Once again, thank you all very, very much for your kind reviews--on
with the story!

(For those who are curious--or like myself, obsessed--the piece of
classical music Will was listening to when Harry spoke to him in the
last chapter was Gabriel Faure's Pavane. Have a listen sometime, if
you like: it's very beautiful, very haunting, and quite appropriate.)

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 Nineteen - Lost in the Darkness

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We participate in tragedy. At comedy we only look.

-- Aldous Huxley

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

He didn't apologise to Hermione the next day, or the day after, but it
certainly wasn't for lack of trying. During his first two attempts at
reconciliation, he actually made it a third of the way up the staircase
to the girls' dormitory before he lost his nerve. The following day saw
him standing outside her door for fifteen minutes with one hand raised
to knock, then creeping back to his room and curling into a miserable
ball on his bed. The fourth time, he finally worked up the courage to
knock on the door, but there was no response.

He was starting to worry about her. He had been going to breakfast,
lunch, and dinner on a fairly regular basis, but he never ran into
Hermione. Either she wasn't eating, or she was sneaking out of her
room late at night to eat, or she was having the house elves deliver
food to her. And since rule-breaking and house elf exploitation were
two of her least tolerated behaviours, it stood to reason that she
wasn't eating.

He winced. Thoughts of Hermione had made the bruise on his cheek
throb. It was now a rainbow-hued splotch, with colours that ranged
from vibrant yellow-green around the edges to an angry purplish-black
in the centre. He had visited Madam Pomfrey the morning after the
argument with a not-very-convincing story of falling up the stairs on
his way to bed. She had tut-tutted and handed him a chunk of ice
wrapped in a cloth, but the her eyes informed him that she didn't
believe him for a moment.

Worrying about Hermione made him worry about other things--like
Sirius and Remus. The Christmas morning nightmare had frightened
him badly, and he still hadn't entirely recovered from it. Even something
as harmless as the sight of slightly undercooked meat at meals was all
that was needed to flash an image of the bloodstained trophy wall to
the forefront of his mind.

But he knew that his fears weren't entirely unfounded. He hadn't heard
anything from them since his birthday. The promised birthday present
from Sirius had never arrived, either. Not a day passed that he didn't
wonder where they were and if they were all right.

Oh, he knew there were reasons to explain why he hadn't heard from
them. The two of them could be keeping a low profile, waiting for a
chance to finally clear Sirius' name. They could be off doing some top-
secret and dangerous work that would somehow weaken the power
of the Death Eaters.

Or they could be dead.

It was a wonder he could keep food down at all, with all the worrying
straining his stomach lining.

* * *

New Year's Eve saw him alone in the common room yet again. Most of
the other Gryffindors had broken curfew and gone to a party that was
being held in the Hufflepuff common room, but he didn't feel like being
sociable.

As he sat in his usual chair by the fire, his train of thought kept
following the same depressing pattern:

Ron hates me. I hope Ginny's okay. I wonder if Hermione's eaten
anything today. What's going to happen with Fudge? Is Sirius all
right? Can we really stop Voldemort? But we can't do anything at
all if Ron's not speaking to me...or Hermione....

He shook his head abruptly, angrily. It wouldn't do any good to sit
and wallow in misery, but it seemed to be all he was capable of at
the moment.

He looked down at the carpet slippers on his feet, and past them to the
floor. Strewn about his chair were a week's worth of Daily Prophet
editions. He had been following the papers since the announcement of
Fudge's resignation, and for good reason; a lot had happened since that
day. By public and official demand, and despite his protests, Albus
Dumbledore had been appointed Acting Minister for Magic. Many of
Fudge's decisions were being called into question, and every single day
the editorial section of the wizarding paper was filled a slew of irate
editorials calling for his wand, if not his head. But no one had any
suggestions for dealing with the threat to the wizarding world. The
present political scandal was what occupied people's minds--not
the larger, looming problems.

He had spoken to Will the day before to inform him of the most recent
developments. The Old One listened patiently, but had nothing new to
say, though he did make a vague, passing reference to a person Harry
didn't know: a 'Neville Chamberlain'.

