Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit off of Harry Potter. It belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc.
A/N: To give fair warning, this series will not be completely book-based. I mean, for the most part I will be referencing the events from Books 1-5, but I am going to be adding in some elements from the movies as well. Also, I will be using the basic horcruxes/hallows ideas that JKR has in Books 6-7, but the way in which these ideas are executed will be different.
A certain important conversation in this chapter was not my favorite part to write; it was almost impossible, actually. Reason being that I loved J.K. Rowling's version so much and it would have fit perfectly, but I didn't want to copy/paste it. There are some phrases or arrangements of topic from the book that I used as a framework for much of the conversation, but overall I did my best to write a version that fit what needed to fit and was still original. You'll understand which conversation when we come to it.
Chapter 3: Pressure
Harry's tears subsided as the minutes passed, as did some tiny measure of his grief. Not enough, not by a long shot, but it was a strangely relieving feeling to have let out some of the pain to someone who understood. Lupin sat quietly with Harry, although the teenager could sense the grief radiating from the former professor as the shared emotion pulsed through them both.
After a beat of silence, in which Harry finally felt his eyes would stay dry, the embarrassment crept in for his emotional display. Catching the look on Harry's face as he pulled back, Lupin rolled his eyes exasperatedly at the slight shame.
"There's nothing wrong with crying, Harry," Lupin told him firmly. "It shows how human you are. And I find that to be very encouraging."
Harry only nodded, suddenly weighted down with the double meaning behind Lupin's words. Being a werewolf, the ragged man felt the pull from two sides of himself and the slow decay from the constant change each full moon.
"While it seems counterproductive," Lupin went on to say, sighing deeply from within himself, "saying the name of the ones you lose is one step in the process of healing. After your parents… I went for so long, hiding away the people I loved and refusing to discuss them. If I had only talked about them, perhaps the good memories would have built into an integral part of who I am, rather than the pain their loss perpetuated."
Reminded of the issue he'd had with even thinking or reading Sirius name, and the release it offered when he finally said it aloud, Harry realized he could probably do exactly what Lupin said, to an extent. He still hadn't read Professor McGonagall's letter, after all.
Freshly determined, Harry reached down into his bag for the letter he'd carelessly stuffed in it. The page was badly rumpled, but not torn, and Harry was glad he could still read it.
"Harry?" Lupin asked concernedly. "What's the matter?"
"Professor McGonagall's letter," Harry announced quietly, forgetting for a moment he had not told Lupin about the correspondence.
"Er… what?" was Lupin's articulate response, but Harry had already begun rereading the letter.
Dear Harry,
My gratitude may seem to become overzealous, but I cannot help thanking you again for taking the time to write. You, of all people, have faced the greatest woes after the incident at the Ministry. For you to take such pains to worry over another in this difficult time is a sign of your character.
In your grief, you may not want to hear the name of your godfather or even think it. It is painful, I know. I have lost loved ones, too. While it may hurt to say the name, I must do so all the same. Please forgive me if it is too much too soon.
Here, at the one point where the pain of losing Sirius had seemed unbearable earlier that day, Harry forced himself onward to read the rest of Professor McGonagall's writing, no matter how much it seemed to hurt.
Sirius Black.
Once again, Harry had to stop and wait out a tidal wave of pain as he remembered his pranking, understanding godfather. But he felt a kind of movement in the wave, as though it were starting to blow past rather than continue to pound over his head and drown him. Opening his eyes, Harry pressed on.
Sirius was one of the most frustrating, irritating, self-assured, pig-headed students I have ever had the misfortune to teach. Every day brought some new torment from that wild, reckless boy.
Harry snorted to himself over that description, feeling a little badly for Professor McGonagall having to handle Sirius alone, not to mention the entire band of Marauders.
But I confess… Sirius was brilliant, too, as well as incredibly generous with what he had. He could be charming, when he wanted to be, and probably downright amusing if I felt in the mood for such shenanigans.
I'm sorry I believed his guilt so easily all those years ago. I tried to tell Sirius as much; I tried to apologize for blaming him so immediately. But the poor man forgave and he never held it against me. It is a crime, surely, that Sirius could only be proven innocent after his death. He deserved more than the life he was given; while he may have escaped the horrors of Azkaban, Sirius only moved into another prison. And that is more than I can stomach when I remember him so full of life.
Harry had to blink away the wetness in his eyes to continue reading, wishing he had known the old Sirius, too – before death and betrayal and Azkaban had stripped away who he was.
Then again, perhaps it was a blessing to never see that decay firsthand; Maybe Harry was lucky to not have such contrasting memories of his godfather to cause even more pain.
You, too, deserve more than the imprisonment of your relatives' unloving home. Sirius often complained of the conditions under which you live. I wish there were more I had been able to do about the past years under the Dursleys' roof. I assure you, however, that I will do whatever I can to change that now. I'm not entirely certain where you will go, Harry, but I refuse to let you stagnate in that household for even one more summer.
