[Prof Umbridge] Chapter 46

The Headmaster laid on the hospital bed, looking nothing like himself—and it wasn’t just the absence of his right arm.

“What do you think, Severus?” Ingebjorg asked as they entered, firmly waving off Madam Pomfrey. “Hold off on your potions, Poppy. Go tend to the Aurors instead—they need them more!”

“She’s right, Madam Pomfrey,” added Marina Nikolaevna. “There are wounded out there. Take care of them; there’s nothing you can do here!”

The healer nodded silently and shuffled off. The sound of clinking potion vials accompanied her muttering as she left, followed by the slam of the door.

“And where is…the arm?” Severus asked quietly. When Hrafn handed it over, wrapped in dark cloth, he raised his wand.

“Ah… The curse didn’t fully remain in the arm, as expected,” Snape muttered. “Madam Ingebjorg, you mentioned a way to expel it from the host’s body?”

“Yes, but it requires a volunteer. Someone who can share their memories with him,” she replied, holding up a vial of emerald potion.

“That would be me, it seems,” Snape said after a pause. “Dolores, make sure Potter’s all right. Is he here?”

“Yes, in the far corner. He’s sleeping,” Ingebjorg assured him. “He’s unharmed, alive, and well. Take this, Severus, and remember: he must drink every last drop. I cannot say how long it will take, nor what you will see…”

“What does it matter?” Snape said wearily. “But…he won’t bleed to death, will he?”

“Of course not…” Ingebjorg examined Dumbledore’s blood-matted hair and beard. “Perhaps this is fitting… In our culture, hair symbolizes the strength of life. I haven’t used hair in years, but… Let it serve as an offering.”

A blade flashed—not a druidic sickle, but a curved silver knife. The tiny bells tied to it jingled mournfully. Ingebjorg held the once-snowy beard of the Headmaster in her hand, murmuring softly.

“Hrafn, you know what to do with this,” she said. The dwarflike figure nodded and stepped out, returning moments later to stand silently beside her.

Without the long beard and glasses—where had they gone, fallen somewhere along the way?—Dumbledore could have passed for any elderly pensioner in a hospital bed, suffering from some mundane ailment like high blood pressure. Except, of course, for the bloodstained sheets. His arm had been frozen, but his clothes were soaked.

“We will wake him,” Ingebjorg said softly, pouring the potion into a hospital mug, “and you, Severus, will give him this. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Snape said after a moment, sitting at the edge of the bed.

Dumbledore’s eyes fluttered open. Once always bright and clear, they now seemed clouded, like a sick bird’s. His voice barely emerged in a faint rasp.

“S-Severus…please…”

“It’s all right, Professor,” Snape said, lifting the man’s head gently. “Here, drink this. It will help. Drink.”

The emerald potion shimmered as Dumbledore sipped, but he immediately coughed and tried to pull away.

Marina Nikolaevna bit her lip nervously—none of the potion seemed to diminish in the mug.

“Keep drinking,” Snape urged. “Drink, Dumbledore…”

The Headmaster gulped, staring at Snape with bleary, anguished blue eyes. Tears streamed from them as he weakly tried to push the mug away, but Snape persisted.

Another sip. And another. And another…

Marina turned to glance at Ingebjorg, but the seer stood like a statue, her hands clasped over the head of her staff. There was no point in questioning her.

“No more…please, no more…” Dumbledore moaned, shrinking from the cup. “I don’t want to…don’t make me… Let me go! It’s my fault, my fault… Please, stop—I’ll never, never again…”

Marina thought she saw shadows swirling around the bed—greenish, translucent shapes. A young man with golden curls… Another, resembling Dumbledore… And a little girl with long hair…

“Please, please, please… Not this, anything but this… I’ll do anything…Ariana!”

‘He might as well have said, ‘For the love of God, Montresor!’*’ Marina thought darkly. As if hearing her, Dumbledore groaned, “For the love of God, Severus…”

“Yes, for the love of God…” Snape whispered hoarsely. “Drink.”

“No more…I want to die! Just let me die! Please, let me die!”

“It’s so easy—to simply die,” murmured Ingebjorg. “No.”

