Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Light

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Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Light
A Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising Sequence Fusion By: Gramarye

Chapter Five - Getting There Is Half the Battle

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"Revenge is not hard to fathom for a man who believes in nothing."

    --Pierce Brosnan as James Bond, in "The World Is Not Enough"

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"The 9.33 Great Western Railways train to Penzance, calling at Reading, Taunton, Exeter St Davids, Dawlish, Teignmouth, Newton Abbot, Torquay, Paignton, Totnes, Plymouth, Liskeard, Bodmin Parkway, Par, St Austell, Truro, Redruth, and St Erth will depart from Platform 7. Will all ticketed passengers please board at Platform 7."

The daily commuters who had packed London's Paddington Station with pedestrian traffic had already scattered, departing for their scheduled connections with the Underground, taxis, or buses. There were plenty of travellers scattered around, sipping coffee from flimsy paper cups or reading the daily papers, but for the most part the mad rush of the early morning had cleared. The August Bank Holiday wasn't for another week, and though there were crowds, passengers didn't have to fight the awful crush that would have accompanied the busy travel day.

Harry would have been more pleased at this good fortune, but it took all of his concentration to keep control of his belongings and at the same time respond to a barrage of last-minute questions from Mrs. Figg.

"Are you sure you've got everything you need?" She peered at his luggage, making a final survey to see if anything crucial was missing. "Your books? Your homework? Hedwig's food? You haven't left anything behind?"

"I've got everything, don't worry. It's all in my trunk." Harry handed said trunk to a porter, who carried it away to the luggage van with ridiculous ease.

Mrs. Figg was not to be daunted. She thumped her cane--which she didn't really need, but which she said lent an air of 'authenticity' to her Muggle identity--on the chipped concrete of the platform. "Do you need money, anything for supplies?"

Harry wondered if this was what Neville went through each and every day. "Mrs. Figg...."

"There's a chemist's in the station--do you need toothpaste?"

"Mrs. Figg...."

"You're sure you packed that essay we went over last night, the one on the 1772 Anglo-French Warlock Convention?"

"Mrs. Figg...."

"And you *did* remember to bring an extra change of under--"

"MRS. FIGG!" Harry cut her off, his face scarlet.

"I know, I know." The older woman sagged, the wind gone from her sails. "I just worry, that's all."

"I'll be fine, I promise." Harry tried to sound bright and reassuring. Apparently, he was successful, because Mrs. Figg immediately began scolding him once more.

"You get off at Exeter St Davids--remember that. The Weasleys will be there to fetch you. Your friend Ron knows what time you're coming in, right? You told him 11.45?"

"Yes."

"And don't you *dare* fall asleep on the train, do you hear? The last thing I need to hear is that you missed your stop and ended up with all the Muggle trippers in Penzance."

"I won't even close my eyes," said Harry, very seriously.

She twisted her face into a mock scowl. "Oh, now you're just having me on. Goodbye, brat," she said briskly, thrusting a lunch bag into his hands and pecking him on the cheek.

Harry gazed at her, smiling crookedly, then wrapped his arms around her and gave her a warm hug. She stiffened at first, but he soon felt her return the embrace, her wrinkled cheek pressing against his own.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Figg. And thank you," he murmured.

She gave him a final firm squeeze and a pat on the back. "Take care of yourself, Harry. I'll be seeing you."

Then she was off, walking with a pronounced and completely affected feebleness so contrary to her actual self that Harry, watching her, groaned out loud. Whenever Muggles were around, her playacting seemed to flourish until he half expected her to brandish her cane and rail on at perfect strangers about how children these days never listened to their elders or ate their vegetables.

He hopped onto the train and found an empty pair of seats near the front of the car. Settling in, he took out the book that Hermione had given him for his birthday and began to read. He was almost finished, just a few chapters away from the end. Hermione had said in one of her letters that there were two more sequels, and he hoped she would bring them to school so he could continue the story.

He was so engrossed in the Yorkshire vet's travels, he barely noticed his own begin as the train pulled out of the station. By the time he had closed the book with a satisfied sigh they were well on their way to the West Country. He watched the scenery flash by outside the fingerprint-smeared window, and was just about to reach for the lunch bag Mrs. Figg had given to him when he heard a low, quiet cough, like a person clearing his throat uncertainly.

