Author's Notes: This is an extremely dark and possibly disturbing story. It contains contain graphic disciplinary caning of a minor, may be seen as excessive by many readers, and is not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach.
If you prefer your Dumbledore all-wise and all-loving, this is not the story for you.
I own nothing, make no money, and mean no harm.
"You were to come straight to me with any visions of Voldemort, were you not?" Dumbledore asked, his voice as mild as ever. Had Harry not caught sight of the man's hands, folded so tightly that the knuckles had turned white, he might have assumed it was a simple question. But the Headmaster's posture and Fawkes's uneasy shifting informed the fifteen-year-old that something was wrong.
"But I had to go to Snape," Harry said, confused that Dumbledore couldn't see it. "Else he'd have walked straight into Avery and MacNair - there wasn't time."
"When do I ask things of you, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, still in the same kind voice. "Did it not occur to you that it must be important to speak to me first, as I had specifically requested it?"
"And I came straight after I saw Snape!" Harry burst out. "I thought you wanted me to make an effort to get on better with him. Well, if you'd rather I let him walk into a bloody trap, next time I'll make sure I keep it from him!"
"My office is not the place for a tantrum, Harry," Dumbledore rebuked, and that tore it.
"I am NOT having a tantrum!" Harry exclaimed sharply - might even have yelled, to be straight with it - but Dumbledore was shaking his head sadly and rising to his feet.
"Harry, I cannot tolerate disobedience or disrespect," Dumbledore said seriously. "Least of all from you, now. There is far too much at stake for our progress to be derailed by teenager attitudes."
"What sort of attitude am I supposed to have then?" Harry shot back. "And I came straight to you after Snape, anyway. It's not as though I called up Sirius and did my Divination homework!"
"You are not a normal teenager, Harry. You don't have that luxury," Dumbledore said, more sharply than Harry could recall seeing him since they had discovered Barty Crouch's identity. "And I will have to punish you for your behaviour tonight, I'm afraid. Please do not make it any worse for yourself."
"Make it worse for myself?" Harry repeated, unsure what the old wizard could possibly have in mind. Dumbledore merely turned and opened a tall cabinet, drawing a long wooden rod from the shadows. A cane.
"Corporal punishment is seldom utilised at Hogwarts, by my own policies," Dumbledore told him, his voice reflective and almost sad as he glanced down at the instrument in his hands. "But as I am constantly reminded, Harry, you are not a normal teenager."
"So you're going to cane me then?" Harry asked, equally confused and horrified by the thought that Dumbledore would cane a student, after all his clear disapproval of Umbridge and Filch. Worse, that he would be the student who made Dumbledore use it, and over something like this. "I only wanted to warn Snape..."
"You've left me no choice, Harry," Dumbledore said regretfully. "I've been lenient with you - perhaps too lenient - in the past. But it has come to my attention that I cannot be doing you any favors, and that if anything, I should hold you to a higher standard than I do your classmates."
"I'll do better next time," Harry said stupidly, flushing with embarrassment at the thought that Dumbledore - the closest thing he'd ever had to a parent - was going to do that. "I swear, Professor, I'll come straight to you."
"I have no doubt that you will," the Headmaster said gravely. "Now remove your robes for me, please, and place your palms against the wall."
Harry stared imploringly at Dumbledore, hands clasping automatically across his robes, but the wizard merely inclined his head to the blank space of wall behind his desk.
"I will be forced to give you additional strokes if you do not comply, Harry," he said, and Harry wondered how he had never noticed before that Dumbledore and Umbridge actually had a lot in common. The way they could both sound so kindly, so concerned, when they were about to slice open his flesh.
He moved almost as if he had been placed under the Imperius curse, shrugging out of his robes with a sense of distance and fogginess. This couldn't be happening to him. Not here, not at Hogwarts. But it was.
He folded his robes in a last-minute flash of inspiration, placing them neatly on the chair he had vacated, but Dumbledore merely nodded to the wall, and Harry walked forward, placed his feet at shoulder width, bent his knees slightly, and planted his palms against the wall. The wooden slats felt cool against his hands, and he leaned his head forward too, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and hoping it would be over quickly.
