Title: The Pawn
Chapter:2
Author: ReeraTheRed
Date: December 28, 2005
Rating: PG13
Summary: Was Dumbledore really stupid to trust Snape?
Disclaimer: Everything in this is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just working out my Half Blood Prince frustrations.
Acknowledgements: thanks to my betas: Patti, Michelle and Liz.
Author's Note: I know, I know, I said The Pawn would be a one-shot, but I had some things that I had planned to put in the first story, and they didn't fit, and they still wanted to come out.
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.)