Dumbledore sat in an upholstered chair in his study, which room was part of his living quarters at the Ministry of Magic. Befitting its designation, it was lined with shelves of books, many of which were of an age to make the room's occupant seem a babe in swaddling clothes by comparison. It was cluttered as a room can only be which is the habitation of an unmarried and eccentric man. Quaint artifacts and curious magical objects littered nearly every square centimeter. The overflowing mantel above the stone fireplace would not have been out of place in Borgin and Burkes' curio shop in Knockturn Alley.
Dumbledore sat with his legs crossed, a large and very old book balanced on his knee. He was reading by the light of a magical window that was enchanted to duplicate the conditions one would normally see if that window were set in a tower high above ground rather than here in the deepest recesses of the Ministry. So immersed was he in the scratchy, faded writing on the yellowed pages that he seemed unaware of the rapping upon his chamber door. It was only when he stopped reading long enough to turn a page that he heard the sound for the first time. With a self-chastising smile on his bearded lips, he waved his hand in the direction of the door. The magical lock clicked, and the door opened to reveal three figures. Two tall, burly wizards in somber black robes flanked a third, smaller figure. The two Ministry guards both had their wands pointed at the smaller man, even though this one was shackled hand and foot and gave no appea rance of resisting in any way.
"Enter," Dumbledore said, marking his place with an ornate linen bookmark before closing the book, which remained on his lap. As the three figures approached, the Minister waved his hand again. Immediately the manacles vanished from the prisoner. The guards fidgeted nervously.
"Is -- is that wise, Minister?" one guard questioned in a manner both challenging and deferential. It was a gift that had served him well in many years of service with the Ministry.
"Mr. Potter will be no trouble, I assure you," Dumbledore smiled at each guard in turn. "You may leave us."
Not daring to question the Minister of Magic a second time in so short an interval, the guard bowed and left the study with his black-robed counterpart. Dumbledore re-locked the door with another wave of his hand.
An empty chair, similar to Dumbledore's, stood near at hand, and Harry expected to be invited to sit. Instead, the old wizard gave him a penetrating look before patting the book on his knee and saying, "Come, Harry. I wish to show you something."
Harry approached so as to be able to look over Dumbledore's shoulder. He watched as the long, tapering fingers opened the book once more and moved the linen bookmark aside.
"Did you know, Harry," Dumbledore said as if in casual conversation, "that the library at Hogwarts is the most complete repository of magical knowledge in all of Britain? It is my understanding that it is among the ten best in the world."
Harry nodded, as was evidently expected of him. He knew he was to be sentenced today -- in less than one hour, to be precise. He supposed that Dumbledore had summoned him here so as to spare him the shock of hearing the pronouncement in the public venue of the Hall of Justice, allowing him to absorb the news in a calmer environment before it was made official. It was a consideration, a dignity, few save Dumbledore would have bestowed, and Harry was grateful.
But if this were so, why did Dumbledore seem so -- detached? Dumbledore's compassion was well-documented, even did Harry not know of it first-hand. It was quite unlike the old wizard, whatever his eccentricities, to string him along in so careless a manner. However, Harry had long since resigned himself to his fate, whatever it might be. The burden on his soul was so great that Harry found he had neither the strength nor the curiosity to pursue the mystery. Thus, when Dumbledore tapped a long, bony finger purposefully upon the surface of the page opened before him, Harry leaned in attentively, adjusting his glasses for effect.
"In the Hall of Judgment," Dumbledore was saying, "I spoke of wizarding law being rooted in tradition. I began to wonder, therefore: How did the wizarding world deal with -- what is the appropriate term? -- ah, yes -- social misfits -- before the construction of Azkaban? Oh, to be sure, most everyone knows that, in the most extreme cases, witches and wizards were executed, most often by hanging. But what sort of punishment was levied in the less extreme cases? The question began to consume me, and I knew I could not rest until I discovered the answer. So I fell back on an axiom of one of my best and most favorite students: When in doubt, consult a book.
Harry's heart pulsed with a stab of white-hot pain. He could not fail to recognize the axiom in question as a favorite of Hermione's, quoted by her more times than he could remember. For a moment, Harry was stung by the old wizard's seemingly cavalier reference to the woman who lay insensate in her bed at St. Mungo's. But the pain in his heart melted as he noted the reverence in Dumbledore's voice, the tenderness in his pale blue eyes, at this fondly undisguised allusion. If none loved Hermione so deeply as did Harry, there was yet no shortage of those whose hearts embraced her as wholly as if she were part and parcel of their own souls; and of those, Harry knew, none felt the pain of her absence more than Dumbledore.
