Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Light

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Light A Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising Sequence Fusion By: Gramarye

Chapter Twenty-Six - Transitions and Trepidations

------------------------------------------------------------------

Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman --But who is that on the other side of you?

    -- T. S. Eliot, "The Waste Land: What the Thunder Said", 359-65

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione Granger, the unfortunate victim of a very damaging assault on her character, had been exonerated by the combined Heads of House. She was declared innocent of all charges, free of all suspicions, reinstated as prefect and welcome.

Fred and George were two of the first to know--they wormed all the pertinent information out of Ginny within ten minutes of her return-- and started things off by snatching Hermione before breakfast the next morning, hefting her onto their shoulders, and leading a triumphal parade three times round the common room. They would have made it round a fourth time if her flustered shouts hadn't brought Ron and Harry to the rescue. The twins had also come up with a plan to set off firecrackers in the Great Hall to celebrate her victory, but McGonagall anticipated them, confiscating their equipment with a few well-aimed Summoning Charms.

Gryffindor rallied round Hermione with banners high. The students praised her for her courage in the face of such a trying ordeal, as though they could make up their fence-sitting with a bold display of support after the fact. Those who cheered the loudest were often those who had avoided Hermione like the plague not a day earlier. Everyone knows that the 'contamination' of disgrace is not contagious, but no one wants to sit round the invalid for longer than absolutely necessary.

Not that they were without genuine sympathy. Indeed, they were very happy that Hermione had won. Yet on another level, their stalwart support for her helped them forget that one of their own had been the cause of the problem, and had dishonoured the House name. In the celebrations, Natalie's name was not mentioned once, and she was alluded to only as "that girl". In Gryffindor House, it seemed, Natalie McDonald had become something almost akin to the Dark Lord-- a 'She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'.

Two groups of Gryffindors were not in a celebratory mood. The second- year girls--now one short--had little to celebrate, unless you believed that additional storage space for their things was apt compensation. They didn't make a fuss, though. Isolde Yeggersnell carried herself with the glacial dignity of a freshly-made ice sculpture, and her example was enough to keep her three roommates from hysterics.

Everyone understood their reluctance to join the fun, but what no one could understand was the reticence of Hermione's closest friends.

Hermione wouldn't make a big deal out of things--after all, that would have looked terribly callous and uncaring--but for Harry and Ron *not* to exult in her innocence...well, no one knew what to think. Logically, Harry and Ron should have been the most rowdy of the merry-makers, but instead they were...not *sulking* exactly, but certainly less than cheerful. Gloomy. Morose, even. And Neville and Ginny weren't much happier.

So it was four glum Gryffindors who were sitting in the common room after dinner, waiting for Hermione to return from her prefect's meeting--and with only one obvious topic of conversation.

Neville had been quiet all day, but it was little shock to them when out of the blue he said, "Is anyone else bothered by this?"

They all knew what 'this' meant. There was no need to go into greater detail.

Ron picked at his teeth with his fingernail and shrugged.

Ginny murmured, "How could you not be?"

"Not that there's anything we can do about it," said Harry.

A loud snort startled them all for a moment, before they remembered that Snuffles was nearby. He had wormed his way into the common room just after dinner, collected pats and head scratches and dinner scraps from his more sympathetic friends, and was now sprawled like a snoring shaggy rug before the fire.

Even though Snuffles was sleeping, Harry lowered his voice before he continued. "And even if there was, would you want to?"

Ron shifted his weight, and gnawed on the ball of his thumb. "We'd have to go through the whole thing again."

"It'd be worse," Ginny said, shaking her head. "Because we're the only ones who could say anything."

"Say anything?" Ron made a face. "What, walk up to McGonagall after class tomorrow and say, 'Excuse me, Professor, but Hermione lied to your face and Natalie got shopped for it, just thought you'd like to know, have a nice day'?"

She scowled. "If you're going to be an ass about it...."

"You know what I mean," he snapped back.

"So we can't do anything, can we?" Neville said despairingly. His hands were working the cloth in the lap of his robe into a mass of wrinkles.

"Nothing that'd make a difference. And like Harry said, would you want to?"

"It wasn't right," Neville said stubbornly, glaring at Harry.

"Look, I never said it was!" His glasses slipped down, and he shoved them back into place. "But she cheated, and off Hermione, of all people. Don't you think she got what was coming to her? Even a little?"

"I'll say." Ron tapped his teeth with his thumbnail. "Tell you something, though...from now on I'll think twice about ever making her mad at me."

"That'd be an improvement," Ginny commented dryly, earning her a sour look from her brother. "At least *something* good came out of this."

Neville was oblivious to the sibling repartee. "What do you suppose'll happen to her? Natalie, I mean."

Ron shrugged again. "Don't know. Any ideas, Gin?"

"I've heard some things, but it's all gossip. Harry?"

"No clue."

They lapsed into silence.

Harry turned the situation over in his mind. The only other person he knew who had been expelled from Hogwarts was Hagrid. Hagrid had ended up as the Keeper of Keys and Grounds, but only through Dumbledore's kindness. And not only had he been expelled, his wand had been snapped. Would Natalie's wand be snapped, like Hagrid's? Surely not, but then again he had no idea what constituted a wand-snapping charge. Would she still be allowed to practise magic? What happened to a witch or wizard who wasn't allowed to practice magic?

The portrait door opened, and Harry looked up to see Hermione walking into the room. There was a jaunty spring to her step--and a wilted pink tea-rose in her hand.

Ron's eyes went immediately to the rose.

"Where'd you get that?" he asked, though the speed and force with which the question came out made it sound more like a prelude to a police interrogation.

"This?" Hermione sniffed at the yellowing petals. "Justin Finch- Fletchly--he's prefect for Hufflepuff, you know--was working in the greenhouse before the meeting and he brought a few of them in."

Ron tilted his head to one side. "A few?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, Ron. He had enough for all the girls...even McGonagall." She tucked the rose behind her prefect's badge and wrinkled her nose at him. "You needn't look like that."

Ron did look like a mule that had put its ears back and was about to kick, but he merely grunted and returned his attention to a jagged hangnail.

"So how did the meeting go?" Neville asked hastily.

"Fine. I hadn't missed all that much. I asked for extra rounds tonight, though, just to make up."

"And they let you?" Ginny asked.

