A Talk Over Tea II
"No offense, but your chairs tend to hurt my back." Dumbledore said, conjuring up a brightly colored squishy armchair. He pushed it before a low square table, where McGonagall was setting a pot of tea and a tray of ginger newts, a faint smile upon her lips.
"Mmm...Harry should get into trouble more often." Dumbledore mused, popping a ginger newt into his mouth. "That way I get to be invited to other professor's offices and fed tea and cookies." Dumbledore grinned.
"One lump or two?" McGonagall asked, setting a delicate looking cup before Dumbledore.
"Six." He said.
McGonagall raised and eyebrow. "That bad of a day?"
Dumbledore sighed. "Rock beetles are in infesting the pumpkins again, Hagrid's on me about letting him teach how to raise firehawks to his students. Snape's been hounding me about Draco's "accident", though Draco's being as tight lip about it as Harry, and of course this whole business about Harry's memories missing." Dumbledore took a sip of his tea, sighing with pleasure. "English Rose?"
McGonagall nodded. "I got a box of different flavors from one of my former students." She said, taking a sip of her tea. "How bad is it?" Concern etched into her face.
"The tea? It's quiet good."
"No. How bad is the damage to Harry's memories?"
Dumbledore sighed again, taking a moment to chew upon another ginger newt. "I'm not sure, but from the questioning I had with him, his memories seem to have been erased selectively."
"What's that mean?"
"Chunks of his memories are missing but they're groups of memories that were interconnected. Memories of people, places, and events. I'm not an expert on memories, neither is Madam Pomfrey. I'm thinking we're going to have to send for a healer from St. Mungos." Dumbledore took another sip of tea. "He doesn't remember anything about Sirius Black. He remembers the Battle of the Ministry, 12 Grimmauld Place, and getting his firebolt, but he doesn't specifically remember Sirius. He doesn't remember meeting him, he doesn't remember him dying, though he remembers the events surrounding Sirius' escape from Hogwarts during the third year. It's just Sirius he doesn't remember"
"How can that be?" McGonagall asked.
Dumbledore shrugged. "I don't know. We have to know what kind of potion he was making. What he was attempting to do. Myrtle's still missing and Snape's having no luck piecing the mess together. A lot of it was destroyed in the initial explosion." He set the cup down upon the table. "I've been questioning him for the past two hours and it seems that all the memories he's missing are connected together."
"How?"
"Pain and fear. They're all the painful and fearful memories he's ever had. Sirius dying, his parents dying, his years of living with the Dursleys, and Cedric being killed. All those memories have been erased."
"Can the memories be recovered?"
"I don't know. We'll have to ask the healer, when she comes."
"Is it even right to bring back those memories?" McGonagall asked softly, setting her cup upon the table.
"What do you mean?" Dumbledore asked, pausing as he reached for more ginger newts.
"Harry's life has been nothing but pain and lost. His parents dying, his life with the Dursleys, time and time again he's hit with pain. What I'm saying is, is it right for us to make him suffer those pains anew, by trying to bring them back?"
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. "I'm afraid we have to. You understand that Harry's life's been painful, but it's that pain that's shaped the boy we know today. That strong, intelligent boy with so much potential. But if he doesn't remember the pain, doesn't remember the fear, then he's not the Harry we know.
"Our experiences changes who we are, in small and different ways. It makes us determined, cautious, it makes us challenge others, fight or do things better. Failure, pain, hurt, misery, all those harsh emotions, they're there to teach us lessons."
McGonagall nodded. "Then what do we have now? A person that's not Harry, but is actually Harry?"
"I don't know. He's been acting strangely or differently. Just look at what happened this morning. The Harry we knew wouldn't have fought Draco, he would have known to ignore him and go on. Instead he fought him and beat him. Then he lied to you about it and to Madam Pomfrey."
"So we'll be dealing with a person that's not like the Harry we knew?"
"Oh, it'll be the same old Harry, but different. As bad as it sounds, he's not a boy that's been scarred by the harshness of life. He can feel anger, he can feel love, and he remembers the last six years. I had a discussion with him a few minutes ago. He's interested in rejoining the Quidditch team, a girl that walked in on us caught his eye, and he's worried about his classes." Dumbledore smiled. "He's just you're average sixteen year old boy. Quidditch, girls, and homework on the mind."
McGonagall closed her eyes. "And we're going to have to destroy that? Make him face the memories he's been burdened with?"
"We have no choice. He's the one that has to face Voldemort." Dumbledore grimaced as he said it, a great weight of sadness settling upon his shoulders, which were already stooped.
