Chapter 45: Lost Prophecy
June 21, 2003 – Saturday
Hospital Wing
Buffy's eyes fluttered open, the world slowly coming into focus as a soft, muted light filtered through the high windows of the Hogwarts hospital wing. The sterile scent of potions and the faint crackling of a fire met her senses, but her mind was still foggy, struggling to piece together how she'd ended up here. The last thing she remembered was clinging to Sirius, pulling him back from the darkness of the veil. After that, everything went hazy, like fragments of a fading dream.
She shifted slightly under the crisp white sheets and turned her head. Beside her bed, she saw her sisters, Dawn and Hermione, slumped in chairs, dozing lightly. Even in their sleep, they looked tense, their brows furrowed, as if they had been on high alert for hours. It was clear they hadn't left her side.
As Buffy's eyes adjusted, she noticed the way Dawn's fingers clutched the armrest of her chair, knuckles white with lingering anxiety. The sight made Buffy's heart ache with a mix of guilt and love. They had been through so much—more than anyone their age should have to endure.
Hermione stirred first, her eyelids fluttering open as she sensed movement. Her eyes, initially glazed with sleep, brightened with relief when she saw Buffy was awake. "Hey," she whispered, a small smile breaking through the tension in her expression.
Buffy returned the smile, though it was faint and laced with fatigue. "Hey. How long?" Her voice was raspy, but there was a steadiness to it that reassured them both.
Hermione gently nudged Dawn, who woke with a start, her eyes wide with concern until she saw her sister looking back at her. "Look who's awake," Hermione said softly, her voice warm as Dawn's expression shifted into a smile of pure joy and relief. "You've been asleep for a couple of hours," she added, her tone now light but underlined with the relief of someone who had been holding their breath for far too long.
Buffy's mind, still catching up, quickly latched onto the one thing that mattered most. "Sirius?" she asked, her heart in her throat.
Dawn's smile grew, this time with a reassuring warmth. "Safe and sound back at Grimmauld Place. Professor Lupin took him back himself. He's okay, Buffy."
A wave of relief washed over Buffy, releasing the knot that had been twisting inside her chest. But before she could fully exhale, another thought rushed forward. "Willow and Tara?" she asked, the urgency creeping back into her voice.
Dawn nodded, her eyes softening with fondness. "They're fine. Madam Pomfrey already healed Willow and countered the jinx on Tara—oh, and the spell on me, obviously," she added with a wry smile. "Willow, Tara, and Faith went back to Sunnydale not long after you returned. Willow wanted to stay until you woke up, but Faith was pretty insistent they head back. Apparently, Sunnydale's been keeping them busy."
Buffy let the news sink in, allowing herself to feel the quiet comfort of knowing her friends were safe. But the moment was short-lived. She noticed the way Hermione's expression had shifted—serious, almost hesitant, like there was something weighing on her mind. Buffy could read her sister like a book, and whatever it was, it wasn't good.
"Hermione?" Buffy prompted, her brow furrowing with concern. "What is it?"
Hermione bit her lip, her fingers twisting in her lap as she summoned the courage to speak. "Buffy… there's something I need to tell you." Her voice was laced with uncertainty, but beneath it was a resolve that couldn't be ignored.
Buffy's confusion deepened. "What?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to read the meaning behind Hermione's troubled gaze.
Hermione took a deep breath, her hands trembling just a little before she steeled herself. "When you went to rescue Sirius… when you jumped into the veil, I was chosen." Her voice was soft but carried the weight of the revelation. "Wherever the veil leads to—whatever chooses the next Slayer—it thought you were dead."
Buffy closed her eyes, her breath escaping in a long, weary sigh. The weight of what Hermione had just told her pressed down like a heavy burden. When she opened her eyes again, they were filled with a mix of sadness and determination as they locked onto her sister's. "I never wanted you to be a Slayer, 'Mione. I never wanted that for you," Buffy said, her voice tinged with the regret of someone who's seen too much of the world's darkness and had hoped to shield her loved ones from it.
Hermione nodded, understanding the depth of her sister's concern. There was a softness in her eyes, a kind of acceptance that showed she had already made peace with this new reality. "I know. But you know something, Buffy? I'm alright with it," she replied with quiet confidence. "Besides, you were right when you suggested teaching at Hogwarts. It'll give me a way to still be the Slayer and have a normal life—or as normal as it gets, anyway. When Professor McGonagall returns, I intend to tell her."
Dawn, who had been listening intently, chimed in, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "I think I'll try for the other one you mentioned, Buffy. Muggle Studies teacher. It would be a good fit, and it sounds kind of fun."
Buffy managed a small smile at that, the idea of her sisters finding their place in this world offering her a brief moment of lightness. But there was still a nagging worry gnawing at her. Her expression turned serious again as she turned to both Hermione and Dawn. "Does Harry know? About Sirius?"
Hermione and Dawn exchanged a glance before shaking their heads in unison. "Harry's been in Dumbledore's office since he got back to Hogwarts," Hermione explained, her voice tinged with concern.
Buffy's heart clenched. She knew what this meant; Harry was likely wrestling with the aftermath of everything that had happened. The guilt, the confusion, the overwhelming grief—all of it would be crashing down on him right now. Buffy couldn't let him face that alone.
Determination surged through her, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed, pushing herself upright despite the dull ache in her muscles. But before she could stand, Madam Pomfrey appeared by her side, moving with brisk efficiency. "You need to rest, Professor Summers," the matron insisted, her tone firm but laced with concern.
