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 Thirty - In Strictest Confidence

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Our own heart, and not other men's opinion, forms our true honour.

    -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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Colin was all but asleep on his feet as the six children made the long trek from the Headmaster's office to the Gryffindor common room. He stumbled with every third or fourth step, constantly bumping into Hermione and Ron. Every time he accidentally collided with either of them he would jolt awake and apologise, but more often than not a yawn would break through and his words would be lost in a rush of air. It had been a very long day for him, on many levels, and though he had held up well thus far his stamina was fast failing.

When they reached the Fat Lady's portrait (she was so engrossed in devouring a fancy gilt box of chocolate-covered cherries that she didn't question the lateness of their arrival), Hermione gave the password and the picture frame swung aside. It was well past curfew, so the only students left in the common room were a pair of third-year boys dozing over several opened Ancient Runes textbooks, awash in a sea of crumpled parchment.

While Hermione woke the boys up and helped them gather their discarded papers, Harry and Neville took it upon themselves to guide bleary-eyed Colin to the foot of the stairs. Gentle prodding was enough to keep him moving.

They waited at the bottom until the heavy sound of his footfalls had faded away, and then moved aside to let the groggy third years plod upstairs as well. Once they were certain that all was quiet above, they returned to where Ron, Ginny, and Hermione were standing, warming their hands by the common room fire.

"A Galleon says he'll be out before he can get his shoes off," said Ron, chuckling. He flopped into one of the chairs closest to the fire and stretched out his legs, propping his feet on the little ledge created by the raised stones of the hearth.

"Two Galleons says he won't even bother with his shoes," Harry countered with a smile.

A huge yawn distorted Ginny's grin. Quickly, she hid it behind her hand. "How could you blame him?" she said. "I'm ready for bed myself."

"Bed sounds lovely," Hermione agreed, pushing a dangling strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Is everyone going to bed now?" Neville asked.

"In a bit," said Ron. "There're a few things I need to take care of down here."

"Like what?" Ginny asked.

"Er...." He scuffed the toe of his shoe on the hearthstones. "Like a Divination paper."

"Our essay? But...but that was due today!" Neville looked appalled.

"I've been busy," Ron said with great dignity. "I told Trelawney I couldn't hand it in on time because my horoscope said that today was a bad day to complete unfinished projects."

"Don't tell me she actually believed you." Judging by the expression on Hermione's face, her opinion of Professor Trelawney had sunk to new lows.

Ron smirked. "I also told her that because Harry's horoscope said it was a good day for intellectual pursuits, he'd help me make sure it was perfect."

Harry--who until that point had been dozing peacefully, leaning against the back of Ron's chair--started awake. He spluttered wordlessly.

"Well, we'll leave you alone, then," Hermione said sweetly, though there was more venom than sugar in her voice. "After all, it's important to do well in Divination. But don't stay up *too* late."

That said, she flounced off to the girls' staircase with Ginny not far behind. Neville, glancing from Ron to Harry as if he wasn't sure which of them had the worse luck, mumbled an uncertain "G'night, then" and headed toward the stairs as well.

Still spluttering, Harry turned to Ron, prepared to tell him exactly what he could do with his Divination paper. But the knowing smirk had faded from Ron's face, and at that moment Harry knew that the homework in question had been finished long before.

"Sorry 'bout that," Ron said quietly, a far cry from his jeering tone of moments before. "I didn't want to say anything in front of the others. *You* know how Hermione can get when she really gets going, and...."

He trailed off, then beckoned to Harry, motioning him to sit in the chair opposite. Once Harry had sat down and made himself comfortable, Ron continued in the same quiet voice.

"I just thought you ought to know what Dad and Ginny and I talked about tonight," he said.

Harry bit his lip hard. He was dying to know, naturally. He'd been dying to know ever since they had left Dumbledore's office. But he'd already gotten in trouble once that night for being nosy. Even now he could still hear Will's cold reprimand echoing in his head:

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

An hour later, it still gave him the shivers. And some small part of his conscience (which oddly enough seemed to enjoy using Will Stanton's voice to make itself heard) was insisting that whatever had passed between the Weasley family was none of his business.

"If...only if you're sure," he said, hoping that a show of reluctance would drown out the frosty disapproval of the Voice-That-Sounded-Far- Too-Much-Like-Will. "I mean, I don't want to...."

"Who else am I going to tell?" Ron slid down a little in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest. "And for that matter, who else are YOU going to tell?"

When Harry didn't respond right away, he sniffed knowingly. "Yeah. Thought so."

"Your dad did look pretty surprised to see you," Harry admitted. He tucked his knees up under himself, settling down for a long listen.

"He wasn't expecting to see us--all of us--tonight. He only heard about the meeting a couple days ago, and he thought that it would just be you there."

"Me?"

Ron nodded morosely. "He knew about you. He thought you'd speak for all of us."

"Oh." That made sense in a way. He'd played the central role often enough, willing or not.

"Dad didn't think Ginny and I were as involved. Especially not Ginny."

There was an undercurrent of defensiveness in that statement that Harry did not want to approach. "But he knew about Will?" he asked. "And what about the train?"

"He knew about Will. Dumbledore told him that, when the news of the attack on the Hogwarts Express reached him. But I guess seeing Ginny and me there tonight, and hearing about what happened with...." He gestured half-heartedly at his neck, a quick, indifferent gesture that managed to explain everything and a good deal more. "I don't know."

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence before Harry said, in a small voice:

"I'm sorry, Ron."

Ron merely shrugged.

Harry knew that particular shrug too well to let things just end there. "Was that all you talked about?"

"I guess."

"Ron...." Getting answers out of Ron Weasley when he didn't want to talk was worse than getting Hagrid's toffee out of one's teeth.

"That was it."

"Ron...." If Ron was going to be stubborn, he would soon find out that Harry could be just as stubborn.

"You can ask Gin if you don't believe me."

"Ron--"

"Look, go ask her right now. I'll wait."

"*Ron*--"

"Will you STOP IT?!" Ron's explosion came with the suddenness of a volcano erupting. Violently, he pounded of the arm of the chair with one clenched fist. "Stop saying my NAME!"

"R--" He halted just in time. Force wouldn't work; he would get nothing unless he changed his tone. More gently, he said, "What did you talk about? You know I won't tell anyone. What's wrong?"

Ron's answer came slowly, forced out through gritted teeth:

"There's...I have to do something."

"Do what?"

"It's...." Ron leaned forward, hunching and drawing his shoulders in as if to shield himself against cold or wind. He opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. His breath whistled through his nose, deep and slow and jagged.

Harry was literally on the edge of his chair. If he moved forward another inch he would fall off.

*Come /on/, Ron,* he pleaded silently. *Just a little...."

But Ron, at that very instant, let his shoulders fall and turned his head away. He slumped in his chair, sliding down even farther than before. His chin sank onto his chest. Oddly enough, sitting in that position, he looked eerily like the defeated Professor Snape of a few hours before.

"It's nothing," he said bleakly. "Never mind."

"Ron!" Harry yelled.

"It's *nothing*." He gave Harry a look, one that plainly said that asking him again would be pushing the bounds of their friendship.

Frustration made Harry want to pound his head against the wall--or better still, pound Ron's head against the wall.

"Don't do this," he begged, not caring how desperate he sounded. "Please."

Ron sighed, more exhausted than annoyed. "Look, you wouldn't--"

"I wouldn't what?" snapped Harry, cutting him off. "Understand? What wouldn't I understand?"

A tight, grim smile sharpened Ron's face. The smile stopped before it reached his eyes. "Oh, you'd understand all right. That's the least of it."

