The third part of a Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising series crossover.
I have an idea for a short epilogue...this isn't over just yet, my friends.
There's one person I've left out.

Thank you for all of your replies and comments--I have a sequel on the
drawing board, in the beginning stages. I'd like to see what you think
of this before I continue work on it, but I don't plan to end this here.

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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Town and Gown
By: Gramarye

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Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the
darknesses of other people.

-- Carl Jung

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Ron looked down at his aching fingers, stained with the noxious potion
ingredients that he had spent the last two hours scrubbing out of smelly
old jars. Snape's detentions, as always, left a lasting mark on their
victims. He knew from experience that it would take at least two days
for the grime to disappear, no matter how thoroughly he washed his
hands or cleaned his nails.

He was alone in the Gryffindor common room, staring at the flickering
embers of the fire. Harry had gone straight up to their dormitory after
everyone had returned from dinner, saying that he had homework to do.

He had been very quiet all day. Even the efforts of his closest friends
hadn't drawn him into their usual chatter about classes and homework
and Quidditch. Any attempt at conversation was met with a polite stare
that looked through rather than at the person speaking to him, and a long
silence.

As in any school, whispered rumours spread quickly among the students,
and by the end of the day all the students in Gryffindor House had heard
about Harry's violent reaction during the lecture. Ron, in the position of
Harry's unofficial spokesperson, was stuck with the irritating task of
fending off those who wanted to 'do something' for Harry. All day long
it had been a never-ending cycle of "No, Colin, I don't think it would
help to give Harry your slice of pudding" and "I'm sorry, Ginny, but I
don't know what's wrong with Harry--he didn't say" and "Quit fretting,
Lavender, Harry's fine, he just needs some time alone".

It was enough to make him want to scream.

Hermione hadn't been much help, either. She had officially 'given up' on
Harry at the dinner table, loudly informing everyone in earshot that if Mr
Harry Potter didn't want to talk, she wasn't about to make him. With
Neville in tow, she had headed for the library to finish off whatever
homework she hadn't already done, and copy over an Arithmancy
assignment that wasn't due for another three weeks.

Ron, however, had seen the worried expression that crossed her face
when Harry didn't respond to her proclamation. He hadn't looked up
from his food--most of which had been left untouched, merely pushed
around on his plate.

But she had left, and so had Harry, and his day wasn't looking up.
After dinner, he was due in the dungeons to serve his detention--
and no one in their right mind would be late for detention with Snape.

Scraping away at the crusted jars and phials, feeling the Potion
Master's watchful eyes burning into his back, he had felt a tight knot
of anger growing in the pit of his stomach. Why was Harry being so
secretive? It was obvious that something was wrong. Every time he
acted this way, trying to go around as if nothing was bothering him,
someone always got hurt. Harry's attempts to not cause trouble or
make other people worry about him always seemed to have the
opposite effect.

Perhaps the hidden anger made Ron put more effort into his work, or
at least gave him a reason to focus. Whatever the reason, he finished
far earlier than he had expected. Snape could find no fault with Ron's
cleaning: the once-filthy glass bottles managed to sparkle even in the
gloom of the dungeon. A curt dismissal later, Ron found himself back
in the Gryffindor tower, falling asleep in an overstuffed chair.

The door to the common room swung open, jerking him out of his
doze. Hermione and Neville walked in. Or rather, Hermione breezed
in, robes fluttering behind her, while Neville stumbled in her wake.
He was panting and gasping for breath.

"Hey, you two, how's everything?" Ron said brightly, sitting up.

Hermione strode past him without a word, her jaw firmly set. A thick,
leather-bound book was clutched tightly to her chest.

"'Why, I'm quite well, thank you, Ron. How are you tonight?'" he said
in a high-pitched, squeaky imitation of Hermione's voice. When open
sarcasm failed to get her attention, he tried a more direct approach.
"What's wrong with you? Where are you going?"

She mumbled something he couldn't quite hear--he caught something
that sounded like 'reading legends'--and drifted up the stairs to the girls'
dormitory.

