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-Nine - Better Off Not Knowing

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I know now that patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone.

     -- Edith Louisa Cavell, 1865-1915

            (British nurse, executed as a spy

            during World War I for assisting

            the escape of Allied soldiers)

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Power.

Not power, but Power.

It filled the little room, and was so concentrated that the children could almost see it. When they had activated the mirror, they had activated this Power as well; the complete circle had wakened it to its purpose. It was like a living thing, a great slumbering beast that had lain dormant for a very long time and had only just begun to stir. It was stretching now, slowly becoming aware of its surroundings as it tested the air, searching for signs of threat or hidden danger that it would need to guard against. The Power joined the six of them together: a deeply set link that heightened their senses to a feverish intensity. Everything in the little room, from the leaping warmth of the fire to the dusty surface of the long table, seemed to be alive with rich, vivid colours. The crackling of the fire was tingling, electric. They could *feel* it consuming the fuel in the grate, and if they had wanted to they could have reached out to the brilliant flames, tasted them and touched them and talked to them for hours.

The sensations were nearly overwhelming, but the most exciting and terrifying feeling of all was the knowledge that this Power was theirs to command.

Their magic.

They stood like stones or statues, unable to move or breathe or do anything but adjust as the awesome magic coursed through them.

Will stood quite still as well, studying them in silence and smiling the faintest of smiles. He allowed them to savour the feeling for a few breathless moments, but in the next moment he had pulled out his watch and opened it with a flick of his wrist.

"Well, it seems that we have fifteen minutes to bring Mr. Creevey here up to where we are now." The watch snapped shut with a tiny click.

They stared at him with unfocused eyes.

Unhurriedly, he returned his watch to some hidden pocket in his robes, walked over to the chair nearest the fire, and sat down. "I suggest you get started."

The even tones of his voice had broken the initial shock of the spell, but they were still more than a little dazzled. As their heads began to clear, they darted uncertain looks at each other.

Gradually, though not unexpectedly, all eyes turned to Harry.

"No," he said flatly once he realised what they were asking of him. "Not me. Not this time."

"Just sit down and start talking," Hermione said with a little toss of her head. "It'll be easier that way."

"Easy enough for you to say," he grumbled.

"Come on, Harry," Ron prodded.

He glared at his friends. "Why me?"

"You're the only one of us who knows everything from the beginning," Hermione replied, coolly logical. "From the *very* beginning."

"She's quite right, Mr. Potter," Will agreed, crushing Harry's fleeting hope of appealing to him for a respite. "It's your story, after all."

There was no way round it. "Fine."

He stalked over to the table, looking as put out as he dared to be with Will's sharp eyes still upon him, and sat down heavily in his chair.

The others took their seats, outwardly calm but inwardly relieved that they would not be the ones to tell the complicated tale. Colin slid nervously into his place opposite Harry. A hopeful grin quirked the corners of his mouth, though it was quickly withdrawn as a wave of shyness overtook him. Colour flooded his cheeks, and he ducked his head bashfully.

"Right," Harry said gruffly. "D'you remember last year, when a bunch of us had to hear that extra lecture on Defence Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies...."

Mindful of the time, he told the story as quickly as he could, digging in the dusty corners of his mind. Hermione was right: the telling did come more easily the more he spoke. He had never believed that he had a gift for story telling, especially when the stories involved him--it felt too much like boasting, too much like being a show off. But he talked, and talked, and was interrupted only when Hermione corrected him as to detail, when Ron added some sarcastic comment to one of his statements, when Ginny scolded her brother for his comments, and when Neville tried to shush the others so Harry could continue.

Colin listened attentively. He squirmed at Harry's near-capture on the train to Exeter, grinned at the retelling of Neville's verbal besting of Professor Snape, paled considerably at a carefully edited description of Mrs. Weasley's funeral, bristled with almost comic indignation at the darker story behind the cheating scandal, and furrowed his brow as he tried to remember the magically erased image of the Dementors on horseback. But more often than not his eyes would turn to Will, who was leaning back in his chair with his chin propped on one hand as he listened to Harry spin out his tale. An odd searching quality would sharpen the expression on the younger boy's face, only to fade as he jerked his attention back to the lengthening story.

A very thirsty Harry finally concluded with a hoarse, "...so I told the others to meet us here at seven tonight, and...well, here we are."

"Ten minutes," Will said absently. "Very well done."

"I'll say." Neville grinned. "I couldn't have done that in a million years."

Harry swallowed the mass of phlegm that had built up in his throat and grunted something unintelligible in reply. His tongue felt thick and heavy, and he would have given all the money in his Gringotts vault for a large glass of water. His head had started to ache as well.

Colin looked over at Will. "Would you...I mean, can I...could I ask you...?" Another wave of shyness cut him off in the middle of his sentence.

"Ask away," the older man said. "Though your friends would tell you that you might not like my answers."

"Okay." Colin fidgeted in his chair. "I *think* I understand, sort of. I mean, lots of things make more sense now, 'specially some of what happened after Christmas and everything. But how come...and this is a really stupid question, sir, and you've probably explained it already and I don't--"

"Easy now," Will said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "The question first. Everything else afterward."

"Sorry." Colin tried again, more slowly. "Why...why did those Aurors erase our memories? Us on the train, I mean."

Will sniffed. "They probably wanted to keep your parents from yanking all of you out of school. Can you imagine trying to tell your mother that you and your schoolmates were besieged by Dark creatures intent on devouring your soul? Particularly after what I'm told happened to you during your first year here?"

Colin shuddered. "It was awful."

Hermione, who had shared Colin's experience with the basilisk, smiled sympathetically, but her smile quickly faded when he continued:

"Mum didn't let me out of her sight that whole summer."

The Old One laughed quietly. "I rest my case."

Colin laughed as well. His smile wasn't quite so shy.

"But what *I* don't understand," Neville began, sensing a break in the conversation, "is why the four of us ended up on the train in the first place."

"Me, too" Hermione said, nodding. "Professor McGonagall was asking me about it on the ride back, and I didn't know what to tell her. I said to her that it was the stones you gave us, but--"

"No," said Will. "That isn't possible."

