Beauty of Redemption
* Note all characters belong to J.K Rowling. Story contains plot elements of Half-Blood Prince and Prisoner of Azkaban. So don't sue me!
Beauty of Redemption
**This story takes place
Looking out of the small window, Harry saw the silhouettes, of the very witches and wizards who had fought alongside him mere hours ago, clearing the debris of battle from Hogwart's grounds. Pieces of stone, grass and even the odd body was levitated into the air, and out into the growing darkness. It was the "Boxing Day of the End of the War", as Ron had so delicately put to Harry a few hours beforehand.
Harry looked around the office that was once Snape's, and saw that his attitudes and interests had indeed been exercised over the decor of the room: the table where Dumbledore's golden, puffing objects had once laid was replaced by an oak bookcase, the thick leather spines of sinister looking books reflecting the candle light. He had however omitted in the putting up of the grotesque posters that had been a prominent feature in his Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom the year before, perhaps by request of the various portraits that were spread out around the room.
The room had a sense of oppressive silence, not unlike the library his good friend Hermione Granger had spent most of her school years in. Harry was almost expecting Madam Perkins to suddenly appear, like a vulture circling her prey, perhaps muttering about the pupils' treatment of her precious books.
Harry sat on the chair that not a year ago Dumbledore had sat in, and thought deeply about the war that had achieved so much, yet cost so much more to win. More than he ever thought he would be willing to give. And Snape? On their side? All along? These thoughts tumbled around Harry's head, muffling the emotions of victory and triumph, which were replaced with feelings of guilt and self-loathing.
Snape had loved Lily for all those years? And he had hated Snape? He died to protect him, his love for Harry's mother never ceasing to influence his actions, always protecting the thing she herself had given up life to protect: Harry.
A thousand questions danced over Harry's tongue, yet there was little he could do or say to relieve the dam of questions threatening to flood his brain. Discussion was pointless, as Ron and Hermione had disappeared hours ago, vanishing off even the Marauder's map, when Harry had been able to have a look at it in a dusty cupboard, away from curious, tear-soaked eyes.
Most of the castle's population was either taking part in the clean- up, or mourning the fallen. The last Harry saw of Mr and Mrs Weasley was when he shuffled past the Great Hall in his Invisibility cloak: he found the praise and pats on the back from families who had given up members to save him unbearable. Mrs Weasley was sobbing over bodies that were covered with a dark coloured cloth. Harry felt he was
intruding on a personal moment, and continued on to Dumbledore's office.
And so now all he could do was wait, sitting in the armchair of his old headmasters, his gaze occasionally straying over the sleeping portrait of a man, sporting a beard trailing out of sight, right down to the bottom of the aging chair on which he sat. His half-moon
spectacles hung on the end of his familiar crooked nose, sitting at a seemingly impossible angle. His breathing was quiet and calm. He looked most out of place amongst the other portraits, whose said occupants had vacated long ago in search of more exciting endeavours.
The warmth and dull glow of the crackling fire, combined with his massive expenditure of energy during the battle, had caused Harry to fall asleep. His dreams were filled with screams and flashes of light, piles of bodies, growing larger and larger with every passing moment. And there was Voldemort, laughing as he cursed and tortured Ginny...
"No!" Harry yelled as he smashed back into reality, the silence almost audibly smashing like a fine wine glass.
As he had jerked awake, his glasses slipping from his sweat drenched face, and landing with a dull thump on the flirt below. Cursing silently, Harry picked up his glasses, quickly pushing them onto his dirty face. From behind him he heard a polite cough. He turned to face the source of the noise.
Two brilliantly blue eyes almost shined from the gloomy surrounding of the office.
"Good Evening, Harry."
Harry struggled to find the breath, or words to reply to Dumbledore's opening. He could only manage a hoarse cough.
"It's quite alright Harry, quite alright." Dumbledore motioned to a cabinet on Harry's right. "Perhaps a Gillywater will help with your throat?"
Harry sped towards the cabinet, grabbing the nearest bottle of clear liquid and throwing it down his throat, determined to ask Dumbledore the questions that were drowning his weary mind.
"Professor, I..." Harry began.
"Harry, it's quite alright. I think you have earned a rest, if it not for vanquishing one of the most powerful wizards of all time, but for waiting patiently for an old man to awake."
