The Construction of Light

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his universe are the creation of JK Rowling. No infringement is intended. The title of this story was taken from the CD of the same name by the band King Crimson. The occasional allusion reflects my own warped sense of humor and abiding respect for their artistic endeavor rather than an intentional copyright infringement.

A note to the reader: The story you are now reading is a sequel to my previous work, 'The Seekers', which was written before the release of 'The Order of the Phoenix' and thus diverges from the canon at that point. No attempt has been or will be made to reconcile the two.

Chapter One - Fractured

She wandered through the tangled blackness of a nameless forest, her footing nimbly secure for the strangeness of her location. Strange eyes blinked at her from all directions and fearsome calls punctuated the night, but she was not afraid.

She moved as a hunter, silently stalking her prey, sliding as a shadow among shadows. Her quarry halted on the bank of a babbling stream and looked around cautiously before bending to drink. It was at that moment when she struck – her target twitching involuntarily even after the definite snap of its neck and the last of its breath was forced from its lungs.

She had made her kill, but she knew neither why or even what she killed. She felt nothing... No remorse… no regret… only a vague curiosity. Gingerly, aware of the encroaching eyes looking for some morsel of their own, drawn by the scent of pooling blood, she flipped over her victim. Lifeless green eyes stared back at her, framed by black hair.

She screamed, and the world around her dissolved into nothingness.

A young dark-haired man woke with a start. He scowled at his surroundings as he dressed in ill-fitting, tatty, Muggle clothing, made a vain attempt to straighten his hair with his fingers, and crept down the stairs. Whatever sunlight had brought him to life did not make its way to this level. The house was dark and dank, at once both familiar and strange, closing around him, threatening to crush him… like a tomb.

From up ahead, he heard voices: some laughing, some shouting, and he moved towards them, hands in front of him as he felt his way through the weight of darkness. The walls he brushed his finger tips against were neither plaster, nor stone, but felt as if they were scaled, and softly undulated at his touch. At last he came to the door obscuring the source of the voices and pushed it open. All sound ceased at his entrance.

Two score of hooded, robed, and cloaked figures turned to face him. They stood like silent monuments, their stares piercing him, impaling him from their shadowed eyes. Their robes caught his eyes – they were brilliant, much-too-bright red, or unearthly, inorganic green, or darker-than-coal black, or iridescent silver, or hypnotic, glimmering gold, and one conspicuous, shining purple. These colors… he knew them although he could not remember. Red, Green, Black, Silver, Gold, and Purple – they all meant something, but what? No matter how hard he tried, he could not remember.

"Well," the purple robe asked, its voice rippling with light, "Is there anything you'd like to tell me? Anything at all?"

He didn't know. He just didn't know.

The grounds and manor house of the Malfoy Estate, however resplendent they might be under a clear sky and bright sun, showed their truest nature on black, tempestuous nights. At such times as these, the marble columns, no longer pristine, showed themselves as gnarled, dark-veined prison bars; the sharp, crisp angles of the façade threw shadows by lightning glow that did not quite match what the eye saw so much as what the mind imagined. This was such a night – winter's last attempt to gouge at spring; to reassert its claw-like grip on the land. If the rest of the country seemed to resist this incursion, these lands and this house seemed to aid and take sustenance from it.

Lucius Malfoy stood in the too-warm shelter of his library, staring out into the night, reflecting on how well it mirrored his mood. He scowled at his own reflection before turning to take the cognac his hobbled House-Elf held ready for him. He swirled the brandy in his glass appreciatively, admired the color briefly and slowly sipped before turning back to the window to submerge the darkness of his mood in the darker night. His attempt at self-pity was soon cut short by the thunderous claps of the knockers on his front door.

"Wretch," he shouted, "tell whoever that is to be gone at once, and that if they touch my front door again, I will flay them alive."

Wretch Apparated instantly to the foyer and muttered half-coherent obscenities to himself as he opened the enormous wooden doors that were the entrance to the Malfoy Manor. "The master is saying he will see no one tonight," the House Elf said meekly, eyes cast down to avoid offending whoever might be calling.

