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 Fifteen - And Then There Were Four

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Coming together is a beginning, staying together is progress, and working together is success.

    -- Henry Ford

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Without anything more said about the unpleasant incident that had just transpired, they settled down to business. As far as Will or anyone else was concerned, it was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened--and Harry was happy to leave it that way.

Neville had taken his seat with the utmost casualness, as collected and at ease as if he'd been attending every single session, but once he was seated a bit of his old nervousness seemed to return.

He timidly raised his hand. "Professor Stanton?"

Will peered at him over the top of his glasses. "Please, put your hand down. It makes me feel as though I've just called roll. And it's Will...I'm not grading you on any of this."

"Sorry," Neville said with a little smile. He relaxed, and his shoulders lost their hunched-over look as some of the tension left him. "I was just wondering what I've missed."

"A lot," said Harry, without thinking.

"A whole lot," Ron clarified.

Hermione muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'unhelpful', but said nothing else.

"Don't worry about it," Will reassured the frowning boy. "If you'll stay a little later tonight, after this session ends, I can bring you up to date on what we've done so far. But for today, I think it would be better if you didn't participate. Feel free to ask questions, if you wish."

Neville nodded, and settled back in his chair to watch.

Will continued. "As I mentioned in my note to Mr. Potter, I had hoped that by today I would have some answers to your questions and a better sense of how to go about this experiment of ours. I can give you the latter now--the former must wait until more progress has been made.

"I have seen and studied what you are capable of doing. The powers present in witches and wizards are not that different from my own, but there are a few barriers that would make true coordination difficult. Let me demonstrate."

He stood up and walked over to the fire. He gazed at it for no more than a moment, not moving or speaking, and it went out, snuffed like a candle.

Harry, who was sitting closest to the fire, noticed the change immediately. It wasn't like putting out a fire with one of their basic spells, where one could still feel residual heat emanating from the cooling grate. Whatever Will had done was very different--he felt no heat, no sense of warmth. It was as if the fire had never been lit in the first place.

Will looked back at them. His face was half in shadow, illuminated only by the soft, dim light of a few candles in wall sconces. "Would one of you care to do the honours?"

Hermione quickly picked up her wand, pointed it at the grate, and said, "Incendio!"

The fire sparked to life, leaping and dancing from the logs.

Will returned to his chair. "Control over basic elements...similar powers, with minor variations. But what if we were to try something a little different? Mr. Weasley, will you please stand?"

Ron got to his feet very slowly. He may have had more trust in Will than before, but like any student, he knew that being personally picked for a demonstration was something to be avoided if at all possible.

"I want you to hex me," Will said.

Ron's jaw dropped. "Wh-what?"

"It doesn't really matter to me which spell you choose," the older man said, removing his glasses and setting them on the table. He tapped his fingers on the armrest of the chair. "A hex, a curse, anything you wish. Something strong, of course. Preferably incapacitating. And don't...how shall I put it...'pull your punches'. There's no point in doing it if it's not done properly."

Ron looked at him doubtfully, fiddling with his wand. Apparently, Will's expectant silence was enough encouragement, because after a pause for a few deep, steadying breaths, he aimed his wand and shouted, "STUPEFY!"

At the same moment, Will lifted his hand and said a single word.

Suddenly, Ron was sprawled on the floor, out cold.

Hermione and Harry leapt to their feet. Neville pressed a shaking hand to his mouth. Will, however, merely looked thoughtful, detached from the entire incident.

"A very good job," he said analytically, sounding as if he'd watched the whole thing happen. "Had I chosen a lesser form of defence, *I* would be the unconscious one."

"Is...is he all right?" Neville whispered fearfully.

"Of course, of course." Will leaned forward and opened his briefcase. "I deflected the spell back at him--he got exactly what he gave out. I would like one of you to bring him 'round, though. The spell was quite strong, and I don't know how long it might take for him to regain consciousness without help."

