Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
A/N: This one shot is set about halfway into the summer before sixth year.A silent tableau in a magical office. The grandfatherly headmaster sits behind his desk, ancient head resting on steepled fingers. A boy, or man perhaps, sits across from him. Leaning back, gazing at the sparkling objects that litter the room.
He's wearing an oversized t-shirt with holes from where thorns on beautiful roses snagged the thread. He hasn't changed into robes to cover the unfortunate state of his clothes because he has no more.
They burned in the attack. The blazing fire eating the wood. Dead trees screaming as they lost their lives once more.
He's staring at the ceiling now. It doesn't have an enchantment like in the great hall. Just a high ceiling with beams crisscrossing in ornate designs. He wonders if there is a reason. If that's a rune he sees up high on a beam or is it something peeves stuck on the ceiling long ago. Perhaps a previous headmaster. Peeves listens to Dumbledore. He knows this though he rarely sees them together. He knows this because he remembers how Peeves acted on the night Sirius- he stops.
He finds something else to stare at until the inevitable moment comes when he is jolted from his thoughts. Ah, he thinks, there it is. It comes in the form of a quiet sigh and rather than ignore it like a petulant child he brings his gaze from the window and rests his green eyes on the wizened wizard before him.
He wonders how Dumbledore will begin. He thinks suddenly that it is his turn to open. He has grown a bit mentally. Perhaps it is his turn to take the first step to rebuild the bridge. A snicker escapes his lips as he imagines the bridge his efforts would create. He ignores the concerned look. He is content to picture the warped pieces of wood strung together by rotting rope. The scared refugees of a Voldemort ravaged world and his smile diminishes when he sees dead eyes in wary faces.
"Are you alright Harry?" He has missed it. That first step; the next time will come soon. How he loves these talks. Only he doesn't. He loathes the subtle persuasion that creeps over his skin like the cold slime he saw in the movies he watched from behind a crack between the cupboard door and the wall. He feels like running his hands over his arms to get off the invisible slime.
Flicking it off his skin and watching as the fluid splatters on the decorations hard enough to knock them over. He feels a remnant of fury. Fury he lost when he realised Sirius- he stops
He looks at the man in front of him. He thinks something was said but he can't be sure. He waits, Dumbledore will repeat it. Only he doesn't and he struggles to keep his attention on white hair. Perhaps Dumbledore was a blond before he went for the almighty wizard image. Blonde blends so well with white. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Swedish, he thinks. Do Swedes go to Hogwarts? He'll have to ask Hermione.
Then he remembers Tom's diary. Or journal if he'd prefer that name. Dumbledore had auburn hair. So amazingly easy how the little things slip from his mind.
"Harry, look at me." He realises that despite his efforts his eyes wandered. So he brings them back to the headmaster.
On the way he spies a miniature house of silver. He thinks if he goes up close he'll see a little silver mother and her silver husband, they'll have two silver children, a boy and a girl. She'll be tasting the supper she's cooked and listening to her husband talk about his day. The son will be watching television and the daughter will be talking to her friends about gossip. He smiles because he still thinks like a muggle.
He imagines flames licking at the tiny house. Silver foundations melting in the heat. And he thinks that a perfect family screams exactly the same way a dysfunctional one does. And he remembers that the Dursleys are dead.
"I know this must be-" He easily overrides the concern spewing from a lying mouth.
"How did you expect me to defeat Voldemort before I finished Hogwarts?" Dumbledore looks confused. He wants to smile but doesn't, he's afraid if he smile he'll lose himself in his fragmented mind.
"I didn't-" Dumbledore doesn't get to finish because he stops him.
"Of course you did. What happens when I turn seventeen and gain control of myself? You know that no matter what you say you wouldn't stop me. You could tell I had to stay to protect my friends and I would have hated you. Then I would have packed my bags. Did you hope I would see the reason? You knew and you wanted me to kill Voldemort before the war got too bad. Before I was out of your control."
He pauses to gather his thoughts. This is the most lucid he's been in a while. He feels like 'Aunt' Marge looked after she drank so much the summer of 1993. The summer he first say the black dog. The summer he first heard of Sirius- he stops.
"The Dursleys are dead? There is no miracle spell that no one told me about is there?" He doesn't wait, instead plowing on. "I bet your wondering why. You put up the wards yourself. They should be infallible. I should be safely tucked in my closed awaiting the day of my liberty. But I'm not, so you sit there, confused." He stops and it takes Dumbledore a few seconds to realise he wants the question to be voiced.
"Why have the wards fallen Harry?" A brittle smile and his face looks about to crumble. For a second he is seen as he is, but the moment passes and he continues in an oddly lilting voice.
"I could say it was your fault but I won't. I could say it was my fault but I won't. And finally it could have been the Dursleys' fault but I don't like to speak ill of the dead. I fear they will return and I have too many wraiths inside me to invite more. What I will say is that the discussion we had earlier set the ball rolling. You said the wards would remain as long as I considered number four privet drive, my home. I sat in my room then found it was too spacious and asked to be moved back into the cupboard where I could think in blissful darkness. It was a few days later when I started to think about what you said. I'm slow like that. I think that's why I do so poorly on tests. I remember information days later and by then I am too tired or busy to verify it. I think I'll do better in school this year. Know ones own weaknesses, so that you can hide them so deep even enemies inside your head can't find them. No matter how deep they did and hard they tear, destroying the precious fabric of the mind."
He notices the slightly exasperated look on Dumbledore face and he realises he's gone off topic. He thinks it's another weakness but he'll leave this one along because it seems to confuse and annoy. He licks his dry lips.
"So I was sitting in the dark and I heard my uncle yelling for me. 'Freak' he called, so I unfolded myself from the cramped position and set about the chores on a long list. The sooner the better you know, the sooner I can rest, the sooner I can go back to my closet. I go outside and I'm weeding the garden when this family from down the street walks by."