Buffy gave her a reassuring smile, the kind that spoke of stubborn resolve. "Slayer healing. I'm fine. Thank you, though, Poppy." There was genuine warmth in her words, a respect for the healer who had been tirelessly tending to her. "But I have to see Dumbledore."
Madam Pomfrey opened her mouth to protest, but the determined gleam in Buffy's eyes told her there was no point in arguing. Slayers didn't take well to being told to sit still, especially not when someone they cared about was hurting. Reluctantly, she stepped back, giving a small nod of acknowledgment.
Buffy rose to her feet, a little unsteady at first but quickly finding her balance. Hermione and Dawn moved closer, ready to offer support if needed, but they didn't stop her. They knew better than anyone that when Buffy had her mind set on something, there was no holding her back.
Dumbledore's Office
Harry stood in the middle of Dumbledore's office, trembling with a rage so fierce it felt like it might consume him. His fists were clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks. His eyes burned with unshed tears, but he refused to let them fall. Every breath was ragged, drawn through gritted teeth as he struggled to contain the storm raging inside him.
"I don't want to talk about how I feel, all right?" His voice was low, a warning wrapped in barely controlled fury.
Dumbledore's expression was gentle, laced with deep sorrow as he took in the sight of the boy before him—the boy who had been forced to grow up too fast, who had endured more loss than anyone should in a lifetime. "Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human—"
"THEN — I — DON'T — WANT — TO — BE — HUMAN!" Harry's scream tore through the air like a wounded animal's cry. His voice cracked under the weight of his anguish, echoing off the stone walls. "I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANY MORE—"
But even as the words left his mouth, there was a desperation in them, a plea that contradicted the finality he was grasping for. It was a cry for release, but also for someone to hear him, to understand the depth of the torment he was drowning in.
"You do care," Dumbledore said softly, his voice unwavering, though there was a flicker of pain in his wise old eyes. "You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it."
"I — DON'T!" Harry's defiant scream was filled with a childlike denial, a refusal to accept the truth he knew deep down was there. His chest heaved with the effort of holding back the sobs that threatened to break free.
"Oh, yes, you do," Dumbledore replied, his tone calm and unwavering, a steady anchor amidst Harry's emotional storm. "You have now lost your mother, your father, and the closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of course you care."
The truth cut through Harry like a knife, igniting a fresh wave of anger. His hands shook, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. "YOU DON'T KNOW HOW I FEEL!" he roared, the words practically ripping out of his throat. "YOU—STANDING THERE—YOU—"
"No, but I do," a new voice interrupted, firm yet laced with empathy. Buffy stepped into the room, her presence bringing with it an unexpected calm, as if the atmosphere shifted just by her being there. Her eyes, usually bright and sharp, were now soft with understanding.
Harry whipped around to face her, his anger twisting into something more like desperation. "AND HOW DO I FEEL?" he demanded, his voice cracking with a mixture of defiance and hurt, daring her to say something that would make it all better, though he didn't believe anything could.
Buffy met his gaze steadily, her voice gentle but strong. "Like the world has abandoned you. Like you've lost everything you hold dear," she said, her words carrying a weight that only someone who had lived through that same pain could convey. Her eyes held his, unflinching, as if to say that she saw the very depths of his suffering. "But it's unjustified."
Harry's feet froze to the floor as his mind tried to catch up with what he'd just heard. His voice was barely above a whisper, his confusion breaking through his anger. "What?"
Buffy's lips curled into a gentle smile, her eyes softening. "Do you remember when I jumped into the veil?"
Harry nodded slowly, the memory vivid in his mind—the way she'd leapt fearlessly into the unknown, driven by a hope that even he had doubted. "You were going to try and bring him back, but you didn't."
"But I did," Buffy replied, her tone laced with quiet triumph.
Harry's eyes widened in shock, his mind racing to grasp what she was saying. "How?" he asked, disbelief mingling with the hope that had been buried under layers of grief.
Buffy's smile grew, her voice taking on a warmth that was almost reassuring, like she was letting him in on a secret that only she knew. "I tied a rope around my waist and handed it to you, Lupin, and Tonks. Of course, as we know, you switched with Hermione," she added with a small chuckle. "On the other side of the veil, I found Sirius. He was lost, confused… but I talked to him. I reasoned with him. Told him what was waiting for him if he came back. And he did. Lupin took him back to Grimmauld Place. He's safe, Harry. He's alive."
For a moment, Harry was silent, the words hanging in the air as the truth of them sunk in. Then, slowly, a smile broke through his somber expression, filled with a mix of relief and gratitude that made his heart feel lighter than it had in days. Without a second thought, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Buffy in a tight hug, clinging to her as if she were the lifeline that had pulled him out of his own darkness. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
Buffy returned the hug, holding him with the strength and steadiness of someone who knew exactly what he'd been through. "You're welcome," she whispered back, her voice full of quiet reassurance.
