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Number 84, new chapter!

Chapter 84

Snape's second brief session had proved even more useful than the first, and Harry had begun to almost admire the wizard's self preservation instinct, cunning, and intelligence. He still could barely be in the same room with him, though, and for all his admiration of Snape's skills, the more he realised the capabilities of the man, the more he knew that he could only trust him as far as his goals aligned with Snape's.

The end of Voldemort was the only aim they shared.

Severus Snape, Harry had swiftly realised, was an apathetic, cruel shell of a man, dedicated to achieving his vengeance, and prepared to do or give anything he had to for it to happen. The only thing Snape seemed to loathe more than Voldemort, was the fact that he had to depend on, and follow others to get revenge upon his master.

The lingering affection for his mother had driven him further into the Dark Arts than any of his misled former school friends, but Snape seemed to take little satisfaction from them anymore.

'You're still here,' the former potions teacher drawled, returning from his office with a glass of blackberry wine in hand. 'I expected you to go to the headmaster immediately.'

'I am,' Harry replied mildly, tucking Dumbledore's note into his pocket. 'I was curious about the Dark Mark.'

That was close to the truth; it was at least half of it. Harry actually wanted to get a better glimpse at Snape's office, to check whether any of it was warded should he ever have reason to enter illicitly, but he was curious about the Mark too, and whether Snape was prepared to show him, and share one of his secrets with Harry.

'I presume you want to know how it works?' Snape remarked without a hint of emotion, baring his left forearm.

'I do,' Harry leant close, grasping Snape's forearm with his right hand. The sallow-faced teacher flinched slightly, and the Dark Mark squirmed between Harry's fingertips. The snake writhed through the skull, tongue flickering, scales rippling, and fangs agape.

'How curious,' Harry wondered aloud, rolling Snape's arm onto his wrist to check the outer of his forearm. It was blank, but the professor hissed quietly, and snatched his arm back from Harry's grip. He stared at Harry angrily for a moment, assessing whether or not he was to blame, then seemed to think better of it, and frowned deeply.

For a long moment he was silent, then there was a flash of fury unlike anything he had ever seen from Snape. It was just an instant of ire, a momentary burst of fire that, for Snape, signified unbridled wrath, and Harry had to wonder what had just occurred to him.

'It allows the Dark Lord to summon us, acting like a portkey, but it also symbolises an oath of fealty to him, a magical promise,' the professor said calmly, putting his goblet on his desk.

'Oh?' Harry eyed the tattoo once more, but Snape pulled his sleeve back down once he noticed.

'I studied it in great detail,' Snape's lips crooked, 'and it has its flaws. As long as I still serve him, then I have not broken it, even if I serve another, or myself, as well.'

'What happens if you break it?' Harry asked.

'It was made by the Dark Lord, Harry,' Snape drawled, 'he is not known for mercy, nor compassion, what do you think happens?'

'Death, then,' Harry deduced simply. He would have done the same. A well worded magical contract that bound his followers to serve him, and their own interests so long as the two did not conflict, and a harsh punishment for those that were not able to remain loyal.

'Death,' Snape nodded, sipping his wine gently. 'I have to carefully avoid any commands that might clash with Dumbledore's goals.'

'And yours,' Harry added with a small smile. 'What happens if you are given an order?'

'I must carry it out,' Snape admitted, staring into the goblet as if it held a glimpse of the future, 'no matter the command.'

So that's what happened with Katie, Harry realised. He has no choice, if he wants to live, and to keep serving Dumbledore to get his revenge then he has to do whatever Voldemort commands.

'I have a little leeway,' Snape continued, 'I can interpret his orders in a certain way, but sometimes things are simply black and white, or yes or no.'

'Perhaps you should forget to learn the addresses of the students,' Harry suggested, with more than a touch of ice. Snape's eyes jerked up from his goblet. 'I imagine that there are those who are less understanding of your situation, particularly if someone they cared about was hurt, or killed, because you gave the location for Voldemort to attack.'