"Then what--"

"You'd understand, but you'd only try to talk me out of it." He slid down further, slouching so low in the overstuffed chair that the soles of his shoes were almost in the fire. "And with the way things are going now, you'd probably succeed."

"But--" Harry began, then stopped. Getting angry would have required energy, and now that he really wanted to let Ron have it he found that he didn't have any to spare. His head hurt. His eyes felt funny, hot and raw and itchy and sticky all at the same time. The flames of the candles on either side of the fireplace looked blurry, as if the lenses of his glasses were covered with smudges. Even though it wasn't at all bright, the candlelight stabbed at the back of his eyes.

He pushed himself to his feet.

"I'm going to bed," he said curtly.

"Okay." Ron didn't turn his eyes from the feeble glow of the fireplace embers. "'Night."

Fortunately, lack of energy once again prevented him from doing something he would likely have regretted later on. Without another word, he left his best friend behind and stormed upstairs.

        *            *            *

Even with the decent amount of sleep he managed to get that night, he did not feel better when he woke up the next morning. The headache was still there, a low steady pain that had settled in his temples and showed no signs of going away. The funny feeling in his eyes hadn't gone away either; it seemed to alternate between dry itchiness and gummy soreness.

Deciding not to go to class took all of two seconds. There were far worse things than spending the day between cool linen sheets in the infirmary, where the loudest noise would be the whispered rustles of Madam Pomfrey's robes.

But until then he had to listen to the thuds, clomps, and shuffles of his friends getting ready for class. It was amazing how much noise four boys could make even when they weren't trying to be loud. Dean in particular--at least he thought it was Dean--had a heavy tread that Harry could feel through his mattress. Grumbling a few choice words, he shoved a pillow over his head, pulled up the covers, and waited for them to go away.

The light, hesitant touch of a hand on his shoulder made him nearly jump out of his skin.

"Harry? Are you getting up?"

He poked his head out from under the blankets to see Neville looking down at him. The two of them were the only ones left in the room.

"Don't feel good," he mumbled. His voice was still hoarse with sleep--it made him sound worse than he actually felt. "Think I'm getting a cold. Get the assignments for me?"

"Okay. Feel better." Neville hurriedly ran a comb through his hair and hurried from the room.

Harry burrowed deeper into the drowsy warmth of the bedclothes and let himself drift into a half-doze. He waited until he was certain that classes had started for the day. Only then did he get out of bed.

Madam Pomfrey swooped upon him when he showed up at the door of the hospital wing in pyjamas, dressing gown, and slippers, complaining of headache. She tucked him into a freshly made bed, slipped two hot water bottles (enchanted to stay at just the right temperature for hours on end) between the sheets, prepared a cooling compress for his forehead, and dosed him with a thin dark-coloured potion. He tasted the whippy bitterness of willow bark and made a face.

"Up too late with your books, no doubt," the mediwitch said, half- scolding and half-soothing as she piled more blankets on top of him. "I declare, they run all of you ragged with schoolwork."

He smiled weakly up at her, and cuddled the hot water bottles to his chest. He was sure that Madam Pomfrey knew more than any of her patients thought she did, but it was a lovely thing to be taken care of by someone who believed that the root of your troubles lay in one too many late-night revising sessions.

*Though come to think of it,* he told himself, *that's not very far from the truth.*

"You're not the first I've had come in here with a nasty headache." Madam Pomfrey remarked. "I had a full stock of Migraine Potion not two weeks ago, and now here I am giving the very last dose to you." She gave his pillow a final pat and left the room, disappearing through the side door that led to the dispensary.

The potion, for all its foul taste, worked like a dream. He was asleep within minutes, and slept peacefully until she woke him at noon for a light lunch of toasted bread and cheese and a flavourful chicken broth. Surprisingly, his headache was almost gone, and he didn't feel the tiniest bit drowsy.

"That's the beauty of my Migraine Potion," Madam Pomfrey said proudly when he told her so. "Severus Snape's not the only one in this place with a dab hand at brewing medicines."

"Could you make it taste a little better, then?" he asked hopefully.

She chuckled throatily. "The worse it tastes, the better it works."

He spent the rest of the day lying in bed, watching the lazy way the April sunlight moved across the room, making the shadows of furniture and objects lengthen and stretch. Bright squares and rectangles of light formed crazy patchwork patterns on the dull grey stone of the floor. Madam Pomfrey checked in on him occasionally, but left him alone to rest and relax. Even the bitter aftertaste of potion that remained on his tongue didn't bother him much. He could take off his glasses and close his eyes for a moment, and then--

He came to with a start.

Fumbling for his glasses, he slipped them on just as Madam Pomfrey entered the room, bearing a tray that held another steaming bowl of soup and several thick slices of toasted bread.

"Want some dinner, dear?" She set the tray down beside his bed. "The house elves sent this up from the kitchens."

"What time is it?" he asked warily.

The mediwitch checked the little gold-coloured timepiece pinned to the front of her robes. "Just quarter to seven."

Quarter to seven.

Dinner was usually over by six-thirty.

He catapulted himself out of bed, upsetting the soup all over the tray and the floor. Madam Pomfrey cried out, hurrying for a cloth to catch the scalding liquid, but as she ran in one direction Harry was running in another, pulling on his dressing gown as he dove for the door. He left his slippers behind. They would only trip him up.

He must have looked a strange sight dashing through the corridors in his pyjamas, hair uncombed and more unruly than normal, cold bare feet slapping and slipping on stone. Gryffindor's common room was several floors above the hospital wing, and the staircases seemed to multiply before his eyes. He took the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. Once the Fat Lady was in sight, he sprinted the last few yards with a speed he seldom had outside of Quidditch practices.

A menacing black lump of fur was waiting for him.

Snuffles was keeping guard underneath the massive portrait, sitting very upright, bold and stern as a sentinel. When he saw Harry jogging toward him he growled his displeasure, upper lip fluttering over rows of teeth.

"Let...me change," Harry panted, bending over to catch his breath. "I'll...be right...down."

Haughtily, the black dog got to his feet and trotted aside to let him pass, but not before the Fat Lady had noticed him.

"He's been waiting for you," she told Harry reproachfully. "Almost an hour now, I think. Password?"

"Periwinkle," he gasped. He squirmed through the portrait door before it could open all the way.

Once inside, he fled upstairs and pulled on his clothes, then ran to the boys' bathroom and splashed water on his face. He rinsed out his mouth to clear away the last traces of the potion taste. A bit more presentable, he clattered back down the stairs, nearly bowling over a gaggle of first-year girls who were chatting outside the staircase entrance.

Snuffles was trotting back and forth like a soldier on parade when he emerged from the portrait hole. Harry didn't have time to think of an appropriate apology before the Animagus had seized the edge of his robes in dangerously sharp teeth and started to haul him bodily down the corridor.

Harry yanked on his robes, trying to wrest them out of the dog's firm grip. "I can walk by myself, you know."

Snuffles ignored him. After a few more feeble tugs at his clothes, Harry resigned himself to being dragged along, down flights of stairs and through the halls to the Defence Against the Dark Arts office. There was no sense arguing with a cross Sirius Black.

He was very glad when they arrived and Snuffles let go of his clothes. To his dismay, he found a large damp patch on the back of his freshly- laundered work robe. It was thoroughly wet with dog saliva.

"I hope the house elves can get this clean," he said snippishly. Being treated like a child had put him in a rather childish mood. "Hermione'd have a fit if she knew you were making more work for them."

Ignoring his waspishness, Snuffles prodded him toward the closed office door.

"All right, all right, I get it!" Half-heartedly, he nudged the Animagus aside with a foot, and knocked on the door.

"Come in," he heard Remus call.

Steeling himself, he pushed on the door and hurried inside, remembering to hold it open so Snuffles could follow.