Please refrain from further correspondence at this time. (The leashes are tightening as I write.) We will talk more upon my return to Hogwarts.
Until then,
Professor McGonagall
Harry held his breath for an impossibly long moment as he finished the letter with disbelieving eyes. No more Dursleys? Could he really be reading that correctly?
Harry shook his head wildly to dispel his hope. Dumbledore would surely prevent any movement from Privet Drive, regardless the professor's promises. Feeling grateful nonetheless that McGonagall understood and wanted to help him, Harry set the letter aside and allowed his hopes to fall away.
"Everything all right, Harry?" Lupin wondered worriedly from beside him, reaching out to grasp the teen's shoulder.
"Yeah," Harry nodded slowly, folding up the letter as neatly as he could, given its rumpled state. Pausing as he reached down to put it in his bag, Harry briefly considered the healing, however small, that reading it had given him. Finally, he offered up the letter for Lupin to read.
"Oh, Harry, I don't need to read your private mail," Lupin denied with a slight smile, seeming reassured and worried at the same time by Harry's unexpected need to share.
"It might help," Harry offered with an understanding expression, pushing the letter in front of the werewolf. "Go on, then."
Sighing with slight reluctance, Lupin nevertheless took the letter and opened it up to read. With curiosity, Harry saw the weary lines of the man's face both lighten and deepen according to what he read. By the time he finished reading, Lupin's eyes had grown wet, but somehow determined.
"I don't agree with moving you, Harry," the werewolf said plainly, to which Harry jolted with shock, inadvertently pulling away from his parents' old friend. While the young wizard had expected no movement to happen, he had certainly not expected Remus Lupin to disagree with the idea in the first place. "I fear Professor McGonagall may be letting her emotions over Sirius get in the way of reason at the moment."
"Maybe that's the right thing to do in this case," Harry muttered angrily, moving back to the bed he had occupied before Lupin's arrival. Turning on the older wizard, Harry said more clearly, "I don't care. The Dursleys hate magic, they hate me, they hate my very presence. Why should it be so terrible to have me moved away from that?"
"There are other things at work here, Harry," Lupin sighed from the depths of his chest. "But Professor Dumbledore explained all this to you."
"Explained all what?" Harry bit out, growing to wish Lupin would leave. While they bonded over Sirius and understood what each other felt to an extent, the conversation began to make Harry's blood boil as it had all year long. He never found out what he needed to know. Always last to know, but always first to be forcibly volunteered.
"About your staying with the Dursleys, of course," Lupin sighed for the hundredth time, rubbing his neck uncomfortably.
"Dumbledore never said anything," Harry argued, trying very hard to keep his temper and voice at low levels in case Umbridge attempted to listen in. "It just like this past summer, waiting for nothing."
"He didn't tell you?" Lupin frowned deeply, gazing at Harry in consternation. "Professor Dumbledore didn't even talk to you about it?"
"The last I saw Dumbledore was in the atrium of the Ministry," Harry pointed out irritably. "He handed me the golden head as a portkey and I ended up in his office. He said if he didn't arrive in half-an-hour then I was to go to the hospital wing. And he never showed. That's it."
Frowning even more severely, Lupin responded, "With the ministry so chaotic, perhaps he was simply grounded for the time being. Still, that's not really an excuse to forget this. I'll have a word with him, Harry."
"Yeah, you do that," Harry mumbled darkly, sitting down on the bed and breaking eye contact with the werewolf.
A thick pause stole over the hospital wing, followed by deep sigh of resignation from Lupin.
"I'm sorry you feel like this, Harry," The man said sadly. "But you'll understand in time. I'll speak with Professor Dumbledore. And I'll see you soon, I expect."
Harry only grunted with annoyance, not bothering to actually reply.
Another lengthy pause, another deep sigh, then Harry could hear Lupin stand up. "Good night, Harry. Try and get some sleep."
Lupin's steps faded away through the doors of the hospital wing, leaving Harry alone with his disgruntled thoughts for quite some time.
In the aftermath of everything fueling his brain with wakefulness, Harry never fell asleep and ended up watching the sun slowly rise through the windows of the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey looked none too pleased to see him up so early when she exited her office, but merely shook her head. After five years of him ending up in her care, Harry strongly suspected she had mostly given up trying to make him sleep when she wanted him too. Particularly after the past couple of days.
Hermione woke promptly as breakfast arrived, joining Harry in a meal of eggs, bacon, and toast which neither of them actually finished. The pressure from their compromise the previous night seemed to have driven a wedge of awkward silence between them that Harry tried very hard to break, but couldn't bring himself speak out loud. Pushing around the remaining eggs on his plate, the young wizard attempted to think of how to begin a conversation.
