My beloved readers, do any of you gazing upon this now know how
much I loathe writing dialogue? Very extensive dialogue? Where there
are at least seven characters to keep track of at any given time? ::sighs::
Things ought to pick up soon enough after this. But now is the time for
plot exposition...and plot exposition...and still more plot exposition.

(The idea for the term 'Potter Effect' comes in part from Ozma's
fantastic "Squib" series. If you haven't read it yet, for heavens' sakes
go do so! You'd be hard pressed to find a better example of secondary
character development, namely of a certain grouchy Hogwarts caretaker.)

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.

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

Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Light
A Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising Sequence Fusion
By: Gramarye

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Better Off Not Knowing

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

I know now that patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred or
bitterness towards anyone.

-- Edith Louisa Cavell, 1865-1915
(British nurse, executed as a spy
during World War I for assisting
the escape of Allied soldiers)

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

Power.

Not power, but Power.

It filled the little room, and was so concentrated that the children could
almost see it. When they had activated the mirror, they had activated
this Power as well; the complete circle had wakened it to its purpose.
It was like a living thing, a great slumbering beast that had lain dormant
for a very long time and had only just begun to stir. It was stretching
now, slowly becoming aware of its surroundings as it tested the air,
searching for signs of threat or hidden danger that it would need to
guard against. The Power joined the six of them together: a deeply set
link that heightened their senses to a feverish intensity. Everything in the
little room, from the leaping warmth of the fire to the dusty surface of
the long table, seemed to be alive with rich, vivid colours. The crackling
of the fire was tingling, electric. They could feel it consuming the fuel in
the grate, and if they had wanted to they could have reached out to the
brilliant flames, tasted them and touched them and talked to them for
hours.

The sensations were nearly overwhelming, but the most exciting and
terrifying feeling of all was the knowledge that this Power was theirs
to command.

Their magic.

They stood like stones or statues, unable to move or breathe or do
anything but adjust as the awesome magic coursed through them.

Will stood quite still as well, studying them in silence and smiling
the faintest of smiles. He allowed them to savour the feeling for a
few breathless moments, but in the next moment he had pulled out
his watch and opened it with a flick of his wrist.

"Well, it seems that we have fifteen minutes to bring Mr Creevey here
up to where we are now." The watch snapped shut with a tiny click.

They stared at him with unfocused eyes.

Unhurriedly, he returned his watch to some hidden pocket in his robes,
walked over to the chair nearest the fire, and sat down. "I suggest
you get started."

The even tones of his voice had broken the initial shock of the spell,
but they were still more than a little dazzled. As their heads began
to clear, they darted uncertain looks at each other.

Gradually, though not unexpectedly, all eyes turned to Harry.

"No," he said flatly once he realised what they were asking of him.
"Not me. Not this time."

"Just sit down and start talking," Hermione said with a little toss of
her head. "It'll be easier that way."

"Easy enough for you to say," he grumbled.

"Come on, Harry," Ron prodded.

He glared at his friends. "Why me?"

"You're the only one of us who knows everything from the beginning,"
Hermione replied, coolly logical. "From the very beginning."

"She's quite right, Mr Potter," Will agreed, crushing Harry's fleeting
hope of appealing to him for a respite. "It's your story, after all."

There was no way round it. "Fine."

He stalked over to the table, looking as put out as he dared to be with
Will's sharp eyes still upon him, and sat down heavily in his chair.

The others took their seats, outwardly calm but inwardly relieved that
they would not be the ones to tell the complicated tale. Colin slid
nervously into his place opposite Harry. A hopeful grin quirked the
corners of his mouth, though it was quickly withdrawn as a wave of
shyness overtook him. Colour flooded his cheeks, and he ducked his
head bashfully.

"Right," Harry said gruffly. "D'you remember last year, when a bunch
of us had to hear that extra lecture on Defence Against the Dark Arts
and Muggle Studies...."

Mindful of the time, he told the story as quickly as he could, digging in
the dusty corners of his mind. Hermione was right: the telling did come
more easily the more he spoke. He had never believed that he had a
gift for story telling, especially when the stories involved him--it felt too
much like boasting, too much like being a show-off. But he talked, and
talked, and was interrupted only when Hermione corrected him as to
detail, when Ron added some sarcastic comment to one of his statements,
when Ginny scolded her brother for his comments, and when Neville
tried to shush the others so Harry could continue.

Colin listened attentively. He squirmed at Harry's near-capture on the
train to Exeter, grinned at the retelling of Neville's verbal besting of
Professor Snape, paled considerably at a carefully edited description
of Mrs Weasley's funeral, bristled with almost comic indignation at the
darker story behind the cheating scandal, and furrowed his brow as he
tried to remember the magically erased image of the Dementors on
horseback. But more often than not his eyes would turn to Will, who
was leaning back in his chair with his chin propped on one hand as he
listened to Harry spin out his tale. An odd searching quality would
sharpen the expression on the younger boy's face, only to fade as he
jerked his attention back to the lengthening story.

A very thirsty Harry finally concluded with a hoarse, "...so I told the
others to meet us here at seven tonight, and...well, here we are."

"Ten minutes," Will said absently. "Very well done."

"I'll say." Neville grinned. "I couldn't have done that in a million years."

Harry swallowed the mass of phlegm that had built up in his throat and
grunted something unintelligible in reply. His tongue felt thick and heavy,
and he would have given all the money in his Gringotts vault for a large
glass of water. His head had started to ache as well.

Colin looked over at Will. "Would you...I mean, can I...could I ask
you...?" Another wave of shyness cut him off in the middle of his
sentence.

"Ask away," the older man said. "Though your friends would tell you
that you might not like my answers."

"Okay." Colin fidgeted in his chair. "I think I understand, sort of. I mean,
lots of things make more sense now, 'specially some of what happened
after Christmas and everything. But how come...and this is a really stupid
question, sir, and you've probably explained it already and I don't--"

"Easy now," Will said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "The
question first. Everything else afterward."

"Sorry." Colin tried again, more slowly. "Why...why did those Aurors
erase our memories? Us on the train, I mean."

Will sniffed. "They probably wanted to keep your parents from yanking
all of you out of school. Can you imagine trying to tell your mother that
you and your schoolmates were besieged by Dark creatures intent on
devouring your soul? Particularly after what I'm told happened to you
during your first year here?"

Colin shuddered. "It was awful."

