Harry’s hands felt like bricks and an oppressive, motionless weight bore down upon his fingertips. They lay peacefully at his side, and although he sensed their heaviness, Harry could no longer ignore his desire to move them. Rigidly, he shifted his index finger and then his thumb. They brushed against the rumpled, worn out fibers of the dull colored blanket lying beneath him, and Harry felt a flexible ease to them now. Ripples of awareness lapped against the corners of Harry’s brain like the gentle sway of a pond at the water’s edge, and the laden fog shrouding his thoughts lifted. Harry drew in a deep breath, his chest rising, and then falling, as the crowd of faces surrounding him silently did the same. A sensation, like the feel of a cozy fire near the skin on a cold, damp day, radiated in the center of his chest and flowed outward towards his extremities. It surged through his veins, warming him from head to toe. Rolling his head upon the malleable surface of his feather-down pillow, Harry’s face came to rest just in front of Dumbledore’s, who remained seated on the bed next to him. Harry’s eyelids flickered. They, too, felt heavy, he thought, well aware of the fact that even if he could lift them, Harry wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to. He had been having the most wonderful dream about his parents and his godfather, Sirius.
The decision to wake was made for him by the late afternoon sun. Streaming in through the high, ornate windows of the hospital wing, it penetrated the thin sleeve of Harry’s closed eyelids, and his field of vision beneath them was filled with piercing light. It then faded and disappeared behind a passing cloud.
Slowly, Harry opened his eyes.
They fell blearily upon the figure sitting next to him. Harry adjusted his vision and saw the gentle, blue gaze of his old Headmaster and friend staring back at him.
“Have I died then, Professor?” Harry asked, assuming that he must surely have if Dumbledore were sitting before him now.
A faint smile passed over Dumbledore’s lips.
“No, Harry” he replied, “I assure you, you are quite alive…as am I.”
Harry’s brow furrowed, and a puzzled expression fell across his face. He had heard Dumbledore’s words quite clearly, but the logic in them escaped Harry. How is it, he wondered, that both he and Dumbledore survived? Harry opened his mouth to ask as much and quickly closed it again. Another question ” a more burning one ” crept into his thoughts.
“And what of Voldemort?”
Harry’s heart raced and he searched for the answer in the old Headmaster’s eyes. After a moment, that Harry swore felt like an eternity, Dumbledore spoke.
“Vanquished,” he replied, bowing his head slightly. “Thanks to you, Harry…thanks to you.”
Harry closed his eyes, drew in another deep breath, and this time a triumphant smile spread widely across his face as he exhaled. So, this is what it feels like to live a life without the likes of Lord Voldemort in it, he relished. Harry had dreamed of this moment, of the day when the Dark Lord ceased to be anything more than a distant memory to him. It’s over, thought Harry, it’s finally over. He was free. The sweet taste of victory lingered in Harry’s mouth and he savored it, but only for a moment. Harry’s eyes shot open. He stared at Dumbledore.
“Ron and Hermione?” Harry asked, his voice teetering between anxiousness and worry.
He watched as Dumbledore stood, inclined his head and gently nodded towards the other side of Harry’s bed. Following Dumbledore’s gaze, Harry laid eyes upon his two dearest friends.
“Welcome back, mate,” Ron responded with a catch in his voice.
Harry gave him a simple nod of thanks. He beheld his friends with glistening eyes. They were filthy and their clothes were torn and ripped as though they had crawled through a bramble. Ron wore a tired expression and stood close to Hermione, who remained speechless, something Harry was sure was a first, even for her. He noticed that her eyes were puffy and red. Plastered upon her face was a strange sort of smile, as though at any moment she was going to cast it off and dissolve into tears again. They looked absolutely dreadful, Harry thought; he might have considered razzing them about it had he not been so damned happy to see them.
Harry’s expression though, grew grim and he eyed Ron intently.
“Ginny?” Harry asked hesitantly. He was afraid to hear Ron’s answer.
