Welcome to the Light Side

Author's Notes: This story is also posted at Veritaserum Fanfiction and Fanfiction.net under the aliases "Anthony Goldstein" and "omegaohm88" respectively. Chapter One is dedicated to thin mint Girl Scout cookies, because that's what I'm eating right now.

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"Furnunculus! Imperio!"

"Protego!" I panted, crouching and rolling across the floor in a very unmanly way that no self-respecting twenty-year-old ever wants to find himself doing.

"Relashio!" A jet of light shot out the end of my wand, but my opponent deflected it with a slight flick of his wand. As if I ever thought I could actually inflict damage upon The Chosen One with my lame little sparks! Pathetic, Goldstein - learn a few real spells, why don't you? I rolled my eyes inwardly.

Before I resume my dramatic and impressive saga of reckless courage and heroic self-sacrifice, I would first like to assure you, my audience, that I am in fact a sane person. When Filius Flitwick advised me to pursue a career as an Auror way Back In The Day when I was a wee little fellow of fifteen and I eagerly settled on this line of work, I had no idea that in doing so, I would be setting myself on the receiving end of Harry Potter's wand. No bloke in his right mind would do that, and I am no exception. I would have quit once I learned what I was getting into, but my parents liked the idea of having their son, Hogwarts Head Boy of his day, involved in the Ministry - "the noble profession" of Defense, to be exact. The only reason why I'm still here hopelessly dueling with ("dueling with" in and of itself is a rather generous term - try "being hexed by" and you're starting to think along the right lines) a vastly more powerful and accomplished Gryffindor than myself is because my mother has a heart ailment; stress and severe disappointment are bad for her health and I don't want her to have a cardiac arrest.

Well, perhaps that's not the only reason - I've noticed that the witches seem to find "Auror-in-training" an attractive title, as well. Okay, the job carries some definite perks.

"Imp -"

I never found out whether Potter was about to zap me with another Imperius Curse or perhaps the kinder, gentler impediment jinx (never in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined that a time would come to pass when I would attach the adjective "gentle" to a hex of any sort) because at that point, Dawlish (clever, brilliant Auror and instructor who he was) saw fit to blow his whistle and halt the day's practice.

Once he was sure that the fighting was over (attacking an odd mania of his - he's got that mad glint and his eye and everything, even in simple battle simulation settings like the ones we go through at least four times a week these days), Harry walked over and extended a hand to pull me up. When he's not busy cursing me in training sessions, we actually get along together fairly well. What a pal! (Catch the sarcasm?)

"Good training today, Anthony!" he said, clapping me on the back. He sounded slightly breathless. (Honestly, how could he have the nerve to sound slightly breathless? Just standing there, jinxing me silly while I lay sprawled on the ground like some demented animal. I should take up a second career as a gymnast, for all the acrobatics I've managed in the process of dodging his spells - not to mention the even more incredible feats I've brought off under the Imperius Curse. Maybe it would pay better than this. Maybe there would be nice girls at the Muggle circus. Terry and I could go together!)

"Erm, yeah, it was rather excellent," I agreed with a noncommittal shrug as we went to collect our cloaks, books, and accessories before leaving training for the day. We should work with mannequins when it's time to learn about the Cruciatus Curse. "Hey, listen" - note my obvious attempt to change the topic of discussion here, as I thought I just might deck him if we continued along the lines of Harry Potter's brilliant talents in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry Potter's breathtakingly fabulous defeat of Voldemort, etc., which is where nearly all conversations end up anyway these days - "Terry's getting out of work early this morning. D'you and Ron fancy -"

"MR. POTTER!" I recognized Dawlish's voice behind us right away; it's the horrible, booming sort, the kind that makes you think the speaker's either shouting at someone three stories up or else slightly deaf. Dawlish's voice was shortly followed by Dawlish, a short, bald bloke who you wouldn't spot for a particularly impressive person if you didn't already know any better. "An excellent performance today, Mr. Potter, though my only concern, if you will permit...." He grasped Harry firmly around the shoulders and began to lead him in the opposite direction.

Pfft. My plans don't mean anything to anybody, do they?

"I'll just grab your things for you, shall I?" I called after Harry's retreating back. It's not his fault, I suppose - Dawlish is downright obsessed with him. Well, I suppose any Auror school instructor would be obsessed with a young man who was responsible for the downfall of Voldemort (while we're standing here waiting for the pair of them to come back, I might as well tell you that we're through with the "You-Know-Who" business; Voldemort turned out to be mortal after all, and should be treated as such) at the mere age of seventeen. But Dawlish is too obsessed. Unhealthy-like. I wonder whether he pines for Harry when we're on holiday.

