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 Twelve - Independent Study

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A teacher is one who makes himself progressively unnecessary.

    -- Thomas Carruthers

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The tale of Neville's victory over Snape spread like wildfire. By the end of the day, all of the students and most of the teachers had heard of it, one way or another. Gryffindor students gave him thumbs-up and V-for-victory signs in the halls, and students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were constantly coming up to Neville and congratulating him. The Slytherins, however, gave him a wide berth and wary stares, as if he'd sprouted a second head.

If the teachers knew what had happened, they generally didn't show it. Hagrid was the exception. During their Care of Magical Creatures class right after lunch, he had heartily pumped Neville's arm and presented the flustered boy with a large bag of his infamous toffees as a reward for "finally puttin' one o'er on old Snape--always knew yeh had it in yeh".

Like any juicy rumour, the story had grown bigger and wilder with each successive telling, though the four of them didn't realise just how out of control things had become until a crowd of first and second-year Hufflepuffs timidly approached Neville outside the Gryffindor common room after dinner...and asked him for his autograph.

"What?" he said, staring in complete bewilderment at the quill and autograph book a little freckled boy held out to him.

"Hugh said you punched Snape in the nose in class today!" the boy crowed happily, waving the book in the air.

"Hey! That's not what I said!" a slightly taller boy, presumably Hugh, replied indignantly. "I said he punched him in the *stomach*, not the nose. At least that's what I heard."

"I didn't punch *anyone*!" Neville wailed, panicking. "Who's going around saying that I punched Snape?"

Hugh frowned as he tried to remember the complex details. "Well, Owen Caudwell told me, and Laura Madley told *him*, and Owen said that Laura said that she heard a bunch of seventh-year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws talking about it at dinner," he replied, ticking the names off on his fingers. "So it has to be true."

"Seventh-year Gryffindors?" Ron repeated slowly.

"Yeah," Hugh said, nodding.

Ron clapped a hand to his forehead. "Fred and George."

"I might have guessed," Harry said to Neville. "If *they're* the ones spreading these rumours, I wouldn't be surprised if pretty soon people started saying you knocked him down, whipped out your wand, put him in a full Body-Bind and then kicked him in the--"

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, aghast.

"Really? Did you really do *that*?" a little girl piped up, gazing at Neville with wide, worshipping blue eyes.

"This is ridiculous." Neville turned to the Hufflepuffs. "Look, you've got this all wrong."

"But they said--" Hugh protested.

"Just forget what you've heard, okay?" he pleaded. "Nothing happened. *Nothing*."

"Does that mean you won't sign my book?" the first little boy asked, lower lip quivering.

"Don't all of you have homework you should be doing?" Hermione said, folding her arms across her chest and giving the little group her best prefect's glare.

Grumbling, the Hufflepuffs trooped away dejectedly, still debating the extent of Neville's exploits.

Neville staggered over to the wall next to the Fat Lady's portrait and sank to the floor, head in his hands.

"I'm dead," he moaned. "So dead."

"You're being ridiculous," Hermione declared. "This whole thing will blow over in a day or two--you'll just have to wait it out."

"Snape's going to kill me in my sleep."

"He'll do no such thing!" she countered.

Neville was beyond listening. "No, even worse--he'll turn me into a newt and pass out chunks of me as ingredients in his Advanced Potions class."

"Neville...."

"I bet it would hurt--"

"*Neville*--"

"You know, I don't even *like* newts--"

"Will you STOP that?" she shouted, throwing her hands in the air.

"Um, Hermione," Harry said, checking his watch, "I'm not trying to interrupt, but think we have some studying we should be doing."

"What?" Ron whipped around. "Studying? On the first day of class?"

"We have to *study*, Ron," Harry said meaningfully. "You know--last night we said that we had plans to 'study'? At the *library*?"

"The li...oh." Understanding dawned on his face, followed by the stiff grimace of resignation. "Oh, yeah. 'Study'."

Hermione took hold of Neville's shoulder and lifted him to his feet. "Look, just go inside and lie down for a while," she said as she dusted him off. "Ron will have a nice long talk with his brothers later on tonight--won't you, Ron?"

"Sure." Ron didn't sound very enthusiastic.

"You see? Now go on and have a nice rest." She patted Neville's arm. "Bread roll," she said to the Fat Lady. The portrait swung open, and she unceremoniously shooed Neville inside.

As the portrait swung closed, they heard the sound of whoops and catcalls and cheering explode from the common room, followed by the beginning of a rousing chorus of "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow". Fred and George's voices boomed loudly, discordantly, nearly drowning out everyone else.