"Of course. One of the Ravenclaw girls wanted the extra time to work on her Ancient Runes assignment." A dreamy, delighted look crept into her eyes at the thought of the class. "She was telling me about it before the meeting started--it sounds simply fascinating. Did you know that some of the runes have principles similar to those used in Muggle physics and calculus?"

Ron stifled a yawn and tried to appear interested. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. I actually thought about taking an introductory calculus course at the local secondary school this last summer, but with the O.W.L.s coming up I decided it would be better to wait until..."

And that, in Harry's opinion, raised even more questions. Natalie's parents were Muggles: could she go back to Muggle schools? Would she even *want* to go back to Muggle schools? Harry certainly wouldn't. Muggle schools had something like O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, he knew, but she had spent nearly two years at the Hogwarts. Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts were all well and good at Hogwarts, but not when Muggle children had been learning French and Maths and Modern History. If she went to a Muggle school, she would have a good deal of catching up to do.

And how could a witch or a wizard--even a Muggle-born one--adjust to living as a Muggle, without any contact with the wizarding world? He was sure that some Squibs probably did it. Take that relative of the Weasleys, the chartered accountant or whatever he was. It would be less painful to live as a Muggle, to not be constantly reminded of what you lacked. But that was a conscious choice, and not all Squibs left the wizarding world for the Muggle one--look at Filch. Mrs. Figg had lived as a Muggle for fourteen whole years. He had never thought of her as anything but a batty old woman with too many cats until last summer. But then again, she was an Auror, and she had obviously had training. How could a child like Natalie cope? Could she cope at all?

He swam up, out of the depressing downward spiral his thoughts had taken, and resurfaced only to pick up the tail end of Ginny's words.

"...school in America."

"Good for her." Hermione gave a little toss of her head. "Her parents will probably be thrilled to tell their friends and neighbours that their little girl will be going to a special boarding school abroad where she'll make all sorts of new friends."

Harry winced. *Ouch.* He had missed what Ginny had said--not to mention the majority of the conversation--but now he really didn't want to know what they had been talking about.

"It's on her record, though," Neville said, not meeting her eyes.

"That sort of thing isn't forgotten so easily," Ron added.

Hermione pursed her lips. "I'm glad. It shouldn't be." It was as near to spiteful as they had ever heard her sound.

There was an awkward beat.

"What time is it?" Neville asked Harry, tugging the mass of wrinkles out of his robe.

Slowly, Harry reached out and took hold of Neville's wrist, then turned it so they could both see the watch face and read the numbers.

"It's almost seven now," he said, giving Neville an odd look. Neville occasionally lapsed into his old absentminded behaviour, but never like that.

They stood up. Snuffles, who had been dozing contentedly on the warm hearth, started awake. Thumping his tail on the stones, he peered at Harry with the excited look of the dog that wanted to go for 'walkies'.

"No," Ginny said firmly. "No, Snuffles, you can't come."

Collar tags jangling, the great black dog uncurled himself and sat up. His tail lashed back and forth, narrowly avoiding being singed by the glowing embers.

"We have our study session now," Ron said with forced cheerfulness. "Go find Professor Lupin."

Snuffles whined plaintively and wagged his tail even harder, his hindquarters quivering with the rapid movement. He pushed his wet nose into Harry's hand and made sad, despondent noises.

Harry knelt down and scratched the shaggy head. "It's no good trying to be cute with me," he said quietly, smiling a little bit to soften the blow. "I have to go."

Snuffles whined again, then suddenly shook his head and sneezed, directly into Harry's face.

"Yuck!" Harry pulled off his glasses and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. He glared at the Animagus, all kind thoughts forgotten. "Did you *have* to do that?"

A whimper and an apologetic bark was his only answer.

"And I was going to bring you something from the kitchens, too." He spat on the lenses of his glasses and rubbed them between the folds of his sleeve, choosing the Muggle method of cleaning over magic. "Now, out you go."

After making a detour to dump a very dejected dog off at the door to Professor Lupin's office, the five of them headed for the little room off the library.

To Harry, it felt like ages since they had been there, not two days. He wondered if Will was still upset. It didn't seem likely. However, if Will knew about the events of the past two days (and how could he not? He knew everything else that they did, or at least he always appeared to know) then Harry didn't favour their chances tonight.

Similar thoughts seemed to be on his friends' minds, because they got the room ready with less talk than usual. Once the pile of ashes in the grate had been swept to one side, a bright, crackling fire lit, and the chairs arranged round the long table, they walked over to the long mirror and took their positions on either side. They all wanted to get any potential unpleasantness over with as soon as possible.

"Enter, Watchman of the Light."

"Grant to us your inner sight."

"Enter, for the time draws near."

"Power will erase our fear."

"Enter, lest the darkness win."

The coiling grey mist barely had time to fade before the myriad of circles and lines and curves carved into the wooden mirror blazed with blue flame, signalling that they had opened the passageway between Will's office and their meeting room.

Will stepped through almost immediately, and without pause for any greetings or other social pleasantries moved to stand beside his chair with his back to the fire. He stood there patiently, waiting for them to sit down.

The children took their seats quickly, with a minimum of noise. Will was only ever like this when he had a lot of work for them. They looked up at him expectantly, prepared to hear their assignments for the session.

To their confusion, he did not speak. He studied them in his quiet, detached way, the silent method of classification that they had come to recognise if not understand.

"Tell me, Miss Granger," he asked, "is Professor Snape still assigned to accompany you to these meetings?"

Hermione blinked, looking surprised. "No, sir. The hearing was over yesterday."

"And since you're with us tonight, I assume that you won."

"Yes, sir."

"The other girl confessed?"

A pause.

"Yes, sir." More cautiously, this time.

"Very obliging of her." It was not a sarcastic comment, which made it sound even stranger. "What was the result?"

Hermione didn't respond right away. Neville, sensing that some sinister or meaningful undercurrent that had entered the conversation, answered for her:

"She was expelled, sir."

Will nodded. "A fitting punishment."

He started to walk round, running a hand along the bookshelves nearest the grate. Every so often he stopped for a closer look at the title of a book. He plucked one off the shelf, opened it and flipped through it without actually reading the print. Harry and the others followed him with their eyes, scrutinising every movement.

Will closed the book, releasing a small puff of dust, and returned it to the shelf.

"How do you feel about this, Miss Weasley?" he asked, brushing at the dust that had come to rest on his robes.

