Town and Gown

The third part of a Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising series crossover. I have an idea for a short epilogue...this isn't over just yet, my friends. There's one person I've left out.

(N.B.: This part was revised to fix a few minor wording problems near the end--nothing much, but I thought it necessary.)

Thank you for all of your replies and comments--I have a sequel on the drawing board, in the beginning stages. I'd like to see what you think of this before I continue work on it, but I don't plan to end this here.

Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter, all related characters, and various media incarnations are copyright of the very talented J. K. Rowlings, Scholastic, and other international companies involved in its creation and distribution. Will Stanton and "The Dark Is Rising" series are both copyright of the wonderful Susan Cooper.

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Town and Gown By: Gramarye

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Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.

-- Carl Jung

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Ron looked down at his aching fingers, stained with the noxious potion ingredients that he had spent the last two hours scrubbing out of smelly old jars. Snape's detentions, as always, left a lasting mark on their victims. He knew from experience that it would take at least two days for the grime to disappear, no matter how thoroughly he washed his hands or cleaned his nails.

He was alone in the Gryffindor common room, staring at the flickering embers of the fire. Harry had gone straight up to their dormitory after everyone had returned from dinner, saying that he had homework to do.

He had been very quiet all day. Even the efforts of his closest friends hadn't drawn him into their usual chatter about classes and homework and Quidditch. Any attempt at conversation was met with a polite stare that looked through rather than at the person speaking to him, and a long silence.

As in any school, whispered rumors spread quickly among the students, and by the end of the day all the students in Gryffindor House had heard about Harry's violent reaction during the lecture. Ron, in the position of Harry's unofficial spokesperson, was stuck with the irritating task of fending off those who wanted to "do something" for Harry. All day long it had been a never-ending cycle of "No, Colin, I don't think it would help to give Harry your slice of pudding" and "I'm sorry, Ginny, but I don't know what's wrong with Harry--he didn't say" and "Quit fretting, Lavender, Harry's fine, he just needs some time alone".

It was enough to make him want to scream.

Hermione hadn't been much help, either. She had officially "given up" on Harry at the dinner table, loudly informing everyone in earshot that if Mr. Harry Potter didn't want to talk, she wasn't about to make him. With Neville in tow, she had headed for the library to finish off whatever homework she hadn't already done, and copy over an Arithmancy assignment that wasn't due for another three weeks.

Ron, however, had seen the worried expression that crossed her face when Harry didn't respond to her proclamation. He hadn't looked up from his food--most of which had been left untouched, merely pushed around on his plate.

But she had left, and so had Harry, and his day wasn't looking up. After dinner, he was due in the dungeons to serve his detention--and no one in their right mind would be late for detention with Snape.

Scraping away at the crusted jars and phials, feeling the Potion Master's watchful eyes burning into his back, he had felt a tight knot of anger growing in the pit of his stomach. Why was Harry being so secretive? It was obvious that something was wrong. Every time he acted this way, trying to go around as if nothing was bothering him, someone always got hurt. Harry's attempts to not cause trouble or make other people worry about him always seemed to have the opposite effect.

Perhaps the hidden anger made Ron put more effort into his work, or at least gave him a reason to focus. Whatever the reason, he finished far earlier than he had expected. Snape could find no fault with Ron's cleaning; the once-filthy glass bottles managed to sparkle even in the gloom of the dungeon. A curt dismissal later, Ron found himself back in the Gryffindor tower, falling asleep in an overstuffed chair.

The door to the common room swung open, jerking him out of his doze. Hermione and Neville walked in. Or rather, Hermione breezed in, robes fluttering behind her, while Neville stumbled in her wake. He was panting and gasping for breath.

"Hey, you two, how's everything?" Ron said brightly, sitting up.

Hermione strode past him without a word, her jaw firmly set. A thick, leather-bound book was clutched tightly to her chest.

