It's been rather light-hearted for a time, in my opinion. This chapter
will slowly start to change that, as school picks up and several
developments, character and otherwise, begin to occur.

Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter, all related characters, and
various media incarnations are copyright of the very talented J. K.
Rowling, 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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Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Light
A Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising Sequence Fusion
By: Gramarye

Chapter Thirteen - Matters of Trust

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.

-- Aesop

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Another long session with Will was over. The Old One had told them
that tonight would be the second to last day of their demonstrations;
by next week, they would start the actual process of 'coordinating
efforts'--whatever that meant.

Once he had left them and returned to his Cambridge office, Harry gave
the Marauder's Map to Ron and Hermione and told them to leave ahead
of him. When they questioned his decision, he showed them the hem of his
Invisibility Cloak, hidden underneath his robes, and said that he wanted
to get a quick snack from the kitchens before bed.

In reality, he had no such plans. He simply wanted to take his time
walking back to the Gryffindor dormitory. He hadn't had much time to
himself recently, and he missed the peace that wandered the halls with
him when he chose to walk around at night.

The quiet, uneventful stroll was very relaxing. He didn't come across
anyone on the way back, and after whispering 'Foxglove' to the dozing
Fat Lady, he entered the deserted, darkened common room.

At the foot of the stairs, he checked the Quidditch sign up sheet that
George had posted. As he had expected, Ron's name was scrawled in
a bold, messy script at the very top. He ran a finger down the list,
noting some of the names. Apart from Ron and a single sixth-year
student, all the rest who had signed up were fourth year or below.

It would be difficult finding a Keeper who was as skilled and dedicated
as Oliver Wood had been. He'd never realised just how much he had
taken Oliver's talent for granted; as Seeker, his first priority was always
the Snitch, and he had little time to pay attention to the actual game. But
even though he could end the game by finding the little golden ball, it
wouldn't mean victory if Gryffindor's Keeper couldn't keep the other
team from scoring.

He continued scanning down the sheet, doing a primary assessment of
those who'd added their names to the list. Paul Weatherby, third-year:
he was small and fast, very energetic, but there was a good chance that
he'd lack the stamina to last for a long game. Rachel Parks, second
year: a hardy girl, but with poor eyesight. He knew only too well the
problems that glasses posed on the Quidditch pitch. Colin Creevey--

He froze.

At first, he assumed that someone had decided to add the name to the
list as a rather cruel and thoughtless joke. Rage prickled in his blood.

But on closer inspection, it did look like Colin's handwriting. He had
a funny, squashed way of writing the double 'e' in his last name that
would be hard to duplicate believably.

So Colin had signed up after all. Harry didn't know whether to be
happy or heartbroken.

With a gusty sigh, he headed upstairs.

The other four boys were in bed already, and he could hear Ron's heavy
breathing through the closed curtains of his friend's four-poster. He
changed quietly and slipped between the cool sheets. Running a hand
under his pillow, he felt the crinkle of old parchment between his
fingers. The Marauder's Map was safe.

He stretched out and soon drifted off, thoughts of Quidditch and Colin
twisting and twining in his mind as sleep overtook him.

And he dreamed.

The dream crept up on him so slowly that he didn't realise what was
happening. It was warm and dark, almost too warm. There was a soft
hissing sound coming from somewhere in the background, like the noise
of air escaping from a leaky radiator. The warmth was stifling. It was a
little difficult to breathe properly. But gradually, he became aware of a
slight pressure on his throat that was adding to his breathing difficulties.

He reached up to brush whatever it was away, and nearly screamed
when his hand came in contact with a hand that was definitely not his
own.

His eyes flew open, and he stared into the watery, squinting eyes of
the man who had once been known as Peter Pettigrew.

Wormtail had him by the throat, dazzlingly silver fingers wrapped
around his neck, squeezing, choking the breath out of him. The hissing
sound he had heard was really Wormtail's voice, which was speaking
to him, repeating the same thing over and over again in a thick whisper:

"Harry...Harry...you look just like your father...just like him...."

Harry lashed out, yanking at the heavy cloak Wormtail was wrapped
in as a desperate effort to free himself.

Wormtail kept squeezing his throat, speaking to him in a gurgling hiss
that was half-accusation and half-pleading.

"You look like him, Harry...just like James...like your father...like
him...like him...."

Harry kept pulling and pulling on the cloak as his strength began to
fail him, the cloth slipping through his fingers....