"Accio bag!" I said clearly, raising my wand, and my bag zoomed neatly toward me out of the student closet. I'm good at those household-y types of spells, transfigurations, and charms even though Potter can beat me on the Auror stuff. (And only Potter, mind - I'm still better than most of them. I'm good at strategy. Ravenclaw and all that.) "Accio clo - ouch!"

Someone's books hit me squarely in the forehead, and I spun around, wand raised, ready to take my frustration with Harry and Dawlish and my professional situation and my love life (wait on that one - it comes up later in the story) out on the moron who apparently tried to summon his junk straight through my head by cursing the living daylights out of him - and found myself standing face-to-face with my dear old chum, Zacharias Smith.

Zacharias Smith, you have to understand, is the biggest mistake I've ever made since I stole my grandfather's wand when I was six. The way he came to be a part of my life is pathetic in and of itself, and five years after it happened, I would give all the tea in China to have a massive, apocalyptic time-warp transport me back to my fifteen-year-old body and give me a second chance to redo that one afternoon of my entire existence. You, the reader, really don't need to know the details, which illustrate my shallow nature in all its glory, but since you're actually spending time reading my epic I guess I can afford to give you the general gist.

Basically, like I said, I'm fifteen, emotionally immature, and hormonal. I have a mad crush on one Hermione Granger, who I had met in the prefects' carriage on the Hogwarts Express earlier in the year. My friend Michael Corner, who has been dating a fourth-year Gryffindor for some time, waltzes into the House common room and tells me and Terry that Harry Potter (best friend of Hermione) is starting some sort of defense/You-Know-Who awareness group and invites us to come along to the first meeting. Hermione, as per usual, is lovely and very passionate about her beliefs, and the most that I manage to choke out in the Hog's Head is a strangled "hear, hear!" I go to the second meeting in hopes of getting more than a word in edgewise with her, Potter tells us that we're going to be practicing disarming, and my opportunity to impress Hermione is handed to me on a silver platter.

Zacharias Smith. He is the most heinous, awful being I've ever met, and a Hufflepuff, to top it all off. He flies in the face of all traditional Hufflepuff stereotypes - the bloke's not nice, not loyal, not fair, and not a friend - but he's still in Hufflepuff. (Confirmation of my theory - that I have not shared with a single living, breathing soul - that the intelligent go to Ravenclaw, the ambitious go to Slytherin, the tough go to Gryffindor, and everyone else goes to "the other House.") I know that Hermione is big onto the inter-House unity bandwagon ... so I decide to show off a bit, partner up with Zacharias instead of my friends, demonstrate that I'm completely above petty rivalries. What I don't know is that Zacharias is an awfully clingy person, and in trying to attract the girl's attention for a minute, I've acquired the stalker of a lifetime.

My thing for Hermione is over. (And you can bet your bottom knut that Weasley would have killed me if it weren't.) Zacharias's thing for me is not. On one rather sentimental occasion, the poor bloke informed me that I was "the first real friend [he] ever had" ... skip a few years and you've got the pair of us working in the Auror program, eating at least one meal together almost daily, and owling each other over the holidays (Zacharias still lives with his mum, while Terry and I rent a flat in London). Now all I need is for him to ask to move in with me. (Chuckle chuckle.)

I lowered my wand. "Could you do me a favor and watch who's standing in the way of your summoning charms in the future?" I attempted to snap, but as little stars were still twinkling in front of my eyes from the impact, it came out as a feeble sort of whimper.

"Oh, erm, well, that is to say ..." Zacharias trailed off. That's the other annoying thing about him - no matter how clearly wrong he was, he will never apologize. I have to say, I hate excessively proud people. Unfortunately, I seem to be perpetually surrounded by a whole passel of them.

"Don't mention it," I said, somewhat regaining my bearings and trying to cut off the conversation at the chase. "Only a guy doesn't like to be concussed by a bag of books on a regular basis. Not good for the mind." I tapped my head weakly. "Oh, hey, Ron."

Ron Weasley, the fourth member of my Hogwarts graduating class who found his way into this line of work, was vaguely wandering toward us. He's not the greatest person to talk to if highly intellectual discussion is what you're after - ever since he started dating Hermione at the end of our seventh year, I feel she's been the only thing on his mind (and maybe even before then; love can be absolute torture, I tell you) - but at this point, I was looking for any excuse to get away from Zacharias before he asked me to go shopping with him in Diagon Alley or some other stupid thing of that ilk.

