Another birthday, another dedication--to my darling Meg for her
twenty-first birthday, February 2nd. You said you didn't mind if
this chapter was intense. I hope you realise what you've agreed to.
And remember--I told you that the cliffhanger could have been worse.

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 Thirty-Three - ...And Your Enemies Will Follow

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I know that every good and excellent thing in the world stands moment
by moment on the razor-edge of danger and must be fought for....

-- Thornton Wilder

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As he was falling asleep that night, Harry drowsily wondered what
McGonagall would say at breakfast the next morning.

McGonagall would have to say something--he was certain of that.
There was no way that she or any of the other professors could
continue to pretend that nothing was wrong. Hagrid's absence had
started whispers that were threatening to develop into full-blown
rumours, and the odd behaviour of Harry Potter and his small circle
of friends had not gone unnoticed, either. Whatever she chose to
say would have to be honest, forceful and truthful enough to quash
the rumours, but phrased in such a way as to avoid causing a panic.

Harry didn't envy her the task. If Remus's news had been the most
recent information, there wasn't a lot for her to work with.

As it turned out, it didn't much matter what was kept back or given
out. Little things, things that would likely have gone unnoticed at
almost any other time, told the real story.

It was the slump of McGonagall's shoulders when she tapped a butter
knife against her goblet at breakfast the next morning. The awful news
that Rubeus Hagrid had vanished somewhere in Eastern Europe was
made worse by the fact that McGonagall appeared to be perfectly
composed. Not a hair on her head was out of place, not a wrinkle
marred her clothing. Only her shoulders betrayed her, and somehow
that told the students more about her state of mind than reddened
eyes or rumpled robes would have.

After McGonagall's short, almost brusque speech, it was Ron and
Ginny nodding off over their food. Both had spent the better part of
the previous night in McGonagall's office tracking down their brother's
whereabouts. Ron quietly informed the others that they had finally
managed to reach Charlie just after three-thirty that morning--he had
been up all night caring for a sick dragon, and had not returned to
the main encampment until nearly five o'clock, Romanian time. He
was fine, if exhausted, but he had no news of either Moody or Hagrid.

("He didn't even know they were missing," Ron said with a sigh, and
nudged Ginny awake just before she dozed off and ended up face-first
in her bowl of now-soggy cornflakes.)

When the owls arrived with the post, it was Neville's reaction when
he sliced his thumb opening a letter from his grandmother. The paper
cut wasn't deep, but he sprang from the table and fled the Great Hall,
running for the infirmary as if he was in danger of bleeding to death.
The half-opened letter fluttered to the floor, forgotten. Hermione
picked it up as they were leaving and put it in her pocket to give
to Neville later.

Near the end of breakfast, it was the way that everyone, from the
most highly-strung first year to McGonagall herself, nearly leapt out
of their seats when a loud crack of thunder shook the Great Hall.
The murky clouds shrouding the enchanted ceiling darkened still
further as rain began to fall.

A handful of the youngest students started to cry, and were quickly
comforted by the older members of their Houses. At any other time
their friends would have gleefully teased them afterward--it was silly
to cry over a little thunder, after all--but this time no one made fun.

The little things were adding up.

Later that day, it was the sudden outbursts of hysterical giggling that
seemed to infect the younger students at odd times of day. The
giggling fits had actually begun over the weekend--Harry vaguely
remembered seeing Phillipa Jordan nearly giggle herself sick on
Saturday night, though he had been too busy being grouchy and
miserable to think much of it at the time. By Tuesday evening,
however, it had spread with a strangely epidemic speed until
all the Houses were affected.

On Wednesday morning, it was the faint tremor in Remus's hand
as he passed out 'precautionary' Chocolate Frogs to the fifth-year
students entering the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
It was also the way that every single person stared at the sweet
in his or her hand with something akin to nausea. After a long
moment, the chocolates were slipped into pockets and dropped
into bags. Not one Frog was eaten--and yet not one was given
away, either.

On Wednesday afternoon, it was the speed with which professors
took to sending giggling first, second, and third years out of their
classrooms, as if they were afraid of contagion.

Little things.

One of the worst came on Thursday morning, when a dark-coloured
owl swooped into the Great Hall and deposited a large paper-wrapped
parcel beside Draco Malfoy's plate. The paper was ordinary, but the
length and size of the parcel made the contents absolutely unmistakeable.
It was a brand-new broom.

Draco gleefully tore off the paper wrapping, revealing a long black
box with a large gold crest stamped on the top. He lifted the lid
and unveiled his gift, holding the broom aloft to the great delight
of his housemates. Word quickly circulated through the tables that
the broom was a Roman Rocket, imported from Italy, the newest,
most sophisticated, and most expensive broom on the market.

Fred and George looked positively sick with envy at the sight, and
even Harry found himself casting a few longing looks at the broom's
sleek twigs and silver-tipped shaft in between bites of toast. At the
Ravenclaw table, Roger Davies looked as if he wanted to break
every breakable thing in sight, and Cho Chang's normally sweet and
sunny expression was as stormy as the weather outside. The rest of
the Ravenclaw team looked as if they were wondering whether they
ought to forfeit Saturday's match then and there and save themselves
the trouble.

The Potions class that followed was an exercise in self-control.
Snape devoted almost the entire class to lamenting the overall lack
of intelligence in fifth year students, as demonstrated by the last
round of homework he had assigned. Mistakes and omissions were
pointed out in detail, and when he couldn't find fault with the content
he went after grammatical errors, and then spelling, and then
handwriting, and finally punctuation. By the end of class, Harry's
jaw hurt from keeping his teeth clenched for so long.

Just before lunch on that same day, a fist fight broke out in the corridor.
A Ravenclaw fourth-year was set upon by two Hufflepuffs, one in fourth
year and one in third. Ginny had seen it just at the end, when Justin
Finch-Fletchey and a Ravenclaw seventh-year prefect had managed
to break it up, and at lunch she told the others what she had heard from
others who had seen more. Someone had bumped into someone and
knocked an armful of books to the floor, and then someone else had
said something rather uncomplimentary, and the word 'Mudblood' had
been involved somehow, and that had led to blows. Less than three
minutes later, House points had been deducted and Heads of Houses
notified, and the knot of curious students had gone their separate ways.