"He was prime minister of our country before the last world war," Will
had explained, looking rather alarmed at Harry's ignorance. "What in
blazes do they teach you children in primary schools nowadays? But to
return to my point, I'm certain that Muggle Studies scholars will have
a field day in years to come, drawing comparisons between him and
your Cornelius Fudge. And they wouldn't be far wrong...it's difficult to
sympathise with those who do their utmost to avoid the consequences
of either peace or war. I'm not a social historian, but even I know that
'peace in our time' is not a viable solution to problems of this proportion.
The Dark will rise regardless of men, but men often help it--however
unwittingly."

Harry could only nod. It was at times like this when he truly missed
Hermione; she would have been able to explain everything so he could
understand.

There was so much going on in his mind, but no one he could talk to.
Dumbledore wasn't around--his new position demanded long, exhausting
hours in London, and it wouldn't be fair to bother him with petty matters
like this. McGonagall was twice as busy as before, since she had taken
over the daily workings of the school in the Headmaster's absence. He
had tried writing to Sirius, but he always tore up the letters before he
could get halfway down the page. What could he write about? 'Almost
everyone I know hates me'? 'I'm scared that someone else is going to
die'? 'I know it's my fault that Ron's mum is....'?

Where did that come from? he thought suddenly.

You know perfectly well...you just don't want to admit it, a cruel
little part of his mind replied.

What are you talking about?

The voice sounded offended. You can't have forgotten already? You
said as much yourself, during that lovely little spat with Hermione.

He certainly hadn't forgotten. He doubted if forgetting something like
that would be so easy. That was talk...I didn't mean--

Do I need to spell it out for you? The little voice took on a nasty
sing-song quality. If you'd gone to the Bur-row, she'd still be
aliii-hive.

That's not true!

Oh, but it is. You're too scared to admit it.

Shut up.

Make me.

It was a pity that punching himself wasn't an option.

He was tired of staring at the fire. It was not quite eleven-thirty, but
there was no reason to sit up and see the New Year in alone. He
was just about to heave himself out of the comfortable chair and
plod up the stairs to bed when he heard the thick sound of footfalls
on stone. Someone was coming down the stairs.

He didn't bother to turn around and see who it was. It probably
wasn't Hermione, and he didn't care to talk to anyone else.

The footsteps stopped at the bottom of the stairs, then began to
approach the fire at a halting pace, stopping and starting uncertainly.

Harry kept silent, willing the other person to go away.

It didn't work. The footsteps paused behind his chair, then stepped
around to stand next to it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a
small hand rest on the arm of the chair.

"Harry...is something wrong?"

He looked up.

It was Colin.

He didn't have the emotional stamina to come up with a lie, or even
a halfway decent excuse.

"Yes, something's wrong," he said bleakly, turning his attention back
to the fire. "But it's nothing you can help. Don't worry about me."

Colin frowned, and sat on his heels next to Harry's chair. "Is it
about this?" He poked the untidy pile of newspapers with one
finger, stepping delicately around the subject. "Because if it is, I
want you t'know I understand."

Harry looked at him, but said nothing.

Colin nodded eagerly. "I really do understand. After Dennis...." His
mouth worked silently for a second or two, trying to get the words
out, but when that failed he tried a different approach. "After school
started, Ron's mum was ever so nice. My mum told me she almost
cried when Mrs Weasley sent her a big basket of mixed fruit. People
like you and me could have just popped round to the greengrocer
and gotten some apples and things like that, but that basket was
specially made to keep the fruit fresh. Enchanted, like. Everything
that was in there lasted until Christmas--Mum said in her last letter
that she and Dad used the last of the oranges for the Christmas cake.
It was lovely of her to do that for us, for people she didn't really know."

Harry ran a hand over his face as Colin's words rang in his head.
Lovely, he thought. That's true enough. She was lovely.

"Ron's mum did a lot of things like that," he said aloud. "I know I'd
do most anything to have her back. But like I said, you don't have to
worry about me. I'll be fine."

"I do worry about you," Colin countered, rocking back and forth on
his heels.

"You shouldn't."

The younger boy pouted, his thin face twisted petulantly. "Give me
one good reason why I can't worry about you."

"Because it isn't your problem, and you can't do anything about it."

"That was two reasons, and I still don't care."

"Colin--" he said warningly.

Colin suddenly grabbed his hand, and squeezed it tightly. Harry tried
to pull away, but the younger boy held fast and squeezed more tightly.

"Look," he said quickly, as if he feared that Harry would interrupt
him. "I don't care. You don't understand how much I don't care.
You've done so much for me...let me do something for you."

