ACT5CH27 - Remorse

Studies in sensory magics mention that places that were exposed to extreme emotions for an extended period of time developed preternaturally produced sound waves. In many cases, these sounds caused an auditory illusion where the sound appeared to be constantly increasing or decreasing in pitch, but never actually got higher or lower. This illusion frequency resulted in extreme reactions to victims exposed to it, ranging from a sudden spike in anxiety, to chronic fear to extreme paranoia. Occlumency was utterly useless against it, since this was an auditory attack and not psionic in nature. In fact, the greater someone’s mental defences, the more twisted and hazardous the effects could be. The closest magical similarity was Parseltongue, which used a magically altered version of infrasound to cause similar effects.

Nicholas Flamel, in his notes in the Sunken Vault, mentioned that such similar acoustic illusions were often noted during Conjunctions of Time —  ephemeral timespans when the borders between the Anima and the real world were at their thinnest. Days like Samhain and Beltane for Europe, Naraka Chaturdashi for India, Fete des Morts for West Africa, Obon for Japan, and Qingming Festival for the Chinese, just to name a few. These effects were strongest in places already rich in residual emotion — World War 2 battlefields, India during the 1940s, or places permanently suffused with it, like the Devil’s Tor, Mt. Negrul, Bermuda Triangle, and so on.

He claimed it as proof of a direct co-relation between Sound, Emotion and the Anima— the source of all Magic in the Universe. A study that paid tribute to the ancient Sanskrit phrase — Nad Adhinam Jagat Sarvam — The Universe is governed by Sound.

Flamel had personally experienced this back in the early eighteen hundreds, in the Harz Mountains of Germany during Walpurgisnacht. He noted it as wonderful and terrible, a deafening sound that felt like no sound at all. Like a thousand gentle hymns were reverberating inside his head, or they might have been furious curses. Like a droning resonance of a cosmic wound that refused to close. An oppressive feeling that permeated his entire form, a memory that refused to leave him to this day.

Harry felt that sound, those vibrations through his ears, his ribs, even the bones of his skull — and he felt it every single second while at Azkaban Gate. It was soothing, in an alien sort of way. 

What did that say about him? 

Probably that he overanalysed things.

“Are you certain you wish to know the Prophecy, my boy?” asked Albus Dumbledore.

“Is this where you tell me I’m not ready?”

“After what you’ve been through my boy, I dare say you’re ready and more,” said the professor. “I should’ve told you when you first faced Voldemort back in your first year. I believed the knowledge would be too terrible a burden, and you were young… too young. At the end of your second year, you had faced challenges ever grown-up wizards have never faced, and once again, you acquitted yourself beyond my wildest dreams. We even talked about your scar, coming very… very close to the subject. But I was uneasy. You were still so young, and I couldn’t find it in myself to spoil that night of triumph. I won’t deny that I considered visiting you at the Weasleys and talking to you about it, but then the news of Sirius Black’s outbreak came in, and Cornelius was adamant about stationing dementors at Hogwarts. You already have experienced far more darkness in your life than most of us, and the knowledge of the Prophecy would only weigh you down further. What if the dementor aura affected you, and you snapped?”

“And I started having dreams about Voldemort at the start of my fourth year,” Harry murmured.

Dumbledore’s expression went grim. “I already knew that I was too late. That I was running out of excuses. But someone got you into the Triwizard and I doubted you’d need the extra pressure from the Prophecy. I let you focus, and you won the tournament, with flying colors, I might add —”

Harry snorted. Yes, he had seen enough green thrown around during the battle at the cemetery that night of the Third Task.

“Originally, I had played with the idea of having Severus instruct you in Occlumency, before I revealed the contents of the Prophecy to you, but everything changed the moment you manifested the Peverell Magic. Ever since then, you have been engrossed in one challenge after another, several of them being on my account; for which I’m sincerely grateful.”

“And now we’re here,” said Harry.

“So we are,” said Dumbledore. “I shall not delay it any longer, but again, I must ask, Harry. Are you certain you wish to know of it?”

Harry frowned. “Are you telling me I shouldn’t?”

