[Prof. Umbridge] Chapter 53

Ingebjorg awaited them, as usual, with steaming herbal tea.

“Well, then,” she said as her guests settled into their chairs, “just a little longer until the finale, isn’t it?”

“Did you... hmm... see that, or are you just making conversation?” Snape immediately asked.

“There’s no need to be a Seer to understand that there are only two ways this can go. Either your Voldemort, after receiving a rather humiliating slap on the nose—”

“He doesn’t have a nose.”

“Severus, kindly keep quiet,” Marina Nikolaevna interjected.

“Anyway, either he retreats to regroup and rally more fighters under his banner—”

“There’s no one left to rally,” Snape interrupted again, ignoring her earlier plea. “The strongest of the Death Eaters have been captured or killed, and the rest are demoralized. Sure, there’s still the riffraff, but that’s exactly what they are—riffraff who’d scatter at the first sign of trouble. As for the werewolves...” He took a breath and continued, “In human form, they’re hardly dangerous; few of them can manage even basic magic. In wolf form... well, even Muggle bullets are enough for them. The giants have been neutralized. All that’s left for the Dark Lord is to seek support on the continent, which could take years.”

“Especially since they remember Grindelwald and his delightful little theories,” Marina muttered, “which he was so keen on putting into practice.”

“There you have it,” Ingebjorg said calmly. “Retreating and rebuilding his army is a possibility, but it’s a long-term one, and Voldemort has surely exhausted his patience after existing in a bodiless form for so long.”

“Not that he ever had much patience to begin with,” Snape remarked darkly. “Although he could just barely keep himself in check.”

“Exactly barely,” Ingebjorg smirked. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have acted on the prophecy without even knowing it in full. So that leaves him with only one option: to throw all his remaining forces into one desperate push to achieve his goal.”

“You mean taking Hogwarts and killing Potter?” Marina Nikolaevna asked. “That seems rather petty for someone supposedly bent on world domination.”

“It’s an obsession,” Ingebjorg shrugged. “Until Voldemort fulfills it, he won’t find peace. He believes the boy is the sole obstacle between him and ultimate power. Remove Potter, and Voldemort thinks he’ll be unstoppable—no one else will stand in his way.”

“You know the full prophecy,” Marina reminded her.

“I only know the first part,” Snape interjected. “What Dumbledore said—those were just his words. The part I know says: ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’”

“Yes, and it continues: ‘And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives,’” Ingebjorg added. “And here we return to the question of properly interpreting such prophecies. Dolores and I have discussed this before, but I’ll repeat it for your benefit, Severus: when Voldemort chose Harry Potter and marked him as his equal—without knowing the full text of the prophecy—he set an irreversible chain of events into motion.”

“So you’re saying Dumbledore was right? That Potter will have to sacrifice himself to destroy the Dark Lord?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she said. “Let me explain...”

As Ingebjorg recounted what she and Marina Nikolaevna had already discussed, Snape’s expression grew darker.

“So Dumbledore wasn’t lying about everything,” he concluded. “And all of this... was for nothing.”

“Not entirely,” the Seer said thoughtfully. “They’ve molded Potter into the perfect sacrifice. And that, I must say, reflects rather... specifically on Dumbledore.”

“In what way?”

“Not the most flattering one,” Ingebjorg replied, clearly softening her words. “Believe me, Severus, I’ve lived a long time and encountered similar situations—never identical, but close enough. Certain circumstances lead someone to sacrifice themselves for their family, or even a single person. But they knew. They always knew.”

“And could refuse?”

“Yes, though they understood the consequences of their cowardice. It was a conscious choice. Besides,” she added, “they always had a chance to fight—whether against a living opponent or fate itself. Such a person was prepared for that battle—ready to die if necessary, but not as a silent, passive victim. They would take as many enemies with them as they could. And no one would send a boy—still a child, not yet a man—into such a fight...”

She paused before continuing: “It hasn’t happened in a long time. The age of legendary heroes is over. But even in our tales, I can’t recall anyone who would go quietly to their death without at least a dagger up their sleeve. If they couldn’t rely on strength, they used cunning—and sometimes they won.”

“Your stories likely only mention the victors,” Snape said stubbornly. “The ones who vanished without a trace aren’t remembered—like always.”

“Not at all,” Ingebjorg said, her lips thinning and her eyes darkening. “There are plenty of tales about those who hesitated in the final moment, or whose fear cost lives. But they knew what they were facing and why. And they paid for their cowardice—not just with their lives, but far more. Yet no one kept such a person in the dark for years about their destiny or the reason behind it.”

