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Hamlet (Act III, Scene 1, 67-70)
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have
shuffled off this mortal coil
Must give us pause.
William Shakespeare
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12. What Dreams May Come
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Harry found his vision blurring as stinging thick purple smoke curled up from his gurgling cauldron. He stood bent over his brand new copy of Advanced Potion-Making Volume 2, eyes squinting to make out the meticulous instructions.
"Six years of study, and yet the Chosen One still fails to follow the simplest of directions," a silky voice drawled. "Even a First-Year knows the difference between stirring clockwise and counterclockwise."
There Severus stood, directly in front of Harry's desk, black eyes shining with a look of snide victory behind his curtain of greasy black hair. Harry glowered in return, standing a little straighter (he was an inch or two taller than Snape now). Gripping his wooden ladle so hard the skin over his knuckles turned white, Harry began furiously churning his smoky potion in the opposite direction, making the purple liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim.
Professor Snape watched Harry for several seconds with a raised eyebrow. Then the Potions Master spoke with a feigned sigh as though he thought it were a great pity, "Your potion's completely worthless now, Potter. Zero marks. Evanesco."
With one dismissive flick of Snape's wand, Harry suddenly found himself stirring thin air and the potion he had been slaving over all week vanished into nothingness. Malfoy snickered from across the room. Harry slammed his now clean ladle onto his table, not caring that the loud bang startled everyone else in the classroom. Harry felt a soft tug on his sleeve. He turned to see Hermione shaking her head emphatically at him. Her other hand was still studiously stirring inside her cauldron which was billowing a navy smoke. Harry struggled to control the burning rage that flared in the pit of his stomach. His hands shook from the effort to keep from reaching into his robes and blandishing his wand at Snape's throat.
How many times Harry had regretted using that Potions book, he'd lost count. Regret was not a strong enough word for what he felt. Harry didn't think it possible that he could hate Snape any more than when Sirius had died. But he was wrong. To think that at one point he had actually sympathized with the Half-blood Prince made him want to vomit violently. Whatever Dumbledore had claimed, Harry did not believe for a split-second that Snape felt remorse for any of his past deeds. The passage of summer had not dampened any of his loathing and resentment against Snape, instead Harry let it wash over him like a raging tempest. It was easy to convince himself that Snape was chiefly responsible for his parents' and godfather's deaths when the wizard in question was petty enough to abuse his authority to torment him for his father's past indiscretions. It was much easier to perceive things in black and white, even if the world he lived in existed in shades of gray.
"It seems that your streak of 'glowing brilliance' as Slughorn called it, has run out at last," Severus surmised, smugly.
"It seems that having a better professor did the trick," Harry retorted, it was all he could do to keep from hexing the slimy git right then and there.
The black-haired Gryffindor heard Hermione gasp from his side, while Ron chocked out a chortle that he attempted to conceal halfway as a cough. Snape scowled, his face rapidly draining of whatever little color it had held.
"Detention, Potter. This Saturday night, my office. I won't stand for that kind of insolence in my classroom!"
"You've got to learn to control your temper! No matter what, he's still a professor, Harry," Hermione chided as they left the dingy dungeon for the much more welcoming Great Hall.
"You'd think he'd at least die from being DADA professor last year," said Harry darkly. That earned him a withering glare from Hermione.
"Did you see the look on Snape's face? And here I thought his skin could only turn sallow and sallower," Ron chuckled.
"You're not helping, Ron," Hermione snapped in a clipped voice as she seated herself at the Gryffindor table.
Harry sat beside Ron, biting into a buttered roll and feeling deeply relieved that the week was over.
"Wonder what Dumbledore's got planned for the lesson tomorrow," Ron mused after he had chugged two brimming glasses of pumpkin juice.
Harry turned to inspect the faculty table and shrugged when he found the center chair vacant for the tenth day in a row. Upon closer inspection, he saw that Professor McGonagall and Snape's seats were empty as well. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."
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"I'm sorry 'bout tha', Professor—"
"It's alright, Rubeus. You did your best, that's all I can expect from you, all of you," Dumbledore quickly cut off the half-giant's mumbled apology, his voice grave as his clear blue eyes locked with Hagrid's remorseful beady black gaze.
The wizened wizard sighed imperceptibly as he gently patted the half-giant on his massive shoulder. The Hogwarts Gamekeeper appeared so disappointed in himself that the overall effect was almost comical. Had their current topic of discussion not been so vitally important to the survival of the wizarding world, Albus would have indeed found it an amusing sight. Unfortunately, the failure to negotiate the giants' withdrawal from their pact with Voldemort was no laughing matter. Turning his attention back on Hagrid, Dumbledore leveled him a reassuring smile. While the renowned Headmaster had always been counted as one of the more optimistic products of his times, neither was he considered delusional despite some understandable misgivings. It did not take a genius to deduce that the giants would once again elect to ally themselves with Voldemort.