This visitor, however, was not so easily discouraged. Wretch instantly found himself choking and asphyxiated, suspended above the ground by invisible hands. "Tell Lucius that unless he wants his house ripped apart, he'll see me now."

Wretch was released as suddenly as he had been seized, collapsing unceremoniously into a heap on the immaculate marble floor. Despite the pain in his lungs and throat, the diminutive figure leapt to its feet and scampered off in the direction of the library, weaving and cursing the entire way.

Lucius gave his servant a good swift kick in spite of the fact that he knew the delivered threat was more than an idle boast. Disobedience was disobedience, no matter what the reason. Carefully, he composed himself as he made his way toward the foyer. No sign of weakness could be shown to his unwanted guest.

Moisture and windblown debris filled the entryway of the manor, and a sharp gust sliced it way through Lucius' cloak. The great doors remained opened, and his visitor remained outside despite the wind and rain. No, Lucius corrected himself, not despite but because of the wind and rain. There could be little doubt that she was at least part of its cause, the source of its ferocity.

"Madame Rusalka," he called. "How kind of you to call…"

"Silence," the woman snapped, stepping into visibility at his approach, but remaining very definitely outside in the falling rain. "If it's a social call you want, why don't you visit me?" She pulled back he cloak to reveal a very beautiful, but equally dead face, and smiled in a way that melted the marrow of Malfoy's bones.

"I think not," Lucius said, far more smugly than he actually felt. "What do you want from me?"

"I've come at the Master's order," she replied. "I have a message for you,"

"The Master is dead!" snapped Malfoy.

The undead woman laughed, and the storm appeared to mirror it, growing in its ferocity. She reached out an ice-cold hand and traced a frosty line across the man's face. "Oh Lucius, how little you know of death… Has not the Master once before descended into death and returned yet again? You know the key to his next return, and if you do not act soon, the Master says that I may claim you for my own and he will use another…"

In spite of himself, Lucius shivered at the Rusalka's touch, and not only from the chill of it. "Plans are underway," he stuttered, once again fighting for composure.

"Lie if you must, Lucius," the grim woman cried out as she retreated into the storm. "I will so enjoy your company…" In a gust of wind and rain, she then vanished. Lucius slammed the great doors shut against the weather and returned to the library, shouting out for Wretch as he did so. That miserable elf would pay for this.

A dozen masked and robed Death Eaters stood in a circle, chanting harsh guttural syllables of a forgotten language. Twelve voices spoke as one, their echo amplified to a deafening thunder off cold stone walls. He stood outside the circle, watching and waiting, silent and still.

A small, high-pitched bell rang, cleaving through the discordant drone like a sword through warm dragon tallow. On its sounding the chant tapered off to silence, and the circle opened. The young man suddenly realized that he had no idea what the purpose of the ritual had been.

Whether as a result of protocol, or sensing hesitation, a Death Eater bowed low in obeisance and spoke, "For your pleasure, Master."

The young man stepped forward in curiosity, to see what lay at the center. The masks all began to smile as he entered. On a small stone altar, he found a single chocolate cupcake, topped in white icing, and peaked with a cherry. He cocked his head in puzzlement, unsure what to make of the discovery. The circle of Death Eaters began to shift at this; some of them appeared to be trembling in fear, even beneath their heavy robes.

The prostrated Death Eater spoke once more, "Are you displeased, Master?" his voice dripped with terror. "We thought it was you favorite…"

The boy reached forward cautiously to take the offering. When no jolt of pain met his touch, he picked it up and examined it closely. The circle of his minions began to visibly relax, their sighs of relief almost, but not quite audible. Finding nothing amiss, he brought the pastry to his mouth, but before he could even taste the icing, everything was gone.

Blackness.

Always, there was blackness. Even in the fullest light of day, some shred of darkness, some bit of shadow slid around the periphery of her vision. It was, and had always been this way – darkness was her companion; sometimes a friend, sometimes a foe, but always, always, present.

Now she stood, no place in particular, but somewhere… outdoors. It was neither light nor dark just now, simply dim. It was this that she hated the most – light and dark should not mix; let it be one or the other. Why couldn't even nature preserve purity?

