NOTE: This work of fanfiction has a PG-13/BBFC 12 rating for a
reason. This chapter is the reason. You have been warned.

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 Eighteen - Christmas Shadows

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Do not stand on my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in the circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

-- Anonymous epitaph

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Harry knew that something was distinctly wrong the moment he woke
up and found himself tied to a chair in pitch darkness.

A brief struggle told him that further struggles would be a waste of
energy. He was trussed tightly, so tightly that even shifting his weight
made the thin ropes that bound him bite into his arms and legs.

His eyes hadn't adjusted to the absence of light, so he tried to use
other senses to figure out where he was. He wasn't outside, he could
tell that much. He guessed that he was in some kind of room. It was
overly warm and damp, and there was a strange smell in the air. He
couldn't identify it, but it was strong, with a strange, unidentifiable
tang that irritated his nose and throat.

A light flared brightly in front of his face, blinding him. When the spots
on his vision cleared, he saw a figure wrapped in dark clothing placing
a newly lighted torch in a rusted wall holder.

There was just enough light for Harry to see directly in front of him--
the rest of the room remained in darkness. The wall where the torch
was mounted was made of flat, dull slate. A series of four thick,
velvety draperies hung on the wall, two on either side of the lighted
torch. There was nothing in the room to indicate where he was, let
alone how he had gotten there.

The dark-clothed figure turned around, and at a glance Harry took in
the wispy hair, the rodent-like face, the red-rimmed, watery eyes that
stared at him with half-frightened malice.

"Wormtail..." he growled, revulsion churning in the pit of his stomach.

His father's former friend flexed his silver hand, spreading glistening
fingers wide. "Nice to see you again, Potter."

"Why am I here?" he demanded, showing more bravery than he
actually felt. His head was starting to hurt; there was a dull throbbing
above his eyebrows that made it difficult to see. "What do you want
with me?"

An oily grin spread across the Death Eater's face. "I thought you
might like to see a special treat that the Master set up, just for you."
He pointed to the wall behind him, the wall that Harry was facing.

"What are you playing at?" Harry said warily, squinting against the
inconstant light.

"Why don't you see for yourself?" Wormtail said.

He walked over to the curtain on the farthest left, and pulled back
the thick material to reveal the freshly severed head of a large wolf,
mounted on a polished wooden plaque. Its teeth were bared in a
frozen death grimace. Dark blood still oozed from the stump of its
neck, staining the wood black.

"You monster!" Harry choked out, transfixed with shock. The sickly
sweet odour had grown stronger. It coated the back of his throat.

Wormtail didn't seem to have heard him. He calmly studied the
mounted head, a little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Dear Remus always was a little careless just before his 'time of
the month'," he said. "But I really think he can be excused for his
behaviour--after all, he was trying to save his friend...."

The second of the draperies fell away, and the shaggy head of a great
black dog stared blankly at Harry. Crusts of dried blood matted the
thick fur. The overpowering stench, now identifiable as a coppery
mixture of blood and rotting flesh, which permeated the air grew
even stronger.

Harry slumped forward, gagging on the bile that seared his mouth
and throat. He would have fallen out of the chair if the ropes hadn't
been there to keep him in place.

"Oh, what's the matter? Wittle boy has a dicky tummy?" Wormtail put
on an exaggerated expression of concern.

Harry spat at him, and snarled a wordless threat.

Wormtail ignored the display of helpless rage. He pointed to the two
mounted heads with all the pride of a museum curator introducing a
brand new collection.

"These are just some of his more recent acquisitions," he said. "The
Master's most treasured trophies are ones he has had for quite some
time. Sentimental value, you understand." He rested his gleaming hand
on the third curtain and ran it down the cloth in an obscene mimicry of
a loving caress. "I'm sure that you, of all people, can appreciate a fine
work such as this one...."

This time, Wormtail took special care in removing the cloth. Affixed
to yet another wooden plaque was the head of a once magnificent stag,
antlers bristling like a crown of thorny branches. But where the first
two plaques had looked new and freshly made, the third was older, with
darker, seasoned wood. The stag's head looked moth-eaten, foul and
rotting, as if some insane taxidermist had started the job and stopped
halfway through but had decided to mount the head anyway.

Harry felt the liquid warmth of blood trickle down his face. His nose
had started bleeding some time before--he didn't know exactly when.
His heart was pounding so violently that he thought it would explode.
The pain in his head thrummed rhythmically, keeping time with his
heart.

Wormtail nodded in approval, and looked over his shoulder at Harry.
"There's one more that I think you'd like to see. The Master would
have never come across it if it hadn't been for you. Yes...just one
more."

Harry couldn't look away as the last cloth hit the floor.

His first horrified thought was that whatever it had once been could
not have been human. Its face was suffused with blood, the skin a
mottled purplish-red. Its swollen, blackened tongue protruded slightly
from its gaping mouth. Its hair, which might have once been thick and
beautiful, was befouled by chunks and clumps of old, dried blood.

But the worst part was the eyes. Hints of vibrant green were just
barely visible through the burst blood vessels that clouded their
brilliance. The eyes stared blindly back at him, mocking him with
their eerie similarity to his own as he gazed at the plaque that
displayed his mother's head.

His mother's head.

His mother's severed head.

He screamed and flung himself against his bindings, nearly strangling
himself as he tried to break free.

"This isn't real!" he shrieked, thrashing about. "It's a nightmare!
A NIGHTMARE!"