Dumbledore smiled as Harry nodded gratefully, and finished of his Gillywater with an increased dignity.
"Professor, I should have trusted you, I had no idea that Snape was...well good!"
"Harry, Harry, it is quite alright. His dying wish was to see your mother's eyes, and I'm sure you granted to him, without a doubt."
"But all those years I've hated him, and all he wanted was for her to love him back..."
"Is this guilt I hear Harry?" Dumbledore enquired.
Harry nodded sheepishly, and Dumbledore dismissed this with a casual wave of his hand.
"Harry, if you had done anything differently, yes people may not have died, and yes, Hogwarts would be in full working order. However, the fact remains Harry; everything that has happened in your life has defined who you are! If it were not for your misguided anonymity for Snape, you may have never foiled Voldemort's attempt for the Philosophers Stone!"
"I guess your right" Harry said, a small smile growing on his face.
"Now Harry, we must not ignore reality: The wizarding world, at least the one closer to home, does not have a leader at present. I am sure that given the circumstances, the people would demand you to take the post."
"Me," Harry spluttered, "Minister for Magic?"
"If you would prefer someone else to take the post, I am utterly convinced the public will approve of Kingsely Shacklebolt."
The very words had a soothing effect in Harry, and he knew at once that Kingsely was the perfect choice.
"That's a brilliant suggestion, professor."
Harry's thoughts again turned to Ron and Hermione, and what they would say to his questions.
"There is one other thing Harry," Professor Dumbledore said, his voice barely audible over the rumbling of repairing walls down below.
Harry looked up again at the portrait. Dumbledore, Reading Harry's troubled expression, said " I think that Miss Granger and Mr Weasley have retired for this evening," a glint of mischief in Dumbledore's eyes," My sources near the kitchen's tell they are safe and... occupied."
Harry failed to hide a relieved smile.
Dumbledore continued, "The matter I wish to speak to you about Harry is the future. The Death Eaters who have survived tonight will be subject to horrendous
prosecution. Most I daresay deserve it, yet a few, I daresay again, deserve a second chance."
The meaning of Dumbledore's words hit him like a stunning spell in the chest. Dumbledore wanted Harry to "forgive" some of the people who had killed friends and their familes?
Sensing Harry's growing frustration and anger, Dumbledore quickly elaborated.
"Making an example of those who deserve punishment is acceptable Harry. It is those who are wrongly punished, who have secretly tried to help those who stood up to Voldemort that need forgiveness. If we do not give it to them, those who were in need of forgiveness would serve as a martyr to those who knew the truth."
Harry was itching to argue, to shout that anyone who followed Voldemort should be punished, and was about to do so when Dumbledore held up a hand in protest. "Please Harry, the political cogs are turning, and what we must do must be done in a short space of time."
"In my memory cabinet, you will find an emerald bottle. I wish you to view that memory Harry, and take from it what you must. Snape was not the only case of his kind. I regret I must go, as it is apparent St. Mungos is in dire need of not only a consult, but an expert in Muggle knitting patterns."
Harry once again prepared to protest, but was interrupted once more by a final wink, and Dumbledore stepping out of his portrait, leaving a dark blue stretch of canvas in his wake.
Harry strode over to the hexagonal cabinet, and as promised, found a very small and dusty bottle, hidden at the very back behind numerous bottles of a clear substance.
Pulling the grimy bottle cap off, Harry was reminded of his last year at Hogwarts, and of him and Dumbledore's frequent visits into the pensive, and the memories of others.
Harry poured the substance into the stone basin, where it remained in a state that resembled clouds: too solid to be a gas, yet not solid enough to be a liquid.
Taking a deep breath, he realised the difference Snape's final memories had had on his attitudes and actions. Would this memory prove to be similar? Dumbledore seemed to think so.
These thoughts rushed past him, as he felt himself falling into darkness, darkness he soon realised were the trees of the Forbidden Forest.
Part 2 - The Memory
Harry landed noiselessly into the dark and wet moss that surrounded a gnarled and diseased tree. Not that he needed to exercise caution over his noise: He reminded himself that no-one in the memory knew he was here, and even if they did, he was confident the howling wind and driving rain would mask such noises.
Harry looked around, and allowed his surroundings to soak in. He was standing at the very edge of what seemed to be the Forbidden Forrest, the dark grey sky indistinguishable from the dark green of the trees overhead.