He sees the infant in the carriage gurgling happily as the world passes by, just beyond the reach of chubby fingers. A girl of six years he assumes is the sister talks animatedly with the mother. As they pass he hears them talking about the part they are planning for the father, It turns out that this scene is a life changer. A catalyst. Parents tend to do that without even knowing it. Lily and James did. They ended the war. That family might be the reason he loses the war.
"Because a happy family passes by me, slaving in the garden they occupy my thoughts throughout the night. I can't help comparing them to the Dursleys and the Dursleys are found lacking. Suddenly they're not my family. This leads to wondering. If they're not my family how can the place I stay- remember that stay, not live- be called my home. I come to the conclusion it can't and the wards fell. I felt a ripple. You felt a ripple. And Voldemort felt a ripple through me. The rest they say is history but then again history tends to repeat itself so perhaps the rest is the future."
He shudders as he thinks of history. No the dull drone of goblin wars he learned in History of Magic but the horrific events that were glossed over in muggle textbooks. Dumbledore frowns, thinking he's finished. Perhaps he is. He is tired. It's nothing like after he runs away from Dudley's gang and no magic kicks in. That was a good tired; muscles straining, heart beating. Telling him he was alive.
This lethargy isn't healthy. It is sleeping so he doesn't eat. Sleeping so that he doesn't notice how skeletal he was getting. Sleeping so when his heart stops his eyes will be closed. Sleeping so when he comes back to haunt the people he left behind he'll be used to the boredom and he'll sleep some more, never looking in the mirror so he won't see the wasted resemblance to Sirius-he stops.
Dumbledore is looking at him with endless blue eyes that disorient. He looks away quickly. Fear is enveloping him at the thought of falling into an abyss of blue. He wants to fall through ragged curtains. Curtains in the night shifting silently. A dotted cloth sparkling like the stars. They are stars, twinkling far above, far away. Distance between lights that he cannot see. Night sky high above malicious acts all over the world. Creatures of the night.
He thinks of vampires. Blood trickling from sharp fangs much too big for the mouth housing them. Pale skin gleaming in the moonlight. They look up when they hear the call of a wolf. Shuffling and the beast comes to sight. A memory of Snape appears. Clad in black, tall and menacing as he glides in front of the class, dictating their notes. How to tell the difference between a wolf and a werewolf. He can't remember much. He does know one has a longer snout but he can't remember which
"Harry! Look at me" The voice is desperate and he thinks the headmaster is about to plead with him. He takes his time returning his attention.
"I'm worried about you" He laughs. It is bordering on the edge of hysteria.
"Now you're worried about me? Why now? Have you looked inside my head? Seen the barren wasteland? Does that worry you? Scare you? Surely you've looked before, yet you only worry now. In my first year I never told you of my worries that a professor was trying to bring Voldemort immortality and I find you beside me when I awake. But you're worried now. Did you use legimens that day in second year when I told you nothing was wrong but I could hear voices in the walls? Did you worry when the dementors had such an effect on me? Were you worried because they follow Voldemort and you were scared I would lose because I lay on the ground shaking and hearing my mother and father scream? Did you see the cracks in me after I dragged Cedric's corpse, the result of my folly, across the grounds towards you?"
He doesn't scream and he thinks that is why Dumbledore is paling. Harry Potter is a volatile person who screams. Rants and rages while he breaks things. There is a pale and frail boy sitting in the chair in front of the headmaster and he is not Harry Potter. He is something infinitely darker and more dangerous if only because Dumbledore doesn't know how to control and manipulate him.
He sits trying to imagine what oblivion would be like. Sweet, they say. Sweet oblivion but he wonders how can someone completely oblivious be aware of sweetness. Another silly expression he thinks. The English language is full of them and probably other languages but he only knows the bare minimum of French and he doesn't plan to travel. He plans to die. Suicide or murder. It doesn't matter. He just wants to join all the people he's caused the death of.
"Harry! You haven't killed anyone!" He smiles because he knows he wasn't speaking aloud. Dumbledore's been in his head. It's that bitter smile again. Puzzle pieces that don't fit, weak buildings that lean over and topple crushing hundreds underneath. And the bitter, falling apart smile. He ignores him. Back to his perusal of the office but he's been here so many times and he has become bored.
"When do I start training" Dumbledore looks confused. How cute. "If I'm to kill Voldemort I will need extra training and rather than letting 20 years pass to gather experience. I would rather I kill him within the near future. Near is a relative word though. Perhaps I should say next two years. Training will be so much easier if we both comply, don't you agree? I'll let you break me then mold me in the image of your weapon. I will become the monster to fight another."
Dumbledore looks sad. He thinks it's because the old man doesn't understand why he would he willingly become that which he despises. Only he doesn't have enough energy left in him to despise, to hate. He says he loathes but it's just a word. He speaks.
"I will become the abomination of the light. The thing everyone hates to need. They will shudder even as they shower me with praises. I will become the good devil himself so that after I've killed Voldemort and when I kill myself, nothing, no strands of friendship or love will hold me to this place. And if Voldemort kills me no one will mourn me, only the legend. The loved and hated legend."
Dumbledore looks shocked so he stands and moves to the door. It's not locked and it opens easily when he pushes it open. He leaves. He descends the falling staircase and wanders. He thinks he's hungry but he's not sure. It is an alien feeling. He passes the old office of the old High Inquisitor and the faint pink line on his arm tingles. Even walking past he can tell they haven't yet cleaned the room. Bad memories he guesses. He can still see the shackles that held his firebolt to the wall. The broom Sirius- he stops.
Please review. Just a little one shot that wouldn't leave me alone.