Chapter 16 Mind Games

It was midweek, the third task of the tournament was not that far away and Harry found himself cursing himself, under his breath for the umpteenth time at having chosen to "study" divination. The tower was boiling hot as always as Professor Trelawney never opened the window and the heavy perfumed fumes washed over him. Despite his best efforts to stay awake – he had given up on learning anything in a particular class a long time ago; he felt his eyelids begin to droop. He nearly nodded off several times until finally sleep won out over his ability to focus on whatever vision of death his professor was currently going through.

Suddenly, he was riding the back of an eagle owl that soared through clear blue skies towards an old, rundown ivy covered house set high on the hillside. The creature descended, wind blowing gently in Harry's face until they reached a dark and broken window in the upper story of the house and entered. Now they were flying along a gloomy passageway that showed numerous signs of dank, rot and decay to the room at the very end of the corridor.

The door creaked open to reveal a dark room, where the windows were roughly barricaded. The occasional beam of sunshine was devoured by the shadows and the presence of something…evil. It was as if he was suddenly standing in a corner of the room, watching the owl as it fluttered across the room in to a high backed armchair. Two dark shapes were on the floor next to the chair. One was a massively long, almost evil looking snake. The other was a short balding man with watery eyes and a pointed nose, wheezing and sobbing on the hearthrug.

"You are in luck, Wormtail," said a cold, high-pitched voice from the depths of the chair in which the owl had landed. "You are very fortunate indeed. Your blunder has not ruined everything." A had reached out, to stroke the snake's head, "He is dead."

"My Lord!" gasped the man on the floor. "My Lord, I am… I am so pleased… and so sorry…"

"Nagini," said the cold voice, "you are out of luck. I will not be feeding Wormtail to you, after all… but never mind, never mind… there is still Harry Potter…" The snake hissed. Harry could see its tongue fluttering. "Now, Wormtail," said the cold voice, "perhaps one more little reminder why I will not tolerate another blunder from you…"

"My Lord… no… I beg you…"

The tip of a wand emerged from around the back of the chair. It was pointing at Wormtail. He screamed, screamed as though every nerve in his body were on fire, the screaming filled Harry's ears as the scar on his forehead seared with pain; he was yelling too… Voldemort would hear him, would know he was there…

"Harry! Harry!" Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of Professor Trelawney's room with his hands over his face. His scar was still burning so badly that his eyes were watering. The pain had been real. The whole class was standing around him, and Neville was kneeling next to him, looking terrified. "You all right?" he said.

"Of course he isn't!" said Professor Trelawney, looking thoroughly excited. Her great eyes loomed over Harry, gazing at him. "What was it Potter? Premonition? Apparition? What did you see?"

"Nothing," Harry lied. He sat up. He could feel himself shaking. He could not stop himself from looking around, into the shadows behind him; Voldemorts' voice had sounded so close…

"You were clutching your scar!" said Professor Trelawney. "You were rolling on the floor, clutching your scar! Come now Potter, I have experience in these matters!"

Harry looked up at her, "I need to go to the hospital wing, I think," he said. "Bad headache."

"My dear, you were undoubtedly stimulated by the extraordinary clairvoyant vibrations of my room!" said Professor Trelawney. "If you leave now, you may lose the opportunity to see further than you have ever -"

"I don't want to see anything except a headache cure," said Harry as he stood and brushed off his robes. The rest of the class however backed away from him, more than a little unnerved by what they had witnessed. Neville nodded ever so slightly, and Harry did the same in return as he picked up his bag and headed for the trapdoor, ignoring Professor Trelawney, who was wearing an expression of great frustration, as though she had just been denied a real treat.

When Harry reached the bottom of her stepladder, however, he did not set off for the hospital wing. He had no intention whatsoever of going there. He debated his options for a moment and summoned several fire sprites to deliver messages to the people that Harry trusted most before setting off across the castle back to the residence where he had arranged to meet them all, going over everything he had seen in his mind's eye. All of it had been so vivid, as he struggled to recall all of the details of what he had seen: Voldemort accusing Wormtail of making a blunder… But the owl had brought good news, the blunder had been repaired, somebody was dead… so Wormtail was not going to be fed to the snake… he, Harry, was going to be fed to it instead…

Gathered in what had become his de facto conference room, he glanced at the sea of faces surrounding him. Moony looked a great deal better than he had in previous months. There was life in his eyes instead of the hollow emptiness that he had seen at the end of his third year. The man was also looking better – it was no small wonder what a change in wardrobe could do. His Godfather, sans his disguise and alter ego was looking healthier than ever before. Griphook was also present, nodding to Harry as he entered the room. Not every member of the retinue was present however. He had elected to have only Hermione join him for this meeting. Sharing what he had seen took only a few minutes and discussions lasted only that long before they got heated or perhaps frosty would be term that is more appropriate.

