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 Ten - Through A Glass...Not So Darkly

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"'Now, if you'll only attend, Kitty, and not talk so much, I'll tell you all my ideas about Looking-glass House. First, there's the room you can see through the glass--that's just the same as our drawing room, only the things go the other way. I can see all of it when I get upon a chair--all but the bit behind the fireplace....Oh, Kitty! how nice it would be if we could only get through into Looking-glass House! I'm sure it's got, oh! such beautiful things in it!'"

    -- Lewis Carroll, "Through the Looking-Glass"

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Whatever fears Harry may have had about the implementation of the plan disappeared the moment they entered Hogwarts. Hermione played her part so well that he found himself actually concerned about her health.

They all had agreed that the plan would begin the moment the train arrived at Hogsmeade Station. Hermione, not surprisingly, took the initiative. Looking as feeble and injured as possible, she staggered off the scarlet train, past the huddled groups of startled first-years, and into one of the waiting horseless carriages. The carriage ride was silent, broken only by Hermione's occasional practice moans and a raspy, nervous cough or two from Ron.

Once the carriage had stopped in front of the school, Harry and Ron helped her climb out. Ginny followed close behind. Hermione walked slowly, as if every step was an agony. Just outside the Hogwarts front entrance, she stumbled forward, clutching her head and crying out. Her face was a mask of pain.

Professor McGonagall rushed to her side, but Hermione waved away her offers of assistance, stressing that she "didn't want to be a bother". Only after a long, drawn-out argument did she weakly accept Harry's arm and his 'request' to help her to the hospital wing. She moaned so pathetically that it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Ron and Ginny's respective performances were equally admirable. Ginny superbly slipped into the role of the very distressed girl friend, fluttering around and twittering and being generally ineffectual. For his part, Ron cracked endless stupid jokes in an attempt to "raise her spirits". The two of them played off each other to perfection. Harry suspected they'd had a lot of practice.

Once he had half-escorted, half-carried Hermione safely up the marble staircase to the first floor, well out of sight of the rest of the students, they ducked behind a tall pillar. She let go of his arm.

"I should actually go see Madam Pomfrey, in case she checks up on me later," she whispered. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Of course," he said, turning to go. "Now get going before someone tries to come after us."

They went their separate ways down the deserted corridors. Harry kept a sharp eye out for Filch and Mrs. Norris, taking very deliberate steps to stop his shoes from making noise on the polished stone floors. He wished he had thought to bring the Marauder's Map, but it was hidden in the lining of his trunk.

He hurried along, stomach tingling as he felt the precious minutes slip by, but the corridors looked unfamiliar and alien to him. He had walked them a thousand times before, going to and from classes and cram sessions and detentions, and yet he knew with growing dread that he was getting hopelessly lost.

Walking past the same faded tapestry and rusty suit of armour for the tenth time, he was near tears. If he didn't get to Dumbledore before the Sorting Ceremony, he certainly wouldn't have a chance afterward. The teachers would tighten security even more this year in the wake of the attack, and he wouldn't have this freedom, this opportunity for a long time--if ever.

With those pressing, urgent thoughts on his mind, he turned the next corner and ran smack into a door.

"Ow!"

He stumbled backward, rubbing his head. His cry echoed shrilly in the corridor.

Cursing his clumsiness, he glared at the offending entryway. It was a plain door, made of solid wood with a pitted and worn metal handle. Some of the doors in Hogwarts were merely walls that liked to *pretend* to be doors, but this one looked and felt real enough. He turned the handle, though he had the foresight to keep the door firmly shut.

It was most definitely unlocked.

It was no different than any of the other doors in the school, but a brief glance round proved he was near the library--and if he remembered rightly, there had never been a door in this place before.

If he was near the library, he'd never get to Dumbledore's office in time. Hermione would be at the hospital wing, but he couldn't go there without Madam Pomfrey asking unpleasant questions. And he couldn't simply wander into the Sorting Feast without causing a stir. The situation couldn't have been worse.

There was nothing to lose.

He straightened his robes, opened the door, and went inside.

The room he entered was fairly small, maybe half the size of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory. Bookshelves lined the walls, and the musty smell of old book permeated the air. An ornately carved rectangular table made of a rich dark wood took up most of the immediate floor space. Several chairs of the same design as the table stood along the right wall. A welcoming fire burned brightly in the grate at the far end of the room.

Harry took all of this in with a single glance, but what he saw on the other side of the room made his breath catch in his throat.

