Chapter 14 – The Headmaster's Dream
"Happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and happy the town at night whose wizards are all ashes."
- Ibn Schacabao
By the day after Severus had declared war on the forces of Light, three things rang true at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
One was that the Dark Slytherin child had lost his wits, having cursed the Headmaster, his Head of House, and all Gryffindors in general. This had included the Marauders. This had included a horrified Lily Evans. This had also included a weeping and bereft Asenath Paroo.
The second was that the Death Eater hierarchy, from Lord Voldemort all the way down to recent graduate Lucius Malfoy, could anticipate eager cooperation from young Severus Snape.
The third was that Severus desperately needed his father, and that his father desperately needed him. It took no great leap of intellect to know that Severus needed comforting and assurance after such a scene, particularly when his heart hadn't known what parts had been acting and what parts had not. Dumbledore's needs, however, were more obscure and troubled him greatly.
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The Headmaster now sat sipping a cup of cocoa before the fire in his study with Fawkes at his side, deeply mired within his own grim and guilty thoughts.
On occasion, his old friend Myrddin of Carmarthen (occasionally known as Merlin) sent him visions to guide his way. Sometimes Albus remembered them, and sometimes he didn't. Although the ancient sorcerer now resided in the Land of the Souls, he did what he could to preserve the Wizarding Way for all who followed in his footsteps. The particular vision he had sent Albus Dumbledore the night before had been enough to shock him out of his benevolent and complacent world.
The Headmaster's hands now shook, spilling cocoa onto the rich brocade of his robes, as he remembered.
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The Dumbledore of Dreams – without his wand or wandless magic to assist him – had been set adrift forward in time to a Place that would be or would not be; the Headmaster had no idea.
Hogwarts had become a charnel-house.
Everywhere Albus ran, wringing his hands in horror and desperation, there lay hundreds and hundreds of bodies half-bloated for lack of anyone alive to bury them. Some wore Gryffindor robes; some Hufflepuff; some Ravenclaw and Slytherin. It didn't seem to matter because the slaughter had been universal and indiscriminate.
Dumbledore raced from classroom to classroom only to find students dead at their desks; dead at the dining tables in the Great Hall; dead and floating on the stillness of the lake; dead having fallen from the air above the Quidditch Pitch and still astride their brooms.
The old wizard wept, knowing somehow that good men and women had faltered, neglecting their duty to protect these blessed children – Dumbledore's beloved children. They lay dead and rotting all around him, their souls snatched away by something vile and hidden and black and poisonous.
The knowing inside the Dream Albus told him that several thousand Dark wizards – led by Voldemort and by the Prince of Darkness himself – had joined hands and minds to send the Killing Curse to all who did not bear the Dark Mark.
The village of Hogsmeade lay pustulent with corpses. The farmhouses surrounding the town reeked of death. The knowing within Albus expanded, allowing him to realize that there was a minimum of forty thousand dead in London alone.
The World of Light – Dumbledore's world – had been slaughtered as surely as these helpless children had been.
And it had been his fault.
The Dumbledore of Dreams continued his distraught stumbling through Castle turned abbatoir, stepping over the bodies of those he had sworn to protect. He was looking for someone who he hoped had survived.
His Severus.
His Severus wore the Dark Mark, after all.
His Severus, having become one of the Fallen Ones; one of the Living Dead who did terrible and secret things at the Dark Lord's bidding.
His Severus, now as damned as the blighted creatures who sucked out souls or fed on the spirits of those already departed.
His Severus, now beyond redemption.
That had been Dumbledore's fault, too. He remembered the boy's sweet face, so full of love and trust, as they hovered above the howling winds and killing cold of Mt. Cotopaxi. The vision pierced his heart and bitter bile rose to his lips.
The weeping Headmaster now rounded a corner near the Herbology greenhouses, now full of nothing but black and blasted foliage.
In his path stood a child hideous in face and body; a child half-skeletonized and still wearing his ragged and torn Slytherin robes. He piteously held up his arms, ripped open from wrist to elbow, and held them towards Dumbledore.
The horror now tottered toward the man who had once called him Son, following him with shredded arms as tears of blood rolled down his half-rotted face.
A hideous voice – a terrible pantomime of Severus' own – harped on and on even though Dumbledore had slapped his hands over his ears and had backed away frantically.
No matter where Albus ran, the boy followed, his litany of hopeless accusation pounding its way into his Headmaster's throbbing head:
"Fa-ther, why did you kill me? Fa-ther! Fa-ther!"-------
Albus had awakened with a scream of terror.
Overcome with sadness and profound grief, he had lain awake for hours, weeping in guilt and shame and cursing himself for his own selfishness and cowardice. It had taken several hours for Fawkes to calm him with ancient Magic only an ancient creature could know and understand.
Where is my boy?
Is he alive?
Or have I killed him for good and all?
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