Without a word, Ron’s eyes drifted towards Hermione, and Harry felt a sinking feeling settle somewhere down around his navel. They shuffled aside, and the lunge in Harry’s stomach quickly dissipated. Ginny stepped forward. She stood only a few inches away from him, still clasping his wand. Harry fixed his weary eyes upon her. He was certain that he had never seen anything more beautiful in all his life. Ginny knelt next to his bed, her long, fiery red hair falling slightly in her face and Harry felt the warmth of her touch against his cheek.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered.
A solitary teardrop trickled down her face, and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, Harry gently brushed away the tear.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he replied. Harry stroked her face tenderly with the back of his fingertips.
He knew full well the understated simplicity of his words, and gazing deeply into her tear-stained eyes, searched for the humor behind them. She smirked and affectionately rested her head against the palm of his hand.
A few days later, Harry was released from the hospital wing. His account of what had occurred in the forest between him and Lord Voldemort had spread far and wide - beyond the students, beyond the castle walls and it wasn’t long before the tale took on a life of its own. Rumors, exaggerated versions, and outright lies surfaced with each retelling of the story by those not exactly in the know. Anyone else might have found it downright infuriating, but not Harry; he was used to it by now.
Having been summoned by Dumbledore, Harry made his way along the seventh-floor corridor to the newly reinstated Headmaster’s office. He halted before the single gargoyle that stood against the wall.
“Canary Cream,” said Harry, and the gargoyle jumped aside.
The spiral stone staircase revealed itself and Harry rode it to the top. He came to rest in front of the gleaming wood door and saw the reflection of his own image staring back at him in the familiar brass knocker that hung upon it. Harry knocked.
“Come in,” Dumbledore replied.
He entered, and an immediate sense of comfort washed over Harry. The room looked exactly as he remembered. Fragile instruments, the color of mercury, shimmered and sat upon their designated tabletops, the likes of which, Harry often thought, looked much too heavy to be supported by such frail wooden legs. He made his way across the room, and passing the cabinet near the door, Harry noticed the familiar site of the Pensieve. It sat upon one of the shelves like an old, worn out version of a favorite book that Harry had lost himself in one too many times. He couldn’t help but feel an odd sort of affection for it now. Harry smiled fondly at it and approached Dumbledore’s desk. The portraits of all the old Headmasters and Headmistresses around the room were awake and quite animated. Harry could tell by their expressions that they were pleased to have Dumbledore back in what they all considered to be his rightful position, and Harry noticed that the frame that had once contained Dumbledore himself, now hung empty.
“Ah, Harry I trust you are feeling much better?” asked Dumbledore.
“Yes, sir, I am. Thank you.” Harry replied, still smiling.
“Please,” Dumbledore offered, indicating the seat in front of his desk.
Harry sat and noticed the phoenix named Fawkes sitting on its perch just to his right. The bird nestled against its own wing.
“So you’re staying on then?” Harry inquired, drawing his eyes back towards the Headmaster.
“Quite,” answered Dumbledore. “Once word spread of my awakening, it was only a matter of time before I was approached about resuming my duties as Headmaster.”
“And Professor McGongall?” Harry asked.
“Ah, Minerva was all too willing, I assure you, to step down,” replied Dumbledore. “I daresay this last year has been most difficult on her. But nonetheless, she will remain Head of Gryffindor House and continue to teach Transfiguration."
Harry gave a nod of agreement at what seemed like the best solution for everyone. The conversation died down, leaving an almost uncomfortable quietness between them, and although Harry felt the careful gaze of Dumbledore’s eyes still upon him, his own eyes wandered. Harry had so many questions. So much that he wanted to ask.
But where to begin?
“Sir…” Harry started and he searched for just the right words. His eyes met Dumbledore’s. “How is it that I’m alive? I mean…I inflicted the Killing Curse on myself,” he added, rushing through his words now as he tried to make sense of it all. “There’s supposed to be no coming back from something like that! By all accounts, I should be dead…but I’m not. Instead, I’m here…alive and well. How is that even possible?”
Dumbledore drew in a deep breath and reflected for a moment upon the weight of Harry’s question.
