Anchored Burden

Albus Dumbledore walked through the gloomy corridors of the Department of Mysteries, his vibrant purple robes with silver stars standing out against the drab gray walls.

Beside him, four Unspeakables glided silently with their black robes making them appear as shadows given form. Hoods concealed their faces, leaving only a dark void where features should be. Their muted footfalls seemed to amplify in the deathly stillness, every whisper of fabric over stone cutting through the tense silence like a knife.

As they approached the entrance to the Death Chamber, a trio of crimson-robed Aurors stood at the ready, wands gripped tightly. They nodded curtly to Dumbledore, eyes hard and faces set in grim lines.

Dumbledore returned the nod as his long silver beard swayed with the motion. He could feel the tension radiating from the Aurors, see the tightness around their eyes and the white-knuckled grip on their wands. They knew the stakes, understood the danger that lurked just beyond the heavy wooden door.

With a wave of his hand, Dumbledore pushed the door open, revealing the circular room beyond. Benches descended in tiers towards the sunken center, where on a raised dais stood a small glass sphere pulsing with sickly green light containing a wispy tendril of the Dark Lord's fractured soul twisting and writhing like smoke.

Voldemort.

A chill permeated the chamber, as if the very walls were leaching the warmth from the air itself. Dumbledore felt it creep along his skin as he approached the dais, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He could feel the weight of Voldemort's gaze upon him, the hatred and the malice that poured forth from those glowing red eyes.

"Dumbledore," Voldemort hissed, his voice high and cold, echoing strangely from within his prison. "Come to gloat, have you? To revel in your victory?"

Dumbledore shook his head with sadness etched into the lines of his face. "No, Tom," he said softly. "There is no victory here. Only tragedy, and the bitter fruit of the choices you made."

Voldemort's form swirled as his ethereal visage contorted in rage. "Spare me your lectures, old man," he spat. "I have achieved what no other wizard dared dream. I have conquered death itself!"

Dumbledore sighed, the sound heavy with regret. "And yet, here you are, Tom. Reduced to a mere shade, a fragment of your former self. Was it worth it, in the end? All the pain, all the suffering you caused?"

Voldemort's mocking laughter filled the chamber. "You understand nothing, Dumbledore. I have gone further than any wizard before me. I am immortal, eternal. And soon, I shall rise again, more powerful than ever before!"

Dumbledore turned to the Unspeakables, who stood silently behind him, their faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods. "Is everything prepared?" he asked gravely.

The tallest of the Unspeakables stepped forward with his black robes swirling around him like liquid shadow. "Yes, Chief Warlock," he said in an unrecognizable voice. "The Veil awaits."

Dumbledore nodded as his gaze drifted to the far side of the room. There, hanging between two crumbling stone pillars, fluttered a tattered black curtain. It seemed to ripple and sway hypnotically, the tattered folds whispering as if beckoning them toward the untold mysteries beyond that sinister, darkened plane.

The Veil. A gateway to the realm beyond, to the mysteries that lay past the boundary of life and death. Even he did not truly understand it, did not know what fate awaited those who passed through its whispering folds.

But if it could hold Voldemort, if it could keep his malevolent spirit trapped and powerless...then it was a chance they had to take.

He turned back to Voldemort. "It's time, Tom," he said. "The Veil awaits you."

Voldemort's laughter filled the chamber once more, bouncing off the stone walls and echoing in the darkness. "You think the Veil can hold me, Dumbledore? Me, the greatest wizard who has ever lived? I, who have delved into magics you can scarcely imagine?"

Dumbledore's grip tightened on his wand, the knuckles of his aged hand turning white. "We shall see, Tom," he said grimly. "We shall see."

With a nod to the Unspeakables, Dumbledore raised his wand. The sphere containing Voldemort's essence rose into the air, drifting slowly towards the fluttering Veil. Voldemort's screams of rage and defiance filled the chamber as his ethereal form thrashed and writhed within his prison.

