Author Note: Well, we're now officially AU. I expected nothing else, as the plot of this story wasn't ever likely to happen in one of the books. But not just the plot, but also Tom's characterisation/backstory is AU as of HBP. Such is the fate of a WIP!
Many thanks to my beta rambkowalczyk.
Chapter 24 â“ Sacrifice
Albus Dumbledore was tired enough to fall asleep in his chair, but considerable amounts of tea and all the things he had to worry about kept him awake. At the moment, he was looking over the reports from Aurors and Order members. With every parchment, the night weighed heavier on him. They still had no intelligence about Voldemortâs plans, but one thing was certain: there would be more attacks.
At least Harry was safe at Hogwarts.
A man of his age and experience could not help but become jaded in some aspects of life. If he tried very hard not to let each name on the list of casualties hurt him with the knowledge that it was not just a name, he was able to look at every single battle and yet still see the bigger picture. But it made him feel cold and weary inside. In these darker hours he clung to the bright and hopeful love he felt for Harry.
He loved Harry but not because he identified with this boy. In many aspects, Harry was as different from Albus as a boy as it was possible. Albus and his brother grew up in a loving family; Harry had the Dursleys who provided him grudgingly with what they had. Magic was easy for Albus, while Harry although proving to be a powerful wizard, was not as adept as Albus was as a teenager. Albus didn't love him out of pity for his hard destiny, either. He loved Harry for who he was, for being such a brave, innocent, and loving person. But love could also be a dangerous thing, because love made it impossible to stay impartial, impossible not to wish and to hope.
His first thought when he heard the stone gargoyle opening the door and the revolving staircase was that it was probably Severus, coming to report. But instead, two of the children entered his office. Seeing them made him smile, but his smile fell when he noticed their frightened expressions and hurried steps.
âProfessor â“â Hermione began, but he stopped her with a raised hand. A sudden sinking feeling in his stomach told him that there was no time to lose.
âCalm down, Miss Granger and look at me,â he said, while gathering his powers of Legilimency. She had every intention to tell him everything and practically screamed her thoughts at him.
Harry was gone. He quickly went through her recollections of their conversation in the morning, stopping dead at the mention of the diary.
âOllivander?â he muttered.
âSir, I â“â Hermione began again, but something in his expression made her stop. Dumbledore realised that he was showing his anger at Ollivander and that it was scaring the children. He tried to compose himself and speak in a gentler tone.
âMiss Granger, do me a favour and think of your conversation with Mr Ollivander, would you?â
She did, and he watched her memories. Ollivander had given the girl a diary. There was no doubt that it was really Ollivander, nobody could have imitated him that perfectly.
And yet something was utterly wrong. Ollivander had told Hermione that her wand belonged to an ancestor of his. But this made no sense. Albus knew that Ollivander was no longer human. More than two thousand years ago, he was a wizard who yearned to discover the means of concentrating magic so that ordinary wizards could easily perform spells and incantations. Back then, wands had not yet been invented and Ollivander had made a deal with a demon for the secret of wand-making. He was willing to give up his soul and become a type of demon himself so that he could be the first and best of all wand-makers. Therefore he couldn't have had any ancestors with wands.
Of course, this wasn't common knowledge. Only Dumbledore, his brother Aberforth, and a few high-ranking people in the Ministry knew it. He saw the diary Ollivander had given her through Hermioneâs eyes and immediately recognised the handwriting. It was the wand-makerâs own hand. He had lied to Hermione and slipped her a diary that contained exactly what the girl had been looking for â“ information on the Veil. Ollivander had never been invited to become an Unspeakable. But Dumbledore himself had, and he had told Ollivander about it, years ago.
Albus Dumbledore tried never to judge people before he knew all the facts, but this left no other conclusion: Ollivander, a friend whom he trusted as much as his own brother, had betrayed him. He thought what others would sayâ”demons canât be trustedâ”but Albus knew that his anger was at Ollivanderâs actions not at what he was.
âSir?â Hermione asked timidly. âWhat is wrong with â“â
He whirled around and walked off to the far end of the room. An oval mirror with a golden frame hung on the wall there. When he touched it with his wand, it darkened as if someone had thrown a bottle of ink at it.
âHarry Potter,â he said gravely. Ron and Hermione came closer, anxious to see their friend.
âIâm really sorry,â Hermione said with a shaky voice, but he didnât listen.
The inky image in the mirror rippled and changed and finally showed them a part of the Forbidden Forest. The moon made patches of a swamp glisten like black oil. In the very middle loomed a tall, completely black rectangle, looking as if someone had cut a hole into the night. Albusâ eyes widened as he received the second harsh blow this night dealt him.
