Trapped

Chapter 7: The Dream

At lunch, the students were chattering and gossiping as merrily as ever. The incident at breakfast was mostly forgotten. However, this wasn't true for the High Table. The headmaster looked older than ever, and McGonagall's eyes were red-rimmed as if she had been crying. Hagrid, no doubt, had, and he still made thorough use of his overlarge handkerchief. Snape's chair stayed empty. Only Trelawney and Professor Smith were chattering along, oblivious to the gloomy atmosphere around them.

"Something strange is going on," Ginny Weasley whispered to her friends at the Gryffindor table. "Look at the teachers. And Snape didn't show up for Potions this morning. He's never missed a single class before."

"He wasn't there to teach Advanced Potions, either," Neville said, sighing with relief. It hadn't been his idea to take that class.

"I told you Snape was up to something!" Harry hissed. "He's never missed a single opportunity to harass students yet, especially not Gryffindors."

"But he did look paler and thinner than usual those last weeks," said Hermione. "He might be sick, though."

"Or dead?" Ron asked hopefully.

"From the looks on the teachers' faces you could readily assume so," Ginny observed. "Some of them do look as if attending a funeral."

"The Headmaster and Professor McGonagall seemed to be terribly worried when they didn't find Snape in the dungeons, too," Hermione added thoughtfully.

"He's returned to Voldemort, that's why," Harry insisted. "And now, they are worried because of all the Order secrets the greasy git will betray to his master."

"Harry, you ..." Hermione began, as she was cut short by Dumbledore, who slowly rose from his chair and cleared his throat.

"I have an announcement to make," he began, face drawn and grave. For a moment, he hesitated as if reconsidering what to say. "Potions classes are cancelled until further notice," he finally said, then turned around and disappeared through the side entrance, leaving an untouched plate and some hundred bewildered students behind.

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Draco Malfoy was feeling rather uncomfortable, in spite of the arrogant sneer that was safe in place as always when he wanted to hide his true emotions. Something obviously was wrong with Professor Snape, and he had the strangest feeling that he had something to do with it. It had been a dream, nothing but a bad dream, he kept on telling himself. There was no way he would do any such thing to his Head of house, traitor or not, not for his dear life. He respected the man too much. He wouldn't even use an Unforgivable on Potter or that annoying Mudblood. Or the Weasel. What had happened to Snape then? Probably, if he talked to the headmaster about his dream, he might be able to gain some information? But where was the headmaster's office, anyway? He'd never been there before. He could owl his father, of course. Lucius had surely been to Dumbledore's office more often than Dumbledore would ever wish for. Yet, contacting his father always bore the risk of revealing his hideout, therefore he had promised to do so only in emergencies. His father would insist on being informed about what he wanted with the headmaster in the first place, too, and, somehow, Draco was reluctant to tell him about his dream. No, he would have to ask one of the teachers, preferably one who wouldn't ask too many questions. It would have to be McGonagall then. Draco swallowed hard. He had never imagined he would ever confide in the stern Head of Gryffindor, but now that Snape was gone .... The Slytherin gathered all his courage and strode over to the High Table.

"Professor," Draco addressed his Transfiguration teacher, "I need to talk to the headmaster. It's about Professor Snape."

"Follow me, Mr. Malfoy," the witch said, rose from her chair, and left the Great Hall, the blond Slytherin on her heels. That had been much easier than he had thought it would, no questions at all, not even a stern and inquisitive look. Strange. Add the red-rimmed eyes, and one could almost believe McGonagall was truly worried about Professor Snape, in spite of their notorious house rivalries thought Draco as he followed the briskly walking witch.

Once they had arrived in front of the Gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's rooms, McGonagall spoke the password, 'marzipan bread'. The Gargoyle sprang back, and they stepped onto the moving staircase. Dumbledore was standing in front of the window, staring out into the dreary November sky. McGonagall cleared her throat.

"Headmaster, Mr. Malfoy wishes to talk to you." Dumbledore turned around slowly, sighed, and motioned his visitors to take a seat.

"How can I help you, Mr. Malfoy?" Draco swallowed nervously, and then looked up into the headmaster's bespectacled eyes.

"I had a dream the other night, sir, about Professor Snape. It was horrible." He shuddered, then told the whole story about him luring the professor into the Forbidden Forest in the guise of Harry Potter, of cursing him with the Cruciatus, of Pettigrew smashing Snape's knees, of Umbridge and the snakes, and how he had woken up screaming and sweating and sick. He had barely made it to the bathroom in time.

"I know this sounds really weird," he finished his tale, "and the memory is rather hazy, and I probably should just forget about it, but - sir, what's happened to Professor Snape?" he finally blurted out.

