Gathering Weight
September, 1991.
“Blimey, a love potion,” said Ron. “No wonder he’s turned out like that… Still, it’s hard to imagine Voldemort coming from, well, humans. I mean, you’d think he just crawled out of a snake’s egg or something.”
The Great Hall was abuzz with chatter this fine September morning, and the smells of breakfast sweetened the air with aromas of seasonal pumpkin-based foods. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting a short distance away from Ginny and a few other Gryffindors. Harry had come here early, again pursuing the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook as a pastime, until Hermione and Ron had joined him. Harry had chosen then to tell them about what he’d learned at his meeting with Dumbledore the other day.
“That’s ridiculous, Ron,” Hermione scoffed. “It’s not as if he fell into existence out of a coconut tree.” She turned to Harry. “But this is truly fascinating that you get to learn about Voldemort’s past, Harry. It’s a big privilege. I imagine very few people, even his closest followers, know any of this… And Dumbledore said this information ought to help you defeat him?”
Harry slowly nodded in reply, poking his treacle tart with his fork. “Dumbledore just said it’s very important and that it has everything to do with the prophecy. But I guess it makes sense to know as much as possible about Voldemort’s past.”
“Yeah, but,” interrupted Ron, swallowing down a waffle with some juice, “there’s got to be a bigger picture to all this, right? I mean, just knowing the name of You-Know-Who’s mum and grandpa — or whatever — won’t exactly help you in a one-on-one duel with him… Unless you’d want to distract him with it,” he snickered. Harry thought he’d caught the corner of Hermione’s mouth twitching, but at that moment, she dove back into her textbook.
“You mentioned a ring, Harry,” she said thoughtfully, briefly glancing over at the staff table, specifically to where Dumbledore sat. “You said that Voldemort’s grandfather was wearing it… I wonder if…”
“If it’s what gave Dumbledore that blackened hand?” Harry supplied. “Dunno,” he shook his head. “He still hasn’t told me anything about what happened to his hand. Said it’s a story for later.”
Ron had just set down his goblet of pumpkin juice. “You think the ring was cursed? But wouldn’t Dumbledore have known? Why’d he put it on?”
“Ron’s got a point,” agreed Harry. “I’m pretty sure he would have recognized a cursed object.”
“But the Gaunts were Slytherin’s direct descendants,” argued Hermione. “Maybe that ring was an heirloom, and the curse was very well concealed. We’ve actually just started a module in Ancient Runes that—”
Ron set down his fork and looked dubiously at the girl. “Mione, d’you honestly think the Greatest Wizard of the century wouldn’t recognize a cursed artifact ?”
“Dumbledore can make mistakes — he said it himself,” interjected Harry knowingly.
“You should ask him during your next meeting, then. When is it?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Ron,” shrugged the boy morosely again. “And I don’t think he’d tell me if I asked. He’s saving it for ‘when the time is ripe’, as he said it.”
“Strange bloke, Dumbledore. Feels like he’s keeping a lot from you again, mate,” threw in Ron, tackling another pancake and feeding himself a piece.
“I’m sure it’s not like that anymore,” Hermione tried to reason, a note of sympathy in her voice.
“Yeah. Now he’s telling me at least something ,” said Harry tartly.
The three of them continued breakfast in silence.
~***~
Mid-September, 1996.
“And around when is Voldemort planning to initiate this attack?”
A strike of searing pain quivered through the Death Eater’s left forearm, like a hot blade being pressed to his bare skin. He managed to keep himself still, however, having foreseen the use of the Dark Lord’s name. Predictable of the old coot.
He was seated in one of the ugly armchairs opposite Dumbledore’s great mahogany desk, retelling tonight’s meeting that the Dark Lord had called for the first time in well over a month. Not many had attended — most of his numbers were still locked up behind Azkaban bars.
Hence the necessity of said meeting.
“He did not say,” answered Severus bluntly, his baritone voice resounding through the otherwise empty room. “However, I am assuming it will be some time early in the new year, as he is preparing to recruit the dementors in the process. He is waiting for them to breed in the winter.”