Harry was dumbfounded. "When have I ever done anything for you?"

"Would you like to see the long list, or the short one?" A weak smile
shone through Colin's sad eyes. "I think the real question is: when
haven't you?"

"You don't need this." This was no time for pretence, no time to put
up a brave front. "You've got so much else to deal with...why should
you have one more thing to think about?"

The ghost of a smile faded, and was replaced with an iron determination
that looked out of place on Colin's face. It was almost intimidating.

"I keep thinking about how I don't like seeing my friends in pain.
Especially you, Harry." He stood up, his thin body ramrod straight.
"Now I'm not moving from this spot until you tell me what's wrong,"
he declared vehemently.

Resignedly, Harry closed his eyes. He'd been backed into a corner, and
there was only one way out.

"Hermione and Ron are mad at me," he whispered, looking down at his
lap.

Colin drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I'm sorry."

Harry's head snapped up. "Don't apologise," he said harshly. "Don't
apologise for things that aren't your fault."

"I'm...." Colin stopped himself, not wanting to make the same mistake
twice. "Do...do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really." He could salvage that much of his pride, at least.

Colin looked as if he was going to say something, but shook his head.
"Well, if you do, you know where I am," he said. He squeezed Harry's
hand a third time. "I'm here for you, Harry...even if you think no one
else is."

Harry felt his cheeks grow very warm. The image of Ron's furious
glare, which had been haunting the back of his mind ever since the
funeral, dissolved in a hot blur of emotion.

"You're a good friend, Colin," he said hoarsely.

The younger boy merely shrugged. If he was aware of his friend's
discomfort, he pretended not to notice. "I try to be, that's all."

He patted Harry's hand and started to walk away. But just as he
reached the doorway that led to the boys' dormitory, he paused.
"Oh, Harry?"

Harry craned his neck, looking around the back of his chair. "Yeah?"

"Beef steak," said Colin, knowingly.

Harry blinked, wondering if he'd misheard. "What?"

An amused yet wistful smile flitted across the younger boy's face.
"Dennis and I used to fight all the time when we were little--hammer
and tongs. One of us always seemed to end up with a black eye or
worse, so Mum used to keep these big pieces of raw steak to put on
it." He grimaced, remembering. "It was awful and slimy and nasty,
but I swear it worked every time. And you look like you could use it."

Harry had to laugh at the thought of Colin as a little boy, pressing a
chunk of frozen raw meat to his face. His cheek tingled irritably,
almost as if it was offended at the thought.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, chuckling. "Thanks."

"Anytime, Harry. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, Colin."

Colin grinned, and headed up the stairs to his room.

Harry bent down and gathered the scattered pieces of newsprint,
then stacked them in a pile on top of a nearby table. The house
elves would pick them up and dispose of them in the morning.
There was no reason for him to hang onto them any longer.

He hesitated only briefly at the bottom of the stairs that led to
the girls' dormitories. His fifth attempt was going to produce
some results. Hermione would be alone in the room--the other
fifth-year girls who had remained at school were at the Hufflepuff
party--and if he didn't settle this now it would be hanging over him
when Ron and Ginny returned. He didn't think he could deal with
both problems at once.

His feet carried him up the long flights of stairs to her room. Three
loud knocks on the door produced no response. Not that that was
going to deter him. He would wait all night, if it came to that, but
there was something he hadn't tried yet.

The doorknob.

He rested a cold, sweaty hand on it and was just about to push down
when he felt the handle drop by itself.

The door opened, swinging inward. Hermione stood in the open
doorway, clad in pyjamas and a dressing gown. Crookshanks was
draped over one shoulder, and a bath towel hung limply from the
other.

He jumped back a pace, but she didn't move. She simply stared at
him. She seemed to be waiting for him to make the first move.

The words spilled from his throat in a garbled rush. "Mione-we-ve-
to-alk."

Crookshanks stirred on her shoulder, peering at him with lazy eyes.
His tail twitched once and was still.

"What?" she said.

He took a deep breath, and then another. This time the words came
out properly. "Hermione...we have to talk."

* * *

He had expected her to slam the door in his face, but instead she
stepped aside and let him in. He sat down on the floor, feet tucked
uncomfortably underneath him. Hermione sat on her bed and pulled
Crookshanks into her lap. She stroked his soft fur absently.