Hermione had – at the very least – guessed that someone died at the Ministry. Harry felt almost certain of it. What she couldn't have known was who. They'd had no visitors and when Ginny, Neville, and Luna awoke then left, Hermione was still unconscious. They'd also had no newspapers, since Madam Pomfrey wanted as close to a peaceful atmosphere as possible while Hermione and Ron still needed rest and recuperation. Not to mention Umbridge was a heck of a lot quieter without any random clicks, clacks, or clatters battering the quiet hospital wing. And outside of a nameless hint from Professor McGonagall, Hermione had no clues from him as to who it was.
That all left her with a simple guess that someone was dead.
So where did that leave him?
Holding the secret inside until Hermione was up on her feet? Until she wasn't wincing anymore? Until she was fully recovered?
Glancing over at his bushy-haired friend and watching her peruse Hogwarts: A History with her usual concentrated fascination, Harry realized in a blink that his friend was going to be full steam soon enough. At some point she would be fully well and read the newspapers, or their other friends might visit and reveal the news to her. There was no reason to keep holding back now; he never wanted Hermione to find out from anyone else but him. Harry just had to get up the guts to actively tell her the truth.
"Hermione," he spoke in the quiet of the ward, all of his anxiety and grief coiling up madly as he gathered courage enough to continue.
His best friend glanced up at him, keen eyes collecting the clues of his expression, the pain in his gaze, the nervous twitch of his hands, and the unasked-for sullenness she already knew.
Hermione's eyes watered suddenly, and Harry understood he was wrong.
Of course she'd know it was Sirius. Not because of Professor McGonagall's hint, but because of Harry himself. If anyone else had died, Harry would have felt horrible, but he never would have been as depressed and sullen as Hermione made note of the previous evening.
"Oh, Harry," the smartest witch of their year responded sadly, sympathetically. Her pity and her grief sucked all the courage straight from Harry's gut in a split-second. He lost all the willpower to tell his best friend in plain words what he'd lost in the battle at the ministry.
"Sorry," he croaked out. "I thought… I thought I could…"
"It's okay, Harry," Hermione quietly whispered, lip trembling. "You don't have to say it."
Shaking his head almost violently, Harry disagreed without words. Hermione knew, yes, but he needed to tell her. Yet now he couldn't. There was something about telling his best friend that was even more painful than talking about his godfather with Lupin or reading Professor McGonagall's letter.
"You will… Sometime you'll be able to," Hermione insisted understandingly, although she couldn't fight back her tears very well.
Harry closed his eyes tightly against the wetness in them, hoping for that courage to come back to him soon.
"Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey called him tersely, causing Harry's eyes to snap open as she came upon his sleeping space and found his meal only partially eaten. "Unfortunately, you're finished with breakfast, which means that against my better judgment, I must send you to see the headmaster immediately."
"He wants to see me?" Harry asked, sharing a surprised look with Hermione.
"Yes, he does," Madam Pomfrey confirmed a touch irritably, although something in her face seemed to soften when she noticed the wetness in both teens' eyes. "Go on, get up there before he comes here. We've enough visitors as it is."
Harry nodded and hurriedly swiped at his eyes as he stood and left, Hermione's gentle 'good luck' echoing in his ears all the way to the headmaster's office. The gentle farewell contrasted vibrantly with the indignant thoughts circulating in Harry's head on the journey there. He supposed Lupin had talked with Dumbledore as promised, and this was the result. Scowling at the idea that he was denied even the possibility of leaving the Dursleys, and that Lupin thought virtual imprisonment was a good thing, Harry continued his trek with a great deal of reluctance. Didn't the depression Sirius had felt even make an impression on his old friend?
Staying in a house where he wasn't wanted would never be good for Harry, just as it wasn't for Sirius. For a short second, the young man allowed himself to see Professor McGonagall arguing around Professor Dumbledore and actually convincing him to release Harry from the Dursleys' house. But Professor McGonagall was in no condition to be arguing anything. Shaking that thought away with an agitated sigh of resignation, Harry finally stopped waffling and stepped onto the staircase leading up to the headmaster's office.
In spite of his frustration and upset, and the overwhelming shadow of Sirius' death looming above his head with such impossible insistence as he traveled on the moving staircase, Harry knew he wouldn't be getting a quick answer from Dumbledore. It had never worked that way and he had no false hopes of it happening at the moment. He wished for it; he desperately wished for once that he could get an answer without a long, intensive riddle attached to it. But that was a fool's wish, he knew.
Albus Dumbledore sat waiting behind his desk, the late morning light which poured in from outside creating an enigmatic mixture of shadows and highlights across his long silver hair and beard, leaving his clear blue eyes as bright as stars in the night sky.
"Harry. Please, sit down," Dumbledore spoke quietly, a deep, unsettling sadness and fatigue sitting far behind his piercing gaze as Harry settled stiffly in the chair across from the headmaster. "I was happy to hear of your friends' recovery from Madam Pomfrey. And your admirable interest in Professor McGonagall's condition. While I realize you did not do it for my benefit, I thank you nonetheless for taking the time to support her. This is an… exceptionally trying situation."