Ginny flushed, then paled, then flushed again. "I...I agree with you, sir."

"Ah," he said thoughtfully. "Many thanks for your confidence in my opinion." He did not turn to face them; his eyes continued to scan the neat rows of leather bound volumes. "Mr. Longbottom, what are your thoughts on the matter?"

Neville jumped. "She...she...Natalie cheated, sir."

"That's all?"

Neville's face had taken on a strained and greyish cast, twisted in an expression much like the one that had appeared during their first Potions class. He fought it off long enough to croak out a desultory, "Yes, sir." Then he leaned back in his chair, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed tightly closed.

Will took another book and opened it to the middle, running a long finger down the page. "Mr. Weasley?"

"She got what she deserved." Perhaps out of fear that his words had sounded crueller than he had meant them to be, Ron added a hearty, "Sir."

Will considered that reply for a moment. He replaced the second book on the shelf, and began to pace again. "And you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry took a deep breath. Why was his heart pounding so fast? "I...I'm just glad that everything--"

"Why are you asking us this?" Hermione interrupted shrilly.

Will stopped moving, so abruptly that it took a moment for his robes to settle round his body. He had returned to where he had started from, next to his chair, but his face was still turned away from them, studying the books on the nearest wall.

Harry clamped his mouth shut, biting the inside of his cheek again and reopening the cut that had started to heal.

Hermione, however, kept going, more out of pure nervous energy than any need to get her point across. "I mean, what does it matter? It's over with. I'm sorry for what happened, but I want to put it behind me and get on with things. Why go over it all again?"

"Because." The single word flicked like a thin whip. "Because, Miss Granger, you reek of the Dark."

Stung, she stared at him, eyes dark with disbelief and horror. Her mouth hung slightly open.

Will rested one hand on the back of his chair and turned to look at them. By some odd trick of the firelight, his round face was all angles and shifting shadows and deep-set fierceness. The light that glowed in his eyes did not come from the flames.

"All of you do." His voice was as cold as the stone that had burned in Harry's pocket the night before. "Or if not the Dark, then something so similar that your combined presence is causing me no small amount of physical discomfort."

His grip tightened briefly on the chair. With his other hand, he made a terse, impatient gesture. "Stand up."

They scrambled to their feet and stood at attention, ramrod straight and without blinking, like soldiers under inspection.

Will began to prowl about the room. His eyes were narrowed, half- closed, and his head was tilted slightly upward, questing like a forest animal that had caught the faint scent of a human being. His footsteps were slow and measured, a deliberate pace that made almost no sound. Only the whispered rustle of his robes told them where he was. Harry suppressed a shiver as the Old One passed by behind him.

By the time Will had made a complete circuit of the room, the damp itch of sweat was building on the back of Harry's neck where the rough collar of his robe pressed against his skin. He would go mad if he couldn't scratch it soon.

"No," Will said at last. "No, the longer I stand here, the more I feel that it isn't the Dark. But it's not simple ill-wishing, either."

He pulled out his chair and sat. When the children didn't move, he made another gesture, less brusque but by no means less commanding. "You may be seated."

They sat, and like two rows of worshippers at service folded their hands in their laps and stared fixedly at them.

"As this will likely affect our continued efforts, I would like a few answers," Will said quietly. "Truthful answers, mind. You have nothing to lose by being honest with me."

He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together lightly, the picture of unhurried contemplation. "Perhaps, Mr. Potter, I should start by asking what you hoped to gain through your attendance at last night's hearing?"

Harry's head was fuzzy, hazy round the edges with the darkness that often accompanies a sudden change in body position, as if he had stood too quickly. He blinked away the darkness, only to feel it creep back again.

"I wanted to be there, sir," he answered.

"Because?"

"Because...I think I was afraid of what would happen." That was true, if anything was.

"So you told Professor Snape that I had asked you to attend."

"Yes, sir," Harry said dismally.

"Subtle." The word sounded like an additional punctuation mark on Harry's admission. "Indirect. And very, very clever." His gaze was opaque, inscrutable. "An undetectable push at the appropriate time...and with my name as well...."

It was Harry's turn to stare at Will, as stunned as if he had been hit by a particularly potent Confundus Charm.

"I have told you before how easy it is for the Dark to gain entry into a person's mind. Now you see what it can do." Will's voice was colourless. "You are very fortunate that no harm came of it, Mr. Potter. Well, apart from the fact that Professor Snape's extreme dislike for me has quite possibly increased tenfold, but at this point that is more tiresome than harmful."

He turned to Hermione, and said in the same colourless tone, "When that young girl asked you for leniency, Miss Granger, did you know that you would not give it to her?"

Hermione stiffened in her chair. Her response was muted but nonetheless straightforward. "Yes, sir."

"Then why did you make a false promise?"

"It was the only thing I could think of."

"Do you think Professor McGonagall would have listened to you, had you kept that promise?"

"Maybe."

"On that same note, would you have *wanted* her to listen to you?"

"I...I don't know." Her eyes did not leave his.

Will nodded, indicating that he had no further questions for her. Hermione, in response, seemed to stand down, looking less like a prisoner in the dock and more like her normal self. They might have been in a courtroom, acting out the established parts of the barrister and the accused.

"What are you going to do to us?" Neville quavered.

Will closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, his expression had changed. He regarded the five of them with something like sorrow and something like frustration, as if he knew what had to be done but did not know how to go about it.

"I'm in no position to pass judgement," he said. "It doesn't work that way. And Miss Granger's flawed intentions aside, we may be better off for it."

All eyes went to Hermione, whose only response was an incredulous "What?"

Will adjusted his glasses, resettling them on his nose. "The Dark has no need for the will-crushing power of the Imperius Curse. Why force someone to submit to outside control when the real means of control are already in place inside? The worries, the fears, the doubts, the self- loathing and hatred...even the good things, the drive and strength of character and courage, are easily twisted for their purposes.

"If this girl, Miss McDonald if I recall correctly, cheated of her own free will, it is only proper that she should be exposed and expelled. If, on the contrary, she was...." He paused to think of an appropriate word. "If she was provoked into it, then you will have rid this place of a pathway that would have allowed the Dark to enter."

Seeing Neville's mouth open in protest, he added, "Oh, I know it wasn't right. Not sporting, or fair play, or even honourable in the truest sense of the word. But sometimes...."

He paused again, but this time it was not to think of the right word.