"It's not?"

"If it was, it shouldn't have been. The spells that I placed upon your stones aren't designed to affect the user--certainly not in such an alarming fashion. You can use them to see and observe, yes, but that wasn't what I had in mind when I gave them to you. They were intended as a warning device against the Dark, not for anything as dangerous as teleportation. Whatever put you on the train was not the work of the Light."

Hermione already had her next question prepared, even if she fumbled a little when choosing her words. "But you said that Mad...I mean, that Profe...*Mr.* Moody also put spells on the stones--spells to detect the Unforgivable Curses. Could your magic and his have reacted to each other?"

"That was what I thought when I wrote to Alastor Moody early last week, asking him for his opinions about the matter. And his reply informed me, in no uncertain terms, that it wasn't possible."

Hermione almost put her hand in the air, but remembered where she was and hastily put it down. "But if he--"

"He had no explanation as to why you should have been transported to the Hogwarts Express. Instead, he advised me--rather unhelpfully--to accept the whole thing as a 'Potter Effect'." He smiled ironically at the thought. "And that's a direct quote."

"So if he doesn't know, and you don't know...." she trailed off, frowning.

"I prefer to see it as a highly volatile combination of competing magics and human emotion." Will took off his glasses and started to polish the lenses. "You wanted to know more, to know what was going on and to help even if it meant putting yourselves at risk. And your heightened state of emotion, combined with several powerful location- based spells and greatly amplified by the energy of multiple casters--"

He stopped suddenly, and put his glasses back on. "But there I go, lecturing again."

He had stopped himself just in time. Neville and Ron's eyes had almost completely glazed over, and Harry wasn't far behind them. Hermione's eyes, however, had been sparkling with absolute fascination. She looked more than a little distraught at the end of the discourse on magical theory. A sour look had developed on Ginny's face, presumably from the thought of the brave stupidity of her brother and his friends. Colin was gnawing his lower lip, plainly confused but trying not to show it.

Will sat up very straight, and inclined his head soberly. "Whatever the cause, I sincerely apologise for putting you four in danger. In the end the fault does lie with me."

There was an awkward beat where no one seemed to know what to say. Harry's cheeks felt hot, and although he was sitting close to fire he knew it wasn't from the flames.

"Shall we go, then?" Will stood, pushing his chair away from the table. "It's nearly half-past."

The students got to their feet. Half a dozen people crammed into a relatively small room made manoeuvring difficult at first, but after a moment's scuffle they were clustered by the door. Ron was about to turn the handle, but Will suddenly cleared his throat, stopping him before he could open the door.

The Old One had not moved from his position before the fire, and the flames behind him created an odd silhouette effect, throwing him into shadow. He waited until the sounds of shuffling feet and rustling robes had died down before he spoke.

"I ought to warn you, before we leave this room, that the meeting we are about to attend will touch upon painful matters." His voice was serious, though not without compassion. "You may be confronted with memories you would rather see forgotten, or hear things that confuse or alarm you. But you must know that you are not alone in this."

He closed his eyes, and the fire in the grate went out as suddenly as if he had poured a bucket of water over it.

"Six drove out the Dark before. Six will do so again." His final words came to them across of the darkness of the room. "Remember this, whatever you hear tonight."

        *        *        *

A ticklish murmur of conversation and talk poured out of Dumbledore's office through the partially open door. As Will pushed the door inward, Harry gazed at the people within with a strange, floating detachment, as if he was a bored theatregoer watching the curtain rise on the second act of a mediocre play.

The office furniture and random knickknacks had been moved out of the way, clearing a very large space in the centre of the room. In the centre was a wide circle of more than a dozen mismatched chairs, some more comfortable-looking than others. The large fire was lit, as were innumerable candles over their heads. A gust of warm air wafted past their faces.

But above all, Dumbledore's office seemed to be crammed full of people. Indeed, with their arrival there were more people in the room than Harry had ever seen in there at one time.

Sitting before the fire was Professor Snape, deep in earnest discussion with a grave-faced Dumbledore. Fawkes was perched precariously on the mantle above them, preening his glossy feathers. Dumbledore did not turn their way, but Snape saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced sideways at the opening door. His jaw tightened briefly, as if he hadn't liked what he had seen. With barely a pause he resumed his conversation.

Standing off to one side was Professor McGonagall. She was listening politely, if not attentively, to a man that Harry didn't know. The man was thin, fair-haired and fair-skinned, with a fast-receding hairline that made him look older than he probably was. His gestures were fluid and animated, punctuating whatever he was saying. Neither he nor McGonagall noticed the newcomers.

Closest to the door was Mrs. Figg, draped in the vivid black and rich scarlet of her official costume. She was chatting with another man who in only the kindest of terms would be described as 'well-fed'. His vast stomach strained the front of his out-of-fashion robes. His wrinkled, florid face swelled with laughter at a joke he had just made.

Mrs. Figg was the first to notice their arrival.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, advancing on them. "I was just wondering when you'd all decide to make your grand entrance." Her gravely voice turned the statement into something of an accusation, though her eyes snapped and sparkled with mirth.

Will took the hand she held out to him and bowed over it.

"Fashionably early, madam," he intoned wryly.

She chuckled as he released her hand, and ushered them away from the door, toward the centre of the room. Harry and the others followed Will closely, crowding round him like a band of nervous ducklings trailing after a mother duck.

"I think you know most everyone here," Mrs. Figg said. "We're still waiting on a few people, but I can start the introductions now. Save us some time later."

As if on cue, the red-faced man she had been speaking to swaggered toward them.

"Evening all!" he boomed. One or two candle flames on the nearby wall wavered, flickering with the force of his voice.

"First boy." Mrs. Figg jerked her head in his direction. "This apoplectic lout here is--"

"Fletcher," the man proclaimed. "Mundungus Fletcher, Department of Magical Catastrophes--Head of the Dark Arts and Practices Division."

He could have been anywhere between forty and seventy years old; between the wrinkles and the hearty, youthful grin it was difficult to tell. For all his bulk, he had a force of personality that exuded great energy, rather like a manic Father Christmas. His eyes were dark and shrewd in his fleshy face, revealing more intelligence than one might have suspected at first glance.