Albus at once had recognised that the black object was a door conjured by his brother, Aberforth. It was his brotherâs special talent, the ability to open up connections taking the form of a door, between any two places. Its effect was like that of a Portkey but without the hook in the stomach sensation. The fact that he was seeing his brotherâs magic meant that Harry was currently travelling through one of these doors together with his brother.
âOllivander and Aberforth,â he said, and his voice made the portraits cringe in their frames.
He tipped the mirror again. The wand trembled slightly in his fingers. âAberforth Dumbledore,â he ordered, feeling a strangling coldness rising inside him.
This time the mirror glowed blue, showing them the entrance to the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore frowned. The magic mirror indicated that Aberforth had brought Harry to the Department of Mysteries. This was exactly where Harry probably wanted to go: to the Veil. But why did Aberforth help him?
Neither his brother nor the ancient wand-maker was very forthcoming about their private lives; it never occurred to Albus that Aberforth and Ollivander had a working relationship. Obviously those two had been plotting against him for some time. But were they on Lord Voldemortâs side?
âOllivander?â Ron asked in a mystified voice. âAberforth? Aberforth Dumbledore? Whatâs going on here?â
âI donât know,â said Dumbledore. âI wish I knew, but we donât have time to speculate. I believe that it is vitally important that we stop them, whatever they are doing,â he concluded, glancing at the two confused youths. âIt will probably be dangerous, but I need your assistance. I need you to convince Harry not to trust them, while I take care of them.â
âOllivander and your brother?â Ron asked, still grappling with the notion.
âWhat Ollivanderâs diary told you about the Veil was not the truth, Miss Granger,â the headmaster went on, ignoring him. âBeyond the Veil does not lie eternal damnation."
He picked up a cup from his desk, tapping it with his wand. âPortus!â
They touched the cup and were ripped out of the reality of the office and in to a wild whirl of movement that finally dropped them in the Ministry of Magic.
**
Once Harry agreed to Aberforthâs offer, a door appeared in the night out of thin air. It hovered some inches above the ground, perfectly solid and yet somehow unreal. It was the same kind of door that Aberforth had pushed him through a few days ago to rescue him from Voldemortâs attack on Privet Drive.
âThisâll lead us to the Ministry?â Harry asked cautiously.
âOpen it,â ordered Dumbledoreâs brother. Harry reached up to the brass handle and the door swung open without a sound. But behind it wasnât the night swamp, but a wide dimly lit room. Stale air brushed against Harryâs face. It was, he realised with a shiver, the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries. Like a thin shadow, the archway on its dais could be seen.
Aberforth walked past him and stepped through the door as if it were nothing but a simple door. Harry glanced over his shoulder at the empty swamp. There was nothing there. Taking a deep breath, he followed the old wizard. For a moment he felt like a rubber band being extended and then snapping back as he arrived in the Death Chamber.
The door fell shut behind him with a dull thud and vanished. He was standing on the topmost tier of the gloomy rectangular room. The air was suddenly dusty and dry, and cold enough to make him shiver. It was very silent.
Aberforth walked in long strides past the many rows of benches, down into the pit where the dais stood. His tattered robes swished behind him like the fluttering Veil itself.
As Harry followed him down, he couldnât quite believe that this was really the same room where they had fought Death Eaters. He couldnât imagine the bolts and flashes of curses flying through the air, or Siriusâ sharp laughter as he fought his mad cousin. But as he looked at the ancient arch that seemed to grow taller with each step he came closer to it, he felt entranced once more.
He had already put one foot on the dais, when Aberforth grabbed his shoulder and leaned down, hissing into his ear.
âYou want to go through it, boy, donât you? Itâs calling out to you, the treacherous gate. Youâre bewitched by death!â
Harry took a deep breath and looked away. The hand on his shoulder fell away.
âSo what will we do now?â he asked, but his voice was only a scared whisper. He asked once more, louder this time.
Aberforth reached into his cloak and retrieved a small leather satchel. He put it onto the dais and opened it. Inside were a number of milk and ivory coloured candles, strongly smelling incense, something that looked like a primitive drum and a knife. The handle of the knife was a yellowish white, it seemed to be carved out of bone. The blade though was smooth and gleaming like black glass.