And then the cloak fell off, landing on top of him.

With a gasping curse, he threw it aside and looked around wildly.
There was just enough moonlight shining in through the window to
see the room clearly, without his eyes having to adjust too much.

On the floor next to him was one of the thick draperies that had hung
from the bedposts--he'd pulled so hard on the dream-Wormtail's cloak,
he'd pulled the curtain right off his bed. He heard the faintly accusing
chink-chink of the rings above his head as they swung and struck each
other, sounding lost without the heavy curtain they'd been holding up.

Gingerly, he lifted a hand to touch his scar. It wasn't hurting, strangely
enough. After a dream like that, he would have expected his scar to be
throbbing in warning...but it wasn't.

It was hard to catch his breath. He could still feel the pressure of
that silvery hand on his neck, slowly and mercilessly strangling him.
He tried rubbing at his throat to get rid of the horrible feeling, but
it didn't help.

It had been a dream, true, but not a dream that he was used to. He
had had many nightmares where he was threatened, even tortured,
but this time it wasn't in connection with anything Voldemort had done.
This time it was solely about Wormtail, who had once been a close
friend of his father and mother...who had sold them to Voldemort...who
had unjustly sent his godfather to prison...who had lived among them as
Ron's pet rat for so long, until his true form was finally revealed.

Until his true form was revealed.

Quirrell's true form had been revealed. So had Alastor Moody--or the
man he had thought was Moody. Both times, he'd nearly been killed.
Was there someone else out there right at this moment, watching him,
terrified that his own 'true form' would be revealed?

He fell back against the pillows. Forget the curtain; he'd deal with
it tomorrow. If he slept, he slept. If he didn't, well...there'd be no
shortage of topics to consider until he did.

* * *

He did fall back asleep. However, the dream had so unsettled him that
he slept late the next morning, missing breakfast completely and almost
arriving late to Potions. Though he was on time, he was the last one
to arrive, and he saw a superior smile cross Snape's face as he ran
into the classroom, breathing hard.

"I'm glad you could join us at last, Mr. Potter. We would have been
sorely disappointed if you had chosen not to favour us with the grace
of your presence."

Seething, he wondered how big the rumour would get if someone actually
did punch Snape in the nose.

The assignment that day was a monster. Snape had said that they would
be penalised if they had to start over--"if you can't get it right the first
time round, you might as well not even try"--and he didn't want to give
the man a reason to look in his direction.

Once class ended, he went immediately to Herbology and threw himself
into the work. After a tasteless lunch, he did the same in Care of Magical
Creatures, single-mindedly devoted to dissecting the half-eaten Fire
Salamander that Hagrid had found in the Forbidden Forest during
his rounds the night before. Most of it was missing, but there was
enough left for Hagrid to consider it a valuable teaching tool. The
disgusted squeals of Lavender and Parvati, and Hermione's acid
remarks to them to "stop acting like children", barely penetrated the
fog that was clouding his mind.

After an equally bland dinner, he retreated to an overstuffed chair in
a corner of the common room and fell to studying the wall, tracing the
crazy patchwork of stone and mortar.

Ginny was the first to gravitate toward him.

"Is something wrong, Harry?" she asked, perching on the arm of his
chair. Normally, this display of familiarity would have unsettled him,
but he had other things on his mind.

"Nothing's wrong," he said, a bit testily. "I've just got a lot to think
about, that's all."

"Is it about Colin?" She toyed with a strand of her hair. "I saw his
name on the list, you know. I asked him in class today if he really
was trying out."

"I see."

"He said that he was."

"Mm."

"He also said he was looking forward to it."

"Mm." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ron and Hermione wander
over and stand nearby, listening to them.

"He also said that he was going ask McGonagall to do his homework for
him so he could go snog Angelina Johnson in the middle of the Quidditch
pitch tomorrow at midnight."

"Mm."

"You aren't paying attention to a word I'm saying, are you."

The question that wasn't really a question caught his ear. "Mm?"

Ginny scowled, her hands tightening into fists. "Harry--"

Hermione quickly stepped forward to defuse the situation. "What I
think Ginny's trying to say is this: are you going to tell us what's
bothering you or do we have to drag it out of you?"

"Snippy much?" Ron said to her, arching an eyebrow.

Hermione sighed, hanging her head.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm just a little worried about what happened in
Potions today."

"Potions?" Harry repeated, looking up for the first time since anyone
had started speaking to him.