“But that assumes the prophecy was interpreted correctly,” Snape countered, clearly in a contrarian mood.

“Yes, you’re right,” she nodded. “Mistakes happen—we’re only human, and even the gods err. But even if the interpretation was wrong, even if the Seer pointed to the wrong person, they still tried to prepare them for the battle—both physically and spiritually. Throwing someone into the deep end to see if they’ll swim... well, that’s—”

“Very British?” Marina Nikolaevna suggested.

“Not exclusively British,” Ingebjorg replied seriously. “Every nation has its heroes and its failures. It often comes down to upbringing—or the lack thereof.”

“Let’s not waste time on this,” Snape said grimly. “We all know Potter’s upbringing was far from ideal—neither in his aunt’s house, nor at school, nor with his godfather, who...” He trailed off awkwardly. “Who was... rudely excluded when he tried to intervene.”

“Black told you that?” Marina Nikolaevna asked, surprised.

“Yes, the last time I was at Grimmauld Place. He phrased it rather crudely, but the gist was: if they wouldn’t let him raise Potter, they should have done it themselves. Why he told me instead of Minerva, Dumbledore, or even Molly Weasley, I’ll never understand...”

“Perhaps he’d be too scared to grab them by the collar and pin them against the wall? Out of his weight class?”

“Very funny,” Snape grumbled, though the next moment he seemed to imagine Black cornering Mrs. Weasley (or maybe twisting Dumbledore’s beard around his hand) and gave a crooked smirk. “But let’s get to the point already. How much longer are we going to beat around the bush? Did Dumbledore bite you or something...?”

“Severus, please, I’m begging you, stop joking,” Marina Nikolaevna implored once again. “If you don’t know how, just don’t bother!”

“Should I start saying that to first-years in class?” he inquired with mock politeness. “Why not? Just think of how many troubles could be avoided!”

“You don’t teach first-years anymore,” she reminded him with a sweet smile.

“No matter; I can say it to the fifth-years,” Snape assured her, his unyielding glare making it clear he was entirely serious. And he’d keep saying it until even the slowest ones got the message.

“Now you’re the one straying off topic,” Ingebjorg said sharply, setting her cup on the table with a thud. “Enough chatter, you two; I’ve got a class to teach soon. To the point.”

“I’ve been waiting for just that,” Snape muttered, unable to help himself. “For half an hour, at least.”

“Twenty-seven minutes,” Marina Nikolaevna corrected pedantically. “Yes, Ingebjorg, my apologies.”

“No harm done. Let’s return to the prophecy,” Ingebjorg continued as if nothing had happened. 

“As you recall, there’s a rather notable phrase: ‘and either must die at the hand of the other .’ But does that mean that one of them must necessarily kill the other?”

Marina Nikolaevna exchanged a glance with Snape.

“Prophecies,” Ingebjorg said, “can be fulfilled in extremely intricate ways, as we’ve already seen. Moreover, at certain moments, events can be steered in the desired direction...”

“What are you implying?” Snape frowned.

“Tell me, Severus, could you be considered Voldemort’s right hand? Or at least his left?”

“In theory, yes,” Snape muttered. “I was certainly more useful than those Azkaban inmates... Wait! What are you getting at?”

Ingebjorg said nothing, her silence eloquent.

“Ah, so you want to interpret the prophecy not literally but figuratively? Brilliant!” he squinted. 

“So, I wasn’t destined to kill Dumbledore, as he wished, but according to your... uh... feminine cunning, I’m still meant to be a killer?”

“Severus, could you at least hear the plan out?” Marina Nikolaevna tried to reason with him, but to no avail.

“No, thank you,” Snape said quietly. “Although... if I refuse, you’ve got another ‘hand’ within arm’s reach, don’t you? Draco Malfoy! Even if he’s just a pathetic imitation of a left hand, he’ll do to finish off Potter, won’t he? After all, this isn’t Dumbledore; it’s much simpler!”

Ingebjorg’s expression was the picture of “What am I supposed to do with him?”

“You might as well have mentioned Pettigrew,” Marina Nikolaevna said grimly, “whom you’ve got stashed somewhere. And, incidentally, he also has Voldemort’s hand!”

“Damn...” Snape said after a long pause. “I’d forgotten about him!”

“He’s not dead yet, is he? In that cage of yours?” she asked with exaggerated care.

“No, I mean I forgot about the hand...”