Hermione, who had shared Colin's experience with the basilisk, smiled
sympathetically, but her smile quickly faded when he continued:

"Mum didn't let me out of her sight that whole summer."

The Old One laughed quietly. "I rest my case."

Colin laughed as well. His smile wasn't quite so shy.

"But what I don't understand," Neville began, sensing a break in the
conversation, "is why the four of us ended up on the train in the first
place."

"Me, too" Hermione said, nodding. "Professor McGonagall was asking
me about it on the ride back, and I didn't know what to tell her. I said
to her that it was the stones you gave us, but--"

"No," said Will. "That isn't possible."

"It's not?"

"If it was, it shouldn't have been. The spells that I placed upon your
stones aren't designed to affect the user--certainly not in such an
alarming fashion. You can use them to see and observe, yes, but that
wasn't what I had in mind when I gave them to you. They were intended
as a warning device against the Dark, not for anything as dangerous as
teleportation. Whatever put you on the train was not the work of the
Light."

Hermione already had her next question prepared, even if she fumbled
a little when choosing her words. "But you said that Mad...I mean, that
Profe...Mr Moody also put spells on the stones--spells to detect the
Unforgivable Curses. Could your magic and his have reacted to each
other?"

"That was what I thought when I wrote to Alastor Moody early last
week, asking him for his opinions on the matter. And his reply informed
me, in no uncertain terms, that it wasn't possible."

Hermione almost put her hand in the air, but remembered where she was
and hastily put it down. "But if he--"

"He had no explanation as to why you should have been transported to
the Hogwarts Express. Instead, he advised me--rather unhelpfully--to
accept the whole thing as a 'Potter Effect'." He smiled ironically at the
thought. "And that's a direct quote."

"So if he doesn't know, and you don't know...." she trailed off,
frowning.

"I prefer to see it as a highly volatile combination of competing magics
and human emotion." Will took off his glasses and started to polish
the lenses. "You wanted to know more, to know what was going
on and to help even if it meant putting yourselves at risk. And your
heightened state of emotion, combined with several powerful location-
based spells and greatly amplified by the energy of multiple casters--"

He stopped suddenly, and put his glasses back on. "But there I go,
lecturing again."

He had stopped himself just in time. Neville and Ron's eyes had almost
completely glazed over, and Harry wasn't far behind them. Hermione's
eyes, however, had been sparkling with absolute fascination. She looked
more than a little distraught at the end of the discourse on magical theory.
A sour look had developed on Ginny's face, presumably at the thought
of the brave stupidity of her brother and his friends. Colin was gnawing
at his lower lip, plainly confused but trying not to show it.

Will sat up very straight, and inclined his head soberly. "Whatever the
cause, I sincerely apologise for putting you four in danger. In the end
the fault does lie with me."

There was an awkward beat where no one seemed to know what to
say. Harry's cheeks felt hot, and although he was sitting close to fire
he knew it wasn't from the flames.

"Shall we go, then?" Will stood, pushing his chair away from the table.
"It's nearly half-past."

The students got to their feet. Half a dozen people crammed into a
relatively small room made manoeuvring difficult at first, but after a
moment's scuffle they were clustered by the door. Ron was about to
turn the handle, but Will suddenly cleared his throat, stopping him
before he could open the door.

The Old One had not moved from his position before the fire, and the
flames behind him created an odd silhouette effect, throwing him into
shadow. He waited until the sounds of shuffling feet and rustling robes
had died down before he spoke.

"I ought to warn you, before we leave this room, that the meeting we
are about to attend will touch upon painful matters." His voice was
serious, though not without compassion. "You may be confronted with
memories you would rather see forgotten, or hear things that confuse
or alarm you. But you must know that you are not alone in this."

He closed his eyes, and the fire in the grate went out as suddenly as
if he had poured a bucket of water over it.

"Six drove out the Dark before. Six will do so again." His final words
came to them across of the darkness of the room. "Remember this,
whatever you hear tonight."

* * *

A ticklish murmur of conversation and talk poured out of Dumbledore's
office through the partially open door. As Will pushed the door inward,
Harry gazed at the people within with a strange, floating detachment,
as if he was a bored theatregoer watching the curtain rise on the second
act of a mediocre play.

The office's furniture and random knickknacks had been moved out of the
way, clearing a very large space in the centre of the room. In the centre
was a wide circle of more than a dozen mismatched chairs, some more
comfortable-looking than others. The large fire was lit, as were innumerable
candles over their heads. A gust of warm air wafted past their faces.

But above all, Dumbledore's office seemed to be crammed full of people.
Indeed, with their arrival there were more people in the room than Harry
had ever seen in there at one time.

Sitting before the fire was Professor Snape, deep in earnest discussion
with a grave-faced Dumbledore. Fawkes was perched precariously on
the mantle above them, preening his glossy feathers. Dumbledore did not
turn their way, but Snape saw the movement out of the corner of his eye
and glanced sideways at the opening door. His jaw tightened briefly, as
if he hadn't liked what he had seen. With barely a pause he resumed his
conversation.

Standing off to one side was Professor McGonagall. She was listening
politely, if not attentively, to a man that Harry didn't know. The man
was thin, fair-haired and fair-skinned, with a fast-receding hairline that
made him look older than he probably was. His gestures were fluid
and animated, punctuating whatever he was saying. Neither he nor
McGonagall noticed the newcomers.

Closest to the door was Mrs Figg, draped in the vivid black and rich
scarlet of her official costume. She was chatting with another man
who in only the kindest of terms would be described as 'well-fed'.
His vast stomach strained the front of his out-of-fashion robes. His
wrinkled, florid face swelled with laughter at a joke he had just made.

Mrs Figg was the first to notice their arrival.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, advancing on them. "I was just wondering when
you'd all decide to make your grand entrance." Her gravely voice
turned the statement into something of an accusation, though her eyes
snapped and sparkled with mirth.

Will took the hand she held out to him and bowed over it.

"Fashionably early, madam," he intoned wryly.

She chuckled as he released her hand, and ushered them away from
the door, toward the centre of the room. Harry and the others followed
Will closely, crowding round him like a band of nervous ducklings
trailing after a mother duck.

"I think you know most everyone here," Mrs Figg said. "We're still
waiting on a few people, but I can start the introductions now. Save
us some time later."

As if on cue, the red-faced man she had been speaking to swaggered
toward them.

