Forced Hand

Forced Hand

Chapter 2

Ron awoke, startled out of his deep sleep by a pillow-muffled scream. Rubbing his eyes, he peered over the side of his bed and saw the dark shape of his friend, Harry Potter, writhing and gasping in his sleep on his mattress on the floor. He groped for his wand lying on his bedside table, cursing aloud as he almost dropped it in his haste. He muttered, "Lumos" and saw more clearly Harry's struggling form, the sheets wrapped around him in a tight embrace that appeared to be strangling him.

What do I do? Do I wake him up? He might choke himself! Ron thought frantically as Harry's moans increased in pitch. Ron shuddered. Whatever the dream was that was coursing through Harry's sleeping brain, it must have been a real doozy.

Of course, Ron had heard him do this before. In the Gryffindor boys' dorm at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, occasionally Harry would occasionally yell in his sleep, and even though the plaintive shouts were muffled by the thick hangings of the four-poster bed he slept in, they were terrible sounds nonetheless. Ron was a heavy sleeper and had only heard him once or twice; in those occasions, the shouts being so horrible that they would rouse him from his log-like slumber. Like now. He was reminded of the dreams Harry had had before Voldemort returned, which he had insisted were only dreams. However, unlike Trelawney's half-baked ramblings, Harry's dreams had turned out to be ominously predictive. And now, he was dreaming again.

Suddenly Harry gave one more strangled yelp and seemed to be jolted from his sleep, his eyes flying open before he struggled to an upright position, wide awake and sweaty. He clutched the damp sheets and gasped soundlessly, as though trying to scream.

Ron shoved his sheets off and jumped to Harry's side. "What is it, mate? What did you dream? Harry? Harry!" He took hold of his friend's heaving shoulder and shook it roughly.

"Voldemort..." Harry wheezed, his eyes wide, the whites shining in the light provided by Ron's wand. Moisture glistened on Harry's forehead, and the look on his face was vaguely reminiscent of Ginny's tortured features after she woke from one of the many nightmares she suffered following her entrapment in that awful chamber. Harry's face did seem childlike now, especially without his glasses. The torment apparent in his eyes, however, was of an intensity no child should ever know.

No one should ever know.

"Hey Harry, it's okay..." Ron awkwardly rubbed Harry's shoulder, trying to calm him down. He felt at a total loss. What did you do when your best friend was falling to pieces in front of you? "You can tell me, mate. What did you dream?"

Harry had calmed down fractionally, but when he spoke, the tremor in his voice betrayed his fright. "I saw Voldemort, Ron. He...he killed Karkaroff. Voldemort....he...God...." Harry trailed off, shaking his head, a bead of perspiration hanging from his lower lip, which was separated from the top one in a horrified grimace. "He said....he wanted me dead. Voldemort said he was going to get me..."

All through Harry's disjointed explanation, Ron kept wincing at the sound of the name being spoken aloud. Yes, it was silly to think that a name could harm you, but growing up with the hushed repetition of "You-Know-Who" certainly drilled it home to the young witch or wizard that his true name personified evil, and was not to be voiced. Ever. He still remembered Fred being slapped hard by his mother when the name was said in defiance, as if daring her to react. And she had, with more fire than he had ever seen.

"Did...You-Know-Who say how?" Ron asked hesitantly.

Harry's face screwed up even more, until it was barely recognisable. "I...can't remember. But the snake....the snake ate Karkaroff. Alive. Shit...."

Ron kept rubbing Harry's damp shoulder, but more and more distractedly as confused thoughts whirled in his head. Tendrils of panic started to work their way through his mind, worried for Harry and the nonsense he seemed to be spouting. A snake ate Karkaroff? Come on!

But for some reason, Ron believed him. Maybe it was because his own parents were even now on secret business for Dumbledore, business which had not been divulged to Ron or any of his siblings. Maybe it was because Harry's dreams seemed to be portents of coming evil.

And maybe this dream, whatever it was, would also come true.

"Hey, c'mon mate," he said briskly, getting up on his haunches and putting out a hand for Harry to grasp. "Let's go get some hot cocoa. I'd conjure up a cup, but, you know, the whole decree thing..."

But Harry was having none of it. "No!" he exclaimed. "I have to write to Dumbledore... he'll know what to do...I should tell him..."

With that, Harry jumped up from his rumpled sheets and stumbled to his trunk. Fumbling with the clasp, he opened it and shakily withdrew some parchment, a quill and some ink. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he quickly began to scribble his note to Albus Dumbledore, a look of intense concentration upon his face. He was so immersed in his task that he did not see Hermione quietly open the door and look in worriedly. Somehow, she had known something was amiss. Ron swiftly got up and crossed over to her; Harry didn't notice when he quietly slipped out of the room into the passageway beyond, speaking in hushed tones to his other best friend.

