WARNING! : This chapter is confusing because the title is slowly obtaining all its sense, and simply because the story's framework is really complicated. I promise that the explanation will be given at the beginning of chapter 4. Still, some of you perceived what was happening at the end of chap 2, and it would be utterly great that they understand what is truly happening in the wizarding world. Have a good read.
In a loop of darkness
Chapter 3: It insinuates in our minds, shows us what we want to see…
Dumbledore's heart was beating so fast that it threatened to fail. Drops of salty water were freely rolling down his cheeks, moistening his long dried skin, awakening it, and telling him that he wasn't dead. Yet.
He had been reading in his small library, surrounded with books, most of which he had written himself in remembrance of the wars he had fought, seated in his favourite armchair in front of the unlighted fireplace. Why hadn't he kindled a fire the past evening despite the cold, he couldn't remember. But what he knew was that sleep had taken him suddenly.
A cracking noise resounded in the room, and he turned his head toward the wood heap. He gasped and froze in his chair, his lungs forgetting to inhale. The shadow was unmistakable, dark and hidden. And behind the mask, silver eyes stared at him with accusation. The sight was hypnotising, and he couldn't get himself to look away. Then the shadow disappeared, and all that was left was the wood.
Even having been only a dream, this image would haunt him for the rest of his life. A body, naked and beaten, broken by time and hands that had once been believed innocent. And this mask. What lay behind it? The young face was concealed, preventing the world to see its wrongs, guardian of their misdeeds, reminder of their sins.
He had something to do. There was something he needed to know.
Severus Snape had always been up with the sun. Retirement hadn't been able to modify this habit of his. When Albus arrived at his house, he indeed was already up and groomed. The old man couldn't help but notice tiny pearls of sweat on his neck. Had Severus been doing exercise recently? None that he recalled. But Severus had never been a man to allow others in his private and healthy life.
Some seconds later, they were discussing the last political decisions in the sitting room, and Draco entered to serve them tea. The boy was fine, as handsome as he had been at the time of their last encounter. But on the fair and white skin, Dumbledore's tricky brain placed the permanent scars, and on the calm and obedient eyes, he superposed the loathing and deadly look. Memories rushed forth in his mind once more, and he shuddered suddenly, out of remaining fear.
Severus smirked. The old man seemed much interested in his slave today. He sipped his tea and settled on observing the reactions of his old friend. Never had he witnessed Dumbledore manifesting the slightest physical attraction for anybody. Had hormones stirred in him at length? Wouldn't it be amusing? The student being led by his past headmaster. A young man by someone that could be his grand-grandfather.
The arrival of Dumbledore had prevented him from properly ending their little morning session. He had been particularly angry this day. Why? He wasn't certain anymore. Surely the boy had made some noise during the night that had bothered his master's sleep. The hotness inside Draco's pure tights had soon made him forget the reasons.
There was no greater pleasure than to whore Lucius to every passing man or woman. To make him suffer torments like Severus had been tortured under Voldemort's reign. To be forced to kneel, to be forced to bow, to be forced to beg. But Draco wasn't Lucius. And Snape hoped that, wherever he was, Lucius was haunted by the sight and cries of his flesh and blood getting what legacy his father had bequeathed him.
Albus went on staring at Draco. He could see what the boy possessed that lured and addicted his master and 'visitors'. He was strong. While he showed a weak and fragile exterior, a tired and yielded mind, his soul was powerful and resistant. His body was the embodiment of an angel. His hair had grown long and silver, his eyes were of an enticing icy blue. A dark angel. Dumbledore had in mind the vision of slaughtered bodies, victims of the death-eaters' butcheries. Draco had been a murderer. He had tortured; he had killed. No, there was no innocence in the young pupils.
The dream had been nothing but one of the many nightmares that plagued his nights. Whatever had led his imagined character into thinking this boy had been a victim had been a twist of his imagination. Still, a doubt lingered…
"Severus," he asked to be sure, "How long does a concealing potion last?"
The Potions Master emitted a small, dark laugh. So, the old man was indeed interested in Draco's body. Was he so horny that the little hours granted by the potion wouldn't be enough for him to be sated? "Two or three hours at the most," he replied, "when the potion has been perfectly brewed, which I highly doubt."