His eyes tracked Dumbledore as the old man slowly stood and crossed the room to stand at one of the tall windows. It was dark outside; the students were long since asleep. Severus was still surprised he’d found Dumbledore still awake at this late hour, donned in his violet and gold robes.
“He does not suspect you?” asked Dumbledore, back turned to him.
“Not as far as my knowledge goes. However, Lestrange is visibly wary of me still, the cynic .”
The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Voldemort may see this as a chance to test your loyalties, Severus. If few of his Death Eaters are aware of this attack, including yourself, it would be quite obvious who the ‘lion in snake’s skin’ is, which is why we are to expect this attack but not try to prevent it. Moreover , when Tom strikes, the Aurors will not amount to stop him; hence, it would be useless to even try. We will simply have to let things… unfold.”
“And the consequences?” asked Severus darkly, resisting the urge to clamp his hand over his left forearm. “You and I both know the potential dangers of the Dark Lord having an army of dementors at his disposal. Would it not be prudent to have the Ministry at least temporarily relocate them?”
“No. It should not appear as though we — or the Ministry — were expecting Voldemort’s attack. We cannot afford to jeopardize your cover, Severus. It is paramount to the war effort,” said Dumbledore firmly. He turned around now, looking at his spy with interest. “Has there been any mention of the Malfoy boy?”
Severus internally sighed. “Hardly. Only a flyaway comment to Narcissa, one which I fail to recall. But it was a trivial mention.”
The image of Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes straying to his face with a trusting, pleading look was still somewhere on the surface of his consciousness. That look in her eyes had added much weight onto his chest and conscience.
“I do hope you are keeping an eye on Mr. Malfoy, Severus? He may be feeling lost right now, desperate as to where to even begin with this mission Voldemort has burdened upon him. And you know as well as I, Severus ,” intoned Dumbledore meaningfully, ”that no decision made in desperation is ever a sensible one.”
Severus turned his head sideways. He couldn’t bear the old man’s piercing gaze, practically boring holes in him.
“Draco has been avoiding me as of late, and he often skips my lessons. I have tried inquiring his peers, but they do not appear to know either. That being said, I do not think it wise for me to try to approach him yet. He does not trust me…”
“Perhaps there is hope that he will realize the full weight of what he is to do and turn to us for help, for guidance,” mused Dumbledore, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Draco Malfoy may have the exterior for it, but he does not have the heart to do what he must. But we must let him come to a decision on his own. Pressuring or nudging him will not work in our favor.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
A look of disappointment and regret flashed in the electric-blue eyes, which traveled down to a silver trinket on the desk. “...As the muggle saying goes, Severus, ‘one sleeps in the bed one made’,” was all he offered. “Either way, he will not have to kill me, for you will step in for him.”
Severus gritted his teeth, his hands, hidden in his robes, clenching. “Ah, yes, that one trifle you ask of me,” he sneered.
“What do you suggest, Severus? I am already a dying man—” He calmly raised his blackened hand to showcase — “Should Mr. Malfoy fail to have me dead by the end of the school year — regardless by whose hand —, he will suffer terribly for it. At the same time, his soul can yet be preserved. In such cases, one must weigh the lesser of the two evils. The Dark Mark on his hand is only that — a mark. His soul, however, is untouched, unlike Lord Voldemort’s.”
‘...And yours’ was left unsaid, though it hung tacitly and heavily in the air.
Severus gritted his teeth to ride out another flare of pain. For a brief moment, Dumbledore’s eyes had darted to his left wrist, but he said nothing in regard to it.
“It has been a long day, Severus, and an even longer evening. I suggest you get some rest,” sighed the Headmaster, retaking his seat at his desk. Fawkes suddenly took off from his perch and landed gracefully on the desk, crooning when the wizard’s aged fingers caressed its radiant feathers of red and gold.
Severus wasn’t going to argue. He, admittedly, barely felt himself standing after the day he’d had…
He bowed his head in goodbye. “Good night, Headmaster.”
“Ah, and Severus—” said the man suddenly. Severus stilled, lifting an eyebrow.
