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 Eight - King's Cross Station

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You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means he uses to frighten you.

    -- Eric Hoffer

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Mrs. Weasley, determined that absolutely nothing would go wrong with her brood's scheduled departure from King's Cross, had arranged for herself, the twins, Ron, Ginny, and Harry to spend their last night at the Leaky Cauldron. The room arrangements worked out as could be expected, and Harry found himself sharing a room with Ron.

It took him a long time to fall asleep, and as the minutes ticked by he found himself getting more and more agitated. He berated himself for being so stupid--fretting about not being able to sleep would only make it less likely that he actually *would* fall asleep.

Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep. He said the word over and over in his head until it dissolved into a random noise and completely stopped making sense.

After several hours of staring at the water-stained ceiling, he tried a different tactic, one that had often worked at school when he couldn't sleep on the nights before Quidditch matches. Willing himself to be still, he focused on Ron's deep, rhythmic breathing. In and out, very slowly. He allowed himself to fall into the rhythm, and gradually his tense muscles relaxed. Just a few minutes more, and he would be able to drift off--

"...that is all you have to tell me?"

Voldemort.

The high, cold voice was faint, but unmistakable.

It wasn't speaking directly into his mind, but he felt as though he were listening to a radio programme that happened to be playing in another room. Straining to hear it only made it grow far away, fading into nothing. But if lay very still and let the words come to him, he could hear everything quite clearly.

"My lord, I swear...there was something...or someone...with him!"

It was a woman, a young woman from the sound. What might have been an otherwise pretty voice was muddied with pain, cracking and indistinct.

"And whatever it was, my lord, it stopped us from following him." A man's nasal tone this time, on the ragged edge of hysteria. "What's more, it wouldn't let us leave the car at all, not even at the next station. We had to stay on until the end of the line."

"So Potter slipped past you not an hour after he boarded, and the three of you were forced to travel all the way to...Penzance?" Voldemort said the place name as though the word tasted foul in his mouth.

"Yes, my lord." A second man's voice, deeper and less nasal than the first man's. Though his comrades had sounded panicked, the second man was completely calm, almost resigned to the punishment that he knew would follow.

"I see." Voldemort's sibilant response was thickly laced with irony. "I sincerely doubt that even the word 'incompetence' properly describes this obvious failure."

The woman tried a last desperate plea. "Master...please believe...."

"Silence!" came the sharp command.

Harry heard her whimper. One of the men cleared his throat nervously.

After a long, thoughtful pause, the Dark Lord continued. "I grow weary of these roundabout methods. I think...I think it is time for a change of plans. I do believe that we must stop focusing on the *ends* and concentrate for a while on the *means*. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, Master. Of course, Master," the three said eagerly.

Voldemort sniffed. Then he said, almost offhandedly:

"Crucio."

Three separate screams shrilled in Harry's head, doubling and redoubling as their pain grew until their anguished cries cut off abruptly as Harry sat upright in bed, sweating and breathing hard. His scar throbbed angrily.

Ron was still asleep, fortunately. The vision, or dream, or whatever it was, hadn't awakened him. He hadn't heard it.

Carefully, Harry crept out of bed and flopped onto the floor, wearily resting his head against the cool sheets and down-filled mattress. The sounds of early morning traffic on Charing Cross Road drifted through the room's thin walls.

He knew he hadn't been dreaming. And even if he had been dreaming, it was been the most vivid dream he had had in a long time. He didn't need to see Voldemort's face or know what the three Death Eaters looked like to understand exactly what they had planned to do. Hearing his near capture being discussed in such casual terms was intensely disturbing. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if Professor Stanton hadn't been on the train.

He tucked his pyjama-clad legs underneath him and propped his chin up on his hands, turning Voldemort's words over in his mind. This was not something he could just set aside and deal with later. Every time he had tried to brush off or dismiss his feelings and dreams, no matter how unimportant they might have seemed to him, someone ended up getting hurt.

What was worse, this one was far more ominous than any he had heard before. There was simply no ignoring such a deliberate threat, especially one that involved a potential "change of plans".

For all his desire to act immediately, it was too late to do much about it. A letter to Dumbledore would arrive only a little while before he did. A letter to Sirius at Lupin's wouldn't be very useful, except maybe as an early warning. The best option would be to go to Dumbledore as soon as he arrived at school, right after he got off the train. He would have to miss the Sorting Ceremony entirely, but it wasn't as if he hadn't missed previous ones--for far less important reasons. In any case, Dumbledore would certainly appreciate the warning. He could alert the necessary people--perhaps even that "old crowd" he had mentioned last year.

Yes. That was it. He would see Dumbledore first thing and let him know about the threat.