As they pulled away, Dumbledore cleared his throat softly, his usual composed expression shadowed with a hint of regret. "You are likely to hate me for what I have to say now," Dumbledore said, his voice low and steady, the weight of his words heavy in the room. "It is my fault that Sirius almost died," he continued, his tone clear and deliberate, as though he were speaking a truth he'd been avoiding for too long. "Or should I say, almost entirely my fault—I will not be so arrogant as to claim responsibility for the whole. Sirius was a brave, clever, and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger. Nevertheless, you should never have believed for an instant that there was any necessity for you to go to the Department of Mysteries last night. If I had been open with you, Harry, as I should have been, you would have known a long time ago that Voldemort might try and lure you there, and you would never have been tricked into going. And Sirius would not have had to come after you. That blame lies with me, and with me alone."
Harry's expression shifted, the remnants of his earlier anger flickering back to life. It was clear that he wasn't ready to forgive—not yet, maybe not ever. But before he could respond, Dumbledore gestured toward two chairs in front of his desk, his eyes turning serious. "Please sit down, both of you," he said, his voice carrying a gravity that immediately silenced the room. "For I believe you both need to hear this. Your fates—or at least Dawn's, I believe—are intertwined with Harry's. Harry, I owe you an explanation. An explanation of an old man's mistakes."
Buffy and Harry exchanged a glance before slowly lowering themselves into the chairs. Dumbledore's gaze was distant for a moment, as if he were looking back through the years and seeing all the choices he had made—the right ones and the wrong ones, the consequences of which were now laid bare before him.
"I see now," Dumbledore began, his voice tinged with a deep sorrow, "that what I have done, and not done, with regard to you, bears all the hallmarks of the failings of age. Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young… and I seem to have forgotten, lately… I guessed, fifteen years ago when I saw the scar on your forehead, what it might mean. I guessed that it might be the sign of a connection forged between you and Voldemort."
Harry's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening as he cut in bluntly, "You've told me this before, Professor."
"Yes," said Dumbledore apologetically, his voice tinged with regret. "Yes, but you see—it is necessary to start with your scar." He looked at Harry with the weight of years behind his gaze, as if reliving every decision that had led them to this point. "For it became apparent, shortly after you rejoined the magical world, that I was correct, and that your scar was giving you warnings when Voldemort was close to you, or when he was feeling powerful emotion."
Harry exhaled sharply, the exhaustion of everything he'd endured pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. "I know," he said wearily, as if he had already resigned himself to the dark truths connected to that scar.
Dumbledore nodded, a hint of sorrow in his eyes. "And this ability of yours—to detect Voldemort's presence, even when he is disguised, and to know what he is feeling when his emotions are roused—has become more and more pronounced since Voldemort returned to his own body and full powers," Dumbledore continued, his words methodical, but filled with a gravity that made Harry's skin prickle. "More recently, I became concerned that Voldemort might realize that this connection between you exists. Sure enough, there came a time when you entered so far into his mind and thoughts that he sensed your presence. I am speaking, of course, of the night when you witnessed the attack on Mr. Weasley."
The memory of that night sent a shiver down Harry's spine—the sudden, jarring pain, the terror in Arthur Weasley's eyes, and the helplessness that had overwhelmed him. "Yeah, Snape told me," Harry muttered, his bitterness creeping into his voice. "But Hermione saw that event too."
"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore corrected him gently, though there was no rebuke in his tone. His next words came with a deeper resonance, as though he were revealing a secret woven into the very fabric of their shared fate. "And yes, Hermione saw it, Harry. Because she, like her sister, is now a Slayer."
Harry's breath hitched as his gaze snapped to Buffy, searching her face for confirmation. She met his eyes and nodded, the truth settling heavily between them. He gulped, suddenly feeling the enormity of what that meant—not just for Hermione, but for all of them.
Dumbledore's voice drew his attention back, more solemn now as he laid bare the connection that bound them all together. "Because she is connected to you through friendship," Dumbledore explained. "That is why her, at the time, nascent Slayer abilities showed her what you saw. She is tied to you just as Dawn is. Just as Buffy is now as well. You each share a bond—Buffy to Sirius intertwining of her soul with his, Hermione to you through your friendship, and Dawn through the intertwining of her soul with yours. I would even hazard to say that Buffy considers you family now."
Harry glanced at Buffy again, who offered him a small but sincere smile. "I do," she confirmed softly, the warmth in her words creating a sense of comfort in the midst of all the heavy revelations.
Dumbledore's expression grew more serious, as though bracing himself for what he was about to say. "But did you not wonder why it was not I who explained the connection to you, Harry? Why I did not teach you Occlumency? Why I had not so much as looked at you for months?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implications. Harry looked up, really seeing Dumbledore for the first time in a long while. The headmaster's face was etched with weariness, lines of regret deepening the creases around his eyes, making him look older than ever before. For all his wisdom and power, in that moment, Dumbledore looked tired—almost vulnerable.
"Yeah. Yeah, I wondered," Harry admitted, his voice quiet now, stripped of the earlier anger. There was an unspoken understanding between them—of the mistakes, the burdens, and the regrets that had shaped their paths.
"You see," Dumbledore continued, his voice carrying the weight of a secret long-buried, "I believed it could not be long before Voldemort attempted to force his way into your mind, to manipulate and misdirect your thoughts. I dreaded the moment he might discover just how deep the connection between you truly ran. And so, I was not eager to give him more incentives to do so." His eyes darkened as he spoke, shadowed by the memories of the choices that had haunted him. "I was sure that if he realized our relationship was—or had ever been—closer than that of headmaster and pupil, he would seize his chance to use you as a means to spy on me. I feared the uses to which he would put you, the possibility that he might try and possess you."