"Ennervate!" Harry said hastily, pointing his wand at Ron.

Ron's body twitched. He let out a long groan, twitched again, and started to roll over onto his stomach. Harry and Hermione ran over to help him up, but he waved them away. Clinging to the edge of the bookshelf, he pulled himself to his feet without assistance and stood there, swaying slightly.

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley," Will said, putting on his glasses and taking a sheet of paper from his briefcase. "You did very well indeed."

Ron stared at him, then mumbled a dazed "thanks" before teetering over to the table and collapsing into his chair. Harry and Hermione returned to their seats as well, keeping a wary eye on Will.

"What I intend to do is to teach you what you can expect from the forces of the Dark--their powers, their methods, and above all, their limitations." He drew out the last word, emphasising its importance. "And you, in turn, will teach me how to best use and adapt the magic you already possess to counter it."

"Can we do that?" Harry asked. "Combine magic like that, I mean."

"It might take a little time, but yes, I think we can do it. Everything I've seen so far suggests that it can be done. And with any luck, it won't involve knocking each other unconscious. My apologies for that, Mr. Weasley."

Ron made a burbling noise that might have been a 'don't mention it.'

Neville started to raise his hand, thought better of it, and put it down. "You've probably answered this before, and this is probably a stupid question--"

"I'll be the judge of that," Will replied, smiling faintly.

Neville's mouth twitched. "Y...yes. Well, I just wanted to know...why are you helping us? I mean, I know I *don't* know anything, but I can't see how this fits together." The old confusion had once again taken control, and he looked like he was floundering for words. "I'll do anything I can to help, but I don't really understand what's going on...."

Will said nothing. The hint of a smile that had softened his normally impassive face had vanished.

He stood, and strode over to the fireplace. He turned his back on it, facing them, silohuetted by the firelight behind him. When he spoke, his voice held a newer, darker tone, one that sent their hearts racing.

"The attack on St. Mungo's confirmed my fears. The Dark is Rising once again in this land, in the person of Lord Voldemort. It has taken a form that augments its power, and at the same time greatly weakens it. It is our task to find that weakness and use it to our advantage. The Darks thinks that we cannot defeat it in this form, that when the time comes we will back down from a final confrontation. But in this war, the Light gives no quarter, and asks for none!"

It was a call to arms. It was a battle cry. It called to them in their blood and stirred up emotion like a brisk autumn wind catching dry, fallen leaves, whirling them into the air. Harry's hands were clenched into fists as he gazed at the Old One, feeling the rush of power and urgency that drew him to accept the challenge placed before them.

"Come here," Will ordered. "Join hands. Now is as good a time as any to give you a small sample of what you are up against."

They did as he commanded. Harry took one of his hands, and Neville took the other. Ron and Hermione joined hands and completed the small circle.

The air around Will began to glow with a soft white light, shimmering and rippling as it slowly spread around them. The heat of the fire was replaced with a different tingling warmth, as soothing and comforting as a warm blanket.

It was their only protection against the horrible onslaught of emotions that rushed into their minds.

To Harry, it was a little like being in a Pensieve, where one could see a memory of a particular incident. But this was different. Pensieve memories were personal, reflecting the feelings of the person who had placed the memory there in the first place. This was like being in a Pensieve where you could sense the emotions of everyone in the memory at once in a pure, undiluted form, with nothing acting as a barrier or even a buffer.

That was the reason he knew he was reliving the attack on St. Mungo's Hospital, even though he hadn't been there to see it.

Pain was the dominant feeling. Patients and physicians alike were being crushed and trampled in their attempts to escape. All of their struggles only added to the pain of existing injuries. There was a strong sense of shock and horror. Confusion and disbelief mingled together, jangling their nerves and pulling their minds in different directions. And mixed in with all of that was the cacophony of screams and yells, a deafening noise that they couldn't shut out of their minds.

It was a nightmare. It was chaos.