"But I felt something when I was walking away," Ginny said softly,
glancing round to ensure that no one was listening in. "I can't really
describe it, but I think...I think it felt like the Dark."

Thursday evening's session provided little comfort. Will had no news
of Hagrid, and during the session itself he seemed distracted, as if
part of his attention was directed elsewhere. It almost seemed as if
the Old One was carrying on an entirely separate conversation with
someone else, or as if some part of him was operating on a different
level that they simply could not detect. When the children emerged
from the little room off the library two hours later, the level of
frustration in the air made it difficult to breathe.

The next day, Defence Against the Dark Arts was cancelled. McGonagall
assigned them a chapter from their textbooks and set them an essay,
then dismissed the class and directed them to the library to start outside
research. The chapter focused on poison and curse antidotes that
required animal blood, and the essay she had set was to research
the history and uses of an antidotes that featured the blood of an
animal of their choice.

Harry dutifully wandered up and down the stacks. He picked three books
that had promising titles and brought them back to the small table that he
and Ron were sharing. His mind wasn't fully on what he was doing, and
it was only when he set the books down and took out some paper for
note-taking that he saw the full titles of the volumes he had chosen.

Dissecting Dark Creatures, by Lilith d'Angevin.

Bleeding the Wolf, by A. J. C. Naylor.

And finally, Wolfsbane, Wolf's Blood, translated from Russian by
Grigorii Stepanovich Gerasimov.

He fought back a bitter, mirthless laugh. It could not be coincidence
that he had selected these particular books on the very day of the full
moon.

A minute later, Madam Pince looked up from her ledger to find that
three volumes had been deposited unceremoniously on her desk. Harry
was already back among the shelves, searching for books on the myriad
uses of cobra blood.

The rain that had been falling without a break since Monday stopped
mid-afternoon on Friday, and though the sky still had a greyish and
uniformly dismal cast Madam Hooch announced at dinner that Saturday's
game was still on.

The underground pools remained open until eight o'clock that night,
although Draco's new broom had forced Maureen Dennison to
recalculate her original odds. A Ravenclaw victory was now twenty-
to-one, and even these odds were favourable compared to the odds
on Cho Chang catching the Snitch. Harry didn't hear what those were,
but judging from the faces of some of the punters he had an idea that
Maureen would do quite well off of this particular match.

Neither Remus nor Snuffles was at dinner on Friday. Neither had been
at breakfast or lunch, either.

As they were walking back to the common room after dinner, Neville
tripped over his own feet and crashed into a suit of armour. Both
tumbled to the floor in a heap. Nearly half of Gryffindor tried
unsuccessfully to reassemble the clanking bits of metal, but before
long Filch materialised, seemingly out of nowhere, and shooed them
away to deal with the mess himself. The sound of muffled cursing
followed them up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

Again, most of the incidents that week had been little things. There had
been no nightmares, no vague premonitions of doom. Even Professor
Trelawney had been oddly restrained when it came to dire predictions,
a subject she normally approached with ghoulish relish. It would have
been quite easy to put everything down to the normal stresses of the
school year. O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s were less than two months
away, and everyone was feeling the pressure.

Harry could have convinced himself that he was fretting over nothing.
He could have convinced himself that he was doing what he could,
and that it wouldn't do any good to worry about situations that were
out of his control.

But he could not convince himself that the pain that woke him from
a sound and dreamless sleep early Saturday morning was the product
of an overactive imagination.

It was a sharp burning sensation, a thin and razor-edged ribbon of
pressure that went all the way around his head and centred itself
in a knife of pain in his scar. The pain had catapulted him out of
sleep, encircling and squeezing his head like a vise.

He had felt worse...but this was bad.

He groped for his glasses; his lips and mouth felt as dry as a desert,
and a trip to the bathroom for a glass--or twelve--of water would give
him a chance to sort out his thoughts. He sat up slowly, noting how
the pain had made him a little giddy, and swung his legs out of bed.

He was halfway to the door when he heard a soft sound, like a whimper,
coming from the other side of the room.

He paused on tiptoe, and turned his head to listen more carefully.
He heard nothing but Dean's snoring, and even that was muffled by
pillows.

He was about to turn back to the door and continue on his way when
the whimper came again. It was a little louder this time, and more like
a stifled moan than a whimper.

"Who is it?" he whispered. He couldn't tell who was making the noise;
it could have come from any one of the four crimson-draped beds still
occupied. "What's wrong?"

"H...Harry...?"

There was a faint rustling of sheets, and a pale hand twitched feebly
from behind the curtains of one of the beds. The curtain parted just
enough to reveal Ron's face, white and scared beneath a mess of red
hair.

His own pain forgotten, Harry hurried over to Ron's bed. He shoved
aside the curtain and knelt beside the bed, peering anxiously at his
best friend.

"What's the matter?" he whispered, all sorts of nameless fears rushing
through his mind.

The cold light of the full moon fell across Ron's bed, allowing Harry
to see without the aid of a lamp. Ron's skin was clammy-looking, and
his breathing was laboured. He held one hand pressed against his
forehead, and he squinted up at Harry, his face twisted in confused
pain.

"Harry....what's going on?" His voice sounded slurred, still thick with
sleep. "Why does it...?"

"Ron, tell me what's wrong," Harry said, more urgently. Madam Pomfrey
wouldn't be awake, and he couldn't get Ron to the infirmary on his own.
He would have to wake Neville, someone else--

Ron groaned softly. "Everything. Head hurts...nngh....can't you shut
off that light?"

"I don't have a...." His words trailed off, his train of thought broken
by the idea that had popped into his mind. If Ron's head was hurting,
and he was pressing his forehead in that particular spot--

Without thinking, his hand drifted up to delicately trace the jagged
outline of his scar, throbbing with a pain that he was doing his best
to ignore.

"You feel it," he murmured. It was not a question. "You feel it, too."

Ron stared at him for a moment, puzzled, but his eyes widened with
sudden understanding. He blinked, and rubbed his forehead gingerly.

"Does your scar..." he started to say, then hesitated. Ever since
their first meeting on the Hogwarts Express, an unspoken rule had
developed that the topic of Harry's scar was--not off-limits, exactly,
but so obviously personal that it may as well have been. "Does it
always...is always it like this?"