The words hung in the air like a chilling echo, sending a shiver down Harry's spine. He had always known Voldemort was dangerous, but hearing it like this—hearing that Dumbledore had kept his distance out of fear that the Dark Lord might claim him as a puppet—made his blood run cold.
"Harry, I believe I was right to think that Voldemort would have made use of you in such a way," Dumbledore went on, his tone softening, though the severity of his expression remained. "On those rare occasions when we had close contact, I thought I saw a shadow of him stir behind your eyes…"
Harry's breath hitched at that, recalling moments when he'd felt not entirely in control, like something dark and twisted had slithered into the corners of his thoughts, whispering to him.
"Voldemort's aim in possessing you, as he demonstrated last night, would not have been my destruction," Dumbledore said gravely, each word heavy with the truth. "It would have been yours. He hoped, when he possessed you briefly a short while ago, that I would sacrifice you in the hope of killing him. So you see, I have been trying, in distancing myself from you, to protect you, Harry. An old man's mistake…"
The regret was evident in Dumbledore's eyes, the sorrow of a man who had made hard choices that cost dearly. "Sirius told me you felt Voldemort awake inside you the very night that you had the vision of Arthur Weasley's attack," he continued, his voice tinged with sadness. "I knew at once that my worst fears were correct: Voldemort had realized he could use you. In an attempt to arm you against Voldemort's assaults on your mind, I arranged Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape."
Harry clenched his fists at the mention of those lessons, the bitterness rising in his throat. But Dumbledore pressed on, his voice steady as he shared more of the dark truth.
"Professor Snape discovered," Dumbledore resumed, "that you had been dreaming about the door to the Department of Mysteries for months. Voldemort, of course, had been obsessed with the possibility of hearing the prophecy ever since he regained his body; and as he dwelled on the door, so did you, though you did not know what it meant. And then you saw Rookwood, who worked in the Department of Mysteries before his arrest, telling Voldemort what we had known all along—that the prophecies held in the Ministry of Magic are heavily protected. Only the people to whom they refer can lift them from the shelves without suffering madness. Though I believe that in rare circumstances a sibling could pick it up depending on how closely related to the person they refer are. Anyways in this case, either Voldemort himself would have to enter the Ministry of Magic, and risk revealing himself at last—or else you would have to take it for him."
"But I didn't," muttered Harry, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a suffocating shroud. His voice was raw, as if each word tore at him from within. "I didn't practice, I didn't bother, I could've stopped myself having those dreams. Hermione and Dawn kept telling me to do it. If I had—he'd never have been able to show me where to go, and—Sirius wouldn't—Sirius wouldn't—" His voice cracked, the anguish clear in his eyes as he struggled to form the words. "I tried to check he'd really taken Sirius. I went to Umbridge's office, I spoke to Kreacher in the fire and he said Sirius wasn't there, he said he'd gone!"
"Kreacher lied," said Dumbledore calmly, but there was a deep sorrow in his gaze as he watched Harry unravel. "You are not his master; he could lie to you without even needing to punish himself. Kreacher intended you to go to the Ministry of Magic."
"He—he sent me on purpose?" Harry asked, disbelief mingling with the betrayal in his voice.
"Oh yes," Dumbledore said softly. "Kreacher, I am afraid, has been serving more than one master for months."
"How?" Harry's voice was flat, almost hollow. "He hasn't been out of Grimmauld Place for years."
"Kreacher seized his opportunity shortly before Christmas," Dumbledore explained, his tone tinged with regret. "When Sirius, in a moment of anger, apparently shouted at him to 'get out'. Kreacher took Sirius at his word and interpreted this as an order to leave the house. He went to the only Black family member for whom he still harbored any respect… Sirius's cousin Narcissa, sister of Bellatrix and wife of Lucius Malfoy."
The revelation hit Harry like a punch to the gut. His breath caught, his mind racing as he tried to process how everything had gone so wrong. "How do you know all this?" he asked, desperation clawing at his words.
"Kreacher told me last night," said Dumbledore quietly, his eyes flicking to Buffy with a hint of something unspoken. "You see, I have been in constant contact with Buffy through a third party."
Harry's head snapped towards Buffy, confusion and curiosity warring in his expression. "Who?"
Buffy sighed, a heavy sound that carried the burden of decisions made in dark times. "Willow. When I asked her, Faith, and Tara to come and go with us to the Ministry, she sent a message to Dumbledore letting him know what was going on."
Dumbledore nodded gravely, his eyes shadowed with regret. "And I tried to contact Sirius myself. Members of the Order of the Phoenix have more reliable methods of communication than the fire in Dolores Umbridge's office. The reason Buffy does not use this method is because we were unsure how closely Umbridge was monitoring her, especially after her… rebellion. Given the risks, we couldn't afford to expose any channels that might have compromised her. Anyway, I was able to confirm that Sirius was alive and safe at Grimmauld Place. However, when I received no further reports from Buffy through Willow, I grew increasingly worried that you still believed Sirius to be a captive of Lord Voldemort. I alerted certain Order members immediately."
Dumbledore's expression darkened with the weight of his next words. "Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Remus Lupin were all at Headquarters when I made contact. They agreed to go to your aid at once. Of course, I requested that Sirius stay behind, in case you returned to Grimmauld Place. But Sirius was never one to sit idly by while others faced danger." His voice grew softer, tinged with sorrow. "He refused to stay behind and instead entrusted Kreacher with the task of informing me what had transpired. So, when I arrived at Grimmauld Place shortly after they had all left for the Ministry, it was Kreacher who greeted me with the news—laughing as he revealed where Sirius had gone."