As soon as he got to Hogwarts--not twelve hours away.

Comforted by the thought, he climbed back into bed, rolled onto his side, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

        *        *        *

King's Cross Station was its usual busy place, packed with witches and wizards in Muggle dress seeing their children off to school. Mrs. Weasley accompanied them into the station and helped them load all their luggage onto a small fleet of trolleys, then quickly kissed them all goodbye and left. She had planned to meet Mr. Weasley at the Ministry of Magic so they could have a nice, quiet lunch together, and she didn't want to be late.

As soon as she was gone, Fred and George pulled out a large brown paper bag and disappeared into the crowd, dragging their luggage with them. Harry had heard them whispering and snickering in the taxi on the way to the station, and he knew they were up to something. The safest plan would be to stay as far away from them as possible.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colin Creevey and his younger brother Dennis walking toward him. He knelt down and quickly pretended to be tightening the cord on his trunk. The two of them jumped up and down, trying to get his attention, but when he didn't acknowledge their presence they soon gave up and went away. Harry felt a little guilty, but he didn't want to deal with Colin at the moment. Hero worship was the last thing he needed.

Together with Ron and Ginny, he pushed his trolley out of the thickest part of the crowd. They waved hello to a few fellow Hogwarts students, and Ginny paused to direct a group of lost-looking first years toward the barrier that led to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

"Hermione said she was going to meet us here, right?" Ron asked once Ginny had returned.

Harry pulled her most recent letter out of his pocket. "Entrance to Platform Eight," he read, jabbing at the paper with his finger. "That's what it says. And that's where we are."

"Maybe she got held up by traffic." Ginny was on her tiptoes, trying to look over other people's heads.

"Maybe," Harry said absently. A funny, gurgling feeling had begun to grow in the pit of his stomach. He chalked it up to nervousness, as well as the huge but indifferently cooked breakfast they had eaten at the Leaky Cauldron.

Ginny tapped her brother on the shoulder. "Ron, I'm going to get a copy of a Muggle newspaper for Dad. Before we left, he told me to buy one here and send it to him as soon as we got to school." She stuck her hand into her pocket and pulled out a pound coin.

Ron snorted. "Why didn't he just ask Mum to get it?"

Ginny gave him a look that would have done Hermione proud. "Could you see Mum spending money on a Muggle paper? Or better yet, could you see Dad *asking* her to?"

"All right, all right," her brother said. "Hurry up, though--we don't have much time."

As Ginny was swallowed up by the crowd, Harry looked up at the clock on the station wall. Ron was right...it was quarter to eleven. Only fifteen minutes before the Hogwarts Express would depart--where was Hermione?

He turned to Ron, about to ask if there was any sign of her, when a flash of blinding pain shot through his scar with such violence that he staggered and nearly fell.

"Ron! Get down!" he shouted, and without waiting for his startled friend to react dove forward in a flying tackle that sent them tumbling behind a row of empty trolleys.

Ron's surprised yell was drowned out by a tremendous explosion that rocked the station, deafening echoes bouncing off the high metal girders.

They rolled to a sudden stop against the wall. Harry grunted as Ron's elbow landed firmly on his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled, gasping, to his knees, keeping his head down to take advantage of the cover of the trolleys. He didn't dare lift his head any higher, so the cages of metal in front of him severely restricted his vision. But the little he could see was not pleasant.

A small group of black-robed and masked figures, not more than five people, stood in the centre of the crowded terminus, firing spells and hexes in every direction. Muggles and wizards alike were shouting, screaming, running around in panic. Even those who couldn't see the actual cause of the terror fled for their lives, abandoning luggage and knocking down others in their mad dash to save themselves.

The sight sent a wave of deja vu rippling through Harry's mind. It was last year's Quidditch World Cup all over again...only worse. There was no playing this time, no sense that the whole thing was just a cruel joke. There was only malice, a horrible desire to hurt and cause fear. And it wasn't directed solely at Muggles this time, though Harry knew that if any Muggles were injured during this raid, Voldemort would be only too pleased.

Something clutched at his sleeve. He whipped around, hands poised to deliver a blow, but the sight of Ron's frightened face stopped him short.

"Are you all right?" asked Harry, trying to detach himself from Ron's frantic grip.

Ron wouldn't let go of Harry's shirt. "What's going--"

A body crashed into the wall not five feet away from them, knocking over the trolleys that shielded them and cutting off the rest of Ron's question.

Harry felt a sharp pain in his left ankle as the edge of one of the trolleys landed on top of him. From somewhere behind him, he heard a loud, vicious curse and the scraping of metal on metal as Ron tried to crawl out from beneath the pile of trolleys. Ignoring the pain, he shoved the metal cart aside, and was about to reach out and pull the wounded person behind their make-shift barricade when he froze, arm outstretched.