"Most of the time," Harry replied grimly.

Ron winced, partly in sympathy and partly in very real pain. "Oh. I
didn't know...I didn't--"

He gasped suddenly, eyes squeezing shut. His back arched almost off
the bed as a spasm shot through him.

"Ron!" Harry had felt the sudden stabbing pain as well, but he was
more accustomed to it than Ron was. He looked wildly about the
room, searching for something to ease the pain. There was nothing
in reach, nothing in--

His eye fell on Ron's robe, slung carelessly over the chair nearest
to the bed. He grabbed for the robe and dug in the pockets, pulling
out the small box that Ron still had not touched. Opening the flap,
he shook the wriggling Chocolate Frog into his hand, then pulled
it apart.

"Here," he said, holding a bit of chocolate to Ron's lips. "Try
this."

The spasm had passed, but Ron still looked sickened. At the smell
of chocolate, he turned his head away. "No...can't...."

"It's chocolate, Ron. It'll help." He managed to coax a bit past
Ron's lips, and a stupid, relieved grin spread across his face as
Ron's chalky skin regained some of its colour.

Ron licked his lips, and gingerly pushed himself to a semi-sitting
position. He scowled at the sight of Harry's broad grin. "What's
so funny?"

"Nothing." He hid the smile as best he could. "Just that you're
yelling at me. I think Hermione would say that means you're
feeling better."

"I'm not yelling." Ron sat up further, and took another piece of
chocolate. "It just came over me all suddenly, that's all. I wasn't
expecting it."

Harry sobered, all traces of the smile leaving his face. "That's usually
how it happens. But why should you...." He shook his head. "I don't
really understand."

"I think I can guess." Ron swallowed the second bit of chocolate, and
called out in a stage whisper. "Oi, Neville? Are you all right?

"No." Neville's voice, flat and oddly disembodied, floated back across
the room.

Harry picked up one of the remaining bits of the Chocolate Frog,
and got to his feet. "Let me get some--"

"It wouldn't help," Neville said in the same flat, strained tone. "It'll pass
if I lie still."

Harry and Ron exchanged glances.

"Does your head hurt?" Harry asked cautiously.

There was a long pause before Neville answered, so long that Harry
wondered if he could possibly have gone back to sleep. "Probably
not the same way yours does."

Ron's brow furrowed. "But it hurts, doesn't it?"

Neville took a deep, shaky breath. "Half a minute. Give me half a
minute."

Ron and Harry used the opportunity to change their clothes. At first
Ron reached for the dressing-gown that he had wadded into a ball
and tossed on the foot of his bed, but Harry stopped him.

"No," he mouthed silently. "Get dressed."

As they were putting on their socks and shoes, they heard the sullen
creak of bedsprings. Turning round, they saw Neville getting to his
feet. His face was ashen, but determined.

"It's like Potions class," he said faintly. "If I concentrate, I can get
nearly all the echoes to stop. I just need a little...a little...." Without
warning, his body sagged, and he clung to the bedpost for support.

Harry hurried forward, clumping across the room with one shoe on
and one off, and Ron hopped behind him, struggling to get one foot
into his shoe.

Neville recovered just as they reached him, and waved their helping
hands away. "I'm all right, I'm all right," he mumbled irritably as he
steadied himself. "It's nothing."

There was a grunting cough from one of the two beds still occupied,
followed by the noise of pillows being punched and sheets being
rustled.

"Mmrph...whazzat? Whozzat?" It was Dean, and he sounded sleepy,
and annoyed.

"Sorry, Dean," Harry said in a loud whisper. "Go back to sleep."

"Mmph." Dean rolled over. Judging by the sound of his breathing
he was asleep again in seconds.

Ron and Harry drew closer to Neville's bed, so close that their
foreheads were almost touching.

"Should we find out if the others are awake?" Neville asked.

"'We'?" Ron's eyes went wide, and he backed away, waving his
hands. "I'll get Ginny, but I'm not wandering into Hermione's room
in the middle of the bloody night," he whispered vehemently. "I'd
end up with a pillow in the face--or worse."

"We don't need to go anywhere," Harry said. As he spoke, he closed
his eyes and reached out with his mind, picking up the mental threads
of the link between the six of them. Once he felt that he had a solid
enough grip, he spoke silently, into their minds.

Are all of you awake? he asked.

It took a moment for the first reply to drift into his thoughts.

H...Harry? It sounded like Hermione's voice, although it was
rather thin with strain.

Yeah, he said, not quite knowing how to respond. Ginny? Colin?
Are you all right?

My head hurts. Ginny sounded as if she was trying to hold back
tears. It woke me up.

Mine, too, Colin said, almost whimpering.

I just took some aspirin, Hermione said. I've got some more in
my trunk if you need it.

That won't do you any good, Ron grunted. Not for this headache.

Let's meet in the common room in five minutes, Harry said. He
wanted to end this discussion before the strain of maintaining the
link worsened their headaches. Get dressed first, whatever you
have to do beforehand. We need to plan.

He waited until they had all made some sort of assenting noise before
he broke off the link. He felt a little dizzy, but no worse than he had
been a few minutes ago. Ron looked all right as well, if a little more
pale, but Neville seemed to be having more difficulty. He was taking
deep breaths, and his eyes were closed.

Harry held out the last bits of the Chocolate Frog, now partially
melted by the warmth of his hand. "Neville, please," he said. "Have
some. It really does help."

Neville opened his eyes. He patted his pillow, feeling under and
around it, and picked up a familiar-looking grubby envelope that
had been half-hidden beneath the bedclothes.

"I've got this," he said firmly, holding the envelope up. The folded
piece of newsprint inside crackled under the pressure of his fingers.
"It's better than chocolate."

* * *

Five minutes later, the six children were seated in a circle on the
floor of the common room. No one had bothered to start a proper
fire, so the only illumination came from the glowing tips of their wands.
The little circle of light cast crazy shadows on the walls of the room,
flitting across the stones of the floor and sharpening the expressions
on the faces of the Six. Worry deepened into anxiety, nervousness
into near-fright, scared determination into hardened resolve.