In the centre of the left wall was a large mirror. The reflective surface sparkled in a dark wooden frame. The wood of the frame was similar to the material of the table, and it also had an intricately carved pattern on it, though he couldn't make it out very well in the indistinct firelight. But where the carvings decorating the table looked like the handiwork of a long-dead Muggle artisan, the pattern on the mirror frame was like nothing he had ever seen before. It was a strange, repeated pattern, a series of lines and circles and curves that covered every available area of the polished wood.

Harry wanted to examine it more closely, but he kept his distance. Memories of the Mirror of Erised were far too fresh in his mind. Instead, he did the safest thing he could think of and sat down in one of the chairs along the right wall. He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He had been sitting in the room for well over an hour when he found himself starting to feel very drowsy. The crackling fire made the room pleasantly warm. The rich scent of old books reminded him of the Hogwarts library, scene of many a lovely late-Saturday-afternoon nap. He was tired from all the stress and excitement, and nothing seemed more logical or inviting than pulling the chair right up to the table, pillowing his head on his arms, and--

The door handle rattled once.

Harry had heard a lock slide into place when he shut the door, though he hadn't seen a key. The lock clicked and snicked with an accusing sound as it was released.

Harry leapt to his feet, quickly running his hands through his hair to tame it. The door opened soundlessly on its well-oiled hinges.

He had hoped it would be Dumbledore, but instead it was Professor McGonagall. She didn't look very pleased.

She gave Harry a dismissive nod and half-turned around, looking over her shoulder.

"Wait here for now," she said to someone behind her. "The Headmaster will be with you shortly."

She stepped back, and Hermione and Ron filed into the room, with dragging feet and heads hanging down as if they'd been scolded.

Before Harry could say a word, the door swung shut and the lock slid back into place.

"What are you two doing here?" he asked.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, nice to see you, too," she said snippily.

"You know what I mean," he said, flopping back down into his chair with a sigh. "I thought you were supposed to be in the infirmary."

"I *am* supposed to be there," Hermione declared, folding her arms across her chest. "I think I went a bit too far with faking sick--I really *did* pass out, just outside the door to the hospital wing. The next thing I knew McGonagall was practically dragging me out of bed. I've never seen Madam Pomfrey so angry."

"Well, she grabbed *me* the minute the Sorting Ceremony was over and marched us down here," Ron said. He looked around, studying the old furniture and books with a wary eye. "What is this place?"

"I don't know," Harry replied. "I've never seen it before."

Hermione still looked very ill, and more than a little put out. "Well, there's no sense in wasting our time and energy worrying about it. Dumbledore will be here soon--he'll explain it." She walked over to the wall and ran a hand over the rows of books, seeking comfort in the familiar feeling of leather and gilt paint.

"Say, Ron, what happened at the ceremony?" Harry asked in an attempt change the subject.

Ron shrugged. "Nothing much. The Sorting Hat was pretty quiet for once. But Dumbledore did tell us...he told us the names of the students who died."

"Who were they?" Harry asked. His chest felt tight.

"One was a girl who hadn't even been Sorted yet--her name was Ellen Rhys-Jones." He frowned. "From the way Dumbledore talked about her, it sounded like she was Muggle-born. He didn't come right out and say it, but that's what it sounded like to me. She didn't even make it to the platform."

"How awful," Hermione murmured, not looking away from the books.

"The other was a Slytherin prefect," Ron continued. "Sixth-year, I think. Her name was Eleanor...Eleanor DeVere, or something like that. I don't even know what she looked like." He shuddered. "But the strange thing was, Dumbledore said that there was no evidence that either of them had been cursed. Their deaths weren't caused by magic at all."

Harry couldn't believe his ears. He'd seen the group of Death Eaters casting spells, hexes, curses...everything but the infamous green light itself. "Then how did it happen?"

"The same way Dennis Creevey snuffed it. Crushed to death. By all the people who were trying to get away," Ron stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and pulled out a grubby handkerchief. He blew his nose noisily.

Hermione spun around. Her jaw was tightly clenched. "And you know what that means, don't you?" she said to Harry. "Even if they catch who did it, they can't be tried for murder. Five people dead and the most they could be charged with are a few counts of voluntary--no, make that *involuntary* manslaughter. In Muggle courts, that is. I haven't read enough to know what the wizarding judicial system is really like."

Though he knew he shouldn't find the situation funny, Harry had to fight back a grin. She sounded eerily like the Muggle crime novelists who wrote endless amounts of cheap paperback thrillers. His Aunt Petunia had owned boxes upon boxes of those books, though she had to hide them from his uncle and only read them on the sly.

"Hermione, what exactly were you reading over the summer?" he asked slowly, raising an eyebrow.

"Harry, I'm serious about this!" she shouted, pounding the table with a fist.

It was Harry's turn to be angry. "You think I'm not?" He stood up and turned to Ron, who had wandered over to the far wall and was warming his hands before the glowing grate. "Ron, what about wizarding courts? What could they get if they were brought to trial?"

