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 Thirteen - Matters of Trust

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Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.

    -- Aesop

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Another long session with Will was over. The Old One had told them that tonight would be the second to last day of their demonstrations; by next week, they would start the actual process of 'coordinating efforts'--whatever that meant.

Once he had left them and returned to his Cambridge office, Harry gave the Marauder's Map to Ron and Hermione and told them to leave ahead of him. When they questioned his decision, he showed them the hem of his Invisibility Cloak, hidden underneath his robes, and said that he wanted to get a quick snack from the kitchens before bed.

In reality, he had no such plans. He simply wanted to take his time walking back to the Gryffindor dormitory. He hadn't had much time to himself recently, and he missed the peace that wandered the halls with him when he chose to walk around at night.

The quiet, uneventful stroll was very relaxing. He didn't come across anyone on the way back, and after whispering 'Foxglove' to the dozing Fat Lady, he entered the deserted, darkened common room.

At the foot of the stairs, he checked the Quidditch sign up sheet that George had posted. As he had expected, Ron's name was scrawled in a bold, messy script at the very top. He ran a finger down the list, noting some of the names. Apart from Ron and a single sixth-year student, all the rest who had signed up were fourth year or below.

It would be difficult finding a Keeper who was as skilled and dedicated as Oliver Wood had been. He'd never realised just how much he had taken Oliver's talent for granted; as Seeker, his first priority was always the Snitch, and he had little time to pay attention to the actual game. But even though he could end the game by finding the little golden ball, it wouldn't mean victory if Gryffindor's Keeper couldn't keep the other team from scoring.

He continued scanning down the sheet, doing a primary assessment of those who'd added their names to the list. Paul Weatherby, third-year: he was small and fast, very energetic, but there was a good chance that he'd lack the stamina to last for a long game. Rachel Parks, second year: a hardy girl, but with poor eyesight. He knew only too well the problems that glasses posed on the Quidditch pitch. Colin Creevey--

He froze.

At first, he assumed that someone had decided to add the name to the list as a rather cruel and thoughtless joke. Rage prickled in his blood.

But on closer inspection, it did look like Colin's handwriting. He had a funny, squashed way of writing the double 'e' in his last name that would be hard to duplicate believably.

So Colin had signed up after all. Harry didn't know whether to be happy or heartbroken.

With a gusty sigh, he headed upstairs.

The other four boys were in bed already, and he could hear Ron's heavy breathing through the closed curtains of his friend's four-poster. He changed quietly and slipped between the cool sheets. Running a hand under his pillow, he felt the crinkle of old parchment between his fingers. The Marauder's Map was safe.

He stretched out and soon drifted off, thoughts of Quidditch and Colin twisting and twining in his mind as sleep overtook him.

And he dreamed.

The dream crept up on him so slowly that he didn't realise what was happening. It was warm and dark, almost too warm. There was a soft hissing sound coming from somewhere in the background, like the noise of air escaping from a leaky radiator. The warmth was stifling. It was a little difficult to breathe properly. But gradually, he became aware of a slight pressure on his throat that was adding to his breathing difficulties.

He reached up to brush whatever it was away, and nearly screamed when his hand came in contact with a hand that was definitely not his own.

His eyes flew open, and he stared into the watery, squinting eyes of the man who had once been known as Peter Pettigrew.

Wormtail had him by the throat, dazzlingly silver fingers wrapped around his neck, squeezing, choking the breath out of him. The hissing sound he had heard was really Wormtail's voice, which was speaking to him, repeating the same thing over and over again in a thick whisper:

"Harry...Harry...you look just like your father...just like him...."

Harry lashed out, yanking at the heavy cloak Wormtail was wrapped in as a desperate effort to free himself.

Wormtail kept squeezing his throat, speaking to him in a gurgling hiss that was half-accusation and half-pleading.

"You look like him, Harry...just like James...like your father...like him...like him...."

Harry kept pulling and pulling on the cloak as his strength began to fail him, the cloth slipping through his fingers....

And then the cloak fell off, landing on top of him.

With a gasping curse, he threw it aside and looked around wildly. There was just enough moonlight shining in through the window to see the room clearly, without his eyes having to adjust too much.