'If I said I was sorry, it would not change anything.' The hollow look was back in Snape's dark eyes.

'No,' Harry's smile curved a little cruel, 'no I don't suppose it would.'

'Number fourteen, South Street, Diagon Alley,' Snape muttered, underestimating Harry's hearing. His stomach clenched, steaks of ice bursting across his chest. That was Katie's address.

'That would be a good address to forget,' he commented quietly.

Snape looked up warily, his eyes darting to Harry's right wrist and wand holster, before he relaxed and replied. 'The Dark Lord already knows it,' he said smoothly, 'it would be best if Katherine Bell does not return there. He is insistent that she be taken from you, though I am unsure as to why she is so important.'

'Voldemort feels that I have taken more from him, than he has from me,' Harry smirked. 'It is understandable, there is little that he can take from me, and much that I can tear from him.'

'He is the Dark Lord,' Snape's sneer returned slightly, 'you lack the power or intellect to threaten him.'

As long as he, and his followers believe that then I am better off, Harry dismissed, not correcting Snape in case he passed any of their conversations back to either master.

'We have already lost then,' Harry shrugged.

'Dumbledore is certain there is a way to defeat him.' The confidence in Snape's voice seemed rehearsed. 'For all his naive belief in selfless sacrifice the headmaster is a powerful wizard, one that the Dark Lord is foolish to underestimate.'

'I would be surprised if he did,' Harry mused. 'Voldemort must have a plan for his former professor.' Snape held his gaze, eyes and surface thoughts open and earnest. From that Harry gathered that there was such a plan, that Snape knew it, and that he had decided not to share it with him. Snape's mind was never so easily read, normally he reacted to all but the faintest touch of Harry's thoughts, and such a slight connection gave Harry no more incite than looking at the professor's face.

He frowned slightly, if Snape was going to share everything he had to with Dumbledore and Voldemort that left him at a severe disadvantage.

'I should go see the headmaster,' Harry decided, turning away from Snape, and leaving him with his wine.

'I suspect he has many important things to tell you,' Snape agreed smoothly as he left.

Does he? Harry mused. Does he now?

Dumbledore had almost certainly been horcrux hunting over the summer, and Harry had to wonder if he'd been successful. There was, by his reckoning, only one left now that he'd destroyed the diary, the diadem and torn the fragment of soul from within himself. If Dumbledore had found and destroyed one, something he was certainly capable of, then Voldemort was already mortal.

The next time his Killing Curse reflects off a baby will be his last.

Harry grinned, glimpsing a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel for the first time. He had not realised just how close he was to outlasting his crucible.

A quiet shuffle in the corridor behind him interrupted his thoughts, and Harry, his instincts now well honed, whirled, wand in hand, and tongue taut with incantations.

It was Hermione. Pale-faced, and with dark shadows under her eyes.

'What are you doing out of Gryffindor Tower at this time?' Harry asked curiously, replacing his wand to Hermione's obvious relief.

'I could ask you the same thing,' Hermione retorted. 'I'm a prefect,' she tapped the shiny badge, 'and on my rounds, you are not.'

'And I would tell you that I have talking with Professor Snape, who told me that I should go and see Professor Dumbledore immediately.'

'I was following Malfoy,' Hermione admitted, knowing that Harry knew she was a long way from her normal patrol. 'Ron reckons he's seen him clutching his arm a couple of times, so when I saw him slinking about in the evening I decided to keep an eye on him. I caught sight of you afterwards.'

'And you decided to follow me?'

'I was about to ask you what you were doing out of the tower,' Hermione corrected, 'but you caught me by surprise before I could.'

'Any idea what Malfoy was doing?' Harry asked. There was a good chance that Voldemort would prefer more than one set of eyes and ears within Hogwarts, and the handful of seventh years that Harry suspected owned robes and masks would not be around for long enough to remain useful.