"No offense, but your chairs tend to hurt my back." Dumbledore said, conjuring up a brightly colored squishy armchair. He pushed it before a low square table, where McGonagall was setting a pot of tea and a tray of ginger newts, a faint smile upon her lips.
"Mmm...Harry should get into trouble more often." Dumbledore mused, popping a ginger newt into his mouth. "That way I get to be invited to other professor's offices and fed tea and cookies." Dumbledore grinned.
"One lump or two?" McGonagall asked, setting a delicate looking cup before Dumbledore.
"Six." He said.
McGonagall raised and eyebrow. "That bad of a day?"
Dumbledore sighed. "Rock beetles are in infesting the pumpkins again, Hagrid's on me about letting him teach how to raise firehawks to his students. Snape's been hounding me about Draco's "accident", though Draco's being as tight lip about it as Harry, and of course this whole business about Harry's memories missing." Dumbledore took a sip of his tea, sighing with pleasure. "English Rose?"
McGonagall nodded. "I got a box of different flavors from one of my former students." She said, taking a sip of her tea. "How bad is it?" Concern etched into her face.
"The tea? It's quiet good."
"No. How bad is the damage to Harry's memories?"
Dumbledore sighed again, taking a moment to chew upon another ginger newt. "I'm not sure, but from the questioning I had with him, his memories seem to have been erased selectively."
"What's that mean?"
"Chunks of his memories are missing but they're groups of memories that were interconnected. Memories of people, places, and events. I'm not an expert on memories, neither is Madam Pomfrey. I'm thinking we're going to have to send for a healer from St. Mungos." Dumbledore took another sip of tea. "He doesn't remember anything about Sirius Black. He remembers the Battle of the Ministry, 12 Grimmauld Place, and getting his firebolt, but he doesn't specifically remember Sirius. He doesn't remember meeting him, he doesn't remember him dying, though he remembers the events surrounding Sirius' escape from Hogwarts during the third year. It's just Sirius he doesn't remember"
"How can that be?" McGonagall asked.
Dumbledore shrugged. "I don't know. We have to know what kind of potion he was making. What he was attempting to do. Myrtle's still missing and Snape's having no luck piecing the mess together. A lot of it was destroyed in the initial explosion." He set the cup down upon the table. "I've been questioning him for the past two hours and it seems that all the memories he's missing are connected together."
"How?"
"Pain and fear. They're all the painful and fearful memories he's ever had. Sirius dying, his parents dying, his years of living with the Dursleys, and Cedric being killed. All those memories have been erased."
"Can the memories be recovered?"
"I don't know. We'll have to ask the healer, when she comes."
"Is it even right to bring back those memories?" McGonagall asked softly, setting her cup upon the table.
"What do you mean?" Dumbledore asked, pausing as he reached for more ginger newts.
"Harry's life has been nothing but pain and lost. His parents dying, his life with the Dursleys, time and time again he's hit with pain. What I'm saying is, is it right for us to make him suffer those pains anew, by trying to bring them back?"
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. "I'm afraid we have to. You understand that Harry's life's been painful, but it's that pain that's shaped the boy we know today. That strong, intelligent boy with so much potential. But if he doesn't remember the pain, doesn't remember the fear, then he's not the Harry we know.
"Our experiences changes who we are, in small and different ways. It makes us determined, cautious, it makes us challenge others, fight or do things better. Failure, pain, hurt, misery, all those harsh emotions, they're there to teach us lessons."
McGonagall nodded. "Then what do we have now? A person that's not Harry, but is actually Harry?"
"I don't know. He's been acting strangely or differently. Just look at what happened this morning. The Harry we knew wouldn't have fought Draco, he would have known to ignore him and go on. Instead he fought him and beat him. Then he lied to you about it and to Madam Pomfrey."
"So we'll be dealing with a person that's not like the Harry we knew?"
"Oh, it'll be the same old Harry, but different. As bad as it sounds, he's not a boy that's been scarred by the harshness of life. He can feel anger, he can feel love, and he remembers the last six years. I had a discussion with him a few minutes ago. He's interested in rejoining the Quidditch team, a girl that walked in on us caught his eye, and he's worried about his classes." Dumbledore smiled. "He's just you're average sixteen year old boy. Quidditch, girls, and homework on the mind."
McGonagall closed her eyes. "And we're going to have to destroy that? Make him face the memories he's been burdened with?"
"We have no choice. He's the one that has to face Voldemort." Dumbledore grimaced as he said it, a great weight of sadness settling upon his shoulders, which were already stooped.