Dumbledore was now tapping his finger emphatically upon the page, calling Harry's attention to a certain paragraph. Harry leaned in, careful not to block the magic sunlight streaming from the enchanted window.
"For three days and three nights I searched, Harry," Dumbledore said with a note of quiet triumph in his soft voice. "And my search was rewarded. With this."
Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles before tilting the book slightly so that Harry had a clear view of the indicated paragraph. Harry's eyes narrowed. Even in the bright "morning" light, the letters were hard to distinguish. What he'd thought at first was Old English was, he now realized, something alien, a sort of bastardization of English and Gaelic, with something else, something unrecognizable, thrown in. The letters were faded in places, rubbed thin in others, as if by the fingers of academicians who lived and died a thousand years before he was born. For Harry strongly suspected that this book was among the first placed in the Hogwarts library by one or another of its four founders more than a millenium past. Harry tried his best to read the writing, but it was a hopeless exercise. Seeing the confusion in Harry's eyes, Dumbledore chuckled apologetically.
"Forgive me, Harry. I read and speak so many languages that I often forget. If you will permit me."
Dumbledore set the book squarely before him and regarded Harry from the corner of his eye.
"As you may have guessed, Harry, this book is very ancient -- more than one thousand years old. It is written in a language that was once common amongst the magical peoples of the British Isles, but is now all but forgotten. The grammar and syntax are a bit ponderous, so you will forgive me if I paraphrase.
"In the days before the magical world was governed by rules of order, punishments were often extreme and severe. Magical folk believed that the world was meant to be shared by wizards and Muggles, in a harmony of peace and understanding; consequently, any misuse of magic was seen as a threat not only to the magical community, but to civilization as a whole. Any witch or wizard who was judged to be a threat to the general order was deemed unfit to practice magic. But how enforce such a plebiscite? There was as yet no suitable means of isolating an anti-social wizard from the world. Prisons such as Azkaban, and its inevitable foreign counterparts, were not yet conceived. Execution was often the only recourse. Snapping a wizard's wand was a temporary solution at best, as one could always find a way to steal another's wand. A skilled wizard could even fashion his own wand by plucking a unicorn tail hair and encasing it in wood. It would not be the equal of an Ollivander's wand, but in the wrong hands it could still do terrible things. Distasteful though it was to decent magical folk, execution seemed the only viable solution.
"That is, until the Mortalis Potion was devised."
Dumbledore surveyed Harry over the rims of his spectacles. Genuine curiosity was growing in Harry's eyes, struggling through his dispassionate mantle. The old wizard smiled.
"The Mortalis Potion," Dumbledore said, "was one of the most complex -- and dangerous -- potions ever created. It had the power to destroy forever a wizard's magical blood. For all intents and purposes, the drinker became a Muggle. He was then cast out, made an eternal exile from the wizarding world. This sentence was irrevokable, for the effects of the potion were permanent and irreversible. The condemned would live out the remainder of his life as a Muggle. It was seen as the perfect solution -- no pun intended."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled briefly before they clouded over, becoming dark as shadowed sapphires.
"Unfortunately," he said heavily, "it was an extremely difficult potion to brew. Many weeks of intense preparation were required, involving dozens of steps. If but a single one of these steps went awry, even to the slightest degree -- " Dumbledore paused for emphasis, " -- the potion became a deadly poison, resulting in a most horrible and painful death for whoever partook of it.
"This was, of course, of little moment to those passing judgment. For either outcome would rid the magical world of an unwanted pariah. The magical world as a whole was ignorant of this, else there might have been a public outcry and general chaos. Abberations such as Tom Riddle to the contrary, wizarding society has always viewed any form of violence with disdain, even in situations where it might serve a greater good. But as the coming generations saw the formation of the Ministry of Magic, a renaissance of sorts swept the wizarding world. Azkaban was conceived and built, executions were phased out, and the Mortalis Potion was ultimately abandoned and forgotten, relegated to vague, half-remembered fables -- and, of course, to rare and ancient books such as this."