Meanwhile, Harry kept writing.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

This may be nothing. I don't want to worry you, but I had a dream. I know, it seems ridiculous, but last year the same thing happened. I dreamed things last year that showed Voldemort before he got his body back, and they all seemed so vivid. I know he killed an old Muggle, and I know Wormtail was with him...so I think this latest dream is true as well. I saw him in a room...I don't know where. But Lucius Malfoy and Wormtail brought him Igor Karkaroff, and Voldemort killed him. Slowly. I dreamt it all. I think I heard him talking about me, but I'm not sure, all I could see was Karkaroff tortured, and under Cruciatus. He might have mentioned a squib, I'm not sure. I don't know, all I know is that I woke up just as Karkaroff was being eaten alive by Voldemort's snake. My scar was hurting really badly, it still is. I really don't know why I'm writing this to you now, there's not much you can do probably. I just wanted to let you know, and I didn't want to tell Sirius because he'll just come back and make himself a target like he did last year.........

*****

.........I just hope you can make sense of it. Sorry if I bothered you.

Harry Potter

Albus Dumbledore slowly lowered the parchment and stared. He did not seem to be looking at anything in particular. He peered past the weird and wonderful contraptions hissing, whirling and spinning on tables and shelves, past the portraits of past Headmasters of Hogwarts. Into the depths of his memories, some of them pleasant, some of them abhorrent, most tainted with a bitter mix of melancholy and regret. For even though a Pensieve is a willing receptacle, it can only dilute the strength of one's memories, not drain them completely. And by Merlin, Dumbledore thought sadly, if anyone could use an Obliviate at the moment, it would be me.

His life had been interesting. He could not deny that. Yet, what was that curse an old Chinese Muggle had once uttered? Ah yes. "May you live in interesting times."

Yes, these times could be described in many ways. Interesting was one of them. And they threatened to become even more interesting as his enemy, the former Tom Marvolo Riddle, regained his strength, his command, and his followers. While the Ministry denied the existence of the reincarnated Voldemort, his most ardent followers were locked in a place guarded by the filthiest spectres imaginable, who would not hesitate to unlock the cages and let loose those followers, if only their own insatiable desire for souls could be met without fetter. And now, it seemed, the boy who had been the downfall of the dark wizard, years before, was so directly linked to him that he dreamed of him while he was at his most vile. And the boy acting like a conduit seemed the only way in which Dumbledore, or any of the camp that had aligned themselves with him against the corrupt Cornelius Fudge and his ineffectual Ministry, could spy on the Death Eater inner circle, if indeed that was what Harry had seen.

Oh yes, these were interesting times, no doubt about that.

What was even more interesting was that Dumbledore was afraid.

He had hardly ever been afraid in his long life. Yes, he had felt fear in the heat of battle with Grindelwald's minions, but that had been tempered by the flush of justice and his fierce belief that the light would win. He had been protected by powerful forces he had barely understood, and struggled to comprehend even now, fifty years later. Now, when he tried to channel those forces, those beliefs that had once held him and his battle-mates in good stead, all he felt was coldness. And the fear. This hopeless, all-consuming fear.

And it wasn't just fear of the unknown, although that was part of it. It wasn't just that Voldemort alone had the potential to make the work of Grindelwald and his Muggle conspirator Hitler pale into comparison. It wasn't only the dreams he had in which Tom Riddle appeared before him, his Head Boy badge shining macabrely along with the mad glint in his eye, before the eyes became slits that glowed red fire, his mouth opening to allow an impossibly enormous serpent to stretch past his now thinning lips, its basilisk-like fangs spilling venom as it flew towards his throat. And all the while Tom sneeringly saying, "Old Fossil, your time is going to come," even as the snake continued to rapidly force itself out of the orifice he was speaking from.

Even though these dreams woke him up and had him retching occasionally, this was not what frightened Dumbledore the most.

No. It was fear of himself. Fear of what he was capable of doing. Of becoming. For while his intentions were good, and always had been, the consequences of his actions had come back to haunt him before. And he had to tread carefully if he were to avoid making the sort of mistakes that had nearly cost the wizarding world its very soul, just a few short years ago.

Harry Potter was powerful. Everyone in the wizarding populace who had a memory longer than what they had consumed for lunch knew that. When he was a baby, he had inadvertently transformed a deity-like evil into nothing more than a wraith, doomed to inhabit the lowest animals for physicality. And the lowest form of human.

At age eleven, Harry had faced this evil again. And at age twelve. And again, just after the Tri-Wizard tournament. If it were a story, it would have been horribly clichéd, yet unfortunately it was far from fiction. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had faced his personal demon more times than anyone had a right to, and yet he had continued to live.

The raw, untamed power was strong in him.

And Dumbledore had to battle the urge to take advantage of this elemental force.

But it would help the cause. So much....

NO! He is not ready, he thought to himself furiously. Yes, he will know why James and Lily were murdered. And sooner rather than later. You should have told him from the very start. But you CANNOT and WILL NOT force him into anything by emotional blackmail, you old fool.

Sighing, he reached for his quill. A beautiful phoenix feather, kindly donated by Fawkes, just before his descent into the ugliness that afflicted him nearer his Burning Days. He cast an affectionate glance at his old friend, who was currently sitting on his perch, snoozing blissfully. Ah Fawkes, he thought wistfully. If I could but for one moment savour some of your peace. How lucky you are.

