Chapter 9—Maneuvering Dumbledore

Severus kept his word to himself the next morning. The hour before breakfast found him on the moving staircase up to Albus's office, running over every piece of disturbing evidence in his mind, from his lost memory to the general change in Potter since the term began.

"Severus. What can I do for you?" Albus's smile was as gentle as ever, and his eyes as bright and as inscrutable. Though Severus had chosen coldness and anger as his own means of masking emotions, he would have scoffed at anyone who said it was the only way to shield oneself. He could have chosen and used cheerfulness just as well, and Albus was the living proof.

"It's about Potter," he said bluntly. "I have reason to believe that the Dark Lord is possessing him—or, if not him, some other student in the school."

The brightness in the blue eyes dimmed a bit, but the faint smile remained the same. "Give me your evidence, please," Albus said, sitting back just the way he did when Severus returned to report from Death Eater meetings. Fawkes stretched his neck out, begging, then seemed to decide he'd have to feed himself and snatched a biscuit from the plate.

Severus had to be careful here, because he certainly did not want to tell Albus that he'd manhandled the boy or made him write lines about Black. Albus would not understand. He never had understood that the hatred between Severus and the Marauders was more than the usual schoolboy grudge. He thought everyone could get along if they tried. Severus was not entirely sure that he made an exception to that rule even for the Dark Lord.

He told enough to take the smile away, though, and by the time he finished, Albus was stroking his beard. The stars on his robes sparkled madly, though Severus had never found that an accurate guide to the Headmaster's mood. Fawkes gave a soft croon, almost worried, and looked back and forth between them.

"Of course this is serious," Albus murmured. "Thank you for bringing your concerns to my attention, Severus. I will summon Harry here, and, meanwhile, ask you to watch, just in case Tom is possessing someone else."

The heavy note of hope in his voice made Severus want to snort. Of course he wants to believe that it's someone else. His precious Harry Potter could never do anything wrong.

"I would like to be present at your meeting with the boy, Headmaster," he said.

Albus's eyes sharpened, and he sat forward with a small smile, this time holding out a biscuit so that Fawkes wouldn't have to stretch. "I'm afraid that would not be wise. I know that you and Harry have had your—differences. I think I'd like to talk to him alone. Merlin knows that I did not talk to him enough last term to make him trust me. It may be time to start paying more attention to him."

Severus kept himself from rolling his eyes, but it was difficult. Albus already gave the boy all the attention he could desire, much more than a spoiled brat like him deserved. Perhaps that was another cause of the boy's swollen head. When the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the greatest wizard of his age and bane of Grindelwald, was falling over himself to give Potter whatever he wanted, why shouldn't he believe he was special?

Severus wondered, as he moodily took his leave, why he was alone in seeing the reflected glory of the Dark Lord, and nothing else, in Potter. Yes, granted, he saw things that other people did not, and he was used to being alone in his perceptions, but must the rest of the world be so persistently blind?

"Wasn't that brilliant?" Ron was all but bouncing up and down. "She snatched it just in time! She's brilliant, Harry!"

Harry had to smile, if only for the sake of his friend's enthusiasm. "She really is," he agreed, looking back to where Ginny, her hair soaked with sweat, was accepting the congratulations of Katie Bell and one of the new Beaters Ron had placed on the team. "She'll make a great Seeker." He took a deep breath. He'd come out to watch the very early practice at Ron's suggestion, and the fresh air and the sharp edge of frost on the grass had done its part to revive him after a sleepless night. This was what he would miss most, he thought. He'd given up any right he had to the company and sympathy of other people, but nothing could quite match the sheer beauty of the world on a morning like this.

Ron stopped bouncing and looked at him seriously. "Not as good as you, though, Harry."

Harry gave a small shrug and smiled at him. "She'll have her mind more on the game than I ever did. I was always distracted by something, remember? The Philosopher's Stone, or the voice I heard in the walls, or believing there was a mad murderer after me." He paused and thought about that. "Well, there's still a mad murderer after me, but it's not the same one." He felt a wave of sadness come over him. I wish no one had ever believed that about you, Sirius. I wish you could have been free of Azkaban and raised me instead of the Dursleys.

"That's true," Ron said, but his gaze was unwavering, and Harry avoided it. Ron was regarding him too much like a problem in chess right now. "I just want you to know, mate, I can listen if you need an ear."

Harry opened his mouth to answer, and then abruptly the school blurred in his sight and his legs gave out on him. He felt his head hit the ground, and he hissed between his teeth, because a stone pressed against the same spot that Snape had injured on the wall yesterday. But his main concern was raising his Occlumency shields. If this was an attack by Voldemort, he wouldn't let his secrets be discovered so easily.