âThese days,â Aberforth explained as he set up the candles in a circle around the stone dais, âwizards know of only two ways for the soul to leave the body: death and the kiss of a Dementor. But long ago, wizards practised a ritual that would permit the soul of a man to leave the body for a short time and travel to the land of the dead unharmed. People did this to seek guidance from their dead ancestors, or to placate the spirits of those who died in anger or despair.â
He lit the candles and the incense. It smelled sweet and spicy, like burning hay. Harry blinked and swayed as the strange fragrance took away his balance. He felt light, as if he only needed to stand on his toes to fly away. Instead he sat down on the dais and shook his suddenly heavy head.
âAlright... so what do I have to do?â
The old wizard picked up a slab of chalk from within the satchel and started to draw a pattern of circles and strange signs around the stone dais. Harry thought that they might be runes, but he wasnât quite sure. Hermione would know... he rubbed his temples, blinking.
âWhat weâre doing now will put you in a trance. When youâre ready, Iâll stab you with this knife. Your body will fall into a state next of kin to death, and your soul will leave your body. You will feel a pull towards the Veil, like a draft. And then youâll pass though it. Lie down.â
Harry, who felt sluggish and tired, complied readily. His eyes fell shut as soon as the back of his head touched the hard stone dais in front of the arch.
âAnd then...?â he mumbled. âHow will I... find Sirius?â
âJust think of him very hard. Never forget what youâre there for. And never, no matter what happens, forget that youâre not dead. Youâre one of the living. You cannot stay.â
âI cannot stay...â Harry repeated in a voice that hardly sounded like his own. All sense of time, all power of will had left him. It felt like the exact moment before you fall asleep.
âIâll watch over you for the seven times that the sun sets and rises. At the end of the seven days, I will pull the knife. If you still remember that youâre one of the living, you will return to your body and no harm will be done. If not â“ youâll be dead.â
âSeven days...â Harry whispered, or perhaps he only thought it.
And then a sound like waves brushing a shore, like wind in the crowns of trees, like blood rushing in his veins, like a man chanting in a low whisper, surrounded him in a cocoon of noise.
**
âMy brother has the definite advantage that his method of travel will take him directly to the Veil,â Dumbledore explained as they hurried out of the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic where the Portkey had brought them.
Ron and Hermione almost had to run to follow the tall headmaster. As they caught up with him in the lift that would take them down to the Department of Mysteries, Ron gasped: âWhat will he do to Harry?â
âI have no idea,â the old wizard replied, with a distant look on his frowning face making Ron feel terribly helpless.
Dumbledore hesitated over the buttons for a moment, and then he pressed his wand and index finger against the number nine button and murmured âDescendo!â
Instead of taking them down with a lot of rattling and jangling, the lift instantly dropped down to level nine, where it landed softly on a cushion of air.
They ran down the corridor towards the plain black door and into the circular room with the many doors. Dumbledore didnât bother to look at them; instead he walked straight into the middle of the blue-lit room and raised his hands in a sweeping gesture.
âUna ex dodecim,â he exclaimed and instantly, the twelve identical doors around them started to flicker and glow in strange patterns until suddenly only one remained glowing an electric blue.
âAdvanced Arithmancy,â Hermione whispered in awe, but Ron didnât listen to her: Dumbledore was already ahead of them and opening the glowing door.
With raised wands, they stormed into the Chamber of Death. If it came to a fight, they probably wouldnât be much help, Ron knew, but at least they had to be able to defend themselves.
Down in the pitch, the barman of the Hogâs Head was standing next to Harryâs prone form on the dais. Candles were burning all around them, and in one hand he held a black knife, as if to stab Harry.
The urge to shout a warning to Harry was strangled by the incense permeating throughout the room. The incense enforced a complete silence making it impossible for him to say anything. Ron looked at Dumbledore hoping that he could stop his brother, but Dumbledore seemed to be trapped by the thick silence as well. Mesmerised Ron stared at the barman, who briefly glanced up at them. Aberforth exhaledâ”it looked as though magic was released and the area within the inscribed circle shimmered. He no longer looked like the unkempt barman at the Hogshead.
With a swift motion, the knife plunged into Harryâs chest, right into his heart.
*
As soon as the knife hit its aim, the ritual was done and the after-effects of his trance crashed down on Aberforth with full force. Sweat was running down his forehead, gathering in his brows and beard, drenching his leather robes, and making his shaking hands slide off the ivory handle of the knife. Every muscle in his body seemed to be slack and trembling. It was all he could do to continue standing.
Even if his life had depended on it â“ and perhaps it now did, because Albus was here sooner than expected â“ he could not have said a single coherent word. He could only watch.