"'Why, I'm quite well, thank you, Ron. How are you tonight?'" he said in a high-pitched, squeaky imitation of Hermione's voice. When open sarcasm failed to get her attention, he tried a more direct approach. "What's wrong with you? Where are you going?"

She mumbled something he couldn't quite hear--he caught something that sounded like 'reading legends'--and drifted up the stairs to the girls' dormitory.

"Well!" he huffed. His eyes narrowed, and he turned to Neville with a forbidding scowl. "I don't suppose you'll be able to tell me what's the matter with everyone today."

Neville, still trying to catch his breath, looked rather shell-shocked. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He tried again, but only managed a weak cough. He looked helplessly at Ron.

"Oh, don't even bother," Ron snapped. "I'm going to bed."

With that, he stormed up the staircase, leaving Neville alone in the common room, his mouth still hanging open.

        *        *        *

"Would you look at that! Ron Weasley, the youngest Seeker to ever play for the Chudley Cannons, has apparently seen the Snitch and is going for it, full tilt! Look at that speed, that grace! There's no chance that anyone could catch him now! I've never seen a crowd get this excited--they're on their feet, all cheering for Ron Weasley, Ron Weasley....Ron....Ron....."

"....Ron! Ron! Get up!"

The announcer's triumphant voice faded and dimmed, giving way to an urgent whisper that buzzed right next to his ear.

"Grrmph. Go 'way," he said feebly, rolling over and burying his face in the bedclothes. So close to winning...all he had to do was reach out and grab the Snitch and the game would be--

"Wake up, Ron!" whispered the intrusive voice. A hand touched his shoulder, and shook him. Hard.

The lovely vision of the Snitch, the wildly cheering spectators, and the Quidditch pitch vanished. His pillow fell to the floor with a feathery thud.

"All right, all right, I'm awake...." He sat up and groaned, pushing the covers back. He rubbed his bleary eyes, trying to get the room in focus. "What time is it? What do you want?"

"It's a little after three." Harry was sitting on the edge of Ron's bed, fully dressed. His face was pale in the dim light of the room, the jagged scar standing out in livid contrast to his white forehead.

"Harry! It's the middle of the bloody night!" Ron hissed, yanking at the bedclothes and pawing around on the floor for his pillow.

"Dumbledore needs to see us. Right now."

That got Ron's attention. "What about?"

Harry stood up, his face hidden by the shadows in the room. "I don't know. Get dressed, and hurry."

Ron knew that Harry was lying through his teeth, but got out of bed and started to dress as quietly as he could. Faint, rhythmic breathing from the other beds indicated that Neville, Seamus, and Dean hadn't been disturbed by their whispered conversation. He quickly ran a comb through his hair--it wouldn't do to go and see the Headmaster with tousled bed head--and fumbled for his wand. The two of them crept down the draughty stone stairs.

At the bottom, Professor McGonagall and Hermione were waiting for them. Ron's eyes widened at this, but the look on McGonagall's face silenced the hundreds of questions that sprang to his lips. The portrait swung open, and the three Gryffindor students and their Head of House hurried out and down the corridors.

They settled into a brisk trot--closer to a run, Ron thought--passing through the numerous hallways and climbing the never-ending staircases that led to the massive gargoyle outside Dumbledore's office.

"Jelly Slugs," McGonagall said impatiently.

The gargoyle let them pass.

As the stairs carried them onward and upward, the faint sound of voices drifted down from Dumbledore's office. Ron stole a quick look at Harry and Hermione. Hermione was toying with a stray strand of her hair, and Harry was fiddling with the edge of his robe and tapping his foot.

Ideas came into his head and were just as quickly discarded. Harry was in danger. Someone they knew was dead. You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters were about to attack Hogwarts. The Dementors and the giants had officially declared their allegiance to the Dark Lord, and had joined his forces.

Everyone knew that something was wrong, something important was about to happen.

Everyone knew...everyone but him.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything to break the awkward silence, but McGonagall swept forward and ushered them into the office before he could collect his thoughts.