"Harry? Harry!"

Ron's voice was very distant. Harry heard rushing and pounding and roaring in his ears, as if he lay on a seashore. He took a deep breath and managed to sit up. The spinning in his head—which didn't come from pain, but from a carousel that seemed located right behind his eyes—objected to that. Harry had endured worse than that since he decided on suicide, though, and he shoved the dizziness irritably aside.

He found himself pulled against Ron, and the rest of the team was running to catch up with them, shouting. Harry squirmed uncomfortably. He didn't like being hugged like this. It seemed like—it seemed like only Sirius should have done this, and Harry would only earn the right to be hugged again when he'd done his duty.

"What is it, mate? Your scar?" Ron's voice was fiercely private, and Harry felt bad for having to deceive him. But he just could imagine Ron and Hermione's reaction if he did tell them about what he had to do. Hermione would Body-Bind him, and Ron would knock him unconscious, and by the time Harry woke up, he'd be in Dumbledore's office or St. Mungo's or the Burrow, with an adult sitting there to "talk some sense into him." Harry had little hope of being able to make them see that he was the most sensible person at Hogwarts right now, the only one who was trying to make sure Voldemort was defeated.

Except Snape, I suppose. And that was an odd thought, and Harry recognized the hazy wandering in his head. He dragged his attention back to the point.

"No," he said, clasping Ron's hand and easing away from him. "I think I just haven't eaten enough, if you can believe that." He snorted. "Didn't eat dinner last night, haven't had breakfast this morning, and—" He hesitated, then shrugged. He didn't remember touching lunch yesterday, or breakfast for that matter. It wasn't as though he tried to skip meals, or wanted to. It just happened, because he could use the time for so many more productive things. He'd have to devote the hours to it, though, because, from the alarmed expression on Ron's face, this made too severe a change.

"We've got to get some food into you!"

Harry started to respond, but someone cleared her throat behind him. Turning, he looked up at Professor McGonagall, who had her eyebrows raised. "Mr. Potter," she said. "Are you quite all right?" An undercurrent of fear coursed through her voice. Harry winced to hear it. That was why he was dying, to prevent people from feeling that.

"I'm all right, ma'am," he said, and pushed himself to his feet, deftly avoiding Ron's hand. "A bit of a tumble. Did you want to see me?"

"The Headmaster wants you." McGonagall peered at him through her glasses. "Of course, if you need to go to Madam Pomfrey, I'm sure he'll be willing to wait."

"That's all right," said Harry, guessing that Snape had probably taken his suspicions to Dumbledore. There would never be a better moment to visit him than right now, when he was visibly weak and sick from lack of food. Dumbledore claimed to love him, so Harry would play on his sympathy. "I can see him, ma'am. Really." He smiled at McGonagall, who nodded slowly and began walking back to the school. Harry followed her.

"Harry!" Ron whispered after him.

"I'll get something from the Great Hall before Charms," Harry offered absently, his mind already springing ahead to what he'd say to Dumbledore. He really didn't want to alienate or antagonize the Headmaster. On the other hand, perhaps he could prepare the ground for the reception of the interview he'd have to give the Daily Prophet in a few weeks.

"Ah, my dear boy." The Headmaster's eyes were warm. "Please, sit down." The warmth sharpened to a look of concern as Harry let himself fall into the chair. "Are you quite all right?"

Harry coughed, and sighed. "I'm afraid not, sir," he whispered. "I've been feeling sick for the last little while, and, now—" He shrugged and stared at his hands.

Dumbledore sighed. Fawkes gave a little trill. Harry didn't look up at him, even though part of him longed to hear the phoenix song. For all he knew, the bird might have the mystic ability to sense his resolve.

"I'm afraid I must ask you something serious, Harry," Dumbledore said, "and while I hate to add to your burden when you are sick, this is not only serious, but critical to the war effort."

"I'm ready, sir." Harry was vaguely surprised that Dumbledore thought he wouldn't be ready to hear something phrased in that way. What else did he have to be concerned about, now?

"Severus suspects you of being possessed by Voldemort." Dumbledore spoke as gently as he had when talking about the prophecy, last term. "I understand that you may have no memories of this, and for good reason, but I thought I needed to investigate the possibility. Will you let me read your mind, Harry?"

"Of course, sir." Inwardly, Harry felt a soaring triumph. Of course Snape would suspect something like that. Maybe I don't have to worry about him after all. I could walk about with a sign around my neck stating my plan, and he'd only think it was a plea for attention.