Remus, to Harry's surprise, was not sitting behind his desk. Instead, he was sitting in one of three chairs that he had arranged in the centre of the room. Two rubbed, worn plush armchairs faced a wooden chair with a small stuffed cushion on the seat and a mended leg. Remus sat in one of the plush chairs, and Snuffles trotted forward and scrambled into the other.

"Sit down, Harry." Remus gestured to the rickety wooden chair as graciously as if it was a luxurious, richly upholstered divan.

Harry sat, perching on top of the cushion. Almost as an afterthought, he wedged his hands firmly underneath the cushion.

*Time to get this over with,* he told himself.

"What do you want to know?" he said aloud, addressing both man and dog.

A loud pop echoed in the room, and suddenly Sirius was leaning forward in his chair, grim-faced and forbidding.

"Everything, for starters," he declared.

"Or as much of everything as you can tell us," said Remus.

"But you'd better have a damn good reason for leaving anything out," Sirius added warningly.

"Start from the beginning, preferably."

"Keeping in mind that we don't know where the beginning is."

"Though we do have a pretty good idea, based on what you and Arabella *haven't* been telling us."

Sirius snapped his fingers. "Oh, and we can stop you at any time, if we have a more specific question."

"That's right--almost forgot about that."

"So whenever you're ready, you can go right ahead and start."

Their wishes made known, the two men reclined, leaning back in their chairs with identically calm, superior smiles. The smiles proclaimed their intention to wait all night--and longer if need be--to get the answers they wanted.

A number of flippant, sarcastic, and downright rude responses came immediately to the tip of Harry's tongue. Diplomatically, he chose what was perhaps the least offensive.

"Am I allowed to ask a question first?" he asked. "Just one small thing, before I start."

"I suppose," Remus sighed.

"If you must," drawled Sirius, languidly waving one hand in front of his face.

Harry smiled to himself. *Let's see how much you like /this/, 'for starters',* he thought wryly--and let them have it:

"What do YOU know about Will?"

"Will?" Remus repeated.

"Professor Stanton."

"And exactly how long have you been calling him 'Will'?" Sirius asked, arching an unsympathetic eyebrow.

"Since--" He glowered at his godfather and his favourite teacher. "You didn't answer my question."

Sirius glowered at that, but after a brief glance at Remus he said, "Well, we know that he's...that he's...he's...." After a few uncertain seconds he turned to Remus. "You tell him, Moony."

Remus shot his friend a hostile glare before turning back to Harry. "The thing is, Harry, I happened to find this the other day...." Gingerly, he reached into his robes and took out a small book, bound in worn leather. The spine was cracked and frayed round the edges, and nearly all of the gilt paint had rubbed off the leather, but there was enough light for Harry to just make out the words of the title--"Ancient Legends of the British Isles".

"Oh," he said. "That one."

Remus nearly dropped the book. "You've read it?"

"Hermione did, last year. I know what it says."

"I see." He tapped the cover gently with one finger and set it on the floor beside his chair. "Well, I've read through it three times now-- through the parts that matter, at least--and I still cannot bring myself to believe all of it." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I've seen and heard of a lot of things in my time, but legend is one thing and this is--"

"I mean, he was OUR AGE," Sirius interrupted.

"Or said he was."

"This little Muggle kid waiting for a train--"

"You'd never have thought anything of him to look at him--"

Sirius shook his head wonderingly. "And we sat there and *talked* to him."

"We actually *talked* to someone who knew...." Remus's throat worked for a moment, as if he couldn't get the words to come out.

Harry finished for him. "Who knew Merlin?"

Remus passed a hand across his forehead. "Yes."

"Pretty much," Sirius agreed. "All I can say is, you've got a very powerful friend there, Harry."

"But what else do you know?" asked Harry.

Remus gestured with empty hands. "That's it."

"We're counting on you for the rest of it," Sirius said.

"Oh. All right." He took a breath and let it out slowly. Another explanation. Staring down at his lap, he tried to imagine how Will would go about it. He drew a blank.

"All right," he said again. "You said you read the book, so you know something about the Dark and the Light. Will--Professor Stanton-- believes that some of Voldemort's power comes from the Dark." That sounded simple enough.

Sirius opened his mouth, but Remus quickly silenced him with a hand on his arm and a small shake of the head.

Harry kept going, ploughing through before either of them tried to interrupt again. "Over twenty years ago, there was a battle between the Dark and the Light. The Dark came Rising, and the Light drove it back for all time. But before the battle took place--and it could have been months or even years before, no one knows--Voldemort made a deal with the Dark. He would get part of the Dark's power, and the Dark would remain with him...no matter what happened during the battle with the Light."

He paused, and glanced up. The two men were staring at him with unfathomable expressions.

"Go on," Remus said emotionlessly.

Harry swallowed. "So...he has the Dark's power, and he can use it in ways that we can't fight with ordinary magic. Because the Dark's not magic exactly, not like the Dark Arts. It's just *evil*." He couldn't suppress a shudder. "It can get into your mind and make you do things, make you think horrible things. It can make people hurt themselves, or hurt others. And Will thinks...he thinks that it's what kept Voldemort alive when the curse he tried to use on me backfired."

He was starting to babble; he needed to find somewhere to end this explanation before it turned into gibberish. "It's hard to explain, and Will could do a much better job than I could, but that's all, really."

He lowered his eyes, and waited.

There was a long silence.

Remus broached the first question. "So he--Dr. Stanton, that is-- approached Professor Dumbledore?"

"I think it was the other way round," Harry said, immensely relieved that they had understood at least part of what he had said and he wouldn't need to start all over again. "That's what it sounded like to me, when we met him last year. He gave a lecture about Defence Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies, and we...talked." 'Talked' was one way of putting it. He didn't think that his guardians were quite ready to know exactly *how* they had talked.

"A guest lecture?" Remus said reflectively. "That's interesting. I do remember Albus mentioning something to me when I was here two years ago, about arranging for a guest speaker on those topics."

"Really?" Harry said.

"Yes. But he never said who it would be."

A corner of Sirius's mouth twitched. "That must've been some lecture."

Harry smiled thinly. "Oh, it was." He was about to turn the subject toward the events of last summer, but a fantastic idea popped into his head. "Look, do you want to talk to him? 'Cause he's probably in his office now. It's just seven o'clock now."

Sirius frowned. "How can we meet him if he's in his office?"

"I can show you where we have our sessions. We can meet him there."

"Are you sure he wouldn't mind?" Remus said, frowning as well.

"I don't think he'll mind." He tried not to stress the 'think' too much.

Remus and Sirius mulled over this for a moment, and then stood up. Harry scrambled to his feet.

Remus strode over to a small cupboard in the corner of the room. Reaching inside, he took out his well-worn cloak.

"Lead the way, then," he said decisively as he slipped the cloak onto his shoulders. "Let's see what Dr. Stanton has to say."

        *            *            *

Fifteen minutes later, Remus, Harry, and Snuffles were at the door of the little room off the library. Normally, it would have taken less time to get there, but Harry had taken a very roundabout path. He wanted to stay away from the main library entrance. The only person they had seen on the way was Argus Filch, and he was too preoccupied with a jar of silver polish, a soft cloth, and the tarnished decorations on a newly dusted suit of armour to notice them as they passed by. Harry was very thankful that Mrs. Norris was nowhere in sight; Snuffles may have been an Animagus, but he wasn't above chasing the Caretaker's cat through the corridors to prove that he could act like a normal dog.

And like a normal dog, Snuffles was nosing around the edges of the door, whimpering excitedly. He looked up at Harry and Remus and barked once, short and staccato, as if to ask, *Is this it?*

"Yes, it is," Harry told him.