However, there was no sign of pain in anyone's eyes. Colin, in a
remarkable display of foresight, had brought a large bar of Muggle
chocolate downstairs with him. They had broken the bar into squares
and had all eaten some, and now all that was left of the bar was
three or four pieces of chocolate on the floor in the centre of their
circle.

Harry pushed his glasses up on his nose, blinking a little as the
world slid back into focus.

"It'll be today," he said bluntly. There was no need to explain it
further. "At the Quidditch match."

Five heads nodded. It made sense, in a coldly logical sort of way.
The entire school would be in one place, outside the castle but still
on the grounds. If the Death Eaters were to do anything at that time,
they would have--the idea was awful to consider, but nonetheless
true--a captive audience.

"When does it start?" Hermione asked, shifting her wand to her other
hand.

"Eleven or so," Ron said. "Hooch pushed it back on account of all the
rain."

"Eleven o'clock," Ginny repeated dully. "And it's nearly..."

She glanced up, and five pairs of eyes followed her gaze to the common
room clock. The minute hand was less than two minutes from the hour.

"...nearly five now," Harry finished for her. "So we've less than six hours
to...." He trailed off.

"To what?" Neville asked.

"To...." He tried again, but got no further. "I don't know," he said,
honestly if not happily.

"Let's think about this," Hermione said, slipping into the problem-
solving tone she used when tackling their homework assignments.
"What exactly can we do?"

"We could try to get the match cancelled," Colin said.

Ron coughed. "That won't stop You-Know--" He hastily corrected
himself when he saw Harry's eyes narrow. "That wouldn't stop
Voldemort."

"It...it wouldn't," Colin agreed hesitantly. "But at least everyone
else would be safe."

"We don't know that," Neville murmured. "We can't know that
anywhere is 'safe' now."

"So what is there?" Ron said, his voice rising above the stifled half-
whispers they had been speaking in.

"We have to get hold of Will," Hermione said firmly.

"But it's Saturday," Ron protested. "He won't be in his office."

Harry snapped his fingers as an idea hit him. "Hedwig. I'll send
Hedwig."

"Could she get there in time?" Colin asked, biting down on his
lower lip.

"Of cour...er...." Harry realised too late that he had absolutely no
idea how long it would take for an owl to fly from Hogwarts to
Cambridge. "Er, that is...."

Ginny stepped in and rescued him. "It's worth trying, at any rate,"
she said lightly. "If you send it now it'll be well on its way."

"So, we send an owl to Will that says...." He looked at the others,
questioningly. "That says what?"

"You're the one who always has the weird feelings," Ron said, rubbing
his forehead as if the weird feeling had just reminded him that it wasn't
going anywhere soon. "Just tell him you've got one right now, and
would he kindly stop by and do something about it before we all
crack up."

Harry bit back a sour reply. He knew it that ignoring the pain was
not as easy as it looked, but it was aggravating to hear Ron being
so difficult. After all, Ron had only had to deal with it for half an
hour. The Boy Who Lived had lived with it for years.

"Ron..." Ginny said warningly, giving her brother a pointed look.

"Sorry," Ron muttered. He popped another bit of chocolate into his
mouth.

"When you go to send the letter to Will, I'll come with you," Hermione
said. "Someone should tell Professor McGonagall."

"What about Professor Lupin?" Colin said.

Harry fiddled with his wand. "Last night was the full moon," he
said quietly.

The younger boy's face fell. "Oh," he said.

"You can still try, though," Ginny said. "He might be awake now."

Harry nodded at this. "Sirius might be, if he's not."

"And if you go, then I'll go with you," Neville offered. "I know the
way, if you don't mind taking it a bit slow. I don't really trust myself
to make it up and down stairs too quickly on my own."

Colin looked happier at the thought of having company. The halls of
Hogwarts were hard to navigate during the day; it was doubly difficult
in the dark. "Thanks."

"Will, Professor McGonagall, Professor Lupin." Hermione ticked names
off on her fingers. "That's three. Who else?"

"What about Dumbledore?" Colin piped up. "Maybe we can get some
hit wizards or Aurors here, someone from the Ministry."

"Good idea," Harry said. He turned to the Weasley siblings. "Ron,
Ginny, could you--"

"One step ahead of you." Ron switched his wand to his left hand and
slipped his right hand into his pocket. He pulled out a tiny green cube,
like a little box, and held it up to the light.

"What is that?" Hermione said, leaning forward to have a closer look.

Neville leaned forward as well. "Is that a Floo Flash Box?"

Ron nodded. "Dad gave it to us, last time we saw him," he said,
pinching the box between his thumb and forefinger.

"What does it do?" Hermione asked.

"There's a bit of paper inside," Ron said. "If you write a message
on the paper, put it in a Flash Box and chuck the whole thing into
a Floo fire, it'll be delivered right to the fireplace in Dumbledore's
office in the Ministry building."

Harry was intrigued. "Really? Will it really do that?"

"That's how Dad said it works. It's all set up and everything."

"But we're only supposed to use it if it's an emergency," Ginny
added, a little nervously.

Ron gave her a look. "Gin, I think this is enough of an emergency,
don't you?"

"Right, then," Harry said, cutting off a possible sibling argument
before it could start. "Where's the nearest Floo fire?

"Most of the fireplaces will only work inside Hogwarts itself,"
Hermione said. "Hogwarts has its own internal Floo network,
and I know that there are only a few fires that can go in or out."

"Dad used the one in Dumbledore's office," said Ginny, remembering.

"We'd never be able to get in there," Ron countered.

"What about the Great Hall?" Colin said.

Harry turned to Hermione. "Is that on the Floo Network?"

"I...I don't know," she said after a moment's thought. "It might be."

"We can always try," Ginny said. The idea had become something of
a chorus for her, though it sounded less confident and more desperate
with each repetition.

"I don't want you to waste it," Harry said quickly.

Ron sighed. "Look, if it doesn't work, there's always Pig. When you
send Hedwig, use Pig to send a message to Dad." A wry smile twisted
his lips at the thought of his hyperactive post owl. "Daft bird's good
for that much, at least."

"No, don't send it to Dad," Ginny said suddenly. "Send it to Percy."

Harry frowned. "Why Percy?"