"We don't know yet, Draco. And though I want to believe that what you just told me was no more than a horrible dream, I have a rather bad feeling about it." Dumbledore sighed. "Mr. Malfoy, would you please hand me your wand. You will have it back momentarily," he added when seeing the defiant look in Draco's eyes. Reluctantly, the blond boy handed over his elegant and rather slender wand. Dumbledore produced his own and gently tapped it at Draco's, murmuring, "Priori Incantatem

Draco's eyes went wide as he saw the images floating from his wand, images that confirmed his worst fears. Somebody had performed the Cruciatus with it.

"Headmaster," he stuttered, "it wasn't me! I'd never ... you must believe me, I didn't do that, I swear!" There were tears in Draco's eyes. "I would never do this to Professor Snape ... it couldn't be me, please," he half-sobbed.

"I believe you, Draco," Dumbledore said quietly, "but this is very serious. Of course, it's not entirely impossible that somebody stole your wand for committing the atrocity. But how to explain your dream or rather vision then?" The headmaster suddenly bent down and rummaged in one of the drawers in his desk, then produced a small vial containing a muddy green fluid. "Please, drink this, all of it." He held out the vial to Draco. "It will enhance the residual traces of any magic that has been performed on you during the last couple of days. And with this little instrument," he picked the Dark magic ticker from the shelf, "we will be able to determine exactly what kind of hexes or curses have been used."

Draco downed the liquid and grimaced at the vile taste. At first, the metronome-like instrument ticked slowly and regularly, but then picked up speed until it ticked like mad. Suddenly, it stopped altogether.

"As I suspected," the headmaster murmured. Draco took a closer look at the ticker and saw a tiny scale in its socket inscribed with minute golden letters. The shorter end of the ticker's hand now pointed towards one of the words. Imperio.

"It was no dream, Draco. You acted under the Imperio curse," Dumbledore said sadly. "What happened to Professor Snape wasn't your fault, remember this. You must not blame yourself. Nevertheless, remember what it means to be a loyal Death Eater. They don't need to act under the Imperio to torture and kill."

"Albus!" McGonagall interrupted. "How is this possible? It would mean that Death Eaters were in the school, or at least one Death Eater, who cast the curse on Mr. Malfoy!"

"Not necessarily, Minerva. There is another possibility. Imperio potion. It could have been added to any sweets or cakes. You do receive sweets from home frequently, don't you, Draco?" The boy nodded, thinking of the delicious almond cake that was in the last parcel. His favorite. He hadn't even shared it with Crabbe and Goyle as he usually did.

"Severus invented it," the headmaster continued, "as kind of an entrance ticket back into the ranks, a present for Voldemort to prove his loyalty. Tom has always had a twisted sense of irony." He sighed again. "You'd better be careful with anything edible you receive via owl from now on, Draco. Best you bring it here and let me check for Dark magic."

"But, Professor, why would the Dark Lord praise me like he did when knowing that I didn't do it on my own free will?" asked Draco who had finally regained his wits. "This doesn't make sense at all!"

"Not really. Though, you never know what dark schemes are behind Voldemort's actions," Dumbledore reasoned. "Anyway, we might not be able to solve the problem yet. It was good of you to come to me, Draco. But you should be in classes right now, shouldn't you?"

Draco nodded sullenly. How on earth was he supposed to be able to concentrate on History of Magic right now when all he could think about was Professor Snape and what he had done to him, Imperio or not? He furiously wiped away the tears that had started to his eyes again. They would never see Professor Snape again; the Dark Lord would see to that. It wasn't right. He didn't deserve that. Nobody deserved it.

"Professor Dumbledore, can't you help the professor, please!" he sobbed, his vision blurry with tears.

"We will do what we can to locate Professor Snape, I promise. But it won't be easy." Dumbledore's gaze drifted towards the window again. No, it wouldn't be easy. They'd have to call in an Order meeting. The members must be warned. If Voldemort broke through Severus's defenses they all would be in grave danger. And with Umbridge having joined the Death Eaters .... They would have to closely observe all her activities in the Ministry, continue shadowing all the other known Death Eaters, intensify their efforts with the giants and werewolves, try to forge international allegiances, safe-guard themselves and the school and, most of all, Harry Potter, the only one who was able to defeat Voldemort. There was so much to do, and now, that they had lost their only spy, those tasks would become even more difficult and dangerous. And they were so few, so very few. How could they possibly manage to search for Severus, too? They just didn't have the resources. Without some lucky twist of fate, they wouldn't be able to do much for him, though the thought made his heart bleed.

"Come, Draco." McGonagall handed him a handkerchief. "We better leave the headmaster alone, now. There will be a way to help Professor Snape. We will all do our very best, I assure you. Shall I accompany you to your classroom?"