Chapter Four : Theoretically
Minerva McGonagall sat in a comfortable red armchair next to the Headmaster. She liked being in his office, she liked being with him. Sometimes they didn’t agree, and most of the time she didn’t really understand him. It was scary sometimes to see that he was human, just as scary as it was to see him when he didn’t appear human at all. Yet, she loved him with all the loyalty and affection of an old friend, and she was sure he did, too. This comforted her, to know that he loved and had friends, too.
But right now, she felt detached from him. He was absorbed by his multiple apparels and instruments, and hadn’t spoken for more than an hour. Smoke and silver whirring wheels, crystals and potions, the scientific devices of a wizard, the eyes for the truth, only he was able to understand them. She couldn’t follow him there. Sometimes she wished he would spend a little less time trying to understand and a little more time trying to act.
The clicking of something hard against a windowpane got her attention. A huge white owl, looking completely out of place against the blue summer sky, sat there and waited to be let inside. She knew Hedwig, and most people did. Of course the snow owl was beautiful and exceptional, but she sometimes wished Harry would own an owl that was less remarkable, for it attracted attention too easily.
She went to the window and took the bird on her hand. “Hello Hedwig,” she gently said, and the bird nibbled her shoulder. She had a parchment tied to her feet, and she took it and read :
Professor Dumbledore. At first she frowned. This wasn’t Harry’s handwriting “ but then her eyes widened and she recognised it: this was Hermione Granger’s small impeccable handwriting.
“Albus ““ she began, but Albus had already soundlessly risen from the table an took the letter out of her hands.
He opened it, and read a short and excited letter that made him sigh deeply. He sat down at the table, quiet and shocked.
“Why did he do this? He must have known...”
“What happened?” the Transfiguration teacher asked anxiously.
“Harry. Harry told Miss Granger about the prophecy, about its contents.”
“Well ... did you tell him not to do it?” She was rather surprised.
“No. I actually hoped that he would share this knowledge, so it would be easier for him. I also hoped that he would forward it to Mr. Longbottom. But not by owl!”
“Owl!” Minerva called out. “By owl? But ““
“Yes. He wrote Miss Granger an owl. Of course, the girl immediately realised the fault. A good, a bright girl. But still, I can’t believe that Harry would be so rash.”
“Well, he is, sometimes.”
They looked doubtfully at each other. No, this was a little more than rash. And Harry had always been careful what to write in his letters. Maybe he was a little less concerned about his own safety than he had been about Sirius’, but that was no reason for him to become so reckless. Professor Dumbledore touched the bridge of his nose with a thoughtful air, moving his half-moon glasses.
“Maybe, if he was extremely excited, angry, near out of his wits ... maybe, if he was manipulated... He has long been able to sense Voldemort’s moods, what if Voldemort has used that against him?”
“You’re trying to say that Voldemort has made him do this?”
More than a year had passed since the Dark Lord had been reborn on a small graveyard in Southern England. A handful of Death Eaters had been with him back then, a handful of whom had answered to his call. They were but a fraction of his followers.
This “ apart from trying to get to the prophecy “ had been Voldemort’s priority throughout the past year: reforming the ranks of his followers, calling back his old cohorts, punishing those who had openly denied him, hunting traitors and intimidating those who might not be all too faithful yet. But he also recruited new ones. There were always people who were keen to follow anybody they accepted as stronger and more powerful, people who liked to lick boots and be servants. They were like house elves, really. For Voldemort, most people were more or less like that.
Only the most loyal followers and those who could afford it had received the Dark Mark during his first reign. Spies, ministry employees, or those who were just too remote and unimportant, had not received it. The likes of Lucius Malfoy were en exception, because his power and influence granted the pureblood aristocrat enough immunity to not be searched for the Dark Mark.
Orestes Mink was not a first generation Death Eater. He had only witnessed Voldemort’s first rise and fall as a small child. His father though had been one. The Minks were purebloods, but they had never belonged to the gentry. In fact, most of them were poor, Orestes himself was a drop out at Hogwarts and until a few months ago had made a living by doing little jobs here and there. Mink Jr. Was a convinced supporter of the Dark Lord. His father always told him not to listen to the propaganda of the Ministry, because you know, the winners always make history and the losers are always portrayed as the bad ones. But of course the Ministry and Dumbledore were the ones who had won by foul play, which was also the only reason they had won at all. This was Mink Jr.’s view of the world, and it was nurtured also by the fact that the Death Eaters had given him well paid work.
He was to track and intercept a certain owl, to copy all letters and sent them to his contact at headquarters. That was fairly easy, the owl was a pompous white snow owl and impossible to miss. He would stun it with a weak curse, copy the letter, obliviate her and leave. The owl wouldn’t even be confused and no one ever noticed it.
Mink’s contact at headquarters was a young and ambitious wizard from Germany. Lutz Gerber had been attending Durmstrang and had been in the same year as Victor Krum. He was intelligent and reliable, but not a very powerful wizard. Still, his position among the Death Eaters granted him power: he was the secretary of Lord Voldemort himself.
