and holding the girl against his chest, face up. Past her silver-blonde hair he could see the other girls following him.

By the time that the little group reached the shore, the other three champions had returned and Madam Pomfrey was fussing over them with towels, thick blankets and several mugs of some steaming beverage. Fleur broke away from her care the moment she saw Michael stand up in the water, holding the little girl. Breaking past Madame Maxine's attempt to restrain her, she charged down the bank eyes blazing. Her Veela good looks should have been marred somewhat by her bedraggled hair and the miscellaneous scrapes she had suffered but instead she simply looked magnificent.

"You foolish pig'eaded boy!" she shrieked, snatching her startled sister away from Michael. "Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Are you 'urt?" she exclaimed. "I thought… I thought…"

Michael took a deep breath and turned around to help the other girls up the bank to where Dumbledore and Ludo Bagman pulled them up and hustled them towards Madame Pomfrey and, in the case of two of them, towards their Champions. Michael ignored the hands offered to him by the two judges, scrambling up and onto the grass on his own. Bagman tried to seize Michael's hand to shake it but Michael refused to take the proffered hand, instead glaring at Dumbledore who was looking out over the lake. Merfolk had broken the surface in large numbers and a particularly grand example, surrounded by a host of warriors, was approaching the shore.

"Oh dear," Dumbledore sighed. "What in the world did you do down there, Hal?"

Michael shook his head, scattering droplets of water all around them. "What do you think I did down there?" he snorted. "You stuck little Lydia down there to blackmail me into playing your stupid game. Do you really think I'd have let anything get in my way?"

"Miss Turpin was perfectly happy to assist you in the Task, Hal," Dumbeldore said calmly.

"You could soft-talk the Pope into throwing an orgy, you silver-tongued devil," Michael replied coldly. "It doesn't surprise me in the least that you could talk a little girl into risking her life for your pathetic political games."

"For you, Hal," the old man insisted. "I cannot let you risk your magic – I would never have let her drown!"

Albus Dumbledore was, despite his years, still among the finest duellists in the world. And while the sheer strength of his magic and breadth of his knowledge played a major role in his skills, his reflexes remained superb. Thus, he narrowly avoided having his beard caught when Michael snatched for it. But he did miss the fact that Michael's wand was in his other hand, and his aging ears did not catch three softly-uttered syllables, only their results.

"So you won't risk my magic – even though it is my magic to risk?" Michael spat, his words booming across the lake under the influence of the Sonorus charm. "But you have no such compunction in risking my life, do you? Nor the lives of others. You expect me to trust you? Your reckless arrogance has come within inches of killing half the school every year I've been here, not to mention that it put an innocent man in Azkaban for twelve - fucking – years. Trust you? I'll never make that mistake again, you honourless son of a bitch!"

"Hal," Dumbledore said firmly. "Can you not see? You didn't listen to me, you didn't heed what the task was and now you have driven the merfolk to such anger against the wizarding world as I have never seen in them."

"You didn't listen to me when I told you I was not bound by the Goblet," Michael replied with equal firmness. "You didn't heed when I told you a way to lift those bonds even if they had applied. And now you are using a child as a hostage to try enslave me."

The old headmaster flinched at each cruelly emphasised word.

.oOo.

As he passed Cedric's father, the man looked around and spotted him. "There you are, are you?" he said, a trifle smugly in Michael's opinion. "Bet you're not feeling quite as full of yourself now Cedric's caught you up on points, are you?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "Cedric, for the love of God would you explain to your father that I'm not in the blasted tournament. Maybe he'll listen to you – sure as hell no one's been listening to me!" he added bitterly.

"Ignore him," said Cedric in a low voice that only Michael could hear. He directed a frown at his father. "He's been angry ever since Rita Skeeter's article about the Triwizard Tournament - you know, when she made out you were trying to wreck the tournament. He thinks you were trying to force me out of the tournament."

"Didn't bother to correct her, though, did he?" the older Diggory said loudly.

Michael spat on the floor. "Dogs piss on lamp posts," he snorted. "And reporters make up fairy tales. What makes you think she cares one whit for the truth? The only thing that amazes me is that anyone believes a word that comes out of her poison pen."