"Evening all!" he boomed. One or two candle flames on the nearby wall
wavered, flickering with the force of his voice.

"First boy." Mrs Figg jerked her head in his direction. "This apoplectic
lout here is--"

"Fletcher," the man proclaimed. "Mundungus Fletcher, Department of
Magical Catastrophes--Head of the Dark Arts and Practices Division."

He could have been anywhere between forty and seventy years old;
between the wrinkles and the hearty, youthful grin it was difficult to
tell. For all his bulk, he had a force of personality that exuded great
energy, rather like a manic Father Christmas. His eyes were dark and
shrewd in his fleshy face, revealing more intelligence than one might
have suspected at first glance.

Mrs Figg ran through their names as Fletcher moved among them with his
greetings. "Hermione Granger, Colin Creevey, Ron and Ginny Weasley--"

"Can't ever forget a Weasley," Fletcher said, his grin widening. "No
matter how many of you lot there are." He shook their hands with the
whirlwind, practised impartiality of one used to attending political
functions.

"--Neville Longbottom, and Harry Potter," Mrs Figg continued, ignoring
him. "And you've met Dr Stanton before."

"Busy year for you, Mr Fletcher," Will murmured as the other man
gripped his hand and began to wring it reverently.

"You might say that, sir," Fletcher replied good-naturedly. "You might
say that. We've had enough paperwork to fill Gringotts twice over.
And speaking of paper...."

He half-turned, and called out to the young man who was chatting with
McGonagall. "Here, de Havilland, have you met Dr Stanton yet?"

The young man spun round, startled.

"Dr Stanton?" His voice was light and cultured, with the clipped speech
of a radio newsreader. "I'm certain I would have remembered if I had."

Professor McGonagall nodded to them, then quietly excused herself and
drifted over to where Dumbledore and Snape were seated.

Mr de Havilland stepped aside to let her pass by him and approached
their group. One hand flew up to his forehead to smooth back what
little remained of his hair. The other was extended in hesitant greeting.

"Vincent de Havilland, sir," he said, taking Will's hand. "An honour
to meet you at last."

Harry frowned suddenly, thinking. There was something about both
Fletcher and de Havilland's voices, something in the way they spoke
to the unassuming anthropology professor that was...no, not exactly
respect, not deference, but an awareness of something. He couldn't
put it into words, not even to himself. It was frustrating.

Will smiled. "My pleasure, Mr de Havilland."

Another round of handshakes and introductions followed. By the time
they had dispensed with the greetings, de Havilland looked more than
a little starstruck at being in the presence of so many celebrities.

"Are you in the Ministry as well, Mr de Havilland?" Hermione asked in
the prim, polite voice she tended to reserve for teachers.

"Good heavens, no," Fletcher said before the younger man could reply.
"This here"--he slapped de Havilland on the back, nearly knocking him
off his feet and into Ron--"is THE best managing editor the Prophet's
ever had, and I'm not just saying that. You wouldn't believe some of
the stuff that used to get printed before he came along." He wrinkled
his nose. "Take that awful Skeeter woman, for instance. I don't know
how the editors could allow a harpy like that--"

"Mundungus, please." de Havilland stared down at his feet, cringing
with embarrassment.

"Don't you say 'please' to me, young man," Fletcher retorted archly,
folding his arms across his chest--or rather, over top of his stomach.
"I've heard you call her things that I won't repeat in mixed company."

With that said, he turned on his heel and strode away toward where
McGonagall and Dumbledore were listening to Snape talk.

"T-t-terribly sorry...please excuse me..." de Havilland spluttered.
He bobbed his head to them and hurried after the older man.

"He's the editor of the Daily Prophet?" Ron asked incredulously,
staring at the rapidly retreating back.

"Six months now, it's been," Mrs Figg replied. "He's a good enough
lad. Was in Hufflepuff when he was here. Does the job, enthusiastic,
loves his work. The Prophet needed someone like him."

"Rather convenient for you as well, to have such excellent press
connections," Will said neutrally.

She raised an eyebrow. "He's useful enough, when you need to keep
things quiet."

"Ah." Will's tone remained neutral. "Wonderful thing, a free press."

"Free press?" The old woman snorted. "You take my word for it--
young de Havilland's better than most. He at least puts up a fight
when we tell him to kill a story."

It was Will's turn to raise an eyebrow. "I don't know whether to
admire your honesty or deplore your lack of principles, so I think
I'll quietly excuse myself and say hello to your former colleagues."

He drifted over to the crowd near the fire, leaving the six children
huddled together in a defensive little knot.

Mrs Figg wrinkled her nose. "And I don't know how you've put up
with him for so long," she said to them. "Is he usually this much of a
prig or have I caught him on an off night?"

Her tone was flippant, but Harry could detect the same odd note of
awareness in her voice that he had heard in de Havilland's and Fletcher's.
Tempered by her usual acidity, perhaps, but there nonetheless.

Mrs Figg looked ready to add a few more choice remarks about Dr Will
Stanton, but just as she opened her mouth there was a knock at the door.

"Seems I'm playing hostess tonight," she said as she strolled over to
answer the knock.

Standing in the doorway was Remus, with Snuffles's massive bulk sitting
close beside him. Remus had a firm grip on the dog's collar.

"I thought there was a leash law in this country, Lupin," Mrs Figg
drawled, looking directly at Snuffles as she spoke. "Mustn't let a
mongrel like this run loose."

Snuffles gave a low growl, baring rows of gleaming teeth. He strained
forward, pulling Remus into the room. Once they were safely inside and
the door was closed, the Animagus resumed his human form with a pop.

"Who are you calling a mongrel, you shrivelled-up old bat?" he barked.

Sirius may have towered over her by a good six inches, but the old
woman let out a cackle of laughter, completely unintimidated by him.

"Well, well, what's this?" she said, clucking her tongue and looking
him up and down. "You didn't get all tarted up just to meet us, did
you?"

Even in jest, she was being truthful. Both men were wearing what Harry
suspected were their nicest robes, sporting fewer patches and mending
marks than their usual clothing. Sirius in particular had made an effort
to tidy himself up. He was clean shaven, and although his fingernails
showed signs of having been chewed short they were neatly trimmed
and clean. He had brushed out his long hair, pulled it back and tied
it with a length of string to keep it out of his face. With just that little
bit of care, he looked less like a dangerous fugitive and more like a
respectable young wizard who had simply fallen on hard times.

