Chapter 18

The Lost Decade

Had it really been ten years? God, I feel old – feel it down in my very bones. Where does the time go?

An entire decade had passed since the Dark Lord had fallen on that fateful Hallows Eve, but Albus Dumbledore felt like that pure evil had been vanquished just yesterday. He was standing in his office, a few hours before the new school year's sorting ceremony and welcome feast. He always felt a curious mixture of nervousness and excitement before a new term, like a father anticipating the birth of a new child.

The office looked the same as it had for the past forty odd years – a large and beautiful circular room, its walls covered with self-portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses. Curious silver instruments littered the room, emitting puffs of smoke and funny little noises. A new school sorting marked the passing of another year, a fresh start for all. Dumbledore felt very sentimental during the start of each school year and he found himself yearning to reminisce. He walked over to a tall wooden cabinet with a large glass door. Inside were shelves stock full of glass vials, and each vial contained swirling white mist – memories, some long forgotten and some as fresh as yesterday.

Dumbledore had lived for so long, had traveled so far, and had experienced so much; he had developed a curious problem. His mind could not hold all of his important memories clearly. He needed the ability to re-experience and access his memories at a moment's notice. He had also acquired interesting memories from others during his adventures and needed the ability to recall them whenever he chose. Dumbledore bent low and reached for something on the lowest shelf of the cabinet.

He removed a wide and shallow dish made of gleaming silver rock and placed it on his large oak desk. The stone dish had ancient runes lining its sides that glowed at random intervals. The pensieve was a rare item, and many wizards were afraid to use one. It was a dangerous business, prying into memories. The pensieve allowed a wizard to re-live a memory, recreating every detail that had been stored in one's subconscious. The recreated memory could include details that the wizard himself may not have even remembered experiencing. Removing a memory is a complicated bit of magic, especially if the wizard in question does not want it removed. Many instances of permanent brain or memory damage have occurred in association with using a pensieve.

Even more challenging than successfully removing and experiencing a memory, is to correctly sort through the latent ideas embedded within the memories. False conclusions or incorrect interpretations can lead to disastrous results. Much care and caution must be exercised when using a pensieve for, just like in the case of time-turners, horrible things have happened to wizards who meddle with the past.

According to ancient Pottermore legend, the Hogwarts Pensieve is made of ornately carved stone and engraved with modified Saxon runes, which mark it as an artefact of immense antiquity that pre-dates the creation of the school. One (unsubstantiated) legend insinuates that the founders discovered the Pensieve half-buried in the ground on the very spot where they decided to erect their school.

Dumbledore walked back to the cabinet, carefully selected a few vials and walked back to his desk. He dumped the contents of the vials into the pensieve, watching each of the silvery memories fall into the bowl. A swirling mist formed in the bowl – the mist was not quite gas, yet not quite liquid. Dumbledore then held his wand to his temple and pulled it away – a thin, white, gossamer strand came away from his head. It broke off from the temple, swinging slowly from his wand tip. He dipped it into the pensieve and stirred all the contents around.

While it was true that the start of a new school year always put Dumbledore in a reflective mood, this year he was a little more on edge than usual and wanted to experience some moments from the past decade to jog his memory. For later tonight a very special boy would be stepping onto the Hogwart's grounds for the first time. Even though Dumbledore had not personally spent time or had directly spoken to the child over the last ten years, the little boy was very near and dear to the Headmaster's heart.

The child had been living with part of his extended his family, but had subjected to treatment more akin to an animal than that owed to a familial relative. He had been ignored, mistreated and humiliated on a daily basis during his upbringing – his uncle and aunt had skirted very close to committing outright abuse on the poor boy.

Dumbledore had been keeping a watchful, but silent eye during his tough rearing. Even though the boy's treatment broke his heart, Dumbledore had never intervened on child's behalf. It was imperative the child was allowed to live with his Aunt, and he did not want to give her any chance to cast the child out. Dumbledore was very curious as to what was the child's true nature. Was he going to be well adjusted and friendly? Was he going to be afraid, unsure of himself? Or…would he exhibit the tendencies of another child, someone Dumbledore had taught many years ago, a boy who had made all the wrong choices…

Dumbledore's mind was going over the four possible outcomes of tonight's sorting as he took a deep breath, and leaned into the pensieve. He felt his feet leave the ground and had an unsettling feeling of falling…he could only see smoke, everything was swirling darkness…

…The room had been built deep underground and had the feel of a hidden dungeon lair. There was a dreary, unwelcoming air floating about the room – everything looked to be made of dark stone and rock. The walls had a spartan appearance; no pictures or decorations were adorning the walls. There was just serried rows of benches all around the circular room, rising in levels. In the sunken center, in clear view from anywhere along the benches, was a stone chair with heavy silver chains hanging from it. There must have been at least two hundred wizards and witches sitting among the benches, dressed in magnificent robes of all colors. Each color signified a rank or administrative level within the Wizengamot.