"She was only trying to help Hagrid," Harry found himself saying with more calm than he had felt mere seconds before, his outrage and pain and anger with Dumbledore and Lupin and the world in general falling a bit to the wayside. Dumbledore's concern for the Head of Gryffindor was all too genuine and Harry knew the circumstances could not have been easy to face. "Just defending an innocent person. No wand pointed at anyone. And they jumped her without even asking any questions."
Dumbledore sighed from the depths of his chest, an emotion playing on his features Harry couldn't name, but recognized somehow. Given a lengthy pause to gather his words, the headmaster finally responded, "Professor McGonagall was treated atrociously. When I heard about the attack… I cannot even explain the fury I felt. She did not deserve this traumatic experience. I am grateful she has been so well cared for."
Harry nodded in both agreement and understanding, but said nothing more. The headmaster's last sentence seemed to be a point of closure on their current topic of conversation. Interested as both of them were in Professor McGonagall's condition, Harry fairly well knew it was not the reason for Dumbledore's summons.
"Now, Harry, to the real purpose of this discussion," the headmaster pressed on quietly, intertwining his hands above the top of the desk. "Events of late have had disastrous consequences and if I am to take a share of the blame – and I do indeed own a large part of it – then I would like to have thoroughly earned it."
Feeling left behind, Harry responded reluctantly, "I don't understand."
"There is so much I should have explained long ago," Dumbledore sighed heavily again, the same exhaustion creeping through his expression. "And only now do I fully realize the amount of guilt I hold for what has happened. Had I spoken sooner on these things, so much could have been avoided."
"I still don't understand," the young wizard replied, growing frustrated with Dumbledore's constant riddles.
"Allow me to start from the beginning," Dumbledore said instead of explaining directly. "That is to say… your scar. Everything begins with that unique and terrible mark that you are forced to live with. When it became clear that you could sense Voldemort – his presence, his emotions – and after his rebirth could see into his mind at times, I knew it would not be long before Voldemort himself realized the connection worked two ways."
"I already know all this, Professor," Harry tiredly stated.
"What I could not know," Dumbledore said as if Harry had not even spoken, "was at what time that might happen. After your capability of seeing into Voldemort's mind was revealed, I feared he might use that capability in reverse, and put you to deeds and uses you would never wish to pursue. One of my greater fears was that he might possess you, and use you to spy on me. I am sure you wondered, all this year, why I avoided you so completely?"
Lacking words, Harry simply nodded again. He had wondered that, of course, but now it seemed so inconsequential compared to the gaping loss in his life, to all that happened since the Ministry.
"I thought if I avoided you," the silver-haired wizard went on, "I could also avoid this horrible use Voldemort could very well put you to. As it stands, he used it terribly enough to trick you into believing Sirius was at the Ministry, rather than safe at Grimmauld Place."
"I tried to — I did what I could to get him!" Harry half-shouted, desperate to throw off some of the guilt eating away at him inside. "I tried to find Sirius! We ran to Umbridge's fireplace and I called Grimmauld Place, but… but he wasn't there and… Kreacher said he was gone—"
"Kreacher lied," Dumbledore quietly intervened, leaving Harry stone silent for such a long moment he almost forgot he had the ability to speak.
"Lied?" he finally repeated, practically choking on that simple word.
"I arrived at Grimmauld Place after the others had gone, and I called for Sirius," the older wizard continued solemnly. "Kreacher told me – laughing fit to burst – where Sirius had gone."
"But… but he was… Why? What—" Harry could not coherently make sense of it all, numbness settling into his bones.
"Kreacher has been serving two masters since Christmas," Dumbledore stated bluntly, for once without riddles. "Sirius said to 'get out' and Kreacher took it literally, returning to the only Black left living for whom he held any respect – Narcissa. Sister of Bellatrix Lestrange and wife of Lucius Malfoy. And when you called from Dolores Umbridge's fire, Kreacher (upon the order of his second master) injured Buckbeak the Hippogriff so that when Sirius was tending to that injury, Kreacher could pretend his master was gone."
"How do you know all of that?" asked Harry, remembering his worry when Kreacher went missing, and then reappeared in the attic so long after his disappearance.
"I myself am an accomplished Legilimens," the headmaster answered, "and I... eh… persuaded Kreacher to tell the truth of the matter. While serving both Sirius and Narcissa, Kreacher could not reveal certain information Sirius forbade; the location of headquarters or the name of its secret keeper. He was able, however, to pass along other information of great use to Voldemort and his followers."
"What kind of information?" Harry wondered dimly, feeling cold inside.
"The kind of information that Sirius would never have thought to forbid Kreacher from speaking of," Dumbledore replied in kind. "Such as the fact you were the one person he cared about most in the world. The fact that you were coming to view Sirius as father and brother both, and would do anything to rescue him from danger."
"Kreacher… was laughing," Harry bit out, forcing back the wetness of his eyes with every ounce of his willpower.
