The Devil You Know

The Devil You Know

The small silver teapot scuttled across the table, dispensing steaming Darjeeling into a pair of gold-rimmed tea-cups, while a matching pair of tongs stalked across the table adding slim half-slices of lemon. The twilight outside did not encroach on the warm light from the flickering flame in the grate and the candlesticks set amongst the spindly silver devices on tables about the room. Two men sat in tall wing-backed armchairs before the fire watching the tea service. As it finished and the elegant gentleman reached for his teacup, the distinguished older wizard stared over his steepled fingers at his guest. After sipping his tea and nodding appreciatively, the guest spoke. His voice was perfectly enunciated and his accent was flawless.

"You have only to ask, you know that."

"I am aware."

"We could be of great assistance to you in your current situation."

"I know this too."

The guest sighed and set down his cup.

"So why not ask, Albus? This is an hour of need more dark for you than any I have seen. The portents are grim, and many doubt you and that which you defend so fiercely will survive this time of trial."

"Be that as it may."

"Oh, Albus, don't be like that! It would be so easy..."

"Yes, Tiberius, it would be easy indeed. But it would be wrong."

"How is it wrong? Voldemort is evil, he is a curse upon this earth, and his destruction would be a most excellent thing for all that you hold dear."

Dumbledore stared at his guest. Even the bright candles could not disguise the glimmering crimson that danced at the back of his eyes. When he spoke, his fangs showed, and the exquisitely tailored gloves bulged around the demons talons. The taint of sulphur and brimstone pervaded the room since his arrival. He had not troubled to disguise his origins.

What he was offering was so tempting though. In their constant weighing and re-weighing of the balance of the universe, the residents of the infernal circles had come to the conclusion that the existence of Voldemort was a short-term boon at best and that the measure of wickedness in his soul was better invested elsewhere. They were willing to cast him into the fires of the abyss, but no force, heavenly or hellish could interfere so blatantly in earthly matters. They needed permission, and had come to him with an offer. Dumbledore strongly suspected that should he refuse, they would next go to Harry Potter - they may even have an emissary with him right now.

Dumbledore's forehead furrowed as he considered this unexpected occurrence. Would the boy have sense enough to refuse? Is refusal the right course of action? The vileness concentrated in Voldemort was bringing ruin and destruction to the wizarding world, irrevocably marking yet another generation of children with the horrors of life under the Dark Lord. But what vile machination would this darkness be recycled into if he accepted? Where would it next return? When, and it what form? He felt the weight of his years more sharply than he had for a long time. Who was he to be given this decision?

The demon was probably gleefully chortling behind his politely genteel mask at the torment he knew this decision would be causing his old acquaintance. To end the coming war before it truly began, to save all the lives that would otherwise be lost and to stop this resurgence of the Dark in its tracks, at the price of knowing they served the purposes of the infernal hordes? Or to refuse and struggle and die as they surely would, with victory uncertain, and condemn every child under his stewardship to the horrors their parents had lived through.

Was this fiend even telling him the truth? Or was this a bluff to destroy his faith in the righteousness of his actions and sap his strength of will? Either was entirely possible in the long and convoluted machinations of hell; that they had indeed calculated greater benefit to them in souls corrupted and virtue lost by calling Tom Riddle to his waiting torment, or that they wished him to succeed and were subtly working towards that end by undermining his adversaries, the Headmaster of Hogwarts being principle among them.

"What if I was to say that I do not believe you and that I refuse?"

"I would leave. We have vast and complicated tasks that need stewardship, this is... a convenience, not a priority."

"Would you lie to me, Tiberius?"

"No, Albus, of course not."

The old wizard sighed at the lie and picked up his cooling tea. The smoky taste with its hint of citrus briefly overwhelmed the faint sulphurous smell. Why should he have to make this decision? Where was it written that his judgement was so true that he could say, 'take this one, and spare that one'?

As Lucifers rebellion had been so long ago, as Grindlewalds horror's in Europe had been so recently, perhaps Voldemort was their Dark Crusader, blighting the souls of those he touched, his followers and his victims. Voldemort destroyed innocence and hope, stealing people's faith and feeding the fires of hell with their lost souls.

Dumbledore knew that at present, with the Order of the Phoenix at his back, and the Ministry of Magic alerted, the forces opposed to Voldemort were finally mobilised. They had people experienced with fighting the darkness, and they knew who and what the threat was. This could be another reason behind Tiberius offer; perhaps they felt that that this full frontal assault was a poor expenditure of their time and effort. Historically they were better at flanking actions, at the subtle movement, the whispered lie and the unseen assassin, but then once more, the position flipped - perhaps this was their open play, their drive for victory and they were trying to distract him, and make him second guess himself.

He decided. The only action he could take was to trust his first instinct, the gut reaction to the miasma of foulness that surrounded the exquisitely tailored fiend. Without enthusiasm he intoned the ritual words.

"Begone, Tiberius, I deny thee, your works and those of your master."

"Oh, Albus, don't be like that."

"Out foul fiend."

Tiberius rolled his eyes and stood. The fires in the grate leaped up, becoming a roaring furnace that gaped above a howling abyss. The screams of the lost and the sadistic glee of their torturers echoed faintly from the depths.

"Promise you'll think of my offer?" The demon adjusted his cuffs and grinned slyly. "Oh, but then I know that you will."

"Out!"

The demon stepped into the fire and disappeared, leaving only the empty teacup and a lingering taint of brimstone. Dumbledore frowned as he stroked his long beard. If ever there was a thought to keep in his pensieve, this little chat was one of them. Even if every word Tiberius had said was true, the demon had made it as corrosive as the most cunningly crafted lie. Had he agreed and some horror had reclaimed Tom Riddles soul, he would have always wondered what evil deeds were being done and what lives ruined by that reclaimed darkness. Worst of all would be remembering this every time the dark mark was found above another house, every time he lost a friend, every time he had to see the deep rings under Harry Potters eyes. He could not do that, no man could. Better to trust that good would prevail and Voldemort would be defeated. Otherwise...

There was no otherwise. Dumbledore rose to find his pensieve, these were thoughts he could not afford at this stage. If he had made the wrong choice, then there was nothing to be gained by remembering. If he had made the right choice then the only reason Tiberius had been here was to plant the seeds of doubt, and he had to uproot those seeds before they dug deeply.

First he penned himself a short note to find Harry and ensure he had not granted them the opening they wished. As he set the quill down and took up his wand to use the pensieve Dumbledore knew that to destroy his memories of events while he was unsure whether they had spoken to Harry would be fool-hardy. Grimly setting the pensieve back on his shelf, he resigned himself to the doubt twisting in his mind until he was sure Harry had resisted.

He sat back heavily in his chair. In the small matter of his peace of mind, the devil had won, and perhaps that had even been the point of it all. He would not sleep tonight, though his many years weighed heavily on him.