Darkness Dying

August 27, 1980
 

Remus awoke and bit back a groan. As the summer had dragged along, the euphoria that had surrounded the debut of Harold James Potter abated. Less than a month after Harry’s first appearance, then, Remus felt completely drained of the awe and joy he had felt in Saint Mungo’s waiting room. The month of August had not gone well by any stretch of the imagination, and the previous night’s transformation had been especially unpleasant.
 
Remus opened one eye, but hastily closed it again. The morning sunlight seemed to bore a hole straight through his skull while simultaneously provoking a wave of nearly unbearable nausea. It would be best to pretend to remain asleep until Peter insisted that they vacate the manor’s premises.
 
On ordinary post-transformation mornings, Remus would have had no reason to display his acting skills, for he would have had no trouble falling back into unconsciousness. Today, however, his mind was too uneasy to allow his body to relax.
 
 
 
 
 
The trouble had begun as soon as he had returned home from nearly a full day of celebrating Harry’s birth. He walked straight to the couch on which he had abandoned his papers only to find that they were held in place by a paperweight unquestionably made of silver.
 
Warily, Remus surveyed his living space with his wand in his hand. He found nothing unusual save the paperweight.
 
Remus made a face. He reached for the topmost square of parchment, intending to rid himself of the object without actually touching it. Casting a spell on the thing did not seem like the best idea; it was perhaps enchanted and might react adversely to a curse. However, as Remus gently took the parchment in his hand, the paperweight leapt from the page and wrapped itself around his wrist. He could not help yelping at the sudden pain.
 
Words began to appear on the parchment upon which the paperweight had been sitting. You have a weakness that can be exploited. Use this parchment to send an affirmative answer with the owl waiting by your back window, or you will use it for nothing else. The chunk of silver removed itself from his arm and morphed into the shape of the dreaded Dark Mark before vanishing completely. The words faded from the parchment as Remus stared.
 
He walked quickly to his back window. As promised, a medium-sized black owl with what Remus was certain was an evil glint in its eyes was waiting. He and the bird stared at one another for a moment before, in an uncharacteristic burst of anger, he opened and then slammed the window. The owl flew off, screeching in outrage at nearly having had a talon severed.
 
As promised, the next morning an owl arrived from the headmaster of the school that employed Remus.
 
Mr. Lupin:
 
We regret to inform you that we will no longer be requiring your services in the matter of preparing our summer programs. You failed to notify us of your pre-existing medical condition when you accepted our offer of employment. As a result, your contract is null and void and we will not be compensating you for services already rendered. Your work is of no use to us as we are in the business of preventing occurrences such as those you choose to associate with are in the business of causing.
 
Sincerely,
 
Vincent Steen
 
He threw the scrap parchment into the fire along with the rolls of parchment he had intended to send to the school later in the day. He spent the rest of the week doing odd jobs for under-the-table pay and searching, with no success, for more permanent work.
 
Then the next owl arrived.
 
Mr. Lupin:
 
Please do not resent the actions we were recently forced to take against you. We simply needed to get your attention. In the long run, we feel assured that our relationship will be mutually beneficial. You will always be an outcast among those who rule the current society. Luckily, a new society is arising, and its members would most sincerely appreciate the unique contributions you can make to our cause. We offer you acceptance, protection, worthwhile pursuits, and riches beyond your wildest dreams. We hope that you in turn will offer us your scholarly abilities and your connections within the world that spurns you so. Reply by return owl.
 
Respectfully,
 

Your Future Comrades

 
Once more, the writing vanished as soon as Remus had read it and once more he shooed the owl away without tying so much as a scrap of parchment to its leg. No more had befallen him since that day, but he wasted more than a few hours which would have been better spent sleeping or inquiring after paid work wondering when the next statement would arrive. The Death Eaters did not give up on a quest so easily. If they had decided that Remus had the potential to join them and help them, then they would surely recruit him until he was ruined or dead.
 
He did, he had to admit to himself, have a motive. It was sometimes hard to convince himself to volunteer for the dangerous projects that Dumbledore assigned his small coalition of trusted witches and wizards when he knew that the very people who he was working to protect would spurn him should they ever meet in person. However, to his relief, it was never hard to convince himself to reject the offers that promised fortune and acceptance. He would fight the Death Eaters as long as he could draw breath. There were few certainties in the world, but this was one of them. Right and wrong were not difficult to separate when it came to the war between Light and Dark Magic. Was there a difference between refusing to allow a known werewolf into polite society simply because of a magically altered genetic makeup over which he had no control and refusing to allow Muggles to live peacefully simply because they had, through no faults of their own, been born without magic? Indeed there was. As archaic and prejudiced as contemporary wizarding society seemed at times to be, the alternative was much, much worse. No society that could produce James, Sirius, and Peter could be entirely on the wrong track, in any case.
 