“I suspect,” replied the Headmaster, “that it was the culmination of two very separate, yet powerful elements. One, which resides within you,” he rose, stepped around the desk, and strode over to the phoenix. “And the other within your wand.”
Pausing for a moment to admire the bird’s brilliant red and gold plumage, Dumbledore faced Harry and continued on.
“As I have said on numerous occasions, your ability to love is perhaps your greatest strength. In essence,” cited Dumbledore, “it has allowed you to put the welfare of others before your own, and in destroying Lord Voldemort that love propelled you, Harry, to make the greatest sacrifice of all…your life for theirs. But, it was the phoenix tail residing within the core of your wand that I believe brought you back.”
Dumbledore’s words registered slowly in Harry’s mind, and almost mechanically, Harry felt for his wand. His fingers closed around its smooth, wooden base, and withdrawing it from his pocket, Harry gazed down at it now lying in his hand.
“The phoenix is perhaps the most magical and eternal of all creatures,” noted Dumbledore and he sat. “As you know, it possesses tears of healing and is capable of withstanding even the heaviest of burdens…and, it can live for centuries,” added the Headmaster "dying only to be reborn again from its own ashes. That, in a sense, is what I believe happened to you."
“But, Professor,” replied Harry, “Voldemort’s wand contained the same, so wouldn’t it stand to reason that the core of his wand should have saved him as well?”
“In theory, yes” responded Dumbledore. “But Harry, you must remember that no matter how similar the two of you may have been, it was your choices that separated you. Lord Voldemort chose to take his exceptional skills and abilities and use them to perform the most atrocious acts that in the end were beneficial only to himself. You, on the other hand,” added the Headmaster, “have been nothing but loyal to those surrounding you…which is perhaps the most important characteristic that a phoenix values. Therefore, it is no wonder to me that when you willingly sacrificed yourself to destroy Lord Voldemort, it was your wand that protected you the most.”
Harry rose to his feet and looking down at his wand, placed it again at his side. Crossing the room, he stood before Fawkes. The bird lifted his head and looked directly at Harry as if he truly understood the unspoken gratitude just behind the young wizard’s eyes. Reaching out, Harry gently brushed the bird’s feathers with the back of his fingers. The phoenix burrowed against the warmth of his hand.
A dismal expression crossed over Harry’s face.
“Why so sullen, Harry?” Dumbledore asked from behind his desk.
“I was just thinking about Voldemort’s wand,” Harry replied. He faced the Headmaster. “I mean, it’s a bit ironic, don’t you think, that after all that he went through to obtain immortality, what Voldemort desired most was perhaps the one thing he had at his fingertips the entire time…to a certain extent, anyway.”
“And yet, nonetheless it was an error in judgment that anyone of us could have made,” responded Dumbledore. “Especially, when we allow ourselves to pay more attention to what it is we think we want, than to what it is we actually have…an unfortunate mistake that I daresay, is rarely realized by most until it is too late.”
Harry gazed at Dumbledore and his eyes acknowledged the wisdom behind the Headmaster’s words.
“Sir…” Harry asked delicately, “do you know how I became a Horcrux?”
“I believe I may,” replied Dumbledore.
Harry crossed the room. He sat before the Headmaster with blatant expectation in his eyes.
“As you know, I have long held the belief that Lord Voldemort entered your parent’s home that night with one Horcrux yet to be cast,” the Headmaster began, “and that he did so with the intention of creating it with your death.”
Harry nodded, calling to mind their previous discussion.
“I have since come to believe that your mother’s sacrifice that night caused two things to occur,” continued Dumbledore. “First and foremost, it provided you with a protective shield that, when cast, caused the Killing Curse to rebound upon Voldemort. And secondly, that the unexpected murder of your mother was a brutal enough act on Voldemort’s part to warrant that his soul rip from its last remaining piece. That piece then slipped into his wand, where it waited to be cast as the final Horcrux.”
“But, it never made it into that object,” added Harry and he quickly thought it through, “because the Killing Curse rebounded on Voldemort before he could cast it.”
“Yes,” responded Dumbledore, “that is what I believe happened.”
“But, Professor…” noted Harry, “surely Voldemort knew that his soul was being torn apart.”