"He was laughing?" Harry's voice was hollow, the disbelief clear as his face paled with realization.
"Oh yes," Dumbledore said quietly, his gaze meeting Harry's with a somber understanding. "You see, Kreacher was not able to betray us completely. He is not the Secret Keeper for the Order; he couldn't give the Malfoys our location or reveal any of our critical plans. He was bound by the enchantments of his kind—unable to disobey a direct order from his master, Sirius. But he exploited the gaps in those orders. He provided Narcissa with information that, while seemingly trivial to Sirius, proved immensely valuable to Voldemort."
"What kind of information?" Harry's voice was sharp, filled with dread.
"Like the fact that the two people Sirius cared most about in the world were you and Buffy," Dumbledore said, his voice barely above a whisper, each word cutting deep. "Like the fact that you had begun to see Sirius as a mixture of father and brother. Voldemort already knew Sirius was part of the Order and that you were aware of his location. But Kreacher's words helped him realize that the one person you would risk everything to save was Sirius Black."
"Sirius cared for me?" Buffy asked, her voice tinged with surprise and a vulnerability she rarely let show.
Dumbledore nodded, his expression soft with understanding. "Since the first time you saw him, and he saw you last summer. I dare say that I believe he loves you, Buffy. And you love him in return. You see, while behind the Veil, most things no longer matter—except for what you feel in your heart. Harry could have brought Sirius back, but only if he had gone himself. Someone on the other side of the Veil needs a connection with a living person to return. When you tried mentioning Harry to Sirius in hopes of a response, he didn't react. That was because you are not Harry. Then you recognized your own connection to Sirius, and he to you. That connection, born of mutual love and understanding, is what drew him back."
Dumbledore's gaze was intent, as if trying to impart the profound truth of what he was saying. "You see, it is the bonds we share with others that give us purpose and strength. For Sirius, his heart was tied to only a few—Harry, James, and Lily among them. That's why Harry could have brought him back; he had a deep connection to Sirius. But for that connection to work beyond the Veil, it had to be Harry reaching out to him. You had to find and affirm your own connection for Sirius to return for you."
Buffy was quiet as she absorbed this, her mind swirling with the realization. She did love Sirius. She wasn't sure when exactly the feelings had begun to take root, but somewhere before she had taken that leap into the Veil, she had known. The truth settled into her heart with a warmth that both comforted and terrified her.
"So… when I asked Kreacher if Sirius was there last night…" Harry began, a note of bitterness in his voice.
"The Malfoys—undoubtedly under Voldemort's orders—had instructed Kreacher to ensure Sirius was out of the way once you had seen the vision of his supposed torture," Dumbledore explained, his tone carrying a mix of regret and sternness. "They knew that if you decided to check whether Sirius was home, Kreacher would be able to deceive you into thinking he wasn't. Kreacher injured Buckbeak the Hippogriff the day before, and at the moment you appeared in the fire, Sirius was upstairs tending to him."
"And Kreacher told you all this… and laughed?" Harry's voice cracked, barely concealing the pain beneath.
"He did not wish to tell me," Dumbledore said gravely. "But I am a sufficiently accomplished Legilimens to know when I am being deceived. I… persuaded him… to tell me the full story before I left for the Department of Mysteries."
"And," Harry whispered, the guilt gnawing at him, "and Hermione kept telling us to be nice to him—"
"She was quite right, Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice full of the gentle rebuke that only he could manage. "I warned Sirius when we took twelve Grimmauld Place as our headquarters that Kreacher must be treated with kindness and respect. I also cautioned him that Kreacher could be dangerous to us if neglected. But I do not think Sirius ever truly believed Kreacher was capable of such deceit, or that he saw Kreacher as anything more than a nuisance. He did not understand that Kreacher's feelings were as deep and twisted as any human's."
"Dumbledore, don't blame Sirius," Buffy interjected, her tone firm but with a protective undercurrent. "He couldn't have known this would happen. But I think it's time you tell us the real reason you brought me into the Order. Officially, it was to spy on Umbridge, but I doubt that's what you really had in mind."
Dumbledore's eyes, deep and laden with the burden of countless untold stories, met Buffy's gaze with a fleeting yet profound flicker of admiration. "You are perceptive as always, Buffy. There is indeed more at play here than merely gathering intelligence on Umbridge. I brought you into the Order because, as Dawn rightly noted, to have Harry's back. Now, it is time for me to reveal to you, Harry, what I should have disclosed five years ago. I will lay everything bare. I ask only for a measure of patience."
"Five years ago, Harry," Dumbledore continued, his voice softening with the weight of his confession, "you arrived at Hogwarts—safe and whole, as I had meticulously planned and intended. Well, not quite whole. You had endured hardships. I anticipated that you would suffer when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I was aware that I was sentencing you to ten years of darkness and difficulty."
He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to settle in the room. "You might reasonably ask—why it had to be this way. Why could you not have been placed with a loving wizarding family? There were many who would have gladly welcomed you, honored and delighted to raise you as their own."