Then, suddenly, the torrent of emotions drifted into the background, creating an emotional backdrop for what they saw next.

There were two hospital beds, side by side, surrounded by darkness. In one bed lay the still figure of a middle-aged woman, though she was so heavily bandaged that it was hard to tell what she looked like. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing shallowly and irregularly. A young, dark-haired mediwitch stood next to the bed. She appeared to be anxiously watching the patient for any unexpected change.

The other bed was also occupied, but the stark white linen sheet had been drawn up and over the still body. As they watched, the bed wheeled itself away from the woman and the mediwitch, out of sight.

Then everything went black.

The ghastly memory faded away, leaving only the healing warmth that radiated from Will's body. Yet not even that could completely drive away the terrible feelings, the icy chill that had settled over them.

Harry opened his eyes as the last of the warmth left him. Ron and Hermione looked drained, mentally and physically exhausted. Even Will showed signs of the strain they had all been through. But Neville....

Neville was staring at the floor. His entire body was rigid.

He answered their question before they could even imagine how to put it into words.

"Gran hinted as much," he said, not looking up. "She wouldn't say anything to me, but I could guess. I s'ppose I should be glad that Mum's okay...they thought she wasn't going to make it, at first. But she pulled through. That's my Mum for you...always a fighter...."

"I'm so sorry." Hermione squeezed his hand gently.

Neville didn't return the gesture. His hand lay limp, unresponsive to her attempt to comfort him. "But she's not even going to know that he's gone...that's the worst of it."

A solitary tear fell onto the stone floor.

There was nothing they could say. Any words of sympathy would have sounded hollow and forced at best.

Will placed a hand on Neville's shoulder, his long, dark cloak draping protectively over the smaller boy's body.

"I must speak to Neville alone," he said quietly. "I will see you all on Thursday evening."

"Yes, sir," they murmured.

They didn't talk at all on the way back to the common room.

The Fat Lady was sitting in her portrait, reading a romance novel and eating from a large box of liqueur chocolates. She looked up at the sound of their approach. The stress of the night must have showed on their faces, because she frowned, her brow creasing in worry.

"Are you all right, my dears?" she asked.

"Not really, but don't worry about us," Hermione said with a little sigh. "Tintinnabulation."

The portrait swung open, and they entered the common room. Luckily, most everyone else had gone to bed, and their usual group of chairs by the fireplace were unoccupied. Mechanically, they sat down, took out their textbooks, and began to study for the next day's classes. They were still sitting in the common room with their books in their laps when Neville returned.

He walked up to them, and without so much as a nod or a hello reached over and tapped Ron on the shoulder.

"Can we talk?" he said.

"Sure," Ron replied. "Pull up a chair."

"In private."

Ron stared at him for a moment, then closed his Charms textbook and set it on the floor. "Okay."

The two of them walked to the far side of the room, away from the fire and closest to the stairwell entrance. Harry and Hermione did their best not to eavesdrop, concentrating fiercely on the problems in their books, but every now and then they peeked around their chairs to see what was going on behind them.

The conversation was short and subdued. It looked like they had come to some sort of conclusion or agreement, because Neville nodded and headed up the boys' staircase.

Ron returned to his chair. His face was drawn and thoughtful.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked.

Ron closed his eyes. "He wanted to know what I thought....about Merlin."

Harry bit down on the well-nibbled end of his quill. "And what did you say?"

"I told him I didn't know what to think."

And with that unsatisfying answer, he picked up his Charms book and returned to his reading.

        *        *        *

The time had come to make the final team decisions. With the first match less than two weeks away, against the strongest Ravenclaw team they'd faced in a long time, they couldn't put it off any longer.

It was very late on Sunday night before they all were free and could get together in one place to hold the necessary conference. Fred and George had kicked everyone out of the seventh-year boys' dormitory so the team could convene in private. The twins had also cast numerous silencing charms, locking charms, and a few special spells of their own design to keep anyone--in particular, a certain younger brother--from eavesdropping. There was so much magic in and around the room that Harry felt like he was swimming against a strong current if he moved too quickly.