“I can’t… Just kill me!”

The green light surrounding the two men grew brighter, and the phantoms of the past became more distinct.

The young man with curls—no, now a man, his face twisted with pain and rage—vanished in a flash of light.

Others appeared: familiar, unfamiliar, so many faces.

A handsome, dark-haired boy… Then a man with inhuman, slitted eyes…

Boys again—one eerily like Harry Potter, though far more confident and arrogant. Another unmistakably Sirius Black, his grin wolfish. Lupin, shy and guilty-looking. Pettigrew, ratlike even as a boy…

And a girl…

“Just a bit more,” Snape whispered. The potion in the mug still hadn’t lessened.

A green flash. Falling autumn leaves. Desperate eyes, lips silently forming the word: “Save! I’ll give anything, everything you ask, just save them…”

Another flash. A man with round glasses, a laughing woman, and a tiny baby…

“Drink…” Snape’s voice cracked. “Drink it all!”

“They trusted the wrong person,” Dumbledore murmured, as if continuing an old conversation. “Someone like you, Severus. Didn’t you hope Voldemort would make an exception for her…?”

Marina Nikolaevna had rarely seen men cry. The tears now streaming down Snape’s face were not drunken lamentations but raw, silent grief. As he bent closer to Dumbledore, they dripped from his hooked nose into the potion.

“Don’t touch him, Dolores,” Ingebjorg said sharply, her iron grip stopping Marina’s instinctive move toward the scene. “He drinks from the same cup now… Drinks and refills it, each sip growing more bitter. Can’t you see?”

“Is he…that guilty?”

“Of course. We’re all guilty of something, but these two—especially in their youth. Arrogance, hunger for knowledge, passion, lies, betrayal. The demons of their past will torment them until the end…unless they find a skilled psychoanalyst,” she added unexpectedly.

“What?” Marina stared at her in shock, then glanced at Dumbledore, writhing among the silent ghosts of his memories.

“I don’t live in some remote fishing village,” Ingebjorg said. “Magic isn’t all-powerful, you know.”

“Well, that was…unexpected,” Marina muttered, her gaze returning to Dumbledore and the ethereal figures swirling around him.

“One more sip,” Snape murmured. “For your favorite, James. For Lily. For their son… Go on, drink… And don’t forget me—drink to the dregs…”

Now Harry Potter's shadow appeared near the headmaster—it seemed to be attentively listening to some explanations, nodding as Dumbledore’s hoarse voice escaped his chest:

“It must be done… it must be done… I don’t want to, but there’s no other way! He must die… he must die by Voldemort’s hand; only then will the prophecy be fulfilled… Promise, promise me you’ll see to it, Severus… Do you hear me? Promise…”

Snape dropped the cup he was holding, and it clattered loudly to the floor—completely empty.

“What?” he said softly, his voice shaking. “I thought… all these years… that we were protecting him for her! For Lily…”

“We protected him because it was important to teach him, raise him, let him test his strength…” Dumbledore rasped, his eyes rolling back, revealing the whites. “The connection between them grows stronger… I think he suspects it himself… If I know him, he’ll arrange it so that when he goes to face death, it will also be Voldemort’s end…”

“Dolores, be ready; we risk losing the headmaster otherwise,” Ingebjorg murmured. “Hrafn, stay close.”

“You saved his life only so he could die at the right moment?!”

“Why are you so shocked, Severus?” Dumbledore whispered weakly. “How many deaths have you witnessed?”

“Lately—only those I couldn’t prevent,” Snape snapped, standing abruptly. “And you used me.”

The headmaster raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“I spied and lied for you, risked my life for you. I thought it was all to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. And now you’re telling me you’ve been raising him like a goose for the Christmas table?!”

“Severus, that’s so touching,” Dumbledore whispered seriously. “Have you grown to care for the boy?”

“For him?!” Snape’s voice cracked as he shouted, raising his wand. “For him?!”

“Don’t, Severus, he won’t understand,” Ingebjorg said softly, laying a commanding hand on his shoulder. She turned him towards her and embraced him.