“Not necessarily,” replied the Headmaster. “I suspect that a body possessing a severed soul does not feel as you and I do, Harry. Not to mention the fact, that Voldemort clearly underestimated the significance of your mother’s love for you...why then, are we expected to believe that he would have recognized the significance of her death?”
“But none of this explains how I became the final Horcrux?” Harry added impatiently. “I mean, both of my parents were dead and Voldemort had vanished. I was the only one left…so how did the piece sitting in his wand, find its way into me?”
Dumbledore surveyed Harry for a moment over his half-moon spectacles and continued on.
“While you may have been the only one left, Harry…” noted Dumbledore, “you were by no means alone. There was another in the house that night…someone your parent’s trusted,” he added, acknowledging the puzzled expression upon Harry’s face. “…so implicitly, in fact, that they made him Secret-Keeper.”
“Pettigrew!” Harry spouted and a nasty taste rose into the back of his throat.
Dumbledore nodded.
“After telling Lord Voldemort where to find your parents,” stated the Headmaster, “Peter went to their home ” perhaps, out of genuine remorse for what he had done, or to merely satisfy his own morbid curiosity ” something, I am afraid, we may never know. But, by the time he arrived, your parents had already been murdered and Voldemort had vanished.”
Harry rose to his feet and hearing Dumbledore’s words, robotically made his way to the tower window. He rested his hands upon the sill. Harry closed his eyes and a flash of familiarity streaked across his memory. The unmistakable features of Peter Pettigrew punctuated his thoughts, and Harry saw the man quite clearly now in his head:
He stood at Harry’s crib side, peering over the railing at him with his parasitic, beady, little eyes. A ghastly combination of horror and amazement was frozen upon his face and his mouth, having fallen open, revealed a sizable set of teeth that were beginning to yellow. Pettigrew’s eyes widened, and shifting them alarmingly from left to right, quickly turned his head towards the door. He listened for something Harry could not hear. Drawing his sights back towards the crib, Pettigrew halted and fixated his eyes upon the floor. His nose twitched in what Harry considered now to be in a very rat-like way, and bending his stout frame momentarily out of sight, returned to the crib side holding a wand. Pettigrew caressed it, allowing his stubby fingers to stroke its intricate wooden detail in a mesmerizing fashion. He perused it affectionately, unaware of its tip, that tilted precariously towards Harry. With the roar of an engine, Pettigrew was jolted from his reverie, sparking another flash of light.
Harry cringed at the burning sensation that he somehow already knew would follow. He raised his hand to his forehead and rubbed his scar. Harry opened his eyes. He stared blankly out across the school grounds, unaware of neither the clear blue sky above, nor the blinding sunlight that now streamed across his fingertips, warming them. The memory was so clear and although he had never seen it before, Harry knew that it had always been there just waiting for the right moment to emerge.
“Peter found you in the nursery...” Dumbledore added, "where he also stumbled upon Lord Voldemort’s wand. But before he could piece together what had happened, he heard Sirius’ motorcycle…and in his haste to flee, he inadvertently discharged the last one-seventh of Voldemort’s soul into you - a detail that, I am sure, he neither understood, nor ever planned on sharing with anyone.”
“And so he left,” said Harry, at a loss for words.
“Yes…narrowly escaping through the back door, just as Sirius entered through the front,” elaborated the Headmaster. “Sirius then, of course, found you and your parents…and a short while later, Hagrid arrived with orders to bring you directly to me.”
“Which he did,” recalled Harry, “on the motorcycle that Sirius lent him.”
“And once you were safely in the air…” added Dumbledore, “Sirius buried Lily and James.”
Harry swallowed hard at the sound of Dumbledore’s words and tried to stifle the picture in his head of Sirius burying his parents, beneath the moonlight. It must have been sheer agony, thought Harry, and he wondered how his godfather ever mustered the strength to get through it.
“Only recently, was I in a position to perform Legilmency upon Peter, to determine the true events of that night,” Dumbledore responded, already anticipating Harry’s next question.
