Chapter 28
A/N: A note to those who inquired regarding ships. There won't be room in this story for romantic subplots, het or slash, canon or otherwise. A few PM's swear they see me setting Harry up with Luna. While I'm not against that ship, or other boats in a fleet of possibilities, I'll be concentrating too much on Harry, Toshiro, Ichigo, Dumbledore, Voldemort, etc. to take time for romance. RotFH is already over 115,000 words long. If my projections are correct, it will end up being somewhere around 200,000!
So. Shippers, sorry. Please check your local listings for the next scheduled departure.
Dear Harry,
Pleasantries are all well and good, but at this point, they only delay the real purpose of this letter, and that would be a silly thing to do, don't you agree? So, other than to say I hope you're feeling better now, I will bypass the usual opening-letter folderol and move on to the subject that, I am most positive, is at the top of both our minds.
As everyone suspected he would, the Headmaster used legilimency on me the morning we boarded the Hogwarts Express. As if that wasn't enough of an insult, the old curmudgeon wasn't the least bit subtle about it. Is he not aware that the first step in preventing a nargle infestation is to recognize when something foreign enters your mind? As Hermione would no doubt exclaim ... Honestly!
I might say that I assume he did the same to you, but "assume" spells something that is not appropriate to the situation. When one assumes, one makes an ASS out of U and Me. Get it? One of the muggleborns in Ravenclaw said that back in my first year. So clever! I have always wanted a reason to repeat it. I find it most hilarious, don't you?
His back pressed against the bare wall at the head of his rickety bed, Harry snickered and shook his head. Typical Luna-cy.
Flickering light from a bare, low-watt bulb in a dented brass table lamp offered little in the way of comforting illumination. For Harry, it was better than no light at all. A weak glow illuminated the loopy handwriting on a parchment letter that, along with a small package, had arrived on the heels of both sunset and a rare summer thunderstorm. Harry couldn't be positive, what with the poor lighting, but the ink looked to be a bizarre combination of mustard yellow, bronze, and umber, as though the ink was poorly mixed and the three colors separated as the lines progressed.
Despite its less than optimal output, the small lamp had been a lucky thrift store find for Harry. After all, his relatives weren't about to spend good money on an item that helped him in any way.
Beyond the window of the smallest bedroom of the house at 4 Privet Drive, powerful winds and horizontal rain lashed the building. Agitated tree limbs slammed against the brick exterior like brutal blows from a troll's club. The storm, the late hour and poor visibility combined to blacken the room's already creepy shadows. The poor barn owl that had delivered the letter looked miserable perched on the back of Harry's desk chair, tired, sopping wet, and quite bedraggled. Hedwig rested in her cage, doing her best to sleep through the commotion.
Harry angled the parchment towards the lamp and continued to read.
As you know, our plans didn't work out quite to schedule, but in the end, no harm done. We all assumed (there's that naughty word again...) he would review everyone's memories at Hogwarts before we left in the carriages. No one expected him to wait until we stood on the platform. Dobby did quite well, holding off returning our memories until our first night at home. I must say, having a house elf carrying a shoulder bag and a pensieve appear in my bedroom as I stood naked, undressing for bed, was startling, even for me!
Embarrassing heat flowed over Harry's neck and ears and other responsive body parts. He wasn't interested in Luna Lovegood except as a trusted friend, but he was a teenage boy with elevated hormones and a vivid imagination. Something soft and curvy might lurk beneath Luna's school robes.
A brilliant flash of lightning, followed instantly by a sonic thunderclap, turned his room a blinding silver-white. A violent surge of wind slammed rain and scattered hailstones against the window pane hard enough to make the glass hum. The unexpected dazzle and sounds broke the hypnotic products of his youthful imagination.
Face aflame, Harry chastised himself for even forming such a thought. He forcibly redirected his attention to the second half of the lengthy letter.