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, and then furtively glanced around
the room to see if anyone was listening to their conversation.

Hermione leaned closer, bending over Harry's chair. Ron and Ginny
followed suit.

"Do you know how long it took Neville and I to finish the potion
today?" she told him in a hasty whisper. "Twenty minutes. Twenty
minutes. And it was perfectly made. Last year it would have taken
us the whole class time, and something would still have been wrong
with it."

"That's odd," Ginny said, nibbling on her thumbnail.

"But this isn't the first time it's happened, either. The very first day of
class, we finished that Purgative Potion in record time. And nothing
was wrong with it, either. Snape wasn't very happy about that,
obviously, but it's not as if he could punish us for doing classwork
right. Though I could tell he really wanted to."

Harry frowned at this. It had taken him and Ron, working frantically,
almost an hour to complete the day's assignment. Paired with Hermione,
it probably would have taken at least three quarters of an hour to get
satisfactory results--a half-hour if he actually pitched in instead of
letting her do most of the work. But to get flawless results in twenty
minutes...with Neville Longbottom....

"Something's not right," he blurted out.

His three friends jumped.

"What? How so?" Ron asked, lowering his voice even more.

"Something must've happened to Neville over the summer," he stated.
"I'd bet you anything he's been replaced by a fake."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "What on earth--"

"It wouldn't take much." He was sweating, though his face and hands
felt clammy and cold. "A batch of Polyjuice Potion, or some advanced
Transfiguration spell and hey presto!--one fake Neville Longbottom,
ready to go."

Hermione reached over and patted his arm slowly, warily. "Harry, I
think you're a bit overtired...."

"I'm NOT overtired!" he shouted, pounding his fist on the cushion.

Hermione started, nearly knocking Ginny off her perch on the chair's
armrest. She only just managed to keep her balance.

He hurriedly lowered his voice again. "You remember how weird he was
acting in Diagon Alley. I'm telling you, something's not right here. It can't
be Neville--the real one is locked in a trunk somewhere, or tied up,
or...or...."

Hermione, not surprisingly, was quick to dismiss his argument. "This
is Neville Longbottom we're talking about, not Mad-Eye Moody. He
still gets letters from his gran--he got one at breakfast today, don't you
re...oh, that's right, you weren't there for breakfast. But he got one,
all the same."

"You can arrange something like that," Ron said suddenly.

Harry shot a look at Ron, who was nodding grimly. Satisfaction and
relief buzzed in his head--at least Ron was on the same track as he
was.

"All to keep up the story," he added, flashing Ron a grateful half-smile.

"You don't really believe all this, do you?" Ginny asked fearfully,
looking from her brother to Harry and back again. "Do you?"

Wearily, Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to
believe," he said. "All I know is that Neville's been acting really
weird recently for no reason."

"No reason we know of," Ginny countered automatically.

Ron glowered at his sister. "Why are you defending him?"

"The question is--why aren't you?" she snapped back.

"Stop it, you two," Hermione said forcefully. She turned to Harry.
"Look, if you're so concerned about this, we'll watch him for a week.
If there's any really suspicious behaviour, we'll go to McGonagall or
Dumbledore. If not, you two admit that you were being idiots, and
we'll forget this whole thing. Deal?"

"Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed, horrified.

"Well, what if they're right?" Hermione said. "It can't hurt to be
sure. And with any luck, we'll prove them wrong."

Ron made a face at her, and she rolled her eyes at him.

"I still think you're being paranoid about this whole thing," Ginny
muttered stubbornly. "Fake Neville indeed...."

Harry felt a chill like an icy wind come over him as something clicked
into place in his mind.

He slowly raised his head, and stared at Ginny with flat, emotionless
eyes.

"I would rather deal with a fake Neville than a real Wormtail."

He turned away before he could see the look on his friends' faces.
He didn't think he would be able to handle it, whatever it was. Pity
or sympathy would have been just as bad as shock or horror.

* * *

The next day was Quidditch tryouts, and it was an absolutely miserable
day for it. It had been murky and depressing all morning, but the rain
decided to start just after lunch.

The sound of fat wet raindrops was not music to Harry's ears. It meant
damp clothes, soggy underwear, and the pervasive stench of wet wool.
But the lack of thunder and lightning meant that tryouts were still on,
and that was enough to start little quivers of excitement fluttering in
the pit of his stomach.