The little flick of Severus' eyes toward Draco left no place for uncertainty. The boy had been concocting concealing potions recently and was using them. Dumbledore frowned. "Is he much…"
But he couldn't finish before Severus had guessed his question. "Spoilt?" he shrugged, "The usual death-eater's share." His own back had long displayed whip marks or scars, results of a badly controlled cruciatus. But just as his, Draco's had now almost disappeared. He only allowed the boy to go on brewing potions so that he wouldn't be too marked after the visit of a revengeful wizard, such as Potter who ought to be passing by soon… All of a sudden, an image shot up in his brain. The sight of a body, damaged to the core and whose face was hidden… What was that now? He could vaguely remember seeing it somewhere… Probably a memory from a death-eaters' orgy… It was still disturbing…
But the coming of his guest drove away Severus' last bad thoughts. Dumbledore took his leave, having not asked for Draco. Maybe the old man would come back some other time.
o-
Dumbledore sighed when he lied between the sheets of his bed, enjoying their warmth and the shaping of the mattress under his body. When only the stars and moon lightened the room, he allowed his mind to wander to the events of the morning. Draco was using concealing potions and had to drink it every couple of hours. After getting this information, he had researched this potion. It had to be applied directly on the wound or scar and burnt horribly, acting as a sort of purifying acid. It was recommended to use it on few occasions or the body would get accustomed to the potion and stop having any effect. For many years now Draco had been at Severus' service. Surely if he had used it regularly, he would have gotten used to it already. Yet he displayed no mark of the horror that Dumbledore had witnessed in the dream.
The old wizard closed his eyes and found sleep, no second thought crossing his mind. But Wind had his own plans…
Morning found him sweating in his bed, body shivering with fear and the reminder of death. Again, the same dream. It couldn't be a coincidence and it couldn't be ignored… He dressed up in a hurry and went back at Severus'… only to meet the head of the Order.
"Albus!" called Harry, "You had the dream too?"
Albus screwed up his eyes, and his forehead wrinkled at the news. So, he hadn't been the only one. It was indeed a premonitory dream. But what was its meaning? Had they all seen the same things or had the dream varied in accordance with the dreamer? Soon, he had his answer…
"Who were these people you went to see in the forest?" asked Arthur Weasley, shaken by the violence of his night. Only in dreams could he savour the existence of colours in the world, for war had left him blind; but his last nightmare had been much too vivid and its colours too bright for his liking.
Dumbledore sighed and scanned the room for the object of his worry. "First, I'd like to know where Draco is."
"I locked him in the basement," Snape informed. He had awoken, feeling but the dolour of the scorching water on his head, of the delicate porcelain gashing his skin. Draco had unsuccessfully tried to kill him a first time, then had come to repair his miss in Saint-Mungo where he was hospitalised. It wouldn't be said his prey would have escaped twice. But Snape's death hadn't stopped his nightmare, and he had been forced to look at the world he knew and believed in falling to crumbles under the attacks of the rebels. Still, these images of decay hadn't shocked him as much as the vision of a body spoilt to the marrow had.
"Had he any mark?" Dumbledore inquired. The old wizard dropped in a chair, his legs forsaking him at length. Hadn't he done enough already? Couldn't he be allowed to die in peace?
"None, and he hasn't drank the concealing potion since at least ten hours ago," Snape snorted. It was evident that this part of the dream had been falsified to throw them into turmoil. He still couldn't keep himself from shivering. This body… It was horrible. He admitted he had beaten the young man, but never to the point of engendering such marks. Such a body couldn't exist; the heart would have failed long ago. It wasn't human.
Albus nodded. The dream had been collective, probably sent by an exterior force, maybe the seers, he proposed when he had explained their role in the war. They could have tried to warn them against a possible future.
"Why would they?" Harry demanded, angered by his quick death at the hand of the death-eater. "They took the rebels' side in the dream. No, I rather think it is Malfoy that found a way to manipulate our dreams and is hoping that we release him out of fear. And he's dreadfully wrong…"
Snape was pensive at the proposition. "It is indeed possible. I have some books that deal with dreams and occlumency. He has access to them… But when I searched his mind, he seemed to know nothing of the..."