I received a letter from Professor McGonagall less than an hour ago asking if Dobby was successful. She didn't specifically say so, but I think Dobby recalled her first and followed her instructions to return our memories once we were well clear of the Headmaster rather than doing so before we left the school, as we'd originally planned. She asked me to pass along a message to you. While it appears that the memory alterations were successful, Dumbledore is suspicious of everyone and everything, paranoid and quite close-mouthed about his feelings and plans. The loss of his phoenix bond will only add to his instability. She highly recommends exercising great care in any dealings we might have with him.
"Like I need reminding of that," Harry muttered.
Dumbledore's furious expression, the one aimed their way as Harry and his new friends made plans behind privacy shields in the Hogwarts infirmary, was forever branded into Harry's memory. It was the face of a vindictive and vengeful man. Harry found no remorse, no compassion, and, most chilling of all, no mercy. It was an expression he had never before seen on the headmaster's face, and least of all directed towards him. Those sparkling blue eyes had been filled with rage, suspicion and accusation. They were all traitors to both Dumbledore and the Light, which in the old wizard's warped mind amounted to the same thing.
After what Harry had seen take place in the last few days before leaving Hogwarts' grounds, it was plain as day. Albus Dumbledore teetered on the brink of insanity. It wouldn't take much at all to tip him over, if he hadn't fallen already.
Harry shook his head to dispel an instinctive shiver of fear. With conscious effort, he stilled his shaking right hand. The thumb of his left hand rubbed the slender edge of the flat wooden box that rested on the bed next to his hip. The as-yet-unexplained item had accompanied the young witch's correspondence.
Even though she is your Head of House, and it is well within her purview to follow up on a student who has suffered as you have, writing directly to you might draw attention to things that we all would prefer remain hidden. What's more, Dumblebumble forbade Hermione, the Weasleys, the professors and staff from writing to you. "Let the poor boy grieve and recover in peace," he said. What a load of dragon dung! Still, the old coot isn't as crafty as he thinks. He didn't say anything about writing to other students, did he? So, if Prof. McGonagall or anyone else needs you to know anything, they can pass it along through me. The reverse is also true.
As our new friends planned, Dumblebum is quite busy with demands from the Ministry, the Hogwarts Board of Governors, the Wizengamot, the ICW, the DMLE, and the wizarding press. For well over a week, Hogsmeade has reaped a great bounty from both officials who demand information and reporters assaulting the castle in hopes of an exclusive. Their presence is providing quite an unexpected boost to the local economy during a time of usually slow income.
The Headmaster's search for someone to fill both the Potions and the DADA professorships will only add to his distraction. This doesn't even begin to address the veritable avalanche of letters (including, I am told, many howlers) from infuriated parents. From what I understand, Molly Weasley has the exploding howler down to a fine art form.
This has been a most interesting few weeks! I confess to a bit of sadness at seeing the end of my recent adventures. They were quite thrilling and a totally new experience for me. Perhaps I will create a line of children's adventure books based on someone who is not myself. They will tell the story of a young Ravenclaw witch who is exposed to a previously hidden society that is at odds with her own. A dastardly villain with stupid henchmen (and henchwomen, to be fair), obstructing officials, mystical creatures, magic battles, swordplay, and good friends abound! It's never been done before, to the best of my knowledge. I will ask Daddy if I can use the Quibbler's press between issues of the magazine.
Now to a more negative topic. As we were leaving the train at King's Cross Station, I witnessed your ... I hesitate to call them relatives but ... I saw how the man with the walrus mustache and no neck treated you. As an aside, I must say this: the crimson splotches on his face cannot be good for his health. I daresay he was none too pleased with being ganged up on by members of the Order of the Fricasseed Firebird, though Dumbles might have to change that name as Fawkes is no longer his familiar. Your aunt and uncle must surely be monitoring your letters to the Order to make certain you not only send the messages but portray your "caretakers" in a favorable light.
Because of that, and as an additional means of keeping Bumblebutt's bulbous beak out of your business (owls can be intercepted, you know), I have provided you with a letter-poster. It's a mate to the one I have. You slide your letter or package into the slot on the side of the box. If the device lives up to its advertisements, the slot will expand to accept any non-living item up to the size of a quaffle. The fairies on the top will dance whenever there's a waiting message or package. They're quite beautiful, truly. The one with the awesomely long hair who likes to pirouette is my particular favorite. I do hope you'll write me often so that I can watch them frolic in the forest! To receive a letter, you need only tap the opening with the tip of your wand, and the letter-poster will complete the delivery.