"No!" he howled, his voice raw with fury. "You cannot do this, Dumbledore! I am Lord Voldemort! I am immortal! I am-"

His words cut off abruptly as the sphere passed through the Veil, vanishing into its whispering depths. For a moment, a stunned silence filled the chamber, broken only by the soft rustling of the Veil.

And then, to the shock of all present, the ghostly visage of Voldemort bounced off the tattered black curtain, rebounding back into the room. One of the Unspeakables gave a startled gasp that was quickly stifled. Another took an involuntary step back, the hem of his robe brushing the stone floor.

Immediately, the smoky contortions of the Dark Lord's fractured soul thrashed as he tried to rush away, howling in defiance as he sought to escape the chamber. Several Unspeakables flinched, raising their hands as if to cast defensive spells.

But quick as a flash, Dumbledore's wand was in motion, a new sphere forming around Voldemort, trapping him once more. The Dark Lord's screams of frustration filled the air with his spectral face exuding pure hatred.

Dumbledore stared down at the sphere with furrowed brows. This was...unexpected. He had hoped, had believed, that the Veil would be enough to defeat Voldemort, to end his threat once and for all.

But it seemed that even the mysteries of death were not enough to hold the Dark Lord. Something else was probably at work here, some dark magic that allowed Voldemort to cling to this world, even in his diminished state. But who knew what kind of dark magic Voldemort had enacted to anchor himself to this world?

And there was another factor to consider. The prophecy, spoken so long ago by Sybill Trelawney, that named Harry Potter as the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord.

Could it be that only Harry could truly end Voldemort, that only he had the power to send the Dark Lord's spirit through the Veil, never to return? It seemed almost too much to ask, to place such a burden on the shoulders of a mere child.

And yet...Harry already shown a strength and mentality beyond his years. If Voldemort could be defeated in this way, it was almost irresponsible to not try…

Dumbledore turned to the Unspeakables. "It seems," he said slowly, "that we may need to consider another approach."

The tallest Unspeakable tilted his head, a question in the gesture. "What do you suggest, Chief Warlock?" he asked cautiously.

Dumbledore hesitated, weighing his words carefully. He could not reveal the prophecy, could not speak of the role that Harry was destined to play. But perhaps...perhaps there was a way to hint at it, to plant the seed of the idea.

"There is one," he said slowly, "who has faced Voldemort before, and emerged victorious. One who seems to be...uniquely suited to opposing him."

The Unspeakables exchanged glances, confusion evident even beneath their hoods. "Who?" the tall one asked curiously.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, a hint of his usual mischief shining through. "Why, Harry Potter, of course," he said lightly. "The Boy-Who-Lived, the one who vanquished the Dark Lord as a mere infant. Perhaps...perhaps he could try his hand at it once more."

There was a moment of stunned silence, broken only by the soft rustling of the Unspeakables' robes. Then, the tall one spoke again, his voice hesitant. "The Potter boy?" he asked. "But...he's just a child. Surely you don't mean to bring him here, to face...that?"

He gestured towards the sphere that held Voldemort, still pulsing with malevolent energy. Dumbledore sighed as his shoulders slumped slightly. "I understand your concerns," he said softly. "And believe me, I share them. But we must consider every option, every possibility. If Harry Potter is the key to ending this threat...then we must at least try."

The Unspeakables exchanged another glance, uncertainty written in every line of their hidden faces. But finally, slowly, they nodded, accepting Dumbledore's words.

"Very well," the tall one said. "We will...consider this option. But the final decision must be yours, and yours alone."

Dumbledore nodded with his eyes distant. "I understand," he said softly. "And I will bear that responsibility, no matter the cost."

With that, he turned and strode from the chamber with his robes billowing behind him. The Unspeakables followed, their footsteps echoing.