"Well!" he huffed. His eyes narrowed, and he turned to Neville with
a forbidding scowl. "I don't suppose you'll be able to tell me what's
the matter with everyone today."

Neville, still trying to catch his breath, looked rather shell-shocked.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He tried again, but only
managed a weak cough. He looked helplessly at Ron.

"Oh, don't even bother," Ron snapped. "I'm going to bed."

With that, he stormed up the staircase, leaving Neville alone in the
common room, his mouth still hanging open.

* * *

"Would you look at that! Ron Weasley, the youngest Seeker to ever
play for the Chudley Cannons, has apparently seen the Snitch and is
going for it, full tilt! Look at that speed, that grace! There's no chance
that anyone could catch him now! I've never seen a crowd get this
excited--they're on their feet, all cheering for Ron Weasley, Ron
Weasley....Ron....Ron....."

"....Ron! Ron! Get up!"

The announcer's triumphant voice faded and dimmed, giving way to
an urgent whisper that buzzed right next to his ear.

"Grrmph. Go 'way," he said feebly, rolling over and burying his face
in the bedclothes. So close to winning...all he had to do was reach out
and grab the Snitch and the match would be--

"Wake up, Ron!" whispered the intrusive voice. A hand touched his
shoulder, and shook him. Hard.

The lovely vision of the Snitch, the wildly cheering spectators, and the
Quidditch pitch vanished. His pillow fell to the floor with a feathery thud.

"All right, all right, I'm awake...." He sat up and groaned, pushing the
covers back. He rubbed his bleary eyes, trying to get the room in focus.
"What time is it? What do you want?"

"It's a little after three." Harry was sitting on the edge of Ron's bed,
fully dressed. His face was pale in the dim light of the room, the jagged
scar standing out in livid contrast to his white forehead.

"Harry! It's the middle of the bloody night!" Ron hissed, yanking at the
bedclothes and pawing around on the floor for his pillow.

"Dumbledore needs to see us. Right now."

That got Ron's attention. "What about?"

Harry stood up, his face hidden by the shadows in the room. "I don't
know. Get dressed, and hurry."

Ron knew that Harry was lying through his teeth, but got out of bed
and started to dress as quietly as he could. Faint, rhythmic breathing
from the other beds indicated that Neville, Seamus, and Dean hadn't
been disturbed by their whispered conversation. He quickly ran a comb
through his hair--it wouldn't do to go and see the Headmaster with
tousled bed head--and fumbled for his wand. The two of them crept
down the draughty stone stairs.

At the bottom, Professor McGonagall and Hermione were waiting for
them. Ron's eyes widened at this, but the look on McGonagall's face
silenced the hundreds of questions that sprang to his lips. The portrait
swung open, and the three Gryffindor students and their Head of House
hurried out and down the corridors.

They settled into a brisk trot--closer to a run, Ron thought--passing
through the numerous hallways and climbing the never-ending staircases
that led to the massive gargoyle outside Dumbledore's office.

"Jelly Slugs," McGonagall said impatiently.

The gargoyle let them pass.

As the stairs carried them onward and upward, the faint sound of voices
drifted down from Dumbledore's office. Ron stole a quick look at Harry
and Hermione. Hermione was toying with a stray strand of her hair, and
Harry was fiddling with the edge of his robe and tapping his foot.

Ideas came into his head and were just as quickly discarded. Harry was
in danger. Someone they knew was dead. You-Know-Who and the Death
Eaters were about to attack Hogwarts. The Dementors had officially
declared their allegiance to the Dark Lord, and had joined his forces.

Everyone knew that something was wrong, something important was
about to happen.

Everyone knew...everyone but him.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything to break the awkward
silence, but McGonagall swept forward and ushered them into the office
before he could collect his thoughts.

Several chairs were gathered in a circle in the centre of the large room.
None were occupied. In the middle of the circle stood Dumbledore, his
kind eyes troubled and serious. Next to him, still draped in the long dark
cloak that he had worn earlier that day, was Professor Stanton.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Headmaster, I've brought the three of
them, as you requested," she said.