"Naive, foolish boy." Wormtail's lips were moving, but it was Lord
Voldemort's high, cruel voice that spoke through his servant's mouth.
"You say this is a nightmare. Well, perhaps it is a nightmare, but a
nightmare you've created for yourself...and I will see to it that you
NEVER WAKE UP!"

"You LIE!" Harry screamed, scalding tears mingling with the blood
that still dripped from his nose.

The Wormtail-Voldemort thing laughed, a deafening, insane cackle.
The room started to grow dark and cold, though the torch still burned
like a beacon on the hideous trophy wall.

"You'll never wake up!" Voldemort crowed triumphantly. "You'll
never wake up...Harry, you'll never wake up...never wake up...wake
up...wake up, Harry...wake up...."

The voice shifted subtly, changed. Suddenly, it wasn't Voldemort
speaking...it sounded like Professor McGonagall. But what would
McGonagall be doing in this place?

"Harry, wake up." McGonagall's voice grew louder and more insistent.
"Wake up, now."

With a supreme effort, he opened his eyes and took stock of the
situation. He wasn't tied down to a chair; he was caught in his own
twisted bedsheets. There was no Wormtail, no Voldemort, no ghastly
row of severed heads. Just McGonagall's blurry, tear-streaked face.
Even without his glasses, he could tell she had been crying.

He saw two flesh-coloured blurs--her hands, he guessed--moving
over his sheets, pulling at the blankets. She was trying to help him
sit up.

He pushed himself to a sitting position, and felt a strange, warm
wetness running down his lip and chin. Once his hand was free of
the tangled bedclothes, he reached up and wiped at his face.

His hand came away bloody.

Swallowing a scream, he looked down at his pillow. It was wet,
but not with shed tears. The once-white fabric was stained deep
crimson, matching the blood that continued to drip steadily from
his nose.

McGonagall held out a handkerchief, and he grabbed it and
pressed it to his nose, staunching the flow of blood. With his
other hand, he fumbled for his glasses and put them on.

For the first time, he could look around the room. The sun had
not yet risen, but there was just enough light for him to see by.
He turned his head slightly, and saw Seamus and Dean huddled
together on Dean's bed, staring at their Head of House and their
one remaining roommate with glazed, fearful eyes. Professor
McGonagall was standing next to his bed, holding the curtain
of the four-poster aside with one hand.

"There's someone here to see you," she said, dabbing her eyes with
another handkerchief, the twin of the one Harry held to his nose.
With a wave of her wand, she opened the door that led out to the
hall.

"Come in, please," she called out.

A tallish man stepped into the room. The dark clothing he wore
made a sharp contrast to the bright red spill of hair that fell well
past his shoulders.

It was Bill Weasley.

For a moment, Harry could only stare uncomprehendingly at the
visitor. But as he stared, a small thread of thought painstakingly
knitted itself together inside his head.

Bill Weasley. Bill Weasley, Ron's older brother. Bill Weasley, Ron's
older brother, who was supposed to be at the Burrow with the rest of
the family. Bill Weasley, Ron's older brother, who was supposed to be
at the Burrow with the rest of the family, and who was instead standing
in his dormitory before dawn on Christmas morning. Bill Weasley, Ron's
older brother, who was supposed to be at the Burrow with the rest of
the family, and who was instead standing in his dormitory before dawn
on Christmas morning, looking like someone had just--

His heart stopped.

A sinking, rushing emptiness consumed his chest as everything came
together at once. The pain in his head, the awful dream, McGonagall's
tears. There was only one explanation.

The blood-stained handkerchief slipped from his fingers and landed on
the floor. He felt the inside of his nose tingle as it started to bleed again.
Blood everywhere...why was there so much blood?

"No, no, no..." he moaned softly, the volume increasing with each
repetition. "No, no, no--"

"Harry, wait," Bill interrupted. He hurried over to the bed and took
Harry's hand, not caring about the sticky, congealing blood smeared
on the boy's fingers. "Listen to me--Ron and Ginny are all right. It's
all right. They're okay."

"Okay...?" Suddenly, the emptiness went away. He could breathe again.

Bill nodded slowly. Now that he was closer to the bed, Harry could
see the dark smudges of shadows under his eyes and the lines of sleep
deprivation around his mouth and on his brow.

"D'you mind if I sit down?" he asked.

Without waiting for a reply, he sat on the edge of Harry's bed. He
reached down and picked up the stained handkerchief, then handed it
back to Harry. Harry dabbed at his nose with the clean corners as he
listened to Bill talk.

"We went to the Diggorys for dinner last night," he explained, by way
of introduction. "Christmas Eve, and all that. Stayed late, exchanged
some gifts, had far too much mulled wine, the usual holiday thing. It
was just past midnight when we finally decided to head home--using
Floo Powder, of course. Mum was the first one to leave."

He pulled a dirty handkerchief out of his own sleeve and blew his nose
loudly. "I knew something was wrong the moment she left. I just had
this awful feeling that something was going to happen. It looked like
Dad had the same feeling, too, because he told Ron, Ginny, and the
twins to stay behind and wait for us to come back. He, Charlie, and
I followed her as soon as we could.

"There were two people in the house. They were dressed like Death
Eaters--all in black, masks and everything. They'd probably been in
the house waiting for us to return, and since we came back so late it
looked like they'd gotten a little...twitchy. They attacked the first
person they saw."

"Attacked?" Harry whispered, praying that he had misheard.

What little light there was in Bill's eyes went out. "Mum's dead,
Harry. They used the Killing Curse on her."