On the floor next to him was one of the thick draperies that had hung from the bedposts--he'd pulled so hard on the dream-Wormtail's cloak, he'd pulled the curtain right off his bed. He heard the faintly accusing chink-chink of the rings above his head as they swung and struck each other, sounding lost without the heavy curtain they'd been holding up.

Gingerly, he lifted a hand to touch his scar. It wasn't hurting, strangely enough. After a dream like that, he would have expected his scar to be throbbing in warning...but it wasn't.

It was hard to catch his breath. He could still feel the pressure of that silvery hand on his neck, slowly and mercilessly strangling him. He tried rubbing at his throat to get rid of the horrible feeling, but it didn't help.

It had been a dream, true, but not a dream that he was used to. He had had many nightmares where he was threatened, even tortured, but this time it wasn't in connection with anything Voldemort had done. This time it was solely about Wormtail, who had once been a close friend of his father and mother...who had sold them to Voldemort...who had unjustly sent his godfather to prison...who had lived among them as Ron's pet rat for so long, until his true form was finally revealed.

Until his true form was revealed.

Quirrell's true form had been revealed. So had Alastor Moody--or the man he had thought was Moody. Both times, he'd nearly been killed. Was there someone else out there right at this moment, watching him, terrified that his own 'true form' would be revealed?

He fell back against the pillows. Forget the curtain; he'd deal with it tomorrow. If he slept, he slept. If he didn't, well...there'd be no shortage of topics to consider until he did.

        *        *        *

He did fall back asleep. However, the dream had so unsettled him that he slept late the next morning, missing breakfast completely and almost arriving late to Potions. Though he was on time, he was the last one to arrive, and he saw a superior smile cross Snape's face as he ran into the classroom, breathing hard.

"I'm glad you could join us at last, Mr. Potter. We would have been sorely disappointed if you had chosen not to favour us with the grace of your presence."

Seething, he wondered how big the rumour would get if someone actually *did* punch Snape in the nose.

The assignment that day was a monster. Snape had said that they would be penalised if they had to start over--"if you can't get it right the first time round, you might as well not even try"--and he didn't want to give the man a reason to look in his direction.

Once class ended, he went immediately to Herbology and threw himself into the work. After a tasteless lunch, he did the same in Care of Magical Creatures, single-mindedly devoted to dissecting the half-eaten Fire Salamander that Hagrid had found in the Forbidden Forest during his rounds the night before. Most of it was missing, but there was enough left for Hagrid to consider it a valuable teaching tool. The disgusted squeals of Lavender and Parvati, and Hermione's acid remarks to them to "stop acting like children", barely penetrated the fog that was clouding his mind.

After an equally bland dinner, he retreated to an overstuffed chair in a corner of the common room and fell to studying the wall, tracing the crazy patchwork of stone and mortar.

Ginny was the first to gravitate toward him.

"Is something wrong, Harry?" she asked, perching on the arm of his chair. Normally, this display of familiarity would have unsettled him, but he had other things on his mind.

"Nothing's wrong," he said, a bit testily. "I've just got a lot to think about, that's all."

"Is it about Colin?" She toyed with a strand of her hair. "I saw his name on the list, you know. I asked him in class today if he really was trying out."

"I see."

"He said that he was."

"Mm."

"He also said he was looking forward to it."

"Mm." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ron and Hermione wander over and stand nearby, listening to them.

"He also said that he was going ask McGonagall to do his homework for him so he could go snog Angelina Johnson in the middle of the Quidditch pitch tomorrow at midnight."

"Mm."

"You aren't paying attention to a word I'm saying, are you."

The question that wasn't really a question caught his ear. "Mm?"

Ginny scowled, her hands tightening into fists. "Harry--"

Hermione quickly stepped forward to defuse the situation. "What I think Ginny's trying to say is this: are you going to tell us what's bothering you or do we have to drag it out of you?"

"Snippy much?" Ron said to her, arching an eyebrow.

Hermione sighed, hanging her head.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm just a little worried about what happened in Potions today."

"Potions?" Harry repeated, looking up for the first time since anyone had started speaking to him.

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, and then furtively glanced around the room to see if anyone was listening to their conversation.

Hermione leaned closer, bending over Harry's chair. Ron and Ginny followed suit.