The first five minutes consisted of him making a slew of stammering,
faltering apologies that never quite said what he intended to say. He
apologised for bothering her so late at night, then apologised for not
coming to see her sooner. He apologised for what he had said and
done the night of the funeral. He apologised for being a complete
idiot about the whole thing. He was about to apologise for talking
so much when he noticed that Hermione had stopped petting
Crookshanks and was watching him with a curious expression on
her face.

"What?" he said, a little afraid.

"Did I really do that?" she said, pointing to his face. Her voice
trembled slightly.

"Th...this?" he said stupidly. "Yeah, I guess. But it doesn't hurt,"
he added, poking his cheek to prove his point. He bit back a
pained yelp--because touching a bruise to prove it doesn't hurt
is rather self-defeating when it actually does--and bared his teeth
in a smile that was more like a grimace.

Hermione let her hand fall. Crookshanks rubbed against it eagerly,
but she didn't pet him.

"It's funny...I was really aiming for your forehead," she said with
a mirthless grin.

He returned her grin, his cheek still aching. "You've got really bad
aim."

"I always did. And you wonder why I don't play Quidditch with
you." She tried to make a joke of it. It didn't work, but he had to
admire the attempt.

"I'll remember that from now on," he said.

"Oh!" Suddenly, she sat up very straight. "I nearly forgot to give
you your Christmas present. Hang on."

Crookshanks leapt off her lap as she stood up, and began to wash
himself. She knelt down beside her trunk and pawed through it. With
a little cry of discovery, she pulled out a wrapped parcel and handed
it to Harry. The ginger cat finished up his brisk toilet and scrambled
back onto his mistress's lap as she resumed her seat on the bed.

"I hope you like it," she said, watching him remove the wrapping.
"It's not much, but I thought they would come in handy."

She had given him two books: All Things Wise and Wonderful--the
third book in the series of stories by the Muggle veterinarian James
Herriot--and a weighty volume titled Divination for Dunderheads:
How Anyone Can Learn to Predict Disaster. He bristled a little at
the latter book's title, but he had to smile when he flipped to the
flyleaf and read the note she had written there:

Dear Harry,

A little help for your Divination
homework--after all, even your
creative mind can be taxed by the
steady stream of drivel that must
be invented for each successive
class assignment! Best of luck
on your O.W.L.s!

All my love and Happy Christmas,
Hermione Granger

"Thanks, Hermione," he said. "It's great...and it's not even a
jumper."

He heard her breath catch in her throat. She swallowed loudly,
as if she had taken a too big sip of juice at breakfast. He looked
up to see her gazing at him with tears in her eyes, even though the
tears remained where they were.

"I'm sorry, Harry." It was a genuine apology--no hysterics, no
sobbing scene, no lecture about honesty. She was being honest.

He replied in kind. "I'll be all right," he said plainly. "I only got
what I deserved."

She raised an eyebrow. "Did Will tell you that?"

"No. He kind of hinted at it, though."

"Really?"

"Sort of. What did he say...oh, yes." He sat up, straightening his
back as he gave her an imperious stare. "'If you gave the book to
her, Mr Potter, you can hardly control what she chooses to use
it for,'" he declared in a deep, ironic voice.

She laughed. "He would say something like that."

Harry laughed, too. "Not exactly what I wanted to hear at the time,
though."

They enjoyed the private joke for a moment, until Harry cleared his
throat noisily.

"So...is everything all right?" he asked.

Hermione sighed, and lifted Crookshanks out of her lap. The ginger
cat miaowed loudly in protest, but at a sharp look from his mistress
he resigned himself to kneading the patterned quilt on the bed.

"I don't know," she said, staring fixedly at the quilt. "I tried writing,
but I haven't gotten a reply. I don't think we'll hear from him until
they all come back."

Harry nodded. That was not what he meant by his question, but he
knew it was all he would get out of her.

"One more week," he said, rather unnecessarily.

She pulled at a loose thread on the quilt, twisting it around her
forefinger. "I'm scared."

He nodded. "Me, too."

* * *

The week went by far too quickly for Harry's liking, and soon enough
the halls were once again filled with returning students.

The Gryffindor common room was unusually subdued that day.
Everyone knew about the 'wizarding world's most recent tragedy',
and though an unspoken rule had arisen that forbade openly
mentioning the 'most recent tragedy', it was obviously preying on
everyone's mind. The usual inane chatter about holiday fun had a
darker undercurrent--thoughts left unfinished, sentences broken
off mid-word, laughter muffled and weak.