Several chairs were gathered in a circle in the centre of the large room. None of them were occupied. In the middle of the circle stood Dumbledore, his kind eyes troubled and serious. Next to him, still draped in the long dark cloak that he had worn earlier that day, was Professor Stanton.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Headmaster, I've brought the three of them, as you requested," she said.

"Come in, all of you. Sit down. And do have some cocoa," Dumbledore said briskly, gesturing to a small table where four steaming mugs of hot chocolate waited. McGonagall looked as if she was about to protest, but Dumbledore waved her inside. "Come, come, Minerva...the school won't fall to pieces if you're not out patrolling the halls. Dr. Stanton would like to hear your opinion on this discussion."

At the mention of his name, a placid smile lit up Professor Stanton's grave face, and he made a rather old-fashioned bow. "Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter. A pleasure to see you all again. And my dear Professor McGonagall...enchanted, as always."

"Glad to see you, sir," he heard Harry and Hermione say in almost choreographed unison, and chimed in hastily, half a beat behind.

Once they had all taken their seats and were sipping the delicious drink, Dumbledore turned to Professor Stanton. "Now, where were we?" he asked.

"I think we should start again from the beginning, Headmaster," the visiting professor said. "Though I have spoken to Mr. Potter and Miss Granger, I have not yet had the chance to talk to Mr. Weasley." He turned to Ron, steepling his fingers in a thoughtful pose. "My sincere apologies, Mr. Weasley--I'm afraid it was my fault that you received your detention with Professor Snape."

Ron clenched his hands. He could still feel the dirt from the potion jars, gritty under his nails. The soreness in his fingers, which had quieted to a dull throb, returned with a sharp vengeance. All of the stress and nervous tension that had been building up over the course of the day, ever since he had seen Harry's glassy-eyed, frozen stare in the lecture hall, buzzed and sang in his head, making him feel sick to his stomach.

"I don't care about that," he snapped, the harsh words spoken in a sour, thick sneer that didn't sound like it could have come from his mouth. "Just who do you think you are, coming here and scaring us all to death for no reason, as if we didn't have enough to worry about already!"

"Mr. Weasley!" boomed McGonagall in a terrible voice, at the same time that he heard Harry and Hermione hiss a warning "Ron!". He didn't acknowledge them, but kept his angry eyes fixed on Professor Stanton's calm ones.

Professor Stanton didn't look away. He returned Ron's furious glare with a steady, honest gaze, unblinking and almost serene.

"Miss Granger," he said, not taking his eyes off of Ron's, "did you happen to finish the book you borrowed from the library?"

"Y-yes, sir," Hermione said hesitantly, sounding startled.

"Did you find anything of interest? If you can remember anything, would you be so kind as to tell us about it?"

Staring into Professor Stanton's eyes, Ron felt curiously lightheaded, but he was unable to look away. Hermione's voice, when she started to speak, drifted into his mind as if carried to him on a gentle breeze.

"'One of the most obscure and poorly documented legends of the British Isles concerns a group of people known only as the 'Old Ones'. According to stories passed down through the years, they are a race of immortals who serve the power of absolute good, known to them as the Light. Their sole purpose was to protect the world from a force of ultimate evil, the Dark. Very little is known about these enigmatic beings, but it is believed that they commanded some of the most powerful magic of all time. The oldest, and most powerful of the Old Ones, was said to be none other than Merlin himself.'"

Ron's throat went dry, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He was falling down, sinking into the stormy blue-grey depths of the eyes that held his own without blinking.

*Just relax...calm yourself...* he heard Professor Stanton say. As if a coiled spring had been released, he felt the horrible tension leave his body in a rush. He let out the breath he had been tightly holding. Suddenly, a series of blurred images, not quite in focus, flashed through his mind like a flurry of snow.