'He was skulking around the potions labs, and Professor Slughorn's office,' Hermione bit her lip. 'I think he was looking for the rest of the felix felicis.'

'There are a lot of poisonous things down there,' Harry noted absently. Malfoy, it seemed, was likely just being his normal, opportunistic self.

'He'd probably end up poisoning himself,' Hermione smiled, and for a brief instant the dark bruises beneath her eyes seemed to lighten. 'I can't be too careful though,' she continued, half to herself, 'what if he really is a Death Eater, and intending to poison someone.'

'He's our age,' Harry shrugged. 'If he serves Voldemort it's likely he's meant to be passing information on Dumbledore. Worrying about having to hurt him because he's secretly an assassin for Voldemort is paranoid.'

'It's only paranoia if I'm wrong,' Hermione responded sharply. She sounded oddly like Mad-Eye Moody, and Harry could not help picturing her among a room of curious, dark-detecting objects as she strained to escape her foes.

'Hope it's paranoia then,' Harry suggested evenly.

'I do,' something desperate flickered across her face, 'I do.'

'Right, I should be going, before I'm late to see Professor Dumbledore.' Harry was more than happy to leave following Malfoy to Hermione.

'Will you listen to him?'

It was such an odd, unexpected question that Harry did not know how to reply, so he pretended he didn't hear it, and continued on his way towards the gargoyle.

'Sherbet Lemon,' he said absently in the direction of the gargoyle. Dumbledore had not specified that the password had changed, so he assumed that it had not.

The gargoyle stepped aside to reveal the small, spiral stairs, and Harry, after taking a deep breath, clearing his thoughts, and preparing himself for what would not doubt be a subtle interrogation, made his way up.

'Come in, Harry,' the headmaster called as he reached the door.

'Professor Dumbledore,' Harry dipped his head, crossing the room to stand opposite the old wizard next to Fawkes, who trilled softly at him.

'Take a seat,' Dumbledore conjured a comfortable looking armchair behind him, 'we have much to discuss.'

Harry sank back into the chair, gazing casually up at the headmaster who was peering down at him over steepled fingers.

'How was your summer, Harry?' There was nothing to indicate any anger in the wizard's voice.

'Liberating.' Harry's lips twitched as he fought to keep the smirk from his face.

'We were most concerned about you, Harry,' Dumbledore remonstrated, and this time there was a hint of disappointment to his tone. It was the same edge of dismay that he had turned on Harry two years back.

'I kept my promise, sir,' Harry responded innocently. 'I spent the summer where I was safest.'

'Your aunt and uncle, while not the most pleasant, or polite of people were of your blood, and the wards there kept you far safer than anything else you might find.'

'Even the Fidelius?' Harry wasn't sure how long he would be able to maintain his facade of innocence.

'You can cast it?' Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with something that might have even been pride, though Harry suspected it was more likely to be a less noble emotion.

'No,' Harry admitted.

'Miss Delacour, then,' the headmaster deduced. Harry nodded curtly, not trusting himself to say anything about Fleur without his feelings slipping through. 'I can understand your actions, Harry,' the headmaster sighed, 'but I fear you have not fully thought through the consequences of them.'

'I disagree, sir,' Harry remarked evenly.

'Allow me to elucidate.' The headmaster placed his palms felt upon the desk, and Harry momentarily studied the flowing patterns of unicorns and dragons that flitted over his fingers. 'Your aunt and uncle, while no doubt happier without you, or any memory of magic,' the twinkle faded from Dumbledore's eyes, 'were safe only as long Tom never targeted them. I suspect he will not, since you are neither very fond of them, nor will they know anything useful, but it is hard to be certain.'

'I do not think he even knows they exist, sir,' Harry commented, 'else he would have surely tried to get to me during the summer, while I was unable to use magic, and far less well protected than when I am within these walls.'