"Do you know how long it took Neville and I to finish the potion today?" she told him in a hasty whisper. "Twenty minutes. *Twenty minutes*. And it was perfectly made. Last year it would have taken us the whole class time, and something would *still* have been wrong with it."

"That's odd," Ginny said, nibbling on her thumbnail.

"But this isn't the first time it's happened, either. The very first day of class, we finished that Purgative Potion in record time. And nothing was wrong with *it*, either. Snape wasn't very happy about that, obviously, but it's not as if he could punish us for doing classwork *right*. Though I could tell he really wanted to."

Harry frowned at this. It had taken him and Ron, working frantically, almost an hour to complete the day's assignment. Paired with Hermione, it probably would have taken at least three quarters of an hour to get satisfactory results--a half-hour if he actually pitched in instead of letting her do most of the work. But to get flawless results in twenty minutes...with Neville Longbottom....

"Something's not right," he blurted out.

His three friends jumped.

"What? How so?" Ron asked, lowering his voice even more.

"Something must've happened to Neville over the summer," he stated. "I'd bet you anything he's been replaced by a fake."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "What on earth--"

"It wouldn't take much." He was sweating, though his face and hands felt clammy and cold. "A batch of Polyjuice Potion, or some advanced Transfiguration spell and hey presto!--one fake Neville Longbottom, ready to go."

Hermione reached over and patted his arm slowly, warily. "Harry, I think you're a bit overtired...."

"I'm NOT overtired!" he shouted, pounding his fist on the cushion.

Hermione started, nearly knocking Ginny off her perch on the chair's armrest. She only just managed to keep her balance.

He hurriedly lowered his voice again. "You remember how weird he was acting in Diagon Alley. I'm telling you, something's not right here. It can't be Neville--the real one is locked in a trunk somewhere, or tied up, or...or...."

Hermione, not surprisingly, was quick to dismiss his argument. "This is Neville Longbottom we're talking about, not Mad-Eye Moody. He still gets letters from his gran--he got one at breakfast today, don't you re...oh, that's right, you weren't there for breakfast. But he got one, all the same."

"You can arrange something like that," Ron said suddenly.

Harry shot a look at Ron, who was nodding grimly. Satisfaction and relief buzzed in his head--at least Ron was on the same track as he was.

"All to keep up the story," he added, flashing Ron a grateful half-smile.

"You don't really believe all this, do you?" Ginny asked fearfully, looking from her brother to Harry and back again. "Do you?"

Wearily, Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to believe," he said. "All I know is that Neville's been acting really weird recently for no reason."

"No reason we know of," Ginny countered automatically.

Ron glowered at his sister. "Why are you defending him?"

"The question is--why aren't you?" she snapped back.

"Stop it, you two," Hermione said forcefully. She turned to Harry. "Look, if you're so concerned about this, we'll watch him for a week. If there's any really suspicious behaviour, we'll go to McGonagall or Dumbledore. If not, you two admit that you were being idiots, and we'll forget this whole thing. Deal?"

"Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed, horrified.

"Well, what if they're right?" Hermione said. "It can't hurt to be sure. And with any luck, we'll prove them wrong."

Ron made a face at her, and she rolled her eyes at him.

"I still think you're being paranoid about this whole thing," Ginny muttered stubbornly. "Fake Neville indeed...."

Harry felt a chill like an icy wind come over him as something clicked into place in his mind.

He slowly raised his head, and stared at Ginny with flat, emotionless eyes.

"I would rather deal with a fake Neville than a real Wormtail."

He turned away before he could see the look on his friends' faces. He didn't think he would be able to handle it, whatever it was. Pity or sympathy would have been just as bad as shock or horror.

        *        *        *

The next day was Quidditch tryouts, and it was an absolutely miserable day for it. It had been murky and depressing all morning, but the rain decided to start just after lunch.

The sound of fat wet raindrops was not music to Harry's ears. It meant damp clothes, soggy underwear, and the pervasive stench of wet wool. But the lack of thunder and lightning meant that tryouts were still on, at that was enough to start little quivers of excitement fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

He fled the boredom of History of Magic as soon as he could and hurried back to the dormitory to change into his Quidditch gear. He wanted to get out to the pitch as soon as possible, before Ron could catch up with him. He had to keep his distance until tryouts were over--no matter how much he wanted Ron to make the team, he didn't want anyone to accuse him of favouritism.