Mrs Weasley went a little red but didn't say anything under Michael's knowing stare.

The boy turned back to Amos Diggory. "If you want to vent your spite," he finished scornfully, "take it out on the bitch who's been spreading lies rather than one of the few people who agrees that Cedric's the one and only champion of Hogwarts."

.oOo.

Bagman blew the whistle and Michael saw Cedric hurry forward into the maze. For his part, Michael didn't bother to rush. He was, after all, in no hurry. He might want the pictures of

Harry's family back – it would be suspicious in the extreme for him not to go after them – but there was no need to make more of a fuss than he had to.

About fifty yards in, Cedric took a turn to the right and vanished from sight.

A large yellow coat of arms, presumably representing the Hufflepuff seeker, marked his location. Michael waited patiently until he saw that Cedric was well clear of what he intended to do and then ambled forwards, raising his wand casually and summoning a strong, steady wind. With that established, he pulled out a vial from his belt and flipped off the cap, taking care not to inhale the fumes that began to slowly rise from it.

Instead, he waved it gently in the wind he had created and let the force of the moving air carry the fumes into the hedges. For a moment, it seemed that nothing was happening, and then a section of hedge just ahead of where Cedric had turned withered and died.

A moment later, so did the next line of hedge and Michael began to walk slowly towards the gap, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief and then wrapping his scarf around that part of his head to keep the improvised filter in place.

.oOo.

"Why can't he be back?" Michael asked coldly.

"He just can't be, Mr Potter," Fudge insisted. "It's unthinkable! Impossible!"

"Not impossible," Michael said grimly. "Inevitable. Have you ever met him?"

Fudge shivered and clutched at his hat. "Fortunately not," he said.

"I met him in my first year," said Michael quietly. "I told Dumbledore then, told him that Voldemort hadn't given up. I'm telling you now that he has found a way to restore himself, to summon his old followers." His face was quiet. "Why are you so intent on keeping the Dementors as guards at Azkaban?"

"There is no doubt as to their loyalty to the Ministry," Fudge said.

"Difficult to prove either way," Michael said. "However, you haven't considered the other side of the argument. There have been two confirmed escapes from Azkaban now - first Black and now we find that Crouch was freed years ago. Even if the Dementors are as faifthful as you say, they evidently aren't competent for the task."

.oOo.

"But I can't just tell the public that He-Who-Must-Be-Named has returned," Fudge wailed.

"Of course not," Michael agreed promptly. "There would be a panic."

There was a roomwide blink.

"But-but-but-" Fudge muttered.

"You tell them that someone purporting to Voldemort is trying to revive the Death Eaters," Michael explained reasonably. "Doubtlessly with the goal of overthrowing the Ministry and seizing power." He thought that reminding Fudge of what he stood to lose might be advisable.

"There's no need for declaring an emergency," he added. "Merely a few well-thought out precautionary measures. Beefing up the security on Azkaban, increasing auror recruitment a little. Nothing worth mention to the press. I'm sure that you had things like that in mind all along."

Fudge looked trapped. "Yes, yes of course."

"Perhaps any Death Eaters not in confinement should be called in," Michael added. "Protective custody for those who were under Imperius, and to be questioned about anyone they can identify that might have been recruited, where the Death Eaters used to lair... that sort of thing."

"Now, now, Harry," Fudge said, uneasily aware that the control of this conversation was now in the hands of a child. "That's far too extreme."

"Which is why you shouldn't do it," Michael told him in an understanding voice. "I suggest that you give the Head of the Wizengamot authority to oversee an investigation... you're far too busy to involve yourself directly in dealing with a mere imposter. I'm sure that with a few Aurors he could work wonders. Just give him blanket authority for the duration and no one can blame you if he has to do anything unpopular."

Now Dumbledore was looking surprised and Michael directed an amused look at him. "Do you have some parchment, Professor?" he asked politely. "I think the Minister needs to write something."

.oOo.

"I didn't think you trusted me, Hal," Dumbledore said quietly. "But you had Fudge grant me extraordinary authority."

Michael looked out of the window at the lake, the night sky reflected in its waters. "Think of it as a test," he said at last. "I don't believe that you're one of Voldemort's supporters, so I have at least some hopes that you'll use that authority to stop him. The test will be what you choose to do with it. Remember, Fudge can overturn it at any time - it's specifically set up so he can disown your actions when he gets pressured, which he shall, no doubt."