The wizarding world had no one to blame but themselves for breeding the giants' innate mistrust of all things to do with wizards and magic. If it was not for the wizarding community's general prejudice and latent discrimination against all "part-humans", Albus was certain that Tom would be having a much more difficult time rallying the antiestablishment sentiments amongst the segregated outcasts of their world. Even if they were to win the war, the Headmaster knew with a heavy sense of foreboding that the wizarding community would still be leaving themselves vulnerable for further attempts at insurrection if things did not change for the better. The lack of electricity certainly wasn't the only sign that their world was woefully behind on the times. First things first, old boy, he firmly reminded himself. If they did not succeed, there may well not be a wizarding world left to enlighten.
"Kingsley, is there anything you wish to report?" Albus inquired the tall, bald black wizard who sat slouching in his chair towards the far end of the table.
"Besides the tube derailing, not much else. Unless, you want me to bore you with my recurring nightmares of drowning in memos and the perils of getting a paper cut a day," the Auror smirked and drawled in a deep, slow voice.
"At least you're being paid a bonus, Kingsley. That's more than us little people are getting," Tonks pointed out helpfully.
Albus smiled gratefully at the young, very junior Auror whose high spirits always seemed to bring some much needed levity to their otherwise solemn affair.
"Severus, any news on your front?" the Headmaster prompted as he turned to regard the Potions Master.
"I received a request from the Dark Lord to brew one barrel of Strengthening Potion this past week, which I have already sent off."
"Whatever for?" Arthur Weasley asked quizzically.
"The Dark Lord has not chosen to inform me of his intentions, though I presume that another attack isn't too far off a conjecture," Snape replied with a tilt of his head as he adressed the red-haired wizard.
The cutting quality to the Potions Master's voice made Arthur sound like a complete idiot for even posing the question, Albus thought. Yet, it was something that the Headmaster had found to be oh so endearing after many years of acquaintance. For someone who was so talented at disguising one's emotions, Severus would have surely benefited a great deal by concealing his general contempt from his fellow Order members. Thus, Albus had long since concluded that perhaps it was all a matter of not caring enough to make the effort.
"Well, I think that is everything of import, ladies and gents. Meeting adjourned," the wizened wizard spoke finally, rising from his chair at the head of the table.
Stroking his beard in thought, Albus watched with a small amount of wonder as the Order members slowly filed out from the dingy kitchen while Molly began bustling around to begin preparations for dinner with the help of Bill and Arthur. He could not put into words how fortunate he felt to be surrounded by such an eclectic group of witches and wizards who were smart enough to see the threat before them and courageous enough to take action against it. Sighing softly to himself, the wizened wizard reminded himself once again that they still possessed a fighting chance, as long as there were still fighters left for the cause.
"Sir, may I have a word."
Dumbledore hung back at the sound of the Potions Master's voice. "Certainly Severus, more than one, in fact. Shall we move off to some place more private?"
"Yes, please."
The Headmaster led the way up the creaky stairs onto the first floor landing. The pair swept quietly through the narrow hallway lined with Black family portraits, the crown jewel hidden behind gloomy moth-eaten curtains, and the row of house-elf head plaques. They ascended the steps to the second floor landing and entered into an unused guestroom redolent of musk and moth balls.
"Now, Severus, what is it?" Albus asked. He gingerly lowered his aching bones into an armchair with threadbare upholstery and paint peeling from its handles.
Snape inspected his seating options disdainfully and elected to remain standing. "Headmaster," he began, "it's concerning your American guest."
"Yes?"
"Why she was wandering in the Forbidden Forest at night, alone?" Severus inquired in a tone that clearly denoted of what he thought of that situation.
"Ah, Severus, I suspected you would be curious. But may I remind you that Eliza is not a Hogwarts student, thus the Forbidden Forest is not forbidden to her."
There was a pause. The Potions Professor waited for further explanation, which it did not to be forthcoming. He locked eyes with Dumbledore, who appeared perfectly content to maintain his silence.
Snape sighed in exasperation and pressed on, "The spell she spoke of—Quies Quietus, I've never heard of it before. Then, there's also the puzzling matter that both Madam Pomfrey and I found our wands ineffective against the girl. And the way she attacked you when she woke in the hospital wing. Who is she, Headmaster? Or better yet, what is she?"
Albus nodded, unperturbed.
"I understand that you have questions, Severus. You have every right to be suspicious. However, it is not my place to answer them. Nevertheless, I promise you that Ms. Ashbery poses no danger to either the staff or student population. Rather, Hogwarts is considerably safer with her on its premises," he said enigmatically.
"May I at least ask why you invited her here?" Snape demanded in an irritated voice.
"Fair enough. I realize that now is perhaps not the best time to be playing host, but at the time I wasn't thinking of that. Eliza needed a change in scenery and I was happy to oblige. After all, she offered me the same not long ago. You worry over much, Severus. I do not believe any ill will come of her stay."
"Very well," Snape conceded. The Headmaster's responses had left him with more questions than what he had started with. "I hope your trust is not misplaced."
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Harry stepped on the moving spiral staircase as soon as the stone wall behind the gargoyle slid apart. He had been anxious to see Dumbledore all day. Harry knocked on the door.
"Come in, Harry," the Headmaster's airy voice floated through.
"Good evening," said Dumbledore as Harry entered the office, "have a seat."
"Thanks, sir."