Aberforth had seen the two youths recoil in shock as he stabbed Potter. The girl yelped and clamped a hand over her mouth. The redheaded boy went white as his favourite goat. But Albus was the worst. His own heart seemed to have been stabbed, he swayed, his tight self-control crumpled. Suddenly he was a very old man barely able to stand on his own feet.
Aberforthâs thoughts were still slow and confused, but he was surprised to realise that he felt a little sorry for his brother. âDonât torture him any longer,â he thought numbly.
As if on cue, a soft voice that barely carried through the room broke the silence.
âHe isnât dead, Albus,â the wand-maker said. He had been waiting in the shadows of the door that led from the Chamber of Death to the next room. Aberforth, whose hearing was exceptionally acute for someone who worked in a noisy bar, could barely hear the old manâs soft steps as he circled the room, approaching the headmaster and his two students.
âI cannot believe you betrayed me,â Dumbledore said in a hollow voice, as if no life were left in its owner. The last time Aberforth heard that dead voice was during his brotherâs recovery from the fight with Grindelwald.
Aberforth looked at Ollivander. The frail old man stopped, tilting his head slightly to the side, yet otherwise he remained completely expressionless. But his voice sounded less pedantic than usual when he spoke.
âThen do not believe it. Neither I, nor,â he jerked his chin slightly towards Aberforth, âyour brother have betrayed you.â
Aberforth nodded in agreement, but he couldnât tell whether his brother believed them or not.
âThere is no need to worry,â Ollivander carefully went on, âabout the boy. Either must die by the hand of the other, the prophecy says. And I assure you that we are not, in any way, associated with the Dark Lord.â
Albus should know it would make absolutely no sense for them to change sides in this war, and now Aberforth could see that his brother seemed to realise this as well. Albus regained some of his composure before he answered in his steely toned voice. âWhat did you do to Harry, then?â
Aberforth took a deep breath. Albus didnât care for this branch of magic. He considered it mere superstition, less worthy than divination. This disagreement had been the beginning of a rift between the brothers that grew ever deeper with the years. Albus was an idol, a member of the Wizengamot, headmaster of Hogwarts, and pupil of the famous Nicholas Flamel. Although Aberforth considered himself a worthy student of these long-forgotten arts with Ollivander as his teacher, most people considered him merely a barman in a seedy Hogsmeade bar. Even Ollivander, although a respected wandmaker, could not convince Albus that this was a valid branch of legitimate magic.
Now, though, Albus would have to listen to what they had to say! Aberforth's throat was dry and hoarse and hurt as he spoke: âThis is an ancient way to send a manâs soul on a journey to the realms of the dead. It permits his soul to leave his body for seven days, as long as this knife isnât removed.â
His brotherâs eyes flashed with anger behind his half-moon glasses. âYou are risking Harryâs life! What if he does not find his way back from behind the Veil? Are you even aware â“â
âSo are you! Youâre putting the boyâs life in even graver danger by not preparing him for the war!â
Actually, Aberforth didnât care much for the boy, as he didnât know him. He cared about this war and he wanted their side to win it. He had never understood why Albus was so reluctant to do anything when it came to the boy. Ollivander, who knew his brother much better than Aberforth did, said that Albus cared too much for the boy. Aberforth couldn't quite understand why.
As a young man, Albus had been reckless. He lived the pleasurable life of someone who didn't have a single worry in his life â“ he was talented, rich, successful, and even good-looking. He had many friendships then, but they all remained superficial and meaningless. Albus was bored, a man without equals or real challenges.
The challenge had come in the form of Grindelwald, but it turned Albus into a different man. Aberforth could only guess what his brother had lived through those few days he spent as Grindelwald's captive, but it had taken years for his brother to recover. And suddenly he no longer cared for his easygoing lifestyle anymore. He became politically active in the wizarding world and a few decades later, he was fighting another, much harder war.
Albus Dumbledore had found his vocation in fighting for a better world, and he changed the nature of his friendships: he spent less time with those who sought him for connections or prestige, and more time with those whose company and loyalty he truly valued. But one thing hadn't changed: he was still alone. There had been no serious romance in his life for many decades and the Albus' only equal in power and knowledge was Lord Voldemort.
Then Aberforth understood. Albus loved Harry as if he were a son. Who else could ignore the troubles of the wizarding world for a fifteen-year-old lad but his father? But Albus needed to understand that this kind of love was dangerous.
Again Ollivander spoke: âYou love him, Albus, and that is why you do not see the truth: love can save a man, but it cannot win wars. Like this, Harry Potter will never be able to defeat Voldemort. You are risking his life because you are unable to make decisions and what is worse: you are putting your feelings over the responsibility you have for the rest of the world.â
"And what are you asking me to do?" Dumbledore replied sternly. "I will not fight by any means necessary or I would be no better than Voldemort."
