It was the only time Harry had seen tears fall from those blue eyes.
Harry slid to a stop in the middle of a stone corridor, and turned to face a necessary, but ugly hunk of stone. Oh, how he hated that gargoyle. Ever since the Battle of Hogwarts had destroyed its predecessor, that stupid excuse for a guardian had tried to make his life hard. Hermione would tell him to calm down. Oh, well.
Harry opened his mouth to speak the password. Lemon drops, to honor the man who made peace possible.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.
Known to some as Headmaster, Chief Warlock or Supreme Mugwump of the ICW.
Known to those closest to him as Albus, the greatest wizard of his generation and Barmy Old Coot, not in that order and not necessarily said aloud or to his face.
Harry, immersed in thought, mumbled, "Lemon Drops," in the general direction of the gargoyle and ascended the steps to what used to be Albus' office. Harry had been here many times, having been a part of the war council and Albus' successor as the leader of the Order of the Phoenix.
Entering the Headmistress' office, Harry paid no notice to the empty chair on the far side of the ornate desk. Headmistress McGonagall would be away for the next few days, negotiating postwar policies with the new Minister Shacklebolt.
The triumphant hero nodded in thanks to the Sorting Hat, and then proceeded to stare at an empty portrait just behind the empty, throne-like chair. An elderly face appeared in the empty frame, blue twinkling eyes seemingly peering into Harry's soul.
Harry took a deep breath, contemplating his words to the soulpiece if his mentor. He really was only here becaise the blue-eyed wizard had called for him through the castle's consciousness and magic.
No wizard who had ever had a portrait painted had ever done what Albus had. A part of Albus' consciousness flew to this painting as he was struck by that fateful beam of green death. This was not a mere impression; This painting was the true Albus Dumbledore. While not a horcrux, soul magic like this was beyond most.
In all his intelligence, Albus couldn't read others' obvious signs of reluctance. He broached a topic Harry would have liked to never talk about again: the Dursleys.
"The next great adventure is truly an adventure," Albus started. "I have just now met your Uncle Vernon, Harry."
Harry closed his eyes, memories of livid purple faces and wheezing threats swimming through his mind. An untreated broken arm and days thrown in a cupboard. Cooking breakfast every single day since Harry was four years old.
Harry looked up at his mentor's portrait. "I don't want to talk about it."
Albus looked vaguely disappointed, like a grandfather's disappointment in a child for some minor misbehavior. He argued, "You will only let that go if you tell someone, my boy. Talking helps," he cajoled. "Why was your uncle calling you 'the freak boy' when you were loved at home? What is the story behind that?" Albus asked, with a sinking feeling in his painted heart.
Harry was quiet for a second. Vernon had died suddenly of a heart attack when Harry was nineteen. Five years later, Dudley and Aunt Petunia were on much friendlier terms with a newly married Harry. Vernon's hate has poisoned them all.
Harry's thoughts came back to the present and he met Albus' sapphires with his own emeralds, the jewels warring against each other in a battle of wills. Harry backed down, knowing that paintings couldn't blink, and started to speak.
"Albus, were you hiding under a rock for the first eleven years of my existence?"
The former Headmaster looked suitably confused. "What do you mean, Harry?"
"You thought I was loved at home?"
"Yes, I did," Albus said. Seeing the incredulous look on Harry's face, Albus knew. His face reflecting his horror, he shook his head frantically, all poise fleeing in the face of this discovery. The twinkle died from bright blue eyes, as they faded to a dull blue-gray. "No. No. I'm so sorry, Harry. I didn't know, the great wizard whispered in horror. "I asked you to use the power of love when-"
Harry finished his broken sentence, "-Love was the only thing I had never known. I grew up hated and neglected, a freak to my relatives and the people of Little Whinging. If a teacher tried to help me, they were mysteriously fired shortly after. Tell me Albus, you said you knew what you sentenced me to for ten years." Harry's volume grew steadily louder. "Well, did you know THIS?!"
Harry heard a choked noise that drew aside the curtain of anger clouding his thoughts. Looking at Albus' portrait was like seeing a different person. The old wizard was shaking, his wrinkled face looking older than Harry had ever seen the energetic wizard. Despite his anger, Harry wanted nothing more than to comfort him. The strongest person Harry had known shouldn't have been allowed to...cry.
Round, fat tears rolled down Albus' painted face, and Harry so wished he could touch his friend, comfort him. But silence was all he could do. They spilled from blue pools of grief, falling for the child who never really had the chance to be a child.
Harry quietly turned and left, shame at bringing such grief to Albus Dumbledore ringing through his mind. It is only human to make mistakes, he concluded as he thought of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, weeping in an empty office. The experience had shaken Harry to the bone. Albus was a source of strength, and never showed this grief to a soul. Until now.
It was the only time Harry had seen tears fall from those blue eyes.