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 Twenty-One - Hobson's Choice

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One-half of knowing what you want is knowing what you must give up before you get it.

    -- Sidney Howard

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Confronted with the dicey status of his closest friendships, the lack of outside adult support, and the knowledge that he was currently in the bad graces an immortal anthropology professor, Harry had little choice but to turn to the routine of classwork and Quidditch.

It was not only for distraction. He honestly could think of no other options.

On what little bright side there was, it gave him a chance to rekindle a relationship that he had neglected for the past few months. He volunteered for a number of extra credit assignments in Care of Magical Creatures class, specifically assignments that allowed him to spend time with Hagrid. Whether it was helping him keep track of the Flobberworms for the fourth-years or using a special lotion and comb to remove parasitical Chizpurfles from Fang's thick coat, Harry spent at least three nights a week in Hagrid's cosy hut, talking about everything and nothing with the man who had been his very first friend.

But as the days passed and January rolled into February, he saw Hagrid less frequently. The visits dwindled; twice a week, then only once the next, then nothing the next. Their Care of Magical Creatures class had to be cancelled for a full five days with no explanation other than McGonagall's short announcement:

"Hagrid is away on school business. Care of Magical Creatures will be temporarily suspended, but your classes will resume upon his return."

*Of course it is...if forging an alliance with giants is a part of 'school business',* Harry had thought at the time. He wasn't blind. It didn't take much to string bits and pieces of information together. Hagrid had never said a word about his work, but Harry suspected that he was secretly working for Dumbledore.

Dumbledore was the Minister of Magic now; the facade that he was merely the 'Acting' Minister had been dropped long ago. The elderly wizard had the resources of the entire wizarding world at his disposal. What was more, he had their attention...and their respect. Molly Weasley's death had shocked even the hardened fence sitters out of their wavering opinions. If anyone could harness that tide of emotion and channel it to a proper use, it was Dumbledore.

Still and all, it wasn't his concern. And it didn't make him any less lonely.

Growing up with the Dursleys, he had learned that the most effective substitutes for thought were physical pain and physical labour. If you wanted to stop thinking about something that bothered you, the simplest thing to do was to occupy your body with something else (preferably something painful) and hope that your brain would follow. With this belief drifting around at the back of his mind, he lengthened the Quidditch practices to the point where even Colin and Beatrice began to complain.

After a particularly gruelling Saturday afternoon practice, Colin limped up to Harry and begged him to cancel the mandatory training session he had scheduled for early Sunday morning. His timid request was met with a grim silence that was far more final than a flat "no".

Fred and George had long ago stopped making jokes that compared Harry's behaviours to Oliver Wood's relentless drive. They took everything in stride--the extended drills, the repetitive and endless practice games, Harry's unusually short temper--but even their patience was wearing thin. They wouldn't go so far as to stage a mutiny, though. Like it or not, they stuck with him.

But even longer practices weren't enough for Harry. He got special permission from Madam Hooch to reserve the pitch for his own personal use if no one else had made prior reservations. On the days when he was tired of trying to smile, he would go out after dinner with a bucket of fifteen or twenty Snitches and not leave the pitch until the last one had been caught.

There had been a lot of those days, recently.

He pushed himself to keep going. His daily goal was to be exhausted when he went to bed. Exhaustion was good. It made him fall asleep at night, and kept the dreams away.

But despite his fevered pace, his grades began to slip. More than one homework assignment came back to him with an unsatisfactory mark. As a result, he studied even harder, staying up in the common room long after everyone else had gone to bed. The information just wouldn't stay in his head.

One more than one occasion he considered asking Hermione for help, but he knew that she had enough to deal with as it was. She had taken on the responsibility of single-handedly dragging Natalie McDonald through the rigours of Potions. The young girl had failed the end of term exam, and to prevent history from repeating Hermione had become something between a tutor and a fledgling slave driver. She used every reviewing trick she knew--a seemingly inexhaustible font of studying tips--to keep Natalie's grades and spirits up.

In a surprising and altogether ironic twist, Neville Longbottom joined Hermione in her project. He had benefited from Hermione's help in the past, and since he knew all too well what Professor Snape could be like his advice was always welcomed. He told Natalie a number of tales about exploding potions and melted cauldrons, changing embarrassments and past failures into good advice. What was most important, he could laugh over it...something he had never been able to do before.

Harry, sitting by himself in a corner of the common room, often watched the three of them hard at work. He wanted to be happier for them, but a stubborn little part of him wanted to pitch a fit and demand that he be included.