Without intending to, Neville had made a grand entrance.

"Honestly," Hermione said in disgust as they hurried down the corridor, heading for the little room off the library.

        *        *        *

Harry had remembered to slip the Marauder's Map into his robes before dinner, prepared to use it as an extra precaution. At the moment, they could explain their presence in the corridors much as they had to Neville--they were heading for the library to do a little studying and get started on the new term's homework.

It was the leaving that would be tricky, but Harry had confidence in the map. It had served Fred and George well for a long time, but more importantly, it was partly his father's handiwork. He had a piece of his father with him, and he knew that James Potter's spirit would never let his son down.

The door was exactly where it had been the night before--and as before, it was unlocked. They looked up and down the hall to make sure that no one could be lurking in the shadows, spying on them. Harry had also brought along the Pocket Sneakoscope Ron had given him to check for anyone they might have missed, but the little glass top didn't indicate the presence of any untrustworthy persons.

Satisfied that they were alone, they opened the door and slipped inside.

Harry and Ron dropped their books and cloaks on the table as Hermione lit a fire in the cold, ash-choked grate. Harry checked the lock on the door, and Ron arranged the chairs around the table, three on one side and one on the other.

Their tasks complete, the three friends walked over to the mirror. Harry placed a hand on the frame, and they watched with thinly veiled awe as the mirror lost its reflective quality and revealed Will's untidy office.

All they could see of its occupant was his back, bent over a crackling fire that was just outside their field of vision. He straightened up as the last traces of mist vanished, and they heard a metallic clang as he replaced the fire-iron in its holder.

"Good evening," he said. "Classes went well, I trust?"

"Yes, sir," they replied--Hermione eagerly, Harry uncertainly, and Ron half-heartedly.

Will moved away from the fireplace and picked up his briefcase, which was lying on the floor next to his desk. "Well, since you seem eager to get started, by all means go right ahead."

They took up their positions: Harry and Ron on the right side of the mirror, Hermione on the left.

"Enter, Watchman of the Light."

"Grant to us your inner sight."

"Enter, for the time draws near."

Dazzling light shone from the mirror frame, blinding them briefly. Will stepped through the frame and into the room. His modern leather briefcase looked very out of place against his formal dark robes.

"You might want to close your eyes when you activate the mirror," he said as they blinked rapidly to clear the annoying spots from their vision. "Just a word of advice. Now, what about those schedules?"

Harry pulled out his timetable. He had shoved it into his pocket before Potions that morning and had all but forgotten it was in there. "Let's see. Today was Potions,"--he made a face--"Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, and Divination."

Will held out his hand, and Harry passed him the crumpled piece of paper, hurriedly smoothing it out. "Since we're in the same house, our schedules are all the same," he added parenthetically.

"Not quite." Hermione took out her own neatly folded schedule. "I had Arithmancy last today, not Divination. I can't believe the two of you are still taking that batty old fraud's excuse for a class."

"Now, now, you mustn't say such things about a professor," Ron chided jokingly.

"Even if they *are* true," Harry noted.

"May I see your timetable, Miss Granger?" Will asked before Hermione could elaborate on her opinion of Sibyl Trelawney's teaching style--or lack thereof. She gave it to him, and he sat down. He opened his briefcase and rummaged through it, pulling out his glasses case, a fountain pen, and a small notebook. He put on his glasses and studied the two sheets of paper, jotting down their class names and times in his notebook. "This doesn't list the names of your teachers...is that common?"

"Well, everyone pretty much knows who teaches what," Harry said with a shrug. "And whoever made the timetables probably figured them out before they knew who the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor would be--Dumbledore must've had a hard time getting someone who'd take that job willingly."

"I don't doubt it," Will said. For a second, Harry could have sworn that the older man was smirking, but when he looked again the strange half-smile was gone. "What about tomorrow?"

"We're all in the same classes, I think" said Ron. "Defence Against the Dark Arts is first, then Charms, Transfiguration, and History of Magic."

"I see you start Astronomy next week," Will remarked, returning their schedules. "That rules out one night a week--Tuesdays, in this case. And I'm not so heartless that I'd make you do work on Friday evenings. So that leaves five other nights, and you'd need Sundays for homework and other projects. Would Mondays and Thursdays be too much for you?"

"I might have Quidditch practice," Harry said. "One it starts up again, that is."

"When will that be?"

"I don't know. In a couple of weeks, I guess."

"Why don't we just say Monday and Thursday for now," Will said. "We would meet after dinner, obviously. You could explain things away as a 'study group' that meets at seven o'clock, unless that's too early."