“Well, as you can see now, even just a few words can be interpreted quite broadly,” Ingebjorg smiled. “And don’t think worse of us than we deserve, Severus. Believe me, we don’t want to kill the boy any more than you do—whether with our hands or someone else’s. Unfortunately, circumstances are such that it can’t be avoided. And it’s better if you do it, rather than a terrified Draco Malfoy—or worse, that... rat.”

“One Dumbledore wasn’t enough for me...”

“You idiot, don’t you understand? We’re trying to save Potter, and you can’t even sit still and listen to the end!” Marina Nikolaevna snapped. “Do I need to silence you with a spell so you can keep your tongue in check for five minutes?!”

“Calm now?” Ingebjorg asked after a short pause. “Good. Let’s continue. As we know, Harry Potter must die—not just because Voldemort wants it, but because that half-witted excuse for a wizard not only left a Horcrux in the boy but also took his blood during his resurrection! And while there might’ve been simpler ways before, now...”

“In the end, there can be only one,” Marina Nikolaevna said grimly.

“Exactly. And a Horcrux in a living host can only be destroyed by killing that host—unfortunately, not just in any manner.”

“Ingebjorg, I’ve been meaning to ask: Potter was bitten by a basilisk, wasn’t he?” Marina Nikolaevna recalled. “So why didn’t the Horcrux...”

“But the boy didn’t die,” the seer replied gravely. “The phoenix, as I understand from your stories, neutralized the venom and healed the wound before Harry Potter could succumb.”

“Shame. It would’ve saved us so much trouble,” Snape muttered, still bristling with contrariety.

“And that brings us back to our insane but still achievable plan,” Ingebjorg said calmly. “You’ll have to kill Harry Potter, Severus. But not to death.

“Hmm... and how do you imagine that?” he frowned. “If you’re thinking about a dose of Draught of Living Death, let me tell you right away—that won’t work. Properly brewed, it won’t lead to true death; improperly brewed... might as well just give him poison.”

“Ingebjorg means we must avoid biological death,” Marina Nikolaevna clarified. “There’s a chance that during clinical death, the Horcrux will be destroyed, and we’ll be able to bring Potter back to life.”

“One-in-a-million chance?” Snape said after a pause.

“Better odds than that, I think,” the seer sighed. “Do you have any alternative suggestions?”

“No. But do you have any way to tell if the Horcrux is destroyed?”

“If, during Potter’s clinical death, the snake and Voldemort are also killed, I think it will become abundantly clear.”

“Are you joking? If I recall correctly, clinical death lasts two to three, at most five minutes. After that, irreversible brain damage begins. And even if we manage to resuscitate the body, Potter could end up a vegetable. And don’t remind me he’s already an idiot! At least he’s not a vegetable...”

“Hypothermia should help, Severus,” Marina Nikolaevna said, nodding toward Ingebjorg, “along with some other measures. He can be kept in that state for... a while. But to pull this off, we’ll need to lure Voldemort out of hiding first!”

“He’ll come,” Ingebjorg smirked. “By that time, everything must be ready.”

“And how do you plan to neutralize basilisk venom?” Snape inquired. “I doubt we can just grab Fawkes and squeeze him over the poor child... I don’t even know if phoenix tears are shed voluntarily or on Dumbledore’s command! And I certainly don’t have a supply of them—such a rare substance, it costs a fortune,” he added darkly. “I don’t have that kind of money. Even then, a trusted supplier would take ages to find them, and there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t cheat me.”

“Do phoenix tears act selectively?” Marina Nikolaevna asked.

“There’s such a theory. If used on someone other than the one they cried over, they might not work. But verifying that is, as you can imagine, impossible.”

“Which is why we’ll have to rely on the traditional method,” said Ingebjorg. “I don’t think the Horcrux cares how the physical vessel dies. Severus, can you do it? Or should we really consider asking Draco Malfoy?”

“Leave him out of this,” Snape said quietly. “I’ll do it. At least that way, there’s some faint hope left, even if it’s a slim one. But how do you intend to convince Potter?”

“I believe we’ll have to show him your memories,” said Marina Nikolaevna. She caught Snape’s glare and added, “There’s no other way, Severus. He won’t believe me, and he certainly won’t believe you, not without proof. The Headmaster, meanwhile, is… well, let’s just say he’s not in any condition to help. And you know as well as I do that he never explains things directly.”

“As if it matters now…” Snape said after a long pause. “Take them. Take it all. I’ve never truly belonged to myself, so…”

“And stop pitying yourself in front of an audience!” Marina Nikolaevna snapped. “Honestly, you’re worse than a child. At least Potter stays quiet.”