The rain was heavier than he'd ever seen it, and the gale blew the wind almost horizontally across the Hogwarts grounds.
Struggling to make out the Castle itself, Harry's attention was drawn to a figure standing a few feet away, leaning on a rotten tree. Harry could not make out his features due to the dirty shawl he had wrapped around his face, a wet, black cloak clashed tightly around his bulky figure. Harry figured this must be the person the memory belonged to.
Without warning, the man pulled up his left sleeve, allowing the harsh wind and rain to batter off his now exposed, pale white skin.
Harry felt his heart sink: The black outline of the Dark Mark was clearly visible, even with fog rolling in from the Great Lake. Dumbledore had asked him to see the memory of a "Death Eater?"
The man they walked off suddenly, leaving Harry alone against the damp tree. Harry thought the man a fool for leaving an area of even moderate protection from the elements, yet was gratefully he himself could not feel the chill of the rain as it deflected from his body.
The sounds of screams and shouts carried on the wind, met Harry's ears, causing his heart to beat a little faster. Where... No. A better question would be when were they?
Harry cursed himself for not pressing Dumbledore for more information when a break in the waves of rain allowed him to see more than 10 feet in front of him.
Squinting now, Harry could vaguely make out red and gold banners lining what appeared to bed wooden towers before the rain obscured the image once more.
"That's it! I know where I've seen this type of weather before. It was the day the dementora attacked me at Quiditch ! Yeah, the day my Numbis 2000 was destroyed..."
Harry realised that he was in danger of losing the man in the rapidly approaching fog that was now engulfing the boggy ground, and broke into a jog to regain pace with the cloaked figure.
The screams were becoming louder and louder, and Harry was sure that he could make out the distinctive Lion of Gryffindor. Thoughts on the logo of his school house were cut short, however, by a gruff growl emitting from the cloaked figure.
Harry spun round to see the man grasping his wand tightly in his right hand, whilst muttering something inaudible, his whispers lost to the increasingly aggressive wind.
A silver streak emerged from the tip of the man's wand, before rising and disappearing in the murky clouds.
The man adjusted his scarf and paused. Then, a flash of lighting revealed the true purpose of his spell. The silver streak had arched around their current position, and was now heading towards the Quidditch pitch with increasing speed.
But it was not alone. Several dozens cloaked figures were in hot pursuit, following the silver creature to the stands.
Professor Lupins words now resounded in Harry's ears, "...Emotions running high: It was there idea of a feast."
Harry felt what little colour he had left in his face drain out. He too had always suspected the Dementora had attacked out of hunger; yet here he was, observing the evidence that they were in fact led there, like a pack of wolves to a fresh carcass.
The rain suddenly shifted, as did the wind. The location remained the same, yet to Harry it felt like time had went past. A glance at the now darker sky confirmed Harry's suspicions.
The shouting and screaming had faded, and another break in the rain confirmed that the once packed stands were now devoid of life.
The 'pop', although small in comparison to the available background noise, made both Harry and the cloaked individual spin around. Standing in the horrid weather, wearing dark blue robes, and a beard that was almost as silver as the surrounding fog, was Albus Dumbledore.
There was clear anger in those pale blue eyes, an anger that looked so foreign in those elderly features.
The figure's grey hands plunged into his overcoat, yet Dumbledore anticipated this, and with a curt flick of his wrist, the figure's newly drawn wand flew in a neat arc, and disappeared in the soup-like air.
"I thought I'd find you here Xavier," Dumbledore began; his voice steady and calm, yet somehow overpowering the noise of the fierce wind that was clutching at his beard. "What I did not know was how low you would stoop to try and achieve a fruitless goal."
"I have no idea what you mean Dumbledore." The rasp of the figures voice was almost lost in the gale. His now wandless hand flew up to his scarf, and pulling down sharply, his features were revealed to both Harry and Dumbledore.
The stranger's large nose was upstaged by the deep scar that ran down the man's left cheek. His rough features were nothing compared to the sneer that he wore on his thin lips.
"I will venture a guess that it was you who lured the Dementors to the Quiditch Pitch?" It appeared even through the waves of rain that even Xavier could recognise Dumbledore's fury.