Harry, with Hermione, Neville, and Colin to back him up, was waiting
nervously near the fireplace. He didn't join in the conversations, and
no one asked him how his holiday had been. They all knew. And it
was only a matter of time before--

The portrait door opened.

Fred and George Weasley entered the common room. Ron and Ginny
were close behind them. Ron had a protective hand on his sister's
shoulder.

At that moment, Harry would have sworn that the temperature in the
room dropped twenty degrees.

All conversation in the room stopped, as if a hidden switch had been
flipped. People stared for a guilty half-second, then quickly busied
themselves with some trivial task like tying their shoes or ruffling
through papers they held--doing anything except looking at the
Weasley family.

As if nothing was out of the ordinary, Fred and George immediately
walked over to Lee Jordan, who was sitting on one of the sofas near
the girls' dormitory staircase. They sat down next to him, and the
three of them began to talk in low voices.

No one else moved. Harry saw that a little group of fourth-year girls,
all friends of Ginny, had gathered around Hermione, but none of them
took a step forward. They, like everyone else in the room, didn't dare
to approach Ginny if it meant coming near Ron.

Some stupid sense of honour or pride--most likely the same one that
had sent him after the Philosopher's Stone, into the basilisk's den, out
to the Shrieking Shack, and through the Triwizard Tournament--needled
him into making the first move.

He walked forward, holding out a hand and smiling in open sympathy.
"Ron, Ginny, I'm so sor--"

Ron turned cold, empty eyes on his friend, and Harry's words leapt down
his own throat and choked him.

"I have nothing to say to you," Ron declared.

Hermione gasped. "Ron!"

Ron didn't move. He continued to stare at Harry with a flat and entirely
unforgiving gaze.

"Would you move, please," he said, icily polite.

Harry gaped. His arms and legs felt like lead. "But--"

By this time a small crowd had shuffled forward and gathered around
them. Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable at making a scene like this.

Ron, it seemed, had no such problems.

"Would you please move?" he said, more loudly this time. He gestured
at Harry with his free hand. "You're blocking the doorway."

Thunderstruck, Harry felt a hand grab the sleeve of his robe and yank
him to one side. He turned his head to see Neville dragging him out of
the doorway, his eyes telegraphing an urgent signal to keep quiet.

The edge of Harry's robe had only just cleared the door when Ron all
but shoved Ginny forward, propelling her toward the girls' staircase.
She stumbled, caught herself at the foot of the stairs, and began to
climb very slowly, like a clockwork doll with broken springs. Ron
went up the boys' stairs without a second glance at the crowd that
stood below, watching him in shocked silence.

* * *

In the library that night, Harry finished the last of his holiday homework
at a solitary table in the corner, away from the table he usually shared
with Ron and Hermione. He wasn't sure whether it was cowardice or
self-respect that kept him away from that particular table, but regardless
of the internal reasoning he found it difficult to concentrate on his studies.

Fed up with rereading the same page in his Transfiguration textbook
over and over again, he decided to get up and wander around the stacks
until the library closed. Maybe he could find a library book to take
his mind off of everything--preferably something to do with Quidditch,
if Colin hadn't checked it out already.

He had just passed by the History of Magic section and was about to
round the corner when he heard the sound of voices in a heated but
whispered conversation. He started to walk away, not wanting to
eavesdrop, but stopped short when he caught the tail end of a sentence.

"....to Harry."

It was Hermione's voice, and she sounded upset. That made him stop
and listen more carefully.

"Look, just think about what I said, all right?"

That voice was unmistakeably Ron's. He also sounded upset, but
not in the same way as Hermione. It was as if she was upset at what
he was saying, but he was more bothered by what she wasn't saying.

Hermione sniffed loudly. "What is there to think about? You're not
making any sense." There was a dry rustle of leather on paper--he
could hear her shifting the books she undoubtedly held in her arms.

"That's because you aren't listening," Ron said sullenly.

Hermione inhaled sharply, breath hissing through her teeth.

"I'm going to forget I just heard you say that," she said, a steely
edge to her words.

Ron's voice became wheedling, pleading. "Please, 'Mione...."

"No!" she shouted.

Harry jumped, startled by the sudden loudness. He pressed himself
against the bookshelf, holding his breath. The spines of the books
felt rough and irregular on his back.