Once they were assembled, stretched out on the freshly made beds, George started things off.

"Now, we've all agreed that Harry's decision is final. But I think we should each get a chance to prove our point for whoever we think would be the best Keeper. That sound fair?"

They nodded.

"Angelina, what do you think?" Harry said, trying to sound official.

The older girl rubbed the back of her neck. "You're going to think I'm mad to be saying this, but my first choice is Colin."

Alicia looked startled. "Weren't you the one who said we shouldn't call him back in the first place?"

"I know, I know," she said.

"Did you pick him because you feel guilty about what happened?" Fred asked, with his usual bluntness. "It wasn't your fault."

Angelina propped her chin in her hands. "I know *that*, too. It was an accident. But what happened on the pitch proves that he's about as determined as they come. I know *I* certainly wouldn't have tried to catch that shot. We need someone like that, someone who's not afraid to take risks. That's the kind of thing that could have happened during a real game--and I bet anything he'd do the same thing if it happened again."

George grinned. "Win or die trying? Sounds a little too much like Oliver Wood to me--and one was bad enough."

"We'd be bloody lucky if we could get another Keeper like Oliver," Angelina retorted. "And I think the other teams would probably underestimate Colin--that's another point in his favour."

"Well, since we're talking about underestimating people, I really underestimated Tommy," Katie Bell spoke up. "I was certain he wouldn't stop that shot I made on during the first round--that was one of my best shots. I've been working on it all summer. And that little third-year just sent the Quaffle *flying* like I'd practically handed it to him. He could take pretty much anything the other teams' Chasers could dish out. My vote's for Tommy."

"One for Colin, one for Tommy," Harry said. "Alicia?"

"I know we have problems playing games in nasty weather," Alicia said. "That's where we're weakest, where we've always been weakest. Give us a good day, and we can take any of the teams, but a little rain and we're sunk. We need someone who can make up for that...someone like Beatrice. She's a good all-around player, but that little extra advantage might be the thing we need to trump Slytherin this year. If nothing else, she's a flexible player."

"Colin, Tommy, Beatrice." Harry winced. He had an idea as to where this was heading, and he turned to Fred and George with a distinctly sinking feeling in his stomach. "What about you two?"

"Ron," they said simultaneously.

Harry groaned.

Angelina snorted. "Why am I not surprised?"

Fred's eyes narrowed, and George looked offended.

"D'you think we'd pick him if he wasn't the best one for the job?" Fred said angrily. "I care too much about this team for that."

"Besides," George added, "he's been eating, sleeping, and breathing Quidditch all his life--there's not much he doesn't know about the game. He had the best score on Tuesday...only two shots got past him. He's played with us before, and he knows what we're capable of doing. He gets along with all of us pretty well. Do you want me to keep going?"

"That's okay," Harry said hastily, before Fred could pick up the subject and drag out the uncomfortableness even longer. He ticked the results off on his fingers. "So we have one vote for Beatrice, one for Tommy, one for Colin, and two for Ron."

He grimaced. It *would* have turned out this way.

"Did you do this deliberately?" he quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

His attempt at humour was met with a flat silence and five equally flat stares.

"So what's your decision, Harry?" Katie asked, leaning forward.

"Yeah, what's your pick?" said Angelina, leaning forward as well.

Harry pulled away from them, propping himself up on the pillows of George's bed.

"I've got to think this out," he said. "I don't want anyone to say anything--just let me think."

He lay back on the bed, closed his eyes, and began to turn over the possibilities in his mind.