There was a boy, not much younger than him, holding up a linked chain from which hung six round medallions of varying colours. The boy's serious yet proud smile faded into a small harp of gold, beautiful and fragile-looking. Next came a chalice, also of shining gold, covered with strange lines and symbols, and from a glint of light off the rim of the chalice he caught sight of a magnificent sword, burning with blue fire. Brief glimpses of men dressed in what looked like tunics and short cloaks flashed by, running and fighting an unseen enemy. And last, he saw a tall, white-haired old man with a stern, sad face, staring into the far distance at something only he could see.

His mind whirled and spun, clearing just enough for Professor Stanton's deep voice to make itself heard.

"Well done, Miss Granger. Were I in a position to give points to your House, I would not hesitate to do so. Was there anything else in the book which you happen to recall?"

The airy voice, so different from Hermione's usual confident tones, drifted back into Ron's thoughts. "'The only other Old One about which anything is known is the youngest one, called the Sign-Seeker--and he is known only by his title. Yet after the great battle in which the Dark was finally defeated, the Sign-Seeker, Merlin, and all of the Old Ones apparently disappeared from the world of magic. The legend has it that the Sign-Seeker returned to a hidden place to act as the Watchman for the Light, keeping vigil in case their power should be needed again.'"

Professor Stanton blinked, and with a sudden jolt, Ron found himself back in Dumbledore's office.

He felt weak and dizzy, as if he had been looking down from an immense height and had only just stepped back from the edge. His unseeing eyes darted wildly around the room, from Harry to Dumbledore to Hermione to McGonagall and returned to Professor Stanton, who had leaned back in his chair and was lost in some private contemplation.

There was a long silence, broken only by Ron's ragged breathing.

"That's the thing about legends," Harry said softly, almost wonderingly. "They always seem to have a basis in fact."

"Merlin...you knew MERLIN?!" Ron said at last, his voice rising into a fear-filled squeak.

It was the only thing he could grab hold of. Everything was coming at him without warning, all at once, too impossible for him to believe...this man, who could not have been much older than Professor Snape, actually knew and had once worked with the greatest wizard of all time....

He felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder, and looked up to see Harry and Hermione standing in front him, smiling reassuringly.

"It's all right, Ron," Harry said, a comforting hand on his best friend's trembling shoulder. "It takes some getting used to. Believe me, I know...why d'you think I've been so out of it all day? It wasn't until a few hours ago that things actually started to make sense."

"I'm glad I had a book to help me," Hermione said. Her confident grin faltered. "But even with a book...well, let's just say I wasn't exactly fast asleep when Professor McGonagall came to get me."

"Let him be," Dumbledore said in a voice that would allow no argument. "Give him a moment or two--everything will be all right."

Both Harry and Hermione nodded, and sat down again.

"Now, Dr. Stanton," Dumbledore continued, peering over the tops of his spectacles. "Before we begin, I must apologize once again for interrupting your busy schedule."

"Busy?" Professor Stanton waved one hand dismissively. "It is no trouble to request personal leave from the university, or arrange for a research sabbatical of undefined length. I had actually planned to attend a conference in America this Michaelmas term, but recent events take top priority. I am more than happy to be of service--especially as an outside consultant."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. Something seemed to be preventing his smile from fully appearing. "You understand the need for assistance from all levels, I trust?"

"Of course. I only wish you had called me sooner."

McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "Sooner? I take it that the Ministry of Magic didn't bother to contact you--not that I'm surprised," she added, taking a sip of her cocoa as if to clear a nasty taste from her mouth.

"One living legend on the case is enough for them, I suppose," Professor Stanton said. "And from what Mr. Potter has told me, they're none too pleased with him, either."

Dumbledore cast a look at Harry, who nodded in grudging agreement. "They underestimated him, the fools. They underestimated both him and Voldemort. I can only hope it won't get us all killed in the end."