Remus peeked through closed eyelids and saw that Peter was watching him closely. Soon Peter would be forced to “wake him up” and Apparate him home. Remus was too tired and sore to Apparate himself this morning. It was nice that he could trust Peter. Apparating another person was a dangerous, complex spell, but Peter had been determined to become proficient at it, just as he had been determined to successfully complete the Animagus transformation. Peter was a wizard of average ability: no more and no less.
 
Remus sometimes worried that Peter doubted his talents. The professors at Hogwarts had often been harder on Peter than on his three best friends. James and Sirius had been the most intelligent students in the year, and had been charming troublemakers who wormed their ways into the professors’ hearts to boot. The constant refrain surrounding Remus had been “Remus Lupin does so well with what he has!” Remus had resented the refrain to a point, but his all-encompassing gratitude at being allowed into Hogwarts in the first place had overwhelmed his annoyance. Peter had had the misfortune of being the average constantly compared to the exceptions. “He isn’t in the same league as James and Sirius,” the professors had said. Very well. Who was in the same league as James and Sirius? Besides James and Sirius, of course.
 
After graduation, James, Sirius, and even Remus had been ushered into a special program meant to train potential aurors. Remus had not had the slightest chance of becoming an auror-- he was a registered werewolf and the Ministry would never have had him-- but Dumbledore had wanted him to learn all that the program could teach him. Peter had not received an invitation. He had, however, achieved high scores on his NEWTS and been offered a position in the Ministry, though not a prestigious one. Now, Peter was in a more secure position career-wise than were any of his friends. Sirius had been unable to resist the temptation to continue training as an auror; but young aurors could be thrown from the program for any reason at any time. James played Quidditch, but as Dark activity increased, questions about the propriety of holding athletic contests were raised. The Quidditch league might soon be disbanded. Remus himself went through jobs rapidly as his lycanthropic nature was exposed.
 
 
 
 
 
“Moony?” Peter now asked gently. He hesitantly brushed his hand against Remus’ shoulder as if afraid that he would hurt his friend. Remus’ shoulder was indeed cut and bruised, but he had lost enough blood that he could barely feel Peter’s touch.
 
“Time to go?” he asked groggily.
 
“Time to go. You want me to Apparate you?”
 
Remus considered nodding his head but decided that that would hurt too much. “Yes,” he rasped instead.
 
“Hang on.” Peter knit his brows in concentration and performed the spell. Instantly, the two were transported to Remus’ flat. Peter helped Remus to his bed without being asked and vanished into the kitchen to fetch a healing potion. He slipped into his own thoughts as he ministered to the semiconscious werewolf.
 
 
 
 
 
It seemed impossible that things could have become so much more complex in the two months that had passed since he had last comforted Remus during a full moon. On second thought, though, his world had changed drastically not in two months but in two hours.
 
The life of a petty Ministry of Magic official was not dramatic, romantic, or exciting. Peter knew that he had little more to look forward to for the rest of his working life; he was not the ambitious sort of person who rapidly climbed the Ministry ladder. In addition, he was not as powerfully magical as the wizards who generally attained fame and fortune in one way or another. He did not especially care. His Ministry appointment would give him security for as long as he wished it, and his social life was as good as anyone’s could be in times like these.
 
He had, obviously, three very great friends. James was the fairytale hero who got everything right. Sirius was the stunningly handsome, charismatic warrior who drew attention in all he did. And Remus was the enigma, the carrier of the werewolf curse who could be boundlessly patient and cuttingly sardonic by turns. His social life did not extend far beyond the three; a broader social life was impossible during the war. No one could tell for certain who was working for the Dark Lord, and who was under the Imperius Curse, and who had been sent to test the willpower of an operative for one side or the other. Bars and restaurants and clubs had stood empty for years now. The last surviving vestige of entertainment was the Quidditch League. The stands often stood three-quarters empty, but the Ministry had encouraged the teams to continue to play because the games were broadcast over wizarding radio and seemed to boost the morale of families too nervous to leave their homes to see the matches in person.
 
Thus, Peter had been working late, as he often did. His tasks were not complicated, but they involved large amounts of information that needed to be synthesized and redistributed. Peter’s attention span and perceptive abilities began to waver around midnight. Sighing, he forced himself to speak aloud in the hopes that this would allow him to complete just a few more reports before leaving.
 