Remus deftly slipped his fingers through the dog's collar and pulled him to one side, ignoring the sour rumble Snuffles made.

"After you," he said to Harry.

"Uh..." He hesitated. "Could you cover your ears?"

Remus's smile went from one of amusement to one of bemusement when he realised that Harry wasn't joking. "What?"

"You heard me," said Harry, very clearly. "Cover your ears."

Obediently, the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor put his hands over his ears, turning his back on the door for good measure. Snuffles, however, merely stared at Harry expectantly, his ears cocked and alert and his tail waving briskly.

Harry gave him a pointed look. "You, too."

The great black dog tilted his head, apparently weighing his godson's order in his mind, but with a whuff of breath like an exasperated sigh he lay down on the floor. With another whuff, he covered his ears with his paws.

Satisfied, Harry turned back to the door.

The decision to create a special locking spell to the little room off the library had its origins in McGonagall and Snape's unexpected interruption. An added measure of protection was plainly in order. So with Hermione on probation and essentially restricted to Gryffindor Tower, Ginny and Neville had spent long hours poring over dust-coated spellbooks in the library. Neville had even wormed a pass out of Professor Trelawney to get hold of a book from the Restricted section. He had originally intended to further 'examine' some of the more nasty demises that lay in store for the fifth-year Gryffindor class, but as he later told them, what could you do when a thick volume entitled "Lock, Stock, and Hemlock: Serious Privacy Enchantments for Serious Wizards" practically fell into your hands?

The locking spell they finally chose was fairly obscure, one that couldn't be nullified by a simple 'Alohomora' or one of the other basic opening Charms. Yet it wasn't terribly complicated or elaborate, either--a third year could perform it, if he put some effort into the casting. Only the five of them knew it; Colin would have to learn how to cast it soon if he wanted to get into the room by himself at any time. A witch or wizard experienced in Charms, like Professor Flitwick, would probably know of it, but it would take a bit of trial and error to figure out the exact spell they had used.

It was this spell that Harry murmured, tapping the pitted metal of the door handle lightly with his wand. The lock sprung open with a soft click.

He couldn't open the door just yet, though. They had added a second protection. A fraction of the Light's magic (courtesy of Will, who had seemed quite pleased with their extracurricular research) acted as a sort of chain-latch on the inside. Linked to the locking spell, it was both reassurance and extra precaution. But all that was needed was a touch of his hand on the metal door handle to take care of that.

Task completed, he turned back to Remus. The older man was humming to himself, singing tunelessly under his breath. When Harry tugged the edge of his sleeve, he uncovered his ears and turned around.

"All set?" he asked.

Harry nodded, then knelt and patted Snuffles on the head. The dog got to his feet, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped outward like flags in a stiff breeze. He followed Harry and Remus into the little room.

Once Harry had closed and locked the door behind them, Sirius returned to his human form. He and Remus looked round the room, their eyes examining and evaluating everything, their faces careful blanks.

Remus ran a hand over the bookshelves. Sirius bent down to study the carvings that decorated the edge of the long table. Harry, meanwhile, took an inordinate amount of time lighting the fire.

"So this is where you go?" Sirius said suddenly, making both Harry and Remus jump.

Harry took the poker and stirred the fire, arranging the coals to make it burn more evenly, then straightened up. "Yeah."

"It's a nice room," his godfather said magnanimously. He nodded once, firmly, as if giving it his personal seal of approval. "Very nice."

Harry and Remus exchanged glances. Remus rolled his eyes. Harry hid a smile.

"And Dr. Stanton meets you here?" Remus asked.

"Yes."

"How does he get in?" Sirius said, scratching his head. "That's grate's much too small to be on the Floo Network."

Harry pointed to the large mirror in its ornately carved wooden frame. "Though there."

"*Through*...?" Sirius echoed disbelievingly.

"Well, not tonight," he said hastily, before visions of Will Stanton prowling the school whenever he wished could enter his guardians' heads. "There's a special spell for that, but it can only be done when all six of us are present. We can still talk to him, though."

"Show us," said Remus.

Harry replaced the poker among the fire-irons and approached the mirror, his right hand outstretched.

"Be careful," he said, stopping his hand a few inches from the wood. "Don't look directly at it."

"Right," said Remus.

Sirius grunted something that sounded like assent, but the cynical noise became a sharp intake of breath as mirror flared to life.

The initial blaze of light dimmed as swirling silvery mist obscured the three wizards' reflections, creating wreathing coils and patterns behind the glass. As swiftly as it had descended, the thick mist whirled away, revealing the familiar sight--familiar to Harry, if not to the others--of Will's Cambridge office.

Only Will wasn't there.

And his office was in chaos.

Harry's heart leapt to his throat in sudden, awful fear. It looked as if the room had been ransacked by someone in a great hurry. Books were strewn everywhere, as haphazardly as if they had come together and collectively decided to explode off their shelves, landing where they fell. A small circular dustbin lay on its side in front of the desk, and crumpled sheets of paper spilled from it onto the floor. Files, folders, and still more papers were scattered across the carpet.

Will was nowhere in sight.

"What in...?" Remus breathed fearfully.

"It COULDN'T be...." Sirius's voice trailed off.

Harry tried to speak, but his mouth had gone completely dry and his tongue felt like it was glued in place. But before rational thought could give way to panic, a calm, logic-driven part of his brain swiftly stepped in and took control. Step by step, it pointed out a few things he might not have noticed otherwise.

True, the rows of shelves lining the walls were empty of books, but their contents had not been scattered by violence. They were grouped in stacks of varying height, laid out in some order that was likely known only to their owner. The files and folders of papers were also laid out in small groups--a collection here, a collection there, but all were sorted methodically. A swathe of clean floor space marked a path wide enough for one person to pick a way through the mess. In all the room, nothing had been broken, nothing destroyed or shredded. What had at first looked like the aftermath of a violent rampage slowly fell into recognisable order.

"It's all right," he muttered to himself. "It's all right. There's nothing--"

His words stuck in his throat as a tall stack of hardbound, textbook- sized volumes very close to Will's desk suddenly came unbalanced and fell over with a crash, disappearing behind the desk.

There was a muffled exclamation, followed by a loud sneeze.

And then, from behind the desk, a hand appeared, clutching a few sheets of paper and a book. The hand set the papers on the desk blotter and placed the book beside them. There was a rustle of papers, and another hand appeared, adding more sheets to the growing pile on the desk. A second book joined the pile, then a third. Finally, the desk chair was shoved aside and Will stood up, emerging from behind his desk like a stage actor rising through a hidden trapdoor.

Harry didn't know whether to cry out or burst into laughter. He had never seen Will looking so dishevelled.

The Old One was in his shirtsleeves; his jacket hung on the back of his desk chair. His cuffs were unbuttoned, and he had rolled up the sleeves well over the elbow. His tie hung askew--the knot loosened and off-centre, the wide end draped back over one shoulder and the thinner end dangling down. His hair was mussed and thickly coated with a layer of dust that gave it a greyish cast. Its normal brown colour could hardly be seen through streaks of light and dark grey.

He was rubbing the back of his head and muttering darkly to himself; the falling books must have come down right on top of him. He started to bend over to retrieve something at his feet, but he caught sight of Harry on the other side of the mirror and snapped upright, gripping his desk with both hands.

"What has happened?" he demanded. His entire body was rigid; he looked as near to being panicked as Harry had ever seen him. "Is it--"

"No, no, everything's fine!" Harry stumbled backward only to crash into a corner of the long table. The sharp edge gouged his hip, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. "I...I just thought that--"

Remus and Sirius recovered from their shock at the magic mirror, the chaos in the room on the other side, and the unkempt state of its normally immaculate occupant at the same time. They added their own rushed apologies to Harry's, drowning out each other's words in their eagerness to be heard.

