Chapter Text
It was the morning after the Quidditch world cup, and Mr. Weasley was waking everyone up. They were all only able to get a few hours of sleep, but that didn't matter. Their main goal at the moment was to leave the campsite as soon as possible. He and Percy used magic to pack up the tents and anything else they brought. As they passed Mr. Roberts, Harry frowned at the dazed look in his eyes. What made him even more concerned was the way he'd waved at them and muttered a "merry Christmas." He couldn't help but wonder if he'd been put in that state by one of the death eaters from last nights attack.
Fortunately, Mr. Weasley seemed to know what Harry was thinking, and he sent him a reassuring smile. "He'll be alright. Sometimes, when a person gets their memories modified, it makes them a bit disoriented for a while... and that was a pretty big thing they had to make him forget." Harry looked back one more time, desperately wishing he could do something for Mr. Roberts and his family. However, it didn't appear as though he could do anything, so he eventually turned away, following the Weasley family back to where the Portkeys were. What he really wanted was to take a very long nap, though he knew he had to talk to his friends about it all.
They were eventually able to get a Portkey back to Stoatshead Hill, and they made the long walk back to the Burrow. No one spoke much; most of them exhausted and thinking longingly of food and a warm bed.
"Oh thank goodness! Thank goodness!" Mrs. Weasley, who had no doubt been waiting for them in the front yard came running toward them, still wearing her bedroom slippers.. Her face was pale and strained. She had a rolled up copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand. "Arthur- I've been so worried!" She threw her arms around Mr. Weasley, the paper falling from her limp hand. Looking down, Harry could clearly seen the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, complete with a twinkling black and white photo of the dark mark over the treetops. Before he could say anything, Mrs. Weasley pulled back from her husband, her red eyes staring at all of them. Then, to everyone's surprise, she grabbed Fred and George and pulled them both into a tight hug. Their heads banged together, but they didn't say anything, allowing their mother to have her moment. "I shouted at you before you left!" She said, starting to sob. "It was all I could think about. What if you know who had gotten you? The last thing I would've said to you was that you didn't get enough OWLS!"
"Come now, Molly, we're all okay. Lets get you inside." Mr. Weasley said, gently guiding his wife toward the house. "Bill, pick up the paper," Percy said. "I'm sure father would want to read it."
When they were all in the tiny kitchen, they were all surprised to see headmaster Dumbledore's head in the fireplace. A small smile was on his face, though his twinkling blue eyes were full of concern.
"I apologize for calling out of nowhere, but I'm afraid I need to speak to Harry alone." Harry immediately sent his friends a look, but neither one met his eyes. He clenched his fist, already knowing why Dumbledore was there. He couldn't help but feel a little angry toward his friends. He had already said no to telling Dumbledore, and he thought that was the end of the conversation. Apparently though, it hadn't been. And now, he was going to have to spill everything.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged confused looks, but didn't abject. They all made there way outside, leaving Harry alone in the kitchen. Harry let out a quiet sigh, slumping into a chair, his eyes fixed on the scratched up kitchen table. He really wasn't prepared for a conversation at the moment. He was tired and hungry, and he just needed a break. He of course didn't say that though, instead, he folding his hands on the table and waiting for Dumbledore to speak.
"I heard some rather concerning news Harry. Something about your scar hurting?" Despite already suspecting that this was what the talk was about, it didn't make him feel any better about it. Still though, perhaps the headmaster would have a good explanation for it. Or even better, he'd have a way to make it stop. Either of those would be welcome. Taking a deep breath, Harry spoke, his voice quiet. "I've been having dreams sir. Dreams about the dark lord. I saw him kill someone. That's usually when the pain in my scar comes. Sometimes, it looks like it probably did when I first got it." Dumbledore frowned slightly, the twinkle gone from his eyes for the first time. "Tell me my boy. Did he know that you were there? Did he speak to you directly?"
"Um... no sir. I was just watching it all happen.⠀Professor, do you know why I'm dreaming about what he's doing?" For a moment, Dumbledore didn't speak, and Harry was starting to get worried. Was the reason so bad that even the headmaster was hesitating? Knowing his luck, it probably was.
Before he could start to panic, Dumbledore finally spoke, a clearly forced smile on his face. "I do believe I have an idea as to how you are seeing those kinds of visions. As you already know, the night that you got your scar, Voldemort's killing curse rebounded on him. I have a feeling that because of this, some of his power had been transfered to you. No doubt it's the reason why you can speak Parsel Tongue."
Harry frowned, his gaze still on the table. Turns out he wasn't wrong about possibly not liking what Dumbledore had to say. He was sharing some of Voldimort's power now. Wonderful. That was just what he wanted; to share a mind link with a lunatic.
"Harry, are you listening?" He jumped slightly, feeling a little guilty for allowing himself to get lost in his thoughts. "I'm sorry sir. Can you please repeat that? I was thinking." Dumbledore smiled sadly, clearly being able to tell what was bothering him. "Very well my boy," He said. "My plan is to get you to take Occlumency lessons with professor Snape this year.
Harry's breath caught in his throat, and no words came out of his mouth. He was sure he was gaping like a fish, but he didn't really care at the moment. Dumbledore wanted him to work with Snape? The same Snape that hates his guts? The one that's hated him since the first day they met? Harry was really considering just sticking with the disturbing dreams. Surely they were better than spending even more time with the snarky potions teacher.
He was about to say just that to the headmaster, but he was stopped by a pleading look. "Please Harry, these lessons are important. You yourself have told me that you've been dreaming about Voldemort. Don't you think you should do everything you can to prevent it from getting worse?" Harry wanted to argue, but he knew it was no use. He hadn't been the one to inform Dumbledore about the dreams he's been having, as well as the pain in his scar. He hadn't wanted to bother the headmaster, but it seemed as though his friends hadn't thought the same. Despite Ron and Hermione going behind his back, he still hoped that Dumbledore would have an explanation, but it didn't appear so. Instead, he was being made to have lessons with his least favorite professor.
"Sir, are you sure that lessons with professor Snape is a good idea? I mean, it's no secret we don't like each other; though it's mostly on his end though. What if he just makes things worse?"
"Harry my boy, please do not doubt professor Snape's abilities. I trust him completely. He is a rather skilled Occlumens, and I'm sure he'll do everything in his power to help you learn the skill as well. I'm sure professor Snape will set aside his animosity towards you during these lessons." Harry really doubted that, but he didn't say anything to Dumbledore. It seemed as though the headmaster had made up his mind, and nothing he'd say would change it. So he just nodded, earning a warm smile from the man. "Wonderful. I will discuss this with professor Snape. I'm sure he'll let you know when your first lesson will be." With that, Dumbledore smiled again before his head disappeared from the fire with a quiet pop, leaving him alone to think through their conversation. He was being made to take private lessons with Snape. That was just wonderful. He couldn't help but wonder how many points he'd be responsible for losing for Gryffindor. He really was not looking forward to the upcoming school year. Heck, not even Percy's hints toward the big event could bring back his excitement. With a tired sigh, he stood, making his way upstairs. He had to talk to his friends about all of this.