“This goes here,” he said to his empty office. “That goes there. Proofread . . . no, already checked that. Need an address. Accio . . . need a wand to do magic, don’t I? My wand is over there. I put it down on top of the dictionary. I should really go pick it up. Or I could just pick up the address book I was going to summon. Or I could just go home. Talking to myself this much can’t possibly be a good thing.”
 
“I would think not,” said a shadowed voice.
 
Peter did the only thing a sensible, overworked, overtired young wizard could do. He screamed. Why is my wand over there? he asked himself frantically. Why is it there, why isn’t it here, not that I could ever out-duel anyone. Stupid!
 
“Don’t be frightened,” the voice continued. Now Peter could see a dark, hooded figure emerge around the corner of his office. “If we wanted to kill you, you would be dead already.”
 
Peter had to admit to himself that that was true. He turned some of his attention to wondering how many “we” was. Most of his attention, however, remained on being afraid. Fear might not have been an entirely rational reaction in such as helpless state as his, but somehow it felt right. “Wh-- what d-- do you w-- want?” he asked, loathing himself for stammering. He had always stammered when nervous. This was one of the things he least liked about himself.
 
“We want to talk to you, Peter,” the Death Eater said in a deceptively gentle voice. “You’ve worked enough for one night, don’t you think?”
 
Peter did not trust himself to respond verbally, but he brushed his rolls of parchment aside and looked directly at the man. Confident body language, at least, was something he could fake.
 
“Good,” said the Death Eater with an almost friendly chuckle. “Now, I was wondering if you could give me a little bit of help?”
 
Peter blanched. It sounded so innocuous when it was phrased that way. “Help.” As if it was something that any decent wizard in his right mind would do. But Peter knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the kind of “help” this man wanted would involve betraying the Ministry, Dumbledore, and even his family and friends. “I c-- can’t d-- do that. I’m sorry.”
 
“There’s no need to be sorry. There’s no reason you can’t do it. You don’t know what it is.” The Death Eater moved closer to Peter, although not in a menacing way. “Do calm down. This is nothing to get over-excited about. Not yet.” He turned to look around the corner from which he had appeared. “Have you?” He did not need to complete his request; a flask full of amber-colored liquid was thrown in his direction. He conjured a glass from thin air and placed it in front of Peter before filling it with what was obviously very expensive alcohol. “It might make you feel better.”
 
Peter ignored the offering.
 
“You don’t have to take it, of course. We won’t force you to do anything. We want you to join us because you want to join us.”
 
“I don’t want to join you.”
 
“You ought to hear us out. It would only be polite, and from what we know, you’re a rather polite sort. Don’t like to hurt other peoples’ feelings. Go out of your way for your friends. Do everything it takes to do your job properly, even when it takes more than it should.” He glanced around Peter’s cluttered office as if to illustrate his point.
 
“You know nothing about me.”
 
“Don’t speak too hastily.” The wizard struck a melodramatic pose, and for a wild moment Peter was deeply reminded of Sirius. What would Sirius do in this situation? Surely he would have already found some way to disarm all of the Death Eaters, and he would have had them well on their way to Azkaban. Sirius was sometimes uncontrolled in his everyday life, but in a crisis he seemed to do exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. Next to Sirius, Peter sometimes felt very, very young.
 
The Death Eater looked directly at Peter; or Peter at least believed that he did. He could see nothing but hood, mask, and robes. “You were born in 1960. You were something of a surprise to your parents, who had believed that they would not be able to have any children after your sister, Roberta. She is fourteen years older than you, so you’ve never had a typical sibling relationship. You get along quite well, given the opportunity, however. You seem to rather admire her, and she is equally fond of you. She was a prefect and nearly Head Girl during her time at Hogwarts, and she has worked in the legal department of the Ministry since her graduation. Your father died when you were six.
 
“You grew up in the wizarding community and for some time worried that you were a squib. A burst of magic changed a playmate’s hair from black to white when you were eight years of age, and from then on you looked forward to Hogwarts. You did not make any true friends as a young child; the hair-changing incident occurred when your playmates were chanting that you were a squib and fat. One day roughly a year after this, your sister took you to work with her because there was a Quidditch festival in the town where the Ministry’s legal affairs are centered. One of your sister’s co-workers brought along a young cousin of hers the same age as you. His name was James Potter, and the two of you throughly enjoyed yourself that day.
 