"I hope we're not--"

"If this isn't a good time, we completely--"

Will held up his hands. "No, please--" he began, just as another sneeze cut off his words. He dug in his pocket, took out a folded handkerchief, and dabbed at his nose. "It's quite all right."

"Are you certain?" Sirius said anxiously. He looked as ill at ease as a first year who had been caught sneaking down to the kitchens late at night. "I mean, we wouldn't want to--"

"We really should have let you know beforehand." Remus gave Harry his best disapproving teacher frown. Harry ducked his head to conceal his scowl.

"Really, it's fine. I'm only sorry that you have to see this." The Old One's smile was embarrassed, but good-natured. "I'd like to lie and assure you that my workplace normally doesn't look like this, but I think it's a bit late for excuses. It all started out as me looking for a book, but the search led to shelf dusting and the dusting led to reorganising and with one thing and another the search somehow turned into spring cleaning. And as you can see, it was needed badly."

In the time it had taken him to explain himself, he had rolled down his shirtsleeves, rebuttoned the cuffs, and reknotted his tie. He scooped up his suit jacket, which had been neatly draped over the desk chair, and picked his way through the books and papers, fingercombing the worst of the dust from his hair. By the time he had reached a conversational distance, his jacket was on and his tie was straight. The only thing out of place was the faintly greyish tint of the dust that was left in his hair.

"But if you'll kindly ignore the mess, Professor Lupin, Mr. Black, I'm glad to see you both. What brings you here this evening?" He sounded so unruffled that Harry half-expected him to offer them a cup of tea.

Sirius smoothed his hair back; Will's rapid neatening up had made him overly aware of his own scruffy appearance. "Harry offered to show us where you hold these sessions we've heard about."

"Indeed?" said Will. "I'd have thought that Mr. Potter would rather have you sit in on one of them. You're more than welcome to do so."

"He didn't give us that option," Remus said cautiously. "But it's not his doing. I asked him to stop by my office tonight and explain a few things."

"How interesting." The Old One's calm gaze flickered briefly in Harry's direction, long enough for him to fully understand that 'interesting' did not, in this case, mean 'nice'. "May I ask what?"

"He told us why you are working with the wizarding world."

Will nodded, as if he had expected as much. "And?"

"That was all," Sirius said. "He seemed to think you could provide a better explanation."

"I see." Something in the way those two words came out made Harry's stomach clench, but Will continued mildly, "Well, there's little else to explain. Without going into events prior to the start of this school year, we have been working together from the beginning of fall term. Apart from Albus Dumbledore, only Professor McGonagall and Professor Figg knew of this arrangement."

"Need-to-know basis only," Sirius stated. He didn't sound very happy.

"Exactly."

"That's about what Harry said." The Animagus tilted his head ever so slightly to one side, and a sharp, cunning glint crept into his eyes. "So tell us--just what are *you* getting out of this?"

"Sirius!" Harry was flabbergasted.

Will held up a hand for silence--it wasn't very necessary, as Remus hadn't spoken and Harry was all but beyond words.

"It's a fair question," he said, returning Sirius's gaze levelly. "More than fair, even."

He took a small step forward, closing the space between him and the mirror. At the same time, he folded his arms behind his back, assuming a solid, pedagogical-looking stance, as if he was about to deliver a lecture he had prepared some time before. His office, filled with distractions and disorder, seemed to recede into a very distant background. If he had wanted to command a large audience, he would have had no problem doing so. He had made himself the sole focus of their attention.

"My duty, in this time, is to eradicate traces of the Dark from the world of men." The professorial stance blended and fused with the crisp, certain speech of an Old One--a formidable combination. "I am not speaking of the ordinary darkness that can be found within all men, you understand. That is not something the Light can control. But I am here to keep the Watch regardless, should the Light's power be needed.

"Voldemort took the power of the Dark for a reason. He wanted immortality, and got it, after a fashion."

"In what way?" asked Remus.

"The type of bargain he made would ensure that he--his spirit, rather-- could not be killed." His voice slipped into a rhythmic cadence, the singing lilt of poetry and prophecy shot through with a call to action that would not be denied. "Both body and spirit must be banished, cast out of this world and sent out of Time. But neither your type of magic nor mine can accomplish this task alone. Combining the power of the wizarding world with that of the Light is the only way to fully defeat Lord Voldemort, to drive him back once and for all."

"And you need Harry to do it," Sirius snarled.

"Padfoot," Remus murmured warningly, just low enough for Harry to hear.

"It's not a question of need, Mr. Black." The calm blue-grey of Will's eyes had darkened to the colour of gathering storm clouds at Sirius's belligerent tone. If anything he looked even more like a lecturing schoolmaster, about to take an unruly pupil to task. "It's nowhere near that simple."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Believe what you like. It is the truth."

"But you still need him," Sirius persisted staunchly, jabbing the air with a finger. "And the others."

"The Light needs them," the Old One replied. "I, on the other hand, would honestly be far more happy if this was something that could be accomplished without them."

Remus said, rather viciously, "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Will closed his eyes. "A small point that wizarding magic tends to overlook. You can take an ordinary man--a Muggle, if you like--and weave the most complicated of spells around him, make him part of a magic spanning the centuries. It can be done. But when the spell has run its course he will never be more than a man."

When he opened his eyes, their colour had deepened still further, to the dark grey of the sea in a thunderstorm. "In fact, that was the reason why I was reluctant to approach Mr. Potter and his colleagues in the first place."

"Re...reluctant?" Harry's voice rose to an incredulous, undignified squeak.

Will spared no more than a momentary glance at him. "The initial risks outweigh the benefits by a fair amount, Mr. Potter. Even a risk-taking Gryffindor such as yourself would not like the odds." He let his words sink in adding, "And I have seen what can happen when a man finds the Light to be a cold master."

The two older wizards said nothing, but from where he was standing Harry could feel two pairs of eyes boring holes into his back.

"And it can be cold," Will stated matter-of-factly, without apology. "The Light has nothing comparable to the seductive power that the Dark can wield. No delicately persuasive techniques, no hard and fast promise of gain. But the children--no, the young adults I have seen twice a week for almost a year now came willingly, knowing the risks and choosing to accept them. They are the greatest natural allies the Light has. And in the end it will be they who defeat the Dark Lord--with his own magic, no less. The Dark will destroy the Dark."

Harry felt a tingling, whispering thrill dance up his spine as the part of him that was connected to the Light silently affirmed the Old One's words. But Will wasn't quite finished.

"To answer your question, Mr. Black," he said, and Sirius stiffened, as if he was being called to attention, "what I will 'get' is peace of mind, and the knowledge that I have done my duty. What you and your kind will get is up to you."

In the beat of silence that followed, Harry felt that he had somehow been given leave to speak. He would not have spoken otherwise but for the fact that he had a role to play in this, a part to recite.

"Sirius, I *knew* that something would happen at King's Cross and St. Mungo's. I knew something was wrong the night Ron's mum died. And I couldn't do anything about it. Do you know how *helpless* that made me feel?" His voice trembled, and it wasn't an act.

His godfather looked pained. "Harry...."

"But when Ron and I drove off those Dementors, we weren't helpless. We saved everyone on the train." He would *not* think about Natalie McDonald, lying in a hospital bed somewhere in north London. "And it's not only about Voldemort. If you'd *seen* Neville...." He abandoned that idea--explaining it would take too long. "I can't make you understand. You have to trust me."

"It's not about trust!" Sirius snapped.

"Then what?" he snapped back.