"Sometimes," he said wistfully, in the voice of one reciting a text that holds a personal meaning, "it is not possible to make things easier for one human being, because that one small thing could mean an end of the world for all the rest."

And Harry, hearing the weariness that Will did not even trouble to hide, wondered who that human being was. Was it Natalie? Or was it--?

"But I cannot--"--here the ancient glow returned to Will's eyes, bringing with it the crackle of power forged from anger--"I WILL NOT permit the Dark to remain in this stronghold. Join hands."

Fatalistically, they did as he asked.

"This will be painful," he said grimly. And before Harry had time to be properly terrified about the prospect of pain, it came.

It was brief, lasting no more than a second, but it was enough to make him feel as though he had been subjected to the blast of a controlled, intense, soundless explosion. When Will let go of his hand, his fingers slipped out of Hermione's trembling, clammy grip; his arms fell to his sides and hung there, weak and rubbery. His chest felt loose, hollow inside. He slumped in his chair, as boneless as a rag doll.

"Rest for a moment." Will's voice penetrated the black curtain that had descended over his vision. "When you feel ready to continue with tonight's work, let me know."

Harry's body rested--it could do little else--but his mind did not.

Growing up at the Dursleys, he had often found himself at the mercy of Dudley, who had the advantage of brute weight and the leverage of an ever-present threat to run off and complain to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. So when a bored seven-year-old Dudley and his friends decided, one rainy day, to see just what would happen if Harry were to insert a butter knife into a wall socket, Harry had little choice but to comply.

He had awoken in his pitch-black cupboard ten minutes later, the stink of singed hair in his nostrils and the sound of Uncle Vernon's cursing in his ears. His hand hurt, and he couldn't open it or flex his fingers properly. The butter knife was no longer there. Dudley was blubbering noisily somewhere close by. Aunt Petunia was trying to comfort her son without success.

He did not try to figure out why that memory had surfaced.

Within the space of a few minutes, the mental blackness had cleared enough for him to see his friends. Ron, Ginny, and Neville appeared to be as deeply exhausted as he felt. Ginny and Neville soon looked a little more lively, but Ron had to take several steadying breaths before he could push himself to an upright position.

Harry turned his head a fraction of an inch to look at Hermione, and he saw that she had buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders were still. Her breathing was even. And when she lifted her head a moment later, there were no tears on her paper-white face.

Will conducted the session with uncharacteristic harshness, pushing them to their already taxed physical and emotional limits. When they emerged from the little room a half-hour later--the shortened session in deference to Hermione's need to complete her extended rounds before ten o'clock--they had performed all the defensive and offensive spells they knew. With varying and lessening degrees of competence.

Hermione was first out of the room.

"Don't wait up for me," she said flatly, and strode off down the corridor.

Only Harry noticed that the direction she took when she turned the corner was not the passage that led to the Great Hall and the lower floors. She took the stairs that led up, and the only classroom that particular staircase serviced was the Astronomy Tower.

        *        *        *

"Almost on goal, and it's--oh, bad luck! Let's see if the ravishing Katie Bell can retrieve the Quaffle for Gryffindor and break what seems to be a neck-and-neck game!"

Another Saturday, another Quidditch match--Gryffindor versus Slytherin.

The weather was balmy for late March, without the raw, chilly edge of the usual Hogwarts early spring. It was the last time that year that the rival houses would meet each other on the pitch, and with point totals for the House Cup running close any opportunity to contribute would not be taken lightly. Lee Jordan had whipped the spectators (and himself) into a frenzy, and scarves and flags in House colours snapped and fluttered in the brisk breeze.

Ron had wasted no time in re-establishing himself as a Keeper not to be trifled with. There were screams from the more excitable spectators when he performed the very dangerous "Starfish and Stick" defensive move in the first five minutes of the game, dangling from his broom by one hand and one foot to stop a shot on goal. It worked well enough, but once Ron had remounted his broom and was out of immediate peril, Harry heard Ginny's voice rise over the crowd noise, yelling a string of words that made her brothers grin and Colin--who was sitting on the Gryffindor sidelines with a small notebook, analysing game play--flush a mortified scarlet.

Harry performed a sharp about-face to avoid a Bludger and circled round the Gryffindor goalposts. Gryffindor was about to take its fourth successive penalty shot on the Slytherin goal, thanks to a side swipe that had forced Angelina to bail out, leaping off her out-of-control broom to crash onto the pitch.

"How's it going?" he shouted to Ron.

"Shut your mouth and find that bloody Snitch!" Ron yelled back.

The crowd roared as a battered Angelina made her shot, drowning out any response that Harry could have made and bringing the score to Gryffindor 80, Slytherin 100.

It didn't take long for the game to turn ugly. The Chasers might have been demonstrating every single strategic manoeuvre from the reputable "Quidditch Throughout the Ages" and the less reputable "What Every Chaser Ought to Know About Winning" in their drive to get and keep hold of the Quaffle. The Beaters on both sides seemed to be using all the tricks they knew short of open fouling to prevent the Chasers from getting near the goal. Ron treated every Quaffle that came near the Gryffindor side as if had made filthy and insulting remarks about his family. And wisely, Harry and Draco kept well above the main play as Madam Hooch called fouls and penalty shots one after another.

Draco was hovering over the centre of the pitch, a perfect vantage point to see the gold glitter of the Snitch. Harry spiralled down the goalposts, hoping to draw Draco below the play and get him into the range of Fred and George's Bludger assault.

He cheered inwardly as Draco made as if to follow, but the Slytherin Seeker hesitated just above the middle of the scrum. He seemed to be waiting for a good time to descend.

Lee's voice boomed, "And Hawkshead Attacking Formation from Slytherin Chasers, headed for Gryffindor's goal...let's see if Ron Weasley can stop it--and there's the throw!"

The Slytherin Chaser, a hefty sixth-year, tried to feint by dipping low and then swooping up, but Ron wasn't fooled. He swung round and neatly caught the Quaffle.

The Slytherin Chasers were regrouping and coming at the Gryffindor goal. Fred and George were caught up in a violent Beaters' Duel with the other team. Angelina and Katie were vying for position, and Alicia was streaking for the other side of the pitch, preparing for whatever pre-arranged attack on goal the girls had planned.

Draco chose that moment to tip his broom forward, heading down to where Harry was while staying out of the main venue of play.