Voldemort didn’t usually produce much paperwork himself, but he had a strict timetable and lots of followers waiting to meet him, and of course, he received tons of information each day. The intercepted owl post was controlled by others, Lutz Gerber only looked through the priority cases: Order owls, owls to and from Fudge and owls to and from Harry Potter. Harry Potter had only become a target since the fight in the Ministry, but Gerber didn’t know why. He had to look out for any valuable information, concerning Dumbledore, the order and prophecies.
So when he knocked at the door to the Dark Lord’s private rooms this morning, he felt anxious and proud at the same time. This promised to be very valuable. The tall doors swung open slightly, and he came inside.
It was more of a study than anything else. Long dark green curtains shut out any light that might otherwise penetrate the high-ceilinged room. The walls were simply white, but lots and lots of mirrors and scrolls, plans and maps, and curious devices covered them. Dark furniture, dominated by a huge oval desk and a throne of dark wood and green silk behind. The desk was completely covered by all kinds of magical devices, silver wheels and whirring needles, looking glasses and swirling smoke, quills and ink and parchment, knives and vials, and objects of no discernible purpose. A tall Venetian mirror reflected the dim darkness, but the room it showed was different somehow, and sometimes shadows were seen moving in the mirror and the sound of doors opening and closing was heard.
There was only one picture in the room, and it was huge like a portrait and hidden by a black veil. No bed, no place to eat or rest was there, as Lord Voldemort had long ago left the realms of sleep and food behind. But there was a fireplace filled with grey ashes.
When Gerber entered, he was startled by the tall figure of the Dark Lord standing in the middle of the room, not doing anything at all. He was clothed in plain black wizard robes, and a faint red sheen emanated from his eyes, that and the metallic shimmer of the silver instruments were the only light in the room. Pleasant shivers ran down his servants back and the Dark Lord smiled a snakes’ thin smile.
“Finally,” he said, and took the copy of the boy’s letter from Gerber’s hands into his own, gloved ones.
“The old man made a big mistake this time, bigger than usual. He trusted the boy with the prophecy “ doesn’t he know that Harry Potter now is my eyes to see and ears to hear? To trust a boy who can’t tell his own mind from the mind of other’s...”
“How does it change anything that Voldemort knows the full text now?”
Dumbledore closed his eyes and leaned back into his seat, folding his hands for a moment. They were dining in an expensive and very elegant restaurant, with chandeliers and candles on the tables, with cherry wood and white linen tablecloths. A piano was heard from the far corner of the hall. They were two old gentlemen tonight, using their wizard skills to appear perfectly normal to muggles.
Their meal was not yet served, but ruby wine glittered softly in their glasses. Opposite Dumbledore sat Ollivander, who, in comparison to the tall and imposing headmaster appeared small and frail. He had a very soft and thin shock of silver hair and puzzling bright eyes. Tonight he wore an old-fashioned muggle suit. Unlike Dumbledore, who had surprisingly just the right figure to look great in a suit “ tall, lean, but not gangly “ he seemed to drown in the black cloth. Both wizards were old acquaintances, even more than that, you might have called it a friendship, albeit a strange and irregular one. Ollivander was one of the oldest wizards of the time, and certainly powerful in his own ways, but his power wasn’t comparable to Dumbledore’s. It wasn’t fancy charms and spells, but a more innate, secret wisdom and understanding of magic.
Dumbledore trusted Ollivander and Ollivander was one of the people whose advice he treasured, he who normally only took his own advice. And of course, there was also a wizard debt involved. Dumbledore had once saved more than just Ollivander’s life.
“I’m honestly not sure. I don’t know how much he knows. For example: has he realised why he was nearly vanquished when he tried to kill Harry for the first time? Does he know why he can’t perpetrate the place where Harry lives with his relatives? But whether he does or not, knowing the prophecy would certainly fuel his will to kill the boy.”
“Probably.” Ollivander knew when to let his friend talk, and wasn’t very talkative himself, unless it concerned his profession.
“And did he realise the implications of using Harry’s blood in the resurrection ritual? He must have studied it, and his knowledge of the Dark Arts involved does surpass mine,” Dumbledore mused.
“But is he as expert as you are in blood magic?” Dumbledore had once been an alchemist’s “ Nicholas Flamel’s - apprentice, and he been quite interested in ancient branches of magic, one of which blood magic was. Blood magic was every magic that was carried by blood, be it in the veins of relatives or in a potion.
“He might or might not be. If he is, he should know that technically, he now is Harry’s blood relative. By blood magic standards, he could as well be his brother now.” Dumbledore smiled wryly. “But even if he does know, this wouldn’t concern him much.”
“But it should,” Ollivander stated in a quiet voice. His attention never leaving Dumbledore’s worried face, his misty eyes sharply tuned on every gesture and expression. With one hand he absently graced his wineglass, but the other lay on his lap, hidden beneath the table. He hadn’t drunk the tiniest bit since the wine had been served.