Seated on a raised dais in front of the solitary chair in the middle of the room was Bartemius "Barty" Crouch Sr. He was the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and had a reputation for being just as ruthless as the Death Eaters he prosecuted – he had recently pushed through a decree that allowed Aurors to use unforgiveable curses in the line of duty. He was the only wizard that was standing and was staring directly at a small door in the corner of the dungeon room.

This was Courtroom 10, located one floor below the Department of Mysteries within the Ministry of Magic headquarters, where the Wizengamot held its criminal proceedings. With the Dark Lord fallen, the ranks of the Death Eaters had slowly been crumbling – they were scattered and running scared. The Aurors had killed many of them, and captured even more. Quite a few of them had turned themselves in, seeking mercy or making excuses for their behavior. It had been difficult for the Wizengamot to sort through the lies and the subterfuge. Who had been under the imperious curse? Who had been physically forced to follow the Dark Lord? Who had been threatened or coerced into His employ?

Only official members of the Wizengamot and high ranking officials within the Ministry were allowed to be present at these trials. But sitting quietly on one of the benches high up in the room was Albus Dumbledore, in splendid magenta robes. He would soon become Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, but at this moment he was not an actual member of the high court. Somehow the official rules never seemed to apply to the distinguished wizard. The Minister would never publicly admit it, but he leaned heavily on Dumbledore's advice and was secretly glad the Hogwarts Headmaster always made himself available to offer counsel. As far as the Minister was concerned Dumbledore could come and go as he pleased within the Ministry walls. The only reason he had been elected to the post of Minister was because Dumbledore had turned down the position after repeated calls for his appointment – why would someone want to run a school when they could hold the most powerful magical position in Great Britain?

The door to the dungeon room opened and two Dementors glided in. The tall hooded creatures floated slowly towards the chair in the middle of the room – shaking in between them was a tall, rail-thin man. Each Dementor had ahold of one of the man's arms, grasping him roughly with their dead, rotting hands.

The man was dressed in frayed grey robes and looked as if he could faint at any moment. The watching crowd flinched in fear from the approaching creatures, the air becoming silent and cold. Igor Karkaroff sat down in the stone chair, shivering as if he had just stepped out of an ice bath. The chains on the arms of the chair suddenly glowed gold and snaked their way up his arms, magically binding him. The chains pulsed, squeezing him over and over, pythons trying to choke off their prey…

…"Igor Karkaroff, you have been brought from Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you have important information for us."

Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, tightly bound to the chair. "I have, sir. I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I – I know that the Ministry is trying to – round up the last of the Dark Lord's supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can…"

There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others with pronounced mistrust.

"Filth," came Moody's growling voice from Dumbledore's left. "Crouch is going to let him out. He's done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he's got enough new names. Let's hear his information, I say, and throw him straight back to the dementors." Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through his long, crooked nose.

"Ah, I was forgetting . . . you don't like the dementors, do you, Albus?" said Moody with a sardonic smile.

"No," said Dumbledore calmly, "I'm afraid I don't. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures."

"But for filth like this . . ." Moody said softly.

"You say you have names for us, Karkaroff," said Mr. Crouch. "Let us hear them, please."

"You must understand," said Karkaroff hurriedly, "that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy. . . .He preferred that we – I mean to say, his supporters – and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them –"

"Get on with it," sneered Moody.

"– we never knew the names of every one of our fellows – He alone knew exactly who we all were –"

"Which was a wise move, wasn't it, as it prevented someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in," muttered Moody.

"Yet you say you have some names for us?" said Mr. Crouch.

"I – I do," said Karkaroff breathlessly. "And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely –"

"These names are?" said Mr. Crouch sharply.

Karkaroff drew a deep breath. "There was Antonin Dolohov," he said. "I – I saw him torture countless Muggles and – and non-supporters of the Dark Lord."

"And helped him do it," murmured Moody.

"We have already apprehended Dolohov," said Crouch. "He was caught shortly after yourself."

"Indeed?" said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. "I – I am delighted to hear it!" But he didn't look it. One of his names was worthless.

"Any others?" said Crouch coldly.

"Why, yes . . . there was Rosier," said Karkaroff hurriedly. "Evan Rosier."