With a little sigh that held more resignation than regret, he opened his copy of "Divination for Dunderheads" and returned to the starchart that was due tomorrow afternoon.

        *        *        *

February is one of the prettiest months at Hogwarts. That is, if it snows. If it rains, the grounds liquefy into a giant mud slick, one's clothes never feel completely dry, and students and teachers alike develop a grey pallor to match that of the dreary sky.

This particular February, it rained. A lot.

Like most of the student body, Harry found that the weather affected his mood. There were days when it was all he or anyone else could do to get out of bed. Classes droned on and on. It didn't help matters that teachers were predicting doom and gloom for him in one form or another. Whether it was Professor Trelawney's usual dire prophecies about the darkness of his aura, or Snape's very real forecasts that they (with the exception of his precious Slytherins) would all fail the O.W.L.s and disgrace the school and their families, he couldn't escape. He was tiring of Ron's petty emotional games. He hadn't really talked to Hermione or Neville or Colin for ages. And one could only study or read or play Quidditch for so long.

Over it all, the rain fell steadily.

It was driving him mad.

One Thursday night in mid-month, he was wandering aimlessly through the library when he saw Hermione standing alone, poking through the Muggle Studies section with a long list of books in hand and three or four tucked under her arm. She nodded politely to him, though she did not strike up a conversation.

He nodded mutely back. But as he passed by her, she stepped backward at the same time and bumped into him. The books spilled from her arm and landed on the floor.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and knelt down to gather them together.

"I'll help you," he offered gallantly, and bent down to help. He tried to pick up the book that had landed closest his feet, but she grabbed it from him, pushing his hand away.

"No, no, it's my fault," she said quickly, averting her eyes. "Thanks all the same, though."

With that, she hurried away.

Harry sat back on his heels, puzzled. Normally, such cold treatment from normally pleasant Hermione would have hurt...if it wasn't for the fact that when she had pushed his hand aside, she had pressed a small scrap of paper into his palm.

He could feel it there now, tightly wadded in his closed fist.

He stood up and returned to his table, then picked up his History of Magic class notes. He looked around to see if anyone was watching as he smoothed out the tiny scrap of paper and placed it on top of his notes.

The piece of paper was so small that he could hardly believe she had managed to write anything it. Its rough, jagged edges indicated that she had torn it from a corner of her notes. Written on the paper, in her precise but tiny handwriting, was a very short message:

    Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Ten minutes. It's about Ginny.

He looked up to see her approaching Madam Pince's desk, carrying a stack of books. The sour-faced librarian checked them out and waved her away. She left the library with her books.

He stuffed the miniscule scrap of paper into his pocket. It had said ten minutes, so he waited at the table for five minutes, staring blankly at his class notes. Then, he collected his things and made what he hoped was an unobtrusive exit.

Once out of the library, he hurried through the empty corridors, making his way toward the out-of-order girls' lavatory on the second floor.

A sliver of light streamed from the slightly open door. He pushed it open with his elbow.

Moaning Myrtle, true to her name, was sobbing heavily in the farthest stall, making gurgling noises and splashing about and completely ignoring her visitors. Hermione was waiting for him next to the row of sinks. Her books were in a forgotten heap on the tiled floor.

She looked agitated, and Harry's arrival did nothing to calm her down.

"Where's the note?" she whispered.

"Here." He pulled it out of his pocket.

She plucked it from his fingers and entered one of the stalls, closing the door. The toilet flushed loudly, temporarily drowning out Myrtle's wails.

Hermione came out a moment later and began to wash her hands.

"Can't be too careful," she said meaningfully, her voice slightly louder to carry over the noise of the running water.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Harry asked her, very surprised.

She shrugged and turned off the tap, then leaned over to dry her hands on the roller towel. "My parents are film nuts. You go to the cinema often enough, watch enough spy films, you learn a few things. But that's not what's important."

He blinked. He'd almost forgotten the reason for coming.

"What's this about Ginny?" he asked.

Hermione leaned against one of the sinks. Shadows of weariness made livid circles under her eyes. "I thought you should know that two of her roommates came up to me last night after dinner. They told me she's been having horrible nightmares."

His jaw tightened.

"Really," he said through clenched teeth.

"Every night for the last two weeks she's woken up screaming." The hand that rested on the white enamel was trembling. "Calling for her mother. That sort of thing."

"No wonder, considering what's been happening," he remarked moodily.