“I plan on having Alastor Moody continue to train Harry here, at Hogwarts.”
This came to him as a surprise. A sneer tugged at the corners of Severus’ thin lips. “I fail to see how this illuminating information might concern me.”
“Oh, quite,” replied the Gryffindor mildly. “I am aware of your recent disputes with him. I hope this will, in no way, cause issues?”
“Are you referring to the brat or the retired pirate?”
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed warningly at his sarcastic quip. “Both. Furthermore, I also plan on giving Harry private lessons of my own. And seeing as you have a notorious tendency of assigning the poor boy detention for the smallest of reasons, I must insist, Severus, that it does not get in the way of more crucial matters .”
“And what, might I ask, will you be endeavoring to teach him that Alastor supposedly can’t?”
“That I cannot say,” Dumbledore shook his head. “And now you must go. Rest. I shall see you in the morning.”
The thought of further probing briefly crossed Severus’ mind, but in a moment’s notice he abandoned the idea. With a final nod of his head, he rounded on his heel and strode out of the round office.
The journey down to the dungeons was long and uneventful. He caught no disobedient students dawdling about the dark, deserted corridors, and all seemed quiet. The only light lighting these corridors was his Lumos . This, the man greatly appreciated as he continued to descend deeper and deeper, and when at last the distinctive chill of the dungeons seeped through his cloak, he welcomed it.
Despite having been appointed the Defense Professor, he was still Head of Slytherin House, hence why his quarters were still located down in the dungeons, near the Slytherin dorms. Of course, he no longer had the perk of having his classrooms so close to him (minimizing his outings), but he supposed it was how the time-old saying went — one had to lose to gain.
Severus finally arrived at an old, rather big painting of Salazar Slytherin. It was no sight for the eyes to behold: the paint was cracked and chipped in places, and the colors dulled from age. Severus raised his hand, palm out, and ghosted it over the surface in a pattern. A moment later, it swung aside to reveal a wooden door, which also opened, and he saw himself in.
Both the painting and door then audibly shut behind him. Darkness enveloped him. Only then did the man close his tired eyes and release a breath he’d unknowingly been holding.
It had been a long day. After a day of teaching dunderheads disarming spells, attending an impromptu Death Eater meeting, and finally the conversation with Albus Dumbledore, he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and forget about his own existence. He did not wish to think. No, he wished to Occlude.
If he had the energy.
Severus waved his wand to turn the lights on. A modest-sized sitting room appeared before him, done in earthy tones of deep brown and green. Shrugging his dark cloak off himself, he was just crossing the sitting room when his eyes fell on his private potions lab, the door standing ajar. He slowly approached it and entered the room, waving his hand to turn the light on here as well. It didn’t differ from his laboratory in Cokeworth by much in looks, and the cupboards were linked, so he always had access to all of his ingredients regardless of where he was brewing.
And there on the workbench in the middle of the room lay several sheets of parchment, some containing his spidery scrawl, a plethora of corked vials and test tubes, and a healthy amount of books stacked or piled on, some open.
His research.
Standing over it, Severus studied the mess of his efforts of the last month. It was all worthless, he knew. A sudden feeling of irritation overcame him, making his hands clench and unclench.
Those whispers appeared in his head again.
You aren’t trying hard enough… Failure… Incompetent…Swore to protect…
They were torment. Crippling.
Severus had meant it when he’d told Potter, almost two weeks ago, that theoretical research had gotten him no substantive results. Such was simply the case. But recently, Severus had been busying himself with a different approach to find a potential solution.
Caught up in the moment, Severus bent down to pick up some of his notes, leafing through them with a focused frown. Nearly two months of tireless research. And having realized that he could not rely on any potential ancient rituals or spells (unreliable and unpredictable), he’d turned to his area of expertise — Potion Making. Here, he’d already made extensive notes on a variety of ingredients that may potentially be useful in something as complex as an extraction elixir of sorts.
Granted, there were already several known potions that were capable of countering things like curses, but this was a different case. It wasn’t a curse that the boy had, but a fragment of the Dark Lord’s soul, embedded in him, which complicated matters significantly.