“You began to attend Hogwarts in 1971. There, you became reacquainted with James Potter and forged a true friendship. Your other best friends were Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. All four of you were Sorted into Gryffindor and were roommates. A month or so into your first year, you and James overheard an argument between the permanent groundskeeper and his temporary replacement, and responded by encouraging your other friends to help you sabotage the replacement’s equipment. You became carried away with your own cleverness and declared yourselves ‘pranksters.’ You did well in your classes, though not well enough to convince your professors to overlook your trouble-making behavior . . .”
 
Peter sat in shock as the Death Eater’s recitation droned on for ten minutes, and then twenty. The man knew every detail about virtually all of the important events in Peter’s life thus far. He knew ever detail about most of the unimportant events, as well.
 
“Can you say you know as much about my friends and me as we know about your friends and you?” the Death Eater completed ingratiatingly.
 
“No. I can’t,” Peter admitted. His voice was no longer shaking. His unexpected, unwanted visitor had spoken for so long that Peter had become accustomed to his presence.
 
The Death Eater noticed Peter’s newfound sense of security. “We’re friends now, aren’t we, Peter?”
 
“I don’t even know your name, as you just pointed out.”
 
“What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet. Do you feel any differently about your friend James when you call him ‘Prongs?’”
 
“No,” said Peter. His answer was perhaps not entirely truthful, but one of few things which the visitor’s recitation had failed to mention was the animagus abilities of James, Sirius, and Peter. He knew the nicknames by which the four friends called each other, but he did not know the origins of those names (although he surely suspected why Remus was called ‘Moony’).
 
“Of course not. You know that I’m deeply interested in you. I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble for you. You have to be somewhat flattered.”
 
“Somewhat,” echoed Peter unwillingly. Being flattered doesn’t mean I want to join him! he mentally reassured himself.
 
“It’s been said that flattery will get you everywhere. I’d like to ask for your help once more. Will you listen to my request now?”
 
Have I a choice? Peter wondered. “I will listen,” he said aloud.
 
He could hear the smile as it crept into the Death Eater’s tiredly triumphant voice. “That is all I ask. I believe that among this swarm of parchments you have some of the plans for an affair set to occur in two months’ time. The Rally of Light, I believe the esteemed Headmaster Dumbledore is calling it?”
 
Considering the man’s earlier recitation of Peter’s life, Peter knew that it would do no good to lie. His visitor knew his business at least as well as he himself knew it. “I have the plans.”
 
“Then share the wealth, my friend!” the Death Eater replied jovially.
 
“I can’t.”
 
“Have you forgotten where the plans are?”
 
“I was given strict orders--”
 
“You’ve never broken a rule for a friend?”
 
“There are different sorts of rules.”
 
“And this is the sort you cannot break.” The voice dropped several degrees.
 
“Yes,” said Peter hopefully.
 
“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. COME!” Six more Death Eaters suddenly appeared in Peter’s office; but they seemed to be many more than six. They took fighting positions and drew their wands. This was the stuff of which nightmares were made. The leader’s deportment had become menacing once again. He passed one hand into his robe and withdrew a human head. Peter’s stomach lurched terribly. The eyes were opened wide in a lifeless expression of shock, and smatters of blood still clung to the severed neck.
 
The Death Eater held the head by the hair and swung it in front of Peter, so that the living nose was inches from the dead. To his unending horror, Peter recognized the woman as a former classmate-- a member of Hufflepuff House. He had seen her obituary in the Daily Prophet the previous day.
 
“You will give me the plans or you will end up like her,” the Death Eater declared in a tone that booked no room for argument.
 
“In the cabinet,” Peter whispered, still feeling terribly sick. The leftmost one. There is a hidden compartment in the upper right-hand corner. If you place your wand directly against it and use an unlocking charm, it will open.”
 
One of the burly Death Eaters followed Peter’s instructions and removed the precious plans. He and his comrades then vanished, leaving only the leader.
 
“I’m sorry we had to be so harsh with you today,” he said gently. “But you had something that we needed right away. Ordinarily, we do not recruit in person from the first. Risky and inefficient, but less so when someone is a Ministry worker. You might want to give some thought to how we got in here tonight. Your Ministry is rotten not at the core, but very near the core. Nothing is to be gained from resisting us.”
 
With that, he was gone. Peter shakily Apparated back to his flat, half-hoping that he would splinch himself and end his troubles. He hid sleeplessly in his bed like a small child for the rest of the night. The next morning, the plans were back in their secret compartment as if they had never been gone. Peter did his best to convince himself that the experience had been no more than a vivid dream.
 