Remus put a restraining hand on Sirius' shoulder, and smiled at Mrs Figg.
"You don't like it, Arabella?" he asked mildly.

"At least you're making an effort for once," she retorted.

Hermione suddenly spoke up. "I think they look very nice."

"Do you?" Mrs Figg couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Yes," she said firmly. Something in her would not allow her to stand
by and let a Hogwarts professor be jeered at, even if a former Hogwarts
professor was the one doing the jeering. But to prove her point, she
needed to go a step further. "Don't you think so, Ginny?"

Ginny was staring at Sirius as if she'd never seen him before. A faint
flush had crept into her cheeks.

"I'll say," she blurted out. The flush rapidly blossomed into a full
vermilion blush when she realised what she had said.

"It seems I'm outnumbered," the older woman said, sniggering.

With another growl Sirius wrenched his attention away from the old
woman, shifting his indignation onto his godson. "All right, Harry, you
promised us that...."

"Am I missing something?"

Harry looked over his shoulder to see Will walking toward them. His
friends quickly drew aside, clearing a spot for Will to stand just
behind him.

"Back so soon?" Mrs Figg asked. "Conversation not to your liking, I
take it?"

Will said nothing, so she grunted and turned back to Remus and Sirius,
prepared to initiate another round of introductions. "Now, gentlemen,
this is--"

Will raised a hand, stopping her. "Actually, we've met already."

"H...have you?" She glanced at him, then back at the newcomers. Her
eyes narrowed. "And when might that have been, may I ask?"

It was easy to see why she did not believe him. Remus was stunned
into complete immobility; his mouth hung slightly open. He certainly
remembered meeting Harry's 'friend', but his eyes darted from Will
to Harry as he tried to draw a logical conclusion from insufficient
information.

Sirius was also staring, though there was more puzzlement than shock
on his face. He squinted at Will, looking for a clue that would allow
him to recall when--or if--they'd met.

"It's been a while since we last had a proper conversation." Will's
faint smile had returned. "Twenty-odd years or so. I don't imagine
they'd remember me in connection with my younger self."

Remus drew a sharp breath.

"Younger...?" Sirius trailed off, perplexed.

"Then you...oh, never mind." Mrs Figg waved one hand dismissively
and returned to her introduction, a tad miffed at the interruption.
"Well, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, may I once again introduce Dr
Will Stanton of the University of Cambridge."

The singular flash of recognition showed that the name had clicked in
Remus's mind, but not in Sirius's.

"Professor Lupin. Mr Black." Will smiled warmly. "Harry's told me
so much about you both. He's a very fortunate young man to have
you as guardians, and as friends."

"Angh..." Sirius croaked, then hastily cleared his throat. He stuck out
his hand and braved a smile. "I mean, thank you. I only wish that
Harry...or someone..."--he shot an openly hostile glance at Mrs
Figg--"had told us more about you."

"I had my orders, Black," the old woman said sourly as the two men
shook hands. "Need-to-know basis only--neither of you needed to
know. Doesn't take brains to figure it out. And unlike Snape over
there, you two generally don't go about barging in where you're not
invited."

"SNAPE?" Sirius hissed, whirling on Harry once more. "You told
SNAPE before you told US?"

"I...I'm sorry," Harry stammered, quailing under the double force of
his guardians' glares. "I wanted to tell you, honestly. But it was just--"

Will swooped into the conversation with the deftness of a bomb squad
technician about to defuse an explosive device. "Professor Snape was
less than pleased to see me, Mr Black." He turned to Remus. "And I
think you'll agree, Professor, that our last meeting wasn't exactly the
right time or place to make introductions."

Remus nodded dumbly. Sirius was still fuming, but a loud noise from
the direction of the fireplace made all heads turn to see what had
happened.

The flames had gone the brilliant green of Floo Powder, and a tall, thin
wizard had just stepped out of the fire. He was brushing soot from his
robes. Harry's heart did a double flip in his chest when he saw who
had arrived.

It was Arthur Weasley.

"Terribly sorry to be late, Minis...Albus," Mr Weasley was saying to
Dumbledore. He nodded distracted greetings to Snape and McGonagall.
"Finishing up some paperwork from the last raid on the Trumpington
estate. Leave it to Hector Trumpington to mess about with--"

Ron had been facing away from the fire, but he spun round at the sound
of his father's voice.

"DAD?" he said, disbelievingly.

Mr Weasley jumped.

"Ron?" He did a double take. "Ginny? What are you...oh!" One hand
fluttered to his throat as he caught sight of Will.

"Come in, Arthur," Dumbledore said kindly, guiding him away from the
hearth before his robes could catch fire. "Don't worry, you're not late.
It's only just seven-thirty now."

He raised his voice, addressing the assembled adults and students.
"Shall we start, everyone?"

And like that, the meeting began.

The idle socialising stopped, and those who had been standing found
chairs round the circle and sat down. There was a tense moment when
Sirius had to walk past Professor Snape to reach the seat beside Remus,
but nothing worse than a deep glare passed between the two men.

When all had taken their places, one could see a definite pattern to
the seating arrangement. Dumbledore sat closest to the fire. Fawkes
settled quite comfortably on the back of his owner's chair, as if he
intended to listen in, too. Snape, McGonagall, and Lupin--the three
faculty members--sat to his left, and Mundungus Fletcher, Mrs Figg,
and Mr Weasley--the three Ministry officials--sat to his right. Sitting
directly opposite Dumbledore was Will, with the six children arranged
in a similar fashion: Ron, Hermione, and Harry to Will's right; Ginny,
Neville, and Colin to his left. Sirius and Vincent de Havilland occupied
a sort of no-man's-land on either side.

As Harry sat down, he felt Sirius take his hand and squeeze it, hard.
He squeezed back, trying to be reassuring.

There was no offering of tea or the normally ubiquitous hot cocoa:
Dumbledore came to the point straightaway. "First of all, whom should
we know about?"

"Alastor and young Linchley are out at Azkaban," Mrs Figg said,
clasping her hands round her knee. "As it seems we can't work with
the Dementors now, everyone's on rotating shifts to keep things under
control there."

"How is it?"

Her face darkened. "Not going as well as we'd like. Fortunately, the
effects of prolonged Dementor exposure haven't worn off yet. But it's
only a matter of time before someone gets up enough strength to make
a break for it."