"It's...it's...." The older man clenched and unclenched his hands, as if doing so could squeeze what he wanted to say out of his mouth.

Remus moved closer to his old friend, but did not touch him or even reach out a comforting hand. Even so, Sirius seemed to draw strength from the other man's presence.

"I can't lose you again," he said roughly, dragging each word out to its fullest length. The blaze of anger had faded from his eyes, leaving them dull and hollow looking. "I can't. I lost you fifteen years ago and I'd rather die than have it happen again. I'd do anything to keep you safe."

"Almost anything." The murmured correction came from so far away that at first Harry didn't realise he had spoken.

But Sirius did. His jaw dropped, then snapped shut with an audible click and a raw grating of teeth.

"You don't mean..." Remus's voice was a strangled whisper.

He had frightened them without even meaning to. "I don't want to lose you, either," he said quickly, looking from one to the other. "But this is something we have to do. And we can do it. I *know* we can."

His godfather looked away, unable to meet his earnest gaze.

Remus, however, turned to face the mirror.

"Harry made up his mind a long time ago," he said, subdued but firm. "There's nothing I can say or do that will change it. And if he says that he trusts you, Dr. Stanton, then I will...because Harry's trust isn't something easily given."

Will smiled broadly, pleased and obviously relieved. "Thank you, Professor."

"It's a pity we can't shake on it," Remus quipped lightly.

"You want me to come five hundred kilometres for a handshake?" The Old One made a mock-horrified face. "I know how fond you all are of formality, but isn't that a bit much?"

Remus grinned. "Us, fond of formality?" He pressed a hand to his heart, faking surprise. "Now I wonder what Arabella Figg would have to say about that."

"Oh, I can think of several things," said Will, dry as dust. "Nothing I haven't heard before, but certainly nothing I care to hear again."

The two men chuckled at the thought, and even Harry smiled, but their lightheartedness soon faded when Sirius did not laugh with them.

Harry glanced at his godfather. The dark-haired wizard had been silent for a long time, regarding Will with a strange half-smile, half-grimace on his lips.

"I think I liked it better when I thought you were just some Muggle," he said at last.

Will smiled faintly, though his eyes remained cautious. "I wasn't aware that I was so convincing."

"Oh, you were." Hesitantly, Sirius's lips curved up and out, altering the expression on his face to something that was looked more like a smile and less like a grimace. "You were. But you aren't, and I know that."

He clasped his hands in front of him in a very statesman-like manner, and cleared his throat. "I will trust you, Dr. Stanton," he proclaimed, unhesitatingly. "For who you are, and for what you are to Harry."

The coils of tension that had formed a massive tangle in the pit of Harry's stomach came undone. Relief made his knees wobble; he was glad he had the table at his back.

"I truly--" Will began to say, but a loud, insistent knocking broke through before he could get past the first two words.

All four of them froze.

The knocking came again. Three quick raps, a pause, and then another quick one-two-three.

In a flash, Remus and Sirius had their wands out. Sirius moved stealthily across the room, placing himself between Harry and the locked door. Remus did likewise.

"Ah...I think that's for me."

The three wizards whirled round to see Will calmly making his way through the maze of papers, back to his desk. He picked up the dustbin and set it right side up, then turned to survey his office, scowling at the mess.

"Are you sure?" Remus said in a hushed voice.

Will tipped his head to one side, listening. As if on cue, the three knocks came again.

"Yes, that's definitely on my side. Whoever it is must've seen my light on." He ran a hand through his hair, sending up a small puff of dust. "The undergraduates here *will* keep the oddest hours. Though for what it's worth, I'll take seven o'clock on a Tuesday night over two-thirty on a Monday morning. If you will pardon me, gentlemen?"

The change of personality could not have been more complete. There was no trace of the immortal servant of the Light, nothing to suggest that the man before them was anything more than a junior professor in a very cluttered office.

"Of course," said Sirius, though the response was not so much an actual granting of leave as a knee-jerk reaction to the sound of Will's voice.

Remus did a bit better. "Thank you, Dr. Stanton."

"Not at all." He nodded to Harry. "Until Thursday evening, then, Mr. Potter?"

Harry blinked. "Yes, sir."

"I'll be expecting you." Silvery mist, thick as early morning fog, rolled across the smooth surface of the mirror. "Mr. Black, Professor Lupin, it was a pleasure to see you both again."

The two men muttered hasty farewells, but by then the enchanted mirror had returned to its normal reflective state.

"He has an office," Sirius said unthinkingly. He was staring blankly at his reflection in the mirror, almost as if he was confused as to why it should be there in the first place.

"Well, he *is* a professor," said Harry, rather snottily. "Of Social Anthropology," he added as an afterthought, because it sounded very grand to say it.

"We *knew* that," the Animagus grumbled.

"You have to understand, Harry, that it's still a lot to take in," said Remus. "You've had all year to get used to this. We've had"-- he scratched his head, thinking quickly--"about twenty-four hours."

"He's *good*, Remus," Harry insisted. "If you'd seen what he did on the train, you'd know. Wormtail was terrified of him."

"I don't doubt that." Sirius ran his tongue across his lips, tasting the air with a malicious relish. "If I had as much to fear as that rat does, I would be, too."

"And if he's even half of what that book says he is...." Remus left the rest unspoken.

The three wizards were silent, looking at each other.

Just as Harry was about to ask if he could go back to Gryffindor Tower to see exactly what he'd missed that day, his stomach let out a loud, angry-sounding rumble. In all the excitement, he had forgotten that the last food he'd eaten was broth and bread in the infirmary, and that meagre meal had been consumed almost eight hours before.

He flushed bright red. Remus and Sirius laughed.

"Come on." Sirius threw an arm round Harry's shoulders. "Let's all go back to the office and have some dinner."

"Not sandwiches," Harry demanded. He didn't want to put himself off his food before he actually got any.

"Fine, then," his godfather agreed. "Not sandwiches."

        *            *            *

"I still can't understand WHY we had to miss dinner. It's not like Hufflepuff has some secret weapon that'll make them invincible all of a sudden."

"Look, this was the only time I could get the pitch," Harry said brusquely. Ron understood perfectly well--he was simply being an ass about the whole thing. "Slytherin and Ravenclaw have it booked solid all week."

It was ten to seven on Thursday, and Harry, Ron, and Colin were walking as rapidly as they could through the corridors. Harry had rounded up the Gryffindor team for a Quidditch practice immediately after classes, and not fifteen minutes before they had still been swooping and diving above the pitch. Between the steady drizzle of rain outside and the lukewarm showers they had managed to snatch in the changing rooms, they all felt damp, sticky, and very overheated.

"So why wasn't Hufflepuff out there in that muck?" Ron retorted. He shook his head, sending out a fine spray of water droplets.

Scowling, Harry wiped the water off his face. "Just because we're not playing this week doesn't mean we shouldn't get practice time in."

"Tell that to my stomach."

"I *said* we were going to be practising through dinner."

"Harry, why can't we stop and grab something from downstairs?" Colin said pleadingly. A fast walk for the two older boys was a rapid jog- trot for him. "Just a quick run to the kitchens. I'm sure it'll only take a minute."

"You should've eaten more at lunch." Listening to Ron's griping and Colin's whining had eradicated whatever sympathy Harry might have felt for his teammates. "Or brought something with you."

"But I'm HUN-gry." Colin had a gift for making a simple complaint sound like a two-syllable death sentence.

"If you want to be late, go right ahead."

Colin blanched, and started to walk faster. "I'm not *that* hungry."

Ron rummaged through the pockets of his work robe. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and he pulled out a small apple.

"Here," he said to Colin, holding the shiny red fruit aloft. "It's not much, but I'll split it with you."