Dumbledore closed the book on his lap slowly and looked up at Harry. Eyes of crystal blue pierced those of emerald green. It was suddenly as if Harry had been hit with the Jelly-Legs Curse. He caught himself on the arm of Dumbledore's chair, and the old wizard quickly Summoned the empty chair on his right with a wave of his hand so that it bumped against the backs of Harry's legs. Harry fell limply onto the cushions and sat for a full minute, drawing slow, measured breaths. When his breathing seemed normal again, Dumbledore leaned forward and placed a hand upon the arm of Harry's chair.
"The choice is yours, Harry. The privelege of my office allows me this latitude. The prescribed sentence is no doubt as you may have expected: A life term in Azkaban, with no consideration of parole for a minimum of fifty years."
Harry sighed heavily, yet not without resolve, Dumbledore noted.
"If the potion does kill me," Harry said listlessly, "at least it'll all be over. I know Arthur and Molly will take good care of Hermione. They couldn't love her more if she were their own daughter. As far as my own options go, I remember what Sirius told me about his years in Azkaban, how the dementors only steal happy thoughts. The dark thoughts remain and fester in the soul. Given the thoughts I'm likely to experience in Azkaban, I almost hope the bloody stuff does kill me."
Nodding once, Dumbledore said, "I anticipated your decision, Harry. The potion is ready now. You need only sign this release form."
Harry saw that Dumbledore was now holding a piece of parchment and a quill in one hand, a bottle of ink in the other, all no doubt Summoned from his writing desk while Harry's attention was distracted. Harry took parchment and quill, availed himself of the open bottle of ink Dumbledore held out for him, and signed. He did not bother reading the form. He had trusted Dumbledore with his life too often in the past to doubt him at this late hour.
Dumbledore rose from his chair and walked to his desk. He opened a drawer, took out an object which Harry sluggishly recognized as an official Ministry stamp with a long wooden handle. Dumbledore stamped the official Ministry seal on the parchment, affixed it magically with a wave of his wand, then returned parchment, quill, ink and stamp to the drawer and closed it. This done, he waved a hand at a small door on the other side of his study. Harry had taken scant notice of this door, which was shadowed and nearly hidden by the wall of books shouldering it on either side. The door opened on silent hinges.
"Enter, please, Severus," Dumbledore said.
Harry was nearly jerked out of his lethargy. Severus Snape entered the study, looking exactly as Harry remembered him from school, from the malevolent glint in his black eyes to the disdainful sneer curling his lip. Snape glided across the room as Dumbledore left his desk to intercept and greet him. Dumbledore extended his hand, and Snape took it.
"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said as Harry, his knees still too weak to permit him to rise, looked up at the two wizards, each as different from the other as if they had been birthed in separate universes.
"Minister," Snape said formally with a brief, respectful nod.
With no further ado, Snape reached into his bat-like robes and produced a brass flask that gleamed dully in the morning light. Nodding solemnly, Dumbledore Summoned a pewter goblet from a cabinet that was mounted above a rack of dusty bottles of wine, each of which was of a vintage to humble the finest cellars in Europe. He handed the goblet to Snape, who pulled the stopper from the flask and poured a measure of potion with a practiced eye.
"Drink it all, Potter," Snape commanded, thrusting the goblet at Harry violently. Harry took the goblet, appraised its smoking contents, then looked up and smiled with stony amusement.
"Going to watch me die, Snape?" Harry said blandly. "Albus tells me that death is both painful and horrible."
"Only if the potion is brewed improperly," Snape returned with a cruel smile spreading beneath his hooked nose. "As to that, we shall see, shan't we?"
Snape made no attempt to disguise a mordant leer as Harry raised the goblet and drained it in two gulps.
Instantly, it was as if liquid fire were coursing through Harry's veins. He pitched out of his chair and fell writhing to the floor. Harry had not felt such agony since the night when Voldemort had placed him under the Cruciatus Curse in the graveyard in Little Hangleton. Lights exploded behind his eyes, which were squeezed tight as knotted fists, blinding his brain. A roaring in his ears drowned out all sound save his own strangled cries, which seemed magnified a thousandfold. His flesh felt as if it had been doused in lamp oil and set alight. Let me die! Harry's mind screamed. No more! Please, let me die! Then, blissfully, everything went black.
