AN: I wrote this as a one-shot but have some ideas if people want to see this story continued into a longer piece. I took some grammatical liberties as the writer in some instances so to make the dialogue more realistic (and I'm a sucker for run-on sentences). Also I'm American if that isn't clear in my writing. Obviously these characters aren't mine but I hope you enjoy how I used them. Italics for the most part mean I took sections specifically from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, which I did to properly segway into my version of events:

"Sir, there are some other things I'd like to know, if you can tell me... things I want to know the truth about..."

"The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie."

"Well... Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?"

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time. "Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day... put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older... I know you hate to hear this... when you are ready, you will know."

And Harry knew it would be no good to argue.

Still, no use to let that stop him now.

Harry supposed he liked Dumbledore, even for all of his eccentrics and tendencies to spout words of 'wisdom' with the grandiosity of muggle inspirational posters. Perhaps because of Dumbledore's oddities did he trust him, for it was so unlike the Dursley's neglect of mundane cruelty, or the apathetic measures by school teachers to keep him safe. Those were adults. Dumbledore was a wizard. More than that, deep down Harry truly wanted to believe that Dumbledore cared for him.

And yet, here he was, keeping secrets-hiding information Harry thought he really ought to know. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore wasn't any different at all; just another Adult confusing ignorance as maintaining childhood innocence. This was a more pessimistic outlook than he believed to be true, but Harry was tired of adults keeping things from him.

Looking at his Headmaster, Harry could tell Dumbledore meant his refusal to be final, and that any resistance made by the 11-year old would be swatted away. This meant he couldn't be brash or direct; Harry would have to find another way to get Dumbledore to answer him because, well, he needed to know why his parents were dead. Though until Harry had a plan, he might as well get answers to the questions he could.

"But why couldn't Quirrell touch me?"

"Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign... to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."

Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out on the windowsill, which gave Harry time to dry his eyes on the sheet. In doing this, an idea clicked into Harry's brain. It would be flattery to call it a coherent plan, but Harry now believed he knew Dumbledore's weakness, and could perhaps use it to get the information he wanted.

When he gathered his voice once more, Harry said, "And, did you know my mother?" He needn't look into Dumbledore's eyes to realize this question caught him unawares; but Harry looked anyway. The darkness in the normally twinkling blue orbs of the weary Headmaster spoke what he would not say: Yes, I knew her.

Swallowing the lump in his throat and perhaps his courage with it, Harry now found a stain on the hospital sheets quite interesting to look at. He wasn't afraid of what Dumbledore could say, more rather what he himself would have to admit in the process. It took lying to himself-saying that his vulnerability was an act-for him to finally speak.

"You probably remember her better than I do, Professor. . . but I do remember some things. Like her scream. I didn't know her name until I came here or, or, that I had her eyes, or even that she was a witch-but I knew her voice, her begging for my life. . . then nothing.

I-I think. . . Voldemort and I have more in common than most. . . I didn't know love or friendship until Hogwarts-I was never given it by the Dursleys or anyone else. We're different, of course, because I understand what love is but, Sir. . . Voldemort ended my childhood over 10 years ago, the moment he killed my parents. I didn't know that either 'till I came here, and I still don't know a lot of things, but I would give anything to know why my parents had to die."

"Harry. . .-"

"Please Professor-let me finish." Harry's voice broke hearing the sympathy in Dumbledore's voice. He didn't want that-this wasn't real- he only needed the truth. Still, just then something broke in Harry, an impossible barrier of things inside his head which made it clear this was all very real.

"When you say Quirrel couldn't hurt me because of my mother's sacrifice, do you realize that some part of me doesn't believe that my mother could love me? If she did. . . why would I have grown up with the Dursleys? And if her love is there. . . why would Voldemort keep coming back?"

Harry looked up now at Dumbledore-not because he was any less afraid or thought himself a pleasant sight to see with tears streaming down his face. He needed to show why he needed to be told the whole truth of his parents: because he had just revealed his own. What Harry didn't expect to see looking up was the new wetness on Dumbledore's own cheeks.

"Ple-ase, Sir, I just need the truth, so that I know-. . . for my mo-om."

Whatever place Harry began this conversation in, it was not where he found himself now; he knew everything he said was true-as hard as it was to admit-but he didn't mean to get here. Certainly no information was worth this embarrassment of crying in front of your Headmaster, yet Harry couldn't stop feeling and thinking things he'd kept from himself all these years-the doubts-the anger-the sadness, all because Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived was simply a boy alone in this strange new world, who would give it all up for Them. For the love of a mother.

Part of Harry wished Dumbledore had somehow not been listening for the past few minutes, that they had not moved past a set line together into a new place-one that required a different understanding and a different role of each other.

Perhaps Dumbledore could just pop an Earwax Bertie Botts Every Flavor Bean into his mouth and trot out of the Hospital wing with an air of mystery still about him. He wouldn't have to be the conflicted, now much older and heavier man he appeared to be-one looking into the eyes of a broken boy and coming to the conclusion that all of his excuses, well-meaning manipulations, and many secrets could no longer be tolerated. How could he not see how skinny the child was? How so willing he was to fill a role of hero. . . of course there was no going back now. There had to be a new plan, one of cooperation and understanding. All because Harry had been right. It wasn't just Voldemort.

Love was Dumbledore's weakness too.