Harry's mind fluttered about like a bird that had just hit a window.
His first coherent thought spilled from his mouth before he could
stop it. "But he said they couldn't...he said--"

"Who said...?" Bill started to ask, but shook his head sadly and
dropped the subject. "Dad wanted me to come and tell you as soon
as possible. He said you deserved to know. But that's not the only
reason I'm here."

"What?" Harry took the handkerchief away from his nose. The bleeding
had finally stopped.

The older man cleared his throat. "Ron told me you're not supposed to
leave the school over the holiday. But Dad also wanted me to ask you,
and Hermione if it's all right, to please come to Mum's funeral. We've
planned it for the day after tomorrow--there's a few things that have
to be taken care of before then."

"I...I...." Harry stammered. He turned to McGonagall, the question
plain in his eyes.

She returned his gaze steadily. The deep lines around her nose and
mouth made her look far older and more tired than she really was,
but her eyes were calm and composed.

"I will ask," she replied. "I don't see any reason why you and Miss
Granger shouldn't go--provided a teacher accompanies you."

"If Dumbledore lets you, please come," Bill said. "It would mean a
lot to everyone." He ran a hand across his face, rubbing his eyes.

"Of course I'll come," Harry declared. No one, not Dumbledore,
not Will, not even Voldemort would prevent him from attending.

Bill smiled wanly, then stood and started to head for the door,
without so much as a glance at either Seamus or Dean.

McGonagall nudged Harry, and said in a low voice, "Mr Potter,
please get dressed and come with me. We have to break the
unfortunate news to Miss Granger...and we need you there."

A wave of cold ran through his body, like ice water poured into
his veins. He shivered.

Happy Christmas, Hermione, he thought bitterly as he climbed out
of bed.

* * *

Neither of them had ever been to a wizarding funeral before. They
had to borrow the proper robes for the occasion--he from Dumbledore,
she from McGonagall. Not surprisingly, the voluminous hooded funeral
robes were all black, made of a stiff, scratchy fabric that rubbed like
sandpaper against their skin. A quick alteration spell took care of the
size differences, but they still felt like they were swimming in a sea of
thick, chafing material.

The funeral was to be held at noon on the 27th, the day after Boxing
Day. McGonagall had agreed to accompany them as their chaperone.
Dumbledore, stressing the need for security, had worked out a plan
where they would arrive immediately before the funeral started and
leave immediately afterward. There would be no time to talk to any
of the Weasleys. The children grumbled at the restrictions, but agreed.
They would agree to any conditions if it allowed them to attend the
funeral.

Boxing Day flew by in a murky haze, and the day of the funeral came
all too soon. They woke early, dressed early, and sat in uncomfortable
silence in the common room for nearly two hours, waiting for McGonagall
to come and get them. But when she came, she took them to Dumbledore's
office, saying that he wanted to give them a few words of advice.

They arrived in his office to find a fire burning in the hearth and a jar
of Floo Powder on his desk.

"I've arranged things with the Diggorys to let you use their fireplace
for travel," he said. "There are a few things you should know before
you leave. I don't want you to be completely ignorant of what may
happen this afternoon.

"You don't need to worry about any ritual phrases or actions. No one
will ask you to do anything. You are there to show respect for the dead
and for the family of the dead. Keep your hood up at all times--that's a
very important mark of respect." He adjusted his glasses. "Have either
of you ever attended a Muggle funeral?"

"No," said Harry.

"I've only seen them on telly," Hermione said softly.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "The most important thing to remember
is that a wizarding funeral is based primarily on tradition. It has remained
essentially unchanged for centuries. Many people, myself included, do
not always agree with much of the ceremony, but it is tradition, and as
such deserves respect." He paused, then added to no one in particular,
"No matter how barbaric it may seem."

"We'll be late, Headmaster," McGonagall said, gently reminding him.

"Yes." He took a handful of the silvery Floo Powder, and tossed it on
the fire. The flames blazed high, turning a vibrant green.

"The Diggorys," he said, loudly and clearly.

McGonagall went through the flames first. Hermione followed her, and
Harry went last.

* * *

They emerged in the empty sitting room of the Diggory house. Only the
fire they had just walked through brought light and heat to the room.

Harry looked around the large, well-furnished room. It could have
been a room in any well-to-do Muggle home. Not a pillow was out
of place, not a bit of dust was in sight. It was pretty, true, but Harry
didn't like it. All he could think of was the cheerfulness and cosy
warmth of the Burrow, a sharp contrast to this sterile house. Its
painful neatness reminded him of Privet Drive. He knew what it was
like to be in a room that had been cleaned to within an inch of its
life.

His eye was drawn to a wall covered with framed photographs. He
walked up to it to have a closer look.

Every single picture featured Cedric Diggory. A young, skinny Cedric
in his very first Hogwarts uniform, grinning toothily. An older Cedric
in mid-air, a blur of yellow Quidditch robes diving after the Snitch.
Cedric proudly displaying his shiny new prefect's badge. Cedric and
Cho Chang in formal robes, a handsome couple, taken the night of
the Yule Ball. Cedric posing with his mother. Cedric with his father.
Cedric and his parents together, arms around each other, laughing
happily as they posed for the camera. A wall of Cedric. A shrine to
Cedric. A memorial for Cedric.

Harry shuddered, and turned away.

The sitting room led into the kitchen, and from the kitchen they left
the house through the back door. As she stepped outside, McGonagall
pulled her hood over her head, and Harry and Hermione took their cue
from her and did likewise. They walked across the manicured lawn,
headed for the woods.