"Sleeping potions aren't working, either. They said she takes enough stuff at night to knock out a Hippogriff, but the dreams still come. And she doesn't remember them in the morning."

"Colin mentioned that she's been falling asleep during classes." He scowled, feeling rage percolate inside him. Colin had told him that three days ago, and he'd brushed it aside and forgotten it. "Snape gave her detention for it on Monday, the slimy git."

Hermione held up her hand to stop him before he could turn the conversation into an anti-Snape rant. "That's not all. They said that when she cries for her mother, they sometimes hear her call out another name...Tom."

"Tom...." A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. "Tom...not Tom *Riddle*?"

He mentally kicked himself. It could only be Tom Riddle, the living nightmare that had tormented Ginny three years ago in her very first year at Hogwarts. He remembered it all too well. She had recovered from the whole ordeal with remarkable speed--she was resilient, if nothing else--and he had been certain that she had escaped from its shadow. But if she was dreaming about her mother...and the dreams involved Lord Voldemort's alter ego....

"Did you try talking to her?" he asked quietly.

"I tried," said Hermione. "I really did. I asked her about it as gently as I could, but she just gave me this awful look...." Her face screwed up, tears glistening in her eyes. "Oh, Harry, it looked like there was nothing inside her. Like looking in a window and seeing an empty room."

Harry slammed his fist against his palm. "Doesn't Ron see what's going on?" he said angrily. "What about Fred and George?"

Hermione wiped at her eyes. "I don't know. I haven't said anything to them."

"Well, say something." That sounded a little abrupt, so he softened his tone and attempted to explain. "I would, but I'm not exactly popular with the Weasley family at the moment."

His attempt at humour missed the mark. Hermione didn't smile.

"Normally, this would be the part where I tell you to go off and do it yourself...but I won't." She stooped and picked up her books, brushing the worn leather covers to remove stray flecks of dust. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Hermione. I owe you one."

"I'll remember that." She started to head for the door.

He panicked. The first real conversation they'd had in weeks, and it was ending like this.

"You'll let me know if anything happens?" he pressed.

She paused, one hand on the doorknob, and turned her head to look at him. "Of course."

"Right...thanks," he said lamely. "G'night."

"Good night, Harry. Oh, and good night, Myrtle," she called out as she left.

Moaning Myrtle howled even louder. The pipes rattled and clanked ominously. Then, with a rumble of antiquated plumbing, a small tidal wave of water cascaded out of the farthest toilet stall and spread across the floor.

Harry danced backward to avoid the nasty water that threatened to drench his shoes, and hurriedly exited the bathroom before Myrtle sent anything else his way.

        *        *        *

The Gryffindor team crushed Hufflepuff in that Saturday's Quidditch match. The day was cold and rainy yet again, so Harry decided to use Beatrice as the Keeper. He hoped that her knack for playing in foul weather would prove its use.

He was right. The Hufflepuff Chasers had yet to score a goal against her when he spotted the golden glint of the Snitch at the base of the Gryffindor goalpost. It looked like it was trying to keep out of the rain as well. When Harry swooped down and caught the tiny winged ball, it made only a half-hearted attempt to escape.

After their victory, the team was in a much better mood. There were only a few grumbles when Harry informed them that there would still be practice the next day. Tommy, who had finally recovered from his Transfiguration accident, was looking forward to getting back into shape.

Harry was the last to leave the changing rooms after the game. Just as he was about to round the corner that led to the main corridor, he heard the sound of voices at the tail end of a conversation.

"...that we're not doing *too* badly, even if we have to change Keepers every game."

Harry's stomach clenched. It was Ron.

George's voice drifted around the corner, a lazy drawl that was more menacing than a snarl. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing really," Ron replied. "Just an observation. Colin and Beatrice have done a smashing job so far."

"Do you have something to say, Ron?" It was Fred this time, syrupy sweet and very dangerous. "I suggest you say it."

Ron answered innocently, "What is there to say?"

"You're doing it again." Fred sounded like he was doing his best to avoid throttling his brother. "You always used to do this at home, when you didn't get your way. It's not going to work this time."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ron said indignantly, his voice rising.

"Fine," George snapped. "If you're going to be that way, you can go right ahead. But don't expect us to sit around and listen to it."

"What did I say?" Ron's voice was going higher and higher as he became more upset. "All I do is congratulate you, and you go and jump down my throat!"

