Chapter Text
Some weeks had passed since the death of Sirius Black and the almost-possession of Harry Potter by Tom. Mistake upon mistake Albus Dumbledore could only blame himself for. It was easy, of course, to fall to hubris no matter how aware he tried to be of his own faults, and he had always had to play his hands close to his chest for one reason or another. It was his hope that the war could be won and Harry still be able to survive death, but he could not know until the right time of the soul-piece that “lived” within his scar, or of the possibility of survival Tom’s taking of Harry’s blood offered if he made a willing sacrifice. Few beyond Harry himself could know of the existence of horcruxes at all. As the leader of the Light against Tom and his followers, he took on most of that responsibility himself, and had spent decades trying to make Tom’s dystopia an impossibility. But now, the Gaunt ring destroyed, his life ending within a year, and his mistakes laid bare to Harry in the wake of the battle at the Department of Mysteries, Albus could only think…I cannot do this alone, and I cannot leave it all to Harry and Severus, either.
Albus had been forced into a terrible spot, having Harry learn occlumency badly and hoping he could glean any useful lessons, to protect Severus’ role as a spy and conceal the true nature of Tom and Harry’s connection from both. To deal with the folly and interference of Minister Fudge and his despicable underling in his school, unable to do much to curb her abuses. Forced to decipher the truths of the horcruxes without revealing their existence to the Order or alerting Tom to his knowledge. Trying to keep the children, children, away from the war as much as possible while knowing they would need to play some role, growing up too soon and not seeing the beauty of Magic so much that had led him to learn it so well. The weight of the war had become too much, and he needed help. He had never been a religious man, but his long life had given him awareness of a higher power, of Magic herself, and perhaps it was time to bow to her as bravely as he would soon greet Death.
There was a small, bronze bowl in his office, gifted to him by a small coven of pagan sorcerers in Ancient Lands who claimed to be descended from the followers of Circe, who spoke in whispers of the goddess Hecate. They called her the Mother of Magic, who lifted Mist from their eyes and imbued Magic in their blood, who was patroness of Creatures and blessed wizardkind with her gifts of wonders. Circe’s devotees spoke of miracles that had saved their predecessors from certain doom by spilling blood into the dish and offering Hecate their lives in servitude. Albus considered the bowl, marked in strange details his eyes could not focus on for very long before they seemed to shift. He supposed if there were any time to find a higher power, it would be now.
Albus took the Elder wand and cut his hand across the palm. His blood seemed to flow faster, almost eager, than he expected, and once the bowl was filled the cut sealed itself of its own accord. The blood in the bowl began to bubble and churn, and he began to speak the words that came to him without thought.
“O Hecate, Goddess and Mother of Magic, Patroness of our world and all who live in it, Queen of Witches and Sorcerers, I call upon you now in our time of need, to bring about the final Death of the Dark Lord who defies Death and Hades, who spurns your Gift and makes a mockery of Life’s bounties. I offer you a life for a life, servitude for your wonders. To destroy the one named Tom Riddle. This I pray and humbly beg of you. Redeem his sins against Magic and the Gods.”
The blood in the bowl boiled as he spoke and finally evaporated, leaving the bronze unstained. He felt his blood sing out and bond to the prayer, and felt himself kneel and bow on the hard, cold stone of his office floor. He heard Fawkes croon and bend his neck. And then he shook as green fire and smoke erupted from the bowl.
“Champion of my Light, Hero of Your Day, you have long been a faithful servant worthy of my Gift. And yet, I can only act in proportion to your offering. Your life now fades, even as we speak, and my champion will only be bound to your cause until the moment of your death. But you have time enough to make the difference. Swear on the River Styx, bound by your soul, that you will live and die by the terms I set as Mistress of my domain, and I shall send one with the power to do as you ask, who has walked the Pit itself and not lost his soul. He will act only with as much knowledge as you have to give him, and what he himself can learn. Swear to my terms, and I offer you a satisfied death.”
Albus did not need to think long. “I swear on the River Styx to do as you command, Lady Hecate. Merely name your terms and I shall serve you.”
“I demand three tasks from you in this last year of your life. First, the lives of Tom Riddle’s followers are forfeit, and those bonded to him through magic will die with him. You are not to prolong their servitude to him if you have a choice.” Albus felt resignation and sorrow that the Malfoy boy’s life could not be saved, having heard from Severus that he had taken the Dark Mark. Still, Draco Malfoy’s life did not outweigh Albus’ vow or the fate of Wizarding Britain. “Second, you must revive my name among the wizards of this land. When you pass on and my ambassador returns to his home, your heir, Harry Potter, must take his place as my champion, to bring back my worship and give offerings to me as your Goddess. And lastly, you must speak to my champion with total honesty, as you would myself, in order to bring final death to the Dark Lord Voldemort. He is sensitive to souls, and wields a blade of iron forged in the River Styx which can destroy a soul as easily as a Dementor. These are my terms, and you will live and die by them. He will come to you soon. Prepare for him.”
With that, the fire dissipated and smoke cleared, and Albus found he was unsure if the bargain he’d struck was the right choice. Gods were not known to be kind, and Lady Hecate had not challenged that notion. Yet, that he was bound to rely on her champion eased the weight of the war a bit, and he saw no reason why the Mother of Magic should not be honored in their world as she once was. And, as the truth of his vow to her, his servitude to Hecate settled into him, he rose and considered that it was no longer up to him what befell the survivors of Tom’s army. Albus had never been a follower, not since his early childhood, but his impending doom and the promise of help gave him focus and relief that made the prospect of the war ending with him seem better. So, he would rest, and in the morning would prepare for Hecate’s champion by compiling what he knew. By the time he drifted off to sleep, he felt hope that brighter days lay ahead for his students, for Harry, in the wake of all the death they had faced and the failures that had led him to this point.