And in the center of the room, trapped within its sphere of glowing energy, the spirit of Voldemort raged and howled, its fury and hatred echoing through the halls of the Department of Mysteries.

oo0ooOoo0oo

The crackling flames in the fireplace cast a warm, dancing glow across Dumbledore's office as he made his way inside. Fawkes, his faithful phoenix companion, was perched serenely on his stand, preening his brilliant scarlet feathers.

Dumbledore settled himself behind his large oak desk, fingers steepled as he gazed at the ornate silver instrument that sat before him. With a wave of his wand, the device sprung to life, emitting a series of soft chimes that resonated through the circular room.

Moments later, there was a soft knock at the door, and Dumbledore called out, "Enter."

The door swung open to reveal Harry Potter, the young boy standing with his shoulders squared and his head held high. His Hogwarts robes were neatly pressed, the Hufflepuff crest emblazoned proudly on the chest. Emerald eyes, sharp and attentive, met Dumbledore's gaze without a trace of hesitation.

"You wished to see me, Professor?" Harry said.

Dumbledore nodded, gesturing towards the plush armchair opposite his desk. "Indeed, Harry. Please, have a seat."

As the boy crossed the room, Dumbledore couldn't help but note once more the fluid grace of his movements, the way he carried himself with a poise and confidence that was very unusual for young children his age. It was...unsettling, in a way, to see such maturity in one so young.

Once Harry was settled, Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment with his bright blue eyes studying the boy intently. "How are you faring, my dear boy?" he asked gently. "After yesterday night and this morning, I can only imagine the turmoil you must be feeling."

To his surprise, Harry didn't flinch or avert his gaze. Instead, he met Dumbledore's gaze head-on with calm acceptance on his features.

"I won't lie, Professor," he said evenly. "It has been...overwhelming." A slight furrow creased his brow as he seemed to consider his words carefully. "To go from knowing very little of the wizarding world to being faced with Voldemort's return and the man who betrayed my parents..." He trailed off as his jaw tightened ever so slightly.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly, his heart heavy with the weight of the burden he had placed upon this child. "I understand, Harry. It is indeed a great deal to process, especially for one so young."

Harry's eyes flashed, and he straightened in his chair, shoulders squaring. "But I can handle it. In the ways that truly matter, I'm not a child." he stated firmly with certainty in his voice.

Once again, Dumbledore found himself taken aback by the boy's composure and self-assurance. He had seen grown wizards crumble under far less strain than Harry had endured in these past few days. And yet, here he sat, unshaken and resolute.

Clearing his throat, Dumbledore leaned forward, steepling his fingers once more. "I believe you, Harry," he said softly. "And it is precisely that strength, that remarkable maturity, that has led me to seek you out tonight."

He paused, drawing in a deep breath as he steeled himself for what he was about to reveal. "There is something you must know, Harry. Something that lies at the very heart of the events that have transpired."

Harry's brow furrowed slightly, but he gave a short nod with his entire being seeming to shift into a state of rapt attention. "I'm listening, Professor."

And so, with a heavy heart, Dumbledore began to speak the words that had haunted him for so long, reciting the prophecy that had set these events in motion.

As the prophecy's words fell from Dumbledore's lips, he studied Harry intently, searching the boy's features for any flicker of emotion, any crack in his composure that might betray the turmoil such a revelation should provoke. Yet Harry's expression remained utterly impassive, his green eyes reflecting only calm acceptance of the burden now placed upon his shoulders.

When Dumbledore's voice finally trailed off, Harry's knuckles whitened as his fists clenched involuntarily, the fleeting gesture the sole outward indicator of the storm surely raging beneath that unruffled facade. Then, after a moment's pause that stretched eternal, he gave a slight incline of his head and spoke.

"I see," he said. "So this prophecy is the reason Voldemort came after me and my parents all those years ago."

It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact, delivered with a surety that sent a shiver down Dumbledore's spine.

"Indeed," he confirmed gravely. "Voldemort believed the prophecy referred to you, and sought to eliminate the threat you posed before it could fully manifest."