He stopped abruptly as his house-elf introduced Mad-Eye, followed by a quartet of aurors. "Snape," he saluted, "I'm here to take Malfoy to Azkaban."
The retired professor wasn't even remotely surprised. At the moment he had heard of the nightmare's widespread victims, he had known the officials would visit, at one time or another. It could get dangerous for the population if the dream came to realisation. Yet, he didn't like it when things got out of his hands. "Why? I can take care of this affair!" Draco was his toy, his property, his token of war; the young man's life was only his to decide of.
"Not when the entire wizarding population is terrified by nightmares showing them a rebellion led by none other than your slave. We're going to take him to Azkaban where he will receive the Kiss. That way, no more problems. You'll have him back just after."
Snape remained silent for a moment. That Draco had a soul or not, he didn't truly care. As long as the boy was alive and in a satisfying physical state, his will had no importance. But how could the boy have arranged that so many people would receive the dream? Snape was no fool; he was well aware that terrorising the population was not the current problem. Oh no… It was that the wizarding world's residents discover pity and affection for Draco's suffering, that they decide the way aurors ruled didn't suit them, that these rats of Hole inhabitants were victims. Because if that occurred, they all were lost.
Snape took a circling look at the Order's members. Potter was approving of this proposition with a nod, Weasley was shaking Mad-Eye's hand, Dumbledore was keeping quiet his opinion on the matter. At length, Snape sighed. Out of life and pleasure, he preferred to remain alive. "Do what has to be done," he simply declared.
At Mad-Eye's request, he led the aurors toward the basement. From where he sat, facing a window, Dumbledore felt the rising fear of the prisoner before he was stunned. The old man didn't pronounce a word; he only wanted to get away. But he couldn't. His subconscious told him he was to accompany the aurors to Azkaban and witness with his own eyes whatever would take place there.
At the end of the Second War, after Voldemort's fall, dementors had been caught. But what to do with them? They had long been kept in cells, next to these prisoners whose jailers they had previously been. In the upshot, a talented Russian wizard had found the solution to their problem: a controlling ward. A small item, resembling a collar, which they put around the dementor's neck. It shrank till fitting properly, and only the ones who knew of the magical password could control or liberate them. The officials had first thought of marking the prisoners the same way but had soon realised that, when the collars restrained dementors, they had no effect whatsoever on humans. Both Azkaban and the dementors had finally been entrusted to the aurors.
The Order's representatives followed the group of aurors when they unbranded the boy's anti-apparition ward and transported him to the prison. The interrogation room matched the old torture rooms of the Middle Ages: a small chamber devoid of windows, its tomb-like walls peeling to powder and covered by spider webs; the only chair of the place furnished with leather straps and iron clips, soldered to the floor, half-encircled by tables charged with metallic instruments of questionable use. These implements of war lightened by the sole and drab ignition of some candles scattered in the corners gave the room the sepulchral atmosphere of a Tribunal of the Holy Office. The aurors tied the boy to the chair and enervated him.
Draco's breath was deep and rash. He peered around himself, his frightened pupils leaping from here to there, lying everywhere but at his captors, shuddering at the sight of the torture instruments. Dumbledore mentally trembled at the memory of the same eyes during the battle that had opposed the Order to the inhabitants of the Hole. They had been empty, hollow of any feeling, as the young hands were killing, spreading death with each of their touches. In these moments, the old wizard had perceived that, if Draco Malfoy had been a mediocre wizard, on the contrary, he was a skilled war leader and, a knife in hand, a savage and destructive opponent.
Albus looked elsewhere when Mad-Eye read the decision of the Auror Council to Draco, and he heard the boy whine out of fear, asking what he had done.
"You have been judged guilty of taking an active part in a series of falsely premonitory dreams, intending to destabilise the government and its policy."
Dumbledore needn't glance at the young man to guess his incomprehension. But the aurors hadn't planned to let him rest. A dementor was introduced in the room, and Albus saw Harry flinch. Albus didn't. He was used to having nightmares and didn't expect that they would one day leave him in peace. He was far too tainted for that.
