Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: There's a twist at the end. I do not like Dumbledore bashing.
Manipulative. String-pulling. Puppeteer. Bastard. Old coot. Machiavellian.
Those were only a tiny percentage of adjectives that Harry chose to apply to Albus Dumbledore. Why? Only Harry's sullen mind knew; and it turned the matter over and over as its body lay motionless on the bed.
Really, Harry wasn't very comfortable. He'd accumulated a few bruises from Dudley in the most inconvenient places possible, and his emotions roiled. In fact, he didn't notice when something knocked at the door. It took the second (and much louder) round to stir him from his thoughts; and when he finally opened the door, the knocker was well into the fourth volley.
Anger gripped Harry's heart in its implacable iron fist when he looked to see who had disturbed his rest.
Manipulative. String-pulling. Puppeteer. Bastard. Old coot. Machiavellian.
Dumbledore. Just standing there in his star-spangled orange robes, beaming at Harry as if Harry would be glad to see him.
Not this time.
"Sir," Harry said coldly. He made it clear that he was furious at Dumbledore; although his voice was calm, it was sarcastic and his eyes burned. The Headmaster's twinkle did not diminish, but it seemed to Harry that it was a little less genuine.
"Harry," Dumbledore replied, and smiled a little.
"It's Mr. Potter," Harry almost spat, incensed that Dumbledore was treating him as a child again. But he hung onto his calm by his teeth and toenails.
Dumbledore let his face go serious, and said, "As you wish, Mr. Potter."
This did not relieve Harry of his fury; it just seemed to him that Dumbledore was somehow mocking him. So he pointedly did not reply, and Dumbledore just gazed around the room. What did he find so interesting? Harry followed his gaze. Just a broken television; nothing interesting there—Harry kept on twitching all over his meager blanket. He couldn't sit—
"Why did you come here, Headmaster?" Harry asked, since he couldn't bear the silence any longer. He made Dumbledore's title sound like an obscenity, and the old man couldn't help but flinch at this spite from a boy he'd almost called friend.
"Well, I must say that I came to ask how you were holding up," Dumbledore answered. His gaze drilled into Harry's though both sets of powerful eyes were masked by glass. "I know that you were upset about Sirius' death—"
"Upset?" Harry repeated. His voice went colder. "My godfather—the closest thing I've ever had to a father—just died, and you say I'm upset. Well, Headmaster, this is exactly the kind of thing that has prompted me to make my decision."
"Ah, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore began delicately, "what decision have you made—and what 'kind of thing' has guided you to it?"
"I," Harry said, and paused a majestic pause, "wish to be re-Sorted. I do not belong in Gryffindor; it's a place full of hypocrites."
"I see," was all Dumbledore said, and molded his face into a mask so that Harry could not begin to guess what he was thinking.
"And you put me up to this," Harry continued. "You and your claims about every sacrifice being for the 'greater good'; individuals are only pawns on your chessboard, ready to be thrown away. You've manipulated everyone you come into contact with, you use Legilimency without shame, and you put me here with the Dursleys! You cannot know what I have gone through here, and yet you send me back again and again. You treat me like a child. You cannot see that some people—the Malfoys, for instance—are actually good! You're a blind, old bat!" Sometime in his speech, Harry had risen, and was leaning over Dumbledore. His last few words hissed and spat their way from his mouth.
Dumbledore did not speak for a moment, and Harry allowed triumph to take over for one small second until he leaned back and Dumbledore, in turn, drew himself up to speak.
Now, Professor Dumbledore was not short; the opposite, really. And Harry was still rather small and underfed.
They would have made quite a sight, the pair; one tall and skinny, one short and skinny. Both pairs of eyes flashing. Power radiating from both.
Fate hung in the balance: everything depended on Dumbledore's words; whether Harry would turn Dark and betray them all or if Harry would reconcile himself with his life's path of Light.
"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said. Anger and magic were suppressed in his voice, and he chose his tone and phrases carefully so they would not be released. "I will address your issues one at a time."
Harry straightened, looking remarkably petty next to the old man. "Very well," he replied.
"First: you complain of 'the greater good' and my uses of it. I don't believe that I have ever used that phrase in my life, least of all as an excuse. I like to think that a decent person would be above that, and I hope that I am decent first and foremost. But I am also a leader, and a leader trying to win a war at that. If I ever must sacrifice any it is grieving, and they have chosen their path. When one swears the Oath of the Phoenix one swears to follow the chosen leader, who in turn is guided by the Order's namesake; in this case Fawkes."
"So?" Harry interrupted insolently; but Dumbledore quelled him with a glance.