Fred and George were already in the air by the time he got there, in the middle of some practice swooping and diving. Their brilliant scarlet and gold uniforms stood out like beacons against the greyness of the sky.

Harry mounted his Firebolt and kicked off, soaring into the air. The tremendous rush he always felt when flying trilled happily in his mind, and he felt all of his stress disappear as he dodged the raindrops.

"Harry! Just the judge we wanted to see!" Fred called out, gliding over to him.

"Judge?" Harry repeated.

"Yes." George pulled up alongside his brother. "We got to talking after you left us at lunch that day, and we came to the unanimous, irrevocable decision that you get the final say over the players."

"What? Why me?" He wiped sweat and rain from his forehead in a futile gesture that did nothing to make him less wet.

Fred explained. "The best way to test the new Keepers is to play them in an actual game. Without the Snitch, of course--we wouldn't ask you to go looking for it in this filthy weather. But since you don't need to look for the Snitch, you can go high, like you usually do, and keep an eye on everyone. That way, we get to see how they play, and you can catch anything important that we miss--good or bad. Sound good?"

Harry knew what they were really saying. That kind of decision was truly a captain's decision. They hadn't named a captain yet, and Harry had assumed that the seventh-years would pick one on their own or share the captain's position between them...but now he wasn't so sure. Did they mean that they wanted him to be captain, or did they already think of him as their captain? And how could he ask without making both them and him uncomfortable?

"I guess," he said finally, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could.

Fred grinned at him. "Good man. Now buzz off."

"We don't want them to know they're being watched," George clarified, seeing the confusion on Harry's face. "Just find somewhere to hide and watch them. We'll take care of the rest."

And they were off, back to their intricate dance of swooping and diving that would mesmerise the casual observer and deeply impress anyone with firsthand knowledge of Quidditch play.

Harry zoomed higher, circling the pitch once or twice before ducking behind one of the tall towers that surrounded it. He found a spot underneath one of the colourful canopies where he could stay relatively dry and still have a good view of the playing field.

From his lofty vantage point, he saw Angelina, Katie, and Alicia lead the prospective players onto the pitch. The Chasers in their splendid uniforms made a sharp contrast to the dripping, forlorn-looking group of candidates.

He spotted Ron's shock of red hair immediately. It was a little harder to pick out Colin's bedraggled figure, but there he was, clinging to a broom that looked two sizes too big for him.

A whistle blew, and the figures below him began to move. Angelina, Katie, and Alicia mounted their brooms and began to toss the Quaffle back and forth, practising one of their typical flying patterns. Fred and George manoeuvred in and out around them, mimicking their usual actions as Beaters. They weren't using the real Bludgers at the moment--Harry figured they would come later, once the second round of tryouts started.

Everyone who tried out was at least moderately good. He could tell who had practised Quidditch before and who hadn't--the latter seemed to spend most of their time trying to stay on the broom without using their hands. Ron was superb--he blocked nearly every shot that the Chasers aimed at him, despite the catcalls and taunts that his older brothers shouted at him. Colin, to Harry's surprise, was pretty good as well. A few shots slipped past him, but for the most part he was good enough to at least be considered for a reserve player. There were one or two others who were definitely worth looking at a second time, in a more realistic game-play situation.

Angelina was the one who called it a day, blowing on her whistle and summoning them all back down. Harry waited until the candidates had left the field, then slowly drifted down to the ground, wringing the water from his soaking-wet clothes.

"Second round is next week," George said as he dismounted. "Let's meet after dinner on Friday and discuss cuts--that way, we can post the call backs before the weekend and give them some time to prepare."

"No mercy on Tuesday," Fred said, smiling wickedly. "Bludgers and all. Let's see what they're really made of."

Harry followed them back inside. He had just under three days to figure out which of his fellow Gryffindors would make the cut--three days where he would have to avoid talking about Quidditch around Ron. And considering the fact that the majority of their non-school related conversations were about Quidditch in one way or another, it would be no small feat.

Oh, well. At least Hermione would welcome their silence with open arms.

        *        *        *

Thursday was upon them again, and with it came another session with Will.