He was sure he could take it - he'd taken worse, after all, loads of times - but standing here in Dumbledore's office, waiting to be caned like some stupid schoolboy - it was horrible. He had only been trying to help, after all. See where that had gotten him. He couldn't do anything right.
He heard Dumbledore moving behind him and took in a shaky breath as the thin wood tapped lightly against his jeans.
"Please remain still, Harry," Dumbledore's voice came floating from behind him. Everything still felt so detached and unreal, like in a moment now he would wake up. But he knew he wasn't going to. His scar still prickled from earlier, and his palms were beginning to sweat.
"You are not in a position to be disobedient," Dumbledore said, reinforcing his earlier words, Harry supposed. "It is, perhaps... unlucky that the fate of the wizarding world may very well rest on you. But so it does, and we must take care to act accordingly."
"Yes, Professor," Harry said, his own voice sounding strange to his ears.
"Six of the best then, as they say," Dumbledore told him. "If you could be so kind as to count for me, Harry."
That was all the warning Harry got; a moment later he heard a dreadful low whistle and a flash of pain shot across his buttocks, making him forget immediately about the lingering twitches in his scar.
"Ah!" he exclaimed involuntarily. It wasn't the Cruciatus - nothing like it - but where he felt curses in his bones, this cane seemed to focus a nearly equal amount of pain in one stripe of fire across his skin and into his muscle. He kept his hands against the wall, but barely. Every impulse he had was screaming for him to try to protect himself. In a way this was worse than fighting dementors or Death Eaters - he had to stand here and take it.
"One! Sir!" he yelped after a moment, remembering belatedly that he was supposed to be counting. And Harry felt the cane tap lightly just under the first cut. He clenched his buttocks automatically, but then relaxed them as the pain tightened, just in time for the second blow to fall.
"Two, sir," he spoke through gritted teeth, avoiding a cry this time. It was a near thing though, and he had the horrible feeling that he would be sobbing by the end of it all. Sobbing like a child in front of Professor Dumbledore, unable to take a simple swishing.
A third lash landed beneath the first two, and Harry jumped in place at the force behind it, nearly driving him into the wall.
"No," he blurted out, before catching himself. "Sorry - sorry, sir, that was three, I'm sorry..." To his horror, tears were already beginning to leak out of his eyes. He clenched his teeth firmly, going red in the face as he tried to suppress the whimpering breaths that were dying to be heard.
"If you break position again, Harry, I will be forced to repeat the stroke," Dumbledore said softly. "Stay down."
It would have been easier if Dumbledore had put a hand against his back, or spoken words of encouragement - done anything but treat it as business. The man was being colder than Harry had ever known him, and it was almost too much to bear. Added the pain of the caning, and Harry was having the worst night he could remember at Hogwarts, Umbridge's detentions, Triwizard Tournament and all.
The cane swished down again rapidly, landing at the very crease of Harry's bottom, and he let out a choking sob at the impact. "Four, sir," he managed, but the top half of his body was shaking with the tears that were now coming fast and heavy.
This was worse than dueling, he was sure of it now. The way he couldn't defend himself, and the interminable waiting between strokes, the way the anticipation seemed to go on forever. There was no adrenaline, no heat of battle. Nothing to do but stand and accept his punishment, shaking and crying.
The next stripe fell at the top of Harry's thighs, and again he couldn't help himself - he hopped and his right hand flew back to cover his abused skin. He was quite sure the last one had drawn blood by the feel of it. "No! No, sir," he cried, stamping his foot once before flinging himself back into position. "That was five, sir!" He shook his head back and forth in despair.
"That stroke will have to be repeated," Dumbledore said, sadly but inexorably, and Harry continued shaking his head, openly bawling as the cane came down again - right over the previous cut. He was sure his thighs were bleeding now. He fancied he could feel the liquid trickling down the outside of his right leg.