"He always works Saturdays, the mornings at least. He'll be able to
get hold of Dad, or Dumbledore, or someone." She made an impatient
gesture with the hand that wasn't holding her wand.

Hermione pushed her hair out of her face. "So all told there's Will,
McGonagall, Remus, Dumbledore, and Percy. Is that enough?"

"No," Harry said softly. Deep inside, a terrified and cowering part
of him didn't want to face Voldemort, not even with the entire
Ministry at his back and his friends at his side and the power of
the Light within him. He didn't feel nearly as strong as he thought
he ought to feel. But there was also a part of him that wanted to
face Voldemort and end the matter, one way or the other--and it
was this part that he was listening to right now.

"No," he said again, more forcefully this time. "But it'll have to
be."

* * *

When the others headed out the portrait hole, Harry ran back up
to his room and tiptoed inside.

Easing open the trunk at the foot of his bed, he rooted through it,
shoving old clothing and other junk aside. His hand closed around
something small and hard, and a quick smile flashed across his face.
He slipped the object into his pocket, then took out an old quill,
some scrap paper and an inkbottle, and a good-sized blob of red
sealing wax and pocketed those as well. With the Invisibility Cloak
thrown over his shoulders, he was ready to go.

He walked quickly and quietly through the corridors, composing
possible messages in his head as he walked. He didn't want to
waste any time when he arrived.

The Owlery at the top of the West Tower was not a place that the
inhabitants of Hogwarts cared to linger for very long. Argus Filch
had scrubbed the walls and floors and perches countless times (or
so he informed anyone who dared comment on the odour), but the
pungent smell of owl and owl pellets could never be completely
eradicated. Only someone with a truly urgent or exceptionally
private message would brave the Owlery itself. Otherwise, students
and teachers would deposit letters and parcels into one of the three
sturdy wooden drop-boxes just outside the Owlery door.

The largest box, on the right-hand side of the door, was marked
'Students'. Scuffmarks and flaking paint on its sides showed the wear
of years, and Harry paused for a moment to run his fingers over a
few deep scratches around the slit, signs that more than one person
had tried to stop a letter being sent. The other two boxes, on the left
side of the door, were labelled 'Faculty - Hogwarts Business' and
'Faculty - Personal Correspondence'. The latter was the smaller of
the two. All three boxes sported ugly-looking wizard padlocks;
Filch and McGonagall were the only ones with keys that would
open the boxes and disarm the hexes that were specific to each
lock.

The lock on the Owlery door, though, was a simple latch. A whispered
'Alohomora!' was all Harry needed to spring the catch.

The Owlery itself was a cavernous, circular room, all high ceilings
and unadorned stone that turned every cough into an echo. Filch
had been there recently; the wooden floor was grey and grimy, but
it had been swept free of debris. The windows through which the
owls entered and exited were charmed to keep most of the wind
and rain out, but they were otherwise open. Anyone foolish enough
to lean out one of them would have no protection from the staggering
drop.

There was room for hundreds of owls in the Owlery, but at this early
hour Harry counted less than forty, scattered along the perches that
covered the large chilly room. On a normal day the perches would be
filled with owls of all shapes, sizes, and colours. Owls in various stages
of moulting had their own set of perches toward the back of the room,
separated from their fellows. He caught sight of Draco's eagle owl on
one of the separate perches, sulking as it carefully groomed its
bedraggled wing feathers.

Hedwig was dozing peacefully on a lower perch near the main exit
window. Pigwidgeon was on a perch directly above her. He let out
an excited squawk when he saw Harry approaching.

"Quiet, you," Harry snapped, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak and
hanging it on the cleaner end of the perch.

Pigwidgeon squawked again, flapping his wings. Hedwig opened one
eye and swivelled her head partway round. She peered at the smaller
bird disdainfully, and closed her eye again.

Squinting against the murky early morning light, Harry squatted and
spread out the scraps of parchment on a relatively clean space of
floor. He took out his old quill and inkbottle, paused for a moment,
and began the letter to Will. There was no time for formalities, no
time even to clean up the ink that dripped from the cracking nib and
blotted the parchment.

Will,

Something's going to happen today.
I don't know what it is, but it has
to be Voldemort. Please come as
fast as you can--we'll be waiting
for you.

Harry Potter

Before the ink on the first letter had dried, he refilled his quill
and began the letter to Percy.

Percy,

This is Harry Potter. I need your
help--I think [he immediately crossed
out the word 'think'] KNOW that
something awful is going to happen
at the Quidditch match at Hogwarts
today--and You-Know-Who [he grunted
in disgust as he crossed out the hyphenated
word] Voldemort will be behind it. Ron
told me to tell you to get hold of your
dad, or someone else at the Ministry,
and have them come to Hogwarts as
soon as possible.

Harry

P. S.: Don't show this to anyone
but your dad, not even if they ask.

It was the roughest of rough drafts, but there was no time to recopy
it. It would have to do.

He waved the parchment scraps in the air to dry the still-wet ink, and
hurriedly folded them. Setting the parchment on the floor, he dug in
one pocket and pulled out his wand and the stump of scarlet sealing-
wax.

From his other pocket, he took out a small polished brass cylinder,
no thicker around than his thumb.

The fifth-year Charms curriculum was primarily preparation for the
O.W.L.s. In addition to the usual wand work, Professor Flitwick
had the task of explaining some of the special preparations that
ensured fair marking for all students who sat the exams. Part of
the preparations involved the making of individual seals for each
student, seals that acted as a guarantee that the documents being
sealed were authentic. In the case of the O.W.L.s, each exam paper
would be folded and sealed with the test-taker's personal seal. Only
the examiner would be able to break the seal.

The fifth-years in all four Houses had spent a full week making their
seals. They had carved their initials into special cakes of a wax-like
substance and pressed a flat brass disc into the wax. A tap of the
wand and the words 'Signum Ipsum' had set the design into the
brass disc, which was then attached to a brass cylinder.

Harry had not expected to need his personal seal before the exams,
but it was the only way he could think of to ensure that no one but
Will and Percy read the letters.