'Perhaps,' the old wizard conceded, running a gloved hand through his beard, and look vaguely contemplative. 'Your decision to vanish, however, was ill-advised, even if spending the summer in the company of Miss Delacour must have seemed irresistible.'

'She is a lot more attractive than Dudley,' Harry agreed.

'True as that may be, Harry, there are few protections that Tom cannot penetrate, for, despite his many failings, he remains a brilliant wizard.'

'He cannot penetrate what he can't find,' Harry countered, 'and, should he have found us, we would be gone long before he passed through our wards.'

'There was more than the Fidelius Charm?' Dumbledore leant forward slightly.

'Of course,' Harry's surprise was earnest, 'I know better than most that the Fidelius is not foolproof. The Fianto Duri, and wards to stop anyone apparating, or portkeying, within the confines of our home.'

'Miss Delacour is supremely talented,' the headmaster smiled almost approvingly, 'it is not often that we are able to find someone so well matched to ourselves.'

And doesn't she know it, Harry thought fondly.

'Voldemort could not have found us without finding our secret keeper, nor could he have penetrated our wards without alerting us in time for us to escape, we were quite safe.'

'It is your choice of secret keeper that concerned me, Harry,' Dumbledore nodded. 'Sirius may be your godfather, but he can be quiet rash. I would prefer it, since you seem set on staying there, that you allowed me to keep your secret. I let your parents choose Sirius, and then secretly Peter Pettigrew, but I have no wish to see the past repeat itself if I can avoid it.'

Unless it involves another person sacrificing their life to destroy Voldemort, Harry disagreed.

'Sirius almost never leaves the headquarters of the Order, which are also under the Fidelius, making him almost the ideal secret keeper,' Harry commented.

'He is not your secret keeper, is he?' Dumbledore surmised swiftly, and Harry quietly cursed the perceptiveness of the wizard.

'No,' Harry smiled, 'he is not.'

'Am I able to persuade you that I will make a more cautious choice of secret keeper?' The Headmaster asked tiredly.

'I'm afraid not, sir,' Harry replied. 'You are a target for Voldemort, and his followers, should you die, my protections will unravel, whereas the current secret keeper will never even have to witness the war; their existence and reaction to me is not even known.'

'I shall have to hope that you are right, Harry,' Dumbledore decided. 'I daresay I will find you equally adamant on remaining in the company of the charming Miss Delacour, so I will keep my concerns about her safety at your side to myself.'

'Wise of you,' Harry agreed. He quietly suspected that the headmaster was simply waiting for a better moment to have that discussion; it would not be possible for his martyr to have any selfish reason to live.

'Alas, wisdom is one of the few benefits of age,' Dumbledore sighed, removing the left glove to reveal a slender band of gold set with a dark stone. 'Yet it is one I have ignored all too frequently.' He removed the right glove, and Harry's study of the archaic ring immediately ceased.

Dumbledore's wand hand was shrivelled and blackened, the flesh had retreated back to the bone, leaving veins and tendons to rise and stand prominently under stretched, thin skin.

The withering curse, Harry realised. How is he alive?

'What happened, sir?'

'You are aware of the curse I have contracted, I believe,' the headmaster reprimanded softly.

'I apologise, sir,' Harry did not bother to defend his phoney innocence, 'I meant how did you contract it?'

'A moment of rashness on my part,' Dumbledore admitted, adjusting his glasses with his uninjured hand. 'Tell me, Harry, have you ever wondered how Tom survived the reflected Killing Curse on that night all those years ago?'

'The question had crossed my mind,' Harry replied.

So it is finally time, Harry mused. He has left it late to share this with me.

'Allow me to explain the mystery, then.' The Headmaster stroked Fawkes with his left hand, burying his fingers in the phoenix's splendid plumage. 'There is a branch of magic known as soul magic that either relies on the concept, or actually interacts with, the soul of a being.'

'The Killing Curse,' Harry voiced aloud.