Dumbledore's gaze turned somber as he addressed the heart of the matter. "My foremost priority was to ensure your survival. You were in more danger than perhaps even I fully grasped. Voldemort had been vanquished, but his supporters—people almost as terrible as he—remained at large. They were vengeful, desperate, and violent. I had to make a decision with an eye toward the future. Did I believe Voldemort was gone forever? No. I could not say whether it would be ten, twenty, or fifty years before he returned, but I was certain he would come back. And I knew him well enough to understand that he would not rest until he had destroyed you."
Dumbledore's expression grew more intense as he spoke of the threats Harry faced. "Voldemort's knowledge of magic is unparalleled, perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive. Even my most intricate and powerful protective spells and charms would likely be insufficient if he regained his full strength. However, I was aware of Voldemort's vulnerabilities. Thus, I made a decision. You would be shielded by an ancient magic—one he neither understands nor respects, and has, therefore, consistently underestimated. I speak of the sacrificial protection your mother bestowed upon you. Her death to save you imbued you with a lingering safeguard he never anticipated. This protection flows through your veins to this very day."
Dumbledore's gaze grew distant, as if reliving the decisions and moments that led to his choice. "I placed my trust in your mother's blood, a powerful magic that Voldemort could neither comprehend nor counteract. I entrusted you to her sister, your only remaining relative, as a means of ensuring your safety against the dark forces that sought to destroy you."
"She doesn't love me," Harry said, his voice filled with a mix of anguish and resignation. "She doesn't give a damn—"
"But she took you in," Dumbledore interjected firmly, cutting through Harry's despair. "She may have taken you begrudgingly, with fury, unwillingly, and with a bitterness that could chill the very air around her. Yet, despite her unwillingness and spite, she took you in. By doing so, she enacted the charm I placed upon you, the charm that was woven from the threads of your mother's sacrifice. Her love, though she never fully acknowledged it, created the strongest shield I could provide."
"I still don't—" Harry began, but Dumbledore continued, his voice steady and persuasive.
"While you can still call the place where your mother's blood resides 'home,' there you are safe from Voldemort's touch," Dumbledore explained, his tone imbued with a profound gravity. "Even though he has shed her blood, that blood lives on in you and in her sister. It became a sanctuary, a refuge of sorts. As long as you can claim that place as home, Voldemort cannot reach you there. Your aunt understands this. I detailed the nature of the protection in the letter I left on her doorstep with you. She is aware that providing you with a place to stay may have been the very thing that kept you alive for the past fifteen years."
"Wait," Harry said, his mind racing to process the implications. "Wait a moment. You sent that Howler. You told her to remember—it was your voice—"
"I thought," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle but resolute, "that it would be prudent to remind her of the pact she had unwittingly made by taking you in. I suspected that the Dementor attack might have shaken her, making her aware of the perils of housing you as a surrogate son."
"It did," Harry said quietly, his voice tinged with a new understanding. "Well—my uncle more than her. He wanted to throw me out, but after receiving the Howler, she—she insisted I had to stay. But what does this have to do with—"
"Five years ago, then," Dumbledore continued, his voice laden with the weight of reflection, "you arrived at Hogwarts, neither as happy nor as well-nourished as I would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy. You were not a pampered little prince, but as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well. And then . . . well, you will remember the events of your first year at Hogwarts quite as clearly as I do. You rose magnificently to the challenge that faced you and sooner — much sooner — than I had anticipated, you found yourself face to face with Voldemort. You survived again. You did more. You delayed his return to full power and strength. You fought a man's fight. I was . . . prouder of you than I can say."
"Yet there was a flaw in this wonderful plan of mine," Dumbledore said, his tone turning contemplative. . 'An obvious flaw that I knew, even then, might be the undoing of it all. And yet, knowing how important it was that my plan should succeed, I told myself that I would not permit this flaw to ruin it. I alone could prevent this, so I alone must be strong. And here was my first test, as you lay in the hospital wing, weak from your struggle with Voldemort."
"I don't understand what you're saying," Harry said, confusion etched on his face..
"Don't you remember asking me, as you lay in the hospital wing, why Voldemort had tried to kill you when you were a baby?" Dumbledore asked, observing Harry nodding in acknowledgment. "Ought I to have told you then? You do not see the flaw in the plan yet? No… perhaps not. Well, as you know, I decided not to answer you. Eleven, I told myself, was much too young to know. I had never intended to tell you when you were eleven. The knowledge would be too much at such a young age."
"I should have recognised the danger signs then," Dumbledore said, his voice heavy with regret. "I should have asked myself why I did not feel more disturbed that you had already asked me the question to which I knew, one day, I must give a terrible answer. I should have recognised that I was too happy to think that I did not have to do it on that particular day . . . you were too young, much too young."
"And so we entered your second year at Hogwarts. And once again you met challenges even grown wizards have never faced; once again you acquitted yourself beyond my wildest dreams," Dumbledore continued. "You did not ask me again, however, why Voldemort had left that mark on you. We discussed your scar, oh yes… we came very, very close to the subject. Why did I not tell you everything. Well, it seemed to me that twelve was, after all, hardly better than eleven to receive such information. I allowed you to leave my presence, bloodstained, exhausted but exhilarated, and if I felt a twinge of unease that I ought, perhaps, to have told you then, it was swiftly silenced. You were still so young, you see, and I could not find it in myself to spoil that night of triumph… Do you see, Harry? Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now? I had fallen into the trap I had foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I must avoid."
"I don't—" Harry began, but was interrupted by Buffy.