"Hello, Anthony," Ron nodded briefly. His eyes widened slightly as they grazed over Smith, and he edged closer to me so they could avoid looking at each other. The pair of them have never gotten along well - it's a combination personal/family grudge that dates back to the same fated Hog's Head meeting at which we all entered one another's lives. Ron will say the "feud" is all Zacharias's fault for mouthing off to Harry. Zacharias will say it's Ron's fault for not exercising control over his older brothers (I gather that one of them threatened to stick a Zonko's product up his ... well, you know). Suffice it to say, they got off on the wrong foot and their already strained relationship was quickly further exacerbated by The Quidditch Factor. The prats still can't get past it. "Where's Harry?"

"Dawlish hauled Harry off again to give him more 'advice' on his career," I said, doing my best to restrain my grimace. Seeing that Harry is my new co-worker, I try very hard not to act too envious of his triumph over Voldemort and his subsequent fame. Being unabashedly jealous is not a good way to get friendly, especially where a twenty-year-old man is concerned. Seeing that Ron is Harry's best mate, I try very hard not to make much of Harry around him, either.

"He's wasting his bloody time on Harry," Ron said disdainfully in a shocking display of honesty. "Harry can already dance circles around him. Heck, he got rid of Voldemort at the mere age of seventeen! He'll have no problem passing the Auror program. It's the rest of us Dawlish should be worrying about. Not you so much," he added quickly. "You were Head Boy, you're a brainy type. But me...." I got the distinct impression that I was not the only one in the Auror program who felt slightly overlooked, shall we say, in the presence of The Boy Who Lived (Twice - And By A Combination Of Sheer Luck And Company With More Impressive Foresight Both Times If You Ask Me).

"Oh, come off it," I said bracingly in a rare upsurge of affection for Ron, who honestly is among the whiniest blokes I know. "Hey, before Dawlish came over -" (insert collective rolling of eyes here) "- I was about to ask Harry whether you two would like to come out to lunch today. Terry's getting out of work early and we were planning to eat out, get a break from the apartment."

Terry Boot is to me as Harry is to Ron. Well, that analogy isn't entirely true, as it would imply that Terry is constantly overshadowing me as Harry is constantly overshadowing Ron (far from the truth), but our relationships are very similar in many respects. We met shortly after our Sorting on our first day at Hogwarts, and as a pure-blood wizard, I essentially took Terry, who is Muggle-born and was extremely stunned by the very concept of ghosts and spells and talking hats, under my wing. As fellow Ravenclaws, we came to be pretty close over the course of our school years and started renting a London apartment together after we graduated because Terry (actually, more like Terry's parents) decided that it would be inappropriate for him to simultaneously hold a job in the Ministry of Magic and live in a Muggle house. (If truth be told, I think Mr. and Mrs. Boot, who really are lovely people, were starting to feel awkward about answering neighbors' questions concerning their son's education and employment situation.) He's currently working for the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad; I don't exactly know what he does there, and I'm not entirely certain he has any better idea himself, but the title sounds glamorous, at any rate. Like he's above the ordinary people - "they cause the accidents; I fix them."

"I haven't talked to him about where yet so we'd have to run it by him," I continued, "but I was thinking in London ... The Leaky Cauldron or something...."

"Count me in," Zacharias said loudly over Ron's shoulder. The bloke is sorrowfully socially inept - this wasn't the first time that he had invited himself to someone else's gathering. It's a pity that I'm such a nice guy; I've had many, many opportunities to shake him off on account of his rudeness. But I figure that since we're all dirt-poor, newly-independent ex-classmates, what the hey?

"I don't know ..." Ron said dubiously, shaking his head slightly, "could we make it - oh, hang on!" he said brightly. "Harry and I already have plans to meet up with some people in Hogsmeade this afternoon, but you and Terry and -" he grimaced "- Zacharias are welcome to come along, if you like." I'm sure that asking Zacharias out to lunch was quite a wrench, but the bottom line is that when he isn't busy acting like a prat or obsessing over his girlfriend, even Ron Weasley can be sensitive to the plights of his friends, i.e., me (just to clarify in case you thought I was talking about Smith).

"Oh hey, that sounds great," I agreed. If you want to know the honest-to-goodness truth, it didn't sound great - I tend to gravitate toward Ernie, Hannah, and the more intellectual crowd while Ron still hangs out with his rather, um, flirtatious younger sister and her associated boyfriends - but Smith was already starting to look excited, and hell would surely freeze over before I sent Ron, Harry, and Zacharias off to eat lunch alone together.

"Cool," Ron said, nodding to me and briefly jerking his head in Zacharias's direction (like I said, the whole Gryffindor lot holds grudges for a long time). "Listen, Anthony," he added, "I think Harry's heading over to the Ministry with Dawlish to drop off some papers and have a quick word with Demelza before lunch, so if you want, I'll tell him to stop by Terry's office and let him know how the meal plans are shaping up - ?"