"What would you do?" the old wizard asked, his eyes lacking their characteristic twinkle.

"I'd have Malfoy and his cronies in cells long enough for any potions to wear off and then I'd dose them up with veritaserum and wring them dry," Michael said without hesitation. "I'd have their full confessions witnessed by a dozen of the most impartial observers I could arrange and then I'd have the guilty executed for treason. I'd go through Azkaban the same way and then I'd haul in everyone those confessions had implicated and start again."

"Oh Hal..." Dumbledore sighed. "Whatever made you so ruthless?"

Michael smiled thinly. "It's the only moral course of action, Professor. To finish the war before it can begin. To kill the core of Voldemort's organisation before they can recruit another generation to be their footsoldiers, before they can kill more innocents."

"They are still people, Hal," Dumbledore told him. "Most of them were students here, little different from you."

"And that's your tragic flaw," Michael told him, omitting any title. "You still see them as erring children and would spare them, even at the expense of the children they will victimise. You care more about redeeming those like Malfoy than you do for supporting those such as Neville." He turned away. "It's been a long day. I'm going to bed."

.oOo.

Professor Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk and buried his face behind his hands. He looked very old, very tired and deeply saddened to Michael, who had seated himself opposite the Headmaster without waiting for an invitation. The sign of weakness did not precisely please Michael, but there was at least the hope that the events of the last day might have jolted the old man out of his decade long nap.

After a long moment, Dumbledore sat back, folded his hands and opened his eyes once more, staring measuringly at Michael through his glasses. "It is time," he said slowly, "for me to tell you what I should have told you four years ago, Hal. I am going to tell you everything. I ask only a little patience. You will have your chance to rage at me - to do whatever you like - when I have finished. I will not stop you."

Michael folded his own hands solemnly and leant back in his own chair. He said nothing, but after a moment he flicked one hand as if to say: 'Well, get on with it.'

Dumbledore looked for a moment out of his window at something Michael could not see, then looked back at him. "Four years ago, you arrived at Hogwarts, Hal, safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well - not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years."

Since he hadn't actually suffered through those ten dark and difficult years, and nothing that he could think of would make it that the real Harry had not, Michael said nothing, although Dumbledore paused to give him the chance to.

"You might ask - and with good reason - why it had to be so. Why could some wizarding family not have taken you in? Many would have done so more than gladly, would have been honoured and delighted to raise you as a son."

"My answer is that my priority was to keep you alive. You were in more danger than perhaps anyone but I realised. Voldemort had been vanquished hours before, but his supporters - and many of them are almost as terrible as he - were still at large, angry, desperate and violent."

Michael raised one finger and the old wizard halted. "They are still at large?" the boy asked. "This is why you objected to my holidays?"

"Yes," Dumbledore admitted simply. Michael grunted thoughtfully, his eyes darkened.

After a moment, Dumbledore realised that Michael did not intend to say anything. "At that point," he said, picking up the thread of his explanation, "I had to make a decision with regard to the years ahead. Did I believe that Voldemort was gone forever? No. I knew not whether it would be ten, twenty or fifty years before he returned, but I was sure he would do so, and I was sure, too, knowing him as I have done, that he would not rest until he killed you."

Michael blinked at that statement. He had seen Voldemort's hatred of him, and he could believe that Voldemort would not rest until he had avenged his humiliating defeat. But Dumbledore's tone implied more than the words said. More than revenge lay behind Voldemort's motives.

"I knew that Voldemort's knowledge of magic is perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive," Dumbledore said. "I knew that even my most complex and powerful protective spells and charms were unlikely to be invincible if he ever returned to full power. But I knew, too, where Voldemort was weak. And so I made my decision. You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated - to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died to save you. She gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a -"

"Rubbish," Michael said flatly. He placed his hands on the armrests of his chair as if about to rise to his feet. "Do you expect me to believe that Lily Potter was the only mother to die trying to protect her child? How many muggleborn witches did he kill? How many half-blood infants did he slaughter?"