It was time to step in. Harry rounded the corner as quietly as he could, and stopped just behind Ron. Fred and George were glaring so viciously at their brother that they didn't notice Harry's approach.

"Thank you for the compliment," he said mildly.

The three of them leapt a foot in the air. Ron was the first to recover.

"Not at all, Harry," he said breezily, turning around. "You're doing a fine job. A good captain knows how to arrange his team to the best advantage, and it looks to me like everything is fine...."

Everyone could hear the "even without me" that Ron had omitted from the end of the sentence. But the meaning was there, and the insult was also there, and Harry saw red.

"What was I supposed to do?" he yelled, hands balling into fists. "Go after you and beg you on my knees to change your mind?"

There was no way that Ron could come right out and say, "Yes! Yes, that's exactly it! That's what you'd have done if you were really my friend!". He was forced to settle for a burning glare that conveyed his point silently.

Harry understood the glare and its meaning all too well. He chose his next words with very deliberate care.

"Every single person on my team is expendable, Ron," he said flatly, stressing the 'my' just enough to denote his authority without adding condescension. "Even you."

He didn't stay to see the expression on Ron's face. He turned his back on his friend and stalked away, ignoring the string of expletives that followed his departure.

        *        *        *

There was no longer any possibility of a thaw. The argument was on in earnest. It wasn't one-sided any longer--Harry was actively angry at Ron, and Ron's anger had transformed from passive coldness to outright loathing. In Harry's opinion, Ron was being a arrogant berk, and that was the polite description. He could only imagine what Ron thought of him.

With tempers on edge, it was only a matter of time before the real blow-up came. And when it did come, on a night toward the end of that same week, Harry was only surprised that it hadn't happened earlier.

He was walking back to the common room after dinner. He had planned to go out to the Quidditch pitch and practice nighttime Snitch catching. The house elves had just laundered his Quidditch robes, and all he had to do was collect them and leave. No time for talking, no chance that an awkward situation could arise.

He walked up to the Fat Lady's Portrait. She smiled down at him, and smoothed her voluminous skirts.

"Practice again tonight, dearie?" she asked sweetly.

"That's right," he answered. "Fruit dr--"

Before he could finish saying the password, the portrait swung open. Hermione exited the common room. Ron and Ginny were close behind her.

He was wrong. The awkward situation had come to him.

Harry felt his chest constrict. Ron's face had hardened into a stony glare at the sight of him. Ginny, on the other hand, didn't seem see him, or anything else around her. Her face was a slack, uncaring blank. It was painfully obvious that she hadn't been sleeping.

Hermione was quick to realise that this was a situation that could turn ugly. She moved to place herself in between Harry and Ron, just as Ron moved to stand in front of Ginny. Ginny, not surprisingly, didn't move at all.

"Hello, Harry," Hermione said neutrally.

"Hello," he replied, equally neutral.

"Are you practising tonight?"

"Yes," he said. "Are you going to the library?"

"Yes."

"I see."

There was a pause. Neither knew what to say.

"Well, good luck," said Hermione, a fake smile plastered on her lips.

"Thanks." Again, Harry responded with an equally fake smile. "You, too."

He stepped aside to let them pass.

The brief, stilted meeting would have passed entirely without incident if it hadn't been for Ginny's robe.

The second-hand school robe, purchased at the beginning of the school year, was rather long on her. Mrs. Weasley had been a firm believer in buying clothes that her children could 'grow into', and used alteration spells that could be adjusted year by year to make the expensive school robes last. With seven children to be put through school, it was a cost-effective solution to a problem that all parents face.

But Ginny hadn't been eating properly, and the now ill-fitting garment hung loosely from her body. Her hands peeked out of the over-long sleeves, and the hem of the robe had come loose and was dragging on the ground. Perhaps some of the magic had left the garment with the spell-caster's death. Perhaps exhaustion had affected Ginny's posture. But whatever the reason, one foot tangled in the hem, and she tripped.

She all but fell into a startled Harry's arms.

Ron was on him in a flash, wresting his sister away.

"I told you to keep away from her!" he yelled.

He tried to prop Ginny up against the wall, but she hung limp in his arms. Harry's first thought was that she had fainted, but a closer look showed that her eyes were wide open and staring straight ahead. It was a chilling sight.

At Ron's shout, Hermione had turned back. A quick glance told her that there was no way to avoid conflict, but still she made one last effort. "Ron, please--"

"You keep out of this," Ron snapped distractedly. Ginny was on her feet, but only just, and he couldn't hold her up and fight with Harry at the same time.