"Is this seat taken?"

Harry looked up, and barely managed to catch Hermione's book before it slipped from his hand and hit the floor.

Professor Stanton stood in the corridor, smiling in a disinterested, friendly way, as if he was addressing a complete stranger. In one hand he held his briefcase, and in the other was a copy of the Financial Times. Despite the warmth of the August day, he wore a wool blazer and tie. A navy blue overcoat was slung over one arm.

"N-no. Please." Harry quickly moved the lunch bag off the empty seat, setting it on his lap.

"Thank you so much." Professor Stanton nodded politely, placed his briefcase on the floor at his feet, and slid into the vacant seat. "The train's nearly full...I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to find a place."

He unfolded the newspaper and began to read. Harry, not knowing what he was supposed to do--or even if he was supposed to do anything--sat uncomfortably still, staring straight ahead.

*A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Potter.*

Professor Stanton's voice spoke directly into his mind, making Harry twitch. He started to turn his head, but the older man loudly rattled his newspaper, the noise as strident as a warning.

*No, don't turn your head,* he said silently. *Keep looking forward. We're going to have to play a little cloak-and-dagger game shortly, and I'd rather not give up our current advantage.*

*Which is?*

*They know that you're on the train. They also think you're alone. But they can't use magic in front of all these people without giving themselves away, so they'll have to wait until you get up and move about the train before they can act.*

Harry gulped, and unconsciously shrank away. *What's going on? Who are "they"?*

*...do you have to ask, Mr. Potter?*

Harry's heart skipped a beat, and he unconsciously shivered as an icy wave of fear washed down his spine. The voice was pleasant enough, but the meaning behind the statement was not.

Professor Stanton continued, entirely unhurried. *Now, I want you to stand up and make your way toward the back of the car, very casually. Act as though you were heading for the washroom, but open the door and go in between the cars. Once you've shut the door behind you, the train will start to slow. We're almost halfway between Reading and Taunton, and there's a slight delay on the line ahead, so the train will have to stop for a few minutes. When the train stops completely, and not before, open the door to your left. It will be unlocked. Do you have all that?*

Harry struggled to recall the directions he had been given. *Head for the washroom, but go out the back. Wait until the train stops, then open the door on the left.*

*Correct. Once it's open, get out as fast as you can, and start running--but run toward the rear of the train. There's a railway crossing about three hundred metres away. You'll see a small dark red car pulled over on the verge. Its doors are unlocked.*

Harry repeated the instructions in a monotone. *Small dark red car on the verge. Three hundred metres.*

*You have to make it to that car, Harry.*

*I...I'll try,* he said, the shreds of confidence in his voice no reflection of how he actually felt.

Professor Stanton turned a page of the newspaper, a picture of calm. *Count to one hundred, then go. And don't waste time looking around, trying to figure out who and where they are. All you need to know is that there are at least two of them, that they are in this car, and that they want you alive. Cold comfort, at that. Now start counting.*

Harry obeyed, counting silently to himself. By the time he had reached forty, his palms were thoroughly soaked with sweat. The fear in the pit of his stomach had tripled by the time he had counted past seventy. When he reached one hundred, he steeled his nerve, stood, and mumbled an apology to Professor Stanton as he left his seat and headed for the back of the car.

He stuffed a hand into his pocket, fumbling for his wand. He traced the familiar roughness of the wood, feeling the little spark of power that crackled in his hand wherever his fingers made contact. Though he knew he couldn't use it to protect himself, just having it at hand was immensely reassuring.

He rocked and swayed down the corridor, leaning forward against the motion of the car. For a horrible second, he thought that he might actually need to make use of the washroom, but the watery feeling in his bowels went away once he had opened the door between the cars.

He hadn't seen anything unusual, but his senses were singing at a fevered pitch. Two of the people he had just walked past so calmly, who looked like any of the other completely genuine railway travellers in the car, were on the train for the sole purpose of capturing him. Voldemort never liked to leave unfinished business for too long, and now--

The train lurched, and began to slow. He heard a garbled announcement over the public address system in the car, an unintelligible drone deeply regretting the slight delay.