Ron had to exercise all of his self-control to keep from flinching at each mention of the horrible name. Inwardly, he scolded himself for acting like a child--the people in this room had every right to openly name You-Know-Who. But he secretly wished they wouldn't...he had the oddest feeling that by saying...that name...out loud, someone very unpleasant--maybe even HIM--might *hear* it....

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Professor Stanton said darkly, breaking off Ron's train of thought. "And I have far less to lose than you, or Mr. Potter, or any of those fools who are clinging to their comfortable positions of power, willing to make others miserable if it will keep them in their jobs."

His voice took on the tone of an irritated professor lecturing a lazy student who had turned in an assignment covered with spilled ink. "Which brings me to another point...there is far too much of this 'town and gown' strife going on in the wizarding world. Heaven knows it blinds people as to who the real enemy is."

"'Town and gown'?" Professor McGonagall repeated, frowning. "To be fair, Professor Stanton, I would hardly say that--"

Professor Stanton held up a hand to stop her. "I'm not placing any blame on you, please understand. Perhaps, Professor, it is just the statement of one with a low opinion of human nature. But I suspect that it is all too apparent to these students here."

Seeing the confusion on the children's faces, he leaned forward and spoke directly to them. "You might not know the exact definition of 'town and gown' syndrome, but you see something like it every day, at all different levels. Wizards and witches versus Muggles, pureblood versus half-blood and Muggle-born--it is all too present, and very real. When you hear such choice epithets as 'Muggle-lover' and 'Mudblood' bandied about the halls of this school, and see the sneers on the faces of those who should be too young to know hate...."

He leaned back wearily in his chair. McGonagall's mouth was a thin, tight line in her pointed face, and one hand fingered the brooch at her throat.

"People feel threatened when those whom they fear have power. It happens all the time, even in the Muggle world--but you are right, my dear sir, it is a most serious problem. One that I have done my best to eliminate," Dumbledore said gravely.

"You're a better man than I, Headmaster," Professor Stanton said, his round face inscrutable.

Hermione half-raised her hand, but remembered where she was and quickly lowered it. "Speaking of power, do you believe that You-Know...I mean, Voldemort's power could be connected with the Dark? Residual magic, or something of the sort?"

There was another long silence.

Professor Stanton stood abruptly, and walked over to Fawkes' cage. He studied the sleeping phoenix for a tense moment, then turned back to the seated group.

To Ron's eyes, it was as if a mask had fallen away. Professor Stanton looked older somehow, older than McGonagall, even older than Dumbledore. He also looked very tired, like someone had drained all the energy out of him.

"I see you've been doing some extra reading, Miss Granger," he said reflectively, almost to himself. "Residual power of the Dark...it is quite possible. The timing is irritatingly coincidental."

"What makes you say that, sir?" Harry asked.

"The Dark was defeated, driven out of Time, in a great battle that took place nearly thirty years ago. There is no question about that. But they would have certainly leapt at the chance to continue their legacy in human form, where it would not have been eradicated in the final battle. Voldemort--or, at that time, Tom Riddle--would have gained in exchange the power of the Dark. A lesser form, to be true, but an evil that the wizarding world would not be able to defeat without outside knowledge."

He paused, picked up his mug of hot chocolate, and drank from it. When he spoke again, his voice held a different note, colder and more remote. "All in all, it would have been a very beneficial agreement."

"Don't blame yourself." Dumbledore's voice was crisp, cutting through the bitterness that had permeated the room. "This was not your fight, not your responsibility. You won your battle...it is different, this time around."

Professor Stanton whirled around, dark cloak swirling as he flung it over one shoulder. His round face was no longer pleasant, but icy and forbidding. He seemed to grow taller, to fill the room with his presence.

"Different in what way?" he demanded, in a voice so sharp that Ron shrank back in his chair, shivering at the power and authority in it. "That innocent people have died, are dying? That the boundaries between friend and enemy are so clearly defined, and yet are more vague than ever?"