He fled the boredom of History of Magic as soon as he could and
hurried back to the dormitory to change into his Quidditch gear. He
wanted to get out to the pitch as soon as possible, before Ron could
catch up with him. He had to keep his distance until tryouts were
over--no matter how much he wanted Ron to make the team, he
didn't want anyone to accuse him of favouritism.

Fred and George were already in the air by the time he got there,
in the middle of some practice swooping and diving. Their brilliant
scarlet and gold uniforms stood out like beacons against the greyness
of the sky.

Harry mounted his Firebolt and kicked off, soaring into the air. The
tremendous rush he always felt when flying trilled happily in his mind,
and he felt all of his stress disappear as he dodged the raindrops.

"Harry! Just the judge we wanted to see!" Fred called out, gliding
over to him.

"Judge?" Harry repeated.

"Yes." George pulled up alongside his brother. "We got to talking
after you left us at lunch that day, and we came to the unanimous,
irrevocable decision that you get the final say over the players."

"What? Why me?" He wiped sweat and rain from his forehead in a
futile gesture that did nothing to make him less wet.

Fred explained. "The best way to test the new Keepers is to play them
in an actual game. Without the Snitch, of course--we wouldn't ask you
to go looking for it in this filthy weather. But since you don't need
to look for the Snitch, you can go high, like you usually do, and keep
an eye on everyone. That way, we get to see how they play, and you
can catch anything important that we miss--good or bad. Sound good?"

Harry knew what they were really saying. That kind of decision was
truly a captain's decision. They hadn't named a captain yet, and Harry
had assumed that the seventh-years would pick one on their own or
share the captain's position between them...but now he wasn't so sure.
Did they mean that they wanted him to be captain, or did they already
think of him as their captain? And how could he ask without making
both them and him uncomfortable?

"I guess," he said finally, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could.

Fred grinned at him. "Good man. Now buzz off."

"We don't want them to know they're being watched," George clarified,
seeing the confusion on Harry's face. "Just find somewhere to hide and
watch them. We'll take care of the rest."

And they were off, back to their intricate dance of swooping and diving
that would mesmerise the casual observer and deeply impress anyone
with firsthand knowledge of Quidditch play.

Harry zoomed higher, circling the pitch once or twice before ducking
behind one of the tall towers that surrounded it. He found a spot
underneath one of the colourful canopies where he could stay relatively
dry and still have a good view of the playing field.

From his lofty vantage point, he saw Angelina, Katie, and Alicia lead
the prospective players onto the pitch. The Chasers in their splendid
uniforms made a sharp contrast to the dripping, forlorn-looking group
of candidates.

He spotted Ron's shock of red hair immediately. It was a little harder
to pick out Colin's bedraggled figure, but there he was, clinging to a
broom that looked two sizes too big for him.

A whistle blew, and the figures below him began to move. Angelina,
Katie, and Alicia mounted their brooms and began to toss the Quaffle
back and forth, practising one of their typical flying patterns. Fred
and George manoeuvred in and out around them, mimicking their
usual actions as Beaters. They weren't using the real Bludgers at the
moment--Harry figured that would come later, once the second round
of tryouts started.

Everyone who tried out was at least moderately good. He could tell
who had practised Quidditch before and who hadn't--the latter seemed
to spend most of their time trying to stay on the broom without using
their hands. Ron was superb--he blocked nearly every shot that the
Chasers aimed at him, despite the catcalls and taunts that his older
brothers shouted at him. Colin, to Harry's surprise, was pretty good
as well. A few shots slipped past him, but for the most part he was
good enough to at least be considered for a reserve player. There
were one or two others who were definitely worth looking at a
second time, in a more realistic game-play situation.

Angelina was the one who called it a day, blowing on her whistle and
summoning them all back down. Harry waited until the candidates had
left the field, then slowly drifted down to the ground, wringing the
water from his soaking-wet clothes.

"Second round is next week," George said as he dismounted. "Let's
meet after dinner on Friday and discuss cuts--that way, we can post
the call backs before the weekend and give them some time to prepare."

"No mercy on Tuesday," Fred said, smiling wickedly. "Bludgers and
all. Let's see what they're really made of."

Harry followed them back inside. He had just under three days to
figure out which of his fellow Gryffindors would make the cut--three
days where he would have to avoid talking about Quidditch around
Ron. And considering the fact that the majority of their non-school
related conversations were about Quidditch in one way or another,
it would be no small feat.