Mrs. Figg ran through their names as Fletcher moved among them with his greetings. "Hermione Granger, Colin Creevey, Ron and Ginny Weasley--"

"Can't ever forget a Weasley," Fletcher said, his grin widening. "No matter how many of you lot there are." He shook their hands with the whirlwind, practised impartiality of one used to attending political functions.

"--Neville Longbottom, and Harry Potter," Mrs. Figg continued, ignoring him. "And you've met Dr. Stanton before."

"Busy year for you, Mr. Fletcher," Will murmured as the other man gripped his hand and began to wring it reverently.

"You might say that, sir," Fletcher replied good-naturedly. "You might say that. We've had enough paperwork to fill Gringotts twice over. And speaking of paper...."

He half-turned, and called out to the young man who was chatting with McGonagall. "Here, de Havilland, have you met Dr. Stanton yet?"

The young man spun round, startled.

"Dr. Stanton?" His voice was light and cultured, with the clipped speech of a radio newsreader. "I'm certain I would have remembered if I had."

Professor McGonagall nodded to them, then quietly excused herself and drifted over to where Dumbledore and Snape were seated.

Mr. de Havilland stepped aside to let her pass by him and approached their group. One hand flew up to his forehead to smooth back what little remained of his hair. The other was extended in hesitant greeting.

"Vincent de Havilland, sir," he said, taking Will's hand. "An honour to meet you at last."

Harry frowned suddenly, thinking. There was *something* about both Fletcher and de Havilland's voices, something in the way they spoke to the unassuming anthropology professor that was...no, not exactly respect, not deference, but an *awareness* of something. He couldn't put it into words, not even to himself. It was frustrating.

Will smiled. "My pleasure, Mr. de Havilland."

Another round of handshakes and introductions followed. By the time they had dispensed with the greetings, de Havilland looked more than a little starstruck at being in the presence of so many celebrities.

"Are you in the Ministry as well, Mr. de Havilland?" Hermione asked in the prim, polite voice she tended to reserve for teachers.

"Good heavens, no," Fletcher said before the younger man could reply. "This here"--he slapped de Havilland on the back, nearly knocking him off his feet and into Ron--"is THE best managing editor the Prophet's ever had, and I'm not just saying that. You wouldn't *believe* some of the stuff that used to get printed before he came along." He wrinkled his nose. "Take that awful Skeeter woman, for instance. I don't know how the editors could allow a harpy like that--"

"Mundungus, *please*." de Havilland stared down at his feet, cringing with embarrassment.

"Don't you say 'please' to me, young man," Fletcher retorted archly, folding his arms across his chest--or rather, over top of his stomach. "I've heard you call her things that I won't repeat in mixed company."

With that said, he turned on his heel and strode away toward where McGonagall and Dumbledore were listening to Snape talk.

"T-t-terribly sorry...please excuse me..." de Havilland spluttered. He bobbed his head to them and hurried after the older man.

"*He's* the editor of the Daily Prophet?" Ron asked incredulously, staring at the rapidly retreating back.

"Six months now, it's been," Mrs. Figg replied. "He's a good enough lad. Was in Hufflepuff when he was here. Does the job, enthusiastic, loves his work. The Prophet needed someone like him."

"Rather convenient for you as well, to have such excellent press connections," Will said neutrally.

She raised an eyebrow. "He's useful enough, when you need to keep things quiet."

"Ah." Will's tone remained neutral. "Wonderful thing, a free press."

"Free press?" The old woman snorted. "You take my word for it--young de Havilland's better than most. He at least puts up a fight when we tell him to kill a story."

It was Will's turn to raise an eyebrow. "I don't know whether to admire your honesty or deplore your lack of principles, so I think I'll quietly excuse myself and say hello to your former colleagues."

He drifted over to the crowd near the fire, leaving the six children huddled together in a defensive little knot.

Mrs. Figg wrinkled her nose. "And *I* don't know how you've put up with him for so long," she said to them. "Is he usually this much of a prig or have I caught him on an off night?"

Her tone was flippant, but Harry could detect the same odd note of awareness in her voice that he had heard in de Havilland's and Fletcher's. Tempered by her usual acidity, perhaps, but there nonetheless.

Mrs. Figg looked ready to add a few more choice remarks about Dr. Will Stanton, but just as she opened her mouth there was a knock at the door.

"Seems I'm playing hostess tonight," she said as she strolled over to answer the knock.

Standing in the doorway was Remus, with Snuffles's massive bulk sitting close beside him. Remus had a firm grip on the dog's collar.

"I thought there was a leash law in this country, Lupin," Mrs. Figg drawled, looking directly at Snuffles as she spoke. "Mustn't let a mongrel like this run loose."

Snuffles gave a low growl, baring rows of gleaming teeth. He strained forward, pulling Remus into the room. Once they were safely inside and the door was closed, the Animagus resumed his human form with a pop.

"Who are you calling a mongrel, you shrivelled-up old bat?" he barked.

Sirius may have towered over her by a good six inches, but the old woman let out a cackle of laughter, completely unintimidated by him.

"Well, well, what's this?" she said, clucking her tongue and looking him up and down. "You didn't get all tarted up just to meet us, did you?"

Even in jest, she was being truthful. Both men wore what Harry suspected were their nicest robes, sporting fewer patches and mending marks than their usual clothing. Sirius in particular had made an effort to tidy himself up. He was clean shaven, and although his fingernails showed signs of having been chewed short they were neatly trimmed and clean. He had brushed out his long hair, pulled it back and tied it with a length of string to keep it out of his face. With just that little bit of care, he looked less like a dangerous fugitive and more like a respectable young wizard who had simply fallen on hard times.

Remus put a restraining hand on Sirius' shoulder, and smiled at Mrs. Figg. "You don't like it, Arabella?" he asked mildly.

"At least you're making an effort, for once," she retorted.

Hermione suddenly spoke up. "I think they look very nice."