Ron leaned back, let go of his broom, gripped the Quaffle with both hands, and threw it directly at Draco as hard as he could.

Madam Hooch's whistle fell from her gaping lips.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

Draco turned his head and saw the Quaffle hurtling toward him. He didn't wait to see what would happen. He jerked his Nimbus Two Thousand and One sharply to the right and spun into a turn, going through three complete revolutions before coming to a skidding stop halfway across the pitch.

None of the Chasers moved to go after the Quaffle. It fell heavily to the ground.

"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Lee Jordan was as astonished as everyone else.

And Harry, who had spotted the Golden Snitch at the same time that Ron had thrown the Quaffle, had scooped it up and ended the game without anyone noticing.

        *        *        *

No one spoke in the changing rooms. There was only the hiss and gurgle of water running in the showers and the snap of Quidditch robes being shaken out and put away.

Harry towelled off, checking for any injuries that he might have missed. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins during the matches often made him oblivious to minor cuts and scrapes. Once, after a match against Hufflepuff in third year, he had made it three- quarters of the way through dinner before he noticed that his right sock felt rather squashy. He had removed his shoe to discover that a good deal of blood had seeped from a narrow gash on his calf and run down his leg to form a sticky puddle in the heel of his shoe. He hadn't even known it was there.

Finding nothing out of place, he headed over to fetch his clothes. Fred and George had left already, and only Ron remained on the Gryffindor side. He was whistling tunelessly through his teeth as he pulled on his clothes and wadded his sweat-soaked Quidditch robes into a ball.

One by one, the Slytherin players finished changing and left the changing rooms without so much as looking at Harry or Ron.

The soft padding of bare feet on tile made Harry turn his head. Draco Malfoy was walking toward them, infinitely casual and perfectly poised.

"Lovely plan, Potter," he said as he passed by. He picked up his Quidditch robes and began to fold them, smoothing out the wrinkles. "You and Weasel work that one out all by yourselves?

"Ignore him," Harry ordered Ron. To Draco, he said dryly, "You're usually such a good loser, Malfoy. It's a shame to see you all bent out of shape."

"Oh, I'm not 'bent out of shape'," Draco replied, his voice as tight and oily as a heated frying pan. "I'm simply curious as to how you came up with such a *brilliant* strategy in so short a time."

He felt Ron tense up, and thought sourly, *Of all the times when Hermione isn't here to keep him calm....* He elbowed Ron in the ribs and said, more firmly, "Ignore him."

Draco gave them a wintry smile. Weasley-bating was always an enjoyable way to pass the time. "I mean, that little lover's tiff you two had must have made life *terribly* difficult."

"And you'd know all about it, wouldn't you, Malfoy?" Ron growled.

Harry tried using Hermione's preferred tactic, knowing full well that it wouldn't work. "Ron, you're letting him get to you."

Draco's eyes widened, then narrowed as Ron's remark sank in. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have the balls to stand there and act like you don't know?"

"Has he lost it this time?" Draco raised an eyebrow at Harry, who had to exercise all of his self-control to keep from slapping that fatuous smirk off the other boy's face.

Ron spat on the ground. "Filthy Death Eater spawn."

"Watch it, Weasley," Draco snarled, hands curling into fists. "That fat mouth of yours'll get you in trouble."

Ron cackled, loud and hysterical. "Oh, are you going to tell Daddy on me?" he crowed. "Too bad he made a right cock-up of it last time round--he'd LOVE another chance. One less Weasley, let's make a holiday of it!"

Draco looked as if he'd been punched in the gut.

"Look, I didn't know, all right?" he shouted. Pleading had replaced the sneering arrogance in his voice. "I swear I didn't."

"And you expect me to believe you?" Ron took a step forward, but Harry grabbed his friend's arms and held fast. He hated Draco, but he wasn't going to stay by and watch Ron's attempt at cold-blooded murder.

"I'm telling you the truth!"

"Truth? You've got a funny idea of what 'truth' is!"

"Weasley, will you LISTEN for once in your miserable life?"

"That's IT!" Ron bayed. He flung himself at Draco, but Harry's weight held him back. "Let go of me, damn you!"

"I swear I didn't know!" There was nothing Draco could use to protect himself; no spare Beater's bats, and his wand was too far away.

"Malfoy, for god's sake!" Harry felt his grip weaken. He couldn't hold on for much longer, and when he let go--

"You have to believe me!" Draco cried out, backing away and holding his robes in front of him in a feeble attempt at self-defence. "I swear it! In Merlin's name!"

*He speaks the truth. Let him explain.*

The deep, resonant voice spoke into Harry's mind. It was like Will's voice and yet not Will at all--it was a different person, an older man, but the voice held the same calm authority and certainty that did not allow questioning.

Ron's entire body had stiffened; he had heard the voice as well. There was no sign that Draco had heard it.

Harry let go.

"All right," he said. "Explain. You've got one minute." There was no immediate danger now; Ron wasn't going anywhere.

"Before Christmas." The words spilled out in a stream of babble so unlike Draco's normal confident manner as to be unnerving. "He asked me about it, in a letter I got from him, that was all. He asked me a question and I wrote him an answer, and he didn't say anything about it, and I forgot about the whole thing. Why would I ask him about it? I answered his question. I had no idea. I had no idea. I didn't even know what had happened until I read it...in the papers...."

He glared at Ron, furious and wretched at the same time. And the next thing he said was so astonishing that if Harry had heard it broadcast live by the Wizarding News Network, he still would not have believed it.

"And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. Now get out of my way."

He tossed his Quidditch robes aside and left the changing room, leaving two very bewildered Gryffindors behind.

        *            *            *

Classes will continue, regardless of the problems that weigh upon adolescent minds. And with the classes comes the ongoing struggle for teachers to keep distracted students focused on the tasks at hand. Reminders that the O.W.L.s were fast approaching came thick and fast, used to yank the wandering minds of fifth-years back to the classroom.

Professor McGonagall tightened her grading policies even more than normal, marking ten points off Seamus's homework because the neatly folded sheet of coloured paper he was supposed to Transfigure into a crane had suspiciously papery wing feathers. Professor Binns's lectures became more complicated, filled with meaningless facts to the point where even Hermione found it difficult to remain conscious through the entire class. Snape was insufferable, but that was nothing new.