Colin beamed. "Thanks, R--"

Ron snatched the apple away before the younger boy's fingers could close over it. "*If* you fold and put away my Quidditch gear for the rest of the year."

"A week," Colin countered.

"Two weeks."

"Starting Sunday."

"Done." Ron took out his wand and tapped the apple. "Diverbero."

The apple quivered, then split neatly into two equal parts.

"Where did you learn that?" Harry asked, astounded. He'd never heard that particular spell before.

Ron smiled, rather wistfully. "Mum used to use it when we were little. Saved us the trouble of having to fight about who ended up with the biggest piece of whatever."

He handed one of the apple halves to Colin, who began to munch on it delightedly.

By the time Ron and Colin had licked the last of the apple juice from their fingers, they had reached the door. Harry showed Colin how to cast the unlocking spell, though he opened the door himself.

Ginny and Neville were already inside, sitting at the long table. Ginny was reading a book. Neville was playing with Trevor, his pet toad. They looked up as the door opened, and nodded to the three new arrivals. Colin nodded shyly back.

Harry and Ron pulled up chairs and sank into them, letting the blissful warmth of the fire soak through their aching muscles. Harry took off his glasses and started to polish the lenses, rubbing away rain marks with the edge of his shirt. Colin wandered over to Ginny and peered over her shoulder, curious as to what she was reading, but Ginny was so absorbed in the book that she didn't seem to notice him.

Neville scratched Trevor's forehead, gave him a fond pat, and slipped the toad back into his pocket. "Where's Hermione?" he asked.

"Wasn't she at dinner?" asked Ron.

"She ate and left really fast," Ginny said, not lifting her eyes from her book. "She said she had to talk to McGonagall."

Harry resettled his glasses on his nose. "What for?"

"Prefect stuff, probably," Neville said.

Colin piped up. "She caught a couple of Slytherin third years hexing each other in the halls after lunch today. Maybe that's it."

"She'd talk to Snape about that, not McGonagall," Ginny remarked idly.

Ron strode over and plucked the book from his sister's hands. "All right, Miss Knows-It-All, YOU think of something."

Ginny sprang to her feet and snatched the book back.

"All I'm saying," she said crossly, "is that there's no reason for her to see McGonagall over some Slytherins." She replaced the book on a nearby shelf and spun round, hands on her hips, to glare at her brother. "And furthermore--"

Just as she was about to really get going, the door opened. It was Hermione.

"Sorry I'm late," she said.

"You're not late," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "You're freakishly on time, as always."

Ginny made a disgusted noise and hurried forward. "I *told* him you were with McGonagall, but wo--"

Her voice died away as Hermione walked past her without a smile or a sideways glance.

"Hermione?" Neville said as she passed by him. "Is something...?"

Hermione set her schoolbag on the table. Her face was chalk-white and composed, calm with the fixed tranquillity of a marble statue. Her eyes were dry, but glassy-looking and red-rimmed, as if she had been crying for such a long time that no more tears would come. Faint tremors shook the hand that she held out to touch the mirror frame.

Will's office was back to normal. If anything, it looked cleaner than usual. The Old One was completing the rather mundane process of hanging up his coat, and he turned round as the last wisps of mist faded from view. He checked his watch.

"Right on time," he said.

Neville, Ron, and Harry stood, and joined Ginny and Colin in their places around the mirror.

"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."

"We the Six now call you in."

Their flat, almost mechanical recitation of the spell was not lost on Will. He paused for a full five seconds before he stepped through the mirror. Once he was on the other side, his gaze immediately fell upon Hermione.

"What news, Miss Granger?" Will said, very quietly.

It took several moments for Hermione's eyes to focus on him.

"I went to see Professor McGonagall after dinner," she said. "She asked me to stop by her office if I had time before tonight's session."

"And what did she want to talk to you about?" he asked.

"She wanted to talk to me about Natalie."

At the mention of Natalie's name, she seemed to sway slightly on her feet. Swiftly, Will guided her to the closest chair. Once she was seated he knelt beside the chair, placing his hands on the armrest. Harry and the others edged toward the two of them, forming a nervous little knot a few feet away.

"I-is she okay?" Ginny quavered.

Hermione nodded, but her reply was directed solely at Will, as if he had been the one to ask the question. "She's awake now. The head mediwizard at the Islington hospital contacted Madam Pomfrey, and she told McGonagall. Natalie woke up last night."

Ron let out the breath he had been holding.

"That's great!" Colin said, a little too loudly.

Relieved, Ginny and Neville smiled at each other, but Hermione's next words wiped the smiles from their faces.

"There's something else."

Without turning his head, Will motioned to them, ordering them all to be seated. They obeyed, but they did not take their eyes off Hermione.

"Was...was it the complications that Madam Pomfrey was talking about?" Neville said timidly as he lowered himself into his chair.

For the first time, Hermione seemed to realise that someone else had spoken. She turned on Neville, suddenly alive, blazing, and angry.

"'Complications'?" she repeated bitterly. "She'll never be normal again, if that's what you mean by 'complications'."

Ginny cried out weakly, and clapped a hand to her mouth. Ron grabbed his sister's other hand, squeezing it tightly. Neville looked as ill as Harry felt.

Will asked, "How so?"

"The mediwizard who talked to Madam Pomfrey said that the accident caused some bleeding in her brain." She spoke in a monotone, almost unaware of what she was saying. She might have been parroting what McGonagall had told her. "They treated her as best they could at the hospital, but they think that the injury affected her memory, and possibly her personality. It's too soon to tell. But she's not responding very well to the magical treatments."

A twinge of pain in Harry's thumb momentarily distracted him. He looked down to see a small pool of blood welling up from the ragged edge of the nail. He had chewed it past the quick without knowing.

"She...." Hermione coughed loudly. Her cough sounded suspiciously close to a swallowed sob. "They said she might have to stay in the Continuing Care Ward for a while, once they finish rebuilding St Mungo's. And she--"

Her voice failed her, but her lips clearly formed two words. *My fault.*

Will sighed. He took one of her hands and held it in both of his own. "You can't wish someone dead, child," he said, kindly but firmly. "If we could, you can be sure that there'd be no one left on this earth to do the wishing."

Hermione hiccoughed, swallowing another sob.

"Hush, now," he told her, squeezing her hand. "You very nearly got your foulest wish granted. That would be enough to shake anyone."

He wasn't being metaphorical. She was shaking, literally. And when she found her voice a few seconds later, the tremors extended to it as well:

"I-I told her the t-truth."

For a moment Harry thought that 'her' referred to Natalie. "What?" he said, startled.

"After McGonagall finished telling me about Natalie, I told her the truth. About my promise, and everything." Her lower lip quivered. "And I....I asked her to accept my resignation as prefect."

Both Colin and Neville's mouths fell open.

Ginny hid her face in her hands.

"Hermione, she didn't--she didn't EXPEL you?" A strange mixture of disbelief and dread made Ron sound raspy, like he had been inhaling smoke and Potions fumes. "She couldn't...she *wouldn't*...."

"No," she said with a tiny shake of her head. "She didn't expel me. She wouldn't let me resign. She didn't even take points away."

Ron let out another ragged breath.

"Had me worried there," he said gruffly, trying to hide his emotions.

"But what did she do?" asked Colin.

Hermione stared down at her hands. "I'm still a prefect, but in name only. I'll keep doing the evening rounds and things like that. It wouldn't be fair to make one of the others cover my duties as well as theirs, not this close to the end of the year. But I'm not allowed to use the Prefect's Bathroom anymore, and I have to ask someone else for the new dormitory passwords, and...a few other things."