At least Hermione would welcome their silence with open arms.

* * *

Thursday was upon them again, and with it came another session with
Will.

"That's strange," Harry said as he and Ron entered the little room off
the library. "Hermione said she'd meet us here."

"Tutoring," Ron said sarcastically, by way of explanation. "Precious
little Natalie McDonald needed help with her Charms assignment."

Harry set his books down on the table. "Should we start without her?"

"She'll go spare if we do."

"She'll go spare if she finds out we've wasted Will's time by waiting
for her."

"D'you think Will would care?" Ron asked, dropping his own books
on the table with a loud thunk.

"How should I know?"

"Well, if you don't know, who would?"

The conversation was going nowhere. Harry pointed his wand at the
cold logs in the grate and muttered "Incendio." A roaring fire leapt up,
dispelling some of the chill in the room.

"Look," he said. "Let's just tell him Hermione's running late. We
can't exactly do anything without her here, anyway."

Ron flopped down in a chair to wait. Harry walked over to the mirror
and reached out, but before he could touch the frame, the door burst
open and Hermione stormed in.

"Right on time," Ron said pointedly.

Hermione didn't seem to hear him. She was staring at a handful of what
looked like shredded writing paper with an expression of the utmost
revulsion, as if she was holding some dead, decomposing thing and
either couldn't or wouldn't put it down.

"Read this," she said, thrusting the papers at them.

Ron raised an eyebrow, but took the papers from her.

Once they had left her fingers, Hermione scrubbed her hand against the
edge of her robes, apparently trying to remove the feel of the paper
from her skin.

Ron and Harry spread the torn sheets on the table and quickly pieced
them together. Once assembled, they discovered that the paper was a
standard sheet of writing paper. It was an unfinished letter, written
in a young girl's loopy handwriting. Otherwise, there was absolutely
nothing unusual about it.

"So...whoever wrote it dots their 'i's with circles?" Ron quipped,
prodding the torn pieces of the letter with his finger.

Hermione gave him a look, but said nothing.

Ron snorted irritably, and walked over to the fireplace, rubbing his
hands before the blaze. Harry, left with nothing better to do than
feel Hermione's eyes drilling into him, began to read the letter aloud.

Dear Mummy and Daddy [the letter said],

How are you? Everything's fine here...even
though the classes are a little [the word 'little'
was underscored several times] harder this year.
Don't worry, though--I've got all good grades
so far. I'm doing fairly well in Chemistry, I
think, though it's hard to tell at times.
Professor Snape is still as strict as ever. I've
even started reading ahead in the textbook,
like you told me to--

Here the letter stopped.

"So?" he said, pushing the pieces of paper back to her.

"'So?'" she repeated angrily. "Is that all you have to say?"

"I don't see your point."

"The point, Harry, is that we know the person who wrote this letter--
Natalie McDonald."

Ron groaned. "Oh, bloody hell."

"What are you doing with one of her letters?" Harry asked.

"I found it in the dustbin in the common room, but that's not the issue
here," she said. "What's important are the words she uses in it." She
stabbed at the torn paper with her finger. "Look here...'Chemistry'.
Snape, teaching chemistry?"

"Maybe she was making it easier for her parents to understand," said
Ron. "I bet they're Muggles."

"Is that so?" Hermione replied sharply. "Well, maybe you'll understand
if I tell you exactly what she told me. I found her with her friends in
the library--"

"You actually CONFRONTED her on this? I don't believe it!" Ron threw
up his hands.

Hermione stomped her foot. "Will you let me finish? Anyway, I found
her today and asked her about it. She said that her parents told her
to do it. She said it's their 'secret code', and went on to tell me
about how in their special 'secret code', Transfiguration is 'World
Literature', Charms is 'Maths', Herbology is 'Botany'...I could keep
going."

"Please don't," Ron muttered.

"It gets better," she continued, ignoring him. "She has to use the
'secret code' at home, too, if anyone asks her how school is going.
Especially around their neighbours and relatives. And if anyone asks
where she's going to school, she tells them that she's in a special
programme for accelerated learners at a small public school. That's
part of the 'secret code', too."

"Hermione, what are you getting at?" Harry asked. He rarely ever saw
her this upset. She looked like she wanted to cry, or scream, or blow
something valuable to pieces with a well-placed Incendio charm.

Hermione didn't answer at first, but when she spoke her voice was
stiff, held under tight control.