The only class that brought any enjoyment was Defence Against the Dark Arts, and the reason for that was obvious enough. Remus had neatly stepped in for Arabella Figg, continuing her lesson plans exactly as she had left them. Students who had never been under his instruction soon learned that he was an excellent teacher. Those who remembered him from two years before found that his teaching style hadn't changed at all. He did his best to make the class interesting and practical, substituting hands-on learning for Figg's hair-raising Auror anecdotes. He even went so far as to demonstrate the effects that pure silver had on werewolves--by bringing in a silver spoon, holding it for just a moment in his bare hand, and showing them the results--a raw, nasty- looking burn.

Contrary to what he might have expected, the 'werewolf thing'--as it soon came to be known with understated accuracy--didn't hurt him or his reputation at all. There were no hysterical Howlers from concerned parents in McGonagall's morning post, no threats to withdraw children from school. There wasn't so much as a peep from the normally vocal editorial columns of The Daily Prophet. Teachers accepted it, mildly relieved that they wouldn't have to be nice to an unknown replacement. And as for the students, having a real live Dark creature as professor was the most exciting part of the whole class. What could compare to a bloodthirsty beast--even if he happened to be the most unassuming and mild-mannered bloodthirsty beast they had ever seen?

The Monday after the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match, Harry was about to leave the classroom when Remus hurried over to him, laying a friendly hand--the non-bandaged one--on his shoulder.

"Harry, can I see you for a moment?" he said.

"Sure, Professor." Harry checked his watch. "I've got class now, but--"

Remus smiled at him. "Oh, no hurry. If you can stop by my office during lunch, I'll have the house elves send up something for us so you don't faint in afternoon classes."

Puzzled, but late for Charms, Harry didn't think to ask what Remus wanted until he was knocking on the door of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor's office.

"Come in," Remus called out.

A cheerful house elf draped in a stained, electric blue tea towel had just deposited an enormous covered tray on Remus's desk. It let out an excited squeak when Harry entered the room.

"Thank you," Remus said to the elf. "This will do nicely."

The little creature bobbed delightedly and scurried away. Harry held the door open so the elf could exit, then closed it and took the seat that Remus waved him toward.

Remus lifted the tray cover and set it to one side. The platter held piles and piles of sandwiches, made with every conceivable type of filling. Plain bread and butter, freshly sliced cheese, cheese and tomato, egg and tomato, thin rounds of cucumber, delicate watercress with the crusts cut off, salt beef, roast beef, chopped cold chicken, ham and turkey, pungent anchovy paste, even a few that Harry couldn't identify. His stomach turned over at the sight, more from nausea than hunger.

"Go on, have something." Remus selected a thick roast beef sandwich and began to munch contentedly. "I wasn't entirely sure what you like best, so I asked for some of whatever they were making."

Harry took the smallest, thinnest bread and cheese sandwich he could find. He took a minute bite, chewed and swallowed. It showed no signs of coming back up, so he took another bite.

Remus was still chatting away pleasantly. "I was going to ask for whatever dishes you'd swiped from the kitchen most recently, but then I recalled what *I* used to swipe, back in the Dark Ages." He polished off his sandwich and picked up a second. "And I think that Arabella Figg would gleefully wring my neck if she ever saw me giving you jam- topped sponge cake as a meal."

Harry laughed politely.

"So, what's up, Remus?" he asked, venturing to take another bite. "Is something wrong?"

"Mmrph...." Remus paused in mid-chew. "Just a minute. Your godfather was supposed to meet us here. I should have known better than to expect him to be on time."

As if on cue, there was a sound of scratching at the door.

Remus sighed, then pointed to the door with his wand. The door swung open and Snuffles trotted into the room, tongue lolling, wearing his best 'look-at-me-I'm-just-an-adorable-dumb-animal' expression. His ears pricked up at the sight of the overflowing tray, and before Harry had time to say hello Sirius was leaning over him, reaching for a chopped chicken sandwich on rye bread.

"You're late," Remus said reproachfully.

Sirius shrugged. "It's not my fault dogs don't have watches. And there was this adorable little Hufflepuff girl who found the absolute perfect spot to scratch behind my ear...." He caught sight of the looks that his friend and godson were giving him. "Er, right. Sorry."

Remus turned to Harry. "Sirius mentioned to me the other day that you have these 'study sessions' scheduled twice a week."

"That's right," Harry admitted cautiously. "We've all got O.W.L.s coming up."

"So why is Ginny Weasley included in these revising meetings of yours?" Sirius asked. He had wandered over to the Grindylow tank and was leaning against it, calmly attacking his food.

Harry bit deeply into his sandwich and chewed for longer than normal. He took another bite, and then another, finishing the bread and cheese.

"Because she wants to get a head start," he said, swallowing.

Remus looked pensive. "I see."

**Careful,* Harry warned himself. *Be very careful.*

"Yeah," he said aloud. "Hermione suggested it--said that it's 'never too early to join a study group'." He mimicked her voice, grinning as if to emphasise how silly she often sounded.

He was about to congratulate himself on his skilled use of half-truth when he heard a strange noise, like a strangled cough. He looked up at Remus, but Remus looked just as startled as he was. Following the older man's gaze, he turned to Sirius.

Sirius had been in the middle of eating, but now his throat was working rapidly, choking on his food. His face had gone a bright vermilion with a tinge of purple round the lips. But what frightened Harry most was the look in Sirius' eyes. It was the ragged, haunted expression, the mark that Azkaban had left on his soul.

"My god, Remus," Sirius managed to gasp through his half-full mouth. "Look at him. He's *doing it*!"

"What?" Harry cried, alarmed. "Doing what?"

He spun round to face Remus, only to see that the colour had drained out of Remus' skin, leaving dark shadows under his eyes that Harry knew had not been there before.

"Harry," Remus began slowly, haltingly, as if the act of speaking was unfamiliar to him. "We always knew when James...when your father wasn't telling us the truth." Something had kept him from saying 'lying', but the meaning was clear. "He had this funny little habit, you see, of picking at his fingernails--a little nervous tic. Not something you'd notice unless you were looking for it very carefully, but...."

Harry stared at his hands and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The skin round his fingernails might have been a little rough, but he had always put it down to the wear and tear that Quidditch exerted on his hands. Picking at his fingernails...a nervous tic of his father's....

"I don't understand what you wanted to talk to me about," he said angrily, stopping that line of conversation before it could lead to places he would rather not go. "We've been having the sessions all year and no one's said anything. What's the matter now?"