Marina Nikolaevna noted mechanically that Ingebjorg was taller than Snape and wondered fleetingly whether she might have frost giants in her ancestry. She quickly shook off the thought.

“Remember what I told you about your creature?” Ingebjorg asked, stroking his head maternally as it rested against her shoulder. Her broad hand was as large as a bear’s paw. “As the poet wrote… A monstrous thing, immense, with triple jaws…”*

“The Cerberus must’ve sensed its kin when it snapped at me,” Snape quipped, though he neither pushed Ingebjorg away nor seemed eager to leave her embrace.

Marina Nikolaevna quietly stood and moved to the far side of the room, pretending to check on Potter behind a screen. She understood Snape might accept such a moment of vulnerability with a woman old enough to be his great-grandmother, but not a peer. She could still hear everything.

“Did you look?” Ingebjorg continued, her tone low but insistent. “Did you see the monster you’ve nurtured within yourself? You nod? Then drive it away!”

“I can’t kill it?”

“No. It will die on its own, of starvation. But don’t dare call it back—it will return if you tempt it with a morsel. Drive it away, and lock the gates tight. You already have enough burdens… your unfulfilled promises alone weigh heavy…” Ingebjorg sighed deeply. “Don’t dig up old graves, Severus. The past cannot be undone, nor the wrongs corrected. Tormenting yourself for youthful foolishness or repenting until your last breath won’t help anyone—not your present self, nor those around you. The living.”

“As if I don’t understand…”

“Then drive the creature away. You can do it, I know you can. You are not Dumbledore; you cannot keep it leashed and muzzled. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

“Yes, the headmaster’s beast is obedient,” Snape said with a short, bitter laugh, or perhaps a sob.

“Exactly. Even the emerald potion only briefly freed his monster, but as frail as Dumbledore is now, he’s already leashed the creature again. It’s well-trained. You, however, cannot manage that. It has nothing to do with your youth,” Ingebjorg paused before adding, “I can help you no further, Severus. Only you can do this.”

“I’ll try,” he said solemnly.

“There we go…” Judging by the sound, the seer gave him a hearty pat on the back. “Now pull yourself together; we still have to sort out Dumbledore! Dolores, where’ve you gone?”

“I’m here,” Marina Nikolaevna answered. “I was checking on Potter.”

“And?”

“He’s asleep,” she replied.

“Well, that’s good. Let’s finish our task… Remember, I said the flow of blood would help expel much of it?” Ingebjorg said, waiting for affirmations before continuing. “Let’s see what we’ve got!”

She touched the end of her staff to Dumbledore’s frozen stump, and the ice melted. Instead of blood, emerald potion flowed from the aged flesh, pooling in a flask Hrafn held beneath it.

“Healing this now is a simple matter,” the seer said as the last green tendril snaked out of the wound.

“Severus, you said you could animate a prosthetic,” Marina Nikolaevna reminded. “Or have you changed your mind?”

“No, why would I?” he replied evenly. “If I have the strength, I’ll try. But it’ll need proper materials; transfiguration won’t suffice.”

“Letty, fetch a gauntlet from the armor, one that fits the headmaster’s build,” she instructed.

“Yes, ma’am!” squeaked the elf, vanishing and returning moments later with the requested item. “Letty brought it!”

“Well, well,” Ingebjorg said with interest. “What are you up to now?”

“Field prosthetics,” Marina Nikolaevna explained. “Moody has a magical eye; why not a magical hand? You-Know-Who managed something nearly lifelike for his servant, but…”

“But I’m not him, and I’m casting this for the first time, so kindly keep quiet!” Snape snapped, raising his wand.

He cast nonverbal spells, his lips moving occasionally as he murmured incantations. It seemed as though he were conducting an invisible orchestra, and the precision was stunningly elegant.

“Look at that weaving, and not even a charms master…” Ingebjorg murmured, clearly admiring the intricate magic.

Marina Nikolaevna suspected the seer could perceive far more than just the visible patterns Snape drew in the air but chose to hold her questions.

“There,” Snape said at last, wiping his damp brow. “It should work.”

“Test the reflexes,” Marina Nikolaevna couldn’t resist suggesting. Snape cast a spell at the prosthetic hand, and its metal fingers twitched before clenching into a fist.