“A Prophecy does not give you knowledge or truth. It merely orchestrates the listener to perform a set of actions that eventually make it come true. I have seen you always choose what is right, never what is easy. You have stood in the face of dark wizards and ancient rituals to literal gods, and defied them simply because it was the right thing to do. So I must ask — would you bend and make choices to cater to the whims of Fate, or would you make your own?”

Harry’s frown deepened. He knew what the old man was angling at, and frankly, he even agreed with it. Hadn’t Ignotus already informed him of his fate ahead, showing him the disastrous futures that lay ahead of him, merely to manipulate him into becoming Death’s Vessel in its entirety? Hadn’t Tezcatlipoca used its knowledge of the future to stop him from destroying it entirely using Death? Hadn’t Harry made his decision to become the Gatekeeper, after seeing untold futures and making a conscious choice thereafter?

What if the knowledge haunts you? Harms you? Isolates you? Luna had asked him in that dream. Even with two eyes, you are still so blind.

Knowledge was power, and power could be used to do good, and to cause harm. And if the objective of the Prophecy was merely to move people into taking certain actions, then the process had started far back in 1981, when the Prophecy was made. It was what led Voldemort into attacking Harry, and killing his parents; it was what led Harry to become the Boy-Who-Lived. And if what Lucius had told him was right, Voldemort likely knew of the complete prophecy by now. Him, choosing not to listen to it, would probably do more harm than good at this point.

“I want to know.”

Dumbledore exhaled. “Very well. I suppose I should ask Fawkes to get me my pensieve. He —”

“Unnecessary, professor,” said Harry, raising the Elder Wand in the direction of his hut, and his pensieve came floating from within. It had a modern goblet-like design, compared to Dumbledore’s archaic basin, complete with a rotating batch of memory vials with expansion charms built in to contain over a hundred memories. As if sensing his presence, the silvery liquid began to rise up from the base,filling it up

“I wasn’t aware you had a pensieve, my boy.”

“It’s my grandfather’s,” said Harry, caressing the runes engraved on the outer surface. “I’ve been using it to study my memories, dreams… that sort of thing.”

“A rather useful thing if I do say so myself,” said Dumbledore. “Very well, let us begin.” He placed his wand above his right ear. Closing his eyes in an expression of focus, he drew a silvery thread out and placed it into the silvery waters of the pensieve. 

“Will you join me in this one?” Harry asked, knowing how the man had avoided joining him and Newt the last time they viewed one of his memories.

“I better,” he said, and Harry sensed a muted urgency in his tone. Almost as if he was concerned about something. Harry touched the surface of the silvery liquid, embracing the familiar feeling of being whisked away. 

When he opened his eyes, he was inside a tavern, with people sitting around bottles of ale on a cold, quiet, winter night. Smoke hanging low beneath the rafters, trapped by decades of poor ventilation and poorer life choices. The fire in the hearth was down to embers, bathing the room in a coppery glow. Then he noticed the bartender.

“That’s —” he began. “This is the Hog’s head.”

“Correct,” said Dumbledore from behind him. “Come, we’re looking for the table round that corner.”

It reminded Harry of his meetings with Fleur Delacour, meetings that he had insisted rather strongly were ‘not dates’. That reminded him of his veela lover, who was still at Hogwarts. Ever since he had met her mother Apolline, it had been one thing after another, and Fleur had been all but cut off from his life. The episode with Ekrizdis, and the opening of the rift had affected her intensely, and not just on an emotional level. He didn’t know how, but Fleur had changed. Become more… and also less, at the same time. 

Then again, wouldn’t he say the same had happened to him? He had become more, while also becoming less human.

Keeping his musings aside, he followed the Headmaster. Hog’s Head was neutral territory, out of the Ministry’s gaze. Away from Hogwarts’s wards. And the ambience made sure that no pureblood worth his salt would think of entering.

“There I am.”

Indeed. Memory-Albus Dumbledore sat at the table, sipping a mug of hot cocoa, when the door creaked open, and Sybil Trelawney stepped inside.