'Yes, that is a product of this branch of magic.' Dumbledore's disgust at the spell did not go unnoticed by Harry. 'While relying on the concept has produced many fine, and useful pieces of magic, interacting with the soul directly has produced very few spells that should be remembered.'

'Sorry, sir,' Harry interrupted, 'but what exactly is a soul?'

'Ah,' the headmaster beamed, 'a very good question. The soul is not something we have ever been able to quantify. There are references, in the few surviving works of Egyptian wizards, who pioneered this branch of magic, to the soul resembling the character and deeds of the person, and that idea is visible in the mythology of non-magical Egyptians. Regardless of its appearance it seems that it is essential for true life. The Killing Curse tears it from the body of its victim, and the Dementor's kiss steals all but the faintest imprint of it, robbing their victim of the very traits their soul once reflected.'

'If the Killing Curse removes the soul,' Harry frowned, 'how did Voldemort survive?'

'The short answer is that he did not, not truly,' Dumbledore sighed. 'The magic of your mother's sacrifice was stronger than anything I have seen before or since; there was nothing left of Voldemort in that room, his body was utterly destroyed. His spirit, however, endured. I believe that to truly die, one's whole soul must cross the threshold into death, and Voldemort's did not.'

'Why?' Harry pressed, impatient for the wizard to get to the point and tell him about horcruxes.

'Because by the time he tried to kill you the majority of Voldemort's soul was no longer within his body,' the headmaster revealed. 'There is a particularly dark piece of magic capable of fragmenting a wizard or witch's soul, and then binding it to something. While that artefact survives the soul is in two places, and thus the wizard or witch cannot be truly slain.'

'So Voldemort has one of these objects,' Harry pretended to deduce.

'More than one, I believe,' Dumbledore slid open the drawer to his desk, and placed the battered, fang riven form of the diary upon its smooth surface. 'The memory of Tom Riddle you destroyed in your second year was likely far more than a memory.'

'You knew?' Harry asked, unable to help himself. 'You knew then what this was, and you didn't tell me?'

'You were twelve, Harry, would you have understood?'

'I certainly would have been old enough to understand before now,' Harry countered.

'It is dangerous knowledge,' Dumbledore warned, 'Professor Slughorn has returned to this school to escape Tom, whom he realises will not let him live knowing the secret of his immortality.'

'I suspect he will not let me live either,' Harry remarked bitterly.

'There are worse things than death, Harry,' the old wizard smiled, but, for all the genuine, earnest emotion in Dumbledore's bright, blue eyes, it was not enough to convince Harry.

What could be worse than becoming nothing forever, from being torn from everything you deem precious. You are wrong, Dumbledore, Harry decided. You are wrong.

'This diary is not the only such object, or horcrux, I have encountered,' the headmaster continued, placing a finger on the dark stone of the ring he wore. 'This ring was an heirloom of the Gaunt family, from whom Tom is descended, and that heritage is something he places great value on.'

'So it has a piece of his soul in it?' Harry asked. He rather doubted that it did anymore. Judging by the state of Dumbledore's hand the headmaster had already paid the price for destroying this horcrux.

'Not anymore,' Dumbledore replied, confirming Harry's suspicions.

'So he is mortal now,' Harry mused, knowing that the blackened shell of the third, and likely final horcrux was resting at the bottom of the pool in the Chamber of Secrets.

'I suspect Tom may have made more,' Dumbledore disagreed, 'he had quite an interest in Arithmancy, and I would be very surprised if he had not made a very specific number of horcruxes.' The old wizard patted Fawkes once more, then slipped his gloves back on to conceal his withered hand. 'I think that is enough on this particular topic for now, Harry,' the headmaster decided. 'If you wish, and I would certainly encourage it, you may join me to learn more about Tom. I have collected a series of memories from those who have encountered him, and I hope to use them to locate and destroy his horcruxes, but, I may have need of your assistance.'

'Do you really think a few memories will provide the locations?' Harry asked sceptically.