"Do you?" Mrs. Figg couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Yes," she said firmly. Something in her would not allow her to stand by and let a Hogwarts professor be jeered at, even if a former Hogwarts professor was the one doing the jeering. But to prove her point, she needed to go a step further. "Don't you think so, Ginny?"

Ginny was staring at Sirius as if she'd never seen him before. A faint flush had crept into her cheeks.

"I'll say," she blurted out. The flush rapidly blossomed into a full vermilion blush when she realised what she had said.

"It seems I'm outnumbered," the older woman said, sniggering.

With another growl Sirius wrenched his attention away from the old woman, shifting his indignation onto his godson. "All right, Harry, you promised us that...."

"Am I missing something?"

Harry looked over his shoulder to see Will walking toward them. His friends quickly drew aside, clearing a spot for Will to stand just behind him.

"Back so soon?" Mrs. Figg asked. "Conversation not to your liking, I take it?"

Will said nothing, so she grunted and turned back to Remus and Sirius, prepared to initiate another round of introductions. "Now, gentlemen, this is--"

Will raised a hand, stopping her. "Actually, we've met already."

"H...have you?" She glanced at him, then back at the newcomers. Her eyes narrowed. "And when might that have been, may I ask?"

It was easy to see why she did not believe him. Remus was stunned into complete immobility; his mouth hung slightly open. He certainly remembered meeting Harry's 'friend', but his eyes darted from Will to Harry as he tried to draw a logical conclusion from insufficient information.

Sirius was also staring, though there was more puzzlement than shock on his face. He squinted at Will, looking for a clue that would allow him to recall when--or if--they'd met.

"It's been a while since we last had a proper conversation." Will's faint smile had returned. "Twenty-odd years or so. I don't imagine they'd remember me in connection with my younger self."

Remus drew a sharp breath.

"Younger...?" Sirius trailed off, perplexed.

"Then you...oh, never mind." Mrs. Figg waved one hand dismissively and returned to her introduction, a tad miffed at the interruption. "Well, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, may I *once again* introduce Dr. Will Stanton of the University of Cambridge."

The singular flash of recognition showed that the name had clicked in Remus's mind, but not in Sirius's.

"Professor Lupin. Mr. Black." Will smiled warmly. "Harry's told me so much about you both. He's a very fortunate young man to have you as guardians, and as friends."

"Angh..." Sirius croaked, then hastily cleared his throat. He stuck out his hand and braved a smile. "I mean, thank you. I only wish that Harry...or *someone*..."--he shot an openly hostile glance at Mrs. Figg--"had told us more about you."

"I had my orders, Black," the old woman said sourly as the two men shook hands. "Need-to-know basis only--neither of you needed to know. Doesn't take brains to figure it out. And unlike Snape over there, you two generally don't go about barging in where you're not invited."

"SNAPE?" Sirius hissed, whirling on Harry once more. "You told SNAPE before you told US?"

"I...I'm sorry," Harry stammered, quailing under the double force of his guardians' glares. "I wanted to tell you, honestly. But it was just--"

Will swooped into the conversation with the deftness of a bomb squad technician about to defuse an explosive device. "Professor Snape was less than pleased to see me, Mr. Black." He turned to Remus. "And I think you'll agree, Professor, that our last meeting wasn't exactly the right time or place to make introductions."

Remus nodded dumbly. Sirius was still fuming, but a loud noise from the direction of the fireplace made all heads turn to see what had happened.

The flames had gone the brilliant green of Floo Powder, and a tall, thin wizard had just stepped out of the fire. He was brushing soot from his robes. Harry's heart did a double flip in his chest when he saw who had arrived.

It was Arthur Weasley.

"Terribly sorry to be late, Minis...Albus," Mr. Weasley was saying to Dumbledore. He nodded distracted greetings to Snape and McGonagall. "Finishing up some paperwork from the last raid on the Trumpington estate. Leave it to Hector Trumpington to mess about with--"

Ron had been facing away from the fire, but he spun round at the sound of his father's voice.

"DAD?" he said, disbelievingly.

Mr. Weasley jumped.

"Ron?" He did a double take. "Ginny? What are you...oh!" One hand fluttered to his throat as he caught sight of Will.

"Come in, Arthur," Dumbledore said kindly, guiding him away from the hearth before his robes could catch fire. "Don't worry, you're not late. It's only just seven-thirty now."

He raised his voice, addressing the assembled adults and students. "Shall we start, everyone?"

And like that, the meeting began.

The idle socialising stopped, and those who had been standing found chairs round the circle and sat down. There was a tense moment when Sirius had to walk past Professor Snape to reach the seat beside Remus, but nothing worse than a deep glare passed between the two men.

When all had taken their places, one could see a definite pattern to the seating arrangement. Dumbledore sat closest to the fire. Fawkes settled quite comfortably on the back of his owner's chair, as if he intended to listen in, too. Snape, McGonagall, and Lupin--the three faculty members--sat to his left, and Mundungus Fletcher, Mrs. Figg, and Mr. Weasley--the three Ministry officials--sat to his right. Sitting directly opposite Dumbledore was Will, with the six children arranged in a similar fashion: Ron, Hermione, and Harry to Will's right; Ginny, Neville, and Colin to his left. Sirius and Vincent de Havilland occupied a sort of no-man's-land on either side.

As Harry sat down, he felt Sirius take his hand and squeeze it, hard. He squeezed back, trying to be reassuring.

There was no offering of tea or the normally ubiquitous hot cocoa: Dumbledore came to the point straightaway. "First of all, whom should we know about?"

"Alastor and young Linchley are out at Azkaban," Mrs. Figg said, clasping her hands round her knee. "As it seems we can't work with the Dementors now, everyone's on rotating shifts to keep things under control there."

"How is it?"

Her face darkened. "Not going as well as we'd like. Fortunately, the effects of prolonged Dementor exposure haven't worn off yet. But it's only a matter of time before someone gets up enough strength to make a break for it."

"I see. And the Dementors?"

"Patronus casting is holding them so far. There're enough people to keep them under control at the moment."

"Do you need anything?"

"We're all right for now. Believe me, when we need something, you'll know."

