Chapter Three: Requiem of Revelation
Seven days… the time allotted by Creation to fill the Void with stars, to set the Earth spinning, to kindle the spark of Life. Seven days… a breath, an eternity… all dependent upon the perspective of those living within… or through… that span of time.
For Minerva, the past seven days had been both -- a dizzying flash, a ponderous morass. Upon her return from Gwaun, she had immediately dispatched one of her personal owls to the Healer, bearing the cryptic message, “Send word”. She knew this faithful owl, long trusted to deliver communiqués between members of the Order, would wait patiently for Gareth’s reply. She remembered the familiar Muggle adage, “No news is good news", and tried to find solace in that old saying, for no message came. Hagrid had approached her several times each day, eyes full of his unspoken question, and she had shaken her head. “No, there is no message.” It saddened her to see the changes in her friend’s face, the deep furrows and lines etched around his eyes, across his brow -- tracks of sorrow and painful memory she had never seen there before. He seemed far less inclined to pause for a chat, to ramble on about some inconsequential event in his daily life. She knew he carried his newly acquired burden of secrecy with an altered heart.
The first several days after the Battle had been devastating and exhausting. So many wounded and traumatized to be cared for and arrangements made for the memorials of far too many beloved. The chambers, halls, and grounds of Hogwarts Castle echoed with the sounds of weeping, words of comfort and remembrance, the mournful music of requiem. Each grieving family had received Minerva’s strength as she held them weeping in her arms. She was the rock against which those who had suffered the loss of their most dear could hurl their anger, their denial, and their wrenching grief. As acceptance began, she became a foundation upon which they struggled to build their first hopes for renewal, for a life no longer pillaged by terror and deceit.
In the dead of night, at the end of the first day, the decimated corpse of Tom Riddle was removed from the anteroom of Hogwarts by a delegation of veteran Aurors, accompanied by Minerva and the senior members of the Wizengard. Officials from the Ministry were oddly absent, shunning any association with even Riddle’s body. Once outside the school grounds, they had Apparated to a clearing deep within the remote reaches of the Forbidden Forest, met there by Hagrid and a bristling Swedish Short-Snout, moon glow reflecting from its cerulean scales. Gathered around the Dark Lord’s remains, none offered any eulogy nor uttered any word, save one command spoken to the dragon in solemn unison.
“Flamma.”
The dragon’s fire exploded in a brilliant arc of light and heat, the most intense of all Magical flame, consuming in an instant the body of He Who Must Not Be Named, leaving only a handful of ash on the Forest floor. One Auror, the most trusted senior member of his Order, stepped forward to encase the ash in a heavily warded urn of iron. Concealing the urn within his cloak, he turned to face the others, his right hand extended to receive the touch of the wands of Minerva, his fellow Aurors, and the Wizengard, each weaving a Circle of Commitment and Protection around him. Hagrid stood apart, his great hand on the dragon’s neck, his wand hidden by necessity. He could not participate openly, but his attention was no less keen when the senior Auror spoke.
“It is my Pledge, my Trust, my Vow, to carry this Vessel to the farthest regions of the Earth, to consign it to the Flames of the Core so that it should never again be opened, and its contents never again unleashed upon the Worlds.”
All present nodded in silent acknowledgement, even the dragon standing quiet. Henceforth, this Auror’s sacred obligation would be his Pledge. The remains of Tom Riddle’s body must mirror his shattered soul -- never again to be resurrected, never again to personify death and havoc, never again to be whole.
At eventide of the second day, Minerva and Harry climbed the long winding staircase to the top of the Astronomy Tower, recalling the day when the Wizarding World had shifted, changing forever. They sat together through the long fragrant night, the elder witch talking with Harry, allowing him to mourn, to connect with the realization he was no longer the lamb of sacrifice, to understand he could now begin the life of a young man with dreams and aspirations. She shared her memories of his parents, and her reminiscences of Albus Dumbledore, the fallen members of the Order, the lost children of the Army. Only one person she refused to speak of -- Severus Snape. She withdrew from Harry’s questions, saying the subject was too painful. He respected her wishes, but she knew her reticence troubled him. There seemed a desperate need in the young wizard to learn more about the man to whom he owed so much. She dared not look in his eyes, to speak to him of Severus… or she would surely break and reveal her profound secret.