“And do you suppose Voldemort did the same?” asked Harry, and he lethargically took his seat again. “I mean…is that how he knew that I was the final Horcrux?”
“I imagine he sensed, at some point, that Peter was hiding something from him,” answered Dumbledore. “But I am sure he knew immediately that something was amiss the night he murdered Frank Bryce and was then unsuccessful in casting Nagini as his last Horcrux. Perhaps, he even caught a glimpse of something familiar inside of you,” added the Headmaster, “the night he possessed you at the Ministry of Magic.”
“But you also told me that Voldemort found out that night that he couldn’t possess me without suffering mortal agony,” noted Harry. “So, why then was he able to do so in the Forbidden Forest?”
“Because by then, Harry,” responded Dumbledore, “all of the other Horcruxes had been destroyed. At that point there was so little left of Voldemort’s soul that I doubt he felt much of anything by the time he took possession of you again in the forest.”
Rising to his feet, Dumbledore again stepped out from behind his desk and stood before Harry, who glimpsed at the Pensieve sitting on the shelf behind them.
“…for neither can live while the other survives,” Harry repeated the words of the lost prophecy under his breath. “It didn’t mean what we thought, did it Professor?” and he eyed Dumbledore again. “It wasn’t about us killing one another at all.”
“No, Harry,” replied the Headmaster. “I suspect now that it had more to do with your inability to live as one. For you to survive in that state would have required you to have allowed your soul to die,” added Dumbledore. “Just as for Lord Voldemort to sustain any type of meaningful existence would have required him to split your soul just as he had done to his own. An option, that I am sure, he expected to be much more preferable to you than death.”
“But it wasn’t,” Harry adamantly replied and he sprung to his feet. “The thought of it only made me want to fight back even more!”
“And why do you think that was?” Dumbledore asked and he allowed Harry to reflect for a moment upon his question. “Because, Harry, where Voldemort places his faith in objects ” such as he did with the Horcruxes ” you value life. It wasn’t Voldemort’s quest for immortality that drove him,” added the Headmaster, “it was his fear of death. To Lord Voldemort there is no worse fate…which is precisely why he never expected you to so willingly choose it. It was perhaps the most serious miscalculation he could have made.”
“And yet in the end,” responded Harry, “he died anyway.”
“If he ever really lived at all,” Dumbledore mused. He placed his hand upon Harry’s shoulder and looked him squarely in the eye. “You see Harry, oftentimes, the fear of death can place far greater constraints upon us than the actual act itself. To dwell upon it, as Lord Voldemort did, can only keep one from truly living.”
An air of understanding hung between them. The Headmaster’s words lingered heavily in Harry’s mind. He knew that they applied as much to his own life as they did to Voldemort’s and although it was true that Harry had never feared death outright, the death of his parents had always consumed him. How many times marveled Harry, have I thought about them…wondered what my life would have been like had they lived? No detail was too mundane to imagine. Was my mum as good a cook as Mrs. Weasley? Would we have had a pet, and if so, what kind? Would I have had siblings? Questions like these wandered incessantly through Harry’s mind. He had allowed hours of his life ” no matter how good it was at the time ” to merely slip away thinking about them, in lieu of actually living his life.
Harry gazed at Dumbledore and the expression upon the Headmaster’s face kindly revealed that he knew Harry had taken his words to heart. With a reassuring pat, Dumbledore released his grip and Harry watched as the Headmaster removed his worn and withered hand from his shoulder.
“Sir…your hand,” Harry spoke up in disbelief. He stared at the appendage that had once been nothing more than a charred remain. “It’s completely healed!”
“Yes,” Dumbledore replied and he flexed the limb in question about freely. “It is truly amazing what a little rest will do for the body. In conjunction, of course,” he added, “with one of Severus’ many potions. I only wish that I had had the opportunity to thank him.”
Harry cringed at the mere mention of Professor Snape’s name. It was a name that brought with it a flood of memories that Harry would just as soon forget, but somehow knew he never would. I hated the man, thought Harry, but perhaps what he hated more was the way Dumbledore always spoke so kindly of him.