He saw Madam Pince look up from her desk across the room. She
lifted her head, tiny glittering eyes running up and down the rows of
books. Her nostrils flared, almost as if she could sniff out the noisy,
troublesome students who were disturbing the silence of her domain.

Hermione must have realised how loud she had been, because he had
to strain to hear her next words.

"Harry apologised to me, and as far as I'm concerned that's the end of
it." She sounded like she was moments away from crying. "Don't ask
me to pick sides. I can't...and I won't."

Ron had lowered his voice as well, but the hurt in it was loud and
clear. "How can you--"

Hermione cut him off. "I can't choose between you, Ron. It's not fair
to any of us."

Ron muttered something that he couldn't quite hear, but Hermione
must have heard it, because she sniffed again, irritably this time.

"I don't care if you get mad at me for saying it--you'll have to fight
this out on your own."

"Whatever." Ron tried very hard not to sound betrayed, and failed.

"I mean it," she said forcefully. "I'm sorry if you feel that way, but
this is something I can't get involved in. I'm sorry."

Ron made a few noises of protest, but they were cut off abruptly with
a muffled thud and crash. The bookshelf that Harry was leaning against
shook, and he dropped to the floor.

He looked up, and saw through a gap in the books that Hermione had
Ron backed up against the other side of the bookshelf and was staring
him down. He couldn't see the expression on Ron's face, but the fire
deep in Hermione's eyes could have set the entire row of books behind
him alight.

"And if you even THINK of dragging Neville into this, or heaven forbid,
Ginny, I'll have your head." Her voice was low and dangerous. It made
Harry shiver. "This is between the two of you, and it's going to stay that
way."

He didn't stay to hear if Ron replied. He couldn't listen anymore. At
a jog-trot, he hurried back to his solitary table, collected his books
and forgotten notes, and left the library at breakneck speed. Madam
Pince's disapproving glare followed him out the door.

* * *

That same night, he was lying on his bed and reading the same paragraph
in Secrets of the Seekers for the tenth time when he heard a loud,
persistent knocking on the door.

"Come in!" he called out, closing the book and setting it aside. He
hoped it wasn't Hermione. He didn't want to go through anything
similar to what he had witnessed between her and Ron.

The door swung open and Fred and George stormed into the room,
followed closely by Katie, Angelina, and Alicia. Their faces were grim.

Harry's stomach lurched. If over half of the Quidditch team had
decided to make a surprise appearance in his room at ten-thirty on
a Tuesday night, it was a sure sign that something was amiss. He
almost wished it had been Hermione--he would have known what
was coming then.

"Harry," George said ominously, "we've got a bit of a problem."

Why am I not surprised? he wanted to say, but kept silent.

Fred snorted, looking very peeved. "We thought you'd like to know
that our dearest darling baby brother came up to us not five minutes
ago and proclaimed to the common room at large that he had no
intention of playing Quidditch on the same team as you."

Harry's jaw dropped. The pumpkin tart he had eaten at dinner sank
like a stone in his gut. "He said what?"

"That you can go to hell, or something to that effect," Fred said
darkly.

George shook his head. "Actually, that's the nice version. We've
taken the liberty of removing all the naughty words he used."

Harry buried his face in his pillow. His day was going from bad to
worse.

"Great," he mumbled. "Super. Abso-bloody-lutely fantastic."

Katie reached over and patted him on the shoulder. "Look, Harry,
please don't fret yourself over this. Ron's being an ass, that's all.
It's a Weasley family trait...just look at these two prime specimens
here." She jerked her thumb in Fred and George's direction.

Fred scowled at her. "This isn't funny, Katie."

"I'm well aware of that, Fred," she shot back.

"Leave it, leave it," Harry said wearily, rolling over onto his back
and propping himself up on his elbows. "If he doesn't want to play,
it's his choice."

"I wish it wasn't Slytherin we were up against," Angelina remarked
to no one in particular.

"Well, it can't be helped," Fred growled. His hands were tightly
clenched; he was attempting to keep his temper under control.
"If Ron"--he spoke his younger brother's name as though it was
an expletive--"wants to be that way, we'll simply have to use the
reserve players."

"Can't use Tommy," George commented offhandedly.

Harry looked up, startled. "Whyever not?"

"Didn't you hear? He's in hospital."

Forget about bad to worse. Things had gone from worse to positively
horrible. "What?"