"Far more than I care to remember," Dumbledore said sadly. "But there was nothing passive about the protection she used, Hal. Your mother was an exceptional witch and she drew on ancient and all but forgotten magics, blood magics, when she knew that your father had not been able to hold Voldemort back. Only a few wizards and witches have ever been able to master such magic and Voldemort was unprepared for it. When he killed Lily he unsuspectingly met the conditions she had set, in taking her life he had irrevocably sealed his own fate."

Michael thought about that for a moment. Then he nodded and relaxed his hand's grip.

Dumbledore smiled placatingly but the smile faded as he saw the green eyes fixed on him narrow in suspicion. "Your mother's sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you. While you could still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, there you could not be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You needed to return there only once a year, but as long as you could still have called it home, whilst you were there he could not hurt you. Your aunt knew this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knew that allowing you to stay may well have kept you alive for ten years."

There was a snort from Michael. "While I could call it home?" he asked incredulously. "At least you don't pretend that I had to want to call it home. You admit yourself you know full well I had ample reason to leave the instant that I had an alternative. Aye, and to never return!"

"Four years ago, then," continued Dumbledore, as though he had not been interrupted in his story, "you arrived at Hogwarts, neither as carefree nor as well-nourished as I would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy. You were not a pampered little prince, but as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well."

"And then... well, you will remember the events of your first year at Hogwarts quite as clearly as I do. You rose magnificently to the challenge that faced you and sooner - much sooner - than I had anticipated, you found yourself face to face with Voldemort. You survived again. You did more. You delayed his return to full power and strength. You fought a man's fight, demonstrated intelligence and independence beyond your years. I was... prouder of you than I can say."

"Yet there was a flaw in this wonderful plan of mine," said Dumbledore. "An obvious flaw that I knew, even then, might be the undoing of it all. And yet, knowing how important it was that my plan should succeed, I told myself that I would not permit this flaw to ruin it. I alone could prevent this, so I alone must be strong. And here was my first test, as you lay in the hospital wing, weak from your struggle with Voldemort."

"Test?" Michael asked thoughtfully.

"Don't you remember asking me, as you lay in the hospital wing, why Voldemort had tried to kill you when you were a baby?"

Michael frowned. "Yeah," he replied. "I remember."

"Ought I to have told you then?"

Green eyes met blue eyes levelly. "Yes. You should have."

"Well, as you know, I decided not to answer you. Eleven, I told myself, was much too young to know."

Michael muffled a groan. I was fourteen! he thought, but grudgingly admitted that he could hardly fault Dumbledore for not known something that he himself had tried so hard to conceal.

Dumbledore shot him a puzzled look, but continued. "I had never intended to tell you when you were eleven. The knowledge would be too much at such a young age. I should have recognised the danger signs then. I should have asked myself why I did not feel more disturbed that you had already asked me the question to which I knew, one day, I must give a terrible answer. I should have recognised that I was too happy to think that I did not have to do it on that particular day... you were too young, much too young."

"And so we entered your second year at Hogwarts. And once again you met challenges even grown wizards have never faced; once again you acquitted yourself beyond my wildest dreams. You did not ask me again, however, why Voldemort had left that mark on you. We discussed your scar, oh yes... we came very, very close to the subject. Why did I not tell you everything? Well, it seemed to me that twelve was, after all, hardly better than eleven to receive such information. I allowed you to leave my presence, bloodstained, exhausted but exhilarated, and if I felt a twinge of unease that I ought, perhaps, to have told you then, it was swiftly silenced. You were still so young, you see, and I could not find it in myself to spoil that night of triumph..."

"Do you see, Harry? Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now? I had fallen into the trap I had foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I must avoid."

Michael closed his eyes. "You bought into it," he sighed. "The plucky kid solving the mysteries and daring the dangers that the adults couldn't or wouldn't. And you couldn't bear to taint that little homily with the harsh cold reality that no one lives happily ever after." Then his eyes snapped open and emerald eyes smouldered. "You are stretching my credulousness, not to mention my patience," he added in a far colder voice. "You are chief of the Wizengamot, you have battled dark wizards for a good part of the last half-century and you think I'm going to believe that you let a little sentimentality get in the way? I wasn't born yesterday, Professor."