“Professor Trelawney?” Harry asked, flummoxed. The Divination professor had already made a prophecy near the end of his third year, and it had come true. To think that this prophecy about him and Voldemort was also made by the same person…

“I understand your confusion, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Sybill is indeed widely regarded as a charlatan by most, an ironic fact since she actually has the gift. Unfortunately, she never took formal divination training, and wasted her life in pointless indulgence. Finding herself at the mercy of money-lenders and thugs, she turned to using her ancestor, the famous seer Casandra Trelawney’s deeds to falsely pretend to be a Seer. However, Professor Macaulay had been struck with dragon pox, and I needed a divination professor. She applied for it, but honestly, it was against my inclination to allow the subject to be taught at Hogwarts at all. One fine night, I was at the Hog’s Head for Order business and crossed paths with her. She inquired about the Divination post again, and I thought it was common politeness to offer her a chance.”

“And then?”

Dumbledore smiled evenly. “Watch.”

“I must say, I do not conduct interviews in such… environments,” said Memory-Dumbledore. “But if you insist…”

Memory-Trelawney hesitated. “I — Headmaster Dumbledore, I — I already foresaw this meeting. Uh — Venus did. It governs intuition, emotional clarity an— and Second sight. The Eye is —” she shivered, “uhm, my great-great grandmother Cassandra Trelawney used to say —”

“I am aware of your lineage, Miss Trelawney. Tell me, when was the last time you had a trance?”

Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“Head— demaster, you —uh— should know that trances are most irregular! Most!”

“Yes, but one usually remembers when they occur.”

“Yes,” Sybill Trelawney said quickly. “Like I -uhm — said, irregular. 

“This — uh — just this evening. It told me — um, I mean — foretold me of an opportunity at this place.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Ye — e, of course! Why else would we meet here, on this snowy night?”

Memory-Dumbledore gave a sharp look at the bartender, before looking back at the woman. “Well, it has been most interesting meeting you, Miss Trelawney Now, if you’ll excuse me —”

Memory-Trelawney jumped up from her chair. “Headma—master Dumbledore! I fear you underestimate the subtlety of my art. I — I’ve devoted my life to the study of the Inner Eye. I’ve charts, rituals, ancestral techniques left behind by my great ancestor Cassandra —”

Memory-Dumbledore pushed his chair back. “I believe, Hogwarts may not be the right environment for your talents, Miss Trelawney.Now, I’m afraid I must bid you good night.”

He turned away, reaching for his cloak when Memory-Trelawney grasped his arm.

“Miss Trelawney, I —” he began, and froze. 

The woman before him had changed. She was sitting upright, stiff as a bard. Her shoulders were drawn back, her eyes rolled back into the sockets. It didn’t look like she was breathing at all. 

A sensation of intense deja-vu washed over Harry. He had been there, exactly where the Memory-Dumbledore was, his hand grasped by Trelawney, while she gave that ominous prophecy on the night Pettigrew escaped. Just like his own memories, her lips opened, and the screams of a hundred tortured souls echoed out as one voice.

This was it. This was the moment.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches —”

A sudden sense of urgency flowed through Harry. This — this was a memory, an echo of an event that happened over fifteen years ago. That didn’t stop him from looking around wildly, his sensation of unease blossoming into mounting horror. He didn’t know what, or why, but he knew that something was coming, something that was absolutely not part of this world.

Something that made the tavern freeze, as every single eye automatically went to her. 

“It’s an interesting magic. Prophecies,” murmured Dumbledore, the real one. “It leaves the seer in a trance, but also affects everyone they’re touching. My instincts were screaming at me to act, to ward off the table, to ensure we are unheard. Instead, I just stood there, staring, as if that was all I could do.”

Harry could relate. He had experienced something similar just two years ago.

“Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies —”

That was when Harry noticed him. Thin. Dark-hair covering half his face, with a crooked nose. Pressed back against the wall near the table, a glass of firewhiskey in his hand. This was —

This was — 

“You brat! What are you —” the bartender exclaimed, and Memory-Albus looked at the eavesdropper sharply. The boy froze, and Harry saw mortal fear in his eyes, the glass slipping from his fingers. Before the bartender could reach him, the boy — Snape — bolted for the door. The bartender lunged, his fingers brushing Snape’s levee as the younger man twisted away, scrambling for the stairs. His foot caught on the uneven step, and he went down hard.

“Stop!” yelled the bartender. “INCARCEROUS!”

“And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal —”

Missed. The spell hit the stairs, but Snape was already scrambling away. A second spell nearly hit him, before he dissapparated with a loud crack.