Harry looked down. Sure enough, seven fairies etched into the top of the flat rectangular block of wood danced in a shimmer of silvery moonlight against a backdrop of swaying oak trees. He agreed with Luna; the fairy with hair long enough to brush the ground was quite pretty.
I have already forwarded something to you. Molly Weasley often brings food over for Daddy and me. Many times it's more than we two can eat by ourselves. Somehow I doubt those muggles feed you properly, so I'll be sending something every day to tide you over.
Do be careful, and stay in touch.
Yours,
Luna (sometimes called Looney, though I can't imagine why)
PS. My father was kind enough to spell this letter for me, since I can't do it myself because of the Ministry's bothersome laws regarding underage magic. Should anyone besides yourself read it, they will see nothing more interesting than a running and convoluted discussion regarding a summer snorkack hunt, mixed with the risks of allowing nargles to invade one's ears. Come to think of it, my next letter to you might cover those very topics. After all, my father and I do plan a search for snorkacks in Bavaria, and nargle infestations are nasty things that should be avoided at all costs.
Harry re-read the letter, starting with her first mention of Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore's paranoia, then folded it carefully and hid it inside his school trunk, tucked between the pages of an old transfiguration textbook. He closed his trunk, careful not to slam the lid loud enough to attract Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia's attention, though with a raucous thunderstorm directly overhead, any small sounds from his room would not be noticed.
Curious to see what Luna had sent him via the letter-poster, Harry pulled his wand from beneath his pillow and tapped the slit along the rectangular box's wide side. The opening shimmered and expanded until a square package popped out, wrapped in a red-and-blue checkered cloth. A napkin roll sat on top, from which peeked the ends of a fork, spoon and knife. He immediately caught the heavenly scent Mrs. Weasley's piping hot mincemeat pie, fresh-baked bread, and treacle tart.
Ravenous, Harry barely thought to use the cutlery, diving into the delicious offerings with a total lack of manners. Luna —and inadvertently, Mrs. Weasley — had provided him with a feast, enough to last several meals, even with the way he scarfed down his first serving.
As he ate, Harry's remembered the passage from Luna's letter, where Dumbledore yet again forbid anyone from contacting him. Would Ron and Hermione obey this year, as they did last summer? If so, was it out of respect for his mourning, or did they blame him for their injuries during their adventure at the Ministry of Magic? Harry couldn't bear the thought of another lonely summer, where his friends hardly wrote, and when they did, said nothing but useless gossip.
Harry's hunger fell silent for the first time in over a week. Hearing a soft hoot from Hedwig, he crossed the narrow room and shared the bounty with his avian friend.
"Well, girl. Despite Luna's support, it's shaping up to be the worst-ever summer of my life. Voldemort's stopped sneaking into my head and showing me things that aren't real or making me feel emotions that aren't mine. But that's the only good thing about my life now."
Hedwig accepted the food, chittered and clicked, and affectionately nibbled on his fingertips.
Despite warnings from both Luna and McGonagall, and alarm bells in his own mind, there was little Harry could do. The Headmaster held so many positions in education and government. He could use any one of them, or any combination, to do whatever he wanted, and Harry would be helpless to stop him. With his reputation and power, Dumbledore was a law unto himself. He could create laws or break them however he pleased. The twinkle-eyed bastard had done all of these in his quest to serve "the greater good."
Harry was still smarting from Sirius' death and the "prophecy" conversation he'd had with Dumbledore right afterwards. Both were burned into his memory. Those events, coupled with what he'd seen of the Headmaster's darker side, threw a new light on his own life, and why he had endured living with relatives who couldn't stand him. It also explained so much about all the strange stuff that had happened since he'd first laid eyes on Hogwarts.
Everyone said trouble always had a way of finding him. Perhaps they were wrong. Had everything in his life been carefully orchestrated to shape him into Albus Dumbledore's personal pawn, to be used only whenever the crafty old wizard saw fit?
