Keeping The Watch
By: Sweeney Agonistes
(sweeney_agonistes@yahoo.com)
20 June 2003

Author's Notes: When I proposed writing this and commented on how mean I'd have to be to our boys, she said, "Well, I just killed off a handful of important characters, temporarily blinded and permanently disabled Snape, and had Harry throw a tantrum in front of Dumbledore. You may be as wicked as you like." So you can blame all the angst on Gramarye. *grin* As for things I've quietly filched, A Shropshire Lad was written by and belongs to A.E. Housman, or the estate thereof.

One might certainly imagine that passing out of Time for an eternity of rest is a fate to be envied, especially after centuries of battling a seemingly unstoppable force to the detriment of one’s own sleep schedule.

Eternity grows damned boring after the first thirty years or so.

However, it did give me the time I needed to catch up on my reading. On days when there were no pressing matters (and what pressing matters would there be, with an eternity to resolve them? Get to the point, Merriman, the point) I would leave the castle grounds and go to our Hall and sit by the fire for hours. It was idyllic; the only thing missing from that picture was a typically fuzzy cat to curl alternately by the hearth and in the chair opposite mine. And even then, the castle cat (christened by Gwion as Churchill; his own readings had caught him up on centuries of the history of man, and the fat grey feline did seem the type who would have smoked foul cigars and painted fouler landscapes had he been human) would sometimes accompany me, whether I liked it or not.

I had known that my Watchman had been working with the wizarding world to stop one last remnant of the Dark’s power, but I had not known that the fall of that wizard – Tom Riddle, I found out his name was later, but he went by some ridiculous pseudonym; if you’re going to try to take over the world and plunge it into an authoritarian hell, the very least you can do is not have a name that sounds like a particularly effeminate eighteenth-century Italian opera singer – would happen on one of my reading days.

It was necessary for me to look in on him (without his knowledge; it would have been too cruel otherwise) every now and again, just to make sure he wasn’t running into too many problems. I never found anything to worry about. He had melded the High Magic and the methods of the wizarding world in ingenious ways. He was keeping up with his outward appearances. (Although it irritated me greatly that, of all places to seek employment, it had to be Cambridge and not my own alma mater.) He’d found talented and capable young wizards to help him defeat that Riddle character, and he was training them well. No, I hadn’t seen anything wrong with what he was doing – on the contrary, Will was doing better than I would have expected of him.

(That sounds harsh to me. Perhaps I had better rephrase: I knew – know – what it is like to be alone in a world where, if the people knew what you were, they’d either be too afraid to come near you, or they’d clap you in chains, thinking you were insane. Will was doing just fine.)

That was why it was such a surprise that day when I was reading in our Hall to hear the Doors open, and to see Will stumble in, trembling, bearing a dangerously limp body in his arms.

A Shropshire Lad fell from my hands to the floor as I stood; Churchill leaped from his chair and hid in the shadows.

Will lurched to the hearth, knees shaking. The firelight allowed me to discern that the body he held was that of one of his children, and the reflection off the lenses of his spectacles told me that it was Harry Potter, looking much the worse for wear.

They’d had the battle, then.

Arms quivering with strain, Will knelt and lowered the boy to the stone flags in front of the fire with more care than I thought would have been possible, considering his state. He then nearly lost his balance, and I moved forward quickly and steadied him.

He didn’t notice my hands on his shoulders.

I had to half-carry him to get him to Churchill’s chair. Will sat there, staring at nothing. The desperation in his eyes worried me, but the boy lying on the hearth as though dead worried me more. I crouched beside him, touching his exposed right temple lightly. I had to pull back – his pale skin burned. There was residual Dark magic in him.

My mind whirled – did this mean they’d lost, then, and that Riddle would be free to continue to attempt to take over the world of men? It was entirely possible that the others in Will’s new Circle had perished, and that young Harry Potter was the only one he’d been able to save.

I would continue Will’s work, then. Closing my eyes, I began the spells that would rid the boy of the harm the Dark had tried to do – I would not let myself think done – to his Circle. With that started, I looked over my shoulder at my Watchman. He had not moved.

Rising, I stood in front of his chair and gazed at him critically. He was pale, and – yes – he’d bitten through his lip. Will had been through some terrible strain. And yet I did not know what had happened, or what I would have to do.

I laced my voice with a calming influence; he was in shock, and that would help bring him back to himself. "Will."

He was unresponsive.

I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Will," I said again.

With a deep shudder, he threw off my hand. His eyes were wild and unfocused. He cried, "Harry – " and made to get up, trembling violently. I pushed him back. "Will. Calm down."

"I’ve got to – " And then he noticed me. "Merriman? Oh, God – Harry – "

"He’s fine, Will," I said quickly. "Or he will be." My eyes moved to the dark lump lying in front of the fire. I really should remove his spectacles, I thought.

Will slumped over, burying his head in his arms. His breathing became even more ragged.

I did not like this.

I said softly, "Riddle – where is he?"

His words were muffled and came after a long pause. "Out of Time."

My breath escaped in a low hiss. So Riddle was gone, and Potter – Will must have made him the focal point of something his Circle had tried. Will himself…he had to have been their linchpin. The only thing that could have put so much residue of the Dark in Potter would have been a spell that reflected anything thrown at it, if Potter had been the focus…

None but the Dark can destroy the Dark.