"Come in, all of you. Sit down. And do have some cocoa," Dumbledore
said briskly, gesturing to a small table where four steaming mugs of hot
chocolate waited. McGonagall looked as if she were about to protest,
but Dumbledore waved her inside. "Come, come, Minerva...the school
won't fall to pieces if you're not out patrolling the halls. Dr Stanton
would like to hear your opinion on this discussion."

At the mention of his name, a placid smile lit up Professor Stanton's
grave face, and he made a rather old-fashioned bow. "Miss Granger,
Mr Weasley, Mr Potter. A pleasure to see you all again. And my dear
Professor McGonagall...enchanted, as always."

"Glad to see you, sir," Ron heard Harry and Hermione say in almost
choreographed unison, and chimed in hastily, half a beat behind.

Once they had all taken their seats and were sipping the delicious drink,
Dumbledore turned to Professor Stanton. "Now, where were we?" he
asked.

"I think we should start again from the beginning, Headmaster," the
visiting professor said. "Though I have spoken to Mr Potter and Miss
Granger, I have not yet had the chance to talk to Mr Weasley." He
turned to Ron, steepling his fingers in a thoughtful pose. "My sincere
apologies, Mr Weasley--I'm afraid it was my fault that you received
your detention with Professor Snape."

Ron clenched his hands. He could still feel the dirt from the potion
jars, gritty under his nails. The soreness in his fingers, which had
quieted to a dull throb, returned with a sharp vengeance. All of the
stress and nervous tension that had been building up over the course
of the day, ever since he had seen Harry's glassy-eyed, frozen stare
in the lecture hall, buzzed and sang in his head, making him feel sick
to his stomach.

"I don't care about that," he snapped, the harsh words spoken in a sour,
thick sneer that didn't sound like it could have come from his mouth.
"Just who do you think you are, coming here and scaring us all to death
for no reason, as if we didn't have enough to worry about already!"

"Mr Weasley!" boomed McGonagall in a terrible voice, at the same
time that he heard Harry and Hermione hiss a warning "Ron!". He
didn't acknowledge them, but kept his angry eyes fixed on Professor
Stanton's calm ones.

Professor Stanton didn't look away. He returned Ron's furious glare
with a steady, honest gaze, unblinking and almost serene.

"Miss Granger," he said, not taking his eyes off of Ron's, "did you
happen to finish the book you borrowed from the library?"

"Y-yes, sir," Hermione said hesitantly, sounding startled.

"Did you find anything of interest? If you can remember anything,
would you be so kind as to tell us about it?"

Staring into Professor Stanton's eyes, Ron felt curiously lightheaded,
but he was unable to look away. Hermione's voice, when she started
to speak, drifted into his mind as if carried to him on a gentle breeze.

"'One of the most obscure and poorly documented legends of the
British Isles concerns a group of people known only as the 'Old
Ones'. According to stories passed down through the years, they
are a race of immortals who serve the power of absolute good,
known to them as the Light. Their sole purpose was to protect
the world from a force of ultimate evil, the Dark. Very little is
known about these enigmatic beings, but it is believed that they
commanded some of the most powerful magic of all time. The
oldest, and most powerful of the Old Ones, was said to be none
other than Merlin himself.'"

Ron's throat went dry, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
He was falling down, sinking into the stormy blue-grey depths of
the eyes that held his own without blinking.

Just relax...calm yourself... he heard Professor Stanton say. As if
a coiled spring had been released, he felt the horrible tension leave
his body in a rush. He let out the breath he had been tightly holding.
Suddenly, a series of blurred images, not quite in focus, flashed
through his mind like a flurry of snow.