In the grass before her, a rat scampered, squeaking in fear and frustration. Watching, she felt nothing but contempt for the rodent, perhaps annoyance for disturbing the silence. She stepped toward the creature, thinking to give it a true reason for fear, to squash it like the tiny, pathetic creature that it was. Before she reached it however, a large snake emerged from the ground, encircling the rat in its coils.

The rat at first seemed to be relieved that it was no longer threatened by the young woman, but this relief was short lived as it discovered the serpent's coils encroaching. Panicked, the rat tried to run. The snake toyed with its prey, allowing it to flee a certain distance before once again surrounding it. Finally the snake grew bored with its game, and in a blur of motion, struck and swallowed the rat whole.

Silence returned briefly before the snake turned to face the woman. She showed not the slightest trace of fear as the snake unraveled and brought itself up to even height with her. Red eyes stared intently into brown - neither set blinking.

"Enough," she screamed. "You've already taken my toy, and if you think you're going to intimidate me because I let you get away with it, you have another thing coming."

"My apologies, Master," the snake hissed in long sibilants. It bowed low, retched, and regurgitated the still squirming rodent.

She kicked the rat, and noted with satisfaction that it could still squeak in pain. "Join me," she offered the snake, and it instantly moved to intercept the rat. Before the snake reached its prey however, a snowy white owl screeched, swooped, and snatched the rat. The snake hissed in anger, spitting venom at the intruder.

Unaffected by the snake's wrath, the owl took its prey to the branch of a nearby tree. Mockingly, it hooted from its perch, and rather than eating the rat, simply pinned it between talon and branch. The woman cursed at the owl, but only received defiant chirps in response, intermingled with the plaintive pain cries of the captured rat.

The woman produced her wand, and began to hurl curses at the owl, all of which the bird easily dodged. The owl's joy was ephemeral however, as it soon found that the curses were simply a distraction, and that the true threat was still the snake. While the woman had thrown curses, the snake had slithered up the tree, and now wrung itself around the winded bird.

The rat, although now forgotten, did not flee, but sat and watched as the owl was now tortured. Woman and serpent, separately and in concert, tormented the bird. As the owl's strength began to wane, a far less timid rat approached and nipped at its pin feathers.

The owl squawked in pain and desperation, clearly recognizing that its end was near. A phoenix song now rang through the air, and a flash of red shed tears on the dying owl. Rejuvenated, the stricken bird fled for the safety of the sky. The phoenix however, did not flee, and squared off against the snake. There was a flurry of violence as claw and feather met fang and scale. This storm continued until at last a mass of red feathers fell lifeless to the ground.

Satisfied that no life remained, the badly gouged snake slithered after its master who now walked off into the dimness. A short distance behind them followed the rat.

Harry strolled across the grounds of Hogwarts with a feeling of melancholy. The castle and it surroundings still held the same wonder and attachment for him that they always had, but the thought that he would be leaving them for the final time in a few short days heralded as much joy as sadness. It was hard to believe he was even the same person as the boy who had arrived here seven years ago, discovering a new world, new friends, new purpose, new family…

Hogwarts had been his refuge from the abuse of the Dursleys. It was the wellspring of all the good in his life and inextricably interwoven with his darkest, most desperate memories at the same time. It was here that Ron and Hermione had come into his life; here that he had found Sirius, his Godfather and link to his parents; here that he had come under the protecting, if sometimes frustrating, mentorship of Albus Dumbledore; greatest of all, it was here that he had found Cho and a love he couldn't have imagined before.

He settled down in his usual spot beneath the willow overlooking the lake and loneliness overtook him for what he hoped would be the final time. Ron and Hermione would be along shortly, but even their company wouldn't be enough. For ten long months this longing had grown with only the briefest of respites, weekends in Hogsmeade, to ease his pain. He missed Cho with an intensity that resembled pain. He ached for her presence, and in exactly seven days his waiting would end. For the first time in his life, Harry couldn't wait to leave Hogwarts.