Harry braced himself on the top step, facing the door that had been on his left.

The train continued to slow, brakes squealing and scraping.

He reached for the handle, but before he could touch it, there was a rattling sound from the door leading back into the compartment.

Harry froze.

The door rattled again, sounding as if someone were trying to slide it open but couldn't. Through the scratched, foggy window, Harry could just make out the shadow of a face, though he couldn't see more than that. He heard voices, and the door rattled a third time, louder and more urgently.

The train stopped with a final, convulsive jolt, snapping Harry out of his petrified state. Blindly, he threw himself bodily at the door in front of him. It burst open, and he fell forward, landing hard on his shoulder and rolling, rolling, gravel and dirt filling his nostrils and scraping his exposed hands and face. He heard one of the lenses of his glasses break, but fortunately the glass stayed in its frame.

He slid to a halt and picked himself up, looking around wildly with his one seeing eye for the car. He spotted the flashing lights of a railway crossing, and his heart leapt at the sight of a reddish dot close to it. He began to run.

The gravel was slippery and he found it hard to keep his footing, but he ran as fast as he could, cursing when he stumbled and hoping to hell that no one was behind him. His shoulder throbbed with every breath. The blood pounded loudly in his ears, drowning out the crunch of his feet on the gravel. Cramp tied his sides in burning knots. A part of his mind that wasn't focused solely on survival was berating him for allowing himself to get so out of condition over the summer. He felt unbearably slow, expecting that at any moment he would hear a hoarse shout of "Stupefy!" from somewhere behind him and find himself falling, falling....

The car was fifty metres away. With a last, desperate burst of speed, he flung himself at it, yanked open the passenger door, and dove inside. He jammed his finger on the "Door Lock" button, and nearly sobbed in relief to hear the click of the locks sliding into place.

Crouching in the footwell of the passenger's side, he pulled out his wand, his breath coming harsh and fast. The Improper Use of Magic Office could go to blazes as far as he was concerned--there was nothing that would stop him from fighting back if they came after him now.

He waited for what felt like forever, but was really less than five minutes according to the clock in the car. He heard a shrill whistle, followed by the puffing sounds of the train starting up again and gathering speed. Even when he heard the clang-clang of the crossing gates going up, he stayed low, wanting to unfold and stretch his aching legs but terrified that *they* were out there, waiting for him to drop his guard.

He felt the vibrations through the ground before he heard the actual footsteps approaching. He double-checked the locks and shrank back into the footwell, mentally running through a list of potential hexes and counter curses. But before he could move, he heard a silvery metallic jingle.

The sound of keys rattling.

The door lock on the driver's side clicked, and the driver's side door opened. Professor Stanton got in, closed the door, and regarded Harry, who was firmly wedged in between the fascia panel and the passenger's seat, with satisfaction and a trace of amusement.

"Nicely done, Mr. Potter." He set his briefcase and overcoat in the tiny back seat, inserted the keys into the ignition, and reached for his seatbelt. "I think we might be able to make it to the Exeter St Davids station in time for you to meet up with your party. You might not arrive at *exactly* 11.45, but you shouldn't be so late as to cause undue worry. You can pick up your luggage there."

Harry's tightly-wound nerves uncoiled like a watch spring that had suddenly lost its tension. His breath came out in a loud whoosh, ending in a choking cough. He flopped into the passenger's seat, and after several failed attempts managed to put his seatbelt on.

"Won't...won't they come after us?" he asked weakly.

"Highly unlikely, but there is always the possibility. They've lost the element of surprise, though, so I doubt they'd try again so soon." Professor Stanton started the car and released the hand brake. The engine purred contently as they drove off.

Harry removed his cracked glasses and rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window, not caring that his sweaty face was smudging the clean window pane. After his uneventful summer, it was a nasty shock to return to a world where 'constant vigilance' would be the only thing keeping him alive.

"If the traffic is with us, we might even be able to make up time." He gazed at Harry for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the road. "Will you be all right?"

"Yes," Harry said miserably.

"Just relax, Mr. Potter," Professor Stanton said conversationally as he merged with the motorway traffic. "Enjoy yourself. It's a nice day for a drive."