"Natalie's parents are ashamed of her," she said at last. "They
wanted their little girl to go to some fancy public school, and
when she didn't, they tried to cover it up. Wouldn't want anyone
to think she had some 'abnormality', would they?"

The words "St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys"
flashed through Harry's mind, and with them came a sinking feeling of
anger. The Dursleys had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual.
There was no love lost on either side. But for parents--who should be
bursting with pride at their little girl's achievements--to make their
daughter lie just so they could keep up appearances....

He felt ill. Ron, finally understanding the gravity of the situation,
also looked shocked and saddened by the whole thing.

Hermione, though, was leaning heavily against the wall, barely able to
stand.

"That could been me, you know. That could have been me," she said.
Her voice was dulled, deadened.

Ron and Harry exchanged glances. So that was why the letter upset
her so much--it hit close to home.

Suddenly, Hermione's eyes flared in white-hot anger. She snatched the
shreds of Natalie's letter from the table, and in the same motion threw
them into the fire. The flames consumed the paper in moments, leaving
nothing but ash.

"'There, but for the grace of God...'" she whispered, the sad quote
falling thickly from her tongue. Her entire body was trembling.

Carefully, Ron rested a hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"I think we can put this off for a night," he said. His tone allowed
no argument.

"I'll let Will know," Harry added soothingly. "He'll understand."

Hermione stared at them, moving her lips to frame a weak protest,
but she allowed Ron to lead her out of the room. Harry waited until
the door had clicked shut behind them, and then touched the mirror
frame with a heavy hand.

When the wreaths of mist cleared, he saw Will standing behind his
desk, reshelving a large stack of books. Harry cleared his throat, and
the older man looked over his shoulder.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," he said, slipping a book back into place.
"I'll be with you in a moment."

Harry shifted nervously. "Um, actually, sir...would it be okay if we
didn't meet tonight? Hermione's not feeling well, you see." It was
mostly the truth. Omissions were better than outright lies.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Will said, setting the book he was holding
down on the desk. He seemed genuinely concerned. "Not working
too hard, I hope?"

"No, no, nothing like that."

"Well, if you like, you can go back to your dormitory." He picked up
the book from his desk, ran a hand along the shelf, and put it back
into place. "I won't keep you if there are other things you need to
be doing."

"Actually, sir, I...."

"Harry, you don't have to call me 'sir'. Heaven knows I get enough of
it around here as it is." With his free hand, he indicated his office and
the piles of scattered papers that cluttered it up.

He flushed. "Sorry. I just wanted to know...is it just Voldemort who
has the power of the Dark, or can other people use it, too?"

"I wish I could answer that question," Will said, setting a book aside
and picking up a thin folder. "It would solve a good deal of our problems,
and answer a few questions of my own that have been keeping me
awake at night."

"Oh." He couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"Why do you ask?"

"It's just...." He couldn't quite put what he wanted to say into
words, and he didn't want to stand around floundering, grasping at
straws. "What happens if he kills again?"

"I imagine that killing is the last thing Voldemort wants to do at the
moment," Will stated. "If he does have the power of the Dark--which
the evidence suggests is more and more likely--then he will avoid using
the Killing Curse if at all possible. It's much more satisfying, and far
less risky, to have deaths occur in a roundabout way. And for that
matter, the Dark is not allowed to kill humans...or witches and
wizards. That is the law."

"But what about my parents? And Cedric?" Harry exclaimed.

Will kept his back to Harry, but continued to speak in the same calm,
almost maddening voice. "If Voldemort wishes to call upon the powers
of the Dark, he is not allowed to kill humans. That is the law."

Harry slammed his fist against the table. "Damn the law! What good
is it if people keep dying?"

Will froze, arm suspended in mid-reach.

Very slowly, he turned around.

Harry recoiled involuntarily at the look in his eyes. It was as if a veil
that had always covered them had fallen away, revealing their true
depths. The gentle, blue-grey calmness was gone. Now, they burned
with a cold, relentless light, fever-bright and...and terrifying.

"None but the Dark can defeat the Dark, Harry," the Old One said
quietly, with the inexorable finality of a judge pronouncing sentence.
"That is the law, and Voldemort knows it."

Fortunately, Harry was spared from having to reply by the searing pain
that ripped through his head, culminating in a white-hot ball of agony
that lodged itself in the centre of his forehead.