Harry was not yet sixteen years of age. He had thirteen months before he reached legal majority in the magical world. That left plenty of time for the Headmaster to lay out plans on top of plots mixed with intrigues and blanketed by diversions. Dumbledore would be even more obsessed with controlling Harry's every thought and action. The teen wizard could not predict what Dumbledore would do, let alone devise a way to block him. If Harry survived to reach his seventeenth birthday, which was in no way guaranteed, he'd have no say in anything, not even the method of his own death.
"Sirius ... Sirius is dead, so I can never go to live with him. The law says a werewolf like Remus can't be my guardian, and Dumbledore certainly won't let me stay with the Weasleys. There's no place I can go in the wizarding world," Harry muttered to Hedwig as he stroked the snowy owl's feathers.
"I could run away. The Dursleys certainly won't miss me, except when they need someone to slave for them. At first, it wasn't so bad. The Dursleys ignored me except to make sure I sent my letters on time. Over the last few days, they've started demanding I do chores again. The list gets longer every day. I don't mind the work so much; it helps keep my mind occupied. Saves me from thinking about how ruddy awful the last year has been. But now, Uncle Vernon's started to use a belt or his fists to 'relieve stress,' and he's drinking more than he used to. I heard him telling Aunt Petunia about problems at work. Something about missing inventory or money or something like that. It's set him off twice in the last four days. Even Dudley's walking soft around him, and Aunt Petunia's bending over backwards to keep him satisfied. The only reason Uncle Vernon didn't kick my door open tonight is because Aunt Petunia dragged him and Dudders out for a restaurant meal.
"If I did run away, where would I go? I can't find, let alone get to, the reapers' home, but maybe I could take an airplane to Japan. Chatting with Ichigo in the infirmary is one of the memories they let me keep. He didn't flat out say so, but I think he's different from the others. He mentioned being mortal, like it was something unusual. I could probably find him. I mean, how many orange-haired teenage boys named Ichigo Kurosaki live in a little Japanese town named Karakura? All I'd need to do is visit the schools until I find him. Better yet, I could look for his family's medical clinic."
Harry sighed, shoulders slumped in defeat, and shook his head. "Who am I kidding? Running away would only delay the inevitable. Between tracking charms, divination, scrying, and his international contacts in the ICW, the old bastard would eventually find me. I'd buy myself a few weeks, a month or two at most. And for what? He'd pull me back here and add even more bars to my jail. I'd be lucky to see daylight before he makes me go back to Hogwarts. Even then ... even then, what freedoms will he take away?" Harry chuffed and sneered. "Not that he's left many to begin with. I can't imagine what he'll do next to keep hold of his precious weapon. His martyr-in-training. His scapegoat and sacrifice."
Harry gave his owl a final tidbit then sealed the container. The food box and the letter-poster disappeared into a space beneath the loose floorboard under his bed. As he lay down, the springs squeaked and creaked. Long experience taught him how to spread his weight to decrease the amount of noise. Hands tucked between his head and the flat feather pillow, Harry listened to the raging storm, merging his unsettled emotions with nature's cleansing violence. Staring at the ceiling, he studied moisture stains on the plaster and tried to see magical shapes in the brown blotches.
Thanks to the letter I wrote to myself, the reapers, and my memories inside the pensieve, I know what happened outside the castle. Both sides fighting. Terrible damage to Hogwarts and its grounds. The stinking haze of smoke from rampaging fires. Professor Sprout's greenhouse burning to the ground. Moody, trapped in a block of ice. Everyone siding with the strangers against Snape and Dumbledore. Snape, a dying boy draped over his arm, a wand at his head.
I remember the green dome ... and Toshiro ... telling me about—
Harry shuddered and squeezed his eyes closed. Why did Dumbledore obliviate me? Did I see something dangerous? Was it because I met Toshiro? Did he tell me something that Dumbledore doesn't want me to know? Did I figure out what the old man and Snape were doing and try to stop them? I don't care so much about the details. I learned enough from Toshiro to fill in the blanks but ...
