Capítulo 40: Headmasters Office
"So, Remus, why have you requested this meeting?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling, while Snape, sitting next to him, looked distinctly displeased.
Remus Lupin shifted uneasily. "As you're aware, Headmaster, I've been using a Boggart for my third-year classes. It's because of the result in the Slytherin class that I wanted to speak with you."
Snape sneered. "Just to be clear, you exposed them to a Boggart?"
"Come on, Severus. You know as well as I do that a Boggart is rarely truly dangerous for children. We faced one in our third year, or did Slytherin have a different curriculum then?" Lupin retorted, his tone slightly defensive.
Snape scowled but said nothing as Lupin continued. "Besides, I was standing by."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his expression calm. "What happened?"
"For the most part, the Boggart's forms were typical. Monstrous creatures, as expected. But then..." Lupin paused, seemingly lost in thought.
"Then?" Dumbledore prompted gently.
"Albus, are you sure the Pensieve is unavailable?"
"Quite sure. Professor Babbling is using it with the N.E.W.T. class for another two weeks at least."
"Alright." Lupin took a deep breath. "Harry faced the Boggart and—"
"You let him face it?" Snape interrupted, his voice low and dangerous.
"I hadn't planned to!" Lupin replied, flustered. "I didn't want Voldemort—" Snape flinched—"appearing in my classroom."
"What changed your mind?" Dumbledore asked.
"The Dementor. Harry suffered the most from it, and I thought his self-esteem had taken a blow. I wanted to give him a chance to recover some of that. It also wouldn't have been fair to single him out. I know James would have—"
"He is not James," Snape spat furiously.
"Enough!" Dumbledore snapped, his hand hitting the desk. "What form did the Boggart take?"
Lupin's face tightened. "It was... it was a man. A Muggle, if I had to guess. Nothing remarkable about his appearance, but..." Lupin looked between Snape and Dumbledore. "It is still close enough to the full moon that my senses—particularly my sense of smell—are far beyond normal. I can smell emotions."
Dumbledore nodded, while Snape continued to scowl.
"When there was a dragon in the classroom, I could smell fear from the one facing it. When Lucius Malfoy told Draco that he was a disappointment unworthy of the Malfoy name, Draco was afraid and anxious. But when Harry faced this man—this totally normal-looking man—he was utterly terrified. It's hard to explain to someone who can't smell it, but I haven't smelled such fear since the war." His voice lowered shakily. "Since the Vineyard."
Both Snape and Dumbledore flinched at that. No matter what side they had fought on, no one who had been at the Vineyard could hear it mentioned casually.
"The Boggart started talking, and it only made his fear worse."
"What did it say?" Dumbledore asked, looking grave.
"I'd rather not paraphrase. I believe it's important for you to see the memory yourself, but... it said that Harry could never escape from him, that Harry liked it, and that now everyone knows."
A terrible silence filled the room.
"Harry tried to dispel it and failed. I was about to step in when he tried again and succeeded."
Lupin paused as the horrific memory filled his mind again. Dumbledore must have sensed his unease.
"What happened next?"
"The Boggart changed form. It was the same man, but hanging. He was dead."
Snape and Dumbledore shared a look.
Lupin's voice trembled slightly. "He ran out of the room. What happened to him, Albus? Who was that man?"
Dumbledore sighed, wiping his eyes before replacing his glasses. He gave Lupin a tired look. "Harry was abused in the orphanage where he grew up. I believe his Boggart took the form of the man who raped him."
Lupin goggled. He had suspected something terrible, but to hear Albus say it so plainly—it boggled the mind. James would have... but James was dead.
"Harry did something, some accidental magic. I don't know exactly what it was, and to be honest, I don't want to. But the rapist, one Mr. Roberts, hung himself."
"Has Harry ever spoken to anyone about this? A mind healer?" Lupin asked.
Both Dumbledore and Snape shook their heads.
"Why the hell not? He clearly needs—"
"Remus," Dumbledore said, raising a hand to cut him off. "You cannot force him to speak about it."
"No, you cannot," Snape interjected, his voice firm. "I've been slowly maneuvering him to talk more about his experiences, with the goal of having him admit he needs professional help."
"But you can't just let it fester! The longer you leave it—"
"What would you have me do, wolf?" Snape said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Force him to speak about something he isn't ready to? Your little stunt may have set him back."
"My little stunt? I had no idea this would happen! Pomona gave me a missive about one of her students, you could have done the same!"
Dumbledore smacked the table again, silencing them both. "Enough! Severus, make yourself available for the boy."
"As I always do," Snape said curtly.
"And Remus, you were not at fault. I should have informed you."
"But what are we—"
"Enough!" Dumbledore's voice was sharp. "Severus is dealing with Harry. He is the boy's Head of House and has spent two years building a relationship with him. Harry feels close to Severus. When he is willing to talk, Severus will know before either of us."
Lupin threw his hands up in frustration. "Fine. I will abandon Harry to his memories."
"No one is asking you to abandon him. Just don't push him to talk unless he brings it up."
Lupin left the room, clearly frustrated, with Snape following closely behind. Once the door closed and Dumbledore was alone in his office again, he allowed a single tear to slip from his eyes. As it fell, a dark thought echoed in his mind.