There was a boy, not much younger than him, holding up a linked
chain from which hung six round medallions of varying colours. The
boy's serious yet proud smile faded into a small harp of gold, beautiful
and fragile-looking. Next came a chalice, also of shining gold, covered
with strange lines and symbols, and from a glint of light off the rim of
the chalice he caught sight of a magnificent sword, burning with blue
fire. Brief glimpses of men dressed in what looked like tunics and
short cloaks flashed by, running and fighting an unseen enemy. And
last, he saw a tall, white-haired old man with a stern, sad face,
staring into the far distance at something only he could see.

His mind whirled and spun, clearing just enough for Professor
Stanton's deep voice to make itself heard.

"Well done, Miss Granger. Were I in a position to give points to
your House, I would not hesitate to do so. Was there anything else
in the book which you happen to recall?"

The airy voice, so different from Hermione's usual confident tones,
drifted back into Ron's thoughts. "'The only other Old One about
which anything is known is the youngest one, called the Sign-Seeker--
and he is known only by his title. Yet after the great battle in which the
Dark was finally defeated, the Sign-Seeker, Merlin, and all of the Old
Ones apparently disappeared from the world of magic. The legend has
it that the Sign-Seeker returned to a hidden place to act as Watchman
for the Light, keeping vigil in case their power should be needed again.'"

Professor Stanton blinked, and with a sudden jolt Ron found himself
back in Dumbledore's office.

He felt weak and dizzy, as if he had been looking down from an immense
height and had only just stepped back from the edge. His unseeing eyes
darted wildly around the room, from Harry to Dumbledore to Hermione
to McGonagall and returned to Professor Stanton, who had leaned back
in his chair and was lost in some private contemplation.

There was a long silence, broken only by Ron's ragged breathing.

"That's the thing about legends," Harry said softly, almost wonderingly.
"They always seem to have a basis in fact."

"Merlin...you knew MERLIN?!" Ron said at last, his voice rising into a
fear-filled squeak.

It was the only thing he could grab hold of. Everything was coming at
him without warning, all at once, too impossible for him to believe...this
man, who could not have been much older than Professor Snape,
actually knew and had once worked with the greatest wizard of all
time....

He felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder, and looked up to see Harry
and Hermione standing in front him, smiling reassuringly.

"It's all right, Ron," Harry said, a comforting hand on his best friend's
trembling shoulder. "It takes some getting used to. Believe me, I
know...why d'you think I've been so out of it all day? It wasn't
until a few hours ago that things actually started to make sense."

"I'm glad I had a book to help me," Hermione said. Her confident grin
faltered. "But even with a book...well, let's just say I wasn't exactly fast
asleep when Professor McGonagall came to get me."

"Let him be," Dumbledore said in a voice that would allow no argument.
"Give him a moment or two--everything will be all right."

Both Harry and Hermione nodded, and sat down again.

"Now, Dr. Stanton," Dumbledore continued, peering over the tops of
his spectacles. "Before we begin, I must apologize once again for
interrupting your busy schedule."

"Busy?" Professor Stanton waved one hand dismissively. "It is no
trouble to request personal leave from the university, or arrange for
a research sabbatical of undefined length. I had actually planned to
attend a conference in America this Michaelmas term, but recent
events take top priority. I am more than happy to be of service--
especially as an outside consultant."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. Something seemed to be preventing his smile
from fully appearing. "You understand the need for assistance from all
levels, I trust?"

"Of course. I only wish you had called me sooner."

McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "Sooner? I take it that the Ministry of
Magic didn't bother to contact you--not that I'm surprised," she added,
taking a sip of her cocoa as if to clear a nasty taste from her mouth.

"One living legend on the case is enough for them, I suppose," Professor
Stanton said. "And from what Mr. Potter has told me, they're none too
pleased with him, either."

Dumbledore cast a look at Harry, who nodded in grudging agreement.
"They underestimated him, the fools. They underestimated both him and
Voldemort. I can only hope it won't get us all killed in the end."

Ron had to exercise all of his self-control to keep from flinching at
each mention of the horrible name. Inwardly, he scolded himself for
acting like a child--the people in this room had every right to openly
name You-Know-Who. But he secretly wished they wouldn't...he
had the oddest feeling that by saying...that name...out loud, someone
very unpleasant--maybe even HIM--might hear it....