He touched the tip of his wand to the blob of sealing wax and dripped
a few drops onto the fold of each letter. He pressed his seal into the
liquid wax, murmuring the recipient’s name as Professor Flitwick
had demonstrated. The wax hardened quickly, revealing the raised
'H', 'J', and 'P' he had scratched into the cake of wax.

The seals were set, and the letters were ready to be sent.

He sent Pig first. He had to tie the letter to the bird's leg, since
the little owl would not stay still long enough to grasp it properly.
It took longer than he had expected, and he was sweating by the
time Pig flew out the nearest window, headed south.

Hedwig opened her eyes when he touched her feathery head, and
she took the letter when he held it out to her.

"Find Will, Hedwig," he said. He ran his fingers over the soft down
on the top of her head, stroking it gently. "You found him before--
take this to him, please."

The snowy owl stared back at him. Her piercing tawny eyes reflected
his worried face, and she tried to nibble on his finger.

"Go on, girl," he whispered, feeling his throat start to close up. The
back of his eyes felt hot and funny. "It's...not safe here."

Hedwig blinked at him, slowly, and grasped the letter more tightly
in her talons. She flapped her wings once, twice, and took to the
air, gliding out of the window in the same direction Pig had taken.

Silently, Harry watched her fly away. Only when his owl was nothing
more than a dark dot against a sky that was struggling vainly to grow
lighter did he turn away from the open window.

* * *

The Fat Lady was dozing when he arrived outside the portrait hole,
and he had to repeat the password twice before the portrait swung
open and he could pass through, into the common room.

It was pitch dark inside. The heavy curtains were still drawn over
the windows, and the fire hadn't been laid yet. It took a minute for
Harry's eyes to adjust from being out in the better-lit corridor. Once
he could see well enough to find his way across the room, he headed
for the staircase, hoping to sneak into the bathroom and have a wash.
He smelled too much like owl for his own liking.

Just as he had one foot on the staircase, a voice spoke from the
inky darkness at his back--and made him nearly jump out of his skin.

"Welcome back, Harry."

He whirled around in time to see Fred Weasley stand up, pulling his
dressing gown more tightly around his sturdy frame. He had been
sitting in one of the armchairs before the cold common room fire,
hidden by its high back and sides. Harry hadn't seen him at all.

"Fred!" he exclaimed, the name coming out as a frightened squeak.
"I didn't see you...I mean, I was just...." He couldn't think of what
he might have 'just' been doing, sneaking back into the common
room before dawn on a Saturday morning, so he said, "What are
you doing up?"

Harry's already-pounding heart gave another painful leap as George
materialised, cat-like, from the blackness at the far side of the room.

"Well, we might ask you the same thing," George said as he joined
his brother, his voice as brittle and humourless as crackling twigs.

The dry-as-dust feeling had returned to Harry's mouth. He was
speechless, completely unable to respond. The twins were standing
side by side, with identical scowls that might have been more
amusing if they hadn't been directed at him. Judging from their
faces, this would be much, much more than a simple confrontation.

"D'you mind if we light a fire?" Fred asked, gesturing over his
shoulder to the cold hearth. "Much as it's fun to sit in the dark,
I'd like some light in here."

Harry nodded, mutely, and followed them over to the fire. Once
the flames were leaping, slowly consuming the carefully-stacked
logs, Fred and George turned back to face him.

Fred was the first to speak.

"You see, Harry," he said casually, "I was a bit peckish earlier--
my stomach woke me up, actually--and I was on my way out to
get a nice handful of biscuits from the kitchen when I see you
running out the common room door. And I say to myself: 'Self,
why would Harry Potter be up so early, and fully dressed to
boot?'"

"And the response must not have been what he wanted, because he
comes and wakes me up to ask me this," George said with a snort.

Fred rolled his eyes. "So after my dear brother has left off hexing
me for getting him up at the crack of dawn, we come down here
to wait for you to get back."

"To ask you why you're up so early," said George.

"After all, we're not the ones playing today."

"And yet here you are."

"Precisely."

"So we'd like to ask you exactly what is going on."

"And we'd like the truth."

"Because no one seems to be able to tell it, recently," George
finished bitterly.

"George, I--" Harry began, but stopped short. He had heard a faint
creak over the noise of the fire, the sound of the portrait swinging
free. He held his breath until the common room door opened.

Neville and Colin emerged from the portrait hole, treading as quietly
as they could. They froze when they saw Fred and George and Harry
standing by the fire.

Fred was on them in a flash. "I suppose the two of you have
absolutely no idea why you're out so early?"

The two boys hung back in embarrassed silence, reluctant to take
another step forward.

"It'd take too long to explain," Harry said swiftly. He had taken
advantage of the twins' distraction to check the time, and the
discovery that it was now quarter to six had quickened his pulse.
They were running out of time. "You have to trust me."

"Trust you?" Fred said angrily. "With what? How can we trust you
if you don't trust us enough to say when something's quite obviously
wrong?"

"Do you think we'd sneak on you?" George asked, almost laughing at
the strangeness of the idea. "Is that it? That we'd tell McGonagall or
something?"

Fred attempted his usual cheeky grin. "Whatever you've been up to,
we've probably done it, been caught doing it, or bragged about
planning to do it already."

Harry had to look away.

"It's Voldemort." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them stiffen,
flinching at the name. "Something bad's going to happen today, at
the Quidditch match. I don't know what it is, but I...." He turned
back to them, hoping that he didn't look as helpless as he felt.

The twins stood perfectly still for a long moment, not saying anything,
just looking at Harry with unfathomable expressions.

"Well, what do you want us to do?" George said at last.

Harry gaped at them. "You...you don't--"

"Harry, listen," Fred interrupted. "If you say something awful's going
to happen, we believe you."

"We'd be bloody fools not to," George said.

Fred nodded agreement. "So tell us what to do, and we'll do it."

"I...." Once again, Harry was speechless, but this time for an
entirely different reason. A full minute went by before he could
collect himself enough to say anything properly. When he finally
spoke, he hardly knew what he was saying, but would have been
startled to know that his voice had unconsciously slipped into
the same brisk pace he used when giving orders on the Quidditch
pitch.

"How about this," he said. "Tell everyone you can trust in fifth
year on up to stay alert at the match today. Stay alert, and be
ready for--for whatever happens." That was really all they could
do, in any case.