"That's strange," Harry said as he and Ron entered the little room off the library. "Hermione said she'd meet us here."

"Tutoring," Ron said sarcastically, by way of explanation. "Precious little Natalie McDonald needed help with her Charms assignment."

Harry set his books down on the table. "Should we start without her?"

"She'll go spare if we do."

"She'll go spare if she finds out we've wasted Will's time by waiting for her."

"D'you think Will would care?" Ron asked, dropping his own books on the table with a loud thunk.

"How should I know?"

"Well, if you don't know, who would?"

The conversation was going nowhere. Harry pointed his wand at the cold logs in the grate and muttered "Incendio." A roaring fire leapt up, dispelling some of the chill in the room.

"Look," he said. "Let's just tell him Hermione's running late. We can't exactly do anything without her here, anyway."

Ron flopped down in a chair to wait. Harry walked over to the mirror and reached out, but before he could touch the frame, the door burst open and Hermione stormed in.

"Right on time," Ron said pointedly.

Hermione didn't seem to hear him. She was staring at a handful of what looked like shredded writing paper with an expression of the utmost revulsion, as if she was holding some dead, decomposing thing and either couldn't or wouldn't put it down.

"Read this," she said, thrusting the papers at them.

Ron raised an eyebrow, but took the papers from her.

Once they had left her fingers, Hermione scrubbed her hand against the edge of her robes, apparently trying to remove the feel of the paper from her skin.

Ron and Harry spread the torn sheets on the table and quickly pieced them together. Once assembled, they discovered that the paper was a standard sheet of writing paper. It was an unfinished letter, written in a young girl's loopy handwriting. Otherwise, there was absolutely nothing unusual about it.

"So...whoever wrote it dots their 'i's with circles?" Ron quipped, prodding the torn pieces of the letter with his finger.

Hermione gave him a look, but said nothing.

Ron snorted irritably, and walked over to the fireplace, rubbing his hands before the blaze. Harry, left with nothing better to do than feel Hermione's eyes drilling into him, began to read the letter aloud.

Dear Mummy and Daddy [the letter said],

How are you? Everything's fine here...even though the classes are a little [the word 'little' was underscored several times] harder this year. Don't worry, though--I've got all good grades so far. I'm doing fairly well in Chemistry, I think, though it's hard to tell at times. Professor Snape is still as strict as ever. I've even started reading ahead in the textbook, like you told me to--

Here the letter stopped.

"So?" he said, pushing the pieces of paper back to her.

"'So?'" she repeated angrily. "Is that all you have to say?"

"I don't see your point."

"The *point*, Harry, is that we know the person who wrote this letter-- Natalie McDonald."

Ron groaned. "Oh, bloody hell."

"What are you doing with one of her letters?" Harry asked.

"I found it in the dustbin in the common room, but that's not the issue here," she said. "What's important are the words she uses in it." She stabbed at the torn paper with her finger. "Look here...'Chemistry'. Snape, teaching *chemistry*?"

"Maybe she was making it easier for her parents to understand," said Ron. "I bet they're Muggles."

"Is that so?" Hermione replied sharply. "Well, maybe you'll understand if I tell you exactly what she told me. I found her with her friends in the library--"

"You actually CONFRONTED her on this? I don't believe it!" Ron threw up his hands.

Hermione stomped her foot. "Will you let me finish? Anyway, I found her today and asked her about it. She said that her *parents* told her to do it. She said it's their 'secret code', and went on to tell me about how in their special 'secret code', Transfiguration is 'World Literature', Charms is 'Maths', Herbology is 'Botany'...I could keep going."

"Please don't," Ron muttered.

"It gets better," she continued, ignoring him. "She has to use the 'secret code' at home, too, if anyone asks her how school is going. Especially around their neighbours and relatives. And if anyone asks *where* she's going to school, she tells them that she's in a special programme for accelerated learners at a small public school. That's part of the 'secret code', too."

"Hermione, what are you getting at?" Harry asked. He rarely ever saw her this upset. She looked like she wanted to cry, or scream, or blow something valuable to pieces with a well-placed Incendio charm.

Hermione didn't answer at first, but when she spoke her voice was stiff, held under tight control.

"Natalie's parents are ashamed of her," she said at last. "They wanted their little girl to go to some fancy public school, and when she didn't, they tried to cover it up. Wouldn't want anyone to think she had some 'abnormality', would they?"