"I'm sure you will, Arabella. Thank you. And as Hagrid left just this evening, we're otherwise all present and accounted for." His quiet gaze moved past her, to Fletcher. "Anything to report?"

The large man shook his head. "We've been turning that bloody train inside out all week, but there's nothing wrong with it. The only thing we found was that the emergency brake in the engine had been pulled."

"Pulled?" Mr. Weasley asked sharply.

"Pulled," Fletcher repeated. "Manually. No magic used at all, not even a trace of it." His jolly face was grave. "No one tampered with that train, Albus. At least, not from the outside."

"Mm," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Arthur, Vincent, any news?"

"Nothing new in the raids," Mr. Weasley said briskly, in a tone very different from that of the absent-minded man Harry knew. "Suspicious things, yes, but then again that's the rule rather than the exception in my line of work. We're taking every precaution, of course."

"There was a bit of a row over the last Sunday issue, but it was about the advertisements, not the articles." de Havilland pulled out a large white handkerchief and mopped his shining forehead. "The Borgin and Burkes representative was rather adamant about keeping their regular double on the fourth page."

"Why is that?" Dumbledore asked.

"Well..." de Havilland hesitated, but decided to plough on. "You see, sir, we've recently switched the obituaries to the fourth page, where there's more space. All of the other businesses who have space on that page have agreed to change the location of their advertisements. But Borgin and Burkes informed us that, given recent events, the overall readership--"

Fletcher grimaced. "Don't say it, man."

"Abominable taste," McGonagall murmured, deeply disgusted.

"About what you'd expect from Knockturn Alley's premiere shopping establishment," Mrs. Figg declared in a voice that dared anyone to challenge her.

Dumbledore sighed. "Well, then, if there is no further points that should be brought to our attention, my main reason for convening this meeting is a matter of some delica--"

"Oh, just tell them, Albus," Snape broke in waspishly.

It was the first time Harry had heard him speak all evening; there was a rough edge to the normal icy smoothness of the Potions Master's tongue. Snape fixed the assembled company with his glittering glare, and said flatly:

"My services are no longer required by the Dark Lord."

The responses ranged from de Havilland's strangled gasp to a long, slow hiss of expelled breath from Sirius.

The questions came rapid fire.

Mrs. Figg was first. "When?"

Snape's face was under tight control, so tight one could see bluish ropes of veins standing out on his neck. "There was a...meeting, very early last Saturday morning. Even *he* never calls us at that hour, so it was plain that something was wrong."

"But you went anyway?" Fletcher asked.

"When one is Called, one comes, or does not dare to come again. But once the...formalities...were out of the way, the Dark Lord informed us that he knew of a Ministry spy in our midst. And asked his loyal Death Eaters what should be done about it."

His thin lips twisted into a grimace of a smile. "I'd been expecting it, you understand. They've had enough plans go awry recently to raise suspicions. I listened with half an ear to them bandy accusations and toss curses about--until Nott stepped forward.

"He'd been tortured, of course. You could practically smell it on him. He rattled off some statement about how he'd informed me of the attack plans on the Hogwarts the week before, and had thought nothing of it until he'd heard it had failed. Then, like the ever-faithful servant he was, he had immediately hurried to tell his Lord that Severus Snape had turned traitor once again.

"Even a child could have seen it for what it was. No one knew about the attack beforehand, least of all me. But once that was out, one thing led to another, and before I knew it someone had cast a Pendeo Charm and I was hanging from the ceiling upside down." His smile was frigid, mirthless.

"What was it that tipped them off?" Remus asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"Must've been the Gringotts raid," Fletcher muttered to Dumbledore. "I knew we should've been more discreet about the precautions."

"There *was* no Gringotts raid," Snape snapped, glowering at the Ministry official. "That was the next thing that came out. For at least the last six weeks--and probably before that--all the plans and orders I've received have been feed."

Mr. Weasley gasped.

Mrs. Figg swore.

Sirius squeezed Harry's hand so tightly that the bones ground against each other.

Dumbledore looked very tired all of a sudden.

"Feed?" de Havilland asked timidly.

Snape whirled round, pinning the other man to his chair with a burning look.

"Feed, you fool. Trash. Tripe." He leaned forward and spoke with exaggerated slowness, pronouncing every syllable carefully as if he was speaking to a very dull child. "Mis-in-for-ma-tion."

"And they just *let* you go?" Mrs. Figg said severely.

"Why not? Nearly everything I've reported for the last few months has been false, one way or another." His hands were shaking badly; Harry had never seen Snape so on edge. "There was no midnight raid planned on Gringotts, no plot to torch the houses of Muggle-born witches and wizards, no kidnapping attempts, no robberies, no poisoning the wells, nothing. They've been feeding me lies the whole time, and fool that I am I ate them all up."

Dumbledore reached out and took one of Snape's hands, but Snape recoiled, yanking his hand away.

"Like a fool," he repeated bitterly, casting a baleful glance at the former Headmaster. "Like a damned fool."

"We all knew it would happen, Severus," Dumbledore said softly, but the softness concealed a steely edge. "Sooner or later. We can only be thankful that you are still with us now. You are still alive."

Snape laughed, a laugh with no humour in it. "Thankful?"

"Yes." The voice was still soft, but this time the steel was no longer concealed. "Thankful."

The Potions Master was silent. His body seemed to shrink, to draw inward. The arrogant sneer that at times seemed a permanent part of his features slowly left his face, and his chin sank into his robes until only the cold black glitter of eyes remained against the dull black fabric.

Dumbledore spoke to Snape. "Who did know about the attack on the Hogwarts Express, then?"

"Only Wormtail, as far as I could tell." Snape's voice, so alive and cutting moments before, had become a listless monotone. "And whatever guards he had to bribe at Azkaban."

"By Wormtail, you mean Peter Pettigrew," de Havilland said.

"Unless you know of any other Wormtail," Sirius growled, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

de Havilland quickly shut his mouth.

"But why was he there at all?" Fletcher tapped his foot on the floor. "Dementors would have been enough, surely. Especially if they were on horses, as I've been told."

"Horses." Mrs. Figg huffed. "What next?"

"May I hazard a guess?"