 
 
 
 
The “dream” haunted him ceaselessly, however. Just now he was distracted by his thoughts when he was supposed to be helping Remus. “Sit up, Moony,” he whispered, in case Remus had a headache that would be made worse by a loud voice. Remus groaned. “Just for a minute. You drink this and you’ll sleep longer and better.” He sat on the edge of the bed and half-pulled Remus into a sitting position, resting his friend’s upper body against his own. Remus obediently drank the potion. “Good,” Peter soothed. “Now go to sleep.” He pressed a damp rage to Remus’ face, trying to remove the blood (blood like the blood on the dead woman’s head, but he wasn’t thinking about that) that had dried there. Any number of charms would have removed the blood equally as well, but the magic would disturb Remus more than a simple touch. It was bad enough that he would have to use magic on any broken bones he might have to knit. He did not mend bones as well as a nurse or a healer, but a simple break was easily taken care of; and Remus had simple breaks too frequently to go to a healer every time.
 
In truth, Peter reconsidered, it had been a long while since Remus had injured himself this badly. James and Sirius, as Prongs and Padfoot, were strong enough to curb the wolf’s destructive tendencies. Wormtail could not do as well, particularly because Moony and Wormtail could not go outside alone. They had spent the night trapped together in the shed, and while Wormtail had been able to distract the wolf and allow Remus to assert himself occasionally, he had not been able to control it.
 
He sighed, and continued his ministrations until a bang from the fireplace startled him. They’re back. They’re coming back. he thought anxiously. But when the fireplace at last swung wildly into his field of vision, there stood not a Death Eater but James.
 
“Hi,” said James softly, placing some spare Floo Powder into his pocket. “How is he?”
 
“Bad, but not too bad. A few breaks.”
 
James winced in sympathy. “Damn.”
 
“I tried.”
 
“I know you did. But a rat and a werewolf-- your odds weren’t good.”
 
They returned to Remus’ bed. Remus blinked awake groggily. “Prongs?”
 
“You look awful, Moony.”
 
“Thank you.”
 
“You’re welcome,” answered James sunnily. “What hurts?”
 
“Everything. Nothing. Why are you here?”
 
“Checking on you and bringing news. I didn’t want you to get it from the radio or the Prophet tomorrow.” His face lost some of its customary confidence and optimism. “There was another big attack last night. There was a group of aurors together in the safehouse outside London, and the Death Eaters attacked.”
 
“Attacked a group of aurors?” Remus wondered incredulously.
 
“Showing off.”
 
Remus digested this analysis for a moment before inwardly berating himself for not making the obvious connection sooner. If such a thing were possible, he became even more pale. “Was Sirius . . .?” The words died in his throat.
 
“Sirius was right in the middle of it. But he’s fine. He came out of it all right. Not everyone did, but Sirius is fine.” James looked torn between relief that his best friend had survived the ambush and guilt that the lives that had been lost did not matter to him as much as the fact that Sirius was safe.
 
“You’re certain?” asked Peter.
 
“Positive. I saw him this morning. He was scared, not that he’d admit it, but he also ended up leading the takedown that caught a few of the guilty ones. Not many. Just a few, but it’s better than nothing.”
 
Peter and Remus accepted James’ explanation without comment. Such behavior was typically Sirius.
 
“And now the most important news of all!” James announced, grinning broadly.
 
“Well?” prompted Peter and Remus together.
 
“Harry smiled yesterday! He’s only one month old, and it’s very rare for a baby to smile at one month, but he did! He definitely smiled! Even laughed a bit!”
 
“Why wouldn’t he, with the parents he’s got?” put in Peter delightedly.
 
“Congratulations,” added Remus. “But how do you know it’s rare for a baby to smile at one month?”
 
James grinned all the more. “We have a book. All babies smile at three months unless there’s something wrong, but not many do it at one month! Sirius says only an ex-Head Boy and Girl would check their son’s progress in a book, but he’s just jealous, even if he doesn’t know it. We’ll see if I let him help me teach Harry to play Quidditch after this,” he threatened unthreateningly.
 
“Which you’ll be doing next month?” queried Remus innocently.
 
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
 
Remus found it easy to obey, and Peter slumped in exhaustion as well. The Death Eaters seemed suddenly less important than Harry’s first smile.
  
 
October 31, 1980
 
 
Peter had no further contact with the Death Eaters for the two months that led to Dumbledore’s Rally of Light. It was nothing, he told himself every day. I imagined it, he added. At some point, he began to believe himself and the horrific memory began to fade.
 
