The Pawn

Note: According to The Harry Potter Lexicon, in 1980, sometime before Harry was born, Sybill made the Prophecy – I’m assuming this happened in the Spring. This story occurs in the following Fall of 1980, a few months after Harry was born. It is not until October of 1981, a year later, and over a year after Harry was born, that Voldemort murdered Lily and James.

Dumbledore looked up from his desk to check the image floating in the air beside him. The boy was crossing the Hogwarts grounds now, moving carefully in the night shadows. With his black cloak, he was almost invisible, and he moved stealthily – clearly, he did not want to be discovered. Which was understandable; he’d be thrown out if anyone caught him here. He had no business in the school; he’d sent no request to visit. Not that Dumbledore expected he would.

Dumbledore had been watching him ever since the boy entered the Shrieking Shack. Dumbledore had been astonished at his appearance; even reduced to the tiny image floating in front of him, he could see the boy had changed immensely since he’d seen him last Spring at the Hogs Head. His clothes were worn and dirty, even ripped in places. Always thin, his body was now skeletal, his face was haggard and gaunt, his hair wildly unkempt. With the beak of a nose that dominated his face and the threadbare, black robes floating behind him, he looked like a starved vulture.

Dumbledore had expected the boy to go to the Shrieking Shack’s tunnel immediately, but instead, he’d sunk to his knees on a floor that was inches deep in dust, and closed his eyes. Exhausted? Nerving himself up for whatever it was he had to do? Or was he simply feeling old wounds? Dumbledore had watched him closely, in case he did anything more sinister, but the boy climbed back to his feet eventually, shook off as much of the dust as he could, and began searching through the rooms until he found the tunnel, and headed for the school grounds. He knew exactly where the knot was on the Whomping Willow, but then he’d been told about that, hadn’t he, long ago.

The boy had reached the school building. He went through the great doors and turned in the direction of Dumbledore’s office, moving quickly through the halls until he stood facing the gargoyle. He stopped there, and stared. He wouldn’t know the password, of course. What did he plan to do?

The boy pulled out his wand. Dumbledore went very still, ready for an attack. But instead, the boy placed the wand on his outstretched palms, and held it out to the gargoyle.

He’s offering up his wand. What did he mean? A truce? An offer to parley? Dumbledore stared at the boy’s face in the image in front of him, trying to read anything there, but saw nothing.

Had the boy become powerful enough to work magic without his wand? Very likely. But he would surely not know anything that he could use to attack Dumbledore, Dumbledore was certain of that, no matter how talented the boy was. And he was talented, no question; it would not do to underestimate him.

Did he have some other weapon hidden on him? Something created by his master? But he wouldn’t have been able to make it onto the Hogwarts grounds if that were so; Hogwarts had protective magic that was more powerful than even Dumbledore could overcome.

Perhaps he thinks he can talk to me, thought Dumbledore, win me over, as he tried to do last Spring, when he was asking me for a job. It hadn’t worked then, why would he think it would now?

What could it be? he wondered. What could your master have sent you to do?

Dumbledore looked at the image of the boy as it floated in front of him, standing before the gargoyle, his wand held out. I could just let him stand there, Dumbledore thought. But then I’ll never find out what he wants, and that can be information, in and of itself.

He nodded his head, and the gargoyle reached forward with a claw and took hold of the boy’s wand, then leapt aside to reveal the climbing staircase. The boy stepped onto the moving stairs, circling round and round until he stepped off in front of the door. He hesitated, then took hold of the knocker and rapped it against the door.

Dumbledore vanished the image he’d been watching, and let the door swing open. There stood the boy, in person now, a pale face on top of the black cloak he held around him. Dumbledore caught his breath. The boy looked even worse than he had in the image Dumbledore had been watching. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes red and sunken, his skin as thin as paper and lined with grime, not all of it from the tunnel, his hair, greasy, stringy, and wild. He’s only twenty, Dumbledore had to remind himself. What have you been doing? Though I can guess.

The boy stared directly at Dumbledore. This was not the suppliant of last Spring. Eyes like black ice; his face as blank as a stone. How terrible to see this in someone so young.

Dumbledore met the boy’s eyes with his own gentle, blue ones. He gestured at a chair. "Come in," he said, with a formal nod. Be careful, he thought. The boy is not stupid. He would not come here if he did not think his chances were good. Unless his master were no longer pleased with him and had sent him on a suicide mission.

Still looking at Dumbledore, the boy walked forward stiffly and sat in the chair, pulling his dirty, black cloak around him. Dumbledore waited expectantly, but the boy did not speak, he opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it. Uncertainty? The boy had always been awkward. Too young still to master the air of dignity that the awkward often developed in older years. Fear, perhaps? He had good reason to fear if he had been sent to attack Dumbledore, but then, he probably had good reason to fear, every moment of his life now.

Well, it is my office, I shall start, thought Dumbledore, and he asked, conversationally, "Does your master know you are here?"

The boy tightened his lips, and there was a flash of the old anger in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He spoke for the first time. "Would you believe me if I said ‘No?’" His voice had dropped a little, Dumbledore thought, since the last time they’d spoken. It would be very deep in a few years, if he lived that long.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said. That was the problem, of course. He could not trust the boy. And there was no point in trying to read him, the boy was already an excellent Occlumens, even at this young age. Dumbledore had found that out last Spring. Granted, Tom would never send anyone less skilled to spy on Dumbledore.

The boy looked at him, and again, there was a flash of anger. That was real, and he’s trying to hide it, isn’t he? thought Dumbledore. He was much better at this last Spring. Why is he coming apart now?

The boy looked down for a moment, as if realizing the problem. "I did not have to come here," he said.

"No, you did not," Dumbledore agreed.

The boy took a slow breath. He seemed to be forcing himself to be calm, to stay in control, before he opened his mouth. "It’s about the Prophecy," he said, his voice now cold and emotionless.

"The what?" Dumbledore asked.