Fred opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak a gruff
voice from behind him broke into the conversation:

"No heroics, nothing like that."

Harry blinked, surprised, as Ron, Ginny, and Hermione walked
forward, into the flickering firelight. He had not heard the portrait
door open.

"No heroics," Ron said again, fixing his brothers with a challenging
stare.

"We've got the heroics covered," Ginny said coolly. She rested a
hand on Ron's shoulder, as if to add emphasis to his words.

"Ginny?" Fred rubbed his eyes tiredly, glancing from her to Ron and
back again, then to Hermione, and finally to Neville and Colin, who
had moved forward to join their friends. All of a sudden, he looked
terribly weary. "What're you two--"

"Fred, just tell everyone." Ron didn't want to wait for a question
that couldn't be answered. "Keep it quiet, but tell them."

"You can keep it quiet, can't you?" Ginny said.

Fred's chest puffed out. "Of course we can," he said indignantly.
"You want the other Houses in on this, too?"

"Of course," Ron said.

"Even Slytherin," Hermione added decisively.

Fred took a step back. "Are you MAD?"

"Not Malfoy and his lot," Harry said impatiently. The pain in his
head was starting to come back, and talking wasn't helping matters.
"Get hold of anyone you think you can trust."

"In Slytherin?" George said, incredulously.

"What about Maureen Dennison?" Neville suggested. "In her line
of work, she'd have to be good at spreading word quietly."

"Maureen doesn't trust anyone." Fred's voice was flat. "Certainly
not us."

"Well, there has to be someone you can talk to," Hermione said
exasperatedly. When Fred and George merely shrugged, she glared
at them. "Fine. I'll tell the Slytherins, the prefects at least. They have
a right to know."

"Don't see why you'd bother," Fred mumbled, more to himself than
to her. "Half of 'em are Death Eaters, anyway."

Ginny gasped, and her mouth dropped open.

"WHAT?!" Hermione shouted.

"How c-can you s-s-say that?" Colin spluttered, horrified.

Fred's mouth turned up in an ugly sneer. "Have you seen them, Colin?
Spent seven years in classes with them? There's one or two who'd sell
their own grandmothers."

"If they haven't killed them off already," added George, folding his
arms across his chest.

Hermione took a sudden step forward, her hands clenched into fists.
"Of all the repulsive--"

"Stop it," Harry snapped, rubbing his forehead. "This isn't getting
us anywhere."

Hermione unclenched her hands, though her eyes were still flashing
fire at the twins. They stared back at her, immovable and entirely
uncompromising.

"Drop it, all right?" Harry ordered, more sharply, fighting the ache
that was knocking around inside his skull.

"Harry, sit down," Neville said worriedly. "You'll do yourself an
injury."

"I'm fine," he growled out, and would have said more, but without
warning Ginny pushed past her brothers and with one hand shoved
him down into the closest chair.

"Oof!" He landed awkwardly, arms and legs splayed out.

"You're NOT fine," Ginny said stubbornly. "Sit, and don't move."

The impact had knocked the wind out of him, and all he could do
was stare at her and take deep breaths, forcing air back into his
lungs.

Ginny, meanwhile, spun round with hands on her hips to face the
others.

"And you ought to be ashamed of yourselves," she scolded. "All
of you. We can't be standing round yelling at each other like this--
it's almost dawn, and we don't have time for it." Then she wheeled
on Fred and George, who were staring at their younger sister as if
she had grown not one, but two extra heads. "You want to help, do
you? Well, are you going to help us, or not?"

"A...." Fred began, at the same time that George said, "We...."

Ginny's eyebrow went up, an intimidating arch. "Well?"

The twins swallowed nervously.

"We'll do it," they said together.

She nodded brusquely. "Fine, then. Now get some clothes on, and
meet us down here before breakfast."

As the twins hurried for the stairs, she turned back to Harry and the
others. Calmly, she took in their various expressions of shock and
surprise and utter disbelief.

"What's the matter?" she said with a slight shrug. "It's not so
difficult to get them to do what you want, if you really want to."
She smiled broadly. "After all...I learned from the very best."

And she burst into tears.

* * *

By the time they had calmed Ginny down, it was well after six o'clock.
Breakfast wasn't for several hours, so they decided that it would be
best to all lie down and rest for a while before it was time to eat.
However, no one seemed to want to go upstairs again. They ended
up settling onto couches and curling up in armchairs, wrapping their
robes around themselves to take the edge off the chill of the early
morning. They dozed, sleeping and waking in fits and starts, until
their housemates began to trickle downstairs for the meal.

Breakfast came and went, a mechanical process of forcing tasteless
food past reluctant mouths and into unwilling stomachs. Harry had
to check more than once to be certain that he wasn't trying to chew
his napkin along with whatever he happened to be eating at the time.
He ate what was on his fork, and drank what was in his glass, and
spent much of the time trying to pick up breadcrumbs by dabbing at
his plate with bits of toast.

For the most part, the six Gryffindors kept their heads down, not
wanting to make eye contact with anyone. If they had looked up,
they might have seen glances being darted in their direction, or an
occasional pointing of a finger that would be quickly covered up
by a more careful neighbour. If they had listened closely, they might
have heard whispers circulating through the tables, passed from
ear to ear.

Something's coming.

Be ready.

What is it?

Stay alert.

I don't know, but watch your back.

Of course, if anyone had been able to hear the conversation that
was going on at the same time...a silent, stilted, and disjointed
one....

Couldn't find Professor Lupin.

Dumbledore wasn't in. McGonagall tried to Floo him, but he
wasn't there.

There was no answer when we knocked.

Oh. Hedwig and Pig are on their way.

Sent the message--we used the fire in here.

She promised me she'll try again before the match.

Did it work?

Did you notice that he's not at breakfast?

Snuffles isn't here, either.

I hope so.

Think so. Don't know.

Does your head still hurt, Harry?

A sigh. ...what do you think, Colin?

When breakfast was over, the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs filed
back to their dormitories, as did the Ravenclaws and Slytherins
who weren't on their House Quidditch teams. Harry was one of
the first to get back to the dormitory, and he immediately went
upstairs and got into the bath. He soaked in the tub until his fingers
looked like old shrivelfigs, scrubbed his hair twice, and even
changed his clothing afterwards--anything to get rid of the stale
smell of the Owlery.