Some time later, his friends found him there, still sitting in contemplation, studying the pattern of wind-ripples flitting across the lake.

"Oi, Harry! Wake up," Ron shouted.

Hermione elbowed him. "Honestly, Ron, show some compassion. It's only natural to feel a little sad about leaving. It's been home for seven years."

Harry turned to smile at his friends. Ron however, was not dissuaded. "Dragonshit!" he exclaimed. "That's not homesickness, that's CDS…"

"And what exactly is CDS?" Hermione challenged.

"To think that you're the one headed off to University," Ron appeared shocked. "It's a good thing you're not going into medicine."

Hermione glared at him, clearly not amused.

"I'd give her the punch line if were you, mate," Harry said wryly, "it's not worth the hype you're building." He'd already been subjected to the diagnosis of Dr. Weasley on more than one occasion.

"CDS," Ron droned, doing his best impersonation of Professor Binns' monotone drawl, "is well-known to all students and observers of the quote-unquote Harry Potter phenomena, with its symptoms of lethargic malaise, frequent and obsessive exhalations, blank stare into the vast unknown, etc, etc…"

"Cut it, Ron," Hermione snapped.

"… as Cho Deprivation Syndrome. It is a curious and rare condition, for which the only known cure seems to be the presence of the former Ravenclaw Seeker from whom it took its name. Fortunately, only one case of this terminal condition has ever surfaced. Unfortunately, for us at least, that one case happens to be our dear, Mr. Potter."

"Maybe you're the one who should consider medicine," Harry offered.

"Apparently someone has finally discovered the dictionary," Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "A pity you didn't find it back in first year. You might have better grades as a result."

Ron collapsed to the ground beside Harry. "I've got my OWLS and NEWTS now, what do I need with better grades?"

"You might go back to school eventually, you know" countered Hermione. "Now that you've discovered the dictionary, you might venture on to the Encyclopedia Magicka and discover that you actually like learning…"

"Bloody hell I will," replied Ron. "I'm done. I'm getting a job, my own place, and someday, when the mood strikes me, I'll find a nice witch to settle down with."

"Bloody hell, indeed," Hermione mused.

"Language!" Ron and Harry snapped at her in unison, grinning at each other as they did so. Both had used far worse, but it wasn't every day that one had the opportunity to correct the brilliant and proper Hermione Granger. Neither friend was willing to let this chance slip by untaken.

"We'll still see each other, won't we?" Harry asked.

"Of course we will," Hermione reassured him. "We've been through entirely too much to simply drift apart."

"Get me some season tickets," offered Ron, "and I'll see you at every home game."

"Of course," replied Harry. "You too, Hermione, if you're interested."

"I don't know about every game, but as often as I can manage," Hermione responded. "I'll be working harder than ever, you know."

"Only you would pass up Quidditch for books, Hermione," Ron huffed. "Even the bookish dweebs at Taliesin College will drop their quills for a good match. If you mention that you're a personal friend of Harry Potter, the finest Seeker to ever play the game, they'll just be tripping over their cauldrons to get your attentions."

"And what makes you think I'll need Quidditch to get a man's attention?" Hermione smirked. "I can think of several ways to get attention, and not a single one of them involves a broom…"

Ron snorted in disgust. Hermione looked to Harry for some defense of her virtues, but he had tuned out again, lost in his own dreams. "Maybe," she finally gave in to Ron, "There's something to your CDS after all."

Lucius tried not to look at the men and women assembled around the table. However sycophantic they might seem, they were not his friends. They were not to be trusted and he wanted as little to do with them as possible. Still, he had a mission to complete, one assigned to him by the Dark One himself and, although he had tried, one that could not be put aside.

"There will be three teams," he spoke emphatically. "Team one will create chaos in Hogsmeade, but you will create NO casualties, only mayhem. The Dark Mark must be seen again and the seeds of fear re-sown, but for this night your purpose is to draw as many MLES as possible away from London so that our true mission may proceed unmolested.

"Team Two will lay in wait on Diagon Alley as a contingency. Should it appear that the alarm has been sounded, you will create both havoc and casualties. Attention must be kept from our true goal.