"I see. And the Dementors?"

"Patronus casting is holding them so far. There're enough people to
keep them under control at the moment."

"Do you need anything?"

"We're all right for now. Believe me, when we need something, you'll
know."

"I'm sure you will, Arabella. Thank you. And as Hagrid left just this
evening, we're otherwise all present and accounted for." His quiet
gaze moved past her, to Fletcher. "Anything to report?"

The large man shook his head. "We've been turning that bloody train
inside out all week, but there's nothing wrong with it. The only thing
we found was that the emergency brake in the engine had been pulled."

"Pulled?" Mr. Weasley asked sharply.

"Pulled," Fletcher repeated. "Manually. No magic used at all, not
even a trace of it." His jolly face was grave. "No one tampered with
that train, Albus. At least, not from the outside."

"Mm," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Arthur, Vincent, any news?"

"Nothing new in the raids," Mr. Weasley said briskly, in a tone very
different from that of the absent-minded man Harry knew. "Suspicious
things, yes, but then again that's the rule rather than the exception in
my line of work. We're taking every precaution, of course."

"There was a bit of a row over the last Sunday issue, but it was about
the advertisements, not the articles." de Havilland pulled out a large
white handkerchief and mopped his shining forehead. "The Borgin and
Burkes representative was rather adamant about keeping their regular
double on the fourth page."

"Why is that?" Dumbledore asked.

"Well..." de Havilland hesitated, but decided to plough on. "You see,
sir, we've recently switched the obituaries to the fourth page, where
there's more space. All of the other businesses who have space on that
page have agreed to change the location of their advertisements. But
Borgin and Burkes informed us that, given recent events, the overall
readership--"

Fletcher grimaced. "Don't say it, man."

"Abominable taste," McGonagall murmured, deeply disgusted.

"About what you'd expect from Knockturn Alley's premiere shopping
establishment," Mrs Figg declared in a voice that dared anyone to
challenge her.

Dumbledore sighed. "Well, then, if there are no further points that
should be brought to our attention, my main reason for convening this
meeting is a matter of some delica--"

"Oh, just tell them, Albus," Snape broke in waspishly.

It was the first time Harry had heard him speak all evening; there was
a rough edge to the normal icy smoothness of the Potions Master's
tongue. Snape fixed the assembled company with his glittering glare,
and said flatly:

"My services are no longer required by the Dark Lord."

The responses ranged from de Havilland's strangled gasp to a long,
slow hiss of expelled breath from Sirius.

The questions came rapid fire.

Mrs Figg was first. "When?"

Snape's face was under tight control, so tight one could see bluish
ropes of veins standing out on his neck. "There was a...meeting,
very early last Saturday morning. Even he never calls us at that
hour, so it was plain that something was wrong."

"But you went anyway?" Fletcher asked.

"When one is Called, one comes, or does not dare to come again.
But once the...formalities...were out of the way, the Dark Lord
informed us that he knew of a Ministry spy in our midst. And asked
his loyal Death Eaters what should be done about it."

His thin lips twisted into a grimace of a smile. "I'd been expecting it,
you understand. They've had enough plans go awry recently to raise
suspicions. I listened with half an ear to them bandy accusations and
toss curses about--until Nott stepped forward.

"He'd been tortured, of course. You could practically smell it on him.
He rattled off some statement about how he'd informed me of the attack
plans on the Hogwarts Express the week before, and had thought nothing
of it until he'd heard it had failed. Then, like the ever-faithful servant he was,
he had immediately hurried to tell his Lord that Severus Snape had turned
traitor once again.

"Even a child could have seen it for what it was. No one knew about
the attack beforehand, least of all me. But once that was out, one thing
led to another, and before I knew it someone had cast a Pendeo Charm
and I was hanging from the ceiling upside down." His smile was frigid,
mirthless.

"What was it that tipped them off?" Remus asked, stroking his chin
thoughtfully.

"Must've been the Gringotts raid," Fletcher muttered to Dumbledore.
"I knew we should've been more discreet about the precautions."

"There was no Gringotts raid," Snape snapped, glowering at the
Ministry official. "That was the next thing that came out. For at
least the last six weeks--and probably before that--all the plans
and orders I've received have been feed."

Mr Weasley gasped.

Mrs Figg swore.

Sirius squeezed Harry's hand so tightly that the bones ground against
each other.

Dumbledore looked very tired all of a sudden.

"Feed?" de Havilland asked timidly.

Snape whirled round, pinning the other man to his chair with a burning
look.

"Feed, you fool. Trash. Tripe." He leaned forward and spoke with
exaggerated slowness, pronouncing every syllable carefully as if he
was speaking to a very dull child. "Mis-in-for-ma-tion."

"And they just let you go?" Mrs Figg said severely.

"Why not? Nearly everything I've reported for the last few months has
been false, one way or another." His hands were shaking badly; Harry
had never seen Snape so on edge. "There was no midnight raid planned
on Gringotts, no plot to torch the houses of Muggle-born witches and
wizards, no kidnapping attempts, no robberies, no poisoning the wells,
nothing. They've been feeding me lies the whole time, and fool that I
am I ate them all up."

Dumbledore reached out and took one of Snape's hands, but Snape
recoiled, yanking his hand away.

"Like a fool," he repeated bitterly, casting a baleful glance at the
former Headmaster. "Like a damned fool."

"We all knew it would happen, Severus," Dumbledore said softly, but
the softness concealed a steely edge. "Sooner or later. We can only be
thankful that you are still with us now. You are still alive."

Snape laughed, a laugh with no humour in it. "Thankful?"

"Yes." The voice was still soft, but this time the steel was no longer
concealed. "Thankful."

The Potions Master was silent. His body seemed to shrink, to draw
inward. The arrogant sneer that at times seemed a permanent part of
his features slowly left his face, and his chin sank into his robes until
only the cold black glitter of eyes remained against the dull black fabric.

Dumbledore spoke to Snape. "Who did know about the attack on the
Hogwarts Express, then?"

"Only Wormtail, as far as I could tell." Snape's voice, so alive and
cutting moments before, had become a listless monotone. "And
whatever guards he had to bribe at Azkaban."

"By Wormtail, you mean Peter Pettigrew," de Havilland said.

"Unless you know of any other Wormtail," Sirius growled, loudly
enough for everyone to hear.

de Havilland quickly shut his mouth.