"Rosier is dead," said Crouch. "He was caught shortly after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than come quietly and was killed in the struggle."

"Took a bit of me with him, though," whispered Moody, indicating the large chunk missing out of his nose to Dumbledore.

"No – no more than Rosier deserved!" said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice now. Karkaroff was starting to worry that none of his information would be of any use to the Ministry. Karkaroff's eyes darted toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood, waiting.

"Any more?" said Crouch.

"Yes!" said Karkaroff. "There was Travers – he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber – he specialized in the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!"

The watching crowd was all murmuring together.

"Rookwood?" said Mr. Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment. "Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?"

"The very same," said Karkaroff eagerly. "I believe he used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information –"

"But Travers and Mulciber we have," said Mr. Crouch. "Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide –"

"Not yet!" cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. "Wait, I have more!"

Karkaroff was sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard.

"Snape!" he shouted. "Severus Snape!"…

…Dumbledore was standing in a lavishly furnished Ministry office arguing with Barty Crouch. Sitting behind a large, ornate desk was the current Minister of Magic, Millicent Bagnold, half listening to the two wizards' back and forth. He was more interested in reading that day's Daily Prophet that was sitting on his lap – the English national team had just resoundingly beaten the Spanish squad in a Quidditch World Cup qualifying match and he had missed the telecast. With the Dark Lord fallen, life was comfortable again for the Minister. Let my underlings worry about the Death Eater roundup, I deserve some relaxation and rest.

Seated around the room was Cornelius Fudge, a Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes, and Rufus Scrimgeour, a top lieutenant within the Auror division. They were both highly talented wizards – Fudge would eventually succeed Millicent as Minister of Magic and during the Second Wizarding War when Fudge was sacked, Scrimgeour would replace him. They were both listening intently to the unusual argument – the Head of the Order speaking on behalf of a convicted Death Eater.

"He has the mark, is a known associate of convicted Death Eaters and was at the scene of a brutal assassination. It's a rather cut and dry case," Crouch loudly exclaimed.

"He was at the scene of Peter Pettigrew's murder on my orders," calmly replied Dumbledore.

"On your orders? How did you know Pettigrew was to be killed? Why did you not share this information with us? The Ministry is the proper authority to handle such situations."

"I was unaware Sirius Black intended to commit further murder and treachery. I asked Severus to track down Black and bring him to me. Pettigrew, overcome with grief over the death of his best friends no doubt, also tracked down Black to seek vengeance. I am shocked, to be honest, as the boy never struck me as very courageous. But he showed true gumption in tracking down…"

"I'm not interested in your opinion of poor Pettigrew! Does your recklessness know no bounds? Sending a Death Eater to track down his brethren, instead of alerting the Auror Office? Innocent people died that day Albus!"

Dumbledore glanced around the rooms for some support, but the Minister was engrossed in his paper and the other two Ministry officials seemed to be in accord with their colleague. He was beginning to bristle with indignation, losing his trademark aplomb.

"Bartemius, are you suggesting I am to blame for that horrible massacre? That I am not committed to our cause?"

"You're not an Auror Albus! We've gotten wind that you're running your own rogue organization. Received reports that you've been fighting your own little war. You're not a Ministry employee!"

"Exactly!" thundered Dumbledore.

His exclamation caused Millicent to drop his paper and look up in surprise. The Headmaster rarely raised his voice, if ever. Dumbledore turned to the Minister, exasperation written across his brow. His good nature and patience had finally reached a breaking point.

"Millicent, Severus Snape turned from the dark side almost a year ago and turned spy for me. He has been feeding me reliable information on the Dark Lord and his followers for months – information which I passed on to you, and which has saved countless innocent lives, as you well know. He has risked death time and again for me and on behalf of your office. He is no more a Death Eater than I am."

"Yes, yes, I know," replied Millicent, who had shrunk back in his seat. A fearful student in front of an angry teacher.

"Then please explain to your guard dog that there are things of which he is unaware, that only you and I know."

"Such as?" demanded Crouch. "How am I to effectively perform my job if important facts are withheld from me?"

"For example, do you know where the Head of your Auror Office is?" asked Dumbledore, staring at Crouch as one would an irksome fly.

"No."

"He is downstairs processing four Death Eaters that I delivered earlier today. I think you'll find they were the culprits behind the Longbottom disappearance."

This startling news stunned everyone in the room; the fate of the Longbottoms had been a top priority for the Ministry.

"What…but…how?" asked Crouch.

"I think your time would be better spent preparing for Karkaroff's hearing later today, rather than questioning me. Now if you'll excuse us, I have important things to discuss with the Minister."