Damn it! It's INFURIATING to know I had a memory but someone stole it, and I can never get it back.
It makes me think. According to Albus "many middle names" Dumbledore, I have a prophecy over my head. I'm destined to vanquish the Dark Lord with a power he "knows not." I'm the only one who can, or so he says. The question I have to ask is ... which dark lord is it ... Tom Riddle or Albus Dumbledore? Knowing my luck, it's both.
After this last year at Hogwarts, after what you did to me, after what I saw you'd done to Toshiro, after the terrible battle you allowed to disfigure Hogwarts, I'll never forgive you, Dumbledore. This tailored martyr, your precious little weapon, has a mind of his own. Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, I will defeat Voldemort, but I'll do it MY way, not yours. And you will get what's coming to you.
()()()()
For what must be the one hundredth time in nine days, Albus Dumbledore emerged from his pensieve more perplexed than ever. Even before he added everything he could recall since the battle, the pensieve's bowl was already half full. The vessel held eyewitness accounts from Severus Snape, Alastor Moody, and Mundungus Fletcher of the event outside the Leaky Cauldron, as well as every session with their captive. Albus had viewed every contact with the creature inside the homunculus, the fight with its would-be rescuer, and every individual combat between wizard and invader, everything up to that moment inside the Hogwarts infirmary when the intruders' ethereal gate vanished into nothingness.
He stared at the pensieve and pondered the situation. The shallow stone basin, lined with powerful runes and polished to a metallic sheen, held clouds of shimmering substance that was both liquid and gas. Memories. So many memories from every possible source.
With so much information, there must be something of use. If only he weren't so tired and sore, he'd surely find what he needed.
On the positive side, he'd narrowed the foreign language spoken by the strangers to Japanese. Hoping to garnish valuable information, he cast three different translation charms on himself then reviewed every interaction stored within the bowl. On the negative side, he understood the words but without a context for reference, he could not comprehend their meaning. No matter how many times he viewed the events, he could not decipher anything of real significance. Even worse, he'd thoroughly examined the memories of every single person who came into contact with the strangers, however briefly, only to find their recollections were irrevocably altered.
With that thought, and of even greater positive note, he succeeded where everyone else failed. Despite the invaders' attempts to cover their powers and abilities, Albus Dumbledore clearly recalled every action, every truth they sought to hide.
Has it really been nine days since the battle? Albus rubbed his sore eyes and straightened his spine. It seems like both yesterday and an eon ago.
Nine days of deep thought, of fact-finding, of careful consideration regarding his every move. Nine days of dodging, bribing, or placating narrow-minded idiots who had neither the courage nor wit to see what had to be done. What only he could accomplish for the betterment of their world.
I'll learn nothing more from the pensieve, at least while I'm this exhausted.
With a wave of his hand, Dumbledore sent the bowl back to its storage place. The Hogwarts Headmaster walked to his desk and sank into his throne-like chair. He heaved a heavier sigh, closed his eyes against a throbbing ache inside his head, and pondered his situation.
"Fawkes, old friend, would you sing a song to relieve my troubled mind?"
No soothing trill. No sympathetic chirrup.
Dumbledore looked toward the phoenix's perch. It was empty.
Memory rushed back, along with a torment sharp enough to snatch all air from his lungs. The broken bond wrenched his soul. Albus Dumbledore wailed and clutched his chest with both hands, humped over in grief.
"Fawkes! Fawkes, my soul's other half. Why? Why did you abandon me? For well over seventy-five years you've been my strength. You rode my shoulder with pride. We worked together to build a better life for all magickind, never doubting our actions or the paths we walked. You sustained my spirit every moment of every day. You supported me through harsh and brutal battles that would have otherwise overwhelmed me with despair. Your magical gifts saved so many lives, my own most often of all. How could you deny me over something this ... this ... necessary? Couldn't you see? It had to be done."
He laid his head on his desk and wept.
He was so very tired. His bed beckoned, but he'd find no rest in its warmth and softness.