By sunset of the fourth day, Hogwarts was closed, waiting for major repairs to begin. The last of the students had gone home to the harbor of family and friends. Minerva had remained at the gates as the students departed, acknowledging all, embracing many, urging them to rest and grow strong during the summer holidays, encouraging them to keep up with their studies, but also to spend time glorying in the richness of simply being alive! Some seventh years had inquired reluctantly about NEWTs and had been reassured there would be the opportunity, later in the summer, before the new term began, to return and complete the process of examinations and graduation.
The dead lamented and honored, the wounded tended to, her students safe, Minerva had spent the following two days walking every inch of castle and grounds with Filch -- assessing damages, overseeing careful storage of artifacts, books and equipment, and insuring wards were in place and any remaining staff and faculty settled. Only two places in the castle had not yet echoed her firm step or received her personal attention -- the sanctums of the two Wizards whose memory was a wound she bore silently.
As dawn touched the horizon on the morning of the seventh day, no longer able to avoid the inevitable, she climbed alone to the Headmaster’s Office, her face strained with weariness. She had been unable still to steel her resolve to enter Severus’ personal quarters, but perhaps, in the sanctuary of the Headmaster’s Office, she might gather strength, readying herself for that final task. She noted that “Dumbledore” remained in place as the password to gain access, and the comprehension of who had placed that ward was a knife in her heart.
Standing on the threshold, she noted all portrait frames, save one, were empty, the occupants gone elsewhere in the castle to gossip, seek news, and recover from the tumult of recent events.
Her heart clenched as she realized Albus Dumbledore’s possessions, his papers and books, his trinkets and treasures, all remained precisely as he had left them. For nearly a year, all house-elves had been harshly denied permission to enter the room for any reason, upon threatened pain of torture, exile, or death. Minerva’s throat closed around her grief, for she understood now whose order had forbidden the house-elves from performing their tasks and whose hands had meticulously cared for every item, his actions no doubt cunningly concealed within some dark contrivance. If questioned by his fellow Death Eaters, he had surely sneered and asked why anyone would assume he would not keep trophies of his greatest kill, tokens of the immense victory he offered their Lord.
In the past year, she had been summoned only once to the Headmaster’s Office, to be tersely given new rules and regulations with which she, all staff and students must comply. There had been no greeting, no discussion, no dialogue -- only orders, delivered with cold authority and a curt dismissal. The room had been shrouded behind an impenetrable veil of shadow, lit only by scattered, flickering candles. She had not lingered for pointless argument, nor had she chosen to look into the face of the man seated, like a wraith, behind the great oaken desk. Had she done so, had she observed without prejudice, she would perhaps have seen -- the room had been skillfully staged to elicit uneasiness, obedience, and fear, but behind that ominous facade, its most beloved occupant was still enshrined, silently honored and mourned by the man who had killed him.
The only evidence of Severus was an aged, leather bound volume of Muggle philosophy -- “The Ethical Writings of Cicero” -- and a single glass, bearing the smoky residue of firewhisky, set on the wide window seat. Minerva envisioned him, sitting in the twilight stillness, reading and drinking -- alone with his demons. To all appearances, he had laid the book aside carefully, perhaps only moments before descending the staircase, moving into the shadowed corridors -- to look for Harry, to look for her -- to prepare for his final confrontation with the Dark Lord. No marker held his place in the book, as though he had not expected to return. The loneliness of these meager, stoic fragments was another wound to Minerva.
She hesitated before approaching the Pensieve, standing like a Grail, bearing the memories of two great Wizards. It seemed so small, to hold so much. She wondered whether the memories of the man hidden so far away in Gwuan slumbered peacefully within it, or were they swirling in chaos, as was he.
Harry had shared the Potions master’s memories with her, offering each as a gift of remembrance, trying to gain some understanding of the man he had so long despised.
Crossing to the portrait of her dearest friend, she positioned a wingback chair facing him, waiting patiently for acknowledgment. Presently, the dozing portrait woke and, turning his beautiful crystal blue eyes in her direction, smiled and beckoned, his hand no longer blighted by curses and pain.
“Dearest Minerva, are you well? I’ve heard you have officially been named Headmistress?” The elder witch nodded in confirmation. “It’s taken you so long to come to your Office. You should be seated in your Chair, Headmistress,” Albus Dumbledore gently chided.
She shook her head in denial. “I’m not quite ready to take up residence here, or sit in that Chair just yet, Albus.”
“I do understand, Minerva,” he replied. “You know, he would never sit there either, unless it was absolutely necessary to assert his authority over the staff -- particularly the Carrows -- or demonstrate to the Ministry his absolute control over the school. Otherwise he’d pace incessantly and stubbornly refuse to sit in what he vehemently insisted was my Chair.”