Bereft of hope, overwhelmed by panic, Draco vaguely fought against his bonds as the dark creature bent over him. And suddenly, he stopped struggling, closed his eyes, and willingly presented his face. His lithe and almost skinny body went on shivering, and a unique tear formed at the corner of his eye.
Dumbledore's heart clutched even tighter at the ethereal sight of a martyr accepting his fate. Could Draco's life have been so horrible that losing his soul was no more than the next step in his decadence? 'But what can I do now that I have allowed this new area to hatch? I should fight for Draco's soul as long as some mysteries aren't disclosed, yet I know much too well that the world would be better safe from the reminders of the death-eaters' atrocities.'
He averted looking at the scene when the dementor's inhuman mouth connected with Draco's lips. It took but a second, and the creature receded, having accomplished his office. Dumbledore was prepared to hear a sigh of relief and alleviation at their enemy being destroyed, but silence followed the repulsive act. He knitted his brows and observed the reactions of the room's other occupants.
"What happened?" Arthur was the first to ask, having not borne actual witness of the display.
"It didn't work…" Severus answered in a whisper.
If the situation hadn't been so serious, Dumbledore would have smiled at the impressed tone in the voice. After the first war, when Snape had been arrested and threatened with the Kiss, he had developed a hidden terror of the dementors. Released, he had spent many years searching for a way to escape losing his soul if he ever came to meet the creatures again. But they had kept their secret. And then, Albus turned toward the death-eater boy.
Draco coughed spasmodically, attempting to get rid of the odour of half-dead flesh on his mouth, of the smell of rotten corpses in his lungs. His pupils dilated with fright, his lips parted only to give way to raged breath; he tensed his muscles and clenched his teeth. His eyes were tainted with blood of ruptured veins; drips of blood flew from his nose, marking the perfectly snowy skin with stripes of dark red. A growl rose in his throat, echoing darkly in his drenched mouth.
He tersely and violently struggled like one possessed, launched against his bonds, moving the chair and vibrating the floor out of uncontrolled fury.
"Let me loose!" he snarled, "Let me loose! I'll kill you!" He glowered at Dumbledore. "Murderer! Murderer! I'll have their heads! All of them! I'll make you watch! You'll be the last, and you'll snuff it alone! Assassin!"
The old wizard tottered at the murdering glare, racked by doubt and horror, unable to quit the jolting body, the revenging eyes, the rough voice and its sharp words.
He could only stare when, in a corner of his sight, Harry reached a table and clutched, without demur, a sharp and pointed poker then came back to Malfoy. The war hero brandished his sword and, as his enemy's look was fixed on his prey, he pierced the offered heart.
Draco's rage doubled at the keen pain, and he inveighed Dumbledore all the more, foaming froth and blood at the mouth, never pausing to notice his aggressor, while Harry tore his weapon from the wounded torso and plunged it once more. The stream of invectives interrupted and the striving stopped but, even dead, the eyes still seemed to look daggers at Dumbledore.
Silence overran the room, and they all stood, staring at the finally defeated body of the monster…
o-
… But this image never ceased haunting Dumbledore. It gnawed his soul at night. He couldn't sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, cracking noises of steps on the parquet forced him to open them again and check that it was nothing but a trick of his imagination. Resolute, he changed the floor into stone and with a sigh, put his head on his pillow. After some minutes of calm during which could only be heard the strong gusty wind on the roof, a shutter banged loudly and he gasped. Grasping his head with despair at his sleepless nights, he cast a soundless charm around him. For protection, he had always preferred to rely on hearing when he was sleeping, but this was too much for his weakened being.
Utter silence surrounded him, and the strangeness of it struck at him. He sent a worried glance in his room and laid back on the mattress, slowly closing his eyes, gradually getting used to the lack of noise. The delicious waves of exhaustion lured him patiently to sleep, rocking his soul and his old bones, leisurely then quicker, stronger, harsher till his entire bed was shaking, and he suddenly opened his eyes to find the room completely soundless.
He passed his hand in his white and, despite the cold, sweat-soaked hair and massaged his scalp to ease the memories away, without success. Even hidden deep inside his Pensive, they remained present, always ready to resurface, at every hour of day or night.