Hermione scribbled on her timetable. "The library closes at eight, but I think we could work it out. I'll ask Professor McGonagall tomorrow if she'll let us use an empty classroom for 'studying'--that should be enough in case anyone asks, later on."

"That sounds excellent." He stood up. "So I will see the three of you on Monday at seven?"

"Ye--wait!" Hermione exclaimed. "Aren't we doing anything else?"

Will peered at her over his glasses. "Did you have something in mind?"

"Not really, but I thought that...." She trailed off, seeing Ron and Harry's challenging stares. "Monday at seven, then," she agreed with a sigh.

        *        *        *

"Good morning, class."

Harry's heart skipped one beat, then two. Then it started up again at twice the speed.

"I recall meeting many of you on the Hogwarts Express, but I hope that I may get to know you better under less...painful circumstances."

This wasn't happening.

"My name is Arabella Figg, and I will be your new Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor."

This simply wasn't happening.

He was having a very weird dream, probably brought on by the jam tarts he'd sneaked from the kitchen last night after leaving their meeting with Will. He'd thought that they'd tasted a little off, but not off enough to cause something like this. Maybe if he sat very still and waited it out, it would turn into a nice dream about his Firebolt or something. His stranger dreams often did just that.

"Oi! What's with you?" Ron murmured, poking him in the ribs.

The sharp jab and its accompanying pain crushed his hopes that he was in the middle of a jam tart-created dream.

"Why didn't you tell me SHE was teaching us?" he whispered back, pointing at Mrs. Figg as surreptitiously as he could.

"Tell you?" Ron's eyes went wide, then narrowed. "I thought you knew!"

"She never told me!"

"You mean you lived with her all summer and she never said a thing?"

"Shh!" Hermione hissed angrily.

Harry wrenched his attention back to the elderly woman at the front of the room. She had exchanged the oddly-cut black and scarlet robes she had worn on the train for a simple work robe, but she still looked every inch an Auror.

"It's really rather interesting to look over the work your class has done. Four professors in four years would be a challenge even for the best student, but you all have done well...considering what you've had to work with.

"According to the records left by former instructors, you've studied various Dark creatures and tactics used by practitioners of the Dark Arts. My job, this year, will be to teach you some of the skills that I have found useful in my career as an Auror. We will cover offensive and defensive strategies used by both sides, and go into the historical and theoretical side of the Dark Arts in much greater depth.

"And so, I think that this year you'll find this class to be...how shall I put it...a *new experience*. Open your textbooks to page 318, and we'll begin."

Harry slumped forward in his seat. First Mrs. Figg the Batty Old Age Pensioner, then Mrs. Figg the Auror, and now Mrs. Figg the Defence Against the Dark Arts Instructor. The absolute last thing he needed at the moment was one more *new experience*.

        *        *        *

The reason for his dismay was mainly due to the fact that learning from Will was a new experience, too. That was the only way Harry could describe it to himself, or to anyone else if they were to ask--as a "new experience".

The first couple of sessions had been more like a history class than anything else. However, the history he chose to teach them was nothing like they had ever heard before. Will the Professor, as a prelude to a more in-depth history of the Dark, took great pains to explain the origins and development of the various Arthurian legends...and then explain why nearly all of them were bunk.

Harry soon discovered that many of the ideas and beliefs he had held had been swiftly and unforgivingly destroyed. The fairy-tale quality he had treasured was gone--it was hard to preserve the fantasy when reality stared you in the face and actually spoke to you. And for some reason, he found that he was emotionally torn by this. As well-known names and places came up in discussion, he remembered reading the stories for the very first time...and remembered the bad memories that accompanied the stories. Hour after hour of reading library books in the dank cupboard under the stairs, squinting to see by the faint light that slipped under the door, hoping that he would be able to finish the next chapter before one of the Dursleys shouted his name and made him do some mindless work....

He had used the stories as an escape from unhappiness, and though it was part of the past, all it took was a word or a turn of phrase to shove the unhappiness right to the forefront of his mind.

He tried wrench his thoughts away from his own problems by watching with growing interest how Ron and Hermione acted during the sessions with Will.

To Hermione, it was like another class--and naturally, she loved it. As soon as she sat down, out came the ink and paper and quills, and the notetaking began with a passion. And her research didn't stop when they left the room, either. Harry had spied her doing outside reading in the library and in the common room; she had devoured T. H. White's "The Once and Future King" and was currently picking her way through an antique, unabridged copy of Malory's "Le Mort d'Arthur". During the sessions, she asked pertinent, incisive questions which Will easily answered. Even when they emerged from the little room off the library, mentally exhausted, she would pull out her notes and review them as they headed back to the dormitory.