“It worked?!”

“Why wouldn’t it?” he retorted dryly, stowing his wand. His fingers trembled slightly from exhaustion. “Hmm… interesting. Where does Poppy keep her alcohol? Accio—”

“Better have this,” Ingebjorg interrupted, handing him a flask. Snape sniffed it warily.

“Don’t worry, just alcohol infused with herbs… And you could use some too, Dolores; you’re as pale as fresh snow!”

“Th-thank you…” Marina Nikolaevna stammered, sipping the potent brew. She had tasted rural moonshine and even pure medical alcohol before, but this concoction would outdo them all!

"Go and get some sleep," the Seer suggested. "I'll keep an eye on things here—both Dumbledore and the boy. Aren't there supposed to be Aurors around too?"

"They've already been patched up," Marina Nikolaevna sighed. "If they show up, it'll be on their own feet." She hesitated, then added, "Ingebjorg... thank you."

"Thank me? For what?" The Seer looked genuinely puzzled. "Go on now. You probably have students to calm down."

"True!" Snape immediately sprang into action.

Fortunately, the Aurors—acting on the orders of the High Inquisitor—refused to let students leave their common rooms, no matter how much their Heads of House insisted. They allowed the professors to enter the common rooms, but opening the doors for students to leave? Absolutely not, at least not until every nook of the castle had been searched, from the Chamber of Secrets to the weather vanes.

"Everything is under control," Snape announced after briefly checking in with his Slytherins.

Meanwhile, Marina Nikolaevna was negotiating with Berkeley, ensuring he'd proceed as planned and would send a school house-elf to fetch her if anything urgent arose.

"And Malfoy?" she asked.

"I’ve knocked him out cold. He won’t wake up until morning," Snape replied flatly. "I sent him to his dormitory and instructed the others not to disturb him. Judging by his bruised face, vague excuses, and the information about Dumbledore's severe injuries, I’m confident Crabbe and Goyle will conclude that Malfoy attempted to fulfill his mission and nearly succeeded."

"Does it even matter if there’s no way to communicate with the outside world?"

"Someone will always have a mirror, a journal, or something similar," Snape remarked. "A way to send a message will surface—you’ll see. Someone might even try signaling through a window with Lumos, or at least a candle."

"But not the Slytherins," she countered. "Their dormitories are underground!"

"And who told you that Dark Lord sympathizers can only come from Slytherin?" Snape raised an eyebrow. "Why are you looking at me like that? Surprising thought, isn’t it? If I were you, I’d start with Ravenclaw. They’d put my little snakes to shame when it comes to pursuing forbidden knowledge—and their lack of compassion for others."

"Severus, let’s discuss this tomorrow—well, later this morning," Marina Nikolaevna pleaded, her exhaustion evident. "I’m dead on my feet, and I can’t think straight anymore. That’s it—I’m done."

"Not surprising… Shall I escort you?"

"Letty can handle it. I’m literally bumping into walls at this point."

"A shame. I was about to offer you another drink. Exorcising demons alone is... well—" He paused, then admitted, "It’s terrifying. You heard everything earlier, didn’t you?"

"Yes… Fine, one more. But no overindulging! If we get attacked again, we’ll be useless!"

"For such occasions," Snape said dryly, "I always keep a stock of potions on hand—potions that could bring even Black back to full strength after a week-long bender. Highly effective. Tested on him, of course!"

______________________________________

TN:

* Quote from “The Cask of Amontillado” by Edgar Allen Poe. 

* Epigraph (a short quote or phrase at the beginning of the book or chapter) from Aleksander Nikolayevich Radishchev's “Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow”, adapted from Vasiliy Trediakovsky's “Tilemakhida” with slight changes.

Add. Notes: Tilemakhida is a free verse translation of François Fénelon's “Les Aventures de Télémaque, fils d'Ulysse” (The Adventures of Telemachus, Son of Ulysses). However, the phrase originates not from Fénelon's novel but from a blend of quotes in Virgil's “Aeneid”.

The phrase used to be a catchphrase to describe the serfdom in the Russian Empire.