Abandoning the bed, he got up and dressed. Outside, Wind was roaring. After a heartbeat of hesitation, he apparated to Azkaban and was immediately drenched in a shower of rain. He met with the aurors, who let him pass and directed him toward an isolated part of the cemetery.
After Draco's death, the officials had rapidly and conveniently disposed of the body, burying it under seven feet of stained soil, praying his soul would rot in Hell and remain clutched in the Devil's hand. No gravestone marked the exact emplacement of the corpse but days of rain hadn't been able to wash the filth of the blood on the earth.
Dumbledore stayed a long time, watching the immobile ground but for the small forming river of mud.
Five months passed.
Never in any nights had he found sleep again. He had finally resigned himself to spending his days dozing in a broadly lighted and most visited park, or café, when the weather didn't allow him to find peace under the sun. Draco's death had put the people's minds at ease. The enemy's leader was gone; there was nothing more to fear. Their approval lead to a new politic of the aurors: a complete eradication of the Hole. Raids succeeded to decrees and Kiss sentences to captures. The rebels never admitted to having plotted with Draco, proof that they were guilty, and all the more determined to bring their plan into action.
The Hole's inhabitants had fled, two hundred and fifty three had lost their souls and their now will-less bodies were crammed inside Azkaban's cells.
At night, Dumbledore ineluctably was attracted toward Draco's tomb. He stayed hidden in the shadows of the prison's walls next to it till day broke, observing the earth, so completely immobile that the aurors making their patrol had sometimes thought him dead. For security reasons, he could have been refused the entry of the prison's grounds, but after the scene in the interrogation room, reports had somehow declared him slightly… unbalanced.
The great Albus Dumbledore was slowly plunging into Death's claws, out of too much fatigue, too much horror… too much life. The aurors let him stay here and anticipated the day when they would find his cold body on the ground. England's population was already beginning its mourning, and people were coming to see him every day, drowning in the sight of the grand wizard that he had been, as if for the last time he would be seen alive. Immersed in the common beliefs, he also thought his time ended. That is till…
Despite the bright sun they had enjoyed in this beautiful day of June, it was raining again, and a thick and freezing fog was preventing sight beyond some meters. From where Dumbledore stood, he could barely distinguish the piece of ground he had got so used to in the past five months. His eyes were dolefully fixed on the soil as he once more stood next to his wall, similar to a Gargoyle watching over a castle.
'A very, very old Gargoyle…' he thought with a smile, the only sign that he still lived.
His lips stiffened as he perceived a movement in the cemetery. Who could that be? Aurors had long stopped coming to him before the dawn, and the moon was still high in the sky. Through the dense mist, he saw a group of four cloaked people approaching the very tomb he had been surveying and stopping above it. Fascinated, he froze completely, forbidding but his breath to reveal his presence.
The four men circled the ground, delimiting the sepulchre and one, obviously the chief, extended his hand in the air. Magic erupted from his palm and infused the soil with dull beams of grey light as the deep tone of his voice dispersed in the rain's noise. Dumbledore frowned. In spite of the bother caused by the violence of the storm, he could catch some words of the incantation, but it didn't matter to him. No, what interested him was the voice… He had heard it often already, it was…
He jumped and narrowly missed showing himself as his eyes were bound to the earth, which was moving, hit underground, coats of soil lifting up more and more under each blow. A bloody, dirty hand pierced the ground and plunged its nails in it, ensuring its grip. Veins swelled and bones contracted as the hand pulled the rest of the body out. Arms, head, chest, legs, Draco Malfoy had risen. The moving corpse reeled his firsts steps and sniffed the air. His head turned on his backbone and his darkened eyes pierced Dumbledore through the fog, surprising the old man. But Draco soon dismissed his past headmaster, as an animal would an already condemned prey. Five seconds later, the men and their newly resurrected leader had disappeared into the night.
o-
When Dumbledore narrated, the next day, what had taken place in Azkaban, it sent the wizarding world into turmoil. But none made any remark as for the old man's occasion to stop the ritual. He hadn't been able to, that was all. It was already good that he had got out of it safe and sound.