He meant to wake up early on the morning of the Rally, but he had been working long, hard hours to prepare for it and his internal alarm clock failed to go off. When he at last awoke, he hastened to Apparate to the meeting place, which was not far from the often-empty Quidditch stadium at which the Rally was to be held.
 
His first thought upon blinking into existance in his new location was that his surroundings smelled wrong. Since he had begun to spend some of his time in the form of a rat, he had become more dependent on his sense of smell. It came in useful more often than he would have expected. Today, though, a Muggle with a bad case of the flu would have been able to detect the thankfully unusual stench: burning buildings and perhaps even burning flesh.
 
“WORMTAIL!”
 
Peter whirled around at the shout. Sirius was running toward him. The distance between the two disappeared rapidly, and Sirius grabbed Peter by his shoulders, looking frantic. “You’re all right?”
 
“I’m all right. Padfoot, what happened?”
 
Sirius’ expression hardened. “Some of the plans for the Rally must have fallen into the Death Eaters’ hands.” Peter felt a thrill of fear, and it must have shown on his face, for Sirius obviously observed it. Luckily, he misinterpreted it. “James and Lily and Harry are all fine. So’s Remus.” He took as deep a breath as he could, and grimmaced as he did so. “Ten dead. Six of them children. A father decided to bring his sons and some friends to see where they play Quidditch since he didn’t feel it was safe to go there during operating hours. How’s that for irony?”
 
“The other three?”
 
“Volunteers. We only told them last night where they’d have to set up, since no one was supposed to know exactly where the Rally would be until they grabbed the portkeys. What am I saying? You know all that, you helped with this.”
 
“Now what?”
 
Sirius leaned in and whispered in Peter’s ear as if he feared that he would be overheard even in the chaos. “Apparate to the North Stadium. We’ll reconfigure the portkeys and break the news of this at the Rally.”
 
“That might cause mass panic, Sirius,” Peter warned, though it was neither his nor Sirius’ decision.
 
“We’ll see that it doesn’t. Go on.”
 
The last thing Peter noticed before Disapparating was the Dark Mark lofting lazily over the intended location of the Rally of Light.
 
The rest of the morning was spent rushing from one task to another and doing things half as well as they ought to have been done in his haste. However, when the appointed time arrived, the portkeys had been reconfigured, the new location had been decorated, and gaurds, emergency medical workers, caterers, and ushers were all in their assigned positions.
 
Exhausted Ministry workers, aurors, members of the Hogwarts faculty, and underground resistance members implicitly trusted by Dumbledore gathered in the first few rows of the stands as other witches and wizards began to arrive. They overstepped their fear of leaving their arguably safe homes because of their great respect for Dumbledore and their desire to see him speak.
 
Remus, Sirius, and Peter sat beside James, Lily, and Harry, who was making his very first public appearance and was attracting a great many stares. None of those who had had the good fortune to meet the little boy over the course of the previous three months was surprised at the attention he garnered. His messy black hair and bright green eyes would have been adorable in any case; and the fact that he looked so much like his young, beautiful, and very-obviously-very-much-in-love parents only added to the image he presented. Harry had instantly become the light not only of his parents’ lives but of the lives of all who knew him. He was a prince born into a kingdom of admirers.
 
“All right,” began Sirius when the group had been companionably silent for several moments, “What the hell happened today?”
 
Lily shook her head and looked bewildered. “I thought we took every precaution against something like this. You obviously need a lot of people to organize an event this size, but Dumbledore only used Ministry workers and aurors and resistance fighters. We were probably the least experienced ones involved. No one had access to the plans who can’t be trusted.”
 
“Obviously, someone did,” Sirius corrected unecessarily.
 
Lily shifted Harry in her arms. “The tide seemed to be shifting in our favor. Aurors killed Rosier and Wilkes, captured Karkaroff and Dolohov, and that’s just in the past few months. Perhaps it was a coincidence? Luck?” She did not sound as if she believed herself.
 
“I’d love to believe that, but I think the alternative is much more likely.”
 
“What alternative?” asked Remus. “A spy?”
 
“Someone passed that information,” Sirius declared firmly. “Dumbledore trusts where others don’t. There are some suspicious people high up in the anti-Voldemort movement. Take Snape.”
 
James spoke for the first time. “No. Not Snape. He’s an ugly, annoying git but he’s too smart to do something like that.”
 
“He’s never even been accused,” continued Lily.
 
“Yes, he’s never been accused because he’s too smart to get caught!” Sirius proclaimed.
 
“Are you certain he had anything to do with the Rally of Light?” James argued methodically. “His specialty is potions-making.”
 