"Let me continue. Your second complaint is of manipulation and I do not deny it, Harry." Harry made an indignant noise in his throat but did not speak. "I have done what I must. I have tried not to become corrupt; and maybe I have failed; and I cannot admit that I have never manipulated a man for personal gain; but maybe manipulated is the wrong word. I am persuasive, Harry, you know that; but everyone may be persuasive. When we speak, when we act, we all try to manipulate others—"
"Look," Harry said. "Get on with it. I don't care for your preaching; just talk so you can get me to Hogwarts and re-Sorted."
"Very well," Dumbledore said, but there was a hint of a scowl. This was an angry man. "I shall not 'preach', as you put it. I shall move to your next grievance."
"Good," Harry replied, and sat down on his bed. It broke the mood of power a little bit; but tension was still very much present.
"I have used Legilimency too often, but it is with shame, Harry. It is a Dark Art, as it invades the only freedom we have: that of the mind." Dumbledore began to pace. "Harry, it is only the purifying presence of Fawkes, my conscience, and my admittedly large amount of self-knowledge that keeps me from growing Dark. But I am not Dark, and I hope I shall never be so. I use Legilimency sparingly and with great shame. I have never used it on you; one as sensitive as yourself to the spirit (as shown by your patronus at thirteen) would have sensed what I was doing anyway."
"Fine," Harry said. "Fine. So some of these were unfounded—but do you have an excuse for the Dursleys and treating me like a child? I can't accept that, Sir."
"The Dursleys—I believed that they would be better to you. I have no excuse for not speaking to them before. I shall do so when I see them next, since none should know I am here now. But I send you to them because it is better that you are with the Dursleys than with the Death Eaters."
Harry thought for a moment. He imagined what Death Eaters would have done to a one-year-old baby they hated, and shuddered; it was far worse than what the Dursleys had done. At least he was alive. But still he was unwilling to concede. "But why didn't you take me and protect me that way? Sir, you're almost as powerful as the Dark Lord; you could have protected me, couldn't you? Why didn't you? Why did you leave me to a life of misery?"
"Because I was a fool, because there was a loyal Death Eater in our ranks, and because this is the safest place. This is where no mistakes can be made in the wards."
"But, the dementors! Professor, what about those dementors that attacked Dudley and I?"
"The dementors," Dumbledore said, "could only attack you then because you were outside the bounds of this house." He indicated the room around them. "Had you been within that boundary, they would not have been able to harm you."
"All right," Harry said. "Fine. Go on."
"I have treated you like a child, furthermore, because for a long time you have been a child. A child with unusual maturity sometimes, but a child nonetheless. You may have noticed that I have been treating you as more adult as you grow older, Harry; and that is all I have to say. In fact it is very late, and I'm afraid that I tire. I am sure you do as well – legilimens!" Finally Dumbledore interrupted himself with the incantation. He only needed to say the spell aloud in particularly difficult cases, as this was.
Images flashed past Dumbledore's awareness as he found himself inside Harry's mind and tried not to get sucked in. He was looking for something specific.
Rushing along neural pathways, Dumbledore searched for the origin of Harry's abnormal behavior. Where was this, where was this horrid awareness controlling Harry's emotions, where was this malignant—there. It was in front of him before he could think of any more adjectives, and it took the form of a roiling dark cloud.
Why are you in here? it asked Dumbledore, and moved forward like the sleazy tough on the street trying to frighten.
What are you? Dumbledore asked it. Why are you here?
I am here for his soul and for him, it answered. With the force of Dumbledore's will bent upon it, it could not help but answer truthfully. I was told—I was told!
Away, Dumbledore called to Harry's mind. This disease was being fought by Harry's brain, but Harry could not win alone. So Dumbledore bolstered the failing cells of magic with his own power, and Harry's magic swelled in response to the encouragement; soon little of Dumbledore was needed as light closed in on the darkness and purified it from his soul.
Dumbledore looked around Harry's mind; the thing was gone. He exited the same way he had come, and went back to his own body.
There was Harry, still sitting in front of him, but back to normal. The boy blinked green eyes behind his glasses and said, "Professor? I remember being very angry at you, but I don't remember why. What happened?"
"It was a baby dementor," Dumbledore replied. "It attached itself to your mind when you were outside Privet Drive, and went back in with you. It was there for a purpose."
"Did Voldemort send it?"
"Most likely. But now—now I must go, Harry. Good luck! I shall owl you about when I will pick you up from this place. Goodbye!" And in a twirl of blinding fabric and a barely audible pop, Dumbledore disapparated.
Harry leaned back on his pillows. That had been enlightening. He had been loyal to Dumbledore before, and now he felt as if he might just die if Dumbledore asked it of him.
It was a good feeling.
A/N(#2!!): Hope you had fun! Grin!