"He is the still the principal organizer of the tournament Harry," she said calmly or at least with what she hoped was calm. If she was at all honest with herself, she knew this was not something to be suggested lightly, "And, this might be the thing that can help… fix things between you and Dumbledore." The temperature in the room did seem to drop by a few degrees. Even more so when, however uncomfortable it made them, Griphook agreed with Hermione. Moony was hesitant to show support or opposition as his position, was tenuous at best. Padfoot was not inclined to trust Dumbledore and would perhaps have been somewhat content to throw the man to the Dementors – wolves would probably find Albus somewhat, indigestible.

Though those gathered had spoken, Harry had trashed things out, deliberately, and was not sure whether to be pleased or aggravated by the result. In many ways, these were his people, his advisors, his friends and family to varying degrees. Though he did not like it, they were right: Dumbledore was still the greatest wizard of the century, and who probably knew more about Voldemort that anyone else alive. Such as it was, the Goblins had few reliable records on Lord Voldemort.

With a sigh, the meeting adjourned and Harry accompanied by Griphook and his godfather in disguise ascended in to the castle. Harry lead the way to the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office and then realized that none of them knew the password, "….Sherbet Lemon?" he tried tentatively before turning to the pair flanking him, the gargoyle had not moved, "It's a sweet. But which one…" Harry shrugged, "Pear Drop?"

Griphook shrugged. What did he know about muggle confectionary? Never mind wizarding! "Blake" stared at the door for a long moment and then ventured in to the fray, "Licorice Wands? Fizzing Whizbee? Drooble's Best Blowing Gum? Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans?"

Harry shook his head at the last one, "He doesn't like those," he turned and stared at the gargoyle for a long moment, "Can't you just open. I really need to see him." Unnoticed by the trio, the eyes of the gargoyle were actually moving. The Lady watched them trying desperately to guess the password until she finally decided that they made a suitably amusing guess to compensate for the fact that Harry had kicked "her."

"Cockroach Cluster!" The gargoyle sprang to life and jumped aside. Harry blinked.

"Cockroach Cluster?" he said, amazed. "I was only joking…"

"You will find, that I am much more amenable when asked for assistance, Mr. Potter," she whispered softly. The wizard spun round wildly to the consternation of his two companions who stared at him as if he spun round. Harry suddenly wondered if there was another Basilisk wandering through the castle. That particular thought met with a chuckle of, refined feminine laughter that only he seemed capable of hearing, "Speak to me with your mind Mr. Potter. Speaking aloud will only add to the rumors that flirt around you. There are a great many things that we need to discuss, some other time."But at a later time, walk softly and tread lightly, for the headmaster is not alone."

Hurrying through the gap in the walls, he stepped on to the foot of the spiral stone staircase and moved upwards, his companions in tow behind as the gargoyle slid back in to place. He stood before a polished oak door with a brass doorknocker and hesitated for a moment, remembering the words of the Lady of the Castle. He hesitated and listened, "Dumbledore, I'm afraid I don't see the connection, don't see it at all!" It was the voice of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. "Bertha was perfectly capable of getting herself lost. I agree we would have expected to find her by now, but all the same, we have no evidence of foul play, Dumbledore, none at all! As for her disappearance being linked with Barty Crouch's!"

"And what do you thinks happened to Barty Crouch, Minister?" said Moody's growling voice.

"I see two possibilities, Alastor," said Fudge. "Either Crouch has finally cracked - more than likely, I'm sure you'll agree, given his personal history - lost his mind, and gone wandering off somewhere -"

"He wandered extremely quickly, if that is the case, Cornelius," said Dumbledore calmly.

"Or else - well…" Fudge sounded embarrassed. "Well, I'll reserve judgment until after I've seen the place where he was found, just past the Beauxbatons carriage?"

"Can we wrap up this discussion?" growled Moody.

"Yes, yes, let's go down to the grounds, then," said Fudge impatiently.

"No, it's not that," said Moody, "it's just that Potter wants a word with you, Dumbledore. He's just outside the door, and he has company with him." The door of the office opened to revealed the grizzled veteran of the first war standing before him, "Hello, Potter," said Moody. "Come in, then."

Harry walked inside. He had been inside Dumbledore's office once before; it was a very beautiful, circular room, lined with pictures of previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, all of whom were fast asleep, their chests rising and falling gently. There were a series of machines and other devices on spindly silver legs scattered on several shelves behind the desk. Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore's desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding his lime-green bowler hat. "Harry!" said Fudge jovially, moving forward. "How are you?"

"Fine," Harry lied.

"We were just talking about the night when Mr. Crouch turned up on the grounds," said Fudge. "It was you who found him, was it not?"