"A house elf is a being of unrealistic and inhuman loyalties," Dumbledore shook his head. "Just as your friend, Dobby. Kreacher's loyalty tied to Sirius' unholy family the way it was, only served to bring great animosity between Sirius and his new servant."
"Sirius hated Kreacher," Harry argued. "Like he hated this house."
"Sirius did not hate Kreacher," Dumbledore countered. "Kreacher was the reminder of Sirius' childhood, and the home he hated."
"And you made him stay there!" Harry shouted, angry all over again for the way Sirius had been forced to live. "Locked up in that house, with that elf and everything he hated. No one likes to be locked up! Like you did to me last summer!"
"I thought only to keep him safe," the headmaster defended very weakly. "As I did with you."
"What's that even mean?" Harry asked aggressively, glaring at that old face for daring to be tired and weak the teen wanted to yell and shout.
"Upon leaving you with your relatives that Halloween night," Dumbledore responded even more quietly than before, "I knew what I was condemning you to. Ten long, dark, difficult years in that house. Yet I knew also that the safest protection I could grant you was under the Dursley's roof. Under the roof of your mother's last living relative – her sister, Petunia."
"She doesn't care about me," Harry denied. "She's never cared about me."
"But she gave you space in her house," said Dumbledore firmly. "Voldemort may have shed your mother's blood, but in doing so he enacted the very power which protected you from him. As long as you may yet call home the place where your mother's blood resides, the charm I placed on you as a baby will keep you safe. Petunia knew this, from the letter I wrote her and left with you on her doorstep. My plan for your safety worked perfectly to that point, so perfectly."
"You—Wait… you were the one…" Harry spoke hesitantly, "you sent that howler. Remember my last…"
"I felt that Petunia might need reminding of her part in your safety," Dumbledore admitted calmly. "The attack from the dementors surely showed her how dangerous it was to have you under her roof."
"It did," Harry confessed. "They nearly threw me out. Uncle Vernon, at least. Then your howler came and Aunt Petunia said they couldn't, that I had to stay."
"Once more, my plan worked so well," the professor sighed with heavily-veiled dismay. "Such an excellent plan to keep you safe from harm. But so heavily flawed in the subtlest of ways."
"What are you saying?" the young wizard asked, confused.
"Can you not see it?" Dumbledore questioned him. "The flaw in my great plan? Ah, but then it is subtle, as I said. I told you already that I should have said a great many things a long time ago. In your first year, so young at a mere eleven years old and yet having proven yourself in the most admirable of ways, you asked me why Voldemort wanted to kill you as a baby. I deigned not to answer. Too young, I felt. You deserved to live yet longer in your victory and really live your young life without the burdens I held inside. And so your second year arrived and once again it ended with you victorious over Voldemort. Another year, another chance to explain the great question we had so minutely avoided. But twelve is not so much older than eleven, is it? Too young, still. Do you see yet, Harry? Do you see the great flaw in my most excellent plan?"
Harry had no idea what the headmaster was driving at, a blank look crossing his face.
"Still not clear, then?" said Dumbledore understandingly. "Well, then, third year came and went. You faced so many more challenges, and it became all the more difficult to avoid the truth which must be revealed. Still I denied it. Too young, always too young, but growing older. I knew soon you would have to know. Then at fourteen you lived through such an experience as to leave you broken by more than disappointment. Should I have told you then?"
Harry could not answer, still confused what point all of this led to.
"Yes, I should have..." the older wizard answered his own question in a murmur. "Except for the fact you had lived through so much and I could not bear to throw further burdens upon your heavy shoulders. Now, here we stand. Five years later and only after you have lost so much do I finally attempt to reveal what should have been revealed to you at the age of eleven. Do you not see now, Harry, why I could not speak? The flaw in that perfect plan?"
Shaking his head in lasting confusion, Harry waited with ongoing silence.
"I cared too much," was the simple reply, laced so strongly with regret Harry could almost taste it on the air. "You, who have lived through so much pain and loss, you who have faced Voldemort not once, not twice, but now four times – and lived to tell the tale. I could not bring myself to cause more suffering in your young life. I dare anyone who has watched you so long and so closely – seen you suffer as you have, year after year – to wish for anything but your safety and happiness; disregarding even the lives of thousands who might die in the unseen future just so you might have peace in the here and now."
Swallowing back the quick response he might have given, the heat he felt because he had been kept so much in the dark over the past five years, Harry kept himself quiet.
"I cared so much that I allowed you to remain in ignorance of the truth," the headmaster added more softly and sadly. "So far ignorant of it that you had no idea Voldemort would use your connection to feed false visions of the only father figure you have ever known being tortured, and draw you in the Department of Mysteries to retrieve the one thing the Dark Lord could not – the prophecy. So Voldemort gave you your worst fear on a silver platter, and knew you would surely do whatever it took to save your godfather from the vision you saw. It was not the possession I envisioned, but it was a form of possession I nonetheless feared for you."