The child of prophecy finds the idea of his enemy dying amusing. There is little hope of this ending in a bloodless victory.
Slytherin Third-Year Girls' Room
Pansy Parkinson lay in bed, thinking about Harry.
When she had come across him torturing the poor rabbit, she had barely believed her eyes. Then he had spun around, wand pointed right at her face.
It had been more terrifying than facing a Hag.
And yet—there was something about his eyes. He had looked crazed, and for a few seconds, she had been sure he was going to cast the Cruciatus on her.
But he hadn't.
He had trusted her.
Despite all the torment inside him, he had trusted her.
And that dangerous, terrifyingly beautiful look in his eyes was now embedded in her mind.
His face—he had looked like a warrior of old, on a mission of vengeance. The tears that had run down his grimy face had only made his haunting beauty more striking.
The memory of his appearance, and the feelings it invoked, made her feel warm inside.
Pansy Parkinson only realized then that what she wanted, more than anything else, was Harry Potter.
And as her mother often said, a Parkinson always gets what she wants.
Slytherin Third-Year Boys' Room
Draco Malfoy lay in bed, his hands clenched tightly together to stop them from trembling. His eyes stayed resolutely open.
If they closed while he was alone, he saw the Muggle's face—the Muggle he had killed.
He had been such a fool, telling Harry that killing a Muggle was like slaughtering a pig. He knew differently now.
He had been waking up in the middle of the night, the Muggle's face clear in his mind's eye. On those nights, he would stumble to the bathroom, often barely making it to the toilet before throwing up.
I don't even know his name. I don't know anything about him.
But more than that, it was Harry that worried him the most.
There was something... broken about Harry.
Draco hadn't realized it until recently, until he saw Harry cast the Cruciatus, until he witnessed the pleasure his friend got from killing.
When Pansy had found Harry and brought him back, everyone had been relieved. When she told them that Harry said he would kill anyone who mentioned the Defence lesson, there had been nervous laughter.
Draco hadn't laughed. Not at all. In fact, he was worried that Harry would do exactly that.
The Dark Lord's mention of people "reacting strongly" to Dark Magic hadn't helped calm his fears either.
He knew his aunt Bellatrix was one of those people. He had heard enough stories about her to be terrified, even though he'd never met her.
He'd heard enough stories to be terrified that Harry might go down the same path.
And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
The Boggart had made it clear—Harry had suffered far more than just cruel pranks in that orphanage. And the way Harry had found his Boggart funny, by turning it into a corpse, had only deepened Draco's fears.
Draco was also terrified of his own upcoming initiation. He wasn't sure if he would be able to kill another Muggle who had done nothing to him.
The Dark Lord would probably allow him to back out—he was a Malfoy after all—but facing his father's disappointment? That was something Draco couldn't bear.
And he had no one to talk to.
Talking to his father was out of the question. It was like talking about wanking with his father—far too embarrassing.
He couldn't talk to Harry. After everything he had said about how killing Muggles wasn't worth feeling guilty over, he couldn't just ask for advice.
His other friends wouldn't understand, even if he was allowed to talk to them about it.
He was alone.
Totally, utterly alone.
No, I'm not.
Draco sat bolt upright, feeling like an idiot.
If I can't talk to my father, and I can't talk to my friends, I'll have to talk to my godfather.
Snape would understand. He knew what it was like to kill. He'd helped Harry with his guilt, hadn't he?
And maybe I can tell him my worries about Harry.
Feeling relieved, Draco fell asleep minutes later. His sleep, for the first time in weeks, was undisturbed by crying Muggles.
Malfoy Manor
Lord Voldemort sipped one of Lucius' expensive wines and smiled.
His Horcrux—his prophesied enemy—would soon be his.
Harry was already bound in chords he couldn't see, and soon, it would be final.
Killing for someone was a powerful way of binding yourself to them. Publicly killing for someone—that was almost irreversible.
And with Harry's closest friend tied as well, it made backing out nearly impossible.
Perhaps more of his friends should be recruited. After all, they are the future.
It was a tantalizing idea. Take them young, and they would be his forever. Young minds were far more malleable than older ones. Hadn't his original group of followers begun as little more than children?
Not yet. For the most part, at least. They are still too young. Another year or two, and they will be ripe.
Nevertheless, it was something to plan for. Another step in his grand design.
The potion Severus was brewing would take another six months. Voldemort could have brewed it himself, but while brilliant, potions were not his expertise.
For Severus, it was. Besides, every task Voldemort gave Severus bound him tighter.
If anyone could find a way around the oaths I've forced Severus into, it's Severus himself—or Bellatrix, before Azkaban.
That was another matter entirely. It would take another year, at least, before he was in a position to free his followers from Azkaban without revealing himself too much.
It still rankled him, leaving them to be tortured by another. They were his.
The glass in his hand shattered. He repaired it absentmindedly, pulling the spilled liquid back into it with a flick of his wand.
At least my Horcrux is mine again. Mine, and now he too knows he is mine.
Lord Voldemort smiled as he pondered the fine nets he would weave around Harry, eternally binding him.
One thought ran through all his plans. It was this thought, in fact, that drove Lord Voldemort more than any other:
Mine.
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