Harry went stiff. Could it — could it —

No. He didn’t want to consider that. There had to be an explanation. He’d wait for it. 

He had to.

“But he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not —”

“Bugger it to hell and a half!” murmured the bartender, looking at Memory-Albus, who still stood transfixed, though Harry could see panic rising in his eyes. The real Dumbledore was looking most intently at the place where Snape had just escaped. 

Wait, he told himself. Wait for now. There will be time later.

“He heard,” murmured the bartender, before quickly casting privacy wards with a speed that defied his age and job. Meanwhile, Trelawney —

“And either must die at the hands of the other for neither can live while the other survives —”

Harry’s heart dropped like a stone.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…”

Memory-Sybill convulsed and collapsed forward with a sharp, strangled gasp, still holding Memory-Dumbledore’s wrist even as her knees buckled. The headmaster caught her before she hit the table, steadying her with one hand, easing her down into the chair. His other hand instantly reached out, wand spinning into his palm as he waved it at the room behind him.

“OBLIVIATE MAXIMA!”

“We’re done,” said the real Dumbledore, and raised his wand above his head, and gave it a twist, pulling them out of the memory.

“Harry —” the Headmaster began, and froze. 

Harry knew his eyes had already morphed into basilisk-yellow. He still didn’t have his wand out, so there must have been something on his face that made Albus Dumbledore look so concerned and dare he say it, frightened. That alone was enough for him. His hands clenched, as wave of shock crashed over him, wave after wave, obliterating everything except the information that had been kept from him for so long….

It was Snape that eavesdropped on the prophecy. It was Snape that carried the news of the prophecy to Voldemort. Snape and Peter Pettigrew together had sent Voldemort after Lily and James and their son…

It was Snape. Always Snape. The greasy dungeon bat. The potions Master, the biased Death Eater head of Slytherin House.

That Snape… 

He inhaled, and exhaled. And then again. And again. In another world where he would be a mediocre student and pants at Occlumency, he would have perhaps exploded in anger and frustration and likely attacked Dumbledore.

But that was a different life, a different reality, one that Harry did not live. The hot waves of fury were smothered by the icy cold of Death as the cold, predatory rationality that belonged to his animal form enveloped him, soothing his frenzied mind till he was thinking clearly. He wanted to kill the potions master for what he had done, wanted to personally demonstrate all the dark curses that the man had taught him….

Yes. Snape — that same man who had been responsible for Voldemort knowing the prophecy, that same man who had taught Harry how to fight like a Death-Eater, showed him how to use his talents to survive…. Snape who had… who had been his best teacher next to Sirius.

“Why?” He asked. It wasn’t a question, but a demand.

“Why what?”

“Why?” he simply repeated.

He didn’t need any specific answer, for nothing would be good enough for him. Snape had acted on the extremes of both sides, and Harry had to know why Dumbledore chose to help Snape — no, to trust Snape with Harry’s life and education despite knowing fully what the bastard had done. Knowing that he had — had —

“What happens if my answer doesn’t satisfy you?” Dumbledore asked.

His fists clenched harder. Even at this stage, the old man was playing power games. Harry had demanded an explanation without providing what exactly he wanted to know. And now, Dumbledore was defining the stakes. What if the explanation was insufficient, what would he do? Would he attack him? Attack Snape? Take his vengeance for what happened back then?

“Then you leave,” said Harry bluntly. “If I see you again, it will be as if for the first time.”

Albus Dumbledore exhaled and slowly removed his half-moon glasses from his eyes, carefully wiping them with a napkin. He was buying time, considering arguments and potential counters to whatever Harry might throw at him. That man had the better part of two decades seeing Harry grow, and probably had considered this eventual confrontation many times in his head. 

No doubt some of those considerations involved an unrelenting judge.

“You probably don’t know this, but Severus was your mother’s first magical friend. In fact, he was her best friend at Hogwarts until their sixth year.”

Of all the things Harry expected to hear, that wasn’t it. He knew there was more to Severus Snape than the Gryffindor-hating, James Potter-obsessed, greasy dungeon bat. He had seen multiple shades of his character during his training. But friends with his Mum?