Minerva remained silent, for there was no question who they were discussing.
“Where have you hidden him?” Dumbledore posed his question without preamble.
Because deception between them was inconceivable, she whispered, without hesitation, “Within a name, in a place far from here, safe with a Muggle Healer who has deep understanding of our ways. Only Hagrid and I know he is alive, and where. I created a plausible lie. Since his body was missing, I openly speculated that werewolves had carried it off for their own grisly purposes, frenzied for revenge. The quantity of blood on the floor of the Shack made the lie most believable, and most have accepted my fabrication as truth. There is a certain irony in that, wouldn’t you say?”
Dumbledore nodded, saying nothing, waiting for Minerva to continue.
“There was no memorial service. It was painfully easy to persuade almost everyone he would not have wanted one. I arranged for a discreet plaque to be placed near the Restricted Section of the Library, since he was known to have a passion for books. It states his name, the years he served here, and that he was lost in the Final Battle of Hogwarts -- nothing more. No portrait has appeared of course, but since he is believed to have deserted the school, that was readily explained away. Harry will be my greatest problem there. He will certainly try to insist on a portrait. I must find a way to prevent that.
“Most people seem relieved to simply wash their hands of him. The Ministry is trying to sort itself, frantic to avoid recriminations. No one there is truly concerned with the ugly death of a Death Eater turned spy. Even Harry confronting Voldemort with the truth hasn’t convinced the majority of people.” Minerva’s mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. “Quite a few Ministry officials are claiming years as your spy do not negate his prior crimes, and that judgments against him should be meted out posthumously. How unforgiving people still can be, even now… particularly when condemning him diverts attention from them.
“Any Death Eaters who manage to evade the Aurors will certainly attempt to regroup, and should they ever suspect, they will not rest until they have found him. Of course, Rita Skeeter can scarcely contain herself; she is so eager to market one of her heinous fictions… my lie will certainly add grist to her mill. Albus, your spy was feared and mistrusted far too many years, and I’m sorry to say, often justifiably… forgiveness and perspective where he is concerned will not come readily… if ever.”
Dumbledore nodded his understanding as she continued. “After the Battle, when we felt safe to leave briefly, Hagrid and I hurried to recover his body before anything dreadful could happen to it. We believed it was our duty to carry our colleague home for a respectful burial. We did not expect to find him… alive.” Her hands clenched into fists, her face a mask of dismay.
Dumbledore sat musing for a time before responding. “I know you’re very angry, Minerva, and that you feel betrayed, but you must accept what was necessary. He and I were one another’s Secret Keepers for so very long, with no Fidelius Charm required between us.”
The witch stood abruptly, confronting the portrait, her eyes lit with a furious flame. “No! This was not necessary! One of you should have trusted me enough to reveal the truth!”
Her eyes welled with unshed, angry tears. She rarely allowed herself to cry in front of anyone, even this most trusted friend and confidant. Frustrated and anguished, she repeated the terrible confession she had made to the Healer.
“Albus, I cursed him as a coward and a murderer. I was ready… eager… to destroy him! This entire dreadful year, I have battled him in every conceivable way, instigating rebellion, undermining his authority. I despised him! How could you allow it, Albus? Surely, if he refused to trust me, at least you might have done so… ”
Dumbledore turned away to gaze from the window painted into his portrait before shifting in his chair to face her, his voice gentle and reminiscent, a tiny smile flickering in his eyes.
“You know he missed your company most of all, Minerva. He often spoke of you -- said he had rather enjoyed your duels over the merits of the students and their Houses. Make no mistake -- he was well aware of your surreptitious activities. He would complain bitterly about you and berate me that spying on Tom Riddle should have been your task -- that you would have relished the endeavor. He seemed quite certain of the demise you intended for him as well, should the opportunity present itself. He swore you were more a wand at his throat than Riddle himself. But he held profound respect for you and would have welcomed you as an ally, had the cost not been so great.”
The witch looked away, hearing in her mind the soft, chilling vibration of the well remembered voice of the Potions master, slicing through all resistance, a gleaming scalpel of logic and intellect, wielded with unerring accuracy. She recalled the rare times she had seen him smile, or heard him laugh -- the smile, a wasp’s sting -- the laugh, a punishing lash. Neither smile nor laugher ever touched those shadowed obsidian eyes. Yet, in the years they had been colleagues, she too had reveled in their verbal duels, their endless sparring. The knife in her heart twisted again, for she had missed his company as well.