"Yes," Xavier whispered, nervously licking his lips," I had to."
"My death will not bring back your family Xavier, nor Voldemort."
Xavier batted off Dumbledore's words like angry bees, his spider-like hands clawing at the air.
"Your family died because of your own cowardice: I played no part." The harshness of Dumbledore's words shocked even Harry: he had only heard him speak so directly to one other man. A man who had risked everything for something that was lost forever...
Xavier sunk to his knees, the bottom part of his large coat floating in the puddle that once was grass. Harry was surprised to see tears dripping down the man's face, melting in seamlessly with the surrounding rain.
Dumbledore took a few strides forward, and knelt down beads the sobbing man.
Dumbledore's voice dropped to barely above a whisper, yet the power of the words remained; "If you had acted sooner, you could have saved them, but your cowardice cost your family their lives."
Xavier looked up, drawing great rattling breaths. "I thought if I remained neutral, my family would be safe from that stupid war. I thought I could...save them."
"But..." Dumbledore interrupted.
"Okay, okay!" Xavier shouted harshly, "I couldn't resist them, okay?" He looked up into those eyes, the very eyes who had guided Harry for all those years.
Xavier pleaded, "You have no idea the gold they offered... My job offered such information! But when they discovered I was Muggle-born..." Xavier rant was lost to a fresh outburst of sobs, and surrendering all dignity, the frail figures of a beaten man slumped into a puddle at Dumbledore's feet.
Dumbledore's expression softened, his words even calmer than before "
Xavier, I can't help but wonder why you sent Dementors to kill me, when even you knew they had little chance of success."
Xavier let out of low groan of despair. "I thought the suffering you've see would be enough to draw them to you."
"It would seem that one boy in particular has suffered far worse than me, and your assassination attempt nearly cost him his life."
Xavier managed to find the strength to lift his head to face Dumbledore. "No more. I... It's my fault they're dead. Don't you think that's punishment enough? Please," he begged," Please don't turn me in to the Dementors."
Dumbledore stood up, drawing himself to his full height. "Xavier, you are not an evil person. Flawed, yes, but evil? No." Xavier hauled himself into a sitting position in the growing puddle. "You have showed remorse, and I agree with you that you have been punishened enough. If you agree never to make an attempt on any of my student's lives again, and indeed my own, I will not turn you in."
Xavier howled tears of gratefulness. Dumbledore seized him by the forearm and pulled him to his feet. "Dumbledore, I can't thank you enough."
"The one thing that you can do for me in return is clean yourself up, and leave this whole business behind you for good."
"Of course, of course," Xavier babbled, feverishly shaking Dumbledore's hand.
Dumbledore's eyes, empty of anger now, gleamed brightly from behind his half-mooned spectacles. "I hear that there is a position going at Honeydukes. Perhaps if I to have a word with the owner, they could permit you to stay and work there, at least until you 'Get back in your feet' as the Muggle expression goes."
Harry stood dumbstruck at Dumbledore's attitude towards a man who less than ten minutes ago ha made an attempt on his life.
"I can't thank you enough. You've saved me Dumbledore. I won't let you down, I give you my word."
And with that, the scene before Harry dissolved, the twinkling of the candle assuring Harry he was indeed back to reality.
Harry sank back into the armchair, reviewing the memory in his mind: Dumbledore's forgiveness had not only saved Snape from the brink of madness, but this man, Xavier, too. Harry looked at the empty portrait hanging on the wall. It was ironic the time the wizarding world didn't need him was the time where he would give anything to distract him form the thoughts in his head.
He chuckled to himself, his eyes still fixed on that stretch of navy blue canvas. Perhaps Dumbledore would be finished in a few hours, and Harry could catch some more sleep.
Taking one final gaze around the room, his eyes locked onto a worn motto engraved on a dull brown wood. It read, 'Fate is not without a sense of irony.'"Isn't that the truth," Harry chuckled, as he remembered that he has avoided a man that fitted Xavier's description the first time he had ventured to Hogsmaid through Honeydukes. Although he was sure Xavier had gained some weight since meeting Dumbledore on that wet and windy morning."Maybe living above one of the best sweet shops in the wizarding world had something to do with it," Harry thought aloud as he reclined on the leather chair. He was asleep before his head touched the chair back.
Xavier Phillips - Beauty of Redemption