The boy looked at him with his hard eyes. "The Prophecy. The one I overheard, when I went to see you at the Hogs Head."

"Yes?" Dumbledore asked, eyebrows raised.

"Stop pretending to be stupid," the boy said. "I told him about it, you know that. The part that I heard."

"I expected you to," Dumbledore said.

"He knows there’s more, but he knows he can’t get to it. He thinks he’s heard enough, though. For his purposes."

"I imagine so."

"He will try to kill them, you know that. The child, and his parents." The boy’s voice was calm as he said those words, as if they were nothing unusual.

"I expected no other response from him."

The boy paused again before speaking. Dumbledore could almost feel the boy’s heart speed up, just a little, before he spoke.

"He’s decided who he thinks it is," the boy said. Again, something showed in his face. The boy saw that Dumbledore noticed, and immediately turned his face down, letting his stringy, greasy hair fall forward to hide his gaunt features.

Dumbledore looked at him.

"It’s Lily," the boy said, from inside the cave of his hair, his voice hoarse. "It’s Lily’s son."

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment. Ah, that was it, then. That was why the boy was here. Well, they’d suspected that. The Potters or the Longbottoms. Both families had gone into hiding as soon as their sons were born, just a few months ago.

"He hasn’t said it’s her, for certain," the boy said, still struggling to maintain his tight control. "But he’s more intent on finding her than anyone else."

"So you are not sure, then?" Dumbledore asked.

The boy shook his head. "He hasn’t said. He’s decided it’s either hers, or Alice’s child. But I know him, I think. I think he’s decided on her."

"And you came here to tell me this?" Dumbledore raised his bushy eyebrows.

The black eyes flickered behind the boy’s hair, and the old sneer twisted his face. "I couldn’t care less about Potter, you know that. But - " He broke off, and looked down, forcing his face to go smooth and blank again, to make his heart rate slow.

"But Lily is another matter," Dumbledore said.

The boy remained hidden behind his hair and cloak. "You must keep her safe."

Let us probe further, Dumbledore thought. "It’s Lily’s child who is the one in danger. The child Lily bore to James."

The boy’s hands gripped the chair like claws, pale knuckles growing even paler. It stings you to hear that, doesn’t it, thought Dumbledore.

"Does she know?" the boy asked, his face still hidden. "Does she know it was me, who told him?"

"I do not believe so."

"If I’d known," the boy said, and his voice was shaking now, "I wouldn’t . . . I swear I wouldn’t have told him."

Dumbledore did not answer.

"He’s promised me," the boy said, "if it is them, that he won’t hurt Lily."

"But you do not believe him?"

Silence now.

"It is quite different, isn’t it," Dumbledore said, quietly, "when the dead bodies are people you know."

Did the boy catch his breath then? His knuckles still clutched the chair.

Then he stood up, the folds of his cloak falling around him. "I’ve said what I came to say. That’s all I know about it. Other than that he doesn’t know where they are, as far as I know, but he’s looking."

"Do you return to your master, then?" Dumbledore said.

The boy froze. An odd look crossed his face. "Yes, of course. That’s where I’m going. Back to my master. You can sterilize the chair after I’m gone." He turned toward the door.

"It’s not too late, you know." Dumbledore said it very quietly.

The boy froze again, dead still, so suddenly that the folds of his cloak swung forward, then back, and finally to rest against his thin frame.

He turned around, a look of horror, and of wonder on his face. "You are unbelievable." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "What did you expect? Some great confession? Did you think I would fall on my knees and repent?"

"Do you repent?"

The black eyes were fierce. "Do you even care? Don’t try for one moment to make me think you care. You never did, before. It IS too late, old man. Do you not understand this?"

"Of course I care."

Pure fury erupted on that haggard face. "NO! You NEVER cared! I disgusted you! My life is worth nothing to you! Don’t even try to pretend differently now, when it’s come to this!" He gripped the edge of the chair, and Dumbledore could feel the force of the boy’s rage almost like a blow.

The boy staggered forward and slammed his hands on the desk. "You sit there, so sanctimoniously, so self-righteously and you have the gall to tell me - !"

He stopped, and then slowly stood up straight, the old sneer twisting his features. "Yes, but what else could I expect? Please, by all means. Gloat." He held up his arms theatrically. "Are you satisfied? I’m sure I turned out just the way you expected. Does that please you?" There was a crazy look in the boy’s eyes now.

Dumbledore looked at him sadly.

The boy shook his head, still sneering. "Stinking Slytherin, gone to the bad. Minion of the Dark Lord." He gave an ugly, bitter smile. "Did you know I’m one of his favorites?"

"No, I didn’t," Dumbledore said.

"Yes, there is someone on this planet who is actually pleased with me. I’m sure you find that hard to believe."

"I have seen others who have been pleased with you."

"What, old Slug? He was only interested in my schoolwork." The boy rolled his eyes. "The brilliant potions student. But he never cared."

"Do you think your master cares about you? Do you think he is capable of caring about anyone?"

The boy looked down again. "Love is weakness," he said.

"Then why are you here?" Dumbledore asked.

The black eyes flickered in astonishment, then the boy looked down quickly.

"I say it again," said Dumbledore. "It is not too late."

The boy looked back up at him. "It IS too late," he said. He pulled up his sleeve, revealing the ugly, black mark on his arm. "There, you see that? Do you know what that means? I’m sworn to him, I’m connected to him. Forever. Until I DIE." His eyes flashed, but Dumbledore could see his hands were trembling.

Dumbledore’s face fell. "When did you take that on?"

The boy lowered his arm, his sleeve falling to hide the mark. "When I was still in school. My last year." He looked at Dumbledore, "It was going on all around you, you old fool, didn’t you know?"

"Oh yes," Dumbledore said, "I knew."

"Then why didn’t you stop it?" The boy took a step towards the desk. "Slug invited him here - he’s the one that introduced us all to him in the first place? Why did you let him?"

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment before looking back in the boy’s face. "I did not know, then, the extent of Tom’s ambitions."