Dumbledore remained silent, allowing her time with her thoughts, before he spoke again.
“The night I told him what Harry’s fate must be, he was furious. I was deliberately cruel, casually inquiring how many men and women he had watched die. In that moment, I believe he truly hated me. His eyes were as tortured as if I had cast the Cruciatus upon him, but he answered so quietly. ‘Lately, only those whom I could not save.’ He counted me among that number, it seems.
“He summoned his Patronus that night… such a beautiful Patronus… who would have imagined... Nevertheless, I needed the terrible wound of my solitary question to sharpen the focus he must have to cast the Killing Curse I required of him. That was my clear and calculated intention, you see… to pierce his heart irreparably, to enable him to fulfill the Vows he made. I am left to wonder who used him more cruelly all these years… Tom Riddle, or me.”
“Tom Riddle!” the witch fairly spat. “How can you even bear to speak his name?”
The great wizard’s eyes grew stormy, his face seared by anger.
“Because he is only Tom Riddle now. I trust that none will ever speak his name as Lord again. He was lord of nothing.”
Albus moved forward in his chair as though to be near her, as though he missed the comforting touch of a friend’s hand. Sighing deeply, he continued.
“Consider, Minerva, my Secret Keeper’s life after he fulfilled his Vow. Despised, feared -- without advocate, colleague, or true friend. He dared confide in no one, unless he wished to condemn them, and himself, to the horrors of Riddle. He procured a second frame for my use and hung it himself in his quarters, where even the Carrows dared not venture. That was the only place he felt somewhat assured we could speak openly. Here, in the Headmaster’s Office, he held himself in absolute control, knowing he was constantly under scrutiny by Riddle and the Ministry, but in his personal quarters, he often sank into rage and depression, and I feared for his sanity.
“If in the night he’d not been summoned by Riddle, he prowled the grounds, unseen by the rest of you on your assigned patrols. He rarely slept, other than for an hour just before dawn, and he ate almost nothing, relying on his firewhisky and potions to sustain himself.”
There was grief, and a trace of anger, in Dumbledore’s voice as he proceeded. “Did none of you notice how pale and thin he’d become, even for him? When he sent students to detention in the Forest with Hagrid, did none of you consider that odd, so unlike his usual behavior?”
The witch bowed her head, dismayed and ashamed. “No, Albus, we considered his appearance nothing out of the ordinary, and we were too filled with hatred of him to be concerned with odd behavior. We believed he had some twisted malignant intent, perhaps to focus the Carrows’ vicious attentions on Hagrid, just for sport. And I would remind you, Albus, neither of you intended us to see clearly, did you?” The grief and anger of Dumbledore’s tone was evident in her voice now as well.
Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again, as if willing himself to continue with such awful revelations.
“Several months after he’d returned as Headmaster, I came to the portrait in his quarters to receive his report. He was well into his firewhisky when I arrived, and I was shocked how badly his hands were shaking, though he tried to conceal that from me. Apparently, Riddle had been especially adept in casting the Cruciatus that night, for some perceived failure or slight. When he had given his report, I sought to steady him, saying his perceptions were always keen as a dagger’s edge. He studied me in silence, and I knew he was struggling not to collapse from pain, to maintain composure. His response has haunted me. I don't believe I have ever heard such bitterness or emptiness in any man's voice...
‘How fitting -- to be compared with the weapon of thieves, assassins, and spies. Yet, I would ask you, Headmaster, when an enemy holds you in his grasp, which blade comes to your hand most readily, to serve most faithfully?’
“He turned his back to me then, refusing to accept comfort of any kind, other than his own. Without intent, I had grievously wounded my Secret Keeper yet again.
“Wishing him to sleep for even an hour, I would often send Fawkes to sing to him. He tried to forbid it, but what could he do to prevent me?” Dumbledore shook his head, sadly recalling this small kindness he had attempted. “He would snarl at me to leave him in peace and take my ‘bothersome bird’ out of his sight, but when he had no will to fight, Fawkes and I would remain, guarding his sleep.”
Minerva nodded, wishing she could take her friend’s hand, knowing these revelations were torturous for him to share.
“Leave him in peace… I longed to do so… peace was my greatest wish for him. On rare occasions, he might sit reading, or even play a game of Wizard’s Chess with me, seemingly calm without the firewhisky or potions. But then, his Mark would burn, and he would storm out into the night to take his place yet again beside Riddle. I grieved for him, and for you also, Minerva. Knowing you had cursed him, that your wands were raised against one another, my heart broke for both of you. But there could be no stopping what had been set in motion… ”
Dumbledore stood then, leaning on his portrait chair, his face stricken with grief and guilt.