"I wanted to save you more pain than you had already suffered," Dumbledore insisted. "I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act. I have watched you more closely than you can have imagined and I find that I care about you too much."

"Enough to risk the life of a little girl?" Michael asked sarcastically. "Enough to throw an innocent into the mess that the Tournament had become, risking her life – and don't try to pretend that you could guarantee her safety – King Chaos ruled that day, and you had to know that it would. Enough to blackmail and threaten me into risking my life in an insane game?"

"Without your magic, Hal, you would swiftly die, even if that was all you suffered for defying the Goblet. Believe me when I say that you could not have survived the last few years without it and I have no reason to expect the following years to be any better. Your suggestion for breaking the contract was ingenious, but if it failed, as it might well have done, then not only you, but all three of the other Champions would have suffered the consequences. I believed that your best chance of survival was to participate, whether you won or lost. And I rather think that you could have won, were you to have actually sought the prize."

Michael glared.

"I concede that the means I chose were not the best, Hal. I have made more mistakes than I care to remember. But all of them stem from just one thing: I have watched you struggling under more burdens than any student who has ever passed through this school and I could not bring myself to add another - the greatest one of all."

Michael waited, but Dumbledore did not speak. At length the boy let out a frustrated growl. "You can't imagine I'll let you get away with only telling me that much, can you?"

"Hope springs eternal, Hal," Dumbledore said wearily. "But you are correct of course. Even if I could deny you the truth any longer, I have no right to. Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a child because of a prophecy made shortly before your birth. He knew the prophecy had been made, though he did not know its full contents. He set out to kill you when you were still a baby, believing he was fulfilling the terms of the prophecy. He discovered, to his cost, that he was mistaken, when the curse intended to kill you backfired. And so, since his return to his body, and particularly since your extraordinary escape from him last year, he has been determined to hear that prophecy in its entirety. This is the weapon he has been seeking so assiduously since his return: the knowledge of how to destroy you."

Dumbledore got to his feet and walked past Michael to the black cabinet that stood beside Fawkes's perch. He bent down, slid back a catch and took from inside it a shallow stone basin, carved with runes around the edges. Dumbledore walked back to the desk, placed the Pensieve upon it, and raised his wand to his own temple. From it, he withdrew silvery, gossamer-fine strands of thought clinging to the wand and deposited them into the basin. He sat back down behind his desk and watched his thoughts swirl and drift inside the Pensieve for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he raised his wand and prodded the silvery substance with its tip.

A figure rose out of it, draped in shawls, her eyes magnified to enormous size behind her glasses, and she revolved slowly, her feet in the basin. After a moment, Michael recognised Professor Trelawney. The Divination professor was not often seen outside of her tower and only Ron's descriptions let him match occasional glances to her name and this image. Her voice was harsh and hoarse as she declaimed:

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

The image of Professor Trelawney faded back into the silvery liquid of the Penseive, but neither wizard watched.

For a moment, Michael struggled with his anger. Silence filled the room as Dumbledore watched him patiently. Finally, Michael shook his head and turned away. "Well, gee whiz," he said in an overly bright and childlike tone. "I guess I'm just going to have to place myself blindly into your hands in case the naughty wizard comes after me." He paused. "Enough stalling, old man. There's nothing in that prophecy that we haven't all known for years. What's your real reason?"

"Hal, please think about this. You are the only person who has a chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good. The only one. Voldemort himself marked you as his equal, gave you powers, and a future."

Michael threw back his head and laughed. He couldn't help himself. "You old fool," he said almost fondly. "Perhaps you really are sincere. Don't you see that this changes nothing? Of course Voldemort wants me dead. What does it matter if it's for a prophecy or for revenge? And of course I'll fight him – haven't I fought you for years to keep my life my own? Why would I bow to him? And yes, one of us will die. That happens in war. This prophecy is utterly worthless now. Any idiot could draw the same conclusions."

.oOo.