"Yes," said Harry. Then, feeling it was pointless to pretend that he had not overheard what they had been saying, he added, "I didn't see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she'd have a job hiding, wouldn't she?"

Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge's back, his eyes twinkling, "Yes, well," said Fudge, looking embarrassed, "we're about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if you'll excuse us… perhaps if you just go back to your class -"

"I wanted to talk to you. Professor," Harry said quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave the gathered trio a swift, searching look.

"Wait here for me, Harry," he said. "Our examination of the grounds will not take long." They trooped out in silence past him and closed the door. After a minute or so, Harry heard the clunks of Moody's wooden leg growing fainter in the corridor below.

"Hello, Fawkes," he said. Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore's phoenix, was standing on his golden perch beside the door. The size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold plumage, he swished his long tail and blinked benignly at Harry.

Harry sat down in a chair in front of Dumbledore's desk. For several minutes, he sat and watched the old headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their frames, thinking about what he had just heard, and running his fingers over his scar. It had stopped hurting for now. Nevertheless, he was sitting in the proverbial lion's den. Harry looked up at the walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged Sorting Hat was standing on a shelf.

A glass case next to it held a magnificent silver sword with large rubies set into the hilt, which Harry recognized as the one he himself had pulled out of the Sorting Hat in his second year. The sword had once belonged to Godric Gryffindor, founder of Harry's House. He was gazing at it, remembering how it had come to his aid when he had thought all hope was lost, when he noticed a patch of silvery light, dancing and shimmering on the glass case. He looked around for the source and saw a sliver of silver-white light shining from a black cabinet with an improperly and possibly hastily latched door. Harry hesitated; Fawkes seemed to be studying Harry before politely turning around and gazing interestedly out a window.

"Curiosity must be exercised with great caution Harry," said Griphook softly, "There is no telling what may lie within." Blake, his godfather in disguise nodded in agreement. Harry had hit the crossroads and knew that the decision he made would be a critical one. Though he did not trust the headmaster, could he risk looking?

He pulled open the cabinet door.

A shallow stone basin lay there, with odd carvings around the edge: runes and symbols that Harry did not recognize. The silvery light was coming from the basin's contents, which were like nothing Harry had ever seen before. He could not tell whether the substance was liquid or gas. It was bright, whitish silver, and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface ruffled like water beneath wind, and then, like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked like light made liquid - or wind made solid - Harry could not make up his mind.

He wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but nearly four years' experience of the magical world told him that sticking his hand into a bowl full of some unknown substance was a very stupid thing to do. He therefore pulled his wand out of the inside of his robes, cast a nervous look around the office, looked back at the contents of the basin, and prodded them.

The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began to swirl very fast. Harry bent closer, his head right inside the cabinet. The silvery substance had become transparent; it looked like glass. He looked down into it expecting to see the stone bottom of the basin - and saw instead an enormous room below the surface of the mysterious substance, a room into which he seemed to be looking through a circular window in the ceiling.

The dimly lit room might have been underground, for there were no windows, merely torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering his face so that his nose was a mere inch away from the glassy substance, Harry saw that rows and rows of witches and wizards were seated around every wall on what seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty chair stood in the very center of the room. Something about the chair that gave Harry an ominous feeling. Chains encircled the arms of it, as though its occupants were restrained as a matter of course.

Where was this place? It surely was not Hogwarts; he had never seen a room like that here in the castle. Moreover, the crowd in the mysterious room at the bottom of the basin was comprised of adults, and Harry knew there were not nearly that many teachers at Hogwarts. They seemed, he thought, to be waiting for something; even though he could only see the tops of their hats, all of their faces seemed to be pointing in one direction, and none of them were talking to one another.

"Pensieve," said Blake quietly, confirming what Harry suspected, "Looks like its Dumbledore's personal one too. Not sure if you want to go poking around inside that man's head…" Blake shrugged, "But there's no telling what you could learn…"

"If we somehow… copy the contents of the pensieve, would he know?" wondered Harry considering his options. He had several open to him now, "Griphook?"

"The contents of a pensieve are like an ocean," said Griphook, "there is no telling what memories you may extract, and how many complete memories you can recover. It is a matter of control, not power that determine the quality of what you retrieve. Though my understanding of such artifacts is limited, the containers to store the memories would have to be glass to prevent contamination or corruption of the memories themselves.

Blake had pulled his wand, "Transfiguration isn't really my strong suit…" Harry shook his head and reached in to the rubbish bin to pull several glass butterbeer bottles. Blake chuckled as Harry cleaned the bottles with a quick wave of his wand, "Waste not, want not eh Harry?"

They worked quickly, siphoning the memories and depositing them in to the cleaned bottles. They quickly ran in to a problem: The bottles themselves, "The glass is impure," explained Griphook, "and the quality of the memories contained will degrade rapidly. They must be moved to another pensieve before they degrade…. We have at best several hours."