“Potter stays quiet?! You should hear the things Black used to repeat to me! Quiet, my foot. He runs his mouth just like his father—no filter whatsoever!”

“Dolores, save the arguments for when you’re alone,” Ingebjorg interrupted, clearly holding back laughter. “Now, the memories, Severus?”

“Will a mug do?” Snape asked grimly, pulling out his wand. “Here…”

Silvery strands began flowing from his temple. There were so many, an unending stream of memories unwound like thread on a spindle. One could almost feel the weight of them—the life, 

the mistakes, the regrets—unspooling into plain view for someone else to watch, to judge.

“This should suffice,” Snape said, handing the now-full mug to Ingebjorg. “I trust that no one else will see this.”

“You don’t need to remind me, Severus,” she replied seriously. “Only the boy will see what’s meant for him. And I sincerely hope that the poison you’ve gathered over the years doesn’t harm him worse than a Basilisk’s bite.”

There was silence.

“Give it back,” Snape said at last, his tone steady but brittle. “Give it back. I forgot something.”

More silver threads appeared, and Marina Nikolaevna could almost imagine what they contained: sunlight and summer, a young girl’s laughter, the faint memory of a friendship lost. Then another boy—a boy who survived.

“I hope that’s enough,” he finally said. “You’ll decide how and when to show it to Potter. I trust you don’t need me for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I…”

“Madam! Headmistress!” Trinky the house-elf burst in. “Trouble! Dumbledore is gone!”

“What do you mean, gone?” Marina Nikolaevna half-rose from her chair. “Where did he go?”

“Trinky doesn’t know! Trinky was watching the map like he was told, but Dumbledore suddenly disappeared!” the elf squeaked.

“Where’s Potter?” Snape asked sharply.

“I told Letty to stay with him. Trinky?”

“Harry Potter is still here, ma’am! But Dumbledore is gone…”

“Fawkes!” Snape muttered, slapping his forehead. “The phoenix can take him anywhere—no barriers can stop it!”

“So he doesn’t even show on the map?”

“Maybe Trinky and Dixie didn’t notice the bird,” the elf admitted, ears drooping. “Mr. Berkley told us to watch the grounds. Trinky only realized Dumbledore was gone by chance…”

“Well, at least Potter hasn’t vanished,” Marina Nikolaevna sighed in relief.

“Where could Dumbledore have gone?” Ingebjorg mused aloud. “And why?”

“I have no idea,” Snape admitted. “Especially after everything that’s happened… Perhaps to meet Voldemort? Or somewhere else entirely…”

“Well, that means we have even less time,” Marina Nikolaevna said firmly. “Who knows what Dumbledore might do next? Ingebjorg, I’ll send Potter to you for detention. Show him… everything.”

“Of course,” Ingebjorg nodded. “The technical arrangements will be Hrafn’s responsibility. Dvergar know this craft well.”

“Maybe we should call someone from St. Mungo’s?” Marina Nikolaevna suggested.

“It’d take too long to explain. Better to involve some retired Aurors,” Snape interjected.

“Don’t you hate them?”

“There’s a lot of people I don’t like…”

“Let’s go,” Marina Nikolaevna said. “Maybe Dumbledore left some clues. You know how he loves riddles—he might’ve left us one now.”

“Yes, let’s,” Snape agreed. “Ingebjorg, you…”

“No one else will see your memories,” she assured him. “Only the one they’re meant for. Now go!”

Out in the corridor, Marina Nikolaevna glanced at Snape and sighed. He looked dreadful.

“You don’t have another lesson today, do you?” she asked.

“No.”

“And neither do I…” A long pause followed, until she finally added, “That was a hint.”

“Let’s not bother with hints, all right?” Snape said wearily. “I’m too far gone for them.”

“Fine, no hints…” She glanced at the clock. “An hour and a half before my first class, and three hours for you. Need more details?”

“No, but your quarters are closer,” he said immediately, and then smirked. “You know, Dumbledore also fits the prophecy.”

“How so?”

“His birthday’s at the end of July or early August—he’s not even sure himself. There’s your ‘seventh month.’ And his hand… If we shoved that cursed, Voldemort-afflicted hand down the Dark Lord’s throat, it’d do the job nicely.”

“Except over a hundred years ago, when Dumbledore was born, no one had even heard of Voldemort,” Marina Nikolaevna sighed. “And his parents couldn’t have defied someone who didn’t exist.”

“Pity,” Snape replied with absolute seriousness.