“You mean the same man,” Harry asked bitingly, and he clenched his fists, “who didn’t think twice about inflicting the Killing Curse upon you when the opportunity finally presented itself? Or have you forgotten that?” he added, with an undeniable fire in his eyes. “Because I can assure you…I haven’t.”
“Oh, Harry,” Dumbledore replied with a saddened and weary voice. “There are many things that I regret, but none more than making you witness what took place that night.”
“Do you even know how helpless I felt?” Harry asked sorrowfully. “Hidden there beneath my cloak, unable to move, to speak…to help you.”
The last of his words trailed off and met the lump in his throat that Harry tried to suppress with the onset of his tears.
“And it is for that very reason,” Dumbledore replied, his own eyes now glistening, “that I could not risk having you act by your own volition. To allow you to do so would have put you in grave danger,” he added. “Had it not been for Professor Snape…”
“Had it not been for Professor Snape,” Harry abruptly cut in, “you wouldn’t have been as weak as you were that night and might actually have had a chance to defend yourself! It was Snape,” added Harry brusquely, “who created the basin that we found in the cave that night, and it was Snape who made the liquid you drank from it! Or did he conveniently forget to mention that?”
“On the contrary,” Dumbledore calmly replied, “I was quite aware of the role Severus played, Harry, in regards to the basin and the liquid contained therein.”
Harry felt his mouth fall open in disbelief.
“And as I was saying,” added Dumbledore, “had it not been for Professor Snape, I would most assuredly be dead. Yes, Harry, Severus did create the basin and likewise the liquid within it. Both of which he confided in me quite freely.”
“Well if he was so forthcoming,” Harry quickly noted, “then why didn’t he spare you the trouble by simply telling you that the locket at the bottom of the basin was a fake?”
Dumbledore quickly opened his mouth to reply and thinking better of it, closed it again. Harry could tell by the expression upon the Headmaster’s face that he was trying his patience and although Harry knew that under normal circumstances he might have cared about this, at the moment he simply did not.
“Because, Harry,” Dumbledore replied with restraint, “he did not know about the locket. As you are well aware, Voldemort confided his knowledge about the Horcruxes to no one…not even Severus.”
“That still doesn’t excuse what Snape did,” said Harry. “He may have been upfront with you about the basin, but that didn’t stop him from allowing you to weaken yourself by drinking from it…something I’m sure he knew would only make it that much easier on himself when the time came to raise his wand to you!”
“While it is true that Severus, as you say, took advantage of my weakened state,” replied the Headmaster, “it was imperative Harry that I first drink from the basin before being inflicted with the Killing Curse. It was the liquid that ultimately sustained me. You see,” added Dumbledore “that liquid ” although weakening me considerably ” created within me a very powerful buffer between that of life and death. By ingesting it first, it allowed my body to negate any lasting affects that such an infliction would have normally caused. It literally saved my life.”
“But what kind of potion would be strong enough to cancel out something as final as the Killing Curse?” Harry asked in an incredulous tone.
“The answer to that question was given to you, Harry,” answered the Headmaster, “in your very first Potions class with Professor Snape.”
Gathering his robe, Dumbledore drew up his chair and took his seat again. He rested his chin upon his folded hands and reflected in silence as the late morning sun drifted across the room.
Harry’s mind raced back to the events of that day. He and Ron had made their way down into the cold, creepy dungeon for class and Harry recalled the way Snape had looked at him with those same empty, black eyes that he had since come to know so well. Harry felt his face flush with anger at how the Professor had singled him out, rifling questions at him for no other reason than to publicly humiliate Harry when he was then unable to give the correct answers.
Funny thing is, thought Harry, had Snape asked those same questions of him now, he would have been able to answer them, for he had come into direct contact with most of them throughout his years at Hogwarts. The bezoar, a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, had indeed saved Ron’s life after being poisoned ” just as Snape had said it would. And Harry had learned all about monkshood and wolfsbane from Remus Lupin, who oftentimes took a potion that included this plant in order to prevent himself from becoming a werewolf.
And then there was…
Harry looked at Dumbledore.