The day was cold, grey, and overcast. Only a few weak rays of sunlight
were able to trickle through the heavy cloud cover. The wooded path
they were taking felt very familiar to Harry, though he didn't remember
where he was until he picked out a few of the landmarks he recalled
from his after-dinner stroll with Ginny. Could it have only been a few
months since he had last walked this way? It felt like an age had passed
since then.

He helped Hermione through a tricky patch of snow-covered brambles,
untangling her from their sharp thorns as he tried to avoid getting caught
himself. The soggy snow stuck to their shoes in obstinate clumps, and
soaked the dragging hems of their robes.

They arrived at the small cemetery just as the sun reached what would
have been its zenith, if it had been shining that day. Scattered throughout
the clearing were little groups of people, dressed in the same voluminous
black funeral robes they were wearing. There was no hum of conversation
or idle talk; everyone was silent, waiting.

Somewhere in the trees, a bird trilled feebly.

Then, at some unspoken signal, the groups of people began to come
together, to congregate at a respectful distance around a barren plot
of earth not far from the other graves. The snow had been carefully
cleared away from the spot, leaving the ground muddy and brown.

Harry felt a hand tentatively brush his fingers. He reached over and
grasped the hand firmly, and felt Hermione's thin, smooth fingers lace
themselves around his own callused ones. Her palms were clammy.

There was a crunching noise, the sound of footsteps approaching.
Harry turned his head at an strained, stiff angle in an attempt to see
out through the opening of his hood.

A small procession was approaching at a measured pace. Peering out
from under his enveloping hood, Harry counted no fewer than a dozen
people. All of them wore the funeral robes, but their hoods were
pushed back, hanging forgotten.

The first person in the procession was an elderly wizard in robes of
deep purple and black. Under one arm, he carried a thick book. The
colour of his robes may have been muted, but the cut suggested that
he occupied the position of importance in the approaching group. He
had a very efficient stride, and looked completely sure of himself and
his official position.

A few paces behind him walked Mr Weasley and his three eldest sons.
Mr Weasley and Percy were in the front, and Bill and Charlie were
in the rear. On their shoulders they carried a bier made of rough wood.
On top of the bier was a body, swathed in yards and yards of white
cloth. So much fabric had been used in the wrapping that the still
figure was a shapeless mass of cloth, barely recognisable as a human
being.

Behind the adults were the twins, all the mirth and merriment gone from
their faces. Their steps dragged. Ron and Ginny brought up the rear.
Ron was all but carrying Ginny, his face a tight blank as he helped his
sister walk. She was a wreck. Her peaked face occasionally twitched
nervously as she leaned heavily on his arm and let him propel her forward.

The elderly wizard stopped at the head of the cleared patch of ground,
and the pallbearers set down their load with the utmost care. The
Weasley family formed a half-circle around the bier. Mr Weasley
stood at the far left, closest to the officiant. Ron supported Ginny
at the far right.

The officiant nodded respectfully to Mr Weasley and opened his book.
He began to speak very quickly in a language that Harry couldn't
understand. It sounded like Latin, but the only Latin he knew was
the Latin of spells and charms. He wasn't able to follow the formal
pattern of the actual spoken language. He could only stand stiffly and
listen to the endless drone of words in miserable incomprehension.

There was no sound from the crowd. Harry thought he heard Hermione
sniffling next to him, but it might have been his imagination, or his own
irregular breathing. Sounds outside the hood were muffled, but within
the hood any noise he made was perfectly clear.

Mercifully, the officiant ended his long Latin oration before Harry's
feet had started to hurt from standing still. The sun had travelled a
little ways across the sky, and Harry guessed from the shadows cast
by the surrounding trees that it was nearly two o'clock.

His speech completed, the officiant closed the massive volume and
tucked it under his arm. He turned to the crowd, and said in English:

"On behalf of the Weasley family, I thank you for coming here on this
sad day. Now I must ask you all to be witnesses to what will follow,
for in unfortunate circumstances such as these there is a regrettable
but necessary task that must be performed."

He turned back to the Weasley family. "Arthur Weasley, are you
prepared?"

"I am," Mr Weasley replied, without emotion.

The officiant reached into some hidden recess in his robes and pulled
out a long, slender object. He held it out to Mr Weasley. At first,
Harry thought that it was a stick, but a second glance sent his stomach
lurching as he realised what it was.

Mrs Weasley's wand.

Arthur Weasley took his late wife's wand and turned it over in his
hands, staring dumbly at it as if it was some strange Muggle artefact
that he had never seen before. After turning it over two or three
times, studying it from all angles, he grasped it firmly in his hand.
For some reason, though, he held it the wrong way round--the tip
was pointing straight down. He wrapped his other hand around his
closed fist, carrying the wand like a candle held upside down.
Clumsily, he knelt down in the snow next to the bier.

Then, he raised his arms high over his head, and with a keening,
agonised cry drove the point of the wand deep into his wife's chest.

Harry couldn't stop himself from crying out, but his horrified shout
was drowned out by a deafening pop, as noisy as an entire string of
firecrackers going off at once. An enormous cloud of cloying, oily
black smoke erupted from the bier, obscuring everything in his sight.
He held his breath and shut his eyes tightly as the cloud engulfed
the crowd of mourners.

It took a long time for the smoke to clear, but when it finally did, he
saw through red and irritated eyes that the wooden bier and its sad
burden were gone. All that remained was a small heap of greyish-white
ashes resting on the fallen snow. Mr Weasley's hands were empty--
Mrs Weasley's wand was gone.