There was no mistaking that bush of brown hair.

Hermione lay on the ground in a heap, one arm twisted underneath her body. Her face had a bad, bloodless look to it, and her wand dangled from the limp fingers of her other hand. She wasn't moving.

Before Harry could think to move, Ron saw her. All the colour drained from his face, leaving it a sick mottled grey.

"Hermione? HERMIONE!" he shouted, and stood up, leaving himself completely exposed.

"Ron, get a hold of yourself!" Harry grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him back down and away from Hermione. He pointed to her chest, which was rising and falling in a slow but even rhythm. "Look, look, she's breathing all right...probably just knocked out. Where's Ginny?"

Ron was still trying to break free, to get to Hermione before someone else did. "What?" he said, distracted.

"GINNY!" Harry screamed, shaking him so hard his teeth chattered. "Your sister! Where is she?"

"Don't...don't know." Ron's eyes were glazed over. His face was vacant.

It took all of Harry's self-control to keep from throttling his friend. "Stay here," he said loudly, giving Ron another shake for good measure. "I'll find her. Just keep trying to wake Hermione."

Ron didn't need to be reminded. The moment Harry let go of his arms, he scuttled over to the fallen girl and dragged her behind the trolley barricade.

While Ron tried to rouse their friend, Harry got down on his hands and knees and crept out from behind the trolleys. His ankle still hurt, and he didn't trust his ability to walk on it. The pain itself was bearable.

He couldn't see the robed attackers, but he was in more immediate danger of being stepped on or trampled than hexed. He kept to the wall, staying well away from the running and screaming crowds.

He saw a bit of bright red hair poking out from behind the deserted newspaper kiosk and crawled toward it, praying that he wouldn't find Ginny unconscious...or worse.

The relief he felt when he finally reached her made him dizzy. Ginny was curled into a tight ball, hands over her ears and face buried in her knees. She had apparently just purchased the newspaper when the attack took place, because it was next to her on the ground, unopened, along with her change. She was rocking back and forth, very slowly.

Harry realised that touching her would be a bad idea--in her state, she was liable to claw his eyes out if she thought he was an attacker.

"Ginny!" he said loudly, staying a safe distance away. "Ginny!"

Somehow, his voice penetrated her defences. She lifted her head just enough to peep over her knees, eyes wide with terror.

"Harry..." she whispered, as a dying person in a desert might say 'Water....'

He crept over to her and wrapped his arms around her. "Shh..." he said, stroking her hair. "It's all right."

"Where's Ron?" she wailed.

"Ron's fine. Hermione got knocked out, but she'll be all right," he added quickly as he saw tears start to roll down her face. "Where are Fred and George?"

She gulped. "I think they went through the barrier...Harry, what--"

"Death Eaters." He was surprised at how grim he sounded.

Ginny began to shake convulsively.

"I want Mummy," she said softly.

That scared him. He'd never heard Ginny call her mother anything but "Mum". The helpless plea of the normally self-possessed girl filled him with horror, followed closely by anger.

Suddenly, he heard a series of loud, explosive pops close by. With the greatest caution, he poked his head out from behind the kiosk.

The robed figures were gone, but the Dark Mark floated in the air, a glimmering skull with a serpent tongue looming ominously over the crowd. Muggles were pointing and staring at it, while the witches and wizards in the crowd could only look away in disgust and sadness.

He grabbed Ginny's hand, and together they ran, skirting the wall to arrive back at the pile of trolleys. Harry grimaced every time he had to put weight on his injured ankle. They collapsed behind the safety of the carts.

Ron was still there, Hermione's head resting on his knees as he gently patted her cheek. Ginny quickly joined him in his efforts to wake her.

Harry looked up at the clock on the wall. Not even five minutes had passed since he had last checked it. It felt like a lifetime.

Before he could move to check on Hermione, a long, drawn-out cry split the air, chilling him to the bone. It was a heart stopping howl that silenced all the other cries of terror and alarm.

He looked at Ron, then Ginny, seeing identical expressions of incomprehension and fear on their faces. Very slowly, the three of them lifted their heads and peered over the top of the barricade.

Ginny screamed and buried her face in Ron's shoulder.

Ron made an unintelligible, choked noise, pulling his sister close.

Harry could only stare.

Colin Creevey was kneeling on the grimy concrete of the platform, sobbing as though he could bring down the high vaulted ceiling of King's Cross Station upon all of them to crush his grief.

Cradled in his arms, crumpled like a child's broken doll, was his younger brother.

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Gramarye [email protected] http://gramarye.freehosting.net/ February 23rd, 2002