Ron was another matter entirely. He would set out to takes notes as well, but gradually his writing would slow and then stop altogether. The quill would slip from his fingers, and he would spend the rest of the time listening intently, spellbound by the entire discussion. His questions were few and far between, marked with frequent pauses while he chose the right word. But he never forgot anything, and the analytical side of his mind came out in later whispered discussions, outside of Will's rather intimidating presence.

Once their initial introduction to Will's world was complete, the Old One announced that it was time to move into the second phase of training: his own. As they were packing up to leave late one evening, he asked them to bring their wands next time, and as many spellbooks as they could carry.

"Coordinating efforts, of course," he had said in answer to their questions. "I want to see exactly what you are capable of doing."

So they did as he asked. Feeling like the worst kind of show-offs, the three of them took turns performing spells and charms, curses and counter-curses on each other. They covered everything they could think of, beginning with Wingardium Leviosa and the basic first-year textbook exercises, then progressing to advanced spells they had learned only days before.

While they charmed and cursed each other, Will sat and took page after page of notes. He asked questions about every aspect of magic. For the next few sessions, they reviewed the steps of the learning process that went into mastering the spells, from proper wand technique to the etymology of the spells themselves. After a lengthy discussion about broomstick composition inevitably devolved into Quidditch babble on Ron and Harry's part, the two of them sneaked out to the Quidditch pitch late one night, retrieved Harry's precious Firebolt, and smuggled it into the room so Will could examine it.

In the beginning, Ron was so nervous around Will that some of his spells went a little haywire. As the first to demonstrate the uses of Summoning and Banishing Charms, he tried to summon one of the books on the top shelf and accidentally brought the entire row of heavy volumes down on their heads.

Ron looked as if he would have loved to be able to Banish himself, but Will quietly picked the books off his lap, wrote something down, and said, "That's quite a powerful charm, Mr. Weasley. Useful, too. Could it be used to help locate lost objects?"

Ron shot Hermione an anguished glance, but she gave him a minimal shake of her head and an encouraging smile. 'He asked you, not me....' was her silent statement.

"Not really," Ron finally croaked out after an uncomfortable moment of silence. "You...I think you need to know where the object is in the first place--it won't work, otherwise."

"Pity," Will said, noting down Ron's answer. "I would have had you come to my office and try to find my favourite pen...I lost the damned thing two weeks ago and nearly tore the room apart looking for it. On second thought, maybe you should come anyway and Banish a few more pens for me...chances are, the one I want would turn up if I needed it badly enough." He frowned thoughtfully. "Well, either that, or I'd have to buy more pens."

Ron stared at Will. Will stared back.

Suddenly, the two of them burst out laughing.

After a moment of shocked silence, Hermione began to giggle, and Harry started laughing as well. The awkward tension in the air dissolved as if it had never been there, and once they had collected themselves, they continued with the demonstrations.

The incident with the books was only one reason for their growing respect for Will--a respect based on partnership and trust, not fear. He was very patient with them, even when they couldn't answer all of his questions. In response, they did their best to anticipate his queries and prepare accordingly.

In addition, reviewing spells in his presence was excellent practice for the O.W.L.s--or so Hermione claimed. Harry and Ron agreed, but in Harry's private opinion she was simply trying to justify the hours she didn't spend shut up in the library.

He had other things to think about, though. Fred and George had told him that the Gryffindor team would be meeting during lunch to set up a date for tryouts. They needed a new Keeper and a couple of reserve players in case of the odd accident.

As soon as class had ended, he ran to the Great Hall to meet up with them, Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and Alicia Spinnet. They got their food quickly and sat down, well away from the rest of their house.

"Any good prospects?" asked Angelina, starting off the discussion.

"I've been watching a few of the younger girls," Katie said. "No one in particular, though. There's this one sixth year girl who--"

"It would probably be better if we picked someone fifth year or below," Fred commented, interrupting her. "It would make it easier on Harry next year, with all the rest of us gone."

"Why don't we just see who signs up, first?" Harry said hurriedly, stopping that train of thought before it could start. He didn't want to think about them graduating--it was too alien a subject to bring up in the second week of school. "I know we're recruiting, but we're not *actively* recruiting."

Fred nodded. "Good point. But we all know who'll be the first to sign up--my dearest darling baby brother. That's all he talked about, all summer. I love Quidditch as much as the next guy, but d'you have any idea how BORING he can get when he goes on like that?"