"But why was he there at all?" Fletcher tapped his foot on the floor.
"Dementors would have been enough, surely. Especially if they were
on horses, as I've been told."

"Horses." Mrs Figg huffed. "What next?"

"May I hazard a guess?"

All eyes turned to Will. Even Snape briefly glanced in Will's general
direction before sinking back into private contemplation of his own
miseries.

Dumbledore said, "By all means, Dr Stanton."

Harry noticed again that sense of awareness. But it's always been
there, he just as quickly told himself. You haven't really noticed
it before tonight.

Will paused, collecting his thoughts.

"I think--and this is only guesswork, mind--that the creature you call
Wormtail used his Animagus form to creep onto the train at Hogsmeade
Station. He could conceal himself somewhere near the front of the
train and hide there until the appropriate time...which for some reason
happened to be just outside Doncaster."

"There’s a long stretch of rail there," McGonagall said, though no one
had asked for explanation. "Open country--not many towns or villages.
Nowhere to pass through."

Will nodded sagely. "So it would seem that he hid and waited. And
with surprise on his side, he would need only one spell to fell the
driver, another to set off the emergency braking system--"

"And then he'd turn back into a rat to watch the Dementors at their
work," Sirius finished. His voice was seething with rage.

"But when he saw that someone was ruining his master's plan..." Remus
began, piecing things together.

"He panicked." Will turned to McGonagall. "Headmistress, you were
there. Did you get a good look at the front of the train?"

"Yes."

"Did you happen to find the engine driver?"

Professor McGonagall looked startled, and a little ashamed. "Why, no."

"Then you probably never will," Will said grimly.

McGonagall removed her glasses and tenderly massaged the bridge of
her nose.

Will continued, more delicately. "Though we can't be entirely certain
how he disposed of the body--"

"There are ways," Mrs Figg interrupted, drumming her fingers on the
arm of her chair. "They don't need to be mentioned here. And the man
wouldn't have to be dead for them to work, either."

"So he deals with the driver--how he does so is not important--then
hurries to the rear of the train to see what has happened. And when
he arrives...." He turned to Ron, and said apologetically, "I don't
mean to force you, but--"

"It's all right, sir." Ron's face was very pale, but the hand that
pulled aside the collar of his robe did not tremble.

Reflexively, Arthur Weasley's hand fluttered upward once again to
clutch at his own throat. His gentle eyes were wide and dark with
horror.

"Ron!" he choked out, transfixed by the mottled, fading bruises that
encircled his youngest son's neck.

Ginny was never one to let an opportunity go by. "You idiot," she
whispered furiously, staring down at her trembling hands clenched
tightly in her lap.

"Miss Weasley." Will's voice was reproving, though it was missing
the sharpness that would have made it a true reprimand. "Fortunately,
that particular stretch of track runs upon the ghost of an ancient magic-
bordered road--an Old Way. Its power can be harnessed to break
the power of the Dark. But I couldn't risk anything unless both Wormtail
and young Mr Weasley were standing on the track. I was lucky."

The choice of pronoun changed the colour of Arthur Weasley's face
from white to greyish yellow. Little red splotches stood out on his neck
where the pressure from his fingertips had marked the skin. He was
unable to speak.

"I'm okay, Dad," Ron said hastily, frightened by the expression on his
father's face. "Really, it's all right."

Mr Weasley did not look at all reassured.

"With their Patronus Charms, young Mr Weasley and Mr Potter saved
over two dozen lives that night," Will said. "Knowing the Dementors,
that much is plain. But my question to all of you is this: what would have
happened if the Dementors had taken control of the train?"

"Any number of things," replied McGonagall, seeking to regain some
of her normal efficient manner. "You'd strand nearly all the students at
the school...only one or two live in Hogsmeade proper. In the event
of a direct siege, we would have no fast way to evacuate students or
teachers."

Remus added, "To some extent we'd be held hostage here."

"The Dark Lord could use it to launch raids on London proper," Fletcher
said. "Even--no, especially on Muggle London. You'd have a ruddy
great horde of Dementors sweeping through King's Cross, with Death
Eaters behind to finish off those who get away...."

"You're forgetting the train itself," Mr Weasley commented. His work
had taught him never to neglect the object acting as the vessel for magic.
"The Hogwarts Express...that's a large source of energy to tap for
Dark purposes. Far larger than anything we could muster at short
notice." The tremor in his voice was noticeable, but under control.

"And the psychological advantage as well," said Mrs Figg. "Who's to
say that wizards and witches wouldn't flock to him, offering whatever
they had to give in exchange for their children's lives? Especially if
they had a train full of living corpses as proof of his intent?"

As the ominous possibilities and conjectures came forth, each one worse
than the last, Harry found that he was straining to pay attention. The
words were running right out of his head like sand whispering through a
sieve. The voices jumbled together, growing dimmer, under there was
nothing but a mass of low noise buzzing in the back of his mind. But
in place of the voices, a different and entirely too familiar sensation
swelled to fill the gap.

Without realising it, he had begun to probe the emotions of the room.

His hand wasn't anywhere close to the warestone--in fact, Sirius was
still clinging tightly to the hand that would have been nearest his
pocket--but he was doing it all the same. And even then, once he
realised what was going on he surrendered eagerly to the feeling.
Adults, he well knew, always tended to hide the worst from children,
unconsciously seeking to shield them from the darker side of reality.
Far better to find it all out now than learn of it later.

It was a struggle to see clearly, at first. He was almost foundered by
the great, dismal waves of misery that Professor Snape exuded like
a foul miasma. The misery was a combination of separate strident
emotions: anger and self-loathing and a crushing sense of failure,
liberally mixed with what Harry thought at first was remorse. After
a moment, however, he changed his mind. It was unmistakeably
self-pity.

Once he had recognised and registered one set of emotions, he reached
out again, testing and probing. The next strongest feeling he could detect
was coming from--

Mr Potter. That isn't polite.

Will's silent voice broke into his thoughts, ruthlessly snapping his
concentration.

But I...I didn't mean... he started to say.

You are among friends here. There's no need for that.

The coldness of the admonishment brought a hot surge of shame rushing
to Harry's face. S...sorry, sir.

Not wanting to leave himself open to further rebuke, he wrenched his
mind out of the daze. It skipped a few times, like a stone skimming
across a calm lake, to land firmly in conscious thought.