Harry gaped at her. Losing House points and getting detention was one thing, but this was quite another. He had never heard of anyone being stripped of their privileges as prefect, let alone being allowed to keep their responsibilities. It made sense, but it didn't make sense, and yet it still made sense in a crazy, mixed-up way.

"But you're here," Ginny insisted. "McGonagall *didn't* expel you."

"I almost wish she *had* expelled me," Hermione said softly. "I deserve it."

Ron winced. "Don't say that."

"You don't UNDERSTAND!" she cried. "She told me that I'd dishonoured Gryffindor House, and Hogwarts, too. She said...." Her voice cracked. She pressed her lips together so tightly that all that was left of her mouth was a thin white slit. "She said she was ashamed of me."

The wretchedness and despair in her tone stirred Harry's memories, calling up an unbidden image of a gravesite where the stubbly fringe of grass had not quite covered the recently turned earth. An image of rage, and grief, and hopelessness.

An image of failure.

He knew all too well what it was like to want to blame yourself for something beyond your control, to curse the part you had played, however small.

It had been bad, sometimes, during the summer with Mrs. Figg. He would awaken in the middle of the night with the moonlight shining cold and green through the bedroom windows, and the empty room would echo with Voldemort's command:

"Kill the spare."

And more often than not there would be another echo with it, Cedric's whispery plea:

"Harry, bring my body back, will you?"

He would plug his ears with his fingers and bury his head under the pillow, but he could not shut the voices out.

He would lie awake for a long time after that, too afraid to sleep. If he slept late on the mornings after, as he often did, Mrs. Figg would keep breakfast warm for him until he came down. And if he didn't want to eat, she would silently brew him a cup of tea, strong and scalding hot, and sit with him while he drank it. She had never once asked him if he wanted to talk about it. She hadn't needed to.

He wondered, for the first time, if there had been nights when Hermione dreamt of railway carriages filled with blood. There had been no cup of tea waiting for her when she awoke.

"Minerva McGonagall punishes harshly, but with fairness." Will's voice snapped Harry out of his reflections. "I think that she did the right thing...but more so, *you* did the right thing, Miss Granger."

Hermione smiled at him. Her smile was wavery and half-hearted, but it was genuine.

"I know." A single tear tricked down her nose. She used the back of her hand to wipe it away. "I only wish it didn't have to hurt so much."

"Here." From seemingly nowhere, Will produced a folded handkerchief and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said with a weak attempt at a grin, dabbing at her eyes. "This is the third one I've gone through so far today. Mine, Professor McGonagall's, and now yours."

"Keep it," Will replied when she tried to return it to him. "Give it back when you've done with tears."

"I'm done," Hermione said stubbornly. "It was the shock, that's all. I'm fine now." She refolded the handkerchief and put it in her lap.

The Old One frowned coldly, suddenly severe.

"If you're as 'fine' as you claim to be, Miss Granger, then why do I still sense indecision in this room?" he said sternly.

"Wh...what?" Hermione blinked, painfully. "B-but I've told you everything, honestly!"

"Have you?" Will sounded doubtful. "If you aren't going to be completely truthful with us, then how can you expect--"

"It's not Hermione, sir."

The flatness of his tone made all heads turn to Ron. It wasn't an indignant protest or an attempt to defend Hermione. He wasn't even looking in Hermione's direction. Instead, his gaze was riveted to the tabletop in front of him.

"Would you care to enlighten us, then, Mr. Weasley?" Will said, prompting.

Ron laughed casually. Actually, it would have been a casual laugh if nervousness hadn't pitched his voice an octave higher than normal.

"Well, I *was* going to wait until after the session," he said, "mostly 'cause it's not something anyone else would want to listen to me rabbit on and on about, so I--"

"Take your time," Will broke in, stopping him. "I'm in no hurry."

Ron gulped a lungful of air and tried again, more slowly this time. "When Ginny and I were talking with our father on Monday night, he told me something I should've remembered. I...I owe you a life debt, sir."

The Old One peered at him curiously. "A what?"

Convulsively, Ron's hands clutched the arms of his chair, but he pried his treacherous fingers loose and got to his feet. He walked around the table to stand in front of Will, next to Hermione's chair.

"Wormtail--I know he would have killed me, back on the train. You saved my life, and I owe you a life debt, sir." His voice held more confidence the second time he said it, as if admitting his obligation had somehow strengthened his resolve.

Will raised an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that that sort of concordat only applied to wizards, Mr. Weasley."

Ron returned Will's gaze steadily, matching it with a determined ferocity that silenced any improper comments his friends might have made. There was nothing of the gangly, self-conscious, hand-me-down- clad fifteen-year-old boy about him. There was only the scion of a very old wizarding family, the youngest son upholding the family honour with a man's word and a man's bond.

After a moment's consideration, he said softly, "If you'll pardon my saying so, sir, I think that it more than applies to you."

Will smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes--only sadness. "And you are absolutely set on this?"

Ron nodded. "You saved my life. I can't pretend it didn't happen. I won't always have these"--he pointed to his neck, lightly touching the dull golden-yellows and faint greens of the fast fading bruises-- "to remind me every time I look in the mirror." He let his hand fall to his side.

Incredibly, inexplicably, Harry found that he was afraid. He was afraid of this strange new Ron, who looked so much older than the Ron who he had played Quidditch with that afternoon. He was afraid of Will, too, because Will was...he was *Will*, and he wasn't telling Ron to quit talking nonsense and say what the real problem was.

The ache of fear in his heart sharpened to a fine point of pain when Will bowed deeply, formally, to Ron, as he might have bowed to Dumbledore or any of the other adults they knew.

"Very well, Mr. Weasley," he said. "I acknowledge your debt."

Ron held out his hand. It was small and white, dotted with odd freckles. "Then please accept my services, for whatever small part they may play toward the repayment of my debt."

As Will took Ron's hand to seal their agreement, Harry felt a tiny electrical spark jolt all through him, burning away the fear. This was a part of the wizarding world he had never witnessed before, the forging of this sort of bond. He imagined that he and Wormtail had something similar between them, the life debt formed when Harry had kept Sirius and Remus from killing their former friend, but there was a vast difference between the forced obligation made on a night of madness and the willing commitment he had just seen.

From the looks on Hermione and Colin's faces, he could tell that they had felt something, too, and didn't know what to make of it. Nothing in the Muggle world could have ever prepared them for something like this. Hermione looked as though she was trying very hard not to cry; her shoulders were trembling, and her face was stony stiff. Colin was staring at Ron as if he couldn't decide whether to be scared of him or scared for him.

Neville and Ginny, however, had watched the little ceremony with solemn faces and an air of silent approval. Strangely enough, Ginny seemed to be quite comfortable with her brother's decision. Not even the gravity of her expression could completely conceal the pride bubbling in her eyes.

Will released Ron's hand, and the electricity was gone. The air hummed for a moment. Then everything was still.

"Curious," Will said abruptly, piercing the quiet. "Very curious."

"What is?" asked Ron.

"You, Mr. Weasley. And the reasoning behind what you have just done." He shook his head, studying the youngest Weasley boy pensively. "No matter how much I think I understand, there is a part of me that remains completely baffled."

"I'm glad I did it, sir." Ron's voice was calm, eerily adult in tone. "It was the right thing to do."

A lump of charred wood broke off from the largest log on the fire and fell to the hearth with a crackle and a dull thump.

The vague, haunted pensiveness vanished from Will's eyes like a candle flame being blown out.

"Are we quite finished with emotional scenes for tonight?" he asked coolly, gazing at each of them in turn. "There's a good deal of work to be done."

And just like that, the glass wall had fallen back into place.

"Yes, sir," the Six said, and meant it.

After all, there was a good deal of work to be done.

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October 11th, 2002