"At worst?" asked Harry. The answer made him shake his head, "It's never easy being me…," he thought with a self-deprecating laugh. Glass seemed to be against him: The impure material would corrode the memories within an hour.

When the headmaster reentered his office, he wore a calm, almost serene smile on his face as he sat down behind his desk and with a wave of his wand made the usual selection of cookies, cakes, and tea available to his guests. To his disappointment, all of his guests, refused and Harry got right to the point, "I was in divination just now and - er - I fell asleep," he hesitated for a split second before plowing ahead, "I had a dream, about Voldemort. He got a letter from an owl and said that Wormtail's blunder had been repaired, that someone was dead and that his Nagini would not dine on him, but on me instead. Then he started in with the Cruciatus Curse and that was when I woke up.

"I see," said Dumbledore quietly. "I see. Now, has your scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the time it woke you up over the summer?"

"No, I - how did you know it woke me up over the summer?" said Harry, astonished.

"You are not Sirius's only correspondent," said Dumbledore. "Until recently, I was in contact with him when he suddenly cut all ties and simply vanished. I am concerned as to what may have happened to him…." The headmaster was not going to get anything by going on a fishing expedition as Harry let the silence extend for several minutes,

"Do you know why my scar's hurting me?" Dumbledore looked very intently at Harry for a moment, and realized that though the boy had come in to his own in many ways, there was still things that he knew, that he did not. However that went both ways as for the first time in a few months, he successfully made and maintained eye contact. "I have a theory, no more than that." He had the undivided attention of the boy, the wizard and the Goblin and made his mental move, "It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred."

"But… why?" Harry was tired of getting information piecemeal, and having to beg for virtually every scrap, "This would work a lot better if you just told me what you know!" he thought to himself.

"Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed," said Dumbledore. "That is no ordinary scar."

"So you think… that dream… did it really happen?" he pressed.

"It is possible," said Dumbledore. "I would say - probable. Harry - did you see Voldemort?"He had found nothing of real interest, nothing he was not already aware of through his other source. He probed slightly deeper.

"No," said Harry. "Just the back of his chair. But - there wouldn't have been anything to see, would there? I mean, he doesn't have a body, has he? But… but then how could he have held the wand?" Harry said slowly.

"How indeed?" muttered Dumbledore. "How indeed…" Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke for a while. Dumbledore seemed to be gazing at Harry and the eye contact was slightly unnerving to him, but he met the characteristic, piercing look head on even though it made Harry feel as if the headmaster could see right through him, to every move he had ever made or planned. "Once again, I can only give you my suspicions." The headmaster hesitated. He now realized exactly how far along and how dangerous the young man was. He had gained a great deal of power - just how much he had dramatically underestimated. It was a relatively simple task for a master of Legilimency to balance a mental probe while carrying out a conversation, until something caught his attention… a memory that seemed shrouded, as if protected by something akin to a shield. He probed deeper.

Dumbledore sighed again, and he looked older, and wearier, than ever. "The years of Voldemort's ascent to power," he said, "were marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins has vanished without a trace in the place where Voldemort was certainly known to be last. Mr. Crouch too has disappeared… within these very grounds. There is also a third disappearance, one which the Ministry, I regret to say, do not consider of any importance, for it concerns a Muggle. His name was Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort's father grew up, and has not been seen since last August. You see, I read the muggle…"

Suddenly, the headmaster cringed, visibly and Harry rose to his feet with a roar, "SON OF A BITCH!" screamed Harry his wand pointed, "I came here under a banner of good faith!" Harry struggled to maintain a grip on his emotions as Dumbledore's table vibrated violently, "How many times have you done that? And not just to me!" he realized with a shock, "How many other minds, how many other people have had the privacy of their mind violated! By you!" His wand was pointed at the headmaster's throat, "Hermione has been pushing for us to resolve our differences, and Merlin knows that I have tried, more than once. But every time, I let myself begin to hope, you do something to screw things up!"

To his credit, Dumbledore sat behind his desk and held his ground, wisely saying nothing, "Just this year alone, you've decided to use me as bait by letting me compete in this tournament!" He spat the last word the way Snape normally spat Harry's name, and that was the beginning of several minutes of verbal abuse and accusations that ranged from poor teaching and culminating in what was in Harry's eyes, most damning of all: "You've known my past, my parents, and kept my past hidden from me," he said quietly, almost sadly. "I once looked up to you, idolized you even, the great Albus Dumbledore," his wand pointed at the floor, "Do you see? Do you know how far you have fallen?"

Turning, Harry swept from the offices of the headmaster, leaving the aged wizard to his thoughts with a parting shot, "If I cannot trust you, can anyone else? Dare anyone else?"