Fortunately, no one had noticed his distraction. The adult witches and
wizards were still talking, and his friends were listening quietly, no doubt
forming their own conclusions. Will was listening as well; none would
have guessed that he and Harry had just been carrying on a private
conversation of their own.

Apparently, the subject of Dementor attacks had been left behind for
the time being. Three stiff sheets of glossy paper were being passed
from hand to hand, and by the looks on the faces of the adults it was
clear that Colin Creevey's photographs were having quite an impact.
He had missed part of the conversation, but those who weren't absorbed
in studying the photographs had tight, tense expressions.

Snape's raised voice was the first thing that clearly registered in Harry's
head.

"Out of the question. If you publish that, Wormtail will be dead before
the first person looks at the front page the next day." He might have
been stating a physical absolute, like the boiling point of water.

Vincent de Havilland frowned at him. "Come now, Snape, that's going
a little too far."

"'Too far'?" Snape sneered. "Well, I wouldn't show that little picture
to Mr Mandelbrot Phipps, if I were you."

"Mandelbrot PHIPPS?" de Havilland shouted, aghast. Snape might
have been spitting on his grandmother's grave, he was that taken
aback. "You're mad! The man's been on our staff for fifty years, if
a day!"

Snape's sneer deepened, and de Havilland continued, shaken, "Why not
three days ago...surely you must have seen that op-ed piece he wrote!
Blasting the Ministry for not doing more to track down the St Mungo's
suspects...you should've seen the replie...he couldn't...he CAN'T be
a--"

"You should hear him when he's been drinking," Snape interrupted in the
cold, silky voice he used for pointing out the more obvious errors of his
students. "A few glasses of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey and he'll proudly
rattle off every single hex he cast at King's Cross Station. In chronological
order."

de Havilland's mouth snapped shut. The room was so quiet that Harry
could hear Colin's fast, irregular breathing, amplified by the silence.

Seeing that he had commandeered everyone's attention, Snape continued.
"The Dark Lord has kept Wormtail with him for two reasons: he's easily
manipulated and he's legally dead."

Mrs Figg said knowingly, "Take away one of those and he becomes a
liability."

"And we all know what THAT will mean. And then you'll have no proof
of anything, Black, so don't curl your lip at ME." The last was directed
at Sirius, who was regarding Snape with the look of a man who has seen
something loathsome crawl out from under a stone.

"Severus has raised some valid points, Sirius," Dumbledore said, not
wanting to press the point too greatly.

Sirius's reply came through a clenched jaw. "I've waited fourteen years
to see that vermin rot in Azkaban...but I suppose I can wait a little longer."

Dumbledore looked profoundly relieved. "Which means that Mr Creevey's
photographs and negatives must not leave this room, tonight or ever."

Colin's lower lip quivered as he gingerly handed the negatives to de
Havilland, and Dumbledore saw it.

"Don't worry," he said soothingly, collecting the remaining photographs
that the others passed to him. "They'll be quite safe here."

He set the photographs and negatives on his lap, and tapped the pile
with his wand. In the blink of an eye, they had shrunk to the size of
postage stamps.

"I will store them in a safe place," he said, tucking the tiny pieces of
paper and film into some hidden recess in his robes. "And as a number
of us have school or work tomorrow, I think that will be the last order
of business for tonight."

He stood, and the room was filled with the sound of rustling robes as
the other nine adults and six children got to their feet.

Dumbledore surveyed them all a final time, and said, "I thank you for
your attendance, and wish you safe journey."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Ron and Ginny were flying
across the room, into the outstretched arms of their father.

Mr Weasley held them close, his too-pale face buried in the ruddy
shock of his children's hair. What was visible of Ginny's face was wet
with tears, and Ron's eyes had a suspiciously damp glitter to them.
After a moment, Mr Weasley gently tilted Ron's head up, revealing
the mass of bruises. He ran a tender hand across Ron's neck, as if he
could wipe the damage away with his touch. Ron, in response, leaned
his head against his father's shoulder, closing his eyes. He looked more
at peace than Harry had seen him in a very long time.

Watching them made a pang of fierce but guilt-ridden jealousy stir in
his heart. He had to turn away.

Turning away, unfortunately, made him run smack into Mrs Figg.

"Oof!" She stumbled backward, bumping into Will.

"Are you all right?" he asked, steadying her.

"Of course. You're a teacher, you should know that one gets used to
having brats underfoot."

Harry mumbled a not very apologetic apology and tried to slip past her,
but before he had taken two steps she reached out, collared him, and
pulled him toward her.

She rapped him on the head with her knuckles and cocked an eyebrow
at Will. "Speaking of brats, has this one been giving you trouble? More
than the usual Potter Effect-related incidents, that is."

"Quite the contrary," Will replied sincerely. "Mr Potter and his colleagues
have been of immeasurable help. The Light owes them a debt of gratitude
far beyond my power to repay."

"Smooth." Mrs Figg smirked at him. "Very smooth. Ever the clever
turn of phrase, Dr Stanton."

Will shrugged, putting on a grin of false modesty. "One picks things
up along the way."

"Cryptic."

"So I've been told."

"Shrouded in mystery."

"How else?"

"Absolutely insufferable."

"Madam, you make me blush."

The old woman laughed. "Well, it's a comfort to know that some things
in this world won't change. Dark wizards may come and go, but Will
Stanton will never give you a straight answer if he can help it." Chuckling
at her own joke, she stumped away.

No sooner had she left them than Remus and Sirius had hastened forward
and taken her place. From the speed with which they approached, they'd
had a hasty exchange of ideas and were now in search of the answers
that Harry had been unwilling--or unable--to supply. They didn't bother
with greetings or formalities this time.

"'One picks things up along the way'?" Remus repeated, frowning. "That
was what you said to Arabella just now, wasn't it?"

Will nodded, patiently waiting for the other half of the question to
surface.

"And you said that we met twenty years ago?"

"Give or take a few years, yes."

"You were at King's Cross," Sirius stated suddenly. He sounded
confident, completely sure of his memory. "First year--our first year.
At the end of the Easter holidays. You were there...you were--"

"Waiting for a delayed train to Slough."

"But trains going to Slough don't leave from King's Cross," Remus said
slowly. "They leave from Paddington."

"Ah." Will's eyes lit up. "I wondered if you would remember that."

Sirius grunted. "So if that was the case, why were you there?"