Ron squinted into the fire, looking like he was trying to remember something he'd seen or read. "They'd only get sent to Azkaban if it could be proved that they were aware of the consequences of their actions. But I don't know what kind of sentence they'd get, even if they lost."

"Super," Hermione said bitterly, through gritted teeth. "Absolutely super. They kill five people and get off with a warning, or a fine, or a...or...or...." She stomped over to the left wall, and glared at the neat rows of books. "I could just SCREAM!"

She slammed her hand against the wall, thinking to take out her anger on an inanimate object. Seeing the looks on her friends' faces, she took a deep breath, and the rage faded from her eyes. But as she calmed down and started to turn around, her hand brushed the frame of the large mirror.

A flare of intense blue light blinded them for a horrible, eye-searing moment.

Harry blinked furiously, trying to clear the ghostly afterimage from his vision. When he could focus again, he saw to his amazement that though the bright flare had gone, the intricate pattern carved into the mirror's wooden frame was glowing with a faint bluish-white light.

"I really don't need this right now..." Ron moaned, shrinking back against the far wall.

"Hermione, what did you do?" Harry said sharply, backing away as well.

"I didn't do anything!" she wailed, wringing her hands as though she'd been stung by a wasp. "I didn't even touch it, I swear!"

Huddled against the walls, they stared fearfully at the mirror. The pattern continued to glow, but the mirror's reflective surface had turned dark and smoky, and as they watched a swirling grey mist seemed to appear behind the glass. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the mist began to clear--but what they saw was certainly nothing that they would have expected.

On the other side of the mirror was another room.

It looked like a moderately sized office or a private study, untidy in an oddly academic way. Even though their view was limited to what could be directly seen through the mirror, the ever-changing shadows on the walls indicated that the room was heated by an actual fire, not just an electric one stuffed into a pre-existing grate. Bookshelves stuffed with rows of leather-bound volumes lined the walls. Even more books in battered cardboard boxes covered most of the available floor space. Two very comfortable-looking chairs sat in front of a large desk, illuminated by the soft glow of a globe lamp.

Sitting behind the desk, reading a book, was Professor Stanton.

He looked up from his reading and stared directly at them. His face softened, some of the seriousness fading from his expression.

"Ah, there you are," he said. His voice was as clear and audible as if they were all in the same room. "I was wondering when you'd arrive. I had expected you a little sooner, but no matter. The most important thing is that you are all here, and safe."

"Hello, Professor Stanton," Harry said, considerably relieved to find some familiarity in the strangeness.

"Hello, sir," Hermione said, nodding politely.

"Are you feeling better, Miss Granger?" Professor Stanton asked.

Hermione quickly covered her surprise. "Yes, thank you, sir."

"Glad to hear it." He smiled at Ron. "A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Weasley."

Ron made a short strangled noise, which he quickly turned into a cough. "Hello," he said finally.

Before the silence that followed could become awkward, the door of the room opened once again. A very tired-looking Dumbledore entered, wearily brushing at his robes with slightly trembling hands. His wrinkled face brightened at the sight of the children, who were standing as far away from the magical mirror as they could.

"I see you've beaten me to it," he said with a small wry smile. He swept forward and bowed to the mirror and its occupant on the other side. "Would you care to explain the situation, Dr. Stanton?"

"I think you'd be better suited for that task, Headmaster," Professor Stanton replied, returning the courteous bow. "If you aren't pressed for time, of course."

Dumbledore sighed, puffing out his already fluffy beard. "Better to take the time now to get things sorted out. Plus, it gives me a little break from answering letters from concerned parents."

He turned to the students, who had been listening to the conversation with growing confusion. "Today's catastrophe has convinced both Dr. Stanton and myself that the time has come for action. We have spent the summer collecting data from various sources in order to assemble a programme of study, one that can combine your experiences with the knowledge of the one being who has seen the work of the Dark at its greatest and most terrible."

"So you're certain that the Dark is involved, sir?" Hermione asked, looking from Dumbledore to Professor Stanton as though she did not quite know whom to address.

"Certain, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore repeated. "No. But I would prefer that you were prepared for that possibility. The true power of the Dark is an evil that our particular magic cannot handle alone."

Professor Stanton inclined his head. "And though I am familiar with many of the powers you call upon, there needs to be a way to combine our separate methods. I believe that is our best, if not our only, option."

"Dr. Stanton has graciously agreed to work with the three of you in this matter."

"Three...for now," Professor Stanton said, tapping his finger on his cheek.