All eyes turned to Will. Even Snape briefly glanced in Will's general direction before sinking back into private contemplation of his own miseries.

Dumbledore said, "By all means, Dr. Stanton."

Harry noticed again that sense of awareness. *But it's always been there,* he just as quickly told himself. *You haven't really noticed it before tonight.*

Will paused, collecting his thoughts.

"I think--and this is only guesswork, mind--that the creature you call Wormtail used his Animagus form to creep onto the train at Hogsmeade Station. He could conceal himself somewhere near the front of the train and hide there until the appropriate time...which for some reason happened to be just outside Doncaster."

"There’s a long stretch of rail there," McGonagall said, though no one had asked for explanation. "Open country--not many towns or villages. Nowhere to pass through."

Will nodded sagely. "So it would seem that he hid and waited. And with surprise on his side, he would need only one spell to fell the driver, another to set off the emergency braking system--"

"And then he'd turn back into a rat to watch the Dementors at their work," Sirius finished. His voice was seething with rage.

"But when he saw that someone was ruining his master's plan..." Remus began, piecing things together.

"He panicked." Will turned to McGonagall. "Headmistress, you were there. Did you get a good look at the front of the train?"

"Yes."

"Did you happen to find the engine driver?"

Professor McGonagall looked startled, and a little ashamed. "Why, no."

"Then you probably never will," Will said grimly.

McGonagall removed her glasses and tenderly massaged the bridge of her nose.

Will continued, more delicately. "Though we can't be entirely certain how he disposed of the body--"

"There are ways," Mrs. Figg interrupted, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. "They don't need to be mentioned here. And the man wouldn't have to be dead for them to work, either."

"So he deals with the driver--how he does so is not important--then hurries to the rear of the train to see what has happened. And when he arrives...." He turned to Ron, and said apologetically, "I don't mean to force you, but--"

"It's all right, sir." Ron's face was very pale, but the hand that pulled aside the collar of his robe did not tremble.

Reflexively, Arthur Weasley's hand fluttered upward once again to clutch at his own throat. His gentle eyes were wide and dark with horror.

"Ron!" he choked out, transfixed by the mottled, fading bruises that encircled his youngest son's neck.

Ginny was never one to let an opportunity go by. "You idiot," she whispered furiously, staring down at her trembling hands clenched tightly in her lap.

"Miss Weasley." Will's voice was reproving, though it was missing the sharpness that would have made it a true reprimand. "Fortunately, that particular stretch of track runs upon the ghost of an ancient magic- bordered road--an Old Way. Its power can be harnessed to break the power of the Dark. But I couldn't risk anything unless both Wormtail and young Mr. Weasley were standing on the track. I was lucky."

The choice of pronoun changed the colour of Arthur Weasley's face from white to greyish yellow. Little red splotches stood out on his neck where the pressure from his fingertips had marked the skin. He was unable to speak.

"I'm okay, Dad," Ron said hastily, frightened by the expression on his father's face. "Really, it's all right."

Mr. Weasley did not look at all reassured.

"With their Patronus Charms, young Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter saved over two dozen lives that night," Will said. "Knowing the Dementors, that much is plain. But *my* question to all of you is this: what would have happened if the Dementors had taken control of the train?"

"Any number of things," replied McGonagall, seeking to regain some of her normal efficient manner. "You'd strand nearly all the students at the school...only one or two live in Hogsmeade proper. In the event of a direct siege, we would have no fast way to evacuate students or teachers."

Remus added, almost as an afterthought, "To some extent we'd be held hostage here."

"The Dark Lord could use it to launch raids on London proper," Fletcher said. "Even--no, *especially* on Muggle London. You'd have a ruddy great horde of Dementors sweeping through King's Cross, with Death Eaters behind to finish off those who get away...."

"You're forgetting the train itself," Mr. Weasley commented. His work had taught him never to neglect the object acting as the vessel for magic. "The Hogwarts Express...that's a large source of energy to tap for Dark purposes. Far larger than anything we could muster at short notice." The tremor in his voice was noticeable, but under control.

"And the psychological advantage as well," said Mrs. Figg. "Who's to say that wizards and witches wouldn't flock to him, offering whatever they had to give in exchange for their children's lives? Especially if they had a train full of living corpses as proof of his intent?"

As the ominous possibilities and conjectures came forth, each one worse than the last, Harry found that he was straining to pay attention. The words were running right out of his head like sand whispering through a sieve. The voices jumbled together, growing dimmer, under there was nothing but a mass of low noise buzzing in the back of his mind. But in place of the voices, a different and entirely too familiar sensation swelled to fill the gap.

Without realising it, he had begun to probe the emotions of the room.

His hand wasn't anywhere close to the warestone--in fact, Sirius was still clinging tightly to the hand that would have been nearest his pocket--but he was doing it all the same. And even then, once he realised what was going on he surrendered eagerly to the feeling. Adults, he well knew, always tended to hide the worst from children, unconsciously seeking to shield them from the darker side of reality. Far better to find it all out now than learn of it later.

It was a struggle to see clearly, at first. He was almost foundered by the great, dismal waves of misery that Professor Snape exuded like a foul miasma. The misery was a combination of separate strident emotions: anger and self-loathing and a crushing sense of failure, liberally mixed with what Harry thought at first was remorse. After a moment, however, he changed his mind. It was unmistakeably self-pity.

Once he had recognised and registered one set of emotions, he reached out again, testing and probing. The next strongest feeling he could detect was coming from--

*Mr. Potter. That isn't polite.*

Will's silent voice broke into his thoughts, ruthlessly snapping his concentration.

*But I...I didn't mean...* he started to say.

*You are among friends here. There's no need for that.*

The coldness of the admonishment brought a hot surge of shame rushing to Harry's face. *S...sorry, sir.*

Not wanting to leave himself open to further rebuke, he wrenched his mind out of the daze. It skipped a few times, like a stone skimming across a calm lake, to land firmly in conscious thought.

Fortunately, no one had noticed his distraction. The adult witches and wizards were still talking, and his friends were listening quietly, no doubt forming their own conclusions. Will was listening as well; none would have guessed that he and Harry had just been carrying on a private conversation of their own.