"Five, sir, five," he choked, somehow staying in position despite the pain. There was nothing for it now. He was tensed, miserable, aching to flee, and he had to stay here. Once more, he told himself. Just once more, he could do it.
The final blow landed diagonally across the others - and who knew Dumbledore was such a bloody traditionalist, Harry wondered - and he kept position, merely throwing back his head as the previous lines all reignited, fire dancing along the points the cane had struck.
"Six, sir," he counted, though it was seven of course, seven stripes of absolute agony.
"You may rise," Dumbledore said in response, and with one great breath, Harry straightened, his arse feeling like it had been subjected to an extremely localized torture hex.
His face was streaked with tears, and fresh ones were still making their way down his cheeks. He knew he must look awful, mouth twisted in pain, eyes swollen, red and leaking. But at this point he couldn't even summon the embarrassment at Dumbledore seeing him like this. He was in too much pain.
"I certainly hope you do not earn yourself similar punishment in the future," Dumbledore said, but Harry wasn't having any of it. He still thought he had done the right thing, to save Snape even if the man was a bloody git, and that was what he was supposed to do. It made him a Gryffindor and it made him human. "But I imagine this has been a memorable lesson."
"Yes, sir," he said coldly, his voice only breaking a little at the end. "May I return to my dormitory?"
"You may," Dumbledore said, giving him a piercing look but saying no more. Harry gathered up his robes and slipped into them, turning away from the Headmaster as he did so. He walked slowly back to the common room, resisting the urge to stop at a toilet and examine the damage. He almost didn't want to see it.
Back in Gryffindor tower, he was able to make his way to his dormitory before any of the other students noticed the way he was walking, slowly, head down, and was kneeling on the floor beside his trunk, rummaging for murtlap essence when Ron and Hermione burst in with looks of concern.
"You were with Snape and Dumbledore for ages, mate," Ron was saying, but Hermione was cutting him off, realizing something was wrong.
"He didn't - Harry, what's happened?"
"I got the cane," Harry said grimly. His tears drying, it still felt almost like it had been someone else's experience. As though it couldn't have happened to him. Not like that.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione said, her hand flying to her mouth in alarm. "You didn't - "
"Look, my arse is sore as all hell and I just want to numb it and go to sleep," Harry interrupted angrily, but Hermione was shaking her head.
"Not with murtlap, Harry, not for that. Nothing magical will work on a school punishment, you see... If the skin's broken you'll need to use calendula paste, and - "
Of course. It couldn't be that easy. It never could.
"I've got some in my room," she said quickly, perhaps seeing the look on his face. "I'll fetch it for you, and then Ron and I will leave you alone, won't we, Ron?"
But Ron was gaping at Harry. "You got the cane? But no one's been caned here in about thirty years! Bugger, what did you do?"
"So much for that," Harry said angrily. The tears were coming back in the face of his friends' concern, and he scrubbed at them with his sleeve. "Look, I don't want to talk about it."
"Of course you don't," Hermione said. "I'll just get you the calendula - it's probably charmed not to be helped much, but we'll see what it can do - come ON, Ron," she said, pulling at his arm, and a moment later Harry was alone again.
His buttocks were in worse shape than he had expected when he made it to the showers, Hermione's calendula paste in hand. The welts were thicker than they had any right to be, raised well above his skin, and three of them were bloodied about the edges. He cleaned them off as best he could, but the coldest, softest water was unbearable, and his own fingers with the paste hot and heavy. He slid into his pyjamas knowing he had done only a mediocre job of treating the cuts, but also increasingly sure that they were indeed charmed against alleviation.
He lay on his stomach in his bunk, curtains drawn, his hand resting gently on his bum. Even that mild contact was enough to to make it burn hot again, but he kept it there, feeling the pain as it rose and crashed, pulsating. This was pain he had earned, if not deserved, and he would earn it again, he knew. Because doing the right thing could cause him worse pain than this, and that was his future. His destiny.
It certainly had been a lesson he would never forget.