George coughed dryly. "Don't ask me how, but he Transfigured his foot
by accident this morning. Now he's a permanent guest in the infirmary
while Pomfrey and McGonagall figure out how to undo it."

"His foot?" Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly.
"What did he Transfigure it into?"

"A brick," said Fred.

"You're joking." He put his glasses back on.

Fred's mouth quirked in a parody of his normal grin. "I only wish."

"Can't they take him to St Mungo's?" asked Alicia.

"Don't you mean 'what's left of St Mungo's'?" Harry said quietly,
more to himself than to her.

Katie cleared her throat. "Well, it leaves him out, in any case. So
there's Colin and Beatrice."

"Let's just flip a coin," Harry said despondently, sitting up. "I
really don't care who gets it--they're both good enough to play."

"Sounds good," Fred agreed. "Got a coin?"

"Just a minute." Harry rolled off his bed and opened his trunk. He
pawed around in the bottom, looking for the Muggle coins he had
hidden in the lining. They were left over from his summer with Mrs
Figg, and though they weren't legal tender in the wizarding world
they did come in handy for one thing or another...like coin tosses.

His fingers closed around the ridged edge of a pound coin, and he
held it up to the light.

"Call it," he said, and tossed it into the air.

"Heads for Colin, tails for Beatrice," George declared.

Harry caught it as it came down and slapped it on the back of his
left hand. As he lifted his right hand, he saw the stern profile of the
Queen staring up at him.

"Heads it is," he said, fighting back a sigh. "I'll go tell him."

"Wait a sec, Harry." Fred turned around and gave his winning smile
to the Gryffindor Chasers. "Lovely ladies, would you excuse us for
a moment, please?"

Alicia nodded. "Sure, Fred," she said understandingly. "We'll be
downstairs."

"Chin up, Harry," added Angelina with a wink.

"We'll whip precious little Malfoy and his goons...just you wait."
Katie cracked her knuckles loudly.

Once the girls had left, Fred and George turned back to Harry.
Their faces were deadly serious.

Fred began hastily. "Look, about earlier--"

"Our idiot brother--" George interjected, rolling his eyes.

"He's been like this ever since--"

"The funeral, so please--"

"Don't think it's--"

"About you, 'cause--"

"He's being an ass--"

"As usual--"

"We would have kicked some sense into him--"

"But Dad wouldn't let us--"

"Though Bill would have--"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Harry held up his hands, stopping the rapid fire
conversation. His head was spinning. "Listen, it's fine."

"It's NOT fine," George protested. "I know that family is supposed to
stick together on things like this, but you're like family, too. I know
Mum would have laid into Ron with her slipper if she knew he was
acting like this."

"She did it often enough when we were little," Fred said, rubbing his
backside in remembrance. "Never tolerated sulking, that was Mum."

"We tried to talk to him, but he won't say a thing." The worried look
returned to George's face. "Even Bill and Charlie couldn't get a word
out. And Dad's been so busy recently...we didn't want to worry him."

Fred smirked suddenly. "Y'know, the one good thing that's come out
of all this is the fact that Percy's pulled his head out of--"

"--the sand, so to speak," George finished quickly, giving his twin a
sour look. "He's finally convinced that You-Know-Who is back."

"Really?" Harry was startled for a moment, until he realised that if
the cold-blooded murder of a family member by suspected Death
Eaters wouldn't change Percy Weasley's mind, nothing would.

Cold comfort, at that. Will's words echoed in his mind.

Fred's smirk grew wider, his lip curling bitterly. "Never was a more avid
convert than our Percy. He'd go on WWN and broadcast You-Know-
Who's return to the world if he thought it would help."

Cold comfort indeed. Harry shook his head. "But what about you?"
he asked.

"Us?" Fred shrugged nonchalantly. "We're Fred and George Weasley.
We always come out on top, somehow."

George nodded his agreement. "Things'll sort themselves out. They
always do. Gotta be optimistic, you know."

Harry heartily wished he could share their optimism, but as it was, he
felt the tiniest bit better to hear their cheerful words.

"Thanks, guys," he said. "I mean it."

Fred ruffled his hair affectionately. "Any time, Harry."

"Now get some sleep," George ordered. "Practice tomorrow. Let's
see how Creevey handles a broom--and hope he doesn't wind up in
the infirmary again. Tommy doesn't need company that badly."

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May 10th, 2002