A weak, fluttering cry pierced the silence, and Harry's head snapped
up to see Ginny swaying on her feet. Her face was a sick yellow-grey.
Her eyes rolled back in her head, showing a horrible flash of whites,
and she fell backward.

Ron wasn't prepared for his sister's fainting spell. Desperately, he
clung to her, trying to keep her from hitting the ground, but he
couldn't get a good grip on her arm through the rough fabric. She
was slipping from his grasp.

Something outside Harry propelled him forward, moving his legs and
arms as he ran. He dove, sliding through snow and mud in a frantic
attempt to catch Ginny before she hurt herself. He missed her and
ended up with a faceful of mud, but thankfully Ginny landed on top
of him. He had broken her fall.

He lay still, supporting her as best he could. He heard hushed voices,
people moving about, but over that was the sound of Ginny's sweet,
frightened voice ringing in his head:

'You don't know what wizarding funerals are like. It's...it isn't
something....'

She had been to Cedric's funeral earlier that summer. She had gone
to pay her respects to the Diggory family and to the deceased, and
she had seen...she had seen....

The pressure on his back was gone. Someone had picked Ginny up.

He got to his feet slowly, futilely scraping the mud from Dumbledore's
robes with his fingernails. The robe was most likely ruined, but he
scraped at it anyway, trying to clean it as best he could. He reached
up to put his hood back, but remembered just in time that he had to
keep the hood on at all times. It seemed rather stupid, somehow,
considering what a spectacle he'd made of himself. He gave a final,
half-hearted scrape to Dumbledore's robe, and lifted his head.

He found himself looking directly at Ron.

All of the sympathetic words that rushed to mind died on his lips.
Ron was staring into his eyes, and the awful paroxysm of rage that
Harry saw on his best friend's face was so powerful that he recoiled
from it, cringing away.

"Keep away from my sister," Ron hissed in a low, deadly voice.

Without another word, he whirled around and rejoined his family,
falling into step in the rear.

Bill was carrying Ginny, her delicate little body looking small and
forlorn in her big brother's arms. The mourning party trudged away
into the woods in the direction that Harry knew would lead back to
the Burrow. The crowd followed in their wake, a deferential distance
behind them.

Harry dumbly watched them leave, then lifted a heavy hand and put
back his mud-soaked hood. He turned around and saw Hermione
and McGonagall, the only ones who had remained in the cemetery,
remove their hoods as well.

Hermione brushed away her tears with the back of her hand, and
beckoned to him. The three of them left the clearing, heading back
to the Diggory house and Hogwarts.

* * *

The clock in Dumbledore's office was just chiming the three o'clock
hour when they emerged from the fireplace. The moment he stepped
from the flames, Harry stripped off the dripping, mud-covered funeral
robe. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow as he took it from him, but did
not ask any questions.

He took a very long shower that afternoon. He stood in the spray for
well over an hour, watching the mud wash off his body and gurgle down
the drain. When the hot water finally ran out, he towelled himself off,
changed into old, comfortable clothing, and combed his hair. He didn't
think he could stomach the sight or smell of dinner, so he decided to
have a nap until Hermione returned from the Great Hall.

But he couldn't sleep. He stared at the scarlet canopy of his four-
poster bed and listened to the wet thud of snow against the stone
walls.

Seamus and Dean came back from dinner and went immediately to
their beds, not looking at Harry. He knew that they weren't sure what
to say to him, or how they were supposed to react, but the awkward
silence was too much for him to bear. Grabbing a bulky wrapped
object that he had placed at the foot of his bed earlier in the day, he
left the room and wandered down to the common room.

Hermione was sitting in an armchair by the fire, reading the evening
edition of the Daily Prophet. She looked up as he approached, and
wordlessly handed him the front page.

He read the headline, and gasped.

MINISTER FOR MAGIC RESIGNS IN ABUSE OF POWER SCANDAL
Allegations Force Fudge from Office

BY: Daphne St. John, Staff Reporter

In a move not entirely unexpected to those who
have been following developments within the
Ministry, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge
resigned this afternoon in light of accusations of
abuse of power and gross misconduct concerning
his handling of the wizarding world's most recent
tragedy.

Fudge admitted to the press today that he ordered
Dementors at Azkaban Prison to perform the
Dementor's Kiss upon the two people who were
being held in connection with the Christmas Eve
murder of Mrs Molly Weasley at the Weasley
home in Ottery St Catchpole, Devon.

The two people, a witch and a wizard whose
names are being withheld pending notification
of their families, were apprehended by Mr
Arthur Weasley and other Ministry officials
shortly after the murder. A Prior Incantato
performed on one of their wands revealed that
the last spell it had produced was the Killing
Curse, one of the three Unforgivable Curses
that can warrant a life sentence in Azkaban.

The accused had been sent to Azkaban to await
trial, but earlier this morning, the head guard
at Azkaban received a confidential owl from
Fudge which explicitly stated that the prisoners
were to be turned over to the Dementors.

"I didn't question the orders," the guard later
said. "It was signed by the Minister, and that
was enough for me."

It is undetermined whether the attackers were
acting of their own free will. Sources inside the
Ministry and the Department of Magical Law
Enforcement hint that the witch and wizard may
have been victims of the Imperius Curse. No
definite statements on this matter have been
released by the Ministry or Ministry officials
as of yet.