"Team Three will snatch and grab our prey and deliver her to the safe house in Bournemouth via Portkey. She must be delivered unharmed and untouched. The penalty for failure will be most unpleasant, I can assure you. Are there any questions?"

Being typical Death Eater stock and possessing the typical Death Eater bent towards paranoia, there were of course many questions. Lucius seethed inwardly as he explained variations of the same details over and over and over, answering inane and pedantic questions ad nauseum. Left to his own devices, he would have abandoned the lot of them to the Cruciatus. If Lucius Malfoy possessed a single virtue however, it was a keenly developed sense of self-preservation. This mission could not fail if he wished to continue his life.

"And exactly why are we carrying out this little jaunt?" Bellatrix Lestrange demanded.

"Because the Dark Lord demands it," Lucius answered. "Surely, you know better than to question his orders…"

"So, you're communing with the dead now?" McNair sneered.

"The Master made many plans before his most recent demise," replied Malfoy. "Some of those plans were meant to prepare for contingencies such as this. I am simply his messenger."

"Are you sure, dear cousin, that this isn't simply a way of satisfying your own desire for revenge? It would be most unlike you to allow your son's murderer to escape retribution…"

"My son," Lucius enunciated with venom, "gave his life in service to the Master. Am I any less expendable than he? Are you… Cousin?" Cold grey eyes burned fiercely into smoldering brown. Neither cousin blinked or gave round.

"I am always the Master's faithful servant," Lestrange smiled. "I'll complete this task, but remember Lucius, don't toy with me – I've had tougher things than you for breakfast."

He stood before two fallen figures, one male, and the other female. He kicked at the fallen girl, but it was the boy who responded. "Stupid git of a girl… How could you think I would ever love the likes of you?"

"Obviously, you have no concept of gender," the standing youth spoke, but he looked down at himself all the same. Much to his surprise, he discovered very un-masculine curves. "What have you done to me?" he demanded only to find that his voice had changed as well.

The fallen boy had changed as well – not in gender however, but rather in age. Now mostly grey-haired, his would be victim rose to his feet, imperiously tall. "You pathetic freak of a child… What have you done to my name? Your cow of a mother was one thing; she had her uses at least, but you…" The old man sneered with contempt.

The once-boy, now-girl, cowered at first, but some spark of inner fire grew into a flame. A wand appeared unbidden in his/her hand. "You love me," he/she demanded.

"I love Cho," the old man declared.

With out spoken incantation, or the merest gesture of wand, a fury of magic erupted, emanating in all direction from the now androgynous figure. Pure rage swept everything away in its path as if it were a cleansing flame. Bodies became ash and ash was blown away until nothing remained.

Nothing.

Blackness.

Although two days remained until the Leaving Feast, Harry had pre-packed everything he could possibly do without for his remaining time. As grueling as NEWTS had been, they had at least kept him occupied and made the days fly by at a reasonable pace. Now, left largely to his own devices, the hours seemed to drag on at a snail's pace – a very, very, tired snail's pace. Hermione was in the library, saying good bye to her cherished books, while he and Ron were playing yet another game of chess, and as usual his mind wasn't really in it.

Professor McGonagall entered the Common Room wearing a grim expression. "Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter," she addressed them, "I hate to interrupt, but Professor Dumbledore would like to speak to you."

Both friends looked at her with questioning faces, but received no answers. More than a year had passed since their last summons to the Headmaster's office, but the memory of it was dire enough that neither was likely to ever be free from its mark. With practiced efficiency, they made their way through the winding passages and shifting stairways.

"I had hoped," began Professor Dumbledore, "That this year might be unique by passing without a summons of this nature. Unfortunately, such is not the case."

"What is it, Professor?" Harry asked.

"Last night the Dark Mark was seen across England, much chaos ensued and although there are no reports of casualties, there is however one missing person…"

"Who?" demanded Ron.

"Your sister, Mr. Weasley," The professor answered gravely. "St. Mungo's informed us today that they were purposefully and intentionally raided by several dark-cloaked figures. A roll taking after the commotion ended revealed that Ginny Weasley was no longer present.