"What, the extermination of all Muggle-born Wizards, and the enslavement of the Muggles? You didn’t know that’s what he wanted?"

"I didn’t think he would go so far," Dumbledore said. "I thought him more concerned with expanding his own magical powers. With defying death. Though that is terrible enough, in and of itself."

The boy froze.

"That’s what you thought of him, too, at first, isn’t it?" Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, I thought that was how he appealed to you. I’m sure he has taught you many great wonders."

"More than you ever did," the boy said, looking fiercely at Dumbledore again. "And I’m very good."

"I have no doubt of that," Dumbledore said. "Your Occlumency powers alone are astonishing."

The boy smiled. "Yes, they are. You can’t trust a word I say, can you? Because I can block you out, you’ll never be able to tell if I’m lying."

"But what about Tom?" Dumbledore said. "What if he asks if you came to see me?"

"Maybe he sent me," the boy said.

"No, I don’t think he did," Dumbledore said. "You haven’t accomplished anything he would want by coming here."

"Just by seeing you, telling him about you, telling him you couldn’t break through into my mind, that is accomplishment enough, for him," the boy said.

"Poor Tom," Dumbledore said. "How very foolish."

"Yes," the boy said, then caught himself. He hadn’t meant that to get out, thought Dumbledore.

"And do you really believe in what he plans?" Dumbledore said.

No answer.

"Perhaps, when you were younger, when you first heard about it," Dumbledore went on, "you may have believed in it, when it was far away, and you were very unhappy. I know of your family, your home, I know life has not been easy for you."

Still no answer.

"But it’s not the same thing, is it," Dumbledore went on, "when it’s real."

The boy was trembling now. He was trying to maintain control, but he was too exhausted. He steadied himself against the chair.

"Who is next?" Dumbledore asked.

"He doesn’t tell us," the boy said, very softly, "until the time. We only know to assemble, when he calls us." He touched his arm, where the mark was.

"And you go, and do what he says?"

"Yes!" the boy spat at him, eyes blazing. He drew up. "What did you think? I told you, I’m one of his favorites!" He looked away. "You didn’t want me. And he did."

"He never wanted you. Not in the way you thought."

The boy closed his eyes. "I would have died for him."

"He would not die for you. It has to go both ways, for it to count."

The boy caught his breath, then said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "No one would die for me. I’m not so foolish as to expect that."

Dumbledore stared at him. After a long moment, he said, in a gentle voice, "But your own feelings have changed, haven’t they?"

A shrug. Then a nod.

"Does he know?"

A shake of his head. "No." Now a faintly, satisfied smile crossed his face. "I can block him, too, you see. He taught me. You’re a stronger Legilimens than even he is, after all. I had to be strong."

Dumbledore looked at him. Tom, you will wind up creating the very weapons that can be used against you.

"He still hopes I may come here, work here, and spy on you. Get close to you." The black eyes flicked up to Dumbledore’s. "He’s obsessed with you. He knows you’re the only one who can stop him, but I think it’s more than that."

"I know," Dumbledore nodded. "What will you do now? Go back, and wait until he calls you again?"

Yet another shrug. "Maybe."

"What will he do, if you don’t come?"

The boy turned away, and stared at the wall. He didn’t even bother to shrug this time.

Dumbledore sighed. "For what it’s worth, I think we have time. He is still gathering his army around him. His forces are not strong enough yet to move openly."

"He’s stronger than you think," the boy said.

"Ah, yes, but then, you would know, wouldn’t you?"

The black eyes looked daggers at him. "Don’t think I’m going to tell you, either. I don’t owe you anything."

"How many people have you killed?"

The boy caught his breath, and he turned as grey as a corpse. "He doesn’t send me on . . . on those kinds of things, much. He leaves that to others. The ones who enjoy it."

"But you have killed, haven’t you? And even now, you help plan, you build weapons. How many deaths are you responsible for?"

"Stop it!" The boy stood up. "It’s a war! People die! It’s necessary, it’s combat!"

"Innocent, unarmed people? In their homes?"

"Shut up!"

"All for your better world? Only it’s not a better world, is it? You’ve already learned that, haven’t you."

The boy sagged down into the chair.

"You weren’t going back to him, were you," Dumbledore said.

The boy did not look at him.

"He will hunt you down. Regulus Black has already disappeared, I understand."

"I’ll hide from him."

"He will find you."

"Not where I’m going." The black eyes met his, and Dumbledore felt a chill. No despair there, only determination, and cold clarity. He means to take his own life, Dumbledore thought.

"So you came here, tonight," said Dumbledore, "just to warn me about Lily and her child, before you run?"

No reply.

"Surely you can do more than that. Don’t you want him stopped?"

"I don’t think he can be."

"And yet you heard the very Prophecy that said he could."

The boy looked at him. "A puking baby?"

"He won’t be a baby forever." Dumbledore waved his hand, and his Pensieve appeared before him.

"Not that!" The boy shrank back. "I’ll write it out. Whatever you want to know. But I won’t re-live these things!"

Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow, and the boy scowled. "I can fool a Pensieve, anyway," the boy said. "Don’t think it will provide you with any assurances that I’m not lying. I told you, I’m good."

"Very well." Dumbledore waved his hand, and the Pensieve disappeared, to be replaced by a sheaf of paper. A quill floated above the top sheet.

"My confession?" the boy sneered. "Veritaserum won’t work on me, either."

"Then tell me only what you wish me to hear," Dumbledore said. "I’d particularly like to hear of his plans and resources, of course, but that’s up to you."

"And you’ll trust me?" the boy said.

"I never said that," Dumbledore said, mildly.

The boy’s eyes flashed in defiance. He stared fiercely at the quill, and began to speak. "I know there’s going to be something big, in two weeks. I don’t know what, but I know this much . . ."