"Yes, but by protecting Harry too much, you might be risking everyone else's life!" Aberforth called up from the pitch. "You should fight this war the best you can, but instead you let yourself be guided by your affection for the boy!"
Ollivander, unfazed, went on explaining, silencing them both effectively. âThere is something I suspected ever since I first saw the boy,â the wand-maker went on quietly. âIt occurred to me again when the âPriori Incantatemâ effect happened, and I was finally convinced when you shared the contents of the prophecy with me last year. Itâs the reason why the Dark Lord still exists, and why he and Harry seem to be so strangely connected: when the curse rebounded on Voldemort, it did, in a way, kill him. He lost his soul and he should have died, had he still been human. But instead of being pulled behind the Veil his soul settled in the infant body of Harry Potter.â
âThat isnât possible.â The bushy-haired girl seemed to have found her voice again. She sounded incredulous and also angry.
But Albus slowly shook his head, a deep frown creasing his brow. âIt is, Miss Granger. Voldemort always had a gift for possession. And he and Harry share some interesting physical traits. The mind of an infant is still weak...,â he gazed sharply at Ollivander. âThis explains a lot, but it does not warrant such actions.â
âWait a moment,â the redhead said to the girl. âIs he saying that Harry is You-Know-Who?â
âVoldemortâs soul shares Harryâs body," Ollivander said. "But we have reason to believe Harryâs body may have more than his soul. From what you have told me so proudly about the boy, Albus, I gather that he is a Parselmouth, that he has a latent talent for Occlumency as well as Legilimency and that he does some amazingly quick thinking in dangerous situations. This is not what a soul does. Dormant within him lies not only Voldemortâs soul, but his whole personality, his skills and his memories â“ everything that Tom Riddle once was. The Voldemort we know today is only a soulless copy.â
Dumbledore stared down at Harry who lay on the stone dais like a sacrificial offering. Aberforth took his hands from the knife, showing that there was no blood coming from the wound. The candles flickered dangerously in the breeze that went past the archway, but Aberforth was grateful for the cooling air.
âThen what you have done is even more dangerous for it might awaken the Voldemort in Harryâs body, now that Harryâs soul is gone. Or is that what you have planned?â Albus asked suspiciously.
Had Albus tried to penetrate their minds, he would have known that he was very close to the truth. Aberforth supposed that he was still stunned by what he just saw to act in his usual way.
âYou still donât see the crucial part,â Ollivander said, his voice neutral as ever, âwhich is what happened to Voldemortâs soul after it slipped into the boyâs body. A grown manâs mind could not possibly work with an infantâs body and brain, they are not developed enough. And Voldemort was helpless and probably still weakened and confused. Unable to leave this body, he must have succumbed to Harry's mind, where he now lies dormant, unaware of who he is."
Dumbledore made a step towards Ollivander. âGo on,â he urged.
âTom Riddle was an unwanted child, his birth killed his mother and from then on he had to survive in a cold and hostile world. Harry though was loved from the start. He only had his mother for a single year, but a year of love can make a world of difference.â
âAnd Lily sacrificed herself for him. Her love never left Harry. Despite all circumstances, he grew up with the innate knowledge, that somehow he was loved. Voldemort couldn't possess that love,â the headmaster finished the thought for him, his lips graced by a small smile. But then he frowned once more, shaking his head slightly.
âBut why did you send him behind the Veil? What could he possibly gain from that?â
Aberforth slowly curled his hand around the knife once more. Ollivanderâs unblinking silvery eyes were still locked on Dumbledoreâs.
âI donât know, Albus. Perhaps Harry will gain nothing from it. Perhaps he will learn something very important. But this isnât just about his journey anymore. The time has come to release the one who will put an end to this war. Tom Riddleâs first life on this earth turned him into the Dark Lord. But a part of him, his soul, got a second chance. Harry has vanquished all that was the Dark Lord. Now let us look at what remains of the man who created the Dark Lord!â
For the first time in the last minutes, Ollivander had raised his voice slightly. Just as he finished, Albus whirled around, his wand raised in objection, a look of startled realisation on his face.
âDonât â“â
But Aberforth was already holding the knife in his hands, black and white and without a single drop of blood on it. There was a precise hole in the boyâs faded blue shirt, but beneath it, the skin appeared unmarred. For the blink of an eye, he remained dead as before.
Then a faint shiver of life went through him.