He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. The sweet, coppery
tang that filled his mouth only served to remind him of what the pain
really meant. It was no more than a brief flare up, already beginning
to subside, but he knew that Voldemort had done or was doing something
horrible, somewhere...and the burning he was feeling told him there was
nothing he could do about it.

Massaging his throbbing scar, he opened his eyes, prepared to explain
away his reaction.

But to his surprise, Will was leaning against the bookshelf for
support, his eyes closed and face contorted in pain as he clutched
his left forearm.

"Will? What's wrong?" he asked, his own pain forgotten.

Will was breathing hard. "Harry--find your Headmaster. Tell him...tell
him something's happened. I don't know what it is, but...just find him,
and hurry!"

He waved a hand at the mirror, and the mist began to swirl, clouding it
over. Harry didn't have time to react before Will was gone.

* * *

He burst from the room, robes flying behind him as he ran through the
corridors. As he ran, he thought he saw Peeves drift by and yell
something at him, but he wasn't paying attention. He didn't care about
being seen or heard; he had to get to Dumbledore's office before anyone
else--

"Potter!"

Harry tripped, falling forward and skidding across the stone floor.
Muttering invectives, he pulled himself to his feet with the help of a
handy suit of armour, turned around, and saw Professor Snape
bearing down on him with an unbalanced look in his eyes.

Before he could run in the opposite direction, Snape had grabbed his
arm, hand clamping around his bicep like an iron cuff.

"Do you enjoy making things difficult for everyone else, Potter?" he
barked, glaring down at Harry from his greater height.

Harry tried to yank his arm free. "Let me go! I have to--"

"What you have to do is to go back to your dormitory this instant."
He shook Harry viciously by the arm, each shake punctuating his words.
"The Headmaster may tolerate your nocturnal wanderings, but I certainly
don't. Arrogant, foolish boy...."

He looked as though he wanted to say something more, but his voice
trailed off before he could finish the thought. Anger took second
place to some other emotion that Harry couldn't quite define.

Harry stopped struggling. It wasn't helping the matter, and it would
be easier to make Snape listen to a calm Harry Potter than a frantic
one.

"Please let go of me, Professor," he said, fighting to keep control.
"I have to talk to Dumbledore."

Snape wasn't prepared to listen to any Harry Potter, calm or frantic.
"The only reason I'm not taking points is the fact that I have more
pressing matters on my mind than your continued insubordination."

"You're not LISTENING!" Harry yelled. "Do you think I care about
bloody House points? I have to get to Dumbledore NOW!"

Snape snarled, lips curling back from his teeth with a terrifyingly
animalistic rage. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't knock
your fool head off here and now--"

Quick as a flash, Harry's free hand had yanked back the sleeve of
Snape's robe to reveal the jet-black stain of the Death Eaters,
standing out like a angry brand against the Potions Master's sallow
skin.

"THIS is the reason!" he shouted, pointing to it. Even in his anger,
he had the foresight not to directly touch the Mark. "After all this
time, you still think...I don't know what the hell you think, but you're
wrong! I know when HE does something, just as much as you
do. It hurts me when HE does something, as much as it hurts you.
But unlike you, I never asked for it in the first place!"

He'd gone too far.

He knew it the moment the words had left his mouth.

He tried to back away, babbling incoherent apologies, but his foot
slipped out from under him and he stumbled forward. His hand just
brushed the edge of the Dark Mark.

Snape cried out, as if the contact with Harry had burned him, and flung
him aside. Harry hit the wall hard and slumped to the ground, seeing
stars. Dazedly, he looked up to see a dark figure looming over him,
the hazy light of the wall torches behind him completely obscuring
any facial features or expressions.

Snape's voice was barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

"Go to bed, Potter. As you can see, I have my own reasons for going
to the Headmaster, and I will tell him of yours as well."

"But you don't even--" he began feebly.

"Potter." Snape's voice sounded harsh and discordant, the echo in the
deserted hall competing with the ringing in Harry's head. "Go."

And he was gone, striding down the corridor at an even faster pace.

Harry waited until he was out of sight, then waited a little longer
until the sound of footfalls had faded away. He got to his feet and
tottered dizzily down the corridor, heading in the direction of the
Gryffindor dormitory. But finally, his forward momentum failed him
and he fell to ground, the buzzing noise still clouding his mind.

"I tried..." he murmured as unconsciousness swallowed him up. "I'm
sorry...I tried...."

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Gramarye
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March 26th, 2002