Since the battle against the foreign invaders, his evenings dragged like winter molasses, each night an eternity with little or no sleep. Sunsets he'd once enjoyed were nothing more than harbingers of the long, dark hours ahead. The few times he dozed off, painful regrets, what-ifs and worst case scenarios plagued his dreams. Poignant phoenix song beat against his conscience. Phoenix fire seared his soul. His dreams once flowed with soothing, otherworldly refrains that bolstered his weary mind and strengthened his aging body. He now endured discordant avian stanzas of reproach, disappointment, and the irrevocable fracture of their soul bond.
Even the demands of his positions as Headmaster, Chief Warlock, and Supreme Mugwump could not remove the horrible ache.
Wiping salty tears onto his wrinkled sleeve, Dumbledore stared at the stack of papers on his desk and wished with all his heart that they would vanish into flame. How many letters had he sent, how many favors had he wasted, trying to find a new potioneer? All of the older, more experienced potions masters were settled into their careers and not drawn to accept a lesser position as a teacher, even at an institution as prestigious as Hogwarts. Due in part to Severus' rather harsh teaching methods, Britain held but a handful of younger witches and wizards who might need help finding employment in the potioneer's craft. A small handful, and every single one had declined.
As much as he hated the thought, he must look beyond Britain for suitable candidates. The very notion of accepting someone from Durmstrang, Beaubatons or, worse still, the Other Continents was a harsh blow to Hogwarts' pride and prestige.
Even worse, filling the DADA seat was all but impossible. Yet, if he failed, the Ministry would interfere once again. Dolores Umbridge had been bad enough, being an unqualified disaster of a teacher. He was still dealing with the fallout from her brief reign as Hogwarts' Headmistress.
The next person they sent might well be worse, not only for the students but for his own position, as well.
If only Severus was here. I still need his help, both with the school and Tom, the current Dark Lord. How unfortunate that recent events required me to sacrifice his services.
Recent events. Some of them were brought about by my own actions, much as I wish to deny it. Was I wrong? Did I choose the darker path? Were my motives less than pure?
As I look back at what I've done, I see where my conduct might be perceived as evil. I also see the motives behind all that I've accomplished. What I did was unquestionably self-serving, particularly in regards to the spirit inside the homunculus, but won't that benefit everyone? The stronger I am, the better I can protect the wizarding world.
Those watching from the outside were deceived. Sheep, all of them, allowing physical appearances to blind them to the truth. They saw a tortured child. They did not see the false shell or recognize the dangers represented by the spirit within it. They did not see the menace or the possibilities. Possibilities that I alone can harness and use.
"Harry cannot face his destiny alone," he said aloud. "When his time comes to face Voldemort, he will need my help. And afterwards ... loathe though I am to do so ... I will do what I must to break the cycle of evil."
The Headmaster's expression sharpened. Doubt faded.
"The truth is before me. Every action was justified and pure. I did what had to be done. I gained nothing for myself. Fawkes only saw the outside. He didn't look deep enough into my heart to see the truth. It wasn't my fault. Fawkes failed to uphold our familiar's agreement, not I."
Dumbledore sat straighter in his chair. Firm resolve hardened his expression still further.
"What are my options from this point forward? The creatures inside the homunculi are beyond my reach, at least for the time being. My contacts around the world can search for monsters like the ones they fought in London. Where I find the beasts, I might find the beast handlers. By tracking their movements, I can narrow down the location of this 'magical enclave' they spoke of."
Albus rose from his chair and straightened his robes. Deep in thought, the Headmaster tucked his hands up his sleeves and paced around his office.
"My second and even more important objective: strengthen my hold on Harry Potter. He was far too friendly with the invaders, particularly those closest to the one they called Toshiro. I must curtail their influence on him. The boy's memory was altered, same as everyone else. I checked him more thoroughly than anyone other than that traitorous little bint, Lovegood. Still, there is a slight possibility they planted a seed of rebellion deep in Harry's subconscious. I must squash it before it has a chance to take root. I need the boy to remain malleable, ready to take my instruction."