There was pride in his voice, at first. He was showing off – see, old man, see what I know, see how powerful I am. Arrogance. But that faded as Dumbledore began to ask questions, about what had happened in the past, about plans for the future, and Voldemort himself. The boy hadn’t been talking for twenty minutes before he jerked up to his feet, ran to a corner and threw up into a wastebasket. He stood there, shaking, for several minutes. Dumbledore thought the boy would end it there, but he came back to the chair, and sat down again. Dumbledore conjured a glass of water for him, and a bowl, and the boy drank, and spat out the taste of his sickness. And continued.

The quill danced over the paper; sheet upon sheet filled up with lines of ink. The boy had to throw up again; he didn’t make it to the wastebasket in time. Ah, Tom, thought Dumbledore, vanishing the mess as he watched the boy return, staggering, to his chair, You would choose to corrupt children. May that be your final undoing, because children grow up, and not all of them will continue to do your bidding out of fear.

The boy stopped finally, after two hours, drained, pale, hunched over in the chair. The quill, as if sensing there would be no more, lay down by the stack of paper that had grown on the desk.

"Can I go now?" the boy said, staring at the floor.

"Will you run from him now? To where he cannot find you?"

The boy looked at the floor and did not reply.

"What do you plan to do?"

"Apparate to the heart of the world," the boy whispered. "To the bottom of the ocean. What does it matter? You can tell everyone I came to a bad end. I’m sure it will give them a warm feeling of satisfaction."

"Oblivion, then?"

"I assure you, it will be a welcome relief," the boy said, in an annoyed voice. "Or haven’t you been listening?"

"A very final step."

"I won’t let him catch me. I’m dead, either way. At least this is on my terms."

"There is another way," Dumbledore said.

"I can’t go into hiding," the boy said. "Not once I’m marked, he’ll find me, anywhere I go."

"You could go back to him, and tell him I’ve reconsidered, that I might be willing to hire you after all."

The boy looked up at him as if he were insane. "He wants me to spy on you! He wants me to be his agent, here in Hogwarts! With the students!"

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "And that’s exactly what you will be, as far as he knows."

The boy’s mouth dropped open. "I will NOT be your agent with him, are you daft? This - " he waved his hand at the desk " – this is all you’re getting from me, understand? Just by doing this much, if he found out, do you know what he would do to me - " The boy turned even paler than before, if that were possible.

"IF he finds out," Dumbledore said.

The boy managed a glare. "I am NOT coming back to Hogwarts. I hate this place. Besides, you already have spies with him, don’t you?"

"None so close to him, none with your influence on him," Dumbledore said. "And, if I might add, none so clever."

The boy rolled his eyes. "Oh please, don’t even try that. That’s the kind of thing HE would say."

"But it is true. How long have you been deceiving him, even now? You wouldn’t be a favorite still, if he could read your mind, would you?"

The boy looked down. "Maybe he sent me here, to tell you all this, did you think about that? Maybe everything I told you is a pile of rubbish, to lead you on."

"Maybe," Dumbledore said. "Is it?"

The boy’s head jerked up, anger giving him energy again. "YOU CAN NOT TRUST ME! Understand? You don’t dare! You think I’m going to live in this hell any longer for you? Much less Potter? The Dark Lord and I sit together and think of things we’ll do when we get hold of him, did you know that? Is that the kind of person you want working for you?" He sneered. "You should hear what he wants to do to you."

"What about Lily?" Dumbledore said.

The boy froze, his mouth open.

"Lily is in danger because of your actions," Dumbledore said. "You owe it to her, to help protect her. And her child."

The boy blinked, he seemed unable to speak.

"Give me two weeks, at least," Dumbledore said.

"What?" The boy blinked again.

"You said he was planning something, in two weeks," Dumbledore said. "Could you at least stay with him that long, to tell us what it is? Before you Apparate to the bottom of the ocean, or wherever you choose to go?"

Another blank stare. Then the boy shook his head. "It won’t work. He’ll find out. I can’t just pop out here whenever I need to tell you anything - "

"You can send your Patronus. You can conjure a Patronus, can’t you?"

The boy started. "I’m a Dark Wizard, haven’t you caught on? We can’t do a Patronus."

"But you still can, can’t you? You used to be able to, in your Defense Against the Dark Arts class."

The boy stood up. "I am leaving. You can burn all that," he nodded at the paper on the desk. "It’s worthless. All lies." He drew his cloak around him, and stalked to the door, staggering a little. "I expect my wand to be returned to me when I leave," he added, haughtily.

"Please forgive me, Severus," Dumbledore said.

The boy stopped in mid-step.

"I have failed you. I am so sorry." Dumbledore voice was hoarse.

The boy stood, absolutely still.

"But I promise you," Dumbledore said, "I have never thought poorly of you, no matter what you may think."

The boy did not move. Dumbledore found he was not breathing, watching the still, black form – greasy hair falling along the long, shabby cloak.

After a long moment, the boy said, still not moving, "I can give you two weeks, but no more. That’s as much as I can bear." Was he shaking, as he said it? Did the edges of his cloak tremble, just a little? Then he walked forward, retreating quickly from the room, and disappeared into the shadows in the hall outside.

Dumbledore stared at the door as it closed by itself.

"You might have shown the boy a little more kindness," Dilys said, from her portrait.

Dumbledore shook his head. "He wouldn’t accept it from me. Not now. Perhaps someday he will, but not now." He continued to stare across the room.

"So, are you going to burn it all?" came Phineas’s voice, from another part of the room.

"Goodness, no," Dumbledore said. "It’s the best information I’ve been able to get yet."

"So you believe him, then?" Phineas asked slyly.

"What do you think?"

"Oh yes, absolutely. When that boy’s rage takes over, he loses control completely. I’m surprised Voldemort hasn’t discovered that."

"I think I have a certain affect on him," Dumbledore said. "And yes, I agree, it’s his anger that makes me believe him. There is honesty in his raging. If he’d been his normal, cool self, I wouldn’t have believed a word he said."

"Quite," said Phineas. Another sly glance. "What do you think he will do?"

"I don’t know," Dumbledore said.

"Apparate to the heart of the world?" Phineas said. "A quick death?"