He shook his head slowly, clearing it of the pensive cobwebs that seemed to manifest far more regularly these days than had been allowed in the past. He smiled ruefully. Getting slow in the head as well, Albus? Yes, yes, I am mad as a harpy, having a conversation in my addled brain with me and myself. Oh, and Fawkes. He's not mad though. Then again, he has put up with me and my dementia all these years.

Chuckling to himself, he was about to reach for a fresh sheet of parchment when he heard the stairs outside his office door start their slow, stony upward grinding (Ah! Nothing wrong with your hearing yet, old man. At least THAT isn't going anywhere!), which meant someone was coming to visit. He hoped it was good news. A cup of tea and some jam tarts from Minerva wouldn't go astray either.

He could live in hope.

There was a knock upon the door, and Dumbledore waved his wand at it, almost idly. As it swung open, his half-hearted wish sank even further into the depths of "a-fairy's-chance-in-a-Muggle-blender" type scenario. The tarts and the hope for good news.

For he rarely got good news from Severus Snape nowadays. And he certainly never received home-baked treats from him, either.

"Headmaster," Snape said briefly in his whisper-like voice, before he strode towards Dumbledore's desk. In his hands he carried a bundle of black cloth, which Dumbledore eyed warily. Looking up at Snape, he saw that the man was trying to keep his composure. However, his crow-like eyes were darting back and forth, and he was holding his bundle away from his body as though it were a dangerous artefact which was liable to explode. His hands were shaking slightly, like boughs caught in a breeze.

In short, Snape was more distressed than Dumbledore had ever seen him.

"Severus. What is wrong?"

A ghost of a smirk touched Snape's lips. "Am I that easy to read, Headmaster?"

"Rest assured, Severus, at times you are as inscrutable as a centaur. However, this is not one of those times." Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore stared into the other man's eyes, saying nothing. Waiting for Snape to drop his bombshell.

Snape shifted uncomfortably, and then unceremoniously dumped the cloth-covered object onto the desk. It landed with a thump, like....a skull hitting a hard surface.

Dumbledore inwardly shuddered. He had a horrible feeling that this was....

"This arrived for me a few minutes ago," Snape said. "Special owl" he added with a trace of sarcasm. "Took two of them to fly with it. Then they were off without so much as a by-your-leave." He pulled out a stiff parchment card, which he handed to the older wizard.

Dumbledore peered at the flowery calligraphy. Four words, in deceptively beautiful script, read:

We do not forget.

Dumbledore fingered the edges of the card. Flakes of what was obviously dried blood peeled off the sides and fluttered to the desktop like dandruff. Without another word Snape reached forward with his trembling hands and pulled the shroud off the object.

Dumbledore sucked in a sudden breath. Yes, it was as he had imagined. As bad as he had imagined.

As bad as Harry had dreamt. Had seen.

"Igor...." He murmured at the head. The empty eye cavities seemed to glare at him in reproach. The tongue, bloated and blue, protruded from the blood-caked lips, pointing at him in a grotesque parody of a child's taunt. His beard, once coiffed to peaked perfection, now pillowed the chin like a bizarre bloody mop.

"He was so proud of his beard," Dumbledore muttered inanely.

"The message was in his mouth," Snape offered unnecessarily.

"Yes, Severus, I can imagine," the Headmaster commented dryly. Sighing, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes in a futile effort to ease the weariness that suddenly shot through his body and soul. "I imagine this was a warning," he said, just as unnecessarily.

"I imagine so, Headmaster," returned Snape, the slightest tremor in his voice. He hesitated, then blurted out, in a most un-Snape-like manner "surely, surely this will prove to that fool that this is really happening? That he is alive and well and out there?"

"What will it prove?" Dumbledore slowly pushed back his chair and stood, meeting eye to eye with Snape. "That Karkaroff met with an untimely demise? Certainly. That he was killed by Lord Voldemort? No. You know it was he, I know it was he, and every sensible witch or wizard that can see past the propaganda knows he has returned. However, all we have is a head. It is not enough to convince the inconvincible. Cornelius is lost to us, Severus. He will never listen. Not even when it is too late."

Snape stared at the Headmaster belligerently, desperately, before reluctant acceptance appeared in his eyes. "Yes, yes....I know." He sighed and sank into the chair facing Dumbledore. "It's just that...it's not just me I am worried about."

"I know," Dumbledore said kindly, before sitting down to face the other man. "We must prepare. Before the children return, we must prepare. Before Harry comes back, we must be ready."

Snape's features briefly twisted into a look of extreme distaste before he forced them back into their normal frowning repose. "What role will the Potter boy play, Headmaster? I know you have tried to protect him in the past...not that he has appreciated this-"

"Severus," Dumbledore intoned warningly, "do not let your emotions cloud your judgement. Your past is not Harry's fault."

"Yes, I know," Snape automatically chanted. Unconvincingly. "Well, what do you plan to tell him?"

"The truth," Dumbledore said softly. "The whole truth. As to his role, fate will decide. I refuse to decide for him. It is not, and never was, my say. And that is the way it should be......"