Hermione clapped a hand to her face as if she'd been slapped.

"Don't talk to her like that," Harry snarled, feeling a pulse drumming in his temple. Anger had sent the blood rushing to his head.

Ron was only too eager to turn on him. "I'll do what I damn well please."

"Then do it." Challenge glinted in Harry's eyes. He took a step forward and lifted his chin ever so slightly--an open invitation. "Do it now. Get it over with."

"Gladly." Ron pushed back the sleeve of his robe and flexed his right hand, cracking his knuckles.

Dimly, Harry heard Hermione yelling at them, but he was beyond caring. All he knew was that if he leaned into the blow he could probably take it and stay on his feet, and he would have perhaps two seconds in which to retaliate. Maybe a quick, hard uppercut to Ron's jaw would--

"STOP IT!"

He blinked, and tried to collect his wits. When had Hermione gotten in between them? And when had she taken hold of their collars? He didn't know when, but her hand was there now, inches from his throat.

"You're both acting like children, and you know it." She shook them violently, as if she could shake sense into them. "I've tried to be patient, but I'm not going to tolerate it any longer. Now out with it and be done, or I'M done...with both of you."

She gave them another shake for good measure, and let go of their collars. Disgustedly, she wiped her hands on her robes, then folded her arms across her chest and glared at them like a prefect who had caught two first-years fighting in the corridors.

Ron stared at Harry. Harry stared at Ron.

"It's stupid," Ron said after a good five minutes of silence. "It's stupid and it's awful and I don't want to talk about it."

Hermione wasn't about to let him off so easily. "Well, we don't seem to be getting anywhere *not* talking about it."

Ron's hands were clenching and unclenching, fingers curling like a cat extending its claws.

"Fine," he said bitterly. "You want to know what's bothering me? All right." He turned to Harry and pointed a shaking, accusing finger directly at him. "If it wasn't for *you*, Mum would still be alive."

Harry's legs wobbled. The blood was pounding in his head. The bruise on his right cheek had faded long ago, but the place where it had been was burning with a slow, building heat.

"That's not fair!" Hermione's voice penetrated the roaring in his ears. "You can't blame Harry for that."

"I KNOW it's not!" Ron looked as if he wanted nothing more than to hit something, but there was nothing around for him to hit. His arms flailed wildly in the air. "It's *not* fair, and it's stupid, and it makes no sense, and...and I'm a horrible person for even thinking it. But it's *someone's* fault that Mum's dead, and Harry's......"--his face screwed up, and his voice cracked--"he's...Harry's just...oh, Harry, I'm so...."

"Voldemort's to blame, Ron," Hermione said. She wasn't angry any longer; she sounded heartbroken. "It's *his* fault."

"....but it's mine, too."

Both of them turned to look at Harry, who was staring at the floor.

He looked up at them, anguish haunting his eyes. "I think...I think that what happened on Christmas Eve was meant for me. I mean, the whole bloody school knew that I was supposed to go to your house for Christmas, but only four of us right here knew beforehand that I *didn't* go."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You can't think..." she breathed, unable to finish the thought.

Harry nodded slowly. It had to be said--every time he failed to act on his suspicion, something awful happened. "All it would have taken was for someone like Draco Malfoy to let it slip to his daddy that Harry Potter would be with the Weasleys at Christmas. Away from Hogwarts, with no Dumbledore around to protect him...."

Hermione hugged herself tightly, as if she could block out the horror of his words. "Harry, don't--

"That bastard. He'll die for this."

Harry's blood ran ice cold. This wasn't one of Ron's idle threats. This was the solemn vow of a man with revenge in his heart--and murder in his eyes.

"Don't be--" Hermione began, but wisely decided to change tactics. "What good would it do? If you succeeded, you'd only end up in Azkaban. And if you failed--"

"I DON'T CARE!" Ron screamed. His face was scarlet, so dark it made his hair look faded by comparison. "He CAN'T get away with it! He can't--"

"It won't bring Mum back, Ron."

The lack of emotion in Ginny's voice silenced Ron more effectively than any spell or charm. Slowly, he turned to stare at his sister. The expression on his face alternated between the rage of before and a new, rising fear.

"Stay...just stay out of this, Ginny," he finally choked out.

Deadened eyes stared back at him. "It won't bring Mum back."