Dumbledore's thoughtful meandering brought him to a window overlooking the nighttime grounds. Below and beyond, a moonlit ribbon of road stretched from Hogwarts' gates through the forest and down towards Hogsmeade. Even from the Headmaster's Tower, Albus couldn't see the village itself, but a crescent glow over the far woods marked its location. Scattered, low-hanging clouds mirrored the light.
"But how to do it? Between investigators, ministry officials and reporters, I'm under far too much scrutiny to act directly. I will need help. Alastor might be a possibility ... no. While he supports me against these creatures, he'd never deal with Harry as we must. Remus Lupin is an even worse choice. He would never stand for abusing the boy further than we already have. The same goes for any member of the Weasley clan. Fletcher would do whatever I asked, but the man's too loose-tongued when in his cups. He's even worse than Hagrid at keeping a secret. In fact, I can't think of any Order member who has the necessary ruthlessness to handle this responsibility. That leaves me but one choice." The smile that spread across Dumbledore's face was anything but benign. "Now that I think on it, he is the best option of all."
Albus turned from the window in a swirl of robes. The wizard drew his wand, pointed it at the cold fireplace, and created a blaze suitable for a fire call.
A flush of irritation marred his satisfaction. "Fawkes, where are you when I need you, you foolish bird? It was so much easier and faster with you around to carry messages."
Albus Dumbledore huffed and grunted as he knelt beside his office fireplace. He was much too old to crouch on a hard stone floor. How undignified he must look, squatting like a dog waiting to beg for scraps. The climb back to his feet would undoubtedly be an embarrassing, graceless and painful battle against aching bones and stiff joints.
Despite nine days having passed, he still suffered from magical exhaustion. The prolonged fight with that young, orange-haired devil wielding an obscenely large sword had eaten up his reserves. For two days following their duel, Albus was little more than a squib in terms of magical power. According to the memories he'd pilfered, Madam Pomfrey couldn't remember precisely why she felt strong resentment towards the Headmaster. Because of that feeling, however, she refused to provide potions to ease his suffering or to replenish his store of magical energy. She offered neither sympathy nor aid for his restless nights, not even a single dose of dreamless sleep potion. If this continued for much longer, he would bring the rebellious witch back into line.
Despite the irritating issues regarding his health, Albus was ready to put his revised plan into action.
He threw a pinch of floo powder into the flames and called, "Spinner's End."
After a long moment, a hawk-nosed face appeared in the flames. Even distorted by the method of communication, Albus could not mistake the loathing and contempt on the master potioneer's face.
"You have the unmitigated gall to contact me after what you did?" Snape snarled. "Wasn't it enough that you tossed me to the wolves at the first opportunity?"
"I know, Severus. I treated you ill, and I'm more sorry than I can say." Albus added as much remorse to his voice and expression as he could, supplemented by a sorrowful bob of his head to imitate shame. The Headmaster deliberately coached his body language to radiate contrition. A tiny part of his conscience that truly did regret his actions made the facade all the more convincing. "I truly had no choice. Surely you can see that. They had so much circumstantial evidence against both of us, yourself even more than me. I must hold onto every scrap of power and position in order to lead the battle against Voldemort. Believe me, Severus, my old friend. I will not abandon you."
Snape snorted hard enough to disturb the flames and put forth a fine puff of ash. "Don't waste your breath on a bald-faced lie. I know you too well, Albus Dumbledore. As proof of that, we both know you didn't fire call me to chat or apologize. What do you want?"
"I need your help."
"Of course. How foolish of me to ask." Snape's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. "What possible use can I be to you? I can no longer teach. I can't use favoritism, bribes, or house points to isolate and misinform the students. I certainly can't spy against the Dark Lord or feed him false information. Except for my potions skill, I'm no longer valuable to him. He barely tolerated me as it was. During his first rise to power, I was a trusted member of his inner circle, but I haven't been summoned to a high-level meeting since his revival in the Little Hangleton graveyard a year ago. Once Voldemort learns I've been sacked from Hogwarts and that the Ministry is investigating my activities, I'll be lucky to escape with my sanity. There is a very real risk that he will torture and kill me within ten minutes of my appearance before him."