Furthermore, elixirs were the most difficult and capricious to brew. And one to extract something specific, to make it target a specific thing in one’s body, especially if it was something as unheard of and complex as a piece of a foreign soul… It would be bordering on dark magic, something Severus wished to avoid at all costs…
Most costs.
But it was all still a developing idea, an unsolidified concept based on speculation and guesswork.
Although small, there remained a sliver of hope that he would manage to find something to rid the boy of the Dark Lord’s soul fragment. But there was only so much Severus could do with so little information pertaining to Potter’s case, hence why he needed to take up a more practical approach.
And he couldn’t help but think to himself at times:
Had he made the boy an empty promise? Had all those reassurances been nothing but empty words? A delusion? Had he sold the boy a lie?
That weight upon his shoulders felt to have multiplied. Those emerald-green eyes flashed before him; he wasn’t sure if they were Lily’s blank, unseeing ones or her son’s fearful ones. Either way, both variants were haunting.
Severus rested an elbow on his other arm and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling them burning from the day’s exhaustion. And ridiculously enough, even though the Dark Lord hadn’t had any reason to punish Severus tonight, all of the man’s muscles ached. He waited a moment, simply standing there, and then gazed tiredly down upon the mess he’d left the previous evening to clean up this morning.
Severus sneered to himself and turned sharply on his heel to leave the room.
~***~
The house was silent; it felt as if not another soul apart from Harry’s was present in it. The kitchen he found himself standing in, immaculate as always, was just barely lit by the moonlight spilling through the windows. Chilling, the atmosphere was. Harry rubbed his arms for warmth and found himself dressed in nothing but a thin shirt he recognized as Dudley’s outgrown one.
Suddenly, the wind picked up outside, causing Harry to startle.There was a premonition in the air. Harry found his fingers twitching nervously. Something — someone — was coming. He didn’t know how or from where he knew this, but he just did . He glanced around himself, wondering if it was something he’d done wrong…
A sound. It startled Harry out of his skin. While the frightened boy ducked behind the counter island, a large man with a walrus mustache and a huge belly came staggering into the kitchen, holding something in his hand that Harry couldn’t seem to discern…
That’s when his heart dipped in horror. It was Uncle Vernon, indubitably drunk and holding a sharp, broken bottle by the neck, which gleamed menacingly in the night’s light.
He seemed unaware of Harry’s presence yet, but he was advancing deeper into the small kitchen. Unfortunately, Harry wasn’t quick enough to round the island corner — those beady eyes soon fell on his own green ones.
And to the boys’ utmost horror, Uncle Vernon began raising the sharp bottleneck, pointing it straight at Harry like some dagger. It was an unmistakable moment between the predator and its prey.
His breath got caught in his throat. Without thinking twice, harry turned to run—
But his efforts were in vain. He tried to run — to move his legs—, but it seemed the harder he tried, the slower he went. His heart was beating out of his chest as the heavy, discoordinated footsteps kept getting closer, drunken and incoherent slurring resounding in loud bellows.
A large hand suddenly grasped the back of Harry’s shirt, yanking him back—
He sat up with a shudder. He didn’t know where he was or with whom, and was swiveling his head around to try to make sense of his surroundings. The first thing to register with him was the darkness of the dorm, then the distinctive sounds of soft, familiar snoring. Harry’s chest didn’t feel like his own. Heavy, damp, heaving up and down with the frantic rhythm of his heart as his mind tried to keep up with it. The surroundings took a moment to register with him, and only when they did did he let out a hitching exert of relief.
Another nightmare.
Fortunately, this one hadn’t been too bad. The scenes he’d just witnessed swam back to his mind again, replaying. They brought about an intense feeling of discomfort, causing Harry’s thin frame to shudder again. It was an unpleasant feeling of exposure, of vulnerability. But it could have been worse — the boy was grateful it hadn’t been a full-blown nightmare.
Strangely, he hadn’t had any since the start of the school year, at the most an unpleasant dream every now and then… much like tonight.