If Dumbledore was surprised by the instant acquiescence, he didn't show it. He leaned forward, and his intent eyes peered into Harry's. Harry pressed his Occlumency shields flat and piled his mind with memories, mostly of his grief for Sirius and the visions he'd had last year of Voldemort. Only a few memories needed to be sheltered—for example, the specifics of Medea's Draught and his meeting with Scrimgeour—and Dumbledore would find his own explanation in the memories Harry showed him.

His Legilimency was much gentler and more refined than Snape's. Harry wondered idly if that was just because he had more practice, or a stronger will, or whether Snape had decided he didn't need gentleness. He paused on each memory, looked at it for a long time, and then continued on. Harry held his mind passive, since that was what Dumbledore would expect, and the closest he could manage now to an impression of someone who didn't know Occlumency at all. That also made it easier to keep some memories static and hidden.

Dumbledore pulled free of Harry's mind long before he came near the buried plans, sitting back and staring at him. His eyes were rimmed with the sadness Harry had last seen the day of Sirius's death.

"I had not realized how much you still grieved."

Harry bowed his head and nodded. Part of him shrieked in disgust; of course he would still mourn, and how in the world could the wisest wizard in Britain not have foreseen that? But another part of him, the same clarity of mind that had pointed out why Sirius's death was his own fault, reminded him that he'd had plenty of chances to confess his grief and ask for help, during the summer and since. If he said nothing, why wouldn't Dumbledore just assume he'd recovered?

Other people are more preoccupied with themselves. You know that. You've been living off it for the past two months.

"That's it, isn't it, Harry?" Dumbledore asked softly. "Depression is making you act this way?"

Harry nodded, and, although he hadn't yet decided on just what he'd say, the words rose as easily to his lips as if they were planned. "Yes. And—sir, I'm sorry, but that's why I used a Memory Charm on Snape last night. I'd started crying about Sirius, and I went for a walk to calm myself down, and he caught me. I was afraid that he'd taunt me for crying. I—I know I shouldn't have used the Obliviate, but—I couldn't bear to listen to what he'd say about Sirius. Sirius died. He deserves better than that." He clenched one hand and tried to calm his breathing, as if he were stifling anger and not grief.

"It's still wrong, Harry, you know that." Dumbledore's scolding was worse for the complete understanding in the back of his voice.

"I know, sir," Harry whispered. "I'll apologize to him." He looked up. "Do I have to tell him exactly why I took the memory away?"

Dumbledore shook his head away. "I shall inform him that I've talked to you, and read your mind, and found nothing suspicious." He stroked his beard, and Fawkes trilled again, head on one side to examine Harry with a glittering black eye. "Was it your emotions that gave you the power to erase his memory, Harry?"

Harry nodded at once. "Like blowing my aunt up in the summer before my third year, sir." Really, it was amazing how many lies other people gave him. Just play into what was expected of him, and most people—Snape had to be the exception, of course—would be perfectly satisfied.

"Feel free to come and talk to me any time, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I have—many memories of Sirius that I have not shared. And I miss him as well. I would welcome someone else to talk to about him."

Harry smiled. "Thank you, sir." If Scrimgeour does as he promised and clears Sirius's name, you'll be able to talk with plenty of people about him after I'm dead. He was glad, for Dumbledore's sake. He rose to his feet. "Can I go now, sir? I haven't had breakfast yet."

Dumbledore chuckled and waved a hand. "Of course! We mustn't keep a growing boy from his meals."

Everything had gone as well as or better than could be expected, and Harry rode down the moving staircase in contented silence.

Harry knocked on Snape's office door precisely at seven that night. This was his third-to-last detention with Snape, and after that he would work as hard as he could to keep out of the git's way. He needed as much time as he could steal with Medea's Draught in the coming weeks, that was certain. His first attempt to brew a small amount of it this afternoon had been a disaster, resulting in the potion nearly eating through the bottom of his cauldron before he could stop it. That annoyed Harry. The acid in the potion was supposed to eat his liver, not the metal.

He needed to learn how to read instructions. And he had to conquer his impatience, and sit back in silence for hours, if that was what it took. He could do it, but, just as he'd learned with Occlumency during the summer, it meant concentrating in ways usually foreign to him.

"Enter," Snape said.

Harry opened the door, and only then thought how strange it was that some moments had passed between his knock and Snape's calling out permission for him to come in.

He twisted to the side and grabbed for his wand, but he hadn't quite pulled it out of his robe pocket before the Body-Bind froze him. He tilted back and leaned against the door like a statue, edging it shut. Snape stood up from behind his desk, his eyes sharp, and a small vial in his hand.

"I know it is more than your grief that is making you act like this, Potter," he snarled softly. "I intend to find it out."

As he strode forward, the liquid in the vial sloshed. Harry studied it, and saw how clear it was, and experience from last year told him exactly what it must be.

Veritaserum.