"Different, in the fact that you have allies who are willing to join forces, unite against the common enemy and defeat him. It is not the Light alone who wish to see the Dark destroyed." Dumbledore's voice rang out gloriously, like a carillon of church bells on Christmas Day.

The true meaning of the words slowly sank into the room, leaving everyone awestruck and overwhelmed at their weight.

On his perch, Fawkes stirred himself and fell back asleep.

The coldness faded from Professor Stanton's face, leaving it once more expressionless. He sat down.

"Well, I'm glad we're all in agreement," he said, his voice suddenly back to its light, placid tones. "The question is: what exactly are we do to? Or more accurately, what would you have me do?"

"We need your knowledge of the Dark," said Dumbledore, looking relieved that the conversation had returned to more technical matters. "Only you can tell us if Voldemort has accepted that power, and if there is anything you or we can do to deal with it."

"If he has the power of the Dark, then I will need some time to devise a strategy. My resources in this time are limited, and if this work is to be done without alerting the Dark, certain precautions must be taken."

"Such as?" McGonagall asked.

"All further communications to me must go by Muggle post. I will pay the costs, of course," he added with a slight smile. "No need for any trouble on your part, but it will give an added measure of security. If I think of anything else, or learn of any developments, I will let you know, Headmaster."

"That sounds agreeable, Dr. Stanton," Dumbledore said, nodding sagely. "Do you have any preferences as to--"

"Excuse me, sir?" The words were out of Ron's mouth before he knew he had spoken them.

Dumbledore had raised one hand to add emphasis to his interrupted words. He let it fall back to his lap. "Yes, Ron, what is it?"

"Is something wrong, Mr. Weasley?" Professor Stanton said, looking very concerned.

Ron gathered all his courage. He wasn't going to rush into things foolishly this time; he knew just what he had to say, and with any luck, he would be able to say it in a way that wouldn't make him look like a complete ass.

"Why *us*, sir? Why Hermione? Why me? Harry, he's obvious. I can understand. And Hermione," he said, catching sight of her bright red face and dangerously shining eyes, and consequently taking refuge in babble, "would probably kill me right here if I didn't tell you that she's bloody brilliant, pardon my language, but I'm sure you knew that already, sir, and I know we've pulled off a few things before, but you'd be better off just working with Harry and Hermione here, and I won't tell anyone about this, I swear, sir, and--"

"You need three, Mr. Weasley."

Ron nearly fell out of his chair.

He had expected the usual reassurances. He'd heard them said many times before, from different people who all managed to say the same thing. "Because you're important, Ron" or "Because you're a brave, smart lad, Ron" or "Because you're my best friend, Ron" or any of the other pat statements that never quite rang true in his mind. He knew all the arguments to them--he'd rehearsed them in his head, waiting for just such an occasion.

This was different.

"Three?" Harry repeated.

Professor Stanton nodded. "It's always three. It has to be three."

"Three of what?" Ron asked, looking at anything but Hermione. He could still feel her gaze on him, and didn't want to look and see if she was still angry. Better to assume that she was, and wait for her to calm down.

"Three is the magic number, am I right?" Professor Stanton's voice took on a lilting rhythm, lyrical and flowing like poetry. "The great fairy stories always have things in threes. Three tasks to perform, three sleeping princesses, three Fates, three of everything. There is good reason, of course. Nothing is ever done in magic without good reason.

"For where one can be defeated, and two can be overcome, three have true power. And the power of three calls upon echoes of the past...previous examples that I can recall."

He smiled at Harry. "A scared young boy, one grown old before his time, who had to learn what he was and how to cope with the awesome, horrifying burden of his duty. Terrified that he'll hurt others. Always knowing that he was different, and suddenly learning why. But even with all his fears and insecurities, he managed to do the right thing, time and again."

He turned to Hermione. "Now I remember a diligent student, thrust into a world completely different than anything that his previous learning of science could have taught him. But once the initial shock had passed, he threw himself into the studies of the new world with a passion only matched by a determination to do what was right."