Dumbledore held out his arm towards the door, effectively dismissing three top Ministry officials. Crouch looked towards the Minister who quickly nodded, and so he headed out of the office, Fudge and Scrimgeour close on his heels. Like three chastised school children, off they went…

…Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore were walking along the school grounds of Hogwarts, near the edge of the Great Lake. Dumbledore was walking confidently, head high, his splendid blue robes billowing behind him. Snape kept pace but was a step behind, drab black robes clinging to his slight frame.

"You've been remanded into my custody Severus. As such, you must stay here. Honestly, I don't see what the problem is."

"I don't want to be around people."

"Would you rather spend time in Azkaban…again?"

"Yes…I deserve…no less…"

"What use would you be to me, rotting in there alone?"

"So I'm to be your slave from now on?"

Dumbledore stopped walking and looked questioningly at his charge. "Severus, you once gave me your word…"

"In exchange for her life!"

"You very well know I did everything in my power to keep Lily safe."

Snape gave a small sniffle as a response, so Dumbledore went on. "The one thing she loved most in this world will eventually be in terrible danger. If you truly cared for the girl, you will help me protect him. Now, Slughorn has been considering retirement for some time and..."

"I told you already, I'm much better suited for the Dark Arts curriculum."

"And trust me when I tell you, you wouldn't last one year in that post…"

…Dumbledore and Snape sat in front of the large granite fireplace that graced the Slytherin common room. It was approaching midnight, and the flickering fire was throwing shadows across the room –the only students left were dozing in various green leather armchairs. Dumbledore wore a tired, yet bemused expression on his face as he stoked the glowing fire. Snape was red in the face, struggling to get his point across.

"You know, I should really speak to Horace about the ambiance down here. Downright spooky if you ask me," Dumbledore said half to Snape and half to himself.

"I sit in the corner, am shown absolutely zero respect. He has me scrubbing cauldrons and stocking the storeroom the majority of the time."

"There's hardly any light down here. It could be affecting the mood of the students."

"There were never any 'teaching assistants' when I studied here. Is that even a real position? For God's sake, the prefects have more authority than I do."

"And it's always so frosty down here, I'm cold even sitting right next to this roaring fire."

"The students walk all over me, never heeding my instructions. I'm twice the potions master the slug is!"

Dumbledore slowly stood up and clumsily patted Snape on the head. "Sounds terrific Severus, sounds like you're finally settling in. Till next week then?" Dumbledore waved his wand as he left the Slytherin common room, warming the air behind him and leaving an exasperated Snape in his wake…

…Dumbledore walked down a long hallway in the Hogwart's dungeons and stopped outside a busy classroom. He quietly peered in to observe a 6th year potions class in session. Twenty students sat around the room, hot cauldrons steaming in front of each of them. A large, fat man in splendid green robes was walking around the room in a haphazard way, droning on and on about the finicky nature of the Draught of Living Death and the correct order for adding ingredients to the potion. He had prominent eyes, a silver, walrus-like mustache, and a tuft of thinning brown hair.

But the majority of the students were not hanging on Horace Slughorn's every word, rather, they were slyly watching a skinny young man in the corner of the room prepare his brew. He was just a few years older than the students, but was wearing similar green faculty robes as to that of Professor Slughorn – albeit of second hand quality.

The young man appeared to be following along with Slughorn's instructions, but Dumbledore quickly realized that he was making slight tweaks to the verbal instructions – and the results were impressive. Most of the class had caught on as well and were surreptitiously trying to mimic the young man's work. Dumbledore smiled to himself as he walked back down the hallway…

…Dumbledore was now sitting behind the large desk in his office, ostensibly playing referee between Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape, but actually more interested in perusing an old textbook lying open in front of him.

"Honestly Severus, you cannot keep handing out detentions like candy for every little infraction or perceived slight you receive from a student."

"Minerva, I could care less what students say to me – I only hand out detentions and take house points away when it's deserved."

"The Bakersfield brothers claim you assigned them each a month's worth of detentions for calling you Professor Crybaby."

"Oh, am I to understand that insulting a Professor is now acceptable? Or is that just a Gryffindor privilege?"

"Of course teachers deserve the utmost respect, but the boys told me they were quietly speaking to each other, not showing any disrespect publicly. More to the point – is an entire month of scrubbing desks an equitable punishment?"

"I also gave the Croner boy and Shantley girl detentions for referring to you as an ugly old hag. I don't hear you speaking up on behalf of those Hufflepuff students."