The words "St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys" flashed through Harry's mind, and with them came a sinking feeling of anger. The Dursleys had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual. There was no love lost on either side. But for parents--who should be bursting with pride at their little girl's achievements--to make their daughter lie just so they could keep up appearances....

He felt ill. Ron, finally understanding the gravity of the situation, also looked shocked and saddened by the whole thing.

Hermione, though, was leaning heavily against the wall, barely able to stand.

"That could been me, you know. That could have been me," she said. Her voice was dulled, deadened.

Ron and Harry exchanged glances. So *that* was why the letter upset her so much--it hit close to home.

Suddenly, Hermione's eyes flared in white-hot anger. She snatched the shreds of Natalie's letter from the table, and in the same motion threw them into the fire. The flames consumed the paper in moments, leaving nothing but ash.

"'There, but for the grace of God...'" she whispered, the sad quote falling thickly from her tongue. Her entire body was trembling.

Carefully, Ron rested a hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"I think we can put this off for a night," he said. His tone allowed no argument.

"I'll let Will know," Harry added soothingly. "He'll understand."

Hermione stared at them, moving her lips to frame a weak protest, but she allowed Ron to lead her out of the room. Harry waited until the door had clicked shut behind them, and then touched the mirror frame with a heavy hand.

When the wreaths of mist cleared, he saw Will standing behind his desk, reshelving a large stack of books. Harry cleared his throat, and the older man looked over his shoulder.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," he said, slipping a book back into place. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Harry shifted nervously. "Um, actually, sir...would it be okay if we didn't meet tonight? Hermione's not feeling well, you see." It was mostly the truth. Omissions were better than outright lies.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Will said, setting the book he was holding down on the desk. He seemed genuinely concerned. "Not working too hard, I hope?"

"No, no, nothing like that."

"Well, if you like, you can go back to your dormitory." He picked up the book from his desk, ran a hand along the shelf, and put it back into place. "I won't keep you if there are other things you need to be doing."

"Actually, sir, I...."

"Harry, you don't have to call me 'sir'. Heaven knows I get enough of it around here as it is." With his free hand, he indicated his office and the piles of scattered papers that cluttered it up.

He flushed. "Sorry. I just wanted to know...is it just Voldemort who has the power of the Dark, or can other people use it, too?"

"I wish I could answer that question," Will said, setting a book aside and picking up a thin folder. "It would solve a good deal of our problems, and answer a few questions of my own that have been keeping me awake at night."

"Oh." He couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"Why do you ask?"

"It's just...." He couldn't quite put what he wanted to say into words, and he didn't want to stand around floundering, grasping at straws. "What happens if he kills again?"

"I imagine that killing is the last thing Voldemort wants to do at the moment," Will stated. "If he does have the power of the Dark--which the evidence suggests is more and more likely--then he will avoid using the Killing Curse if at all possible. It's much more satisfying, and far less risky, to have deaths occur in a roundabout way. And for that matter, the Dark is not allowed to kill humans...or witches and wizards. That is the law."

"But what about my parents? And Cedric?" Harry exclaimed.

Will kept his back to Harry, but continued to speak in the same calm, almost maddening voice. "If Voldemort wishes to call upon the powers of the Dark, he is not allowed to kill humans. That is the law."

Harry slammed his fist against the table. "Damn the law! What good is it if people keep dying?"

Will froze, arm suspended in mid-reach.

Very slowly, he turned around.

Harry recoiled involuntarily at the look in his eyes. It was as if a veil that had always covered them had fallen away, revealing their true depths. The gentle, blue-grey calmness was gone. Now, they burned with a cold, relentless light, fever-bright and...and terrifying.

"None but the Dark can defeat the Dark, Harry," the Old One said quietly, with the inexorable finality of a judge pronouncing sentence. "That is the law, and Voldemort knows it."

Fortunately, Harry was spared from having to reply by the searing pain that ripped through his head, culminating in a white-hot ball of agony that lodged itself in the centre of his forehead.

He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. The sweet, coppery tang that filled his mouth only served to remind him of what the pain really meant. It was no more than a brief flare up, already beginning to subside, but he knew that Voldemort had done or was doing something horrible, somewhere...and the burning he was feeling told him there was nothing he could do about it.