Ron swallowed nervously, unable to look away. "All I want--"

Like flint striking flint, a tiny spark flashed deep inside Ginny's eyes. Her hand shot out and grabbed her brother's arm, yanking him toward her. For the first time in a long time, she looked alive...and furious.

"Have you ever once stopped to think about what *I* want?" she shouted. "Since you obviously haven't, I'll tell you exactly what I *don't* want. I *don't* want a murderer for a brother. I *don't* want to spend the rest of my life being patted on the head and told what a 'brave little girl' I am, how I'm holding up so well in such 'trying times'. And I *don't* want to end up like Mr. and Mrs. Diggory...with that horrible wall of photographs...."

She let go of Ron and buried her face in her hands, all of her energy spent. "I don't...I can't live like this anymore."

"Ginny...." Even though he was a good six or seven inches taller than her, Ron suddenly looked very small and helpless.

"I'm tired of grieving, Ron," she murmured, not looking at him. "I want to live again."

There was a long, frozen silence. Harry looked from Ron to Ginny and back again, unsure of what, if anything, he should do. One false move could shatter the moment and they would all would return to the awful cycle of snubs and shunning. He couldn't move. It was up to Ron and Ginny to sort this out.

Ron cleared his throat suddenly, the noise as loud and abrupt as an explosion in the stillness. He looked up, and Harry was shocked to see tears running down his friend's face. He wasn't even trying to hold them back. He looked bewildered and almost frightened, as if he'd awoken in a strange place with no familiar faces nearby.

"I miss Mum." His voice was the hoarse, plaintive cry of a lost child.

Ginny smiled through her tears.

"I miss her, too," she whispered. "But we're Weasleys. It'll be all right."

She took a step forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. She pulled him toward her and held him tightly, afraid to let go. Ron's arms dangled limply for a moment, and then he returned her embrace, clinging to his sister with a desperate grip.

She rubbed his back soothingly as he cried into her hair, and he supported her shaking body when she couldn't stand properly any longer. Harry and Hermione watched with blurry eyes as the two not-quite-children, not-quite-adults found grief and comfort in each other, letting go of the need to suffer in silence.

Looking at them, a little warning bell went off in Harry's mind. There was something important about the day. He thought carefully. He'd had Astronomy two nights ago, and yesterday had been Quidditch practice, so today was--

"Thursday," he said aloud.

It took Hermione a moment to wrench her attention away from the sweet but tearful scene in front of them. "What did you say?"

He turned to her. "Today is Thursday, right?"

"Y...yes," she said, hesitating.

"Thursday," he repeated, finally satisfied of the day of the week. He had another question waiting. "Where's Neville?

By this time, Ron and Ginny had broken their embrace and were also staring at him, identically puzzled expressions on their faces.

Hermione' brow furrowed in thought. "In the library, I think...but why?"

"You and Ron go find him," he said briskly. He checked his watch. There was little time. It was nearly seven now. "Check the library, the common room, our room--he's bound to be somewhere close by."

Ron's eyes widened as comprehension began to dawn on him. "Wait--you can't--"

Harry didn't hear him. "Ginny, come with me," he said, holding out his hand. It was more of a command than a request. "There's someone I think you need to meet."

"NO!" Ron snatched Ginny's arm and pulled her away from Harry. His eyes were wild and fearful. "I don't want her to be a part of this!"

With a dexterous twist of her body, Ginny detached herself from her brother's grasp and turned to face him.

"*I'll* decide what I'm going to be part of, Ron Weasley," she informed him, staring him down.

Harry added his own challenging stare, hoping it would be enough to make Ron back down. "This could be what we need, Ron. We have to try."

Something inside Ron seemed to deflate, like the air being let out of a child's balloon. His shoulders sagged, and his entire body slumped, defeated.

Gently, Hermione took hold of his arm and steadied him.

"Give us ten minutes," she told Harry. "We'll meet you there."

        *        *        *

Harry lit the fire in the fireplace with a flick of his wand and in the same motion used the sleeve of his robe to wipe the thick layer of dust off the long table. It got the table clean, but his robe was now covered in grey fluff, which didn't want to be brushed off.

"Gin, could you help me with this?" he asked, scraping at the dust with his fingernails.

From the moment they had entered the room Ginny had been gazing at the rows of books and chairs like a person lost in a dream. Harry's sudden request snapped her out of her reverie, and she scurried over to help remove the dust from his clothing.

"What is this place?" she asked when the task had been accomplished, picking bits of fluffy grey and brown out of her hair.