“Asphodel and wormwood,” answered the Headmaster, as though he had clearly read Harry’s mind, “when combined make a most powerful sleeping potion. So powerful in fact,” added the Headmaster and he lowered his hands, “that it is often known as the…”
“Draught of the Living Death!” Harry spoke up, finishing Dumbledore’s thought with a renewed sense of understanding.
“Yes,” confirmed Dumbledore, “allowing me to take on the appearance of death while simply casting me into a most peaceful slumber from which I knew I would eventually awaken. It was a process that Severus and I had been working on to perfect for a very long time. However,” added the Headmaster and he met Harry’s eyes, “having said that, it is not without its faults ” for to ingest too much, can cast a person, as the Muggles would say, into a coma-like state and too little, can leave a soul wavering between the world of the living and of the dead. But perhaps the most important detail to consider is time itself. You see, Harry,” continued Dumbledore, “there is a very short window of time available to the person between ingesting the liquid and the actual casting of the curse. If not done in proper measure, the desired outcome cannot be achieved.”
“That’s why you were so adamant about having me find Snape when we returned from the cave, wasn’t it?” asked Harry. “Because you knew he would recognize the fact that you had ingested the potion and inflict the Killing Curse on you before it wore off.”
“Yes,” answered Dumbledore. “And when it became apparent that Mr. Malfoy was not up to the task, Severus stepped in.”
“But why?” asked Harry. “Why was it even necessary for you to fake your own death?”
“Because it was of the utmost importance at that time,” responded Dumbledore, “for Voldemort and his followers to believe that they had truly succeeded the night that the Death Eaters gained access into Hogwarts. Not to mention the fact,” he added, “that Severus’ role in my death would solidify his status as a double agent, leaving very little room for anyone to question his loyalty to Lord Voldemort.”
Harry took a deep breath and lowered himself into the chair opposite Dumbledore.
“I think it would be quite fair to say then,” added the Headmaster, “that Professor Snape was not nearly the monster everyone thought he was. After all, Harry, he gave his life for our side.”
Harry felt a twinge of shame, for he knew that he had been one of the many who had often misjudged the man. No matter how justifiable it seemed at the time, he thought now.
“Voldemort told me that Snape was in love with my mother,” Harry whispered. He looked at the floor. “Was that true?”
“It was,” Dumbledore replied. “I must say that Severus was most aggrieved when he learned of Lily’s death. It was shortly thereafter that he made the conscious decision to desert Lord Voldemort.”
“So my mother was the reason you trusted him,” surmised Harry in the smallest of voices.
“Yes, that was what prompted my trust,” answered the Headmaster. “For as you know Harry,” added Dumbledore, and he once again met the boy’s eyes, “one cannot be touched by that kind of love and not be changed by it."
Dumbledore gave Harry a moment to digest his words.
“Which brings me to the other reason that I asked you here today,” added the Headmaster and the tone of his voice prompted Harry to sit a bit more at attention in his chair. “Given all that has transpired over the last several months and the untimely demise of Professor Snape, I am afraid that I once again find myself without a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. I would like to offer the position to you.”
“Me?” Harry replied. He was quite taken aback by the offer. “But sir, surely I’m not qualified.”
“I think we can both agree that your firsthand experience on the subject more than qualifies you,” answered Dumbledore, “and I daresay, you would be hard pressed to find anyone who would disagree.”
A teacher? Harry thought to himself. In all the time that he had attended Hogwarts he had never even entertained the notion of teaching there. Well, thought Harry, except for that time when I taught the D.A. how to defend themselves behind Umbridge’s back. He had to admit that he enjoyed watching his fellow students learn to perform his lessons. And yet, whenever he thought about his future, Harry always saw himself more in the role of an Auror ” a place that he was sure was more befitting of his talents.
“So what do you say, Harry,” Dumbledore asked. “Will you take the position?”
Harry gazed at the Headmaster, his answer already formulating upon his lips.
Footnotes:
“…for neither can live while the other survives,” **Page 841, The Order of the Phoenix
** Draught of the Living Death reference based upon page 138, The Sorcerer’s Stone