"I do," Buffy said, her voice filled with a compassionate understanding. "You care for him, as if Harry was your own son."
"Yes Buffy has hit the nail on the head, so to speak," Dumbledore said, nodding in agreement. "I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects us fools who love to act."
"Is there a defense?" Dumbledore said, his voice tinged with a weariness that spoke of countless internal battles. "I defy anyone who has watched you as I have — and I have watched you more closely than you can have imagined — not to want to save you more pain than you had already suffered. What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if in the here and now you were alive, and well, and happy? I never dreamed that I would have such a person on my hands. We entered your third year. I watched from afar as you struggled to repel Dementors, as you found Sirius, learned what he was and rescued him. Was I to tell you then, at the moment when you had triumphantly snatched your godfather from the jaws of the Ministry? But now, at the age of thirteen, my excuses were running out. Young you might be, but you had proved you were exceptional. My conscience was uneasy, Harry. I knew the time must come soon…"
"But you came out of the maze last year, watching Dawn get taken by Glorificus, having watched Cedric Diggory die, having escaped death so narrowly yourself…" Dumbledore continued, the depth of his regret palpable. "And I did not tell you, though I knew, now Voldemort had returned, I must do it soon. And now, tonight, I know you have long been ready for the knowledge I have kept from you for so long, because you have proved that I should have placed the burden upon you before this. My only defense is this: I have watched you struggling under more burdens than any student who has ever passed through this school and I could not bring myself to add another — the greatest one of all."
Harry waited, his impatience growing as the silence stretched between them. Dumbledore's gaze was steady but unyielding, and Harry could sense the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. The stillness was almost tangible, charged with an unspoken gravity.
"I still don't understand," Harry finally broke the silence, his voice edged with frustration and confusion. The uncertainty in his eyes reflected the tumultuous storm of questions swirling in his mind.
Dumbledore began to speak, his voice calm and measured, yet laden with the burden of deep knowledge. "Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a child because of a prophecy made shortly before your birth," he explained. "He knew the prophecy had been made, though he did not know its full contents. He set out to kill you when you were still a baby, believing he was fulfilling the terms of the prophecy. He discovered, to his cost, that he was mistaken when the curse intended to kill you backfired. And so, since his return to his body, and particularly since your extraordinary escape from him last year, he has been determined to hear that prophecy in its entirety. This is the weapon he has been seeking so assiduously since his return: the knowledge of how to destroy you."
The room seemed to grow colder with Dumbledore's words, as though the very air was resonating with the gravity of their conversation. Harry's mind struggled to grasp the enormity of what he was being told. His heart sank with the realization that the prophecy held a power that had eluded them until now.
"The prophecy's smashed," Harry said blankly, his voice barely more than a whisper. The thought of the shattered remnants of their hope filled him with a deep sense of loss. "Buffy and I were pulling Tara up those benches in the — the room where the archway was, and there was a spell that came close to hitting me, and I dropped it."
Dumbledore's eyes softened with understanding as he replied, "The thing that smashed was merely the record of the prophecy kept by the Department of Mysteries," he said gently. "But the prophecy was made to somebody, and that person has the means of recalling it perfectly."
"Who heard it?" Buffy asked, her voice tinged with desperation and a flicker of hope.
"I did," said Dumbledore. His voice carried the weight of years and the burden of responsibility. "On a cold, wet night sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the Hog's Head inn. I had gone there to see an applicant for the post of Divination teacher, though it was against my inclination to allow the subject of Divination to continue at all. The applicant, however, was the great-great-granddaughter of a very famous, very gifted Seer, and I thought it common politeness to meet her. I was disappointed. It seemed to me that she had not a trace of the gift herself. I told her, courteously I hope, that I did not think she would be suitable for the post. I turned to leave. Professor Trelawney said the following to me."
"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…"
He trailed off, leaving the final, unspoken part of the prophecy lingering in the air. The part he believed foretold of Dawn's part in the prophecy.
"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry said very quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. The room felt heavier with his unspoken fears and the uncertainty that clung to his every word. His eyes were wide, searching for clarity amid the swirling fog of his confusion. "'It… did that mean… what did that mean?"
Dumbledore's expression was grave as he addressed Harry's question, his voice carrying the weight of countless reflections on the matter. "It meant," he began, "that the person who has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years ago. This boy would be born to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times." His words seemed to echo in the quiet room, casting long shadows of meaning and implication.
"It means — me?" Harry said, his voice trembling with the enormity of the realization. The room seemed to contract around him as he tried to come to terms with the possibility that the prophecy might be speaking directly about him.
"The odd thing, Harry," Dumbledore said softly, almost as if he were weighing each word carefully, "is that it may not have meant you at all. Sybill's prophecy could have applied to two wizard boys, both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom." The mention of Neville's name seemed to stir a new layer of complexity into the already tangled web of fate and prophecy.
"But then… but then, why was it my name on the prophecy and not Neville's?" Harry asked, his voice rising with the frustration of not understanding why his life had been so entangled with danger and destiny.
"The official record was re-labelled after Voldemort's attack on you as a child," Dumbledore explained. "It seemed plain to the keeper of the Hall of Prophecy that Voldemort could only have tried to kill you because he knew you to be the one to whom Sybill was referring." His tone conveyed a blend of sympathy and solemnity, underscoring the gravity of the situation.