Fudge did not give a reason for his orders, but
many speculate that he was attempting to cover
up the murder by eliminating the perpetrators
and witnesses to the crime. The Dementor's Kiss,
when performed on a person, irretrievably removes
the soul from the victim's body and leaves him or
her incapable of thought, speech, or action.
The accused are now unable to testify or give
any information about the murder.

Fudge is currently under house arrest in an
undisclosed location, pending interrogation
by a special task force of Aurors assigned to
the case. The Aurors are also looking into
his decision to allow Dementors to perform
the Kiss on Bartemius Crouch, Jr., who was
arrested last year in connection with the
Triwizard Tournament fiasco at Hogwarts
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

(For more in-depth coverage, please turn to the
next page.)

Harry collapsed into a nearby chair. This was too much.

"So that's that," Hermione said flatly, folding the rest of the paper
and setting it on the floor by her chair. "Now they'll never be able
to prove that Voldemort was behind it."

"D'you think they were Death Eaters?" he asked. His head was
spinning.

"I doubt it," she replied. "It would have been much easier to just
grab two unsuspecting people and order them to do it, with a little
help from the Imperius Curse."

"What do you think will happen?"

She shook her head, and sighed. "I don't know. I honestly don't
know."

Harry felt the tightness that had been building up inside his chest
reach painful proportions. He held out the package he had brought
down from his room.

"I brought you your Christmas present," he said thickly, thrusting
it at her.

Hermione took it from him, and unwrapped it. Her eyes widened as
she removed a thick, leather-bound book from the wrapping paper.
A Guide to Babylonian Methods of Arithomantic Thought was
printed in gilt letters on the side and cover.

"However did you get this?" she said wonderingly. "When I wrote to
Flourish and Blotts to order it, they said that they'd just sold the last
copy the week before and it would take a month for another to come
in."

"They probably sold the last one to me," Harry said with a grin. "I
ordered it a few weeks after school started. I couldn't believe how
heavy it was--I was almost afraid that the owl that brought it wouldn't
get through. Happy Christmas, anyway."

"Thanks," she said, smiling. It was the first time he had seen her
smile since Christmas Eve. "I've got your present up in my room.
Do you want me to get it?"

"That's all right," Harry said as she started to get up. "You don't
have to go get it now."

Hermione leaned back in her chair. "Remind me, and I'll get it for
you before we go to bed."

They sat together for a time in silence. It seemed that silence was
getting to be a big part of their lives, these days.

"It seems so strange, not getting a Weasley jumper this year," Harry
said drowsily, half to himself.

"What?" Hermione looked up from her new book.

He shrugged, and toyed with the sheets of newspaper that lay on the
floor, pushing them around with his foot. "'S just that I'm so used to
getting a jumper for Christmas. It's strange not to have one."

She stared at him as if he'd suddenly grown another head.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I don't believe this," she said disgustedly.

"What's the matter?" Harry sat up very straight. He was wide awake
now. "What did I say?"

Her face darkened. "Are you really that dense?" she snapped. "Don't
you have any feelings, any brains at all?"

He blinked, confused. "All I said was--"

"I don't care what you said," Hermione retorted, coldly cutting him
off. "Ron's mum is dead, and all you can think about is how she's
not going to send you any more presents."

Confusion gave way to anger. "That's not what I said at all!"

"You just...oh, look, forget it, all right?" She pushed her hair out of
her eyes. The anger was gone from her face, leaving it slack and
exhausted, frog-belly pale in the firelight. "I'm tired, you're tired.
It's been a long day for both of us--let's just go to bed."

He was out of his chair before she could even stand up.

"You ALWAYS do that!" he yelled, jabbing at her with his finger.
"You start up an argument and then drop it before anyone else gets
a chance to explain. Well, it's my turn to talk, and you're going to
listen for once, Hermione Granger."

Fear flickered through her eyes. "Harry--"

A little voice in the back of his mind told him to shut up before
things got out of hand, but there was no stopping him. He was sick
and tired of being treated like his opinions didn't matter, and he
was damn well going to have his say this time.

"You like to blame people for lots of things, don't you?" he said
viciously, finding the words that he knew would hurt her most. "Like
to find fault? Well, go ahead and do it all you want, because I don't
care what you think. It doesn't make any difference, anyway. You're
not going to believe anyone but yourself."

"Harry, listen--"

"It's never your fault, is it? Did you ever think of that?"

"Harry--"

"Thinking you're so above all of us--"

"Now wait a minute--"

"You probably even think it's MY fault she's dead!"

He was so furious, he didn't see the book leave her hand until it was
too late.

One sharp corner struck him high on his right cheek, right below his
eye. He cried out, clapping a hand to his face and falling to his knees.
His glasses slipped off his nose and fell to the floor. The book landed
heavily and slid toward the hearth, stopping just short of the ashes.

Doubled over in pain, he couldn't see Hermione, but he could hear her
voice.

"Damn you, you cold-hearted bastard," she said in a thin, dry whisper,
like the sound of leaves blowing. "Get out of my sight."

* * *

He did.

He fled the common room, running blindly through the empty halls. He
stumbled, tripped and picked himself up, and kept running. He neither
knew nor cared where he was going. His cheek throbbed and he
couldn't see well out of his right eye, but seeing wasn't a priority.
He had to get away.

Cramps crawled across his stomach and sides, squeezing the air out
of him like a boa constrictor around the waist. He skidded to a dizzy
halt, clinging to the wall for support. He couldn't run anymore. He
seriously doubted if he could even walk.