"You know our study sessions for the O.W.L.s? Well, this is it." He indicated the room with a broad sweep of his arm.

"I don't get it."

"You'll see." He smiled to himself. Will wasn't the only one who could sound cryptic.

He guided Ginny over to the mirror. Her hand felt small and fragile next to his own. His fingers, roughened from playing Quidditch, brushed against hers. At any other time he would have been blushing and stuttering at this display of closeness, but not now. They'd wasted too much time already.

"Don't look directly at the mirror." Without any further warning, he touched the carved wooden frame and at the same time closed his eyes.

Brilliant light dazzled his closed eyelids. He waited until it had faded somewhat, then opened his eyes. The mist had begun to clear, revealing the orderly clutter of the Cambridge office.

Slightly behind him and to his left, he heard Ginny gasp. Her hand snaked into his and squeezed it tightly.

Will was sitting behind his desk, fingers steepled thoughtfully in front of him. The massive desk was clear of books and papers, and there was no sign that they had interrupted him while he was reading or writing. In fact, it was as if he had merely been sitting in quiet contemplation...waiting for one of them to contact him.

Harry tried very hard to ignore the fluttering of his heart. Will's round face was stern and unsmiling, and his entire manner radiated a sense of extreme displeasure. If the Old One had been holding an exam with a failing mark and 'See Me' written across the top in bright red ink, Harry would have believed that it was a bad dream come to life.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," Will said frostily.

Harry's heart beat even faster. A part of him was glad that Hermione wasn't present. If a situation like this was a bad dream to him, it would have been nothing short of a personal hell for her.

"G-good evening, sir," he replied.

With a deliberate slowness that seemed almost calculated, Will stood and approached the mirror.

"Are the others joining you?" he asked in the same chill tone.

"They'll be here in a minute," Harry answered, praying that it was true.

"For your sake, I hope so." Even though the words should have been worrying, Harry could detect no threat behind them. Just coldness. "Or rather, for all our sakes. There is something we must...ah."

All of a sudden, the austere, forbidding expression vanished without a trace. Harry found himself looking at a gentle smile and placid, kind eyes.

The change had come over the older man's face with such rapidity that Harry was startled. It was like looking at a different person who had somehow been there the whole time, without him knowing it.

"Good evening, young lady," Will said with a courtly bow.

Quickly, Harry turned to Ginny, who was peeking over his shoulder. She was staring at Will with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth.

"Ah...I...I...." she stammered, tightening her grip on Harry's hand.

"Miss Weasley, is it?" Will took the liberty of answering his own question, since it didn't appear that Ginny would be capable of providing a coherent reply. "Of course. A pleasure to meet you at last."

Poor Ginny was even more confused. "I...you...what...?"

Harry took his cue and neatly stepped in. "It's all right, Gin," he said. "This is Will Stanton. Professor Will Stanton, from Cambridge University. D'you remember when he came to school last year?"

It took a few seconds for the information to process. "The...that lecture? The one you acted all weird after?"

In spite of everything, Harry had to laugh. He *had* acted 'weird' after that lecture. Having a complete stranger speak directly into your mind didn't leave much room for normalcy.

"Well," he said, "that's part of it. It's a very, very long story."

Will smiled as well. "And it seems to get better with each telling, in my opinion. But to summarise briefly, your brother, your friends, and I have pooled our resources to find a way to defeat the Dark Lord."

"As if it would be for anything else," Harry muttered to her.

"That will do, Mr. Potter," the Old One said, mildly reproving. He turned his attention back to Ginny. "I know something of his powers, powers unfamiliar to the wizarding world. But neither the wizarding world not I can defeat him alone--and that is where you come in, Miss Weasley."

The smile faded. His face was still kind, but serious. "We need your help."

"It won't bring my mum back," Ginny said. She spoke resolutely but emotionlessly, as if she was reciting a difficult lesson she had memorised.

Will looked stricken by her words. Harry saw him struggle to conceal his sadness.

"I know, my dear," he said softly. "I know. But you can stop what happened to you and your brothers from happening to other children and other families. We can defeat the Dark Lord together, but we need your knowledge."

The thought that anyone would *need* her knowledge was a relatively new concept to Ginny Weasley. She blushed deeply.

Flustered, she said shyly, "I...I'm n-not very good at Potions...."

Will's eyes glinted with an amused light. "Neither am I, but we'll work something out."

Ginny giggled. She wasn't standing so stiffly; her body had relaxed.