'Safe and sound,' he thought, 'And with too much knowledge of what is going to happen…' While they had cashiered his opinion on the dreams, he had clutched to his idea, fathoming its being right. Soul was Wind's human attribute, and Wind had chosen Draco as his champion. The wizards' future had already been decided.
The rebels didn't waste their time. When the aurors arrived at Ollivander's, his shop had already been sacked. Strangely, the old craft worker was alive, alone in his empty boutique. He had been spared by Draco's madness. Dumbledore was grateful for that: if Fate wanted this world destroyed, so be it, but one life would still have been saved, thanks to Wind's dream. Maybe it had been the intent from the beginning: saving Ollivander for a higher mission. Who would ever know?
At Harry's demand, he joined the Order at Hogwarts. He accepted without conviction. He knew that he wouldn't fight, and that he would find no solution to stop or foresee the attacks. It was destiny. One had been absent at the Order's roll call, though, but only Albus had noticed it, for nobody had heard of him in years. To add to his sadness, the old wizard had a clear idea of where this missing friend may be.
A surprise assault of Azkaban destroyed the prison's grounds. The prisoners were liberated and taken to the Hole whose lowest floors had survived the aurors' raids. The Order had laughed at the uselessness of such an act … till they met with past prisoners, condemned to the Kiss and whose sentence had been executed, who had regained their souls.
Everything was lost. The Ministry was in flames, and no day would pass that Hogwarts would follow. In his room, Dumbledore sighed, feeling the time had come for him to go. Half of them were dead, yet Albus had been spared, just as his fate seemed to be. Draco had said it: he would have to watch the heads of his past friends falling.
Looking a last time at the school which he had spent most of his life in, he disappeared into the forest. After two days of continuous walking, he arrived at his destination. The seers were waiting for him. He didn't ask for help. "How?" he simply inquired. He was tired. He wanted to lie down and let go of life at length.
"We warned you Dumbledore," answered a womanly voice, "But you didn't listen to us. You thought you could get rid of the problem as you took care of Riddle."
A twig getting crackled put an end to the conversation. Dumbledore saw Draco, the same cloak and mask in the dreams. He was accompanied. The member of the rebels was also cloaked, and the shadows of his hood hid his features, but for the brown eyes. Albus had a sad smile before he was blindfolded.
The Hole's common room was as he recalled, proof that the place, having not been destroyed by the aurors, had been deeper that he had dreamily judged.
"Why do you let me live?" he asked Kilch when they faced each other. There was no need to say more. Both had interpreted the seers' warning in which they had told each other what they had to.
The vampire observed him for a long time, looking hard at his face, registering the marks of time. From the depth of their respective souls, Dumbledore suspected that they were akin of age and he wondered a second if they could have crossed in the past.
"Draco seems to think you should be the last to go." The vampire's short hesitation proved his lack of knowledge in his best commander's plan, but the trust he displayed in Draco also showed he had understood the extent of the youth's importance in the civil war.
Noises of a growing battle reached the inside of the Hole, and Kilch was called outside. Dumbledore was entrusted to Draco, and history repeated as he was led to a small chamber. Before the boy could depart though, the old man reached him.
"Why me, Draco?" He had been the head of the Order during the Second War, but it was common knowledge that Draco's hatred of Harry outmatched all the rest.
Through the mask, the blue eyes stared at him thoughtfully, as if gauging him. "Because you try to get out of it."
On this enigmatic answer, the young man strode out of the room. Dumbledore remained alone under the battle sounds. Explosions, cries, shouts… Then nothing. It was finished. His old heart gave away his last beat, and his eyelids closed. And in the instant his breath left his body, as the loop ended its second rotation, he understood.
o-
Albus awoke in his bed, safely tucked under the heavy and warm sheets, soft beams of daylight stroking his cheeks. Hesitantly, he laid feet on the floor and put on his fleecy-lined slippers, a present of Dobby when he had left Hogwarts as a headmaster for good. He tested his legs' strength then, satisfied that he was more fit than in the dream, he exited his room for the library. Here, on the wooden console next to the overstuffed rocking chair, still laid a Potions book, opened at the chapter of the Concealing Potions.
End of Chapter 3