The stones of the wall he clung to were deliciously cold to the touch
of his hot face and hands. He slumped forward, pressing his cheek
against the wall. When the cramps had subsided enough for him to
concentrate on something besides his own breathing, he opened his
eyes.

Not five feet in front of him was the door to the little room off the
library.

It couldn't have been coincidence, but the last thing he cared about
at that moment was coincidence. It was somewhere to go.

He pushed open the door and slipped inside, locking it behind him.

He dropped his wand twice before he could say the simple spell to
start a fire. The pain in his cheek made his right eye water badly,
and he had to keep wiping the tears away in order to see. Once
the fire was lit, he sat down in the chair that was closest to the
mirror and looked in the glass.

A wild boy stared back at him. Thick black hair dishevelled, glasses
hanging askew, a nasty purplish-black mark beginning to form on his
cheek. He would have a beauty of a bruise in a few hours, but right
now his face was merely hot and swollen. He stared at himself, and
loathed what he saw.

On an impulse, he extended a trembling hand and touched the carved
wooden frame of the mirror.

He watched as the wild-looking boy disappeared in a swirl of grey mist.
The carved pattern of the frame glowed steadily, shining white tinged
with faint blue.

Will was sitting at his desk, holding a thick book open with his left
hand as he wrote on a on a pad of paper. Harry could hear a piece of
classical music, heavy on the violins, playing quietly in the background.

"I'll be with you momentarily," he said, not looking up from his writing.
The pen continued its fluid journey across the paper without a pause.

Harry nodded, then realised Will couldn't hear a nod. He started to
apologise, but thought better of it and closed his mouth.

Without thinking, he began to drum his fingers on the nearby bookshelf
ledge, staring out into space. He didn't realise what he was doing until
he noticed that the soft scratch of pen on paper had stopped.

He blinked, refocused, and saw that Will was watching him over the top
of his glasses.

"Would you mind not doing that?" the older man asked. He sounded
mildly irritated. "I can hear that in here, you know."

Harry jerked the offending hand away from the bookcase and stuffed
it into his pocket.

"Sorry, sir," he said guiltily.

The pen started to move again. After what in Harry's mind felt like
forever, Will put his pen down, picked up a slip of paper from the side
of his desk, marked his place in the book he held, and set it aside.
He stood and walked over to the mirror. He had taken his suit jacket
from the back of his chair and was about to put it on, but stopped
short when he saw only Harry's wan face staring up at him.

"Just you?" he asked.

"Just me," Harry answered despondently. "And it looks like it'll be
that way for a while."

"I see." He peered at Harry, and his eyes narrowed. "Who did that to
you?" he asked, pointing to the bruise on the young man's cheek.

"Hermione."

An eyebrow raised. "Miss Granger?"

"Yeah." He reached up and probed the wound with his fingers. He
winced. It hurt like hell, but at least it wasn't bleeding. "She chucked
a book at me."

"For no reason?"

"I don't know."

"I assume she had a reason for it."

"I don't KNOW!" The outburst exhausted the little strength he had
managed to muster. He rested his head against the bookshelf ledge
and closed his eyes. "And I gave her the stupid book, too."

"Well, if you gave it to her, you can hardly control what she chooses
to use it for."

The Old One's placid but pointedly logical comment brought home
the absurdity of the situation in a way that no soothing reassurance
could have done. Harry felt the last fiery bit of anger in his heart go
out, extinguished like a snuffed candle. It left him feeling empty inside,
and very cold.

"Why am I such an ass?" he moaned.

Will coughed delicately. "I sincerely hope that's a rhetorical question."

Harry didn't laugh. "You don't know...no, of course you do," he
corrected himself, opening his eyes. "You always know, somehow."

Will tilted his head to one side. "That's part of who I am. But yes,
to answer your question, I am aware of what happened to Mr
Weasley's mother." His voice was calm and distant. "I felt it happen."

"So did I. At least, I think I did. It was all confused...I can't
really explain it."

"I'm very sorry. I know how much she meant to you."

The sympathy was real and heartfelt. Harry felt his eyes fill with
new tears that weren't related to his aching cheek, tears that
refused to be blinked away. "But I thought you said that Voldemort
wasn't allowed to kill anyone. That the Dark wouldn't let him kill
people. But Mrs Weasley...and Cedric...and...and my parents...."

He trailed off as the tears spilled over. He hadn't cried when Bill
had brought the horrible news. He hadn't cried when they went to
tell Hermione--she had cried enough for both of them. He hadn't
even cried before, during, or after the funeral. But now that the
dam had burst, there was no stopping him. The tears didn't fill the
emptiness inside him, but they cleared the awful burning sensation
out of his head.

Will let him cry for a few minutes, waiting silently. Once Harry had
wiped his face and regained control of himself, the Old One spoke
in a slow, gentle voice, the same voice that had comforted him on
the steps of Privet Drive many months ago.

"Think for a moment. Think very carefully. Lord Voldemort did not
kill Molly Weasley. He had his servants do it for him. And he didn't
actually kill Cedric, did he? Or Neville's father? Or the innocent
people at King's Cross and St Mungo's?"

"No," Harry agreed. "But I don't see--"

Will held up a hand for silence. "Those of the Dark are not permitted
to kill. They may place their victims in situations where they can be
killed, or encourage those under their sway to bring harm upon
themselves, but the law that binds both the Light and the Dark forbids
open murder. As I see it, when Voldemort came to Godric's Hollow
and killed your father and mother, the part of him that belonged to the
Dark reacted very strongly to his actions. The protection your mother
placed on you at her death was what saved you from the Killing Curse,
but it was the Dark that nearly destroyed him--as a punishment, in
retribution for violating the Law of the High Magic. Do you understand
what I am saying?"