*So. My first choice would be Ron, just because I think he'd do the best job. I know how he plays, and I trust his judgement. He's got what it takes to be Keeper. But picking Ron sets all of us up to be accused of favouritism and nepo..neo..nepero..oh, I don't remember the word, but it's bad. And now matter how we'd try to explain it, I don't think we'd get everyone to believe that the tryouts were fair. Then again, they won't care about "fair" if Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup this year. Colin and Tommy and Beatrice are all good, but Ron's the best choice by far. We'll be missing five people next year--if the three of them try out then, they'll make it for sure. And /I'll/ have someone with me that I can trust, someone who'll help me build another great team.*

He opened his eyes, and looked at the expectant, apprehensive faces.

"Ron Weasley," he said firmly, his eyes daring them to challenge him. "The other three will be our reserve players."

There was a brief silence.

After a moment, Fred yawned, stretched his arms, and off the bed. "I'll write up a list and post it before class tomorrow."

"I'll let Madam Hooch know," Katie said, standing up as well. "She was asking me a couple days ago if we'd decided yet."

"I'll check and see if we've got clean uniforms in their sizes," said Alicia.

As Harry sat, astonished, the seventh-years began to make plans and discuss the routine matters that would have to be settled before the Ravenclaw game. He hadn't expected that his decision would go over so smoothly. In fact, he'd expected that once they'd heard his choice, they would laugh, kick him out of the room, and pick the new Keeper themselves.

Maybe, just maybe, he *was* the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain after all.

        *        *        *

The next day was Monday, time for classes to resume. True to his word, Fred had posted the team roster in the common room earlier that morning, and Harry heard Ron's triumphant "YES!" echo up the stairwell as he headed down for breakfast. But apart from that singular outburst of joy, Ron did his best to keep his emotions to himself...most likely to avoid appearing full of himself.

He accepted the congratulations of other Gryffindors with almost comical dignity, brushing their words of praise aside with benign, sportsman-like statements such as, "Everyone who tried out was really great...I'm lucky I made it" and "All I want is to do my best for the team". But Harry, who sat next to him in Defence Against the Dark Arts that morning, noticed that Ron's notes from that day and from several days before were covered with little doodles of stick figures on stick brooms, defending stick goals from other stick figures who were pelting them with hundreds of circles that could only be Quaffles.

Ron was taking a big risk by not paying attention, though. Professor Figg's class had moved away from a recounting of personal stories and anecdotes of Aurors and various Dark Arts practitioners. She was now teaching them the basic theories of Dark Arts lore, and attention to detail was essential.

"So to review, we've covered some of the reasons for the appeal of the Dark Arts to ordinary wizards. Would someone like to recap?" She scanned the classroom in the practised way that all teachers have, searching for the student who appeared to be the least on-topic. "Mr. Weasley?"

Ron jumped, and dropped his quill. He hurriedly fumbled through his notes, but since he hadn't taken many of them, the answers she was looking for weren't there.

"Umm...." Abruptly, he launched into a loud coughing fit, falling back on the age-old method used by students to buy time to think.

Harry reached over and patted Ron on the back, but at the same time pushed his notes toward the centre of their shared desk. He rested his free hand on the desk in such a way that his index finger was pointing to the answer that Figg was looking for. To conceal his duplicity, he put on his best innocent expression.

Ron got the message, and recovered with remarkable speed. "Umm...the Dark Arts appeal to many wizards because the results of certain spells can be seen in a much shorter time?"

"Why is that?" Professor Figg pressed.

Ron's eyes flickered down to the notes. "Because...because...because the potential for power gain is...is much greater when combined with Dark Arts practices?"

"Are you asking me or telling me, Mr. Weasley?" she said sharply.

"Telling, ma'am," Ron said meekly.

"Very good," Professor Figg said sweetly, smiling at him. "Exactly the answer I was looking for."

Ron exhaled loudly, and grinned back.

Her smile widened, and she added in the same sweet voice. "It's really most unfortunate that it came from Mr. Potter's notes. Five points from Gryffindor."

Harry flushed, ears burning. Ron squirmed and slumped forward in his chair as the class tittered quietly. Hermione shot them a dirty look.