Harry's throat closed up on him so tightly he feared it would never reopen. All of his fears, all of his worries, about Sirius were the very reasons he had lost him in the end.
"This fear of possession was the very reason I asked Professor Snape to teach you occlumency. You needed to be able to close your mind against Voldemort's attacks, to deny him the ability to fill your mind with these kinds of false visions."
"It didn't work," Harry immediately returned, furious pain chewing through him. "I never practiced. I didn't want to close my mind; I wanted to know more, instead of being in the dark again. Then Snape threw me out. Sirius and Lupin both told me I absolutely had to keep learning occlumency, but Snape would never have taught me again."
"I am afraid I underestimated the capacity for some wounds to heal," Dumbledore added with a sigh. "I fear Professor Snape was never able to distance himself from the feelings he held towards your father."
"It just felt worse every time he tried to force lessons on me," Harry ground out. The very memory of those times, and of the way Snape goaded Sirius, mixed with the grief and sickening guilt rocketing through the very marrow of his bones, infuriated Harry into nearly shouting, "How do I know he didn't try and weaken me? To let Voldemort get in my head?"
"I trust Severus Snape," Dumbledore said calmly, but with certainty.
Fuming still at the times he spent in the dungeons, forced to relive his memories – good and bad – in sight of a man who hated him and his father and his godfather, Harry didn't reply.
"Professor Snape was the one who contacted Sirius – after your cryptic warning – so as to ascertain his location," the headmaster continued to explain, seeming to feel this trust in Snape was of utmost importance. "And after you failed to return from the Forbidden Forest, he alerted the Order that you likely still believed Sirius to be in danger from Voldemort and most probably headed to the Ministry to free your godfather. Professor Snape warned Sirius to remain at Grimmauld Place, but like all men of action and courage, Sirius refused to stay behind while his loved ones were in danger."
Harry had no reason to consider this anything of significant importance. Much as Dumbledore wanted him to concede on Snape's trustworthiness, Harry refused to put his faith in the man who hated his father even years after his death; the man who constantly goaded Sirius for blame he did not deserve from the world at large, and who (from a perspective of vengeance) forced Remus Lupin out of a nigh impossible-to-find job.
"You understand now, why I take part in the blame for Sirius' death," Dumbledore concluded, more fatigue crossing his old features. "And why I will finally answer the question you asked five years ago."
Taking another long moment to steel himself, the professor rose from his seat behind the desk and spoke anew, "Sixteen years ago, I settled myself in a room above the bar at the Hog's Head, interviewing an applicant for the position of Divination professor. Until such time, I had been content to let the subject die out, but this person was descended of the famed seer, Cassandra Trelawney, and I thought it only a curiosity to see if the talent had followed her bloodline."
"Professor Trelawney," Harry determined with ease.
"Yes," Dumbledore nodded. "Disappointment followed my curiosity, for I could see she had no talent as her predecessor. But as I thanked her, informed her of her unsuitability for the position, and stood to leave… I was caught off my guard."
So saying, the professor walked over to the dark cabinet beside baby Fawkes' perch, pulling out the pensieve in which Harry had seen Snape tormented by the Marauders.
From the liquid inside the large dish, Dumbledore stirred up the memory of his choice, a figure dressed in shawls and draping fabric with bug-like glasses rising from the surface.
In harsh tones Harry remembered from his third year, the figure of Professor Trelawney spoke.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"
In silence, complete and utter, Harry and Dumbledore stood staring at the pensieve. Dumbledore lost in thoughts Harry could not imagine and Harry himself shell-shocked and lost in what he had seen yet only half understood.
"Professor…" he spoke in the quietest voice he had yet used. "What… what did all of that mean?"
Looking back to him with grimly focused eyes, Dumbledore responded, "It means that a boy born at the end of July nearly sixteen years ago – to parents who already escaped the Dark Lord three times – is the only one with the chance of permanently defeating Lord Voldemort."
"Does it mean… me?" he asked reluctantly, dreading the answer he expected.
"What makes this prophecy so strange, Harry," Dumbledore deflected slightly, "is that you are one of two boys born at the end of July nearly sixteen years ago, whose parents escaped Voldemort on three separate occasions. The second boy… is Neville Longbottom. Had events turned differently, Neville might very well have been the boy in the prophecy."
"What do you mean, if events turned differently?" Harry demanded weakly. "Either of us could be—It's not clear which one it—it—"
"Harry, Harry," the headmaster interrupted kindly, understandingly, "had Neville been the boy, he would have been marked as the equal of Lord Voldemort, as the prophecy states. You, Harry Potter, not Neville Longbottom, were marked by the Dark Lord himself when he attempted to kill you as a baby. Thus, leaving you as the only person alive who has the chance to defeat him for good."
"Why?" Harry argued confusedly. "Why not wait until we were older and see who was the more dangerous of us? Why would Voldemort attack me? I still don't understand!"