Apparently, the subject of Dementor attacks had been left behind for the time being. Three stiff sheets of glossy paper were being passed from hand to hand, and by the looks on the faces of the adults it was plain that Colin Creevey's photographs were having quite an impact. He had missed part of the conversation, but those who weren't absorbed in studying the photographs had tight, tense expressions.

Snape's raised voice was the first thing that clearly registered in Harry's head.

"Out of the question. If you publish that, Wormtail will be dead before the first person looks at the front page the next day." He might have been stating a physical absolute, like the boiling point of water.

Vincent de Havilland frowned at him. "Come now, Snape, that's going a little too far."

"'Too far'?" Snape sneered. "Well, I wouldn't show that little picture to Mr. Mandelbrot Phipps, if I were you."

"Mandelbrot PHIPPS?" de Havilland shouted, aghast. Snape might have been spitting on his grandmother's grave, he was that taken aback. "You're mad! The man's been on our staff for fifty years, if a day!"

Snape's sneer deepened, and de Havilland continued, shaken, "Why not three days ago...surely you *must* have seen that op-ed piece he wrote! Blasting the Ministry for not doing more to track down the St Mungo's suspects...you should've *seen* the replies...he couldn't...he CAN'T be a--"

"You should hear him when he's been drinking," Snape interrupted in the cold, silky voice he used for pointing out the more obvious errors of his students. "A few glasses of Ogden Old Firewhiskey and he'll proudly rattle off every single hex he cast at King's Cross Station. In chronological order."

de Havilland's mouth snapped shut. The room was so quiet that Harry could hear Colin's fast, irregular breathing, amplified by the silence.

Seeing that he had commandeered everyone's attention, Snape continued. "The Dark Lord has kept Wormtail with him for two reasons: he's easily manipulated and he's legally dead."

Mrs. Figg said knowingly, "Take away one of those and he becomes a liability,"

"And we all know what THAT will mean. And then you'll have no proof of anything, Black, so don't curl your lip at ME." The last was directed at Sirius, who was regarding Snape with the look of a man who has seen something loathsome crawl out from under a stone.

"Severus has raised some valid points, Sirius," Dumbledore said, not wanting to press the point too greatly.

Sirius's reply came through a clenched jaw. "I've waited fourteen years to see that vermin rot in Azkaban...but I suppose I can wait a little longer."

Dumbledore looked profoundly relieved. "Which means that Mr. Creevey's photographs and negatives must not leave this room, tonight or ever."

Colin's lower lip quivered as he gingerly handed the negatives to de Havilland, and Dumbledore saw it.

"Don't worry," he said soothingly, collecting the remaining photographs that the others passed to him. "They'll be quite safe here."

He set the photographs and negatives on his lap, and tapped the pile with his wand. In the blink of an eye, they had shrunk to the size of postage stamps.

"I will store them in a safe place," he said, tucking the tiny pieces of paper and film into some hidden recess in his robes. "And as a number of us have school or work tomorrow, I think that will be the last order of business for tonight."

He stood, and the room was filled with the sound of rustling robes as the other nine adults and six children got to their feet.

Dumbledore surveyed them all a final time, and said, "I thank you for your attendance, and wish you safe journey."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Ron and Ginny were flying across the room, into the outstretched arms of their father.

Mr. Weasley held them close, his too-pale face buried in the ruddy shock of his children's hair. What was visible of Ginny's face was wet with tears, and Ron's eyes had a suspiciously damp glitter to them. After a moment, Mr. Weasley gently tilted Ron's head up, revealing the mass of bruises. He ran a tender hand across Ron's neck, as if he could wipe the damage away with his touch. Ron, in response, leaned his head against his father's shoulder, closing his eyes. He looked more at peace than Harry had seen him in a very long time.

Watching them made a pang of fierce but guilt-ridden jealousy stir in Harry's heart. He had to turn away.

Turning away, unfortunately, made him run smack into Mrs. Figg.

"Oof!" She stumbled backward, bumping into Will.

"Are you all right?" he asked, steadying her.

"Of course. *You're* a teacher, you should know that one gets used to having brats underfoot."

Harry mumbled a not very apologetic apology and tried to slip past her, but before he had taken two steps she reached out, collared him, and pulled him toward her.

She rapped him on the head with her knuckles and cocked an eyebrow at Will. "Speaking of brats, has *this* one been giving you trouble? More than the usual Potter Effect-related incidents, that is."

"Quite the contrary," Will replied sincerely. "Mr. Potter and his colleagues have been of immeasurable help. The Light owes them a debt of gratitude far beyond my power to repay."

"Smooth." Mrs. Figg smirked at him. "Very smooth. Ever the clever turn of phrase, Dr. Stanton."

Will shrugged, putting on a grin of false modesty. "One picks things up along the way."

"Cryptic."

"So I've been told."

"Shrouded in mystery."

"How else?"

"Absolutely insufferable."

"Madam, you make me blush."

The old woman laughed. "Well, it's a comfort to know that some things in this world won't change. Dark wizards may come and go, but Will Stanton will never give you a straight answer if he can help it." Chuckling at her own joke, she stumped away.

No sooner had she left them than Remus and Sirius had hastened forward and taken her place. From the speed with which they approached, they'd had a hasty exchange of ideas and were now in search of the answers that Harry had been unwilling--or unable--to supply. They didn't bother with greetings or formalities this time.

"'One picks things up along the way'?" Remus repeated, frowning. "That *was* what you said to Arabella just now, wasn't it?"

Will nodded, patiently waiting for the other half of the question to surface.

"And you said that we met twenty years ago?"

"Give or take a few years, yes."

"You were at King's Cross," Sirius stated suddenly. He sounded confident, completely sure of his memory. "First year--our first year. At the end of the Easter holidays. You were there...you were--"

"Waiting for a delayed train to Slough."

"But trains going to Slough don't leave from King's Cross," Remus said slowly. "They leave from Paddington."

"Ah." Will's eyes lit up. "I wondered if you would remember that."

Sirius grunted. "So if that was the case, why were you there?"