“This entire desolate year, he was preparing himself for the final confrontation, in service to me. Seeing him grow ever thinner and paler, I knew he was attempting something terrible. I slipped repeatedly into the frame in his quarters, perpetuating a cruel irony, spying on my spy. I was horrified at my discoveries. He had begun to direct his wand against himself… curses, hexes… Merlin forgive us both, even the Cruciatus… to ever increasing degrees… dosing with ancient and dangerous potions, though he knew they would instill vicious dependencies… all to reinforce his defenses against whatever Riddle would level at him should his duplicity be discovered.
“I fought with him terribly, forbidding him to continue. I threatened to reveal everything to you, to the Order. He laughed at my threats, bitter as gall.
‘Why should any of you presume to forbid me anything, even these measures? This is my path… I chose it… I will finish it.’
“It was true -- he had chosen, long ago. But it was I who continued to ready that path for him. Harry, though separated from all of you, had your love to sustain him, and the company of two most trusted friends. My Secret Keeper had only me, and he knew I would do nothing to hinder whatever preparations he chose to make. Insuring Harry would succeed was all that truly mattered.” Overwhelmed by emotion, unable to continue, the ancient wizard bowed his head, weeping soundlessly.
Minerva sat rigid and silent, waiting for this tide of grief to subside. What words could comfort her friend when she herself bore the same weight of sorrow and guilt? Choices made, words spoken, terrible wounds left unhealed. She waited for his tragic account to resume, and it soon did, spoken in a choked and anguished voice.
“After you confronted him, and he fled, I fought to stay connected with him, though he remained firmly Occluded. When Nagini struck, those barriers shattered. I felt him fall, and I shared the memories he gave Harry. When he was left behind, alone on the floor, I heard through him -- Riddle’s foul voice returning, speaking his name, calling him. In shock and pain, he answered, as he was trained always to do. He answered to his name, and Riddle’s hiss came stinging yet again out of the darkness.
‘Ecce in Tenebrae, Severus Tobias Snape, Quidam Derelictus. Behold in Darkness, Severus Tobias Snape, the One Forsaken.’
Dumbledore shuddered at the memory, and Minerva turned pale as death, not wishing to hear, but knowing she must.
“All these years, though he was invaluable, Tom Riddle despised him, fearing his intelligence and cunning. Believing his Servant might surpass him, even in Death, Riddle cast the Curse of Abandonment, an Unforgivable Curse long forgotten, forsaking the one cursed into unending darkness, never to pass through the Veil, nor to have even the pitiful companionship of roaming this World in ghostly form.”
Dumbledore sank back into his seat, shielding his face from Minerva.
“I could not prevent it. When he answered to his name, Riddle’s curse fastened onto him as swiftly as Nagini had done. I felt him struggle to reach me, to find me, his thoughts tearing through my heart."
‘Albus,… I am afraid.'
Twisting her hands together in agitation, Minerva rose to pace the room, just as her predecessor had done.
“I never heard him address you except as Headmaster or Dumbledore… never 'Albus'. We all knew his capacity to instill fear… he took some bitter enjoyment in doing so… but I never believed him afraid, except perhaps when he first came to us years ago.”
Dumbledore shook his head, remembering. “He never considered it proper to address me as Albus, even privately -- always so rigid about such matters. But, Minerva, fear was his constant companion. The duality of his deepest nature, his perceptions of his own unworthiness, his guilt and shame, his boundless rage, his memories, all tormented him. His struggle against himself, his fear of sinking forever into the abyss of the Dark Arts, was never ending.
“Some months ago, I stopped to visit the Fat Lady and she seemed greatly troubled. When I questioned her, she said ‘that awful Headmaster’ had been standing night after night, near the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, keeping to the shadows, and she was quite convinced she had seen him trembling…
“Naturally, I convinced the dear lady she was mistaken, that such a thing was not possible… but I had discovered his Boggart… a simple doorway, the portrait hole where he stood alone and ashamed when Lily left him, without even turning to look back. Such a small thing. How deeply he buried that awful secret all these years, concealing it even from me.”
The witch scarcely dared speak, tears openly streaming down her cheeks.