“Yes, it should. Because what protects Harry are blood relatives of Lily Potter. And a brother of Harry would also be a blood relative of Lily. So technically Voldemort would protect Harry. This hasn’t been done before, but I’m quite sure about it.”
“It sounds promising.”
The waiter brought the first course, a light salad. Both men took their fork and turned around the leaves, but only Dumbledore took a small bite.
“So if he tries to kill the boy, he won’t be able to do it, because at the same time his very presence protects the boy,” the wand-maker concluded.
“I fear Voldemort won’t be able to appreciate the irony, though,” Dumbledore answered with a glint in his eyes.
“But once he realises this, won’t he just let his followers do it?”
“He can’t. It says: ‘either must die by the hand of the other’. He has to do it personally, directly. Which he can’t.”
“Stalemate.”
“Indeed.”
Dumbledore ate in silence for a while, until they were finished with the third course. Then Ollivander put away his fork and knife, abandoned his untouched meal, and looked around the room, the unsuspecting and rich muggles, the luxury and the preserved wealth of old times.
“I don’t know much about blood ties,” he said softly. “The only tie that interests me is the tie between wizard and wand. But are you sure about your theory, Albus?”
“Quite, I’d say. I’m sure that it makes Voldemort a kind of blood relative to Harry. And you know about their general connection. Now they’re almost like twins “ except for their character.”
“But you aren’t sure about the protection. I see. Could a relative of Potter do harm to him?”
“Well, do harm, certainly.” Dumbledore’s attentive eyes became distant and his expression was one of grief and remorse. His voice was low and almost a whisper as he spoke. “His real relatives have already much more harm than I would ever have imagined. This should never have been allowed. I simply... I couldn’t imagine that anybody could not love this child.”
“But surely you aren’t talking about physical harm?” Ollivander didn’t sound very touched. He usually stayed cool and rational, and detached from the emotional life of others. Still, he recognised the sorrow dragging on his old friend’s features.
“I am. You see .. we can’t be sure. They never tried to kill him. And when they tried to harm him, there was a kind of magical defense, but whether it was natural or stemmed from Lily’s protection, I cannot tell. He isn’t protected from unforgivables, as Crouch Jr. Was able to use Imperius on him and Voldemort has repeatedly applied Cruciatus. Maybe he is simply protected from Voldemort using Avada Kedavra.”
Ollivander frowned and stared into the distance. You could clearly see his mind working. Dumbledore waited patiently, sipping at his wine. One of the reasons he treasured Ollivander’s opinion and confided in him so thoroughly, was the deep understanding of how magic worked that the wand maker possessed. Like no one else he understood the ‘mind’ of magic. There were many experts on charms and spells, but few on actual magic. If Ollivander hadn’t been so completely tied to the fine art of creating wands, he might have been a member of the Department of Mysteries.
“They are very much alike,” the old wizard said softly, but still lost in his thoughts. “I remember them both ... when I first saw Harry entering my store, I thought of his parents. But when I measured his body, talked to him, felt his magic tickle in the air, when I saw him handling the wands, when I let him try them ... I was reminded of someone else. And then... phoenix and holly... phoenix and yew... I told you back then.”
“But they aren’t alike. I know them both very well. Of all the students I had in all my years as a teacher, Harry and Riddle were the ones I watched the most closely. No, they aren’t alike at all.”
Ollivander looked at him and for the first time a thin but kind smile tugged at his lips. His white hair and the strange silver eyes were coloured with a golden hue by the chandeliers and candles.
“You know a lot about people, Albus. You know their minds as much as their hearts. You feel with them so thoroughly that you’re sometimes blinded by love. I know nothing of such things. Maybe they are different in their minds and hearts. I hope you’re right. But I know a thing or two about magic, and I know more than one thing how magic works. And from the point of view of magic, Harry Potter and the Dark Lord could as well be the same person. Their magical abilities are alike, their magic signature is almost the same, their power is of the same kind. They are bonded, they are equals. The protection Lily Potter gave her son is ancient and powerful, but it is also a very simple thing. It protects Harry Potter.”
“Now, the protection has a little problem: it has two individuals who are nearly the same. The same magical signature, the same blood, the bond between them ... basically, I wonder if the protection is still able to make a difference between Voldemort and Harry. And if that is the case, Voldemort trying to kill Harry or Harry trying to kill Voldemort would look like suicide to the protection. Would it work, then?”
For a short and very rare moment, Albus Dumbledore was speechless. Then he shook his head.
“Let’s hope you aren’t right, for once,” he said, but his voice was toneless and his face ashen. He looked old and insecure.
“Hope is good, faith is better, but doubt is the best,” he then said. He sounded very much like he resented saying this, like he didn’t actually want to believe it. “We have to act. If that is true, Voldemort could just waltz into Privet Drive and kill him... Harry would stand no chance...”