Harry looked at the mirror to the side and his gaze drifted to the faint lightning bolt scar that marred his forehead as his fingers traced the raised line absently. "And this...this is the mark you spoke of? The one that made me his equal?"

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Yes, Harry. Though the precise nature of that equality, the power you possess that Voldemort knows not, remains a mystery to me."

Harry slowly nodded, very clearly deep in thought.

"And you believe this prophecy to be true, Professor?" Harry asked. "That it holds real weight, real power?"

Dumbledore considered his words carefully, stroking his long silver beard as he gathered his thoughts. "Whether the prophecy itself is true or not is almost irrelevant, Harry," he said at last. "For Voldemort believes it to be true, and has shaped his actions around that belief. In doing so, he has given the prophecy power, has set events in motion that cannot be undone."

A slight crease appeared between Harry's brows as he processed this as his lips pursed ever so slightly. Then, after a moment, he gave a slow nod of understanding.

"A self-fulfilling prophecy," he murmured. "By believing in it, Voldemort has made it real."

Dumbledore couldn't help but smile, a flicker of pride blooming in his chest at the boy's keen insight. "Precisely, my boy," he said softly.

Harry's gaze grew distant, his eyes unfocusing slightly as he seemed to turn inward, processing this new information.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke again.

"If this prophecy is real," he said slowly, "if it holds true power...then what does it mean for me, Professor? For us?"

Dumbledore sighed, the weight of his years seeming to settle upon his shoulders like a heavy cloak. He regarded the boy before him, this child who had already endured so much, and felt a pang of regret for what he was about to ask of him.

"It means, Harry," he said, "that you are the only one who can truly defeat Voldemort. The only one with the power to end his threat once and for all."

He watched as realization dawned in those emerald depths, saw the understanding of the burden he now carried settle upon Harry's shoulders. But to Dumbledore's amazement, the boy did not falter, did not shy away from the enormity of the task before him.

Instead, he simply straightened in his chair as he met Dumbledore's gaze head-on.

"Then I will do what must be done, Professor," he said with conviction. "If I am the only one who can stop Voldemort, then I will not shrink from that responsibility."

"I know you will, Harry," Dumbledore said softly as his eyes shone with admiration and regret. "And know that you will not face this challenge alone. I will be with you every step of the way."

Harry met his gaze unflinchingly, giving a single, resolute nod. "Then let's get started, Professor," he said. "Tell me what I need to do."

And so Dumbledore began to explain, laying out the situation with Voldemort's captured essence and the possibility that only Harry could send him through the Veil, could sever his tie to this world once and for all.

As he spoke, he watched Harry carefully, searching for any sign of doubt or hesitation in the boy's expression. But there was none to be found. Only a calm acceptance, a willingness to do whatever was necessary to defeat one of the greatest threats the wizarding world had ever known.

When Dumbledore fell silent, Harry simply regarded him for a long moment as he processed the information. Finally, he gave a short nod and his shoulders squared as he met Dumbledore's gaze once more.

"Very well, Professor," he said steadily. "Let's do this. I'm ready."

With a somber nod, Dumbledore rose from his chair. "Then we must make haste. Even contained, Voldemort remains dangerous."

He then fixed Harry with an intense stare as his bright blue eyes seemed to bore into the boy's very soul. "Are you certain of this path, Harry? For once we begin, there will be no turning back."

Harry met the headmaster's gaze calmly. "I'm certain, Professor. It's time to end this."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Dumbledore's lips. With a wave of his wand, he conjured his Patronus - a brilliant, silvery phoenix that glowed with radiant energy.

"Very well. Send word to the Unspeakables. The hour is upon us."

As the phoenix spread its wings and took flight, disappearing through the walls of the office, Dumbledore turned back to Harry.

"Come, Harry," Dumbledore said solemnly. "Your destiny awaits."