His eyes gazed thoughtfully at Ron. "Another boy, the youngest son of a large family, who once imagined that his life was defined only by those who had gone before him. Yet in time, he discovered that he was not merely one face in a crowd, or a legacy of his memorable family, but was instead a person of great courage, willing to do whatever it would take to protect and defend his true friends.

His voice swelled, filled with a wisdom that crossed the ages, hearkening back to time immemorial. "And together, three mortal children, two boys and a girl, who unknowingly accepted an immense responsibility that brought them together...and created an unbreakable bond. That is how the Dark is defeated, using that bond between the three of you, with others to support and guide you along the way."

He regarded them for a minute, a critical assessment, and then stood up. "And you'll win. I have no doubt of that."

None of them knew what to say. Even Dumbledore was silent.

Professor Stanton removed a gold watch from somewhere within his cloak, and checked the time. He closed it with a tiny snap. "But I've kept all of you up far too long. The sun will soon be up, and even though it's Friday, I don't think you'll get much sleep."

The return to normal time signaled a definite end to the discussion. Dumbledore got out of his chair, and the two men shook hands. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Professor McGonagall also stood, and moved forward to say their goodbyes.

"If you need anything, Professor Stanton," McGonagall said firmly, "don't hesitate to let us know. The faculty at Hogwarts will do our very best to accommodate you, should you need our help."

"My thanks, Professor," he said. Taking her outstretched hand, he bowed over it with a courtly, archaic flourish. McGonagall pressed her free hand to her heart, pleasantly surprised. A faint flush crept into her wrinkled cheeks.

Hermione stepped forward. "Is that the only book there is on...on your kind, sir?"

"No, Miss Granger," said Professor Stanton. "But the fun is in the looking, wouldn't you agree?"

The glitter in Hermione's eyes said that she certainly did.

Harry stared up at the tall man as he held out his hand. "You never did show it to me, you know."

"Show what, young man?"

"Your scar," Harry said, looking very serious. "You said you would, if I asked."

Wordlessly, Professor Stanton lifted his left arm. He pushed back the sleeve of his dark suit jacket, unfastened his shirt cuff, and rolled back the white sleeve. On his inner part of his forearm was a shiny scar, clearly marked in a circle quartered by four lines.

He held it out to Harry, who stared at it for a moment, his eyes tracing the pattern of the circle quartered by the cross. Suddenly, Harry winced, and grabbed at his head. He staggered backward, hissing in pain.

"Harry!" Hermione and Ron shouted, and leapt forward to steady their friend. McGonagall darted forward with arms outstretched, but stopped short as Dumbledore laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.

Harry shook his head, as if to clear it, and looked up at Professor Stanton with wide, frightened eyes.

The tall professor rolled down his sleeve, and fastened the buttons at the cuff. "It is not something I am proud of, Mr. Potter. Long ago, I did a very foolish thing, and this scar, like all scars, is a reminder of something that I wish could be undone. But do not be so eager to see another's scar again, Mr. Potter, lest it remind you of your own."

Harry gulped, and gingerly touched his forehead. "I won't, sir. I'm sorry."

Ron handed Harry to Hermione and walked up to Professor Stanton, trying to keep his hand from shaking as he held it out. "Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye, Mr. Weasley. I'd like to speak to you again...I hope next time we will have more chance to talk in private."

"I'd like that, sir."

Professor Stanton squeezed his hand in a solid handshake, and gave a courteous little bow. He stepped back, into the centre of the circle of chairs, and nodded in farewell to all of them. The air around him began to shimmer, rippling like the heat radiated from the ground on a hot summer's day, and he vanished.

As the sun dawned over the lofty spires and craggy towers of the famous Hogwarts Academy, both students and staff alike shifted in their beds as the faint sound of bell-like music whispered its way into their dreams.

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Gramarye [email protected] http://gramarye.freehosting.net/ December 30th, 2001