'I have spent thirteen years searching for these specific memories, Harry,' Dumbledore admitted gently, 'they are not passing recollections, but ones of great relevance and import. For all his brilliance Tom never truly shed the impulses and desires of the ambitious, dangerous boy I met almost half a century ago. His hubris will not allow him to use objects he deems unworthy, and he will place them in locations that hold meaning with him.'

Just as I would, Harry realised.

He could only think of a handful of places that he might feel comfortable entrusting a piece of his soul too. The Chamber of Secrets, Fleur, the willow tree beside the river in France, the Room of Requirement, and possibly even Aragog's hollow.

'I would be happy to assist you,' Harry decided. No doubt Dumbledore wanted to use the time with him for things other than hunting horcruxes, but it was a risk Harry had to take. He couldn't allow any of the horcruxes to survive before he and the Dark Lord inevitably clashed.

'Thank you, Harry,' the headmaster responded kindly. 'Now, I have heard from Professor McGonagall that you make a handsome raven?'

'Only briefly, sir' Harry admitted. 'I managed to transfigure myself into a raven, as the most fitting form, but it was no animagus transformation. I was the raven, but the raven was not me.'

'An interesting way of putting it,' Dumbledore said softly. 'It takes a great deal of thought and effort to truly have the raven become you, as you so eloquently put it.'

'You are not an animagus, are you, sir?' Harry asked, remembering a previous discussion on the subject.

'No, though Aberforth, my brother, insists that I will be a particularly feminine sphinx. It has to do with my penchant for speaking in riddles, I believe.'

Harry chuckled quietly at the image of Dumbledore transforming into a sphinx, then, remembering the sphinx in the maze, fell quiet, suddenly suspicious of its presence. 'Is it possible to take the form of a magical creature?'

'No,' Dumbledore shook his head slightly. 'While there are animals that may suit our characters, most magical creatures posses qualities that humans do not, and thus are never similar enough to be an animagus' form.'

Harry relaxed slightly. At least the sphinx would not turn out to be Voldemort or Dumbledore in disguise.

'I must admit, Harry, that I do know the form best suited to me.' Dumbledore smiled fondly, and Fawkes trilled with amusement. 'You must promise to never tell my brother, but were I to ever attempt to become an animagus I would become a most handsome bumblebee.'

Harry blinked, taken aback. He knew that the old wizard was telling the truth, because Dumbledore was all but projecting the memories and thoughts at him through legilimency. It was quite a large bee, with stripes of yellow so bright it seemed almost white.

'A very handsome bee, sir,' Harry agreed, wondering if the insect form was in any way related to Dumbledore's fondness for sugary things. 'And I promise not to tell your brother either, professor.'

'Thank you, Harry,' Dumbledore nodded benevolently. 'Aberforth would never let me hear the end of it. He likes to ensure that, despite my not so modest accomplishments, my feet remain firmly on the ground. I suppose that it is a good thing he continues to remind me of my mistakes, I daresay I might have made more had he not.'

The clock behind him chimed softly, and Dumbledore glanced over Harry's shoulder. 'Ah,' he realised, 'it had grown later than I thought. You should be off to bed, Harry, if not for your sake, then for mine. You will find, when you are as old as I am, that you will need a great deal of sleep.'

Harry's smile at the old wizard's statement vanished the moment he remembered that Dumbledore did not intend for him to reach anything like old age.

'Good evening, sir,' he responded politely, concealing the icy rage that had flared up at the memory. White bumblebee or not, Dumbledore's hands were hardly clean.

His right hand certainly isn't.

He chuckled to himself briefly on the way back down the stairs. The headmaster had not yet attempted to try and separate him from Fleur, nor had he decided to try and undo Harry's decision to leave the Dursley's, and, most importantly, while Dumbledore still did not know how Harry was leaving the castle, he seemed determined to trust him with much more than Harry had anticipated.

AN: Please read and review, thanks to all those who do!