“So? No one exactly specializes in paperwork, and there was loads of that involved in setting this up. Right, Peter, Lily?”
 
“I don’t believe the paperwork went beyond the Ministry,” Lily argued vehemently. “We all did that so no one else had to.”
 
“Just because you did it doesn’t mean no one else had access! I’m sure any of the aurors--”
 
“Are you accusing Frank Longbottom now?” wondered James aloud. “Maybe Mad-Eye Moody? Yourself?”
 
“I’m not technically an auror yet. But there are so many people who have other jobs officially and who are really working for Dumbledore--”
 
“Me? Remus? Arabella Figg?” James began to suggest rapidly. “Any of the Hogwarts professors?”
 
“Almost no one seems suspicious, but the fact remains that someone within a dozen wandlengths of us probably passed that information!” Observing James’ and Lily’s stubborn stares of denial, Sirius looked elsewhere for support. “Moony? What do you think?”
 
The question was never answered. Dumbledore had appeared at the podium erected in the middle of the stadium and his magically amplified voice began to speak as soon as the raucous applause died down.
 
“Thank you to all of you, and thank you to those who have fought tirelessly against the troubles facing our community but who are unable to be here today. You are a great support and source of strength to those on the front lines of a war like no other we have ever known. I am proud of each and every one of you, not least for being here this afternoon when there are those who would have us all at home and cowering in fear.”
 
Remus applauded once more along with the rest of those in attendance. Craning his neck around, he wondered if the whole of the wizarding population of Great Britain (as well as representatives from every other wizarding country) had come to Dumbledore’s Rally.
 
Dumbledore continued to speak. “We have called this gathering the Rally of Light. It has been many months in planning because we wanted to ensure your safety, particularly the safety of the children I see among us. And to those children, I would like to say that I look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts within the next few years.”
 
Remus glanced at Harry, who was still lying contentedly in his mother’s lap. James had placed his arm around Lily, and her head rested against his shoulder. They look so perfect together it almost looks fake, he thought. A beautiful little family. But will there be a Hogwarts by the time Harry is old enough to go? By the time Sirius and Peter have children for him to play with? I’m doing absolutely everything I can to stop Voldemort from gaining power, but we’re fighting a losing battle and everyone who gets anywhere near the front lines knows it. There’s nothing more any of us can do. There’s nothing more I can do, much as I hate to admit it. This rally surely isn’t doing any good. In fact, it’s gotten ten people killed and an expensive stadium destroyed already. It was meant to give hope-- but what good is false hope? It was meant to show the Death Eaters that we won’t stop living-- but I think the Death Eaters sent the strongest statement today.
 
“We had hoped that today we could be normal witches and wizards despite the abnormal situation. We had hoped that old friends would meet again, recipes and stories would be exchanged, children would play mock-Quidditch. But it was not to be. I have a somber announcement that will be news for some of you. Today’s Rally was intended to be held in a different arena, the Southern Arena, as it happens. But this morning that arena was attacked. The Dark Mark floats over it now, and ten people are dead.”
 
An anxious murmur ran through the crowd. Remus could see aurors, hitwizards, and security wizards reaching for their wands in case they needed to keep order.

“We have captured at least one of those responsible. But still, there is no justification for the pain of the ten who died today or the hundreds who have died over the past several years. They did nothing wrong. Their families did nothing wrong. And I believe that their memorial can and should be greater than simply the punishment of the guilty. It is that, out of the shadow of this evil, should emerge lasting good. Resist Lord Voldemort! Resist his followers! Do not lower yourselves to their tactics of fear and hatred, but continue to live. Continue to hope for an era which is free from the violence and savagery of those who mistakenly declare themselves harbingers of a new way of life!”

Applause erupted once more. The population, Remus could see, wanted to obey Dumbledore’s command. The fact that such a thing might be impossible did not bother them now. For the moment, they only wanted to feel united and less alone. Still, the words seemed to ring empty to Remus. He somehow felt more alone even though he was sitting beside four people he loved and trusted. Four people I love and trust who don’t know that the Death Eaters want me to join them.

“It is likely that each of us here as lost someone important in this war. Each death is a tragedy in and of itself. Each is not just a tragedy for parents or children or friends: it is our tragedy, it is a collective tragedy. We are as strong as we are united and as weak as we are divided!”

This time, the applause split the air like a sonic boom. I suppose this event was worth the trouble everyone went to if it gets this kind of support from the community. Dumbledore needs all the help he can get.