"That's true," Dumbledore conceded. He headed back to the door and rested his gnarled hand on the polished handle. He can devote more time than I can at the moment, but I do intend to keep up with your progress. Indeed, I am looking forward to it." Dumbledore looked very sorry. Harry could tell that he wanted to do more to help, much more. "But now, I'm afraid I must leave you to your work and return to my own. Please, invite Dr. Stanton in. I would stay longer, but I have a feeling that I might even have a Howler or two waiting in the office from some of the more...highly-strung parents."

Harry and Ron both flinched. They remembered only too well the Howler they'd received in second year, over the little matter of a stolen flying Ford Anglia. By the time they had cleared the horrid memory from their minds, Dumbledore had gone.

Hermione edged over to the mirror, keeping her hands well away from it. "Professor...."

"Please, call me Will. We may be in an academic setting at the moment, but your dealings with me will be far from academic."

"Will." The name sounded strange on Harry's tongue. He'd never called a grown-up by his first name before; it felt very weird. He shook his head to clear the unnecessary thoughts from his mind, and pointed to the mirror. "How does this thing work, anyway?"

Ron looked over at Will (for that was how they all thought of him, from then on), and raised an eyebrow. "I have a feeling that you're not going to tell us," he said.

Will quirked his own eyebrow in an exact mimicry of Ron. "You're quite right, Mr Weasley."

"Let's think about this," said Hermione, rubbing her chin in thought. "Touching the mirror frame...turned it on, in a way. So it's only logical that we'd have to do something else with the mirror. I was angry when...so that might have something to do with it. And we know that Dumbledore said that we have to invite Profess...*Will* in. But short of getting really mad and saying 'Please, come in' at the same time, I don't think...."

"And I think you're overthinking, Miss Granger," Will said lightly.

"Since when is that something new?" Ron muttered to Harry, who did his best not to laugh.

"Ron!" Hermione's face had gone an unflattering shade of beet red. "If I can continue without being *interrupted*, I was going to say that the mirror must be a passage. We do something on our side, and it will open the door."

"But doesn't that mean we could go through the other way?" Harry asked.

"I'm afraid not," Will said before Hermione could ponder that question. "This device is only....'programmed', for lack of a better word, to work one way."

"Why is that?"

"I see it as a minor security precaution. It allow you and your Headmaster to control and regulate its use--since it will not work unless one of you activates it--and it comforts me with the knowledge that I won't have some rather unsavoury characters bursting in and spoiling my evening. Not that the integrity of the various Hogwarts' enchantments isn't sound, mind you, but this device operates on a far different type of magic...which I will further explain once you figure out how to activate it in the first place."

"Fantastic," said Ron, unable to keep the sourness from his voice.

"Ron..." Harry said warningly. Hermione made a low, ominous noise that sounded far too much like a growl.

"Enough." Will's voice was very soft, but it had a steely ring that silenced their squabbling before it could start. "Just relax. Close your eyes."

They obeyed.

Will continued speaking in the same soft voice. "Think very carefully about this--don't think of anything else right now. Tell me, just how would you go about solving this problem...tell me...tell me...."

They were rocked and soothed by the quiet words. There was a painful, interminable moment of Not-Knowing, one of the horrible ones that always seems to come at the worst times, during an important test or when called on in class. The answer was there, but it didn't want to appear.

But the Knowing, when it finally came, was like the first golden ray of sunlight through the clouds on a dreary, overcast day.

Harry was the first to open his eyes.

With a smooth, deliberate stride, he stepped forward and rested a hand on the mirror frame.

"Enter, Watchman of the Light," he said.

Hermione, almost as if on cue, followed suit, stepping forward and touching the frame on the opposite side.

"Grant to us your inner sight," she declared firmly.

Ron took a little longer, but after a moment he too reached out and took hold of the frame, directly underneath Harry's hand.

"Enter, for the time draws near," he said forcefully.

With his words, the intricate pattern of symbols carved into the frame changed colours, glowing a brilliant white.

Professor Stanton easily stepped forward and through the space where the glass had been as if there was nothing there.

As he crossed the glowing threshold, the exceedingly normal blazer and trousers he wore changed shape, transforming into flowing robes similar to their own. But where their school robes were plain and black, his were a rich deep blue, the colour of a midnight sky.

The sudden change of clothing had changed his appearance, and in their eyes, his entire personality. He no longer looked like a university professor, or even like a man in his late thirties. The being who stood before them, looking down upon them, was ageless, authoritative, surrounded by the aura of an ancient power that left the three of them speechless with awe.

"Well done, all of you." There was a fleeting hint of warmth, the slightest touch of praise, before his face and voice became remote and expressionless again.

"There is much to do. Let us begin."

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Gramarye [email protected] http://gramarye.freehosting.net/ March 10th, 2002