“I am so sorry… for all of us. But, Albus, I believe he is alive… I have had no message otherwise. All those dreadful measures he took have had some effect… How can this awful curse manifest itself, if he still lives and Riddle is dead? Harry threw that in Riddle’s face at the end… that he no longer had power, that his curses were weak and would no longer have their desired outcome!”
Dumbledore shook his head, his face still marred with the pain of all he had revealed.
“The Curse of Abandonment manifested because it was cast with Riddle still in the fullness of his power -- before Harry stood ready to make his sacrifice, armed with the memories he was given and all I had taught him. The Curse was strong and was accepted by my Secret Keeper because he believed himself forsaken. I dared divert no one from the Battle. The tiny thread of even one person’s absence might have been spun by fate into a fabric of defeat, and beyond the Veil, I needed to stand ready to meet Harry. I was forced to do what my Secret Keeper had always demanded of me… leave him… but not in peace.”
Minerva’s voice trembled in response. “The Healer says he suffers, that he is close to madness, wandering in a place Between… struggling to maintain control. Albus, he must not be left believing himself forsaken... This is horrible… I cannot bear it.”
She had returned to stand before the portrait, fixing Dumbledore with her gaze. The ancient wizard bowed his head, pondering. “We must assume the measures he took to prepare himself had some effect. But there are dire consequences to his actions, and they are devastating when coupled with Riddle’s curse.”
Minerva haltingly asked the question she would have given anything not to voice.
“Albus, if he survives… will he be mad?”
The prospect of her colleague’s brilliant mind torn to shreds was unbearable. She would wish him the peace of the Veil, if recalling him to the living would result in madness.
Dumbledore raised his eyes to hers. “I believe his disciplines will prevent him from falling into madness. Your Healer must help him overcome the ravages of the venom, and his dependency on the many potions he has been using. You and Hagrid must become his Secret Keepers now, and in due course, I believe there will be one other.
“His Secret Keepers must help him recover his past, for without it, he is empty. Riddle’s curse holds him obtunded -- lessened -- his mind clouded. His true name has been taken from him, and you must not attempt to use it to call him back. Riddle fastened the Curse to his name, creating an unbreakable Circle of Abandonment. Whenever his true name is spoken aloud, however unwittingly, he sinks deeper into the Curse. Yet, if that true name is never spoken, by any who either loved or hated him, he will fade and be forever lost. The Curse was intended to bind him in Death, between the Worlds. If he lives, I am unsure what the outcome may be.
“For the time being, speak to him, spend time with him, place familiar objects into his hands. This may begin to call him back. Gradually, his memories may surface in dreams and flashes of recognition, but many of these will be terrifying and shattering. Once discovered, the third Secret Keeper must agree to remain always near him, to help him understand. His magic will begin to surface, but will seem foreign, as though someone was whispering to him in a language not his own. You must determine together, as his Secret Keepers, when he may again have access to his wand. Tell no one, not even Harry. He would offer to be the third Keeper, but our dear boy must have the chance to live without another heavy burden placed upon his shoulders. He may have a role to play someday, but this is not the time.”
Sitting in rapt attention, Minerva noted everything she was told before answering.
“Hagrid and I will go to him as soon as possible. The summer holidays will permit us to slip away more frequently without being observed as closely. Certainly, no one would question our need for rest and retreat. We will keep close watch to determine the Third Keeper.”
She seemed almost joyous at the opportunity to perform some meaningful penance for her failure to see what should have been so apparent. Looking up at Dumbledore, she faltered at the terrible sadness still swimming in his eyes, and her heart froze. “Albus,… what have you not told me?”
Rising again to look out his portrait window, Dumbledore remained silent, his head bowed. At last, he turned back to face her.
“Minerva, I told you there would be consequences to the terrible preparations he attempted, coupled with the Abandonment Curse’s manifestation of unending darkness… ”
At his hesitation, a terrible truth began shaping in her mind, and she pulled her robes close around her, shrinking into her chair, covering her face, like a child hiding from unseen monsters.
“Albus? Oh, Albus, please no… no, this must not be… could even Riddle be so cruel?”
His face etched in sorrow, Dumbledore confirmed the final bitter manifestation of Riddle’s curse. “Cruelty was Tom Riddle’s greatest delight… ” The ancient wizard sank into his seat, dreading this final revelation.
“Minerva, you and Hagrid must be prepared, and ready to share with the third. If he lives, my Secret Keeper… our poor wanderer… will be blind.”
In His Name by Moira of the Mountain
Chapter Notes: Minerva sits with Dumbledore and receives devastating information.