"You've picked the losing side, Potter!" Malfoy sneered. "I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this!" The pureblooded bigot jerked his head at Ron and Hermione and Michael's temper began the final countdown. "Too late now. Potter! They'll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord's back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first! Well -"

Michael's temper exploded but it did so icily. "Perhaps you're right," he said softly and the rest of the compartment went deathly silent as everyone looked at him in shocked disbelief. "Perhaps I have picked the wrong side and you picked the winning one. Perhaps Voldemort will sweep all before him and purge the world. But if that's the case, Draco Malfoy, then I guess I have no choice," he said and the compartment windows exploded as his magic erupted around him, scattering glass from the door into the corridor and from the outside windows onto the train tracks. "But. To. Kill. You. All." His wand was aimed at Draco's forehead and a fierce green glow was coming from the tip.

Malfoy had gone completely white and an acrid smell filled the compartment as the front of his robes darkened visibly.

Then Michael smiled and the magic died away. "But on the other hand, with a scurrying little ferret, who can't even say his name, as the bright light of the next generation of his followers… Thomas Marvolo Riddle isn't looking all that frightening, now is he?"

.oOo.

"Theory is all very well," Michael grunted, raising his hand casually. "But if there's no practical experience then it's very little use in the real world."

Umbridge looked at him. "This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world," she told him.

"You're supposed to be preparing us for the real world," Michael snorted.

"There is nothing out there that you need to be prepared for, Mr. Potter."

Michael choked. "You what?" he said incredulously. "Have dragons, boggarts, hobgoblins all disappeared? Has all the bigotry, prejudice and dark magic that goes into the regularly scheduled Dark Lord uprisings simply dissipated? Have the Goblins all vanished? Because I don't recall seeing any of that in the Daily Prophet."

"Who do you imagine want's to attack children like yourselves?" Umbridge enquired in a honeyed voice.

"Imagine?" Michael snorted. "Let's just go on my personal experience, shall we? Age of one, Voldemort -"

Terry gasped, Padma shrieked and Antony fell off his chair in response to the word. Umbridge, however, didn't flinch, earning herself a little credit in Michael's eyes. Instead she simply said: "Ten points from Ravenclaw, Mr. Potter."

"Whatever. As I was saying, Voldemort blows up my house, kills my parents and uses the Killing Curse on me. Age eleven, one of your predecessors tries to steal the Philosopher's Stone - over my dead body, to boot. Age twelve – basilisk, possessed house-mate. Age thirteen – Dementors, Death-Eater with complete access to Hogwarts. Age fourteen – illegally entered and forced to compete into a hazardous magical contest by a Ministry official and the Supreme Mugwump respectively. Faced with a Dragon, a horde of merfolk and some Dark Lord wannabe who claims, perhaps falsely, to be Voldemort." He shook his head. "No… nothing there that I might need to defend myself against."

"Let me make a few things quite plain," Umbridge hissed, everyone in the room looking at the Professor or Michael. She stood up and leant forwards, resting her weight upon the desk. "You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead -"

"What Dark Wizard?" Michael asked breezily. "And who said he was back from the dead?"

"Mr-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself," Umbridge said in a single breath. "As I was saying," she continued. "You have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie."

She looked at Michael, who met her gaze steadily, a slight smile on his lips. The woman's eyes narrowed. "The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, 'Basics for Beginners'."

Michael casually put his feet up on his desk, closed 'Basics for Beginners' and shifted his feet slightly so that the book was beneath his legs. Then, quite casually, he opened his bag and pulled out a second book, this one

.oOo.

"You may use your wand to attempt to disarm me, or defend yourself in any other way you can think of," said Snape.

"Defend against…?" Michael asked, eyeing Snape suspiciously.

"I am about to attempt to break into your mind," said Snape menacingly. 'We are going to see how well you resist. I have been told that you have already shown aptitude at resisting the Imperius Curse. You will find that similar powers are needed for this... brace yourself, now. Legili-!"

"Ignis!" Michael snapped and fire began to spread across the papers stacked on the desk.

Snape flicked his wand to extinguish the flames and then scowled at Michael, "What was that in aid of, Potter?"

"Defending myself in any other way I can think of," Michael replied coldly.

.oOo.

"How is it, Hal," Dumbledore frowned, "that you have a record of every point taken or awarded and every detention assigned, to any student in all the time that you have been a student at Hogwarts."

"I copied the records that you keep in your office, Headmaster," Michael replied blandly. "And update them regularly."

"Students are not allowed access to disciplinary records," Professor McGonagall objected.