"I was waiting for you, naturally. That was the first and the last time the five of you would all go home for Easter...am I right?"

The sudden fear that flashed across Sirius's face showed that whatever answer he had expected to hear, Will's response was nowhere near it.

"And...and you knew we would be there?" he asked, his voice a ragged whisper. "And who we were?"

"Yes, and yes. Well, a modified 'yes' for the second one," he corrected himself. "I can't take full credit for that."

Before either man could answer, Dumbledore's voice cut across the room. "Dr. Stanton, may I trouble you for a moment?"

"Of course," Will said in a slightly louder voice, then nodded to Remus and Sirius. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen. It's good to see you both well, after so long." And he was gone.

Sirius gaped, at a loss for words.

It was Remus who looked at Harry and asked, "Is...is he?" There was a good deal more to the question than two single-syllable words, but the longer, more complex meaning was plain enough.

"Yes," Harry said simply.

Remus glanced round the room. Snape and McGonagall were gone, off to make a final check of the school before the prefects finished their rounds. Will was with Dumbledore. Mundungus Fletcher and Vincent de Havilland had already departed, presumably by Floo Powder, and Mr. Weasley appeared to be leaving as well. He was over by the bright green fire, giving Ginny a hug as he listened to something Ron was saying. Hermione, Neville, and Colin were clustered together by the door, talking among themselves.

He turned back to Harry.

"Tomorrow night," he said sternly, in a tone that allowed no argument. "Tomorrow night, after dinner, you will come to my office promptly at seven. Your godfather and I need to discuss this further, but tomorrow night should give us ample time for talking. I--WE want the answers, Harry, and you're going to give them to us."

"Fine," Harry said sullenly.

Remus frowned. "And just so you don't 'suddenly discover' that you have a Transfiguration test you need to revise for, consider yourself on detention with me. If you don't show up, you'll have to accept the consequences. Loss of House points, for starters."

"But you'll show up, because I'll be waiting for you, right outside the Gryffindor common room." A dangerous light glittered in Sirius's eyes. "You'll show up if it means I have to haul you there by the scruff of your neck."

"All right, all right, I get it!" Harry threw up his hands. "You don't have to twist my arm."

Sirius nodded curtly to him, and winked at Remus. "Well done, Moony."

"Why, thank you, Padfoot. I haven't lost it quite yet, it seems." Remus flashed an overly polite smile at Harry, and said, "Goodnight, then."

"Sleep well, Harry," Sirius chimed airily, and resumed his Animagus form.

Man and dog exited the room with a regal stride.

Harry felt weak at the knees. Remus was the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, but he had once been and at some level still was a Marauder. He had likely had enough experience with Hogwarts detentions to be a bit more...CREATIVE in his choice of punishments. And if he was angry with Harry....

It didn't bear thinking about.

He let his legs carry him over to where Will and Dumbledore were. Evidently, Mr. Weasley had just left; there was a greenish cast to the flames, Ginny was scrubbing her face with the sleeve of her robe to remove the tear-marks, and Ron was staring into the fire with a glum air. Neither were listening to the adults, but Harry had drifted close enough to pick up what was being said.

"With all due respect, Minister..." Will had started to say, but Dumbledore cut him off with an cough.

"Come now," said the old wizard. "You and I know perfectly well that 'with all due respect' means that you're about to say something you know I don't want to hear." His tone was light, but his face was serious. "Just say it, and I'll respond."

"Very well." Will had the look of a man about to rest his head on the chopping block. "You, Albus Dumbledore, are as wholly short-sighted as Mr. Potter here when it comes to what you like to call destiny. Where is it graven in stone that the defeat of the Dark Lord will mean your death? What ancient prophecy foretells it? What dust-covered, hand- lettered volume contains a passage that proclaims it in the most veiled and...dare I say, cryptic of allusions?" His mouth twisted into an ironic smile. "I'd like to see it, if such a thing exists."

Dumbledore returned the smile without the irony. "I would have thought that you of all people would place faith in prophecy, Dr. Stanton."

"There is little difference between a prophecy and a well-timed and executed bit of doggerel, Minister," Will replied dryly.

Dumbledore said nothing, but his smile made Will sigh quietly and add:

"I only say this for your sake, sir."

"I know. And I am most honoured that you think so highly of me to say so."

"The wizarding world would benefit more from your life than your death. One doesn't need to exercise foresight to know that."

"Has he been doing this to you as well?" Dumbledore stage-whispered to Harry, nudging him. His eyes twinkled merrily.

Harry knew better than to answer with the truth. "No, sir."

"Lucky you." Dumbledore smiled at Will, who was regarding both wizards with thinly veiled dissatisfaction. "Thank you, Dr. Stanton, for your advice. I will keep your thoughts in mind."

His smile was kind, but it was also a dismissal. Will, understanding, bowed formally and left the office without another word, forcing the children to scramble after him.

They finally caught up to him outside the entrance to Dumbledore's office. He was staring at the dust-coated gargoyle that guarded the entrance. They approached him cautiously, as the look on his face showed that his dissatisfaction was no longer hidden.

"I could have been speaking to you, for all the good it will do," they heard him mutter to the gargoyle.

Impassively, the gargoyle stared back.

The Old One made an exasperated-sounding noise.

For the first time, he noticed that the six of them were standing nearby, keeping an wary eye on him and an eye on the nearest escape route down the corridor. He rounded on them, robes billowing.

"What *is* it with all of you?" he demanded. "It can't be purely cultural. Any researcher worth his salt would agree with that conclusion if I were to publish my findings tomorrow." The Cambridge professor--albeit a deeply vexed one--had returned. "So tell me, is there something in the water here, in the food? Is it part of your curriculum, a required class in meaningful last words and dramatic final scenes? Or is it simply one of these odd Gryffindor traits that Professor Snape seems to enjoy ranting about?"

Although keeping silent was not normally among the odd Gryffindor traits, the six children recognised that at that moment it would be safest to do so.

They did not have long to wait before the blaze of anger faded from Will's face, leaving deep lines of exhaustion in its place.

"No, don't tell me," he said wearily. "I have a feeling I'd be better off not knowing."

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August 24th, 2002