"I was waiting for you, naturally. That was the first and the last time the
five of you would all go home for Easter...am I right?"

The sudden fear that flashed across Sirius's face showed that whatever
answer he had expected to hear, Will's response was nowhere near it.

"And...and you knew we would be there?" he asked, his voice a ragged
whisper. "And who we were?"

"Yes, and yes. Well, a modified 'yes' for the second one," he corrected
himself. "I can't take full credit for that."

Before either man could answer, Dumbledore's voice cut across the
room. "Dr Stanton, may I trouble you for a moment?"

"Of course," Will said in a slightly louder voice, then nodded to
Remus and Sirius. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen. It's good to
see you both well, after so long." And he was gone.

Sirius gaped, at a loss for words.

It was Remus who looked at Harry and asked, "Is...is he?" There was
a good deal more to the question than two single-syllable words, but
the longer, more complex meaning was plain enough.

"Yes," Harry said simply.

Remus glanced round the room. Snape and McGonagall were gone,
off to make a final check of the school before the prefects finished their
rounds. Will was with Dumbledore. Mundungus Fletcher and Vincent
de Havilland had already departed, presumably by Floo Powder, and
Mr. Weasley appeared to be leaving as well. He was over by the bright
green fire, giving Ginny a hug as he listened to something Ron was
saying. Hermione, Neville, and Colin were clustered together by the
door, talking among themselves.

He turned back to Harry.

"Tomorrow night," he said sternly, in a tone that allowed no argument.
"Tomorrow night, after dinner, you will come to my office promptly at
seven. Your godfather and I need to discuss this further, but tomorrow
night should give us ample time for talking. I--WE want the answers,
Harry, and you're going to give them to us."

"Fine," Harry said sullenly.

Remus frowned. "And just so you don't 'suddenly discover' that you
have a Transfiguration test you need to revise for, consider yourself
on detention with me. If you don't show up, you'll have to accept the
consequences. Loss of House points, for starters."

"But you'll show up, because I'll be waiting for you, right outside the
Gryffindor common room." A dangerous light glittered in Sirius's eyes.
"You'll show up if it means I have to haul you there by the scruff of
your neck."

"All right, all right, I get it!" Harry threw up his hands. "You don't have
to twist my arm."

Sirius nodded curtly to him, and winked at Remus. "Well done, Moony."

"Why, thank you, Padfoot. I haven't lost it quite yet, it seems." Remus
flashed an overly polite smile at Harry, and said, "Goodnight, then."

"Sleep well, Harry," Sirius chimed airily, and resumed his Animagus
form.

Man and dog exited the room with a regal stride.

Harry felt weak at the knees. Remus was the Defence Against the
Dark Arts teacher, but he had once been and at some level still was
a Marauder. He had likely had enough experience with Hogwarts
detentions to be a bit more...CREATIVE in his choice of punishments.
And if he was angry with Harry....

It didn't bear thinking about.

He let his legs carry him over to where Will and Dumbledore were.
Evidently, Mr Weasley had just left; there was a greenish cast to the
flames, Ginny was scrubbing her face with the sleeve of her robe to
remove the tear-marks, and Ron was staring into the fire with a glum
air. Neither were listening to the adults, but Harry had drifted close
enough to pick up what was being said.

"With all due respect, Minister..." Will had started to say, but Dumbledore
cut him off with an cough.

"Come now," said the old wizard. "You and I know perfectly well that
'with all due respect' means that you're about to say something you know
I don't want to hear." His tone was light, but his face was serious. "Say it,
and I'll respond."

"Very well." Will had the look of a man about to rest his head on the
chopping block. "You, Albus Dumbledore, are as wholly short-sighted
as Mr Potter here when it comes to what you like to call destiny. Where
is it graven in stone that the defeat of the Dark Lord will mean your
death? What ancient prophecy foretells it? What dust-covered, hand-
lettered volume contains a passage that proclaims it in the most veiled
and...dare I say, cryptic of allusions?" His mouth twisted into an ironic
smile. "I'd like to see it, if such a thing exists."

Dumbledore returned the smile without the irony. "I would have thought
that you of all people would place faith in prophecy, Dr Stanton."

"There is little difference between a prophecy and a well-timed and
executed bit of doggerel, Minister," Will replied dryly.

Dumbledore said nothing, but his smile made Will sigh quietly and add:

"I only say this for your sake, sir."

"I know. And I am most honoured that you think so highly of me to
say so."

"The wizarding world would benefit more from your life than your death.
One doesn't need to exercise foresight to know that."

"Has he been doing this to you as well?" Dumbledore stage-whispered
to Harry, nudging him. His eyes twinkled merrily.

Harry knew better than to answer with the truth. "No, sir."

"Lucky you." Dumbledore smiled at Will, who was regarding both
wizards with thinly veiled dissatisfaction. "Thank you, Dr Stanton, for
your advice. I will keep your thoughts in mind."

His smile was kind, but it was also a dismissal. Will, understanding,
bowed formally and left the office without another word, forcing the
children to scramble after him.

They finally caught up to him outside the entrance to Dumbledore's
office. He was staring at the dust-coated gargoyle that guarded the
entrance. They approached him cautiously, as the look on his face
showed that his dissatisfaction was no longer hidden.

"I could have been speaking to you, for all the good it will do," they
heard him mutter to the gargoyle.

Impassively, the gargoyle stared back.

The Old One made an exasperated-sounding noise.

For the first time, he noticed that the six of them were standing nearby,
keeping an wary eye on him and an eye on the nearest escape route
down the corridor. He rounded on them, robes billowing.

"What is it with all of you?" he demanded. "It can't be purely cultural.
Any researcher worth his salt would agree with that conclusion if I
were to publish my findings tomorrow." The Cambridge professor--
albeit a deeply vexed one--had returned. "Tell me, is there something
in the water here, in the food? Is it part of your curriculum, a required
class in meaningful last words and dramatic final scenes? Or is it simply
one of these odd Gryffindor traits that Professor Snape seems to enjoy
ranting about?"

Although keeping silent was not normally among the odd Gryffindor
traits, the six children recognised that at that moment it would be
safest to do so.

They did not have long to wait before the blaze of anger faded from
Will's face, leaving deep lines of exhaustion in its place.

"No, don't tell me," he said wearily. "I have a feeling I'd be
better off not knowing."

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August 24th, 2002