"Then — it might not be me?" Harry said, his voice laden with a mixture of hope and dread. The idea of sharing the burden with Neville, of it not being entirely his responsibility, seemed to offer a glimmer of relief.
"I am afraid," said Dumbledore slowly, with a heaviness that suggested the weight of a thousand unspoken truths, "that there is no doubt that it is you." The finality in his voice made it clear that there was no room for alternate paths or fates.
"But you said — Neville was born at the end of July, too — and his mum and dad —" Harry protested, struggling to reconcile the truth with his own experience.
"You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy," Dumbledore interjected gently, "the final identifying feature of the boy who could vanquish Voldemort… Voldemort himself would mark him as his equal. And so he did, Harry." His eyes were steady and compassionate. "He chose you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved both blessing and curse."
"But he might have chosen wrong!" Harry said, his voice rising with a mixture of panic and disbelief. The walls seemed to close in as he grappled with the possibility that the destiny thrust upon him might have been a mistake. "He might have marked the wrong person!"
"He chose the boy he thought most likely to be a danger to him," Dumbledore replied, his tone steady yet imbued with the weight of profound insight. "And notice this, Harry: he chose, not the pure-blood but the half-blood, like himself. He saw himself in you before he had ever seen you, and in marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he intended, but gave you powers, and a future, which have fitted you to escape him not once, but four times so far — something that neither your parents, nor Neville's parents, ever achieved." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with an almost sad amusement, as if he were witnessing a complex, tragic play unfolding.
Dumbledore's smile was gentle but tinged with the sadness of a man who had seen too many destinies intertwined with darkness. "If you need more of a reason that it is you. Look to your right."
Harry turned to glance at Buffy, who stood nearby, her presence a stark contrast to the tension in the room. "What?"
Dumbledore's smile widened slightly, his gaze warm as he addressed the core of Harry's fears. "You have power he knows not. You love Dawn, do you not?" he asked, his question a soft probe into Harry's heart. As Harry contemplated the depth of his feelings, he nodded. "And Hermione and even Buffy. And of course even Ron."
Harry's nod was more certain this time. Dawn was his girlfriend and Ron and Hermione were his closest allies, his steadfast companions through every trial. Despite Buffy being one of his Professors, he regarded her as a cherished friend, someone who had shared in his struggles and triumphs.
"You see, Harry," Dumbledore continued, his voice rich with a blend of encouragement and solemnity, "Voldemort has never felt love. You, on the other hand, have. And it is because of that love that you have power over him. He has followers who fear him, who would turn on him to save their own lives. You, however, have friends who will stand beside you no matter what. As you have said to Dawn and she has said to you. You have each other's backs. You will stand beside each other and face him together, while he will likely face you alone." The conviction in Dumbledore's words was palpable, as if he were laying bare the ultimate strength that Harry possessed—a strength born of love and loyalty. Now I believe you have someone you want to call. You can use my fireplace."
Dumbledore rose from his seat with a graceful, deliberate movement, the subtle rustling of his robes marking his departure. As he walked out of the office, the heavy door closed behind him, leaving Harry and Buffy alone in the dimly lit room. The atmosphere, now filled with a contemplative silence, seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the continuation of their conversation.
"You love Sirius?" Harry asked, his voice carrying an edge of curiosity mixed with tentative hope. His gaze was fixed on Buffy, searching for an affirmation of what he had just learned.
Buffy, lost in thought, considered the question before responding with a nod. "Yes. You don't mind, do you?"
Harry shook his head, a reassuring smile forming on his lips. "No. Not in the least. If you make Sirius happy, then I'm happy." His words were heartfelt, a testament to his trust in her and his genuine desire for Sirius's happiness.
Together, Harry and Buffy stood, their footsteps echoing softly as they walked toward the fireplace. Harry paused, a playful grin spreading across his face as he looked at Buffy. "Mom."
Buffy laughed, a sound that seemed to brighten the room and dispel some of the tension that had been building. "Funny, very funny."
Harry's grin widened, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he added, "Well, in a way it would be true. For if you married Sirius, you would become my godmother by marriage since Sirius is my godfather."
Buffy shook her head with a gentle smile, her expression thoughtful. "It doesn't work that way, Harry. It's nice to think it would. But the only way I could become your godmother is if your parents had named me as such. That said, since you are dating Dawn, I will be your big sister."
Harry's eyes softened, reflecting the warmth and comfort of the moment. He reached out and placed a hand on Buffy's shoulder, the gesture tender and filled with affection. "Big sister, godmother, or whatever you want to call it, you're family to me, Buffy. And I'm grateful for that."
Buffy's eyes glistened with a mixture of emotions, the corners of her mouth lifting in a gentle smile. She pulled Harry into a heartfelt embrace, the room seeming to contract around them as their bond deepened. In that simple, yet profound gesture, they transcended labels and formalities, sharing a connection that was built on love, trust, and a multitude of shared experiences.
Buffy's eyes sparkled with understanding as she nodded in agreement. "You know," she said with a soft, appreciative tone, "Dumbledore is right. Friends stick by each other. I, too, have experienced it. When I first became the Slayer, I tried to keep my friends Willow and Xander out of it. No matter what, though, time and time again, they had my back. Just as Hermione, Ron, Dawn, and I have yours."
Harry's smile widened, his gratitude evident in his eyes. "Thank you, Buffy." His words were imbued with sincerity, a profound recognition of the deep connection he shared with these friends who had become his family.