Harry swallowed. He thought he had followed everything that Will had
said so far, but it was still a lot to consider. "I...I think so."

"That is what I have come to believe. I know it's hard to understand,
but the important thing is this: if he violates the Law again, the Dark
will have no mercy on him...and he is quite aware of that. That is why
I know that only the Dark can defeat Voldemort."

"But what can we do?"

Will reached back and found one of the chairs in front of his desk.
He pulled it up to the mirror, and sat down. "That, Mr Potter, is
what I still haven't figured out."

"Oh." It was all he could say. There was a transition that had to be
made, and it was as good a time as any to make it. "I went to the
funeral today."

"Did you." It was a statement, not a question.

"Are all wizarding funerals like that?" he asked tearfully . "Do they
always do...what they did to her?"

Will suddenly looked very sad. "You're asking the wrong person,
Harry," he said. "It's strange...I've studied this kind of thing for so
long, I have a difficult time thinking of it without putting it into
anthropological terms. I could talk for hours about the 'particular
cultural aspects of eschatology' and 'social dimensions of mortuary
practices', but that wouldn't change what happened, or what you
saw."

Harry muttered, "They probably did the same thing to Cedric."

"Probably. Similar situations demand similar responses."

"Do Muggles do anything like that at their funerals?"

Will sighed. "They used to, once. In this country, the unfortunate
souls who committed suicides were often buried at a crossroads
with a stake driven through the heart, to diffuse the evil of their sin.
But no, to answer your questions, funerals aren't always like that.
The grief is always the same, though."

Harry told him the story of what had happened at the gravesite.
He didn't bother with details, he simply stuck to the facts. Will's
round face became drawn and remote as he spoke, but the Old
One did not interrupt him once.

"So Ron hates me now, too," he concluded.

"The boy lost his mother not four days ago," Will remarked, a slightly
chastising note in his voice. "Do you really imagine that you're the
be-all, end-all of his universe at the moment?"

"And Hermione hates me," Harry added.

"Are we back to this again?" Will tapped his fingers on the armrest of
his chair. He sounded exasperated. "I thought we'd put an end that
topic already."

"It's true," he said stubbornly.

Something flashed deep within the older man's eyes, warning Harry
that he was about to receive a lecture from Professor Will Stanton
of Cambridge University.

"First of all, Mr Potter, you're fifteen years old," he said sternly.
"It is a well-known scientific fact that fifteen-year-old boys do some
rather stupid things."

"I bet you didn't," Harry muttered darkly, staring at the floor.

"Well, to be entirely honest, you're quite right." A corner of his mouth
twitched at the sight of Harry's dumbfounded stare. "But then again,
by the time I was fifteen I had done enough stupid things to last me
for a good long while."

His right hand drifted absently to rest on his left forearm. Harry
could see him mentally tracing the quartered circle of the burnt-in
scar, even though his hand didn't move.

"So what do I do?" he asked.

"I suggest you talk to Miss Granger--but not tonight. Let her be
angry for the night. I don't think you want another permanent scar
on your body."

Harry laughed ruefully. "That's true. But what would I say to her?"

"'I'm sorry' is usually good for a start. See what happens after
that."

"What about Ron and Ginny?"

Will ran a hand through his hair. "They won't return for another
week, am I right?"

"Yeah."

"So you have a week to come up with something. If you want to
talk things out, feel free to come here. I'm generally in around
seven o'clock. From force of habit, primarily. But I suggest that
you deal with Miss Granger first. I have a feeling that she'll be the
more difficult of the two."

"Great," Harry said gloomily, hanging his head. Saying just that
sounded terribly ungrateful, so he raised his head and smiled half-
heartedly at Will. "I'm glad I talked to you."

"You sound most glad," Will said dryly.

The acidity in the older man's voice cut him to the quick. He hadn't
meant to be rude, but he'd just shoved his foot quite firmly into his
mouth for the third time that day. Brilliant, Harry, he thought.

He opened his mouth to apologise, but froze with his jaw hanging
open when he saw the expression on Will's face.

Will looked...no matter how he tried, Harry couldn't describe it.
'Horror-stricken' didn't fit. 'Panicked' didn't work, either. Neither did
'shocked', or 'stunned', or 'aghast'. On any other man, it would have
looked as if he'd just seen a ghost, but not even that was an adequate
description.

A hiss of indrawn breath cut sharply through the room. "Please," Will
said. "Please tell me I didn't just say that."

"Say what?" Harry was on the edge of his chair. "Will? Are you all
right?"

The Old One didn't seem to hear him. "I can't believe it." He buried
his face in his hands. "One of these days I'm actually going to turn
into him, I swear...."

"What's wrong?" Harry whispered, terrified. Something was wrong,
but he had no idea what it was. He'd never seen Will like this before.

"Nothing, nothing." Will didn't lift his face from his hands. "As I
said, wait until tomorrow to find Miss Granger--I don't think she'll
be very receptive to anything else you have to say tonight."

"Okay," he agreed hesitantly. The chair scraped on the floor as he
pushed it away from the mirror. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Will said tersely, waving one hand in curt
dismissal. "Just go."

As the mist began to swirl again, obscuring the glass, he watched the
Cambridge office fade away. The last thing he heard was the faint
sound of Will's voice, raised in a high, defeated wail.

" 'You sound most glad'...oh, dear God in heaven...."

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