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Professor Stanton said darkly,
breaking off Ron's train of thought. "And I have far less to lose than
you, or Mr Potter, or any of those fools who are clinging to their
comfortable positions of power, willing to make others miserable if
it will keep them in their jobs."

His voice took on the tone of an irritated professor lecturing a lazy
student who had turned in an assignment covered with spilled ink.
"Which brings me to another point...there is far too much of this
'town and gown' strife going on in the wizarding world. Heaven
knows it blinds people as to who the real enemy is."

"'Town and gown'?" Professor McGonagall repeated, frowning.
"To be fair, Professor Stanton, I would hardly say that--"

Professor Stanton held up a hand to stop her. "I'm not placing any
blame on you, please understand. Perhaps, Professor, it is just the
statement of one with a low opinion of human nature. But I suspect
that it is all too apparent to these students here."

Seeing the confusion on the children's faces, he leaned forward and
spoke directly to them. "You might not know the exact definition of
'town and gown', but you see something like it every day, at all levels.
Wizards and witches versus Muggles, pureblood versus half-blood
and Muggle-born--it is all too present, and very real. When you hear
such choice epithets as 'Muggle-lover' and 'Mudblood' bandied
about the halls of this school, and see the sneers on the faces of
those who should be too young to know hate...."

He leaned back wearily in his chair. McGonagall's mouth was a thin,
tight line in her pointed face, and one hand fingered the brooch at
her throat.

"People feel threatened when those whom they fear have power."
Dumbledore said gravely. "It happens all the time, even in the Muggle
world--but you are right, my dear sir, it is a most serious problem.
One that I have done my best to eliminate."

"You're a better man than I, Headmaster," Professor Stanton said,
his round face inscrutable.

Hermione half-raised her hand, but remembered where she was and
quickly lowered it. "Speaking of power, do you believe that You-
Know...I mean, Voldemort's power could be connected with the
Dark? Residual magic, or something of the sort?"

There was another long silence.

Professor Stanton stood abruptly, and walked over to Fawkes' cage.
He studied the sleeping phoenix for a tense moment, then turned back
to the seated group.

To Ron's eyes, it was as if a mask had fallen away. Professor Stanton
looked older somehow, older than McGonagall, even older than
Dumbledore. He also looked very tired, like someone had drained
all the energy out of him.

"I see you've been doing some extra reading, Miss Granger," he said
reflectively, almost to himself. "Residual power of the Dark...it is quite
possible. The timing is irritatingly coincidental."

"What makes you say that, sir?" Harry asked.

"The Dark was defeated, driven out of Time, in a great battle that
took place nearly thirty years ago. There is no question about that.
But they would have certainly leapt at the chance to continue their
legacy in human form, where it would not have been eradicated in
the final battle. Voldemort--or, at that time, Tom Riddle--would
have gained in exchange the power of the Dark. A lesser form, to
be true, but an evil that the wizarding world would not be able to
defeat without outside knowledge."

He paused, picked up his mug of hot chocolate, and drank from it.
When he spoke again, his voice held a different note, colder and
more remote. "All in all, it would have been a very beneficial
agreement."

"Don't blame yourself." Dumbledore's voice was crisp, cutting through
the bitterness that had permeated the room. "This was not your fight,
not your responsibility. You won your battle...it is different, this time
around."

Professor Stanton whirled around, dark cloak swirling as he flung it
over one shoulder. His round face was no longer pleasant, but icy
and forbidding. He seemed to grow taller, to fill the room with his
presence.

"Different in what way?" he demanded, in a voice so sharp that Ron
shrank back in his chair, shivering at the power and authority in it.
"That innocent people have died, are dying? That the boundaries
between friend and enemy are so clearly defined, and yet are more
vague than ever?"