"I don’t think he’s quite ready for that," Dumbledore said. But his voice sounded troubled.

"There’s nothing more you can do for him," Phineas said. "He got himself into this mess, he’s the only one who can get himself out at this point. One way or another."

Dumbledore stared at the pile of paper on his desk, the ink words crammed together across the pages. The boy knew more than anyone else. If he could be persuaded to stay, he would be the best lead they could hope for, into Voldemort’s plans, into the Dark Lord’s mind.

But at what cost?

x-x-x

It was a week later, when the hazy, silver mist appeared before Dumbledore. The boy hadn’t been able to manage a corporeal Patronus, but he could at least do this much. And Dumbledore thought the mist seemed a little more defined, each time.

A voice spoke from the mist. "He thinks the Potters are in a flat in Soho. He plans to send an attack tomorrow night, but that may change. I will tell you if I find out more. Assuming you are still fool enough to believe me." There was a pause, then the voice said, "One more week, old man." The mist dissipated until it vanished completely.

"I’ve never heard a Patronus sneer before," Phineas remarked. "He’s very impertinent."

"He has good reason, I’m afraid," Dumbledore said.

"You can’t be responsible for every child in Hogwarts who goes wrong," Phineas said. "There are hundreds of them."

"But this one, I wronged," Dumbledore said. "I favored others over him, unjustly. I have to bear considerable responsibility for the direction he has taken. He might have been one of mine, openly, otherwise."

"Oh, I think he’s yours, now," Phineas said. "For all his talk of only one week more. You’ve got your man, right next to Voldemort himself." Phineas turned his shrewd eyes on Dumbledore. "You couldn’t have done better if you’d planned it from the beginning."

Dumbledore stared at the empty spot in front of him where the boy’s Patronus had been.

"Did you?" Phineas asked. "Plan it?"

Dumbledore turned his eyes to Phineas; they were, for one moment, as haunted as the boy’s had been.

"Ah," said Phineas. "You could have been in Slytherin, you know."

"I think that is quite enough," Dumbledore said, sternly. Phineas started, then gave a cold nod, and went back into his normal, sleeping state.

Dumbledore closed his eyes. Poor Lily, they would have to move again, and they’d only just got settled. Dumbledore hadn’t even seen the child; it was too dangerous, when they were in hiding, constantly moving. Poor infant, you have no idea of the terrible fate in front of you. And your life depends now on another child, who will live with horrors every moment of his existence, all for the sake of keeping you alive. And I have let him believe it is his fault.

Dumbledore forced himself to return to the matters at hand. He would have to tell the Potters.

But Lily does not know, he thought. I can do that much for you, Severus. Lily will not know it was you who carried the Prophecy to Voldemort. Any more than she will know that it is you, now, who protects her, and her child.

TBC

Title: The Pawn

Chapter: 2

Author: ReeraTheRed

Date: December 28, 2005

A/N: This takes place a few months after the events in The Pawn, in the winter after Harry’s birth.

Dumbledore materialized in the street, in front of a row of dilapidated brick houses. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths until he felt steady again. He hadn’t slept for nearly two days, and there was still so much he had left to do.

He shivered in the freezing air. Everything was dark – grey shapes and black shadows. Dawn was still an hour away, and there were no street lights here.

There were a few signs of the season; desperate attempts at cheerfulness. Strings of colored lights rimmed some of the windows. Homemade wreaths hung on a few doors. One window was covered in children’s drawings of Father Christmas and reindeer. The patches of color made everything else that much more bleak.

He walked up the street. His boots made squelching noises in the slush that covered the cobblestones, the only sound in that still place until he heard the angry electric hum. He turned quickly, and saw a tiny red Christmas light blaze brighter and brighter and then explode with a soft crack and a tinkle of glass. Gaps of darkness in the lights nearby suggested the same fate had happened to some of its fellows. As Dumbledore watched, another light flared like a tiny green star before it blew into pieces.

He turned to the house opposite the exploding lights, and sighed. The boy was certainly here. Well, he couldn’t be hurt too badly, at least, not if he had the energy to destroy the lights. That was a relief. He hadn’t answered Dumbledore’s Patronus; he hadn’t communicated in any way since earlier that day, when he’d sent the last warning. Though it had done little good. They’d been too late, and the Dark Mark filled the sky yet again, signaling another murder. Two murders. There would be no celebrating tonight, by anyone in the Order. Poor Molly, thought Dumbledore.

But the dead would wait; Dumbledore had the living to think of now. He walked to the doorway. This house was in slightly better condition than the others. There were curtains in the windows, and no graffiti defaced the old brick walls. There were no attempts at any kind of celebration, no merry lights, no greenery. Nothing but darkness and shadow.

He gave two raps on the door and waited. There was no answer. He hadn’t really expected one. He studied the door. The wards on this house were deviously complex; the door itself was a masterpiece of locks and snares. Dumbledore could burst through them if he chose, even as tired as he was, for though the spells themselves were ingenious, the boy’s power was no match for Dumbledore’s. However, that would be a grave insult. So Dumbledore took the time to carefully unravel each spell, pick open each snare and draw back each lock, in a way that would announce his presence to the house’s owner. Certainly the Christmas lights across the street stopped exploding. He knows I’m here.

After several long minutes, the door stood open and Dumbledore stepped into the dark room inside. At a nod from him, the lamps flickered on, though their light was dim. The room was as shabby and old as the exterior of the house. Very little furniture, though the walls were covered in books, giving the room a familiar, musty smell.

He crossed the room and began to walk up the narrow stairway. He had to rest for a moment at the top, gripping the banister with his bony old fingers.

There was a short hallway, with a few doors on either side. One led to a larger bedroom – the master bedroom, if "master" was an appropriate word to use for a place like this. But no one was inside; and it had an unused, closed-in smell. No, it was the room on the end where he needed to go. A few more steps, and Dumbledore stood in the open doorway.