"Voldemort only heard the beginning of the prophecy," Dumbledore explained. "In the middle of Professor Trelawney's foresight, an interloper was revealed and thrown out of the Hog's Head. But at the point which they were removed, they had only heard that a boy would be born at the end of July to parents who escaped Voldemort three times. So he chose you – the half-blood like he is; he saw in you the power he knew in himself and feared your potential. Armed with a lack of complete information, Lord Voldemort could not have known that to attack you would be to give you power to defeat him."
"But I don't have… I don't have any power to defeat him!" Harry exclaimed desperately, bewildered by the fate laid down before him. "What power could I possibly have?"
"Love, Harry," said Dumbledore gently. "Love."
Struck mute and numb, Harry could find nothing to say or think; his throat closed in on itself, and he turned to rush through the unlocked door before Dumbledore could speak anything further, the light of the late afternoon shining over the threshold as he crossed it.
Only after leaving the place he had dreaded entering – and the revelations it unearthed – did Harry realize how much he had talked about Sirius. It was the most he had talked since losing his godfather at the Ministry. Granted, he had been raging mad at the time and barely thinking anything through as his anger at everything reigned, coalescing with his grief in a painful way.
Fighting back the tears that threatened him, Harry rushed back to the hospital wing in the hopes of talking with Hermione again. She had been so considerate. More than usual, he decided, and while it frightened him away it also welcomed him in.
To his surprise upon returning to the hospital wing, Hermione was no longer alone and no longer the only one awake. Ginny, Neville, and Luna had scrambled onto all the beds they'd occupied inbetween Ron and Hermione days before, and at the end of the line Harry got another surprise.
"Ron," Harry said quietly, surprised by his other best friend's wakefulness.
"Hiya, Harry," Ron greeted him a bit dazedly, but looking rather coherent in most respects. "Guess I've missed a bit."
"Yeah, I guess you have," the dark-haired teen answered, unable to smile even at the sight of both his best friends awake and on the road to recovery now that such a weight settled in the pit of his stomach.
"I told him how everyone's doing all right now," Hermione replied instead, and Harry had to distinct impression she'd had firm words with everyone except Ron about some of the touchier subjects of the Ministry battle. Whether that was for Harry's sake or Ron's or both, the dark-haired teen could not be certain, but he was glad of it. After the conversation he'd just had, he didn't want to talk about the Ministry again.
"That's good," Harry nodded vaguely, taking a seat by Hermione as he had done the past few days while he addressed their three visiting friends. "Feeling better?"
"I'm doing well," Luna smiled in her dreamy way, a copy of her father's newspaper stuck under one arm. "Daddy's so pleased at how well the Quibbler is doing."
"Ginny? Neville?" Harry prompted, strangely nervous about their responses.
"I'm better," Ginny shrugged, although she looked like something distracted her. "My ankle doesn't bother me much."
"We're all good, Harry," Neville rounded out the replies, and he truly did look very well now. "Madam Pomfrey did what she always does and set us straight. What about you? Ron and Hermione we already know about."
"I'm fine," Harry answered flatly. "No injuries. Madam Pomfrey let me stay for Ron and Hermione, mostly."
"It's just too bad we're all stuck with her," Ron said with disgust, eyes settled across the room on Umbridge's seemingly resting form. Harry didn't trust it, but at least she wasn't saying anything.
"At least she isn't talking," Hermione echoed his thoughts to a tee, making Harry start. Many times Hermione was right on cue like that with his thoughts, even if there had been times in the past that Harry didn't want to admit it.
"I think we have an answer for that, don't we Hermione?" Harry couldn't help commenting with the ghost of grin peeking through.
Hermione hid a laugh behind her hand, leading their four friends to stare in confusion.
"What are you two hiding?" Ron wondered suspiciously, matched perfectly by Ginny's shrewd gaze.
"Watch," Harry said quietly, pulling his wand to hold out over the floor and then dropping it with a long, clattering clamor that sent Umbridge shooting up in bed with a shriek. The six of them dropped into heavily muffled snickering as Madam Pomfrey rushed out with an exasperated expression to reluctantly subdue her frenzied patient.
"Really, Professor Umbridge, there are no centaurs in this ward!" Madam Pomfrey assured the vile woman with a scowl of immense proportions.
This sent the six teens into another fit of snickering until the mediwitch finally calmed Umbridge down.
"So that's what happened when I dropped that spoon," Ron quietly wondered in pleasant surprise.
"You three, out, out!" Madam Pomfrey bore down on them with as much quiet frustration as possible, waving Ginny, Neville, and Luna away from them. "You've caused enough trouble in my ward, so get back to your dormitories."
Neville scrambled to his feet nervously while Ginny and Luna rose at a much slower pace. Ginny because of her ankle and Luna because… well, because she was Luna. Madam Pomfrey actually followed them to the main doors and shooed them out like pests.
"Well, that was a short visit," Ron commented like his old self, settling further into his pillows.