He spent a long time in the bathroom, longer than he normally did.
But one can only brush one's teeth, or comb one's hair, or go to the
toilet so many times. He had to leave eventually, and when he did
he was certain that everyone who came within ten feet could hear--
or maybe even see--his heart beating.

* * *

"And that's a lovely catch by Ravenclaw, as neat a pass as one could
ask for, I think. I'm reminded of a pass just like that, the pass that
helped clinch the victory for Gryffindor in the record smashing match
against Hufflepuff in nineteen-seventy--"

"JORDAN!"

The Quidditch match was well underway, the score closer than Harry
had anticipated it would be after a half-hour of hard play. Ravenclaw
was holding its own, making up in stamina what it could not beat in
sheer aggressiveness. Above the main play, Draco and Cho were in
the middle of a complicated and dangerous-looking dance of their
own.

The Six had entered the Quidditch stands together at the start of the
match, two neat rows of three with Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the
front and the other three directly behind. But once inside, they had
separated.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny went to the Gryffindor side to sit with the
Weasley twins and the rest of their House's team. Hermione muttered
a half-heard excuse and darted off to the area where the teachers
normally sat--and two or three of the prefects who had seen her
leave followed her, silently. Neville melted into the crowd; they
hadn't seen exactly where he had gone. And Colin--

A flashbulb went off, down on the pitch near the Ravenclaw sidelines.
Colin had somehow--Harry didn't know how, and was a little afraid to
question such a perfect situation--managed to get permission from
Madam Hooch to photograph the match for Ravenclaw. It was easy
to picture him scanning the sky from the sidelines, camera in hand,
although anyone who bothered to pay attention would see that Colin's
attention was not truly on the game.

A Ravenclaw Chaser bungled a direct shot on goal, forcing Harry to
wait until the crowd noise had died down before he activated the
mental link.

Is everyone all right? he asked. Where are you?

Well, I'd raise my hand and show you, but I don't think you'd like
to find my fingers up your nose, Ginny chirruped.

That got a laugh from Ron. Good one, Gin.

Do you have your Omnioculars? Hermione asked. I'm toward the
bottom in the teacher's stands. Justin's behind me--or he was,
last I saw.

Harry picked up the Omnioculars and twirled the knobs, adjusting
and focusing them with practised skill. He scanned the crowd slowly,
and came to a stop on Hermione.

Right, he said. I see you now...and Colin's down on the pitch.
As if on cue, the flashbulb went off again. Neville, what about
you?

You won't be able to see me, Neville replied. I'm standing just
below the teacher's stands, right where the door leading up is.
I can just see out past the big banner, the one that's got an end
a bit loose.

Harry focused, refocused, and slid his gaze downward. Sure enough,
one end of the brightly-coloured banner beneath the main part of the
stands where the teachers sat was flapping, stirred by the changing
breezes of the players flying by. He couldn't see anything but the
banner, so he twirled the Omnioculars again and returned to scanning
the teachers' area.

Is everything all right there, Hermione? he asked.

So far, she said, though her voice was almost drowned out by a
loud shout of joy as one of the players narrowly avoided a Bludger.
McGonagall let us stay here, and none of the other professors
have said anything. She must have told them something.

Mm. He was about to put the Omnioculars away when he saw a familiar
figure near the back of the stands, and was so startled that he forgot to
use the silent speech. "Hey, it's Remus!"

"Where? Where?" Ron demanded, craning his neck to see.

"Just there," Harry said, trying to point and hold the glasses still
at the same time. "On the end, next to Sinistra." He passed the
Omnioculars to Ron, who focused on the spot that Harry had been
pointing to.

After a moment, Ron slowly lowered the glasses and shot a glance at
his friend. "Harry...he looks...."

"I know," Harry said quietly. Ron had once remarked that Remus often
looked as if one good hex would finish him off, but the Remus he had
seen through the Omnioculars looked as if a first-year's Wingardium
Leviosa would do the job just as well. Though the day was not overly
cold, he was wrapped in a thick winter cloak, and he seemed barely
interested in the game. Snuffles was with him, resting his chin on
Remus's knees and clearly paying more attention to his friend's state
of health than whoever was in possession of the Quaffle at the moment.

"Let me see!" Ginny said, swiping the glasses. She found Remus
quickly, and Harry heard her draw a ragged breath. She didn't say
a word as she passed the glasses back to her brother, who handed
them to Harry.

Harry turned his attention back to the game. Draco's new broom was
clearly living up to the advertisements--he could start near the goalpost
and be halfway across the pitch before Cho was out of the Keeper's
range. And the way Draco was handling the broom made it look like
an expert's demonstration of the Roman Rocket's abilities.

Watching Draco, Harry soon found that he was mentally reciting the
list of the Rocket's special features that he had read about in the latest
Quidditch magazine. Adjustable Cushioning Charm for a closer
seat, smooth deceleration from high speeds....

Lee Jordan's commentary wove its way into his mind. "Oh! It looks
like Chang has spotted the Snitch! She's...yes, she's heading up, just
as Ravenclaw recovers from Slytherin's double goal...."

....precision-adjusted twigs for a tighter turning radius (which
helped Draco turn the broom almost one-hundred eighty degrees
in less than a second)....

"And Malfoy's after her! Ravenclaw tries a Bludger shot...."

....tests have shown a possible acceleration from near-stop to 200
kilometres per hour in less than seven seconds....

"Oh, a miss! Chang goes in for a dive--looks like she's trying to double
back, going toward her own goal, but Malfoy's already caught up to
her...."

....fully aerodynamic broomshaft, ensuring complete and trouble-free
ease in handling for two-handed, one-handed, or entirely hands-free
flying....

"And he's got an arm out--THERE'S the Snitch, he's almost got it--!"

The crowd cried out, screaming wildly as Slytherin's Seeker closed
his fingers over the glitter of the Golden Snitch.

Harry cried out as a flare of pain lanced through his head.

Draco would have cried out, but the bolt of lightning that flashed
through the overcast sky struck him between the shoulders before
he even saw it coming.

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March 18th, 2003