At that moment, the door to the room opened and Neville, Hermione, and Ron entered. They all looked out of breath, Neville more so than the other two.

Ginny wasted no time. She marched right up to Ron and planted herself in front of him, hands on her hips.

"You silly idiot," she scolded jokingly. "You've been doing this all year and I've missed out on the fun?"

Ron stared at her, dumbstruck.

"Fun?" he said at last. "What fun?"

"Do you mean to say that I'm not 'fun', Mr. Weasley?" Will said, almost petulantly.

Ron, already nonplussed, was completely at a loss, and Will took pity on him.

"I trust things have sorted themselves out?" he asked Harry.

"You might say that," Harry replied cautiously. He knew exactly what Will meant, but wasn't sure how to phrase the response.

"Then there is nothing more to be said on that topic." He turned to the others. "Miss Weasley has been gracious enough to favour us with her presence this evening. There is an important decision that must be made tonight...and I am waiting for her answer."

"You don't have to do this, Ginny," Hermione said. "It's your choice."

Ginny gave her a withering look. "It's no choice at all," she said. "It's like that thing we read about in Muggle Studies the other day, when we were studying those peculiar turns of phrase...what was it? Hobnob's choice?"

Will's mouth twitched. "I think you mean 'Hobson's choice', Miss Weasley. And you're right, it is something of a Hobson's choice-- you're left with little alternative. But the choice is there. It always is."

"Then I choose to join you," Ginny said with resolve. "And if Ron doesn't like it, then it's his problem."

Ron groaned. "Gin...."

"You have no objections, Mr. Weasley?"

"What good would they be if I made them?" Ron said gruffly, thrusting his hands in his pockets. "I just don't want her to get hurt, 's all."

Will nodded. "Spoken like a true older brother, Mr. Weasley. But I understand your fears quite well, and I promise here and now that I will do everything within my power to protect all of you...however little you may need protecting," he added wryly, seeing the indignant frown that had appeared on Ginny's face.

"My dear brother seems to have forgotten that he was only eleven when he nearly went and got himself killed going after the Philosopher's Stone," she said to Will, not looking at Ron.

Ron scowled. "And my dear sister seems to have forgotten that *she* was exactly the same age when a certain diary...OW!" He winced, rubbing the shin that Ginny had just kicked. "Why is it that girls always go for the shins?" he complained bitterly.

Hermione answered without thinking, "Because it's far more ladylike than a knee to the...." She noticed that everyone was staring at her, and she trailed off shamefacedly.

"How exactly do you--" Neville began, perplexed.

Hermione cut him off with a nervous little laugh. "Ah, yes, well, it's not important. Shall we see if the mirror works now?"

"Very well then." Will stepped back to wait.

They took their positions. Hermione and Neville placed their hands on the frame on one side, and Harry, Ron, and Ginny touched the frame on the other. Ginny's hand was just below her brother's.

On a sudden impulse, Ron reached over and wrapped his free arm around his sister. Ginny looked up at him, momentarily startled. Then with a little smile, she relaxed and leaned into her brother's protective embrace.

Harry felt all the stress and tension of the past month flow out of him, as if the magic of the mirror was drawing all of the negative emotions from his body. Things were RIGHT again. All of the old urgency was back, the drive that propelled them forward. He hadn't realised it was missing until it returned to him in a rush.

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

"Grant to us your inner sight," said Hermione.

Ron did not hesitate. "Enter, for the time draws near."

"Power will erase our fear," Neville declared, relief shining on his face.

It was Ginny's turn to speak her part. The words were as clear as lark's song on a warm summer day. "Enter, lest the darkness win."

The carved symbols of the mirror frame blazed like blue fire.

Will stepped through the glass and into the room. The ordinary grey blazer and dark trousers he wore transformed into swirling robes of deepest blue. Power crackled in the dusty air, filling them with a delicious tingling that raced through their nerves.

Will's deep, resonant voice added to that sensation. When he spoke, it was as if he was speaking to some part of them that had been long asleep and had only just awakened:

"And then there were five."

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For those interested in etymology, the term 'Hobson's choice' is said to have originated at Cambridge, England (surprisingly enough) through the name of a Mr. Thomas Hobson. He supposedly kept a livery stable in the town and required all of his customers to take either the horse nearest the stable door or none at all--hence 'Hobson's choice' for a choice with no alternative. An apt title for this chapter.

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Gramarye [email protected] http://gramarye.freehosting.net/ May 17th, 2002