The only light came through a little window; Dumbledore could see the little spots of colored light on the opposite house. Otherwise, the room was pitch black. He could have raised the lights, but he did not; instead, he waited and let his eyes adjust to the gloom.

The room was tiny; it must have been the room the boy had had since childhood; he hadn’t moved to the larger bedroom once his parents were gone. Like the rest of the house, there was very little furniture, but every space was crammed with books and papers, all stacked neatly.

A thin figure lay on an old iron bed, shoulders propped up on lumpy pillows. Threadbare black robes and a beak of a nose jutting out from long stringy hair. A wand dangled from his long fingers – he flicked it and, across the street, another light flared and then winked out.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, in a gentle voice.

The boy continued to stare out the window. Another flick of the wand, another light exploded.

Dumbledore was able to cross the little room in only two steps. He carefully pushed aside some books to make room, and sat on the bedside table, sighing in relief despite himself at finally taking the weight off his feet.

"You should be with the Prewitts," the boy said, still staring ahead.

"I have just left them," Dumbledore said. "I will go back later today."

The boy lay absolutely still.

"It wasn’t your fault, Severus," Dumbledore said. "You did your part, you sent us warning. There should have been time."

He couldn’t even hear the boy breathe, he lay so still.

"It wasn’t your fault," Dumbledore said again.

He peered closer at the boy’s face – Merlin, he was so young. They always were. What was he now? Nearly twenty-one?

"Severus, look at me," Dumbledore said, in a voice that was not a request.

The boy frowned, then turned his head. An ugly black streak crossed one cheek.

"You’ve been hit," Dumbledore said, reaching out with a hand, but the boy shrank back.

"It’s all right," the boy said. "The worst of it missed me." He shrugged. "It was a powerful enough blast, no one questioned when I fell. If I get hurt, I can’t fight. And they think I’m being brave. In the service of my master."

And if you get yourself killed, you’re free, thought Dumbledore. "And is your master pleased with you?" he asked, deliberately not saying Voldemort’s name out loud; the boy cringed at the very sound.

"The objective was achieved," the boy said, voice and face as blank as a stone. "The Order lost two, and the Death Eaters lost none of the five sent against them."

"Five were sent, then?"

A nod. "The Dark Lord respected them. He knew they would not go easily. It took all of the others to bring them down. All four of them, once I was down. They fought hard."

"I’m sure they did," Dumbledore said. They’d been the best Beaters in the school, in their day. Fabian and Gideon Prewitt.

The boy turned back to the window. A flick of the wand; another light flared, a brilliant blue, and then it was gone. "You can go. I know there are other places you need to be."

"Not yet," Dumbledore said. "It’s all right."

The boy’s face tightened. "I don’t want you here. Please go."

Dumbledore cocked his head, but did not move.

Three lights flared and exploded, one right after the other – bang, bang, bang! The boy hadn’t even used his wand, though his fingers tightened around it now, and his head drooped forward, his long, stringy hair falling forward to hide his face. "I can’t stand you here," he said, "wishing it were me instead of them."

"I don’t wish that at all, Severus."

"I don’t believe you."

"Nevertheless," said Dumbledore.

The boy’s fingers tightened on his wand, though no more lights exploded. Then his grip relaxed, and he tilted his head; Dumbledore could see an ugly sneer play along the boy’s mouth. "Of course," the boy said. "I am VALUABLE. You can’t lose your precious spy."

"That is true, Severus," Dumbledore said. "We need you. I don’t know if there’s any hope of our winning without you."

"I don’t care." The boy stared at Dumbledore, a cold harsh stare. Which was still better than the blankness of earlier.

Dumbledore looked at him.

The boy frowned. "I told you when I started this, I don’t owe you a thing." The frown deepened to a snarl. "I hate you all. Every one of you. There’s not a one of you that has given me anything but pain."

"Even Alice?" Dumbledore said. "Even Lily?"

The boy’s face froze.

"They are still in danger," Dumbledore said. "They still need you."

The boy’s eyes widened, just the slightest. Then he took a sharp breath, and the sneer returned. "Oh, you are clever, aren’t you," he said. "Using her against me. That won’t work anymore. It’s not enough."

"What is enough?" Dumbledore asked. "What is it you want?"

The boy looked at him for a long moment, then he turned and stared at the colored lights across the street. "I want to be Fabian Prewitt," he said.

"Fabian is dead."

"Lucky bastard."

"You are being facetious."

"I had a clear shot at him," the boy said, flicking his wand, though no lights exploded this time. "When I was lying on the ground, pretending to be unconscious. I could have taken him down easily, he would never have seen me coming." He looked at Dumbledore. "A year ago, I’d have done it, without hesitation. One more death, for our cause."

Dumbledore met the boy’s eyes. "A year ago, you knew no better."

They stared at each other. The boy broke away first. "How much easier it all was then."

He turned his head and looked beside him, where the light from the window made a diamond pattern on the wall by the bed. "Fabian screamed when he went down, when the final blast hit him," he said. "And then he lay there, and he was still screaming. Gideon was fighting, he couldn’t do anything. It seemed so long, before he went quiet."

Dumbledore felt his blood run cold. He reached with a hand to grip the iron bedstead, to hold himself steady.

"I just lay there, and watched him die. And I thought, I’d still trade places with him, even if it meant dying, in agony, just to have had his life, his heart, his memories. The people he leaves behind who care about him."

Dumbledore closed his eyes, and said nothing.

"I could have saved him," the boy said, still facing the wall. "Saved both of them. The three of us together, I think we could have had a chance, against the others. I thought about that, too, lying there. Until Fabian went down, and there was no chance after that."

"You did what you were supposed to, you waited for us to come." Dumbledore’s voice was almost a croak. "You cannot reveal yourself."

"Oh, yes, I must remain a secret," the boy said. "I’ve got to watch people die. I’ve got to watch other people be heroes." He looked at Dumbledore. "Even the others, the Death Eaters, at least they’re honest about it. They’re not betraying their only friends."