"Different, in the fact that you have allies who are willing to join
forces, unite against the common enemy and defeat him. It is not
the Light alone who wish to see the Dark destroyed." Dumbledore's
voice rang out gloriously, like a carillon of church bells on Christmas
Day.

The true meaning of the words slowly sank into the room, leaving
everyone awestruck and overwhelmed at their weight.

On his perch, Fawkes stirred himself and fell back asleep.

The coldness faded from Professor Stanton's face, leaving it once
more expressionless. He sat down.

"Well, I'm glad we're all in agreement," he said, his voice suddenly
back to its light, placid tones. "The question is: what exactly are
we do to? Or more accurately, what would you have me do?"

"We need your knowledge of the Dark," said Dumbledore, looking
relieved that the conversation had returned to more technical matters.
"Only you can tell us if Voldemort has accepted that power, and if
there is anything you or we can do to deal with it."

"If he has the power of the Dark, then I will need some time to devise
a strategy. My resources in this time are limited, and if this work is to
be done without alerting the Dark, certain precautions must be taken."

"Such as?" McGonagall asked.

"All further communications to me must go by Muggle post. I will pay
the costs, of course," he added with a slight smile. "No need for any
trouble on your part, but it will give an added measure of security.
If I think of anything else, or learn of any developments, I will let
you know, Headmaster."

"That sounds agreeable, Dr. Stanton," Dumbledore said, nodding sagely.
"Do you have any preferences as to--"

"Excuse me, sir?" The words were out of Ron's mouth before he knew
he had spoken them.

Dumbledore had raised one hand to add emphasis to his interrupted
words. He let it fall back to his lap. "Yes, Ron, what is it?"

"Is something wrong, Mr Weasley?" Professor Stanton said, looking
very concerned.

Ron gathered all his courage. He wasn't going to rush into things
foolishly this time; he knew just what he had to say, and with any
luck, he would be able to say it in a way that wouldn't make him
look like a complete ass.

"Why us, sir? Why Hermione? Why me? Harry, he's obvious. I can
understand. And Hermione," he said, catching sight of her bright red
face and dangerously shining eyes, and consequently taking refuge in
babble, "would probably kill me right here if I didn't tell you that she's
bloody brilliant, pardon my language, but I'm sure you knew that
already, sir, and I know we've pulled off a few things before, but
you'd be better off just working with Harry and Hermione here,
and I won't tell anyone about this, I swear, sir, and--"

"You need three, Mr Weasley."

Ron nearly fell out of his chair.

He had expected the usual reassurances. He'd heard them said many
times before, from different people who all managed to say the same
thing. "Because you're important, Ron" or "Because you're a brave,
smart lad, Ron" or "Because you're my best friend, Ron" or any of
the other pat statements that never quite rang true in his mind. He
knew all the arguments to them--he'd rehearsed them in his head,
waiting for just such an occasion.

This was different.

"Three?" Harry repeated.

Professor Stanton nodded. "It's always three. It has to be three."

"Three of what?" Ron asked, looking at anything but Hermione. He
could still feel her gaze on him, and didn't want to look and see if she
was still angry. Better to assume that she was, and wait for her to
calm down.

"Three is the magic number, am I right?" Professor Stanton's voice
took on a lilting rhythm, lyrical and flowing like poetry. "The great
fairy stories always have things in threes. Three tasks to perform,
three sleeping princesses, three Fates, three of everything. There is
good reason, of course. Nothing is ever done in magic without good
reason.

"For where one can be defeated, and two can be overcome, three
have true power. And the power of three calls upon echoes of the
past...previous examples that I can recall."

He smiled at Harry. "A scared young boy, one grown old before his
time, who had to learn what he was and how to cope with the awesome,
horrifying burden of duty. Terrified that he'll hurt others. Always knowing
that he was different, and suddenly learning why. But even with all his
fears and insecurities, he managed to do the right thing, time and again."

He turned to Hermione. "Now I remember a diligent student, thrust
into a world completely different than anything that his previous learning
could have taught him. But once the initial shock had passed, he threw
himself into the studies of the new world with a passion only matched
by a determination to do what was right."