“And now we are united. We are united in condemnation of Lord Voldemort and his followers and we are united in sympathy for his victims. We shall be united in our determination to survive and thrive in these trying times. We will bring tolerance, freedom, love, and respect into our homes and our places of business. My place of business is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hogwarts is dedicated to teaching, and to inquiry, and to freedom and openness. Hogwarts is the anathema of the society Lord Voldemort would like to create-- a society that lives in secret and thrives on hatred!”

A pang of guilt shot through Remus. No wonder they want to recruit me. I’m wonderful at living in secret. It’s something of a necessity when you’re a closeted werewolf. It isn’t a necessity for me to dwell on those letters, though. Neither is it a necessity for me to neglect to tell my friends about them. But what good would speaking do? Peter is so upset by the war already, and James and Lily too, with their new baby. Sirius might be able to handle talking to me, but Sirius didn’t do very well with the last secret I told him, did he? ‘Hello, Snape, would you like to get past the Whomping Willow and make a killer out of my friend? And get him expelled, while you’re at it?’

And Sirius has already all but accused me of being a spy. Oh, he accused everyone short of Dumbledore, but I’m certain he’d be rid of me as fast as he could if he ever found any evidence that actually suggested my guilt. Look how protective he is of his godson. Of everyone he cares for. He cares for me, too, and I’m not going to do anything that might stop him from caring. I don’t want to be alone in this mess any more than anyone else does.

I’m sure Sirius has never been recruited, or James or Lily or Peter, either. Everyone knows which side they’re on, but who can know about a werewolf? He might not believe that I’ve never done a thing to show that I might be interested in the Dark Lord’s offers.

So lost was Remus in his thoughts that he did not hear the end of Dumbledore’s speech. Sirius nudged him. “Are you all right?”

Remus smiled wanly. “Fine.”

“It’s all right if you aren’t. Sometimes odd things get to you,” Sirius pressed.

“I’m as fine as anyone is, Padfoot,” Remus repeated with more energy.

“Right, then. The man of the hour is heading our way. Look impressive.”

“I suspect he’ll only have eyes for Harry.”

Sirius shrugged in agreement as Dumbledore approached the little group. “Can’t blame him for that.”

Dumbledore’s eyes indeed went straight to Harry, although he greeted each of his five chaperones in turn. “I’ve been anxious to meet this young man,” he told a beaming James and Lily. “His name is already on the Hogwarts rolls, you know.”

“Really?” asked James with delight.

“Naturally. Look at his parents.” James almost looked embarrassed at his obvious show of relief. No one doubted that James would love and be a wonderful father to a squib, for James was more open-minded than most descendants of long wizarding lines, but the fact remained that every pair of wizarding parents hoped for a healthy, magically gifted child. Dumbledore took pity on his former student. “I quite understand. Every Hogwarts graduate wants his or her child to attend Hogwarts. I would think myself quite a failure if it were not so.”

“Well, we’re both delighted that Harry will be getting a letter in eleven years,” added Lily.

“Ten years and eight months,” Dumbledore corrected with a smile.

Lily shook her head emphatically, causing her long, red hair to glint in the dying afternoon sun. “That’s too soon.” She clutched her son more tightly. Harry lifted his head and stared at Dumbledore’s crooked-nosed face. Dumbledore met the infant’s gaze. “Would you like to hold him?”

“I’d like nothing more.” Lily stood and handed Harry to the aged headmaster. “Children are even more miraculous in times like these.”

“Are there many children on the rolls for his year?” asked Lily, though Harry and Dumbledore were still engrossed by each other.

Dumbledore sighed. “Most children don’t show for certain that they’re magical until they’re considerably older than Harry is now. We know of six children from purely wizarding families who will certainly be invited. We know of fifteen more who will most likely be invited. But the class will be much smaller than your class was, particularly if the Death Eaters continue to murder children on a regular basis. And when you add in the children who weren’t born because your classmates and the students in the classes just above yours are dying at such an alarming rate, we simply have to face the idea that Harry’s class will be very small. It may be as much as half Muggle born.”

“Half!” James sounded stunned. “That’s amazing.”

“I wouldn’t have thought it possible twenty years ago, but it is certainly so now.” Sadly, the old wizard returned a cooing Harry to his mother. “I must go. More people to greet. And I need not warn you all to be careful. There is only one way that this morning events could have occurred.”

“A spy,” said Sirius flatly and without a hint of gloating.

“Correct,” Dumbledore agreed, and was gone.

Neither James nor Lily nor Remus nor Sirius noticed as the blood drained from Peter’s face.