"Severus, I know it's hard being one of the youngest teachers in the school's history, but arbitrarily handing out discipline is an abuse of your power. Quite frankly, it shows an alarmingly lack of poise and maturity!"

"Maybe another injection of younger blood is needed to reinvigorate the facility ranks – you've grown soft in your old age, allowing students to run wild, and playing favorites with your house's students!"

Both Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape wheeled about to face Dumbledore, faces flushed, their eyes pleading with the Headmaster to side with them…

…Dumbledore was lying on a giant sized cot, his arm in a makeshift sling and red blood dribbling across his chin. A worried looking Hagrid was fussing over him, his sweat falling in thick drops.

"How yer feelin' Professor? Can I git yer anything else? Sum food perhaps?"

"No, no Hagrid. I'm quite alright. Please stop fussing."

The door to Hagrid's hut burst open, and Snape hurried through. He swung off his traveling cloak and removed a small vial from his pocket – a bright blue and yellow liquid was sloshing around within the capsule.

"Here Headmaster, drink this quickly," said Severus as he unstoppered the vial and tilted it towards Dumbledore's waiting mouth. As soon as the liquid touched his lips, Dumbledore let out a great sigh and fell asleep.

"Wha' ya give 'im? Is he gonna be alrigh'?" asked Hagrid, suspiciously looking at Snape. "I think I betta' call Madam Pomfrey down 'ere to have a look see."

Snape whirled around and pointed a menacing finger at Hagrid.

"The Headmaster will be fine…no thanks to you! What exactly have you been doing this summer? Where do you and the Headmaster run off to, for days, even weeks, at a time?"

"That nun of yer business, now iz it?"

"The Headmaster's safety is of the utmost importance to every member of the school faculty, so it is my business." Snape pulled out his wand and pointed it threateningly at the Hogwarts' gamekeeper, advancing on him with anger alight in his eyes…

…A raging storm was in full swing, white lightening streaking across the sky, thunder rocking around the heavens. Dumbledore and Snape were staring down at the castle from the open terrace of the astronomy tower. Rain sloshed around them, dropping sideways due to the wind whipping around the night air. Dumbledore looked serene, quietly taking in the storm, whereas Snape was jumpy and anxious, a human embodiment of the howling storm.

"Calm down Severus. Panic does us no good, now tell me again. What did Lucius say?"

"He agreed with me! The mark is not as faded anymore. It's becoming darker! Fuller!"

"Is it burning you?"

"Well, no. But it's…changing! Karkaroff agrees as well!"

"I see you've been keeping in touch with all your old friends. How is Igor? Settling into his teaching post?"

"You know very well you've asked me to keep my ear to the ground. Only a few of them still trust me. Now what does this mean? Is He coming back?!"

"I wouldn't worry too much about it Severus, I've heard nothing of the sort."

"But you once told me He would come back! How is that possible?"

Dumbledore stepped away from the open terrace and began to walk towards the trap door that guarded the stairs back down to the castle.

"Severus, let us talk about what you will report to Fudge at tomorrow's meeting."

"What about my mark?!"

"Now, as usual, you must give him as much information as you can on the activities of your former friends. But this time I want you to withhold certain details…" Dumbledore's voice trailed off as he descended through the trap door, leaving Snape alone on the tower terrace. Snape didn't follow his protector, rather, he turned back to face the open terrace. Cold rain sluiced his face and greasy hair, drenching his threadbare black robes…

…Dumbledore sat once again in his large office, holding court over Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape.

"What is the boy like?" asked Snape.

"Yes, Albus, have you had any contact with him?" added McGonagall.

Dumbledore rose from behind his desk and began pacing about his office.

"No, I've allowed the boy to grow up alone. To learn to deal with his plight without any outside help or influence, shut off from his true world. To be honest, I am just as curious as the two of you as to what the child's nature will be like. Now I've called you both here to discuss something else. I have been entrusted with something very…precious. I'm thinking about storing the object here, within the castle, and I'm going to ask the faculty to help me guard it."

"What's the object?"

"Why does it need guarding?"

"Reasonable questions, and all be answered in due time. But for now, please get to work on designing an obstacle only a very talented wizard would be able to overcome."

Dumbledore gestured towards his office door – a silent dismissal for the other Professors. Professor McGonagall quickly walked out, but Snape lingered.

"Dumbledore…the boy…what does he look…"

"No more questions tonight, just focus on the task I have assigned you."

When Snape reached the office door, Dumbledore softly called out.

"Severus, one more thing. Please fetch Professor Quirrell for me. I have some…questions to ask him about where he went on his sabbatical."