“They practically grew up together,” said Dumbledore. “At Spinner’s End, I believe. He, a halfblood, and your mother, a muggleborn, became the closest of friends. But when they came to Hogwarts, Lily was sorted into Gryffindor, while Severus found himself in the place he always wanted to be — in Slytherin, since his mother was one.”

“Then — why did —”

“Why did a man who thought the world of Lily Evans would become the very thing that led to her demise?” murmured Dumbledore. “It is curious how Fate works. But you have to understand, Harry, that things were different back then. On one hand, Nobby Leech, the Minister of Magic was a muggleborn, and vested in making drastic changes to the wizarding society to make it blend better for the muggleborns. I believe Miss Greengrass might have more than a few words to say about how Leech’s administration affected the Ancient Houses.”

Despite himself, Harry snorted. 

“On the other end of the spectrum was the Dark Lord Voldemort, and his growing army, charming young purebloods to fight for their birthright. Severus, who had been denied his heritage as a Prince, found comfort in the Purists — who promised that he would get his due worth once they came to power. That, alongside certain personal issues, Severus’s friendship with your mother fell apart in their sixth year. Soon after, there was another event where your father saved his life.”

“You already told me about that. Snape owed his life to my dad, so he’s working hard to save me to get even, so that he can go back to hating my father’s memory in peace.”

“It was against this backdrop that on that snowing night of January, 1981, Severus was in the Hogs Head, and he found me there. When he heard the first three lines of the prophecy, he instantly understood what it could mean to Voldemort, and rushed to deliver the news to him, hoping it would secure him a position among his Inner Circle.”

The old man barked out a laugh. It was so uncharacteristic of him that Harry wondered if he had gone round the bend at last.

“Malfoy told me about it,” Harry said slowly. “At first Voldemort didn’t consider it worth his time. Why would he? He was immortal. The idea of some baby having the power to vanquish him was hilarious, and it should be. But then the Order of the Phoenix started winning the fights, and my parents and Neville’s parents survived Voldemort thrice, and they started wondering if there was any truth to the prophecy. Voldemort wanted to silence all doubts, and shatter everyone’s blind suspicions. And when the end of July came, two babies were born, me and Neville….”

“I have no doubt that Severus expected accolades for his service to Voldemort. Imagine his horror when he found out that the destined savior was none other than Lily Potter’s child. He ran to me, seeking forgiveness, offering Unbreakable Vows and his undying service as a spy in Voldemort’s camp. He asked me to protect Lily, James and their newborn child. It was actually on his suggestion that I suggested the Fidelius to Lily and James.”

“Which worked out spectacularly,” Harry replied bitterly.

“It worked exactly as expected,” said the Headmaster. “I certainly did not ask Sirius Black to openly declare himself as the Potter’s Secret Keeper. I’ll accept blame where it is due, Harry. You have to accept that Severus did his best to atone for his sins, and he does so, to this date; just like you have to admit that your father trusted the wrong person with his and his family’s lives.”

Harry clenched his teeth, but said nothing.

“Severus lost his best friend, the woman he loved more than anyone in his entire life, to his foolishness. And to this date, that guilt, that remorse weighs him deeply. It is why he acts as my spy in Voldemort’s camp, why he risks his life every single day out there, and why he has always acted in your defence. Trust me, no amount of torture you can inflict on him is more than what he inflicts upon himself.”

Harry scowled, feeling the anger slowly ebb away. Surprisingly, he felt more annoyed at himself for understanding instead of getting caught up in vindication and lashing out at Dumbledore. The idea of losing someone dear to the heart because of one’ foolishness and misplaced sense of priorities…. He knew exactly how that felt.

It was how he had lost Sirius. Only, he still had a chance of bringing him back. But Severus Snape? He had none. All he had was a life debt that he owed to the man he hated, and self-loathing he felt for the death of the woman he loved.

If he had to hate Snape over the prophecy, he’d have to hate himself even more.

“Damn it!” He cursed, dropping his shoulders in resignation. “I — I really want to break something, maybe Snape’s face, and call him an arse to the face. But I — damnit, I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand.”

“Always what is right, never what is easy,” said Dumbledore, the twinkle in his eyes returning to full force. “Now then, shall we discuss the Prophecy?”