Remus had recovered somewhat, though his face was still pale. "It's just that Arabella Figg said some...things to me, when she wrote to tell me about the teaching vacancy here." His voice had returned to its normal even timbre. "I never dreamed I'd get the job, so I didn't read too much into her letter, but--"

Sirius had also recovered, enough to interrupt. "Can you tell us anything about it? Anything?"

Harry bit his lip. Unbidden, Mrs. Figg's gravely voice popped into his mind:

*My replacement doesn't know about your little 'study sessions', and wiser--or more paranoid--minds than mine want it to stay that way.*

"I can't," he said pleadingly. "I'm sorry. I prom...." He bit back that dangerous word. "I mean, it's not my position to say anything."

Remus frowned. "Look, this is what we know. We know that twice a week, you and your friends go off and have these revising sessions somewhere in the castle. Professor McGonagall must know about it because she lets you go. Professor Figg knew about it--"

"--miserable old hag practically dangled it in front of our noses," Sirius said with a snort, walking over to Remus's desk.

"But she wouldn't give me any further information."

"And Albus knows about it, because he knows everything that moves in this bloody place."

"If I could tell you, I would." Harry was getting agitated. "You know that."

"Please tell me you're not putting yourself in danger needlessly," Sirius begged. He touched Harry's shoulder gently. "It's not worth it."

Harry roughly pushed the hand away and leapt to his feet.

"'Not worth it'?" he yelled, suddenly furious. "Cedric? Dennis Creevey? Neville's parents? Ron's mum? They're 'not worth it'?"

The list of names had deepened the shadows beneath Remus's eyes. "Harry--"

"We all serve a master, in one way or another. If there's one thing I've learned this year, it's that." The wild words came from nowhere. Harry had no idea what he was saying, he only knew that it was the right thing to say. "If we're lucky we get to choose who we serve. And the Light--"

"The light?" Sirius said sharply.

He'd said too much. "Damn it all," he swore under his breath.

"What are you talking about?" Remus was getting out of his chair; in two steps he would block Harry's only way out.

"I'm sorry. I have to go." And with that he was halfway to the door.

"Harry, wait!"

"I'm sorry!" He burst from the room, running down the corridors, past a small knot of startled Hufflepuffs and Slytherins on their way to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

Gryffindor Tower would be empty, or so he hoped. He wasn't going to Transfiguration that afternoon, and though he had no idea what excuse he would make to McGonagall when she asked, he was sure that he could think of something during the time he would be spending over a toilet in the boys' lavatory, sicking up his bread and cheese.

        *            *            *

The actual dates of the Easter holidays varied from year to year, but they always began after classes on the day before Good Friday. Once classes had ended that Thursday, the students who had elected to go home for the week made a mad dash for the school-provided transport to Hogsmeade. As the Hogwarts Express left at precisely 4.00, those who lagged behind ran the risk of missing the train.

Fewer people than normal had made plans to leave school for the week off, but the crush of bodies in the corridors was not something to venture into lightly. For that reason, Harry dawdled after Divination, taking his time as he descended the numerous stairs that led down from Professor Trelawney's smoky sanctuary and wandered through the less- travelled hallways. There was no need to rush to his destination-- primarily because he hadn't decided where his destination was.

He wasn't going to the tower and his room, that was certain. It would be a babel of noise until dinner time, and the dull headache he had woken up with that morning had been aggravated by the hazy perfume of Trelawney's class. The library was out: Madam Pince had closed it early to allow for the first part of her yearly book inventory. And his headache had snuffed his appetite more effectively than a tin of Hagrid's toffee, making a visit to the kitchen not only pointless but also unthinkable.

So he kept walking, nodding to the portraits on the walls and stopping to make polite conversation to those he knew. After a short talk with Sir Cadogan, he turned a corner and came across Mr. Filch mopping the worn stones, and quickly backtracked to avoid a lecture about tracking dirt on freshly-cleaned floors. He stayed well clear of the dungeons.

He wasn't surprised when he found himself standing outside the door to the little room off the library. Truthfully, he had expected to end up there sooner or later. Despite the holiday they were to have a session with Will that night at the usual time.

"Might as well stay." He rested a hand on the pitted metal handle. "Quiet enough round here, at least."

He lit the room's fire and dragged two chairs in front of it. With a wave of his wand he Transfigured one of the chairs into a large, plushly upholstered footstool, growling as the effort sharpened his headache. He sat down in the chair, propped his feet on the comfy footstool, and closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the fire wash over him.

He couldn't seem to concentrate on any one thought. From Hermione's predicament to Draco's unnatural behaviour to his own deception of Sirius and Remus--everything that he knew to be for good cause but which made him feel nastier than Bubotuber Pus.

Dumbledore had spoken of the easy choice and the right choice, but he had never mentioned that somewhere in the background was the *absolute* right choice: not absolute because it would solve all problems with a minimum of consequences, but absolute because there was nothing to dilute it. Like the blade of a sword, or the centre of a candle flame. But putting it into everyday, human terms only made it more difficult to understand. He couldn't sort it out.

His headache wasn't helping matters. It was a low, dull ache, more annoying than actually painful, but it had settled in and had flared up off and on ever since the Quidditch match. Hot baths and before dinner naps helped for a little while, but it always came back. He hoped he wasn't coming down with something.

He dozed--it couldn't be called sleeping--for a while. His next contact with real time was a rattle at the door.

"It's open!" he shouted, and then remembered that he had locked it and therefore, it wasn't. He fumbled for his wand and clumsily cast the de- locking spell.

Hermione and Neville walked in, looking very put out.

"You missed dinner," Neville said unnecessarily.

He shifted position, rubbing his hands to warm them. "Wasn't hungry."

"So we guessed." Hermione deposited two napkin-wrapped parcels on the table. "But we saved you a roll and a chicken leg in case you were. And some chocolate cake."

Harry deliberated, but decided against adding anything to the turmoil in his stomach. "Thanks, but I'm fine." He closed his eyes.

The next thing he heard was the sound of chairs scraping on stone, grating against his temples and rattling his skull.

"Make a little more noise, why don't you?" he said loudly, opening his eyes and then closing them to slits as the fire bombarded his retinas with light.

"You're in a right mood today," Hermione said, annoyed.