"Are they?" Dumbledore asked. "Are they truly your friends? Were they ever?"

The boy shot him a look of such hatred, before turning away. Ah, thought Dumbledore, that struck home, didn’t it.

"They used you," Dumbledore said. "They always used you. And you let them, because you had no one else."

"At least they could stand to have me around!" The boy practically spat those words out. "At least they didn’t hound me and continually torment me!" He swallowed. "Much," he added, reluctantly. "Lucius," he said, "Lucius always protected me." He stared out the window again. "He has a little boy, too, you know. The same age as Lily’s boy. And Alice’s."

"I seem to recall some very brilliant papers Lucius handed in, that were way beyond his normal efforts," Dumbledore said. "Though he had the good sense to add some errors when he copied things over."

The boy shrugged. "Hardly a unique situation."

"Lucius was a master at it," Dumbledore said. "There was one year where I do not believe he turned in a single assignment that he’d done himself."

"All right, yes," the boy spat out. "He used me. He used everyone. But at least he stood up for me. It’s more than anyone else ever did." He stared down at his feet, his hair falling forward again, hiding his face, though Dumbledore could sense movement there.

"He likes me," the boy said, very softly. "Not Lucius, I mean. Him. The Dark Lord. As much as he is capable of liking anyone." A shrug. "He talks with me; he doesn’t talk like that with any of the others." His eyes flashed at Dumbledore. "And it’s not all about killing, or war plans, or hatred. We’ll talk about magic, about discoveries, research. I’m one of the only ones who can follow him. The things he knows, the things he can do . . ." The boy shook his head. "One time, we talked all night, about all the things you can do with a single rose petal. I’ve never talked with anyone, like that."

"He doesn’t care, though," Dumbledore said gently. "Not the way you care."

"I know," the boy said. "I thought he did, at first, but, no. But, as much as he can, he likes me. I amuse him. He listens to me. He thinks I’m like him." The boy pulled his arms close. "I am like him. It frightens me, how much I am like him."

"Not in what is most important, or you would not be trying to stop him," said Dumbledore. "And he is a brilliant man, he has many worthwhile talents. There is no shame in being like him in that way."

The boy stared out at the lights across the street again. "Is he really beyond help? Can nothing be done for him? Is there anything I could say, or do . . ." He shook his head. "I keep thinking, if I just had the right words, so that he could see. He’s not stupid."

"It’s not a question of brains, it’s a matter of the heart," said Dumbledore. "There is something broken in him. Whether he was born that way, or became like that through the neglect of his early years, I don’t know. And since becoming an adult, he has done everything he can to rid himself of what little feeling he ever had."

"’Love is weakness,’" intoned the boy. "’If you don’t love, if you don’t care, you can’t be hurt.’" He looked at Dumbledore. "Love has done me no good. Ever. It has only caused me greater pain than any physical torture I have ever endured." He looked down. "But I think, if he knew I was here, with you, that I was working against him, I think it would hurt him. Terribly." He bowed his head, hiding behind his hair again. "He trusts me, he tells me his secrets, and I am betraying him. How can that be right?"

"You are saving lives, you know that."

"And if I could kill him outright, I would. That would at least be honest."

Dumbledore did not answer.

"I don’t think he would even believe it, at first, if he found out. It makes no sense." Again, the boy turned his black eyes on Dumbledore. "He’d say, how can you possibly do this, to me, who has sheltered you and made you one of my own, to help people who have never treated you with anything but revulsion?"

"And to help all the innocents you have never met, who will face nothing but pain and death should the Dark Lord win," Dumbledore said. "You know what he plans, better than anyone."

Now the boy fell silent, drawing his knees up close. Dumbledore did not speak, and they sat, the boy huddled on the bed, the old man, sitting on the table, leaning against the bed’s iron frame.

And then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, the boy said, "Is there any hope for me?"

Dumbledore looked at him sadly, but did not say anything.

"Hope for anything," the boy went on, "any kind of happiness? Is this all there is for me? No chance of a family, or friends, not now, not while I must pretend to serve him. Only horror, each day."

"We are at war, now," Dumbledore said. "But someday, perhaps."

"When this wonder child appears," sneered the boy. "And how long will that be? It could be decades. How can the world survive, while we wait for this hero." He gripped his arm, over where the Dark Mark lay, under his sleeve. "I can’t live like this, while we wait."

"As long as you can," said Dumbledore. "Who knows? Perhaps we can manage to hold the Dark Lord in check, in the meantime."

"And even then? Suppose we succeed in stopping him. What then? Will you and your friends invite me in? You and your little favorites? ‘Jolly good show, Sev old boy, thanks awfully for all you’ve done, why don’t you come round for tea on Saturday?’" He shook his head. "What would Potter say, if he knew you were even here with me?" His hands balled into fists.

Then he bowed his head. "You come here, showing me everything I want, but cannot have. And I serve you, for the sake of the scraps you throw me. How pathetic is that?"

Dumbledore bowed his head, and sighed deeply. He could feel the boy’s eyes on him, could feel the force of the boy’s longing. That is how I know I can trust him, he thought, more than anything else. Because his want is real. Occlumency can only obscure thoughts and feelings, it cannot create them.

"I have failed you, Severus," Dumbledore said. "And I am deeply sorry." He looked up, meeting those fierce, hungry black eyes with his own. "I am such an old man. I am too distant. I have been too concerned with other problems, and so many children were lost because I did not see."

He bowed his head again, turning his eyes to the bare floor, and said, in a voice that was thin and ancient, "And too many innocent children have died because I have used them as weapons in battle. I plan, and give orders, and people die. And I think, so often, that I cannot bear it any more."

The boy’s eyes had widened, and he stared at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore looked sadly at him. "I have watched you, you know, ever since you came to Hogwarts."

The boy caught his breath and drew back, eyes narrowing.

Dumbledore took a deep breath before continuing. "I watched everyone I thought was at risk of joining the Dark Lord’s ranks. I knew I would need someone who was close to him, part of his inner circle, but who had enough courage and strength of heart to ultimately stand against him."