Professor Figg, still smiling, called on someone else to answer her next question. Ron, his face a shade lighter than his hair, shoved his doodles and scribbles aside, pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and started to copy Harry's notes. He paid close attention to classes for the rest of the day.

Back in the common room that evening, they discovered that Fred and George had decided to hold an impromptu party for Colin to celebrate his return from the hospital wing. He'd been laid up since the day of tryouts, recovering from a fractured collar bone and several cracked ribs. But considering he'd fallen off his broom almost a hundred feet in the air, he was very lucky.

Harry hadn't visited Colin during his recovery, and felt bad about it. He wanted to stick around and hang out with him, talk to him about his duties as a reserve player. But he couldn't stay; he had to collect Neville, drag Ron away from the crowd of adoring first-year girls that had surrounded him the moment he had entered the common room, and take them to meet up with Hermione in the library in twenty minutes. She was attending a prefect's meeting, and had told him to be in front of Madam Pince's desk no later than six-thirty.

He found Neville easily, and together they somehow managed to pry Ron away from the clutching arms of his newly formed fan club. But just as he was turning to leave, he felt a tug at his sleeve.

"Are you going already, Harry?"

It was Colin, gazing up at him with troubled eyes. His hospital stay may have allowed him to partially recover, but he still looked terribly fragile. His right arm was tightly bandaged and in a sling, and Harry caught a glimpse of a mass of bruises on his back as his over-large robe slipped off his shoulder.

"Yeah," Harry said, forcing the words out. "I have to study. O.W.L.s, you know."

"Oh." The younger boy smiled bravely, hiding his disappointment. "Well, I'll let you go. I wish you could stay, though."

"I wish I could, too." This was awful. He couldn't just leave like this. Then, looking at Colin's pale, peaked face, he hit upon an idea. "Tell you what," he said. "When I get back, I'll get out my copy of "Secrets of the Seekers" and let you borrow it."

Colin's eyes lit up like a bonfire on Hallowe'en night. "Really?"

Harry nodded. "You never know who you'll end up substituting for, so it's a good idea to learn as much as you can. So don't go to bed too early, okay? I might not be back until late."

"All right." Colin grinned, and then reached out with his left arm and gave him an awkward, one-armed hug.

Harry patted him gently on the shoulder. "I'll see you in a little bit, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Harry!" he called out as he hurried back to join his friends near the fireplace, where Seamus Finnigan was trying to see how many Chocolate Frogs he could stuff into his mouth at one time.

Watching him leave, Harry felt oddly choked up. It was the happiest he'd seen Colin since last year...since before King's Cross. It was sad that the prospect of being able to borrow one of Harry's books would be so important to him. Did he really have so little left?

He swallowed to dispel the lump in his throat, and checked his watch. "Six twenty-two! Oh, Hermione'll *kill* me--"

Grabbing his book bag, he ran out of the room.

Even though he didn't stop running until he reached the library, he was still late. Hermione looked like thunder as he jogged up to her, and Neville and Ron stood behind her, their faces carefully turned away. Madam Pince looked on disapprovingly, as she always did.

"Glad you could make it," Hermione sniped, tapping her foot impatiently.

"Let's just get going," he said. He wasn't in the mood to argue.

        *        *        *

The next week was the Hallowe'en Feast. Harry was very worried about it, because something always seemed to happen at the feast. And there weren't many ways he could take his mind off his worries--in the interests of security, McGonagall had announced that all Hogsmeade visits had been cancelled until further notice. This announcement was met with varying degrees of disappointment: the seventh-years were livid, as were the third-years who had heard tales of the wonders of Britain's only all-wizarding village and had been looking forward to their own turn for so long. The fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-years were more irritated than anything else.

Harry didn't really care. He knew about the secret passage that led to Hogsmeade, but he also knew that he wouldn't use it this year. It would be stupid to pull such a big risk for such a little lark...he'd learned that the hard way in years past. Hermione would never agree to any suggestion that involved sneaking out of the castle--a prefect had a reputation to maintain. Ron might be up for it, but if Hermione got wind of it she'd talk him out of it in a heartbeat. And if Ron and Hermione couldn't, or wouldn't, go, what would be the point?