Harry opened his eyes suddenly, fully aware. He was on the hearth before the fireplace, curled into a ball. If his mind were unaffected by his ordeal, the same could not be said for his body. He was tingling from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes. He felt burning sensations that spoke of wrenched joints and strained muscles, easily recognized from seven years of no-holds-barred Quidditch matches at Hogwarts. As he essayed to unfold his stiff, knotted limbs, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Can you stand, Harry?"
Although Dumbledore's question registered instantly on his brain, his body seemed reluctant to comply. Dumbledore reached down and took Harry's arm, and Harry found himself being lifted to his feet by a strength which, coming from Dumbledore's thin, spare body, seemed more magical than anything wrought by the old wizard's wand. Harry straightened slowly until he was standing erect. Dumbledore released him tentatively, and Harry was relieved to discover that he could stand unaided, if shakily.
"Not dead, I see," Dumbledore chuckled, though the jest was lost on Harry. But before Harry could ponder whatever subtext Dumbledore's remark might conceal, the latter reached into his robes and drew forth his wand. Or so Harry thought until it was pressed into his own still-tingling hand. Even with fingers that felt as if they were clad in thick woolen gloves, Harry could still recognize the feel of his familiar holly-and-phoenix-feather wand.
"One final test," Dumbledore said. "In the course of your convulsions, you dropped your goblet over by your chair. Kindly Summon it for me, if you would?"
Obeying without a thought, Harry pointed his wand at the fallen goblet and said, "Accio!"
The goblet did not move.
"Again, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Clear your mind. Concentrate. Focus your will with all your might."
"ACCIO!" Harry barked, his wand thrust fiercely before him. The goblet remained motionless in steadfast defiance of Harry's magical command. With what seemed to Harry a very pleased and triumphant smile on his face, Dumbledore took Harry's wand back and returned it to his robes.
"Well done, Severus," Dumbledore said. Harry turned, having forgotten that Snape was present at all.
"Thank you, Minister," Snape said crisply, clearly enjoying his own portion of victory which was his due.
"When can you administer the remainder of the potion?" Dumbledore asked, ill-suppressing the eagerness in his voice.
"Within the hour, Minister. I took the liberty of making the arrangements in advance."
"Excellent!" Dumbledore fairly exhulted.
"I -- don't understand," Harry said. "What -- remainder?"
"I asked Severus to brew up two portions of the Mortalis Potion, Harry," Dumbledore said. "With all apologies to our esteemed Potions Master, I preferred to witness the effects of the first portion with my own eyes before I would authorize the administering of the second."
"B-but," Harry stammered, "there's no need for a second dose. The potion worked. I'm...I'm a...Muggle."
"So you are," Dumbledore agreed cheerfully. "And now that you have demonstrated that the potion is indeed safe, I will sign the authorization which Severus will take with him to St. Mungo's. With that parchment in hand, he will be empowered to administer the second portion immediately -- to Hermione."
Harry stood for a moment as the full impact of Dumbledore's words struck him with a force greater than the Hungarian Horntail that had nearly knocked him from his broomstick during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. With a strangled sob, Harry fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face.
"God in Heaven," he croaked before his throat seized into an incoherent gurgle. Completely overcome, Harry buried his face in his hands and cried like a baby.
Author's Note: The posting complications I mentioned last time are accelerating, which may result in a gap of a few weeks between a couple of the later chapters. Fortunately, THIS chapter's knockout punch has been delivered without mishap. Now that the angst has been relieved, the remaining four chapters will focus on the more positive slant which so many reviewers craved. That's not to say that questions do not remain; but if some of the answers are delayed, at least the pressure is officially off.
Thanks to all who hung on this far. The drama (less turbulent, but drama nonetheless) continues next time in a chapter called: The Chains We Forge. See you then.
Note From Fae Princess: Hi, everyone! **waves enthusiastically from the computer chair** I'm
Stoneheart's official posting girl -- though that might soon come to a stop (which actually makes me sad ... but
what can you do?) As for the posting problems which are, unfortunately, coming sooner than we expected, I'm at
fault for that as well. (Sorry!) Anyway, I'm going to B.C (**sigh** sunny, beautiful, British Columbia!) to be
there for the birth of my best friend's baby. I leave next weekened! (Whoa, I can't wait). Anyway, sorry
everyone. I'm going to go now, since my note is about as long as Stoneheart's. Leave a review for him (he
certainly deserves it -- that boy works so hard) and I'll see you when I return.