Massaging his throbbing scar, he opened his eyes, prepared to explain away his reaction.

But to his surprise, Will was leaning against the bookshelf for support, his eyes closed and face contorted in pain as he clutched his left forearm.

"Will? What's wrong?" he asked, his own pain forgotten.

Will was breathing hard. "Harry--find your Headmaster. Tell him...tell him something's happened. I don't know what it is, but...just find him, and hurry!"

He waved a hand at the mirror, and the mist began to swirl, clouding it over. Harry didn't have time to react before Will was gone.

        *        *        *

He burst from the room, robes flying behind him as he ran through the corridors. As he ran, he thought he saw Peeves drift by and yell something at him, but he wasn't paying attention. He didn't care about being seen or heard; he had to get to Dumbledore's office before anyone else--

"Potter!"

Harry tripped, falling forward and skidding across the stone floor. Muttering invectives, he pulled himself to his feet with the help of a handy suit of armour, turned around, and saw Professor Snape bearing down on him with an unbalanced look in his eyes.

Before he could run in the opposite direction, Snape had grabbed his arm, hand clamping around his bicep like an iron cuff.

"Do you enjoy making things difficult for everyone else, Potter?" he barked, glaring down at Harry from his greater height.

Harry tried to yank his arm free. "Let me go! I have to--"

"What you *have* to do is to go back to your dormitory this instant." He shook Harry viciously by the arm, each shake punctuating his words. "The Headmaster may tolerate your nocturnal wanderings, but I certainly don't. Arrogant, foolish boy...."

He looked as though he wanted to say something more, but his voice trailed off before he could finish the thought. Anger took second place to some other emotion that Harry couldn't quite define.

Harry stopped struggling. It wasn't helping the matter, and it would be easier to make Snape listen to a calm Harry Potter than a frantic one.

"Please let go of me, Professor," he said, fighting to keep control. "I have to talk to Dumbledore."

Snape wasn't prepared to listen to any Harry Potter, calm or frantic. "The only reason I'm not taking points is the fact that I have more pressing matters on my mind than your continued insubordination."

"You're not LISTENING!" Harry yelled. "Do you think I *care* about bloody house points? I have to get to Dumbledore NOW!"

Snape snarled, lips curling back from his teeth with a terrifyingly animalistic rage. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't knock your fool head off here and now--"

Quick as a flash, Harry's free hand had yanked back the sleeve of Snape's robe to reveal the jet-black stain of the Death Eaters, standing out like a angry brand against the Potions Master's sallow skin.

"THIS is the reason!" he shouted, pointing to it. Even in his anger, he had the foresight not to directly touch the mark. "After all this time, you still think...I don't know *what* the hell you think, but you're wrong! I *know* when HE does something, just as much as you do. It hurts me when HE does something, as much as it hurts you. But unlike you, I never asked for it in the first place!"

He'd gone too far.

He knew it the moment the words had left his mouth.

He tried to back away, babbling incoherent apologies, but his foot slipped out from under him and he stumbled forward. His hand just brushed the edge of the Dark Mark.

Snape cried out, as if the contact with Harry had burned him, and flung him aside. Harry hit the wall hard and slumped to the ground, seeing stars. Dazedly, he looked up to see a dark figure looming over him, the hazy light of the wall torches behind him completely obscuring any facial features or expressions.

Snape's voice was barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

"Go to bed, Potter. As you can see, I have my own reasons for going to the Headmaster, and I will tell him of yours as well."

"But you don't even--" he began feebly.

"Potter." Snape's voice sounded harsh and discordant, the echo in the deserted hall competing with the ringing in Harry's head. "Go."

And he was gone, striding down the corridor at an even faster pace.

Harry waited until he was out of sight, then waited a little longer until the sound of footfalls had faded away. He got to his feet and tottered dizzily down the corridor, heading in the direction of the Gryffindor dormitory. But finally, his forward momentum failed him and he fell to ground, the buzzing noise still clouding his mind.

"I tried..." he murmured as unconsciousness swallowed him up. "I'm sorry...I tried...."

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Gramarye [email protected] http://gramarye.freehosting.net/ March 26th, 2002