Much to his surprise, Hallowe'en came and went without incident. He didn't have much time to ponder it, though, because the fifth-year classes were growing more and more difficult, and reviewing for the O.W.L.s occupied more and more of their in-class time.

But out of class, there was Quidditch.

The entire team was happy with the way that the tryouts had worked. Fred and George were happy, knowing that the Weasley legacy would continue for another few years at least. The Chasers as a whole were happy, because Ron had come up with a few secret strategies that would help them regain control of the Quaffle if the other team failed to score on him. And Harry was happy, for the obvious reasons.

Ginny and Colin always came to watch their practices. Colin would bring his camera to their practices to take photographs of them in action, and would later give them the photos to show what they were doing right and where they could improve. Ever since he'd finished Harry's copy of "Secrets of the Seekers"--which had taken him less than two days--he'd checked out dozens of books on Quidditch from the school library and was doing his best to become an expert on the theory and practice of the game.

If she wasn't too busy with studying or her duties as a prefect, Hermione would stop by to watch their practices as well. Natalie McDonald nearly always came with her, prompting Ron to make more than a few unflattering remarks about the 'adoring little shadow'.

It was at the end of a very long, tiring practice that Ron brought up the subject of holiday plans. Ginny and Hermione were the only ones left on the pitch; Colin had gone inside to develop the day's film, and Natalie was busy in the library, rewriting an essay for Charms class. The girls were helping them brush the grass and dirt off their robes-- they'd had a mid-air collision near the end of practice and were consequently covered in Quidditch pitch grime.

"Got a letter from Mum today," Ron said as he massaged his aching arms.

"What'd she say?" Harry asked.

"Well, I don't know how she did it, but she got Bill and Charlie to come home for Christmas."

Ginny gasped. "Bill and Charlie? Really?"

"Really," Ron said.

"Mum's never been able to get them before," Ginny explained to Harry and Hermione. "They usually have to work over the holidays. What else did she say, Ron, what else?"

"Well, obviously, she wants all of us to come home for Christmas, too. And she says we can invite Harry and Hermione for the holiday break."

Ginny squealed in delight, and clapped her hands.

Hermione wasn't convinced. "Ron...wouldn't you rather be alone with family? I mean, you said that your brothers don't usually show up for Christmas...."

"All the more reason to invite you!" Ginny said firmly. "You're coming, even if we have to kidnap you!"

"I wouldn't go that far," she said, laughing.

"You're coming with us, and that's that," Ginny declared. "It's about time you saw what a Weasley Christmas dinner is like."

"Goose and turkey," said Ron, his eyes glittering at the thought of home cooking.

Ginny's eyes sparkled as she caught Ron's contagious excitement. "Spicy mincemeat."

"Homemade pumpkin bread...."

"Treacle tarts...."

"Candied fruit...."

"And best of all--"

"Mum's plum pudding!" they chorused.

"A little slice of heaven on your plate," Ron said dreamily.

Harry couldn't help grinning. "Sounds great."

"And you're sure she won't mind?" Hermione asked, still doubtful.

"Mind?" Ron looked shocked. "As far as she's concerned, you two are family already. And what better way to spend true quality time with your family than by stuffing your faces together on Christmas Day?"

"Well, since you put it *that* way," Harry said teasingly, "I guess I'll have to accept."

Ron whooped, punching the air with his fist. "Great!"

Hermione hemmed and hawed for a minute. "I'll write my parents tonight and find out if it's all right," she said at last. "If they say yes, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Ginny squealed again, and gave her a huge hug.

Together, the four of them headed off the pitch, talking about holiday plans and listening with watering mouths as Ginny and Ron recounted tantalizing stories of Christmas dinners past.