"It took some of the morning and most of the afternoon!" Hermione corrected him indignantly, also more like her old self.
"Didn't feel that way, though, did it?" Ron countered with a shrug, yawning already. "Harry wasn't even there for most of it. Missed lunch, too."
Hermione looked even more irritated, opening her mouth to say more, but Harry grabbed her hand to forestall her. Rounding on him with an agitated expression, the bushy-haired girl glanced over his face and softened almost imperceptibly.
"Not now. Please?" he asked softly, sick of arguments after what he'd talked about with Dumbledore that morning. Already that discussion weighed on him heavily. Yelling and shouting didn't assuage any of Harry's pain, nor did it change what had happened. It just made him feel out of control.
Sitting back silently, Hermione kept her thoughts to herself as requested, squeezing Harry's hand in agreement. Harry glanced over out of habit to see Ron's response to such unusual silence, but instead of surprise or shock, Harry found his best mate looking especially unhappy about something.
"What is it, Ron?" Harry questioned confusedly.
"Nothing," Ron mumbled more to himself than to Harry, rolling to the side away from his best friends and pulling the covers up over his shoulders.
Sharing a very bewildered look with Hermione, Harry tried to figure what had happened to make Ron so glum of a sudden. Neither of them had any inkling, it seemed, and they both settled for letting Ron go to sleep without questioning. Not long after, the redheaded boy did indeed fall asleep, his usual snores echoing quietly in the otherwise silent ward.
"What was that about?" Hermione finally inquired curiously. "He was perfectly fine a minute before, wasn't he?"
"Yeah, he was," Harry agreed uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't get it."
"Neither do I," Hermione sighed resignedly. "Maybe he's just… still recovering?"
Her tone was hopeful, but in vain; they both could tell it wasn't what was bothering their mutual friend. They knew better than that after five years with Ron Weasley.
"I guess we'll only know if he blows up on us," Harry shrugged nonchalantly. It was par the course, really, to have Ron suddenly burst with whatever bothered him.
"I hope not," said Hermione with a frown, finally slipping down beneath her blankets with a sigh.
Harry said nothing more on the subject, fairly certain Ron would not be explaining anytime soon, and slipped back to his own bed with a million thoughts crowding the space of his brain. Sirius constantly pervaded his mind, bringing the same maelstrom of grief back to haunt Harry, along with the absolute confusion and chaos of Dumbledore's many revelations. But the one thing which struck Harry the most was not as obvious to discern. Having conversed with Professor Dumbledore about so much, and still come away feeling so drained and lost, the young wizard wished he could talk to someone. Someone who had lived through things like losing their only real remaining family. Someone who would care and understand. Someone like a parent.
His parents, however, were dead and gone.
All three of them.
Lupin had come and gone, his advice and comfort fleeting – tempered with the awful feeling of being trapped without a hand to pull him up.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had always been kind and understanding, but Harry felt a distance when it came to discussing Sirius and he certainly could never feel right burdening them with the prophecy he now had to live with.
Who else was there?
Turning uncomfortably onto his right side, Harry steeled himself against more tears. He was sick to death of crying, but it was the only response he seemed to have left inside. Looking around himself for some kind of distraction, the young man's eyes fell on the only thing he had left nearby – Professor McGonagall's letter, neatly folded just in the top of his bag.
Stilling his fidgety movements, Harry stared for five whole minutes at the letter which had appeared so painful at first, but in fact helped him to move past a part of his grief, however small it had seemed.
With a deep breath, Harry reached down and plucked the letter from his bag, careful not to tear it.
Opening it again, the young wizard reread it from beginning to end; he stopped several times, unable to keep up the emotional response it created in him. Feeling the hesitation creep in every other sentence, Harry finally decided he would read the letter until he could do it without stopping.
Come dinner time, Harry had accomplished his task. Not a single word made him pause or hesitate, and he felt grateful to Professor McGonagall for giving him such a tool to work with. Only problem was, Harry had allowed his grief to pool in him as he read and remembered his godfather.
"Harry," came a whisper from his left, and he turned to find Hermione gazing at him in pure worry, biting her lip.
"Yeah?" he asked blankly.
"Are you all right?" Hermione whispered still, eyeing the letter in his hand with anxiety.
Thinking for a long moment about how to answer her question, Harry came to the realization that if he was all right, he wouldn't have to think about it so hard.
"No," he admitted bluntly for once, forcing his fingers to remain lax enough to avoid crushing the letter from his Head of House. "I'm not all right."
"Harry," Hermione whispered, pained by his uncommonly blatant honesty about his feelings.
"He's gone, Hermione," Harry blurted in a cracked whisper, feeling a single tear make the trek down his face.
"Sirius is gone."
Harry's eyes suddenly overflowed and Hermione muffled a sob in her bedclothes, scrambling to reach his hand across the space between their beds.
Sometime after midnight, Harry eventually fell asleep, his best friend's comforting hand keeping him grounded through the night.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed Chapter 2: Contention!