"Tell me about it," Harry said, grinning. "So there's one. Who else would probably try out?"

Alicia spoke up. "I did hear Colin say last year that he was thinking of trying out, but...."

She fell silent, staring at her plate. None of the others said a word.

The subject of Colin Creevey was an awkward one. Colin had only been allowed to return to classes a few days ago, after spending four days under sedation, another three in a near catatonic but undrugged state, and two more at home with his parents to attend his brother's memorial service. He had moved from the hospital wing back to the dormitory just two nights before.

The other Gryffindors, and McGonagall to some extent, were fiercely protective of him, ready to challenge anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way. Hermione's confrontation with Draco was the only one of its kind as of yet, and Colin's housemates were determined to ensure that it stayed that way.

Not that Colin himself knew much of what was going on. He seemed to be wandering through classes in a daze, completing and turning his homework like an automaton. He went from class to meals to bed, and not even the other fourth-years could draw him into a conversation of more than one syllable at a time. Harry had tried talking to him at dinner, but Colin had given him a blank look that stared through him, rather than at him, and returned to moving his food around on his plate.

He pushed that memory aside. "So would next Wednesday be all right with you guys for the first tryout date?"

"Sounds good," said George. "I'll post the sheet in the common room before dinner."

"Did you want to do anything else beforehand?" Katie asked. "Make an announcement, or something?"

"Nah," said Fred. "They'll find out soon enough--it's only the first tryout, after all. Nothing crucial...we just want to see what we've got to work with."

"You make it sound so mercenary," Angelina said.

"Would you like to see how mercenary I can be, lovely lady?"

Harry quietly picked up his plate and edged away. He might have played Quidditch with them for several years, but they were still seventh-year students, and he was two years younger. In his eyes, at least, there was a definite line that he didn't feel comfortable crossing.

He headed over to where Ron and Hermione were sitting.

"Oh, Harry, there you are," Hermione said, looking up from her book. "There's someone here who wants to meet you."

"Meet me?"

A head of chin-length mousy brown hair poked around Hermione's shoulder, followed by a pair of wide blue eyes.

"Harry, this is Natalie McDonald. She's a bit shy," she added in a loud stage whisper. Natalie giggled nervously.

"Nice to meet you." He vaguely remembered her being Sorted into their house last year, and her name sounded familiar, but other than that he had no idea who she was.

"Hi, Harry," she whispered, a flush spreading across her face and down her neck.

"I'm helping Natalie with History of Magic this term," Hermione said. She turned back to the little girl, and pointed to the textbook that lay open on the table. "Now, the best way to remember these names and dates is to put them in a song or a rhyme. Take the Goblin Treaty of 1693, for example. You know how the war started up again in 1694? Well, try something like--'In sixteen hundred and ninety-three, the goblins signed their peace treaty. In sixteen hundred and ninety-four, they started up a brand new war.'"

"'In sixteen hundred'...wow, that's great!" Natalie crowed, her eyes lighting up. "How do you do that, Hermione?"

"It's nothing," Hermione demurred, a little flustered. "I've always studied that way." She quickly gathered up her books. "I'll see you two in class--I need to go talk to McGonagall about reserving our 'study room'."

They watched her leave. The moment she was out of earshot, Natalie latched herself on to Harry's arm and gazed up at him with starry eyes.

"Isn't Hermione wonderful?" she gushed. "She's so smart, and pretty, and...and...."

"She's smart, all right," Harry said, relieved that she was fawning over Hermione and not him. "If anyone can help you pass a class, she can."

"I have to go start thinking up rhymes," Natalie said. "Hermione said she'd help me later on tonight. I have Transfiguration homework, too, but I want to get as much done as possible before then. Bye, Harry! Bye, Ron!"

And she was gone, stringy brown hair flying round her face as she ran out of the Hall.

"What was that?" Harry said, still a bit dazed.

"It looks like Hermione's got her own personal Colin Creevey," Ron said in a low voice.

"Good luck to her. I hope she knows what she's getting into."

"Knows what she's getting into?" Ron repeated with a snort. "She'll turn that girl into a younger version of herself, if I know our Hermione. You just watch."

"No, thanks," Harry said, shaking his head. "I have enough trouble with the original as it is."

But as they headed off to Transfiguration, Harry knew that Ron's joking statement was probably closer to the truth than his friend thought. He'd seen that same starry-eyed gaze before.

If Hermione wasn't careful, she really would have a Colin Creevey of her very own.

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Gramarye [email protected] http://gramarye.freehosting.net/ March 20th, 2002