Harry felt a great calmness suffuse his being as he saw the Headmaster sitting serenely his desk, chin resting upon long, thin fingers that were held together at the tips. At once, the black-haired Gryffindor noticed that Dumbledore's blackened hand had been restored to health.
"Dumbledore, your hand! It's better!" he gasped in surprise. After an entire year of the wizened wizard sporting the injury, Harry had long ago assumed that it was incurable.
"Ah, yes," Albus replied, glancing down at his own hand as if it had escaped his notice. "It feels marvelous to have a functional pair of hands."
"How did you—"
Albus chuckled in a pleased manner. "No, it wasn't me. I would have fixed it a lot sooner if I could."
"Then, who?" Harry asked in growing puzzlement. It didn't seem likely that there was another witch or wizard with greater magical capability than his Headmaster. And certainly Voldemort would have been none-too-willing to lend his comparable powers in aid.
"A very kind-hearted and generous friend, though we haven't time to get into that." He smiled at Harry, who waited for him to elaborate. But the Headmaster was already moving on to the next topic. "I hear that Severus has given you a detention already," Dumbledore began conversationally. "I've taken the liberty of rescheduling it to next Saturday," he smiled.
"Er—thanks sir," Harry shifting awkwardly in his chair. He could care less about receiving another detention from Snape, but felt oddly guilty about it in front of Dumbledore.
"Another detention and I daresay it's a tradition," Albus remarked, his clear blues eyes gleaming behind half-moon spectacles.
"I suppose," replied Harry, not knowing what else to say.
"How were your first three weeks of class?"
"Alright," Harry answered quickly, eager to move on to more pertinent topics. He looked around the familiar circular office idly, eyes lingering momentarily on the cabinet beside the door that held the Headmaster's pensieve.
"I expect you are curious about the content of our new lessons?" the Headmaster inquired as if he had read Harry's mind.
Harry's eyes snapped back to Dumbledore, "Yes, sir."
"We will focus on more practical matters this term, as there are no more memories to share—"
Harry's interest was piqued. He sat up straighter in his seat, listening with rapt attention.
"—I understand that your Occlumency sessions with Severus left something to be desired—"
"That's one way to put it," Harry muttered under his breath, not bothering to conceal the contempt he felt toward his least favorite professor.
Albus continued in his easy-going tone, pretending he hadn't heard Harry's last comment. "So, I have decided to teach you myself, along with several other quintessential skills."
"Are you going to be teaching me spells?" Harry asked hurriedly, excitement blooming with each word.
"No, Harry. It is my sincerest belief that the education provided here at Hogwarts is more than sufficient for any young witch or wizard. Rather, we will work to build upon that foundation."
"I don't understand, sir—" Harry frowned. His heart sank a little at the thought that he wouldn't be learning any advanced counter-curses or powerful anti-jinxes. What exactly was Dumbledore talking about?
"A vast store of magical knowledge does not a great wizard make, although it certainly helps in most cases. In the end, it truly comes down to instinct, concentration, and control. You, Harry, are already quite gifted in the former, so I shall help with the latter areas."
Harry nodded, not sure how Dumbledore was going to go about teaching him concentration and control when he was still having trouble with nonverbal spellwork in his classes. Nonetheless, he felt reassured. Dumbledore's ideas were not always the sanest, but most were ingenious.
"Now, if you have no more questions, Harry, let us begin. We have much to do and little time."
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She was walking through the dark, a bleak hallway adorned with only flickering torchlight. The dim pools of light illuminated cells on either side of the corridor. The figures behind the bars blended into the murky grayness but for their faded black and white striped suits. Five guards stood watch at various lengths along the hallway; two were conversing quietly with their heads close together. Buffy turned over on her side, eyes moving beneath closed lids.
A series of loud cracking noises broke the eerie silence of the corridor. Black shapes materialized out of thin air, two dozen figures masked by slitted hoods. Then, the massacre began. The nearest guard gave a shout as he was struck with a stream of fiery red light. The other guards rallied against the black swathed intruders, but they were woefully outnumbered and unprepared even as reinforcements arrived. Buffy swung a fist at the burly cloaked figure that was advancing on a guard already engaged in battle with another, but her entire arm went through without contact.
"No!" Buffy whispered helplessly as the first figure in black made several vicious slices through the air with his wand. Long, bloody slashes carved into the guard's torso. His screams pierced through the air, terrified beyond any concern for masculinity. It was the sound of a man being murdered.
Buffy's head whipped around as woman's scream of maniacal laughter drowned out the dying wizard's wails. A hooded woman stepped over the corpse of another guard that lay sprawled in the middle of the corridor, not caring to look down as the heel of her boot smashed a finger. She raised her wand at the last remaining guard. "Avada Kedavra!"
A jet of green light sailed through the air from the tip of her wand. It was at once eerie and beautiful. The last guard's eyes flew wide with shock as he was blasted backwards into a wall. Buffy watched, sickened, as his body slid down to the cold stone floor, his eyes were already glazed over with death and his mouth slack. The woman clapped her thin hands together as she cackled with delirious glee, eyes glinting madly through the slits of her hood. "Let's get what we came for!"