Yes. That was it. And Will – such a strain on my Watchman. He’d taken the brunt of something nasty; that much was obvious.

"Harry’s not – " Will’s voice cut off, broken. He raised his head, and the look in his eyes –

I had learned the hard way not to get attached to mortals. Gwion – drowned (although having him with me at the end was an unexpected gift; we all owe much to our Lady, but I think I owe the most). Hawkin – traitor. Bran Davies – rejected his birthright. And the Drew children – made to forget. It hurt every time.

Will had learned that lesson, of course. But to have it reinforced like this…

In that instant, Professor Will Stanton became that scared eleven-year-old I’d commanded to put out the fire in this very hall twenty-some-odd years ago. And as such…

I rested a hand on his head. "He will be fine. That was smart, bringing him here." Well done, I wanted to say to him. Well done. But you did not have to separate yourself – you were so careful never to get close, but then you did it unintentionally –

The same way I’d always done it.

Oh, my Watchman.

The calm, unflappable, unreachable professor. The Old One with his Circle of children, carefully cultivated and manipulated to serve the purposes of the Light.

The First – in his case, the Only – left to be alone.

My fingers tightened, and my hand slid back to the nape of his neck as I knelt. My words surprised me as they fell out into the room with an audible tremor. "Will…it didn’t have to be this way." Our heads bowed together in shared grief that was yet – different.

Even as I heard the words, I knew they were erroneous. What other way was there?

Sometimes…sometimes the work was too much. I had forgotten this, wrapped in my words as I was.

A noise came from behind. I stood up quickly, breaking the moment. Will breathed a great shaky sigh and put his head in his hands.

Harry Potter was stirring slowly. His wide, frightened green eyes opened. Softly, I said, "So. You’re the one who’s been looking after my Watchman all this time." Perhaps not the friendliest of greetings – but it was a contest to keep my voice under control, and one that I had to win. It would not do to become undignified in front of the boy.

Potter struggled to move, and I said quickly, fearing his attempts to communicate would interfere with the healing that was still in progress, "Lie still. Don’t try to speak."

Oh, how the young man reminded me of Will, new-grown into his power – a few years older, of course, but still with that wide-eyed wonder that never quite believed fully in what he was able to do.

It seemed things had come full circle.

I understood then why Will had made him the focal point of his Circle. Will had been the only Old One strong enough to bear the gifts of the Book – that had been the plan all along. And Harry…yes. He was special, too. I looked at Will. "He was wise to bring you here."

My Watchman, filling my place in a world where I could no longer be. My Will. "He is very tired."

Will’s breathing was still uneven. I said again, feeling – lost, "Very tired." I longed to reach out to him again – but Potter was there.

Potter. Will was his own First; he would naturally be concerned about Will – and that was the last place his attention needed to be. "Though I think you would do better to worry about yourself than to fret over Will Stanton, young man." I had been a professor longer than Will had, and the appropriate Look came to me easily. "So rest, and let the Light finish its healing."

As the boy drifted off back into a healing sleep, I said softly to the boy who had cared for my Watchman much as Will himself had for me, "You did well, Harry Potter."

The boy’s breathing evened, and I turned my back on him.

"Will," I said, placing a hand on his back. "The boy is fine."

A great sigh fell from him, and he lifted his head. His eyes were red. "Merriman…what have I done?"

I said briskly, "You’ve rid the world of a last vestige of the Dark. No more."

"I pulled an innocent boy…"

"...who likely would have been killed by Riddle if you hadn’t stopped him. None of that talk." I had to stop that. If he got caught in the guilt, he’d never get out. I almost didn’t, with Hawkin.

Another shuddery sigh, and then a silence only broken by jagged breathing.

I kept my hand on his back.

"Merriman…"

I waited.

"Was it like this?"

The question contained so much – the manipulation, the academic shield, but most of all, the loneliness.

I had to pause before I answered. "Yes, Will. It was."

His shoulders began to shake, and then shallow sobs, and then I was there, holding him, comforting him as perhaps no one else in the world could have done.

Nobody else truly understood.

When he’d gotten it all out, I said softly into his ear. "You have to take him back, Will."

He did not move.

Still quietly, but with a hint of command, I said, "You have things to take care of, Old One."

Will straightened at that, and stood. I was glad to see that his knees did not buckle. He’d recovered – or as well as he could now, anyway.

I was glad I’d taken to reading in the Hall.

Will looked at Potter in an almost clinical manner. "It’s safe to take him back?"

"I think so."

He nodded heavily, bent, and lifted the boy. Then he turned and looked at me. No words.

I said softly, "You’ve both done well."

Will’s eyes glittered.

"I will see you later, my Watchman."

And then his façade broke, and he gave me a brief, watery smile. "Thank you, Merriman."

I nodded towards the back of our Hall and quietly summoned the Doors. "Go, Will."

He went.

After he had gone, I stood there for a while. It was only when Churchill crept back out of the shadows and jumped back in his chair that I moved.

I stooped to pick up my copy of A Shropshire Lad. When I reopened it, what I read made me tremble:

Now hollow fires burn out to black,
And lights are guttering low:
Square your shoulders, lift your pack,
And leave your friends and go.

Oh never fear, man, nought’s to dread,
Look not left nor right:
In all the endless road you tread
There’s nothing but the night.

That was that. I summoned the Doors once more and went back to the Castle, taking an indignant Churchill with me.

I did not go back to our Hall for a very long time.