His eyes gazed thoughtfully at Ron. "Another boy, the youngest son
of a large family, who once imagined that his life was defined only by
those who had gone before him. Yet in time, he discovered that he
was not merely one face in a crowd, or a legacy of his memorable
family, but was instead a person of great courage, willing to do
whatever it would take to protect and defend his true friends."

His voice swelled, filled with a wisdom that crossed the ages,
hearkening back to time immemorial. "And together, three mortal
children, two boys and a girl, who unknowingly accepted an immense
responsibility that brought them together...and created an unbreakable
bond. That is how the Dark is defeated, using that bond betwen the
three of you, with others to support and guide you along the way."

He regarded them for a minute, a critical assessment, and then stood
up. "And you'll win. I have no doubt of that."

None of them knew what to say. Even Dumbledore was silent.

Professor Stanton removed a gold watch from somewhere within his
cloak, and checked the time. He closed it with a tiny snap. "But I've
kept all of you up far too long. The sun will soon be up, and even
though it's Friday, I don't think you'll get much sleep."

The return to normal time signaled a definite end to the discussion.
Dumbledore got out of his chair, and the two men shook hands.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Professor McGonagall also stood, and
moved forward to say their goodbyes.

"If you need anything, Professor Stanton," McGonagall said firmly,
"don't hesitate to let us know. The faculty at Hogwarts will do our
very best to accommodate you, should you need our help."

"My thanks, Professor," he said. Taking her outstretched hand, he
bowed over it with a courtly, archaic flourish. McGonagall pressed
her free hand to her heart, pleasantly surprised. A faint flush crept
into her wrinkled cheeks.

Hermione stepped forward. "Is that the only book there is on...on
your kind, sir?"

"No, Miss Granger," said Professor Stanton. "But the fun is in the
looking, wouldn't you agree?"

The glitter in Hermione's eyes said that she certainly did.

Harry stared up at the tall man as he held out his hand. "You never
did show it to me, you know."

"Show what, young man?"

"Your scar," Harry said, looking very serious. "You said you would,
if I asked."

Wordlessly, Professor Stanton lifted his left arm. He pushed back
the sleeve of his dark suit jacket, unfastened his shirt cuff, and rolled
back the white sleeve. On his inner part of his forearm was a shiny
scar, clearly marked in a circle quartered by four lines.

He held it out to Harry, who stared at it for a moment, his eyes
tracing the pattern of the circle quartered by the cross. Suddenly,
Harry winced, and grabbed at his head. He staggered backward,
hissing in pain.

"Harry!" Hermione and Ron shouted, and leapt forward to steady
their friend. McGonagall darted forward with arms outstretched, but
stopped short as Dumbledore laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.

Harry shook his head, as if to clear it, and looked up at Professor
Stanton with wide, frightened eyes.

The tall professor rolled down his sleeve, and fastened the buttons at
the cuff. "It is not something I am proud of, Mr Potter. Long ago, I
did a very foolish thing, and this scar, like all scars, is a reminder of
something that I wish could be undone. But do not be so eager to see
another's scar again, Mr. Potter, lest it remind you of your own."

Harry gulped, and gingerly touched his forehead. "I won't, sir. I'm
sorry."

Ron handed Harry to Hermione and walked up to Professor Stanton,
trying to keep his hand from shaking as he held it out. "Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye, Mr Weasley. I'd like to speak to you again...I hope next
time we will have more chance to talk in private."

"I'd like that, sir."

Professor Stanton squeezed his hand in a solid handshake, and gave
a courteous little bow. He stepped back, into the centre of the circle
of chairs, and nodded in farewell to all of them. The air around him
began to shimmer, rippling like the heat radiated from the ground on
a hot summer's day, and he vanished.

As the sun dawned over the lofty spires and craggy towers of the
famous Hogwarts Academy, both students and staff alike shifted
in their beds as the faint sound of bell-like music whispered its way
into their dreams.

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December 30th, 2001