"There is that risk, I admit," Dumbledore said. "However, I believe the two of us together can find a way to mold circumstances to our advantage."
Snape scoffed. "Advantage? What possible 'advantage' could there be to this damnable situation? I can no longer function as the Dark Lord's spy within Hogwarts. He won't be pleased with that turn of events."
"True, he has lost your services in that role, but he must have other eyes and ears inside the school. There are unquestionably students, particularly amongst the sixth- and seventh-years, who look to him as the one who will lead them to a brighter future. A future with themselves as undisputed lords over the lesser masses."
Snape sneered but, rather than agree with Dumbledore, he said nothing.
"Severus, how much do you remember of events that have taken place over the last two to three weeks?"
A wary frown pinched Snape's face, drawing his eyebrows closer together. He repeated, "Remember?"
"Do you recall a battle outside of the Leaky Cauldron two Fridays before end of term, the day after Sirius Black was killed? You saw two oddly dressed males. One of the two was an adult, the other a white-haired, adolescent-seeming boy. They used strange weapons and unfamiliar powers to battle a pack of monstrous beasts on the streets of London."
Severus thought long and hard before reluctantly admitting, "I have a ... vague ... recollection of ... something important happening that week." The potions master's hard, beady black eyes narrowed. All of his attention adhered to the elderly headmaster. "Are you saying I've been obliviated?"
"In a sense. Not by magic, but by an unknown, chemically induced method. Severus, do you recall how you and Alastor captured the boy and brought him to Hogwarts? Of discovering that he was not human at all, but rather a partially corporeal spirit occupying a rather splendid homunculus? The four days where you and I took turns interrogating him, hoping to learn the source of his powers and a way to harness it ourselves? The arrival of the creature's confederates and the battle that nearly destroyed Hogwarts?"
"These things really happened? I don't recall much more than capturing what I thought might be an unregistered or emerging metamorphmagus with an unusual magical ability. I imprisoned him in a cell beneath the Slytherin dungeons and questioned him. You were there ... on the final day, I believe. You counseled me to end the brutality and attempt to gain the information through more passive means. I remember a battle but not enough detail to describe what happened. Weren't Potter and his bookends outside when the battle started? He interfered with ... something I needed to accomplish. I can't ... picture it clearly. It's as if there's a thick fog between my mind and a clear recollection."
"Precisely as I feared," Albus said with an all-knowing nod. Ribbons of kindness and pity skated through his mind. They vanished as quickly as they appeared. "What you recall is consistent with memories I've observed from every other witness who was 'obliviated' by the creatures."
One of Snape's eyebrows arched upwards, a sign that Dumbledore's spy had put all of the pieces together. "But not you. Somehow, you held onto your memories."
"Yes."
"How did you do it?" Snape demanded. "My occlumency shields are as strong as yours. Stronger even, since I must hide my thoughts from the Dark Lord. Yet these 'creatures' as you call them wiped every scrap of useful information from my mind."
"They thought themselves so clever." Albus smiled his superiority then grimaced as he shifted to take some of the weight off his bruised knees. There really was no way to kneel on stone without some level of pain. "Fools, every one of them. Seeing the lengths they employed to force your obliviation, I wasn't about to let them do the same to me. It required a careful balance of resistance and vulnerability, as well as shielded compartmentalization of key recollections, but I succeeded in protecting my mind. As far as they knew, I was the same as the others whose minds had been altered."
"The memories you retained. Do they contain enough information to be of any use to us?"
Dumbledore made sure to hide his satisfaction even as he crowed victory within the privacy of his thoughts. Yes! I have you hooked, Severus Snape. I have you dangling on the end of my line. All I need do is reel you in. None of the Headmaster's venomous thoughts showed in his placid expression. Voldemort may have little need of you, but there are a few more tasks you can do for me before I let the Dark Lord have what's left.
"Step through, Severus." Dumbledore grunted, moaned, and muttered curses beneath his breath as he levered his aching body off the floor. The movement was as clumsy and humiliating as he'd anticipated. "I have memories within my pensieve that will shed some light on your true activities over the last six days. Once you've viewed them all, we have much to discuss."