"It may be a simple act of retaliation, but it may be something more significant. I rather expect that the latter. This may very well herald a renewal of dark purpose, possibly even the return of Lord Voldemort himself."

"You-Know-Who is dead," objected Ron. "I saw his body. He's dead, and I Obliviated Ginny."

Professor Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Yes, his body was destroyed, but he himself may very well remain. He has survived the destruction of his body once before, and returned to it. Even if he is dead, the evil he represented lives on."

Harry collapsed into a chair with a long exhale. "I'm not free after all, am I?" he asked plaintively.

Ron looked at his friend with compassion. "I'm sorry, Harry. I know how much you were looking forward to playing Quidditch."

"I wouldn't apologize so hastily, Mr. Weasley," interrupted the Headmaster. "It may be that Harry has a part yet to play, but if my suspicions are correct, your connection will prove far more important than his."

Ron appeared as if he had been petrified. "I don't understand," Harry objected on his behalf. "You've always said I was the one bound to Voldemort. How is it suddenly Ron?"

"Because it's Ginny," Ron muttered flatly.

Professor Dumbledore nodded gravely. "That is correct. As you tried to show me, Harry, the shadow of Tom Riddle lives on in Miss Weasley's mind. You, Ron, share bonds of blood and emotion and it is your spell from your wand which most affects her. Whatever ill affects your memory charm had, it may also be the best hope for her redemption.

"So what does this mean for our future?" Harry asked.

"For you, Harry, at least for now, it means continuing on with your plans."

"And for me?" Ron asked with an air of resignation.

"I'm not as fully aware of your intentions after your departure, Mr. Weasley, but I would assume they include the search for some sort of gainful employment. I believe we can reach a consensus between the two – have you considered the possibility of a career in law enforcement? The skills you would develop there would go a long way in aiding this additional responsibility…"

"It doesn't seem as if I have a whole lot of choice in the matter," Ron observed.

"There are always choices, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore responded placidly. "If you object, I'm sure other arrangements could be made. You do, however, come from a family with a history of producing first rate Aurors. I wouldn't have thought such a career would be so distasteful to you."

Ron mulled the idea over visibly in his mind. "Ron Weasley, Auror," he finally spoke. "It does have a nice ring to it. What about my grades though?"

"Your performance here, while not stellar, has been adequate. I believe that in conjunction with a letter of recommendation from me and the reputations of both yourself and your family, the Auror Corps will readily accept you."

"It is a job," Ron consented. "I'll do it."

"So I'm just to go off and play Quidditch while Ron takes all the risk?" Harry asked, anger rising in his voice.

"You've faced your share of danger, Harry," replied the Headmaster, "and quite frequently alone. I am sure that if the need or circumstances dictate, you will find your way to Ron's side, Ms. Granger too, unless I miss my mark."

"Besides," interrupted Ron, "the way you play Quidditch can hardly be called safe."

Harry looked unconvinced.

"It's alright, mate," Ron attempted to sound cheerful. "I've had seven years of adventure with you. I can handle it. Just get me those season tickets, or I'll claim you're my sidekick now."

Water dripped from rotten stone into pool of foul run off. Pool and stone were both littered with broken bones, and the stench of accumulated death was heavy in the air. The young man and young woman stood facing each other.

"You…" they spat at each other in perfect unison.

"I hate you…" the girl sneered.

"You're pathetic…" the boy insisted.

"…but I need you," they finished together.

"Together, we can break free of this prison," the young man said.

"Fine," replied the young woman, "but I don't trust you."

"What difference does that make" he asked.

The girl frowned and then held out her hand. The boy clasped it, and the earth shook. When the dust of ancient stones cleared, rather than two, there remained only one.

Author's Note: Don't worry, Cho will show up in the next chapter. Sorry it took me longer than I expected – I have a good excuse though: I started an all new story, and at least so far, it's Harry/Cho. You should see the first chapters of it about the same time I post Chapter 2. That is, in two to six weeks.

Cheers,

Charles