"Sorry." He wasn't at all sorry, but it was the thing to say. He'd been saying it for almost a week straight, and it ranked right up there with 'I'm fine' as a nicer substitute for 'Leave me alone, can't you?'. "I've had this stupid headache all day."

"Did you ask Madam Pomfrey for anything?" she asked.

"No."

"Then do you want me to go *get* some for you?" she offered, raising her eyes to the heavens with a look of pained exasperation.

"Everything of hers tastes awful. I swear she makes it that way on purpose."

"Her headache stuff usually has powdered willow bark in it. That's why it's bitter."

"Spare us the Potions lecture," he grumbled. "Whatever it is, it's nasty and I don't want any."

The pained look was quickly replaced with disgust. "Looks like someone needs a Cheering Charm. Industrial-strength."

Harry made a face at her, and she made one back.

"Are you sure you want to stay?" Neville said, the end of his last word lilting up in the way it always did when he was worried.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine."

"But if you're not feeling well--" Neville persisted.

He pressed a hand to his forehead. No fever yet. "I don't feel well enough to tell Will that I'm not coming."

Just then, Ron and Ginny came in, forestalling any further debate on that subject. Moodily, Harry turned his footstool back into a chair and privately mourned the loss.

He joined his friends at the mirror, and let Ginny do the honours of touching the frame.

The mist whirled and coiled, making smoky patterns behind the glass. But as the mist dissipated, a low sound drifted through the mirror, volume increasing as the image of the office sharpened into crisp focus. The last of the greyness vanished, and they heard, loud and clear:

"...that you don't mind, Stanton."

They froze. A man's voice--but definitely NOT Will's voice.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all."

That was Will, but they couldn't see him or the other man. Their view of the room was limited to Will's desk and the surrounding area. They stood like statues, barely breathing.

There was movement near the edge of the frame, and Will stepped into their range of vision. He wore a long, academic-looking gown made of a dull black material, a little like the cloth of their work robes but cut in a way more suited for form than function. He did not look in their direction.

"Always glad to be a proof-reader," said Will, speaking to the man who was still out of sight. "There's nothing more enjoyable than finding fault with someone else's work."

"So *that's* why you always volunteer for tripos," the other man replied archly. They could all but hear him wink.

The two men enjoyed a laugh--the other man quite pleased with his sense of humour, Will apparently guilty at having his 'secret' discovered.

"Well, I'll let you get back to your own work," the other man said. "You're not going to be here until all hours, are you?"

"Burning the midnight oil, as always." There was a self-depreciating tone to Will's voice, poking gentle fun at his colleague.

"'As always'?" The other man sounded horrified. "My god, man, don't you ever sleep?"

"Fresher papers are usually enough of a narcotic, I've found," Will drawled. They caught a glimpse of a laconic smile. "I save them for last. Inexpensive, easy to digest, and decidedly *not* habit-forming."

There was another burst of robust laughter from the other man.

Will moved out of sight again, presumably steering his visitor to the door. After a few exchanged 'goodbyes' and 'take cares', they heard the squeak of hinges as the door shut, and the click of a key turning in a lock.

"You can breathe now," Will announced. "It's all right."

Five tightly-held breaths gusted out, rattling like the noise of wind in the eaves of an old house.

Will strode back toward his desk, sheaf of stapled paper in his hand. He picked up his briefcase from the floor and set it on his desk, opening the latches with a flick of his thumb.

Now that the interloper had gone, Harry's attention was drawn to the long black gown that Will was wearing. He had seen Will in normal clothing, the professional, dark-coloured suits and blazers he wore in his office and in the Muggle world. He had seen him in the flowing, midnight blue robes that comprised and at the same time set him apart from his role in the wizarding world. But the black stuff academic dress was a strange combination of the two, neither one nor the other.

"I'm sorry to put you through that," Will said, removing papers from his briefcase and inserting new ones. "Unfortunately, he cornered me after Formal Hall and wouldn't leave off until I 'offered' to read his latest article before he sends it to press."

He studied the stapled papers in his hand, then set it aside. "Well. I suspect that Dr. Philip Pryce's "Linguistic Developments in Mid- Sixteenth Century Provencal Dialects" will be as much of a soporific as student essays."

Ron ventured to ask the necessary question. "Did he--"

Will smiled reassuringly. "No, no, he saw nothing. Only I know the mirror's there." He chuckled. "Do you really think I would have a floor-length mirror in the middle of my office wall, directly opposite my desk? My colleagues already think I'm odd--they don't need to add 'insufferably vain' to that description."

His good humour soothed their jittery nerves, and they grinned.

Will started to remove his gown. "If you'll allow me a moment to collect my things and get out of this fancy dress, I'll be right with you."

It was at that moment that Harry felt a wave of dizziness rock him where he stood. He grabbed hold of the mirror frame, hoping that it would hold him up until Will had entered through the mirror and he could sit down again.

"Harry?" Hermione--or was it Ginny?--caught his arm.

"What's wrong?" Neville asked.

Tenderly, he massaged his forehead. "It's just a stupid headache," he mumbled. "I'll be fi...AH!"

Pain drove him to his knees as the 'stupid headache' seemed to take offence with his remark. But it wasn't just from his scar--it was everywhere, squeezing his head with a vice-like grip on all sides. He couldn't even open his eyes. In blind desperation, he clutched at his head and cried out.

Strong arms grabbed him about the waist and hauled him into a chair. Ginny's hair--or maybe Hermione's?--brushed his hands as she bent over him. He smelled shampoo, strong and chemical and burning in his nose.

Burning...the odour of burning hair...a wall socket and a butter knife...a flash of light...not white electric light but *green* light....

"Give him room!" someone--sounded like Ron--shouted, and the smell went away and with it went the green light, but he could still see it there behind his eyelids.

He wanted nothing more than to roll up into a ball and wait for the pain to go away, but he knew had to stop the green light. Stop the green light...how mad was that?

There was the taste of chocolate on his lips. Someone was pressing chocolate into his mouth. Reflexively, he licked his lips. A tiny crumb of sweetness melted on his tongue, and suddenly, mercifully, the pain wasn't quite so bad. More chocolate. More chocolate found its way into his mouth, and then he could see again. The pain was there, but it no longer threatened to tear his head apart.

"Will," he gasped, lowering shaking hands from his face and tilting his head up to look through bleary eyes, "it's HIM...."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

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