"Don’t glamorize it," the boy said. "You needed a spy. A traitor."

"I needed a warrior," Dumbledore said. "The right weapon, in the right place. This is a war, it takes many kinds of soldiers."

The boy curled his lip.

Dumbledore sighed, and went on. "I never set you up to be one of Tom’s. I did not place you in Slytherin House, I did not deliberately maneuver you into making the choices you did, though I did some things that may have inadvertently contributed, I know. I would not wish such a terrible fate on any child, no matter what my own needs may be. But I watched you. I watched others as well, but you were always my greatest hope."

"You knew I would be nasty enough to get into the Death Eaters," the boy snorted.

"I knew you had such anger in you," Dumbledore said. "And Tom knows how to play on those feelings. You know better than I that few who serve him do so out of affection for him or his cause. Many serve because they want power, or because he gives them an opportunity to indulge in their own cruel desires. But many more serve out of fear – he tricked them at the beginning to bring them in, and now they cannot escape."

A haunted look fell across the boy’s face.

"And I failed to stop them," Dumbledore said. "I could not stop Tom when he recruited his first followers; they were adults. And too many of their children were lost before they even came to school. Even so, I should have done more." He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "If I had become Headmaster just ten years earlier . . . People pay so dearly, when I fail, and I have failed so often."

He looked up to meet the boy’s eyes. “That is the price, you see, for taking on the job. You will always fail. You have to hope that your successes outnumber your failures.�

The boy stared wide-eyed now. Dumbledore looked into his face. "I hope, one day, that you can forgive me, Severus. I am such an old man, and I have been old for so long. I forget what it is like, being young and alone. And very, very bright. The battles of the schoolyard can seem so small, from the Headmaster’s Office. And my own battles were so very long ago." He smiled wryly. "And, I confess, I have done my best to forget them."

"I doubt yours sent you into the control of an evil dark wizard," the boy said.

Dumbledore shrugged. "I still managed to get myself into quite a bit of trouble."

He cocked his head at the boy again. "And now, I wait for an innocent infant to become the hero who can destroy the Dark Lord. What a terrible fate to wish on a child. And yet I will do what I must to make sure it comes to pass. What kind of person must I be, to do such a thing?"

"It’s not what you wish," the boy said.

"Oh, I wish it terribly," Dumbledore said. "My heart will leap with joy if I hear it has come to pass."

"Only because of what it means," the boy said. "The defeat of the Dark Lord. An end to this horror."

"An end to this horror," Dumbledore said. "Yes. So I do what must be done. Even though I see no end in sight, any time soon."

He sighed again. "I am close to one hundred and fifty years old. All my old friends are long dead. The only family I have left is a brother, who while a decent enough fellow in his own fashion, is not someone I’m particularly close to. No one is going to appear, of my age, from my time, my equal in ability and understanding, to be a real friend for me. There are people who care deeply about me, and who I care for just as much, but they are all so very young."

He leaned even more heavily on the bedframe. "Later today, I must do my best to look strong for everyone else, even after the losses we have had. And plan our next move, and decide who I will send next into battle, perhaps to die."

He suddenly felt unbearably tired. He laid his head on the cold bedframe, and looked at the boy’s face. "Is there any hope for me, Severus?"

He felt dizzy again. He couldn’t falter now, there was too much to do, yet.

The boy was on his feet in flash. "You’re exhausted," he said, and Dumbledore felt hands pushing him onto the bed, pulling his legs straight.

"I’ve got a potion here - " the boy sounded alarmed. "Or I could brew you some tea."

"Perhaps later," Dumbledore said. "Severus, may I rest here, just for a while? I have so much to do, but if I could rest, for just a little while."

"O-of course, sir," the boy said. "Let me brew you a restorative potion, at least. It will take just a few minutes, and you’ll rest better for it."

Dumbledore nodded, and the boy began to work furiously, clearing a space on a nearby table, gathering ingredients. Dumbledore heard the clinking of glassware, the soft whoosh of a flame, and, as the boy had promised, within minutes, he felt an arm under his shoulders lifting him up, and a glass pressed to his lips.

He could poison me, thought Dumbledore. Right here. I’m tired enough, and he’s clever enough to brew something strong enough to do it. Here’s where I find out. Do I trust him? And he knew the answer.

He looked into the boy’s eyes, and smiled. And swallowed the brew in the glass. It tasted warm and sweet, going into his mouth, and warmth spread through him. A genuine restorative potion, no more, no less.

"I could have been lying," the boy said, putting the glass on the table. "You should have used Legilimancy. I wouldn’t have minded."

"I didn’t need to, Severus," Dumbledore said.

"You should have," the boy said again. "Promise me you will. Not just with me, but with everyone. Even people you trust." He looked into Dumbledore’s eyes. "If you can have your own man in the Dark Lord’s inner circle, he can do the same. You are far too trusting."

"Trust is better," Dumbledore said, as he felt himself getting sleepier.

"Not if it gets you killed," the boy said. "You want me to stay alive for you. Then you must promise to stay alive for me. You are all I have." There was a tremble in his voice.

Dumbledore reached out with a withered hand to touch Severus’s own. "Not a promise a man of my age can make easily. But I promise to try. Though every one of us may be called on to sacrifice, and I can do no less." Severus’s face was growing blurry, and Dumbledore blinked. The last words he said, before sleep took him, were "You must live, Severus. Survive, and stay hidden."

And he drifted off, knowing he was safe, that the boy would watch over him as carefully as a mother watches her child. And that he could put aside his own burdens for a short time. He would have to take them up again, all too soon.


THE END

A/N: Dumbledore states, in Half Blood Prince, that Severus saved his life when Dumbledore was wounded destroying the Horcrux in the ring. And how can anyone say just why they trust someone? It's never just one thing; it's because of years of experiences - little things that add up.

I wish everyone joy of the season, and hope for the new year. (And patience, as we wait for the last book.)