Although it hadn’t been anything too horrifying, Harry still felt rather disgusted by it, the way his uncle had staggered into the immaculate kitchen, bringing the unmistakable stench of beer with him as well as holding the neck of a bottle, broken with the sharp edges glistening in the moonlight, the kitchen dark. And the moment his watery, beady eyes had fallen on him—
That malicious gleam in them, right before he’d raised the broken bottle, drawing it straight at Harry. Those sharp edges, looking sharp enough to sever steel… The nightmare had definitely been a bit of an exaggeration of that one incident… At least he hadn’t stuck around to find out what might have happened next.
Leaning back on his hands, the boy willed himself to try to calm his racing heart. He drew in a breath, then another, trying to track the intervals. Eventually, the frenzy of the moment diminished, and Harry was left with the restlessness that usually followed his nightmares.
Harry sat there like this for a while. His shirt still clung to him uncomfortably, cold and damp, but he didn’t want to crawl back under the blankets. The idea sounded far from appealing to him. So instead Harry reached for his glasses and swung his legs over the edge to don his slippers. The mattress groaned a little, making him cringe and curse the old springs, but it seemed that those snores were enough to drown it out, so it was alright… Harry silently opened his trunk and began rummaging through it with utmost care. He mostly had spare school supplies like quills and parchment here, along with his valuables.
Like the Marauders’ Map.
Even in the feeble moonlight, the scroll of old parchment was unmistakable.
Having decided how he would kill some time, Harry sat himself onto the spacious windowsill and unfurled the Map. He tapped it gently with his wand.
“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” he whispered but softly cleared his throat when his voice came out shaky.
The ancient castle’s blueprints blossomed with ink on the hitherto empty parchment, painting hundreds of small names across it. Harry could just barely make anything out in the moonlight, but it was doable. He first located Filch and Mrs. Norris patrolling the third-floor corridor. His eyes followed the tag for a while… Suddenly, Filch sped up. To Harry's amusement, there was another tag coming just around the corner — he recognized the name belonged to a Second-Year Slytherin.
Unfortunately (or not), there was a brief chase between Filch and the student before the squib’s tag caught up with the poor student’s.
Harry pressed his lips together in dry sympathy… then in thought.
Speaking of Slytherins…
His eyes travelled down the large map to the dungeons, where they eventually found a bunch of Slytherin student nametags. There was Zabini, Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle…
And Malfoy.
All in the Slytherin Common Room.
He’d better stay there… thought Harry menacingly.
For the last week or so, he’d scarcely seen a whiff of the blond’s head anywhere. What he found crossing all lines of ‘fishy’ was the fact that Malfoy had taken to skipping Defense. Ron and Hermione refused to speculate with him on the matter, however, and any attempts at discussing this topic were usually quickly thwarted by either of his friends’ exasperation.
It peeved Harry to no extent.
He’s up to something…
For several more minutes Harry studied the parchment. He was exploring it from top to bottom, left to right, and once he’d finally reached Dumbledore’s office… he stopped.
Next to ‘Albus Dumbledore’ there was Snape’s tag. Right there in his circular office. Harry didn’t know what hour it was, but it was pretty obvious it was extremely late. What could they possibly be talking about?
Harry observed the two names for a few minutes, until finally Snape’s left the office and set off in the dungeons’ direction. It finally settled at what Harry could only assume was the man’s living quarters.
It was strange. Harry had never really entertained the idea of where the professors lived in the castle. It seemed stupid now, but such a conversation topic had never really sprung up, somehow.
Harry rested his cheek on his knees and blankly stared at that nametag. For how long, he didn’t know. Why? He didn’t know that either. He just did. But eventually he got rather bored, so he reached down into his school satchel to pull out his potions textbook.
Or — rather to say — the Half-Blood Prince’s.
The boy sat upon the ledge, leafing through the old pages, until he came across something called ‘Levicorpus’. The word was squeezed in between two paragraphs of text. Beside it were several crossed-out failed attempts, as it seemed. Harry didn’t have the slightest clue as to what kind of spell it could be, but figured he could maybe ask Moody when their lessons started.
Not that he needed to know exactly where Harry had found that spell.