Michael nodded. "Unless, and I quote from the sixteenth century Regulation of Hogwarts, which is still the standing body of rules within the school: '- by the permission of the Headmaster or other competent member of staff as appointed by the Board of Governors, a circumstantial waiver is granted.' There's a little more to it," he added. "But basically it comes down any waivers granted must be considered to be a waiver for any repetition of circumstance unless declared to be an extraordinary waiver."

"And do you have such a waiver, Hal?" Dumbledore asked. "I would surely remember."

"I believe that parents of students have automatic access to the records, Headmaster."

"You are not a parent, Hal – certainly not of a student here, hah ha," Fudge pointed out.

Michael gave him an unamused look. "In the absence of a competent parent, the Head of a Family is entitled to that access. You may note that as the last living Potter, I am by law and self-evident fact, the Head of my Family. And by precedent dating back to only the 1960s in the most recent case, should the Head of a Family be a student, the rules apply to them as the Head of a Family rather than as a student – in other words, their right to see the records takes precedence over the rule that students are not allowed to. As such I have full access and you have no legal right to deny me unless you change those rules – which would require the Board of Governors to enact and I don't believe they are likely to agree to a revision for such petty reasons."

Fudge sniffed. "I'm the Minister of Magic," he declared. "I'll issue a Ministerial Decree to that effect. It's ridiculous for a student to be able to see records of other student's disciplinary treatment."

Michael smiled. "You're quite free to do so, Minister," he said, using the title for the first time. "But issuing such a decree would contravene a major legal agreement – and could be interpreted as repudiating that document entirely. Which would also lead to no less that thirty-seven major treaties being voided, since one of the two signatories to them would no longer legally exist. You do realise that the Minstry's right to tax, govern and in fact exist at all is based entirely upon your agreement not to interfere with the running of Hogwarts?"

"But…" Fudge was confused. Whose side was Potter on? First he savaged Dumbledore politically, then he turned around and started protecting the old man.

.oOo.

Fudge paled. "You're a monster!" he exclaimed.

"Yes Cornelius," Michael said gently. "For it is monstrous for the strong to prey upon the weak, and yet that is the only role for the strong within the world that you govern. And I am, much to my surprise, extraordinarily strong."

.oOo.

Michael stared at the other boy. He was… he was…

He was taller than Michael, and perhaps a year or two older, wearing a worn looking track-suit and glasses. It had been years since Michael had seen the face reflected to him in the Mirror of Erised and it had changed and aged into expressions alien to him but…

"You're me!" exclaimed the boy.

"You're Harry!" Michael replied, understanding suddenly. He clenched his fists and restrained himself from clobbering the son of James and Lily Potter, standing before him in Michael's own body. Somehow, demanding that he be given his life back didn't seem like it would work.

Harry blinked. "Then… then you must be Michael."

There was a shrill cackle from behind the pair and Michael turned to see Voldemort's face, grafted somehow upon the body of a green serpent, peering at them both. "The Boy-Who-Lived," the Dark Lord sneered. "At long last."

.oOo.

Harry glared at Michael.

Blazing blue eyes met steady green.

"There can be only one!"

…

And then there was.

.oOo.

"Have a good summer, Hal," Dumbledore said.

"Oh?" asked Michael. "No attempts to drag me off somewhere safe?"

"No," the old wizard told him. "I shall merely trust that I'll see you next September."

Albus Dumbledore didn't see Hal Potter return to Hogwarts however. He passed away quietly in his sleep one night at the end of July, his wand broken between his hands. Some whispered that with his last great enemy defeated, he had chosen willingly to destroy it, knowing that the shock would result in his embarking on his great adventure.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, never returned to Hogwarts for his Sixth Year.

After leaving Dumbledore's office, no one – not even his best friends - had ever seen him again. Many suggested foul play, linking his disappearance to the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Even the painting of Albus Dumbledore, taking pride of place in the office of Headmistress McGonagall, could shed no light on the subject. The painting never linked the face that it had seen in a mirror during Hal Potter's first year with the face of the Defence teacher who finally broke Voldemort's curse upon the subject.

Then again, the man was always smirking when he looked at the portrait, as if he had scored some obscure point.