Harry supposed he hadn't always been there. There was the time before Hogwarts, even, before Hagrid knocked down the door of that ridiculous cottage and let him read his letter. That was the moment it had all started, wasn't it? Harry knew it must be a great man who could take him away from the Dursleys', from the life he hated that never quite made sense to him. But that had been a long time ago, almost five years.
Now Harry was sitting outside the door to his office. He had seen the sense in Hermione's and Ron's advice. Harry really did have to tell him about the Rookwood dream, and it made a perfect excuse to see him. Harry had gone straight to McGonagall after last period Transfiguration and told her to take him there—straight up to Dumbledore's office.
Harry was so grateful for the her faith in him. It had been this way all year: Harry had another dream and needed to inform Dumbledore, or Harry had an urgent question about his studies, or about Voldemort. He knew he wasn't fooling McGonagall—there was no fooling McGonagall—but that she took him past the stone gargoyle anyway felt to Harry like a sign. Surely the way he felt wasn't wrong. This was the way things were supposed to be.
The heavy wooden door swung open. "Come in, Harry," Dumbledore's voice called from inside. Harry stepped into the office, the only place in the world he felt safe. There was Fawkes, on his perch, and the Sorting Hat, sitting silently on its stool. Surrounded by the whirring silver instruments, Harry felt perfectly at home. "What is it, Harry?" asked Dumbledore.
Now that it was finally time to explain himself, Harry found himself nervous, almost awestruck by the man in front of him. Just a man, yet infinitely more. "I had a dream, sir," was all he could manage.
"Yes, Harry? Not a normal dream, I take it."
"No, sir. More like a vision. I was…I was in this room and there was a man there, cowering on the floor…" Harry relayed some of the information Rookwood had given Voldemort in his vision. "And then…there was a mirror, an old one, and I woke up," he finished, staring into Dumbledore's face, willing him to understand what he couldn't say.
"Anything else Harry?"
Harry looked at his hands, at Gryffindor's sword, at the picture of a dozing headmistress and back at his hands. He nodded.
"Harry," Dumbledore said gently, "Harry, it is imperative that I understand this dream."
"I'm so ashamed, sir," Harry blurted out, "I know I'm supposed to be studying Occlumency to block out these dreams. I let you down. I'm sorry."
"Oh, Harry. I know it's not easy for you to have lessons with Professor Snape, just as I know it's not easy for him to have lessons with you. But I sense that isn't all."
Harry remained silent. There was more to the dream of course, and more besides that he just couldn't say.
"If you permit me Harry, if you can trust me, I will look into your mind myself, not with the intent to harm you, or even to teach you, but to understand this missing piece. You should never consent to this unless you are absolutely certain of the person who asks it of you and I wouldn't be hurt in the slightest if you refused me now. Use the skill you do have to shield those memories and thoughts you want kept private and I will do my best not to see anything not related to your dream."
Harry nodded. He began to clear his mind, shoving thoughts of clandestine Hogsmeade weekends and Cho Chang's eyes behind a barrier of calm he hoped Dumbledore would see and stay away from. "I'm ready, sir."
"Very well, ligilimens."
To Dumbledore, Harry's mind appeared as the Hogwarts Library. Just where the Restricted section ought to be was a sheer curtain behind which Dumbledore could see silhouettes of a girl and a giant dog. Right in front of him was a section entitled Dreams. Dumbledore walked up to it and picked up the first book on the shelf, knowing it would be the latest. As he opened it, he saw it unfolded like a pamphlet, seemingly forever on one train of thought. Dumbledore read the dream from the first page and unfolded the next. As he did, the library disappeared. Dumbledore was left standing in a void with only that one book, unfolding itself for Dumbledore to see and understand.
Well done, Harry, thought Dumbledore, you have gained some measure of control.
Dumbledore looked back at the book of Harry's thoughts and saw that Occlumency was so much easier for Harry when he had nothing to fear from the intruder. He gave a small smile and read on. What he saw truly startled him.
Here was Harry's first memory of Dumbledore, at Hogwarts, just after he had been sorted. Their meeting at the Mirror of Erised and Harry asking him what he saw. He saw an editorial comment here, Harry forgiving Dumbledore for not being entirely truthful. Dumbledore did see himself wearing a thick pair of woollen socks, that was true, but that had not been the sum total of his heart's desire. Dumbledore smiled at Harry's ability to discern that, even then.
On and on, Dumbledore travelled through Harry's book, the editorial content growing larger and larger with each year. When he saw, through Harry's eye, his own reaction to Cedric's death and the message Harry carried, he began to see clearly what Harry meant by dissolving the rest of the library and leading him down memory lane like this. Harry felt so much more than comforted when Dumbledore explained everything—the wand, the spell, poor Diggory's death. Dumbledore understood, finally, what it was that Harry couldn't tell him in words. He smiled a small, sad smile, almost a grimace, and closed the book.
"Professor," said Harry questioningly, his eyes searing, hoping desperately for an affirmation in his mentor's eyes.
"Oh Harry," said Dumbledore. "I understand that you feel very strongly about our relationship, but I think you misunderstand yourself."
"Sir—" Harry's voice broke off. It was real, it was true, he knew it was.
"Listen to me, Harry. I love you. More than I had planned to and more than I was prepared for, but the love you have in mind is not the only kind of love. You never knew your father, Harry, and that is tragic. Had you known him, you might recognize what it is that you feel now."
Harry ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself and grabbed the back of his neck in frustration. How could he make the Headmaster understand? It felt like so much more than that!
"I know how powerful that love feels, Harry. It is filling you up and you know of no other outlet for it. But trust me, Harry, trust me as you did when you opened your mind to me. The love you feel does not manifest itself you way you envision it. It is just as strong, just as potent, but different. Do you understand, Harry?"
"Yes, sir," Harry replied. It was a lie. He didn't understand anything anymore. The one person he trusted told him he couldn't trust himself. How could anyone be mistaken about himself? His own feelings? And yet, Harry did trust his headmaster more than his own mind.
"In many ways, Harry, it's my fault. Although I didn't know it at the time, I took you away from any father you might have had. I could have left you with Sirius, had I taken the time to investigate properly, or even raised you myself. But I didn't. The childhood I chose for you was a hard one, and I'm truly sorry. I hope, in time, you'll come to appreciate Sirius as a father figure, and I would be deeply honoured if you felt that way about me, too."
Harry's head held a tumble of confusion. "I—I see, sir. I…I"
"Yes, Harry, perhaps it's time you headed down to dinner."
Harry nodded and all but fled from the office. Dumbledore sat back in his chair and removed his glasses.
"Pass the potatoes, Hermione?" said Ron.
Hermione passed the dish across the table. "When are you two planning to do that Transfiguration table?" she asked.
"Oh, sometime before exams…" Ron replied distractedly, serving himself.
"Ron! We get OWLs this year! You have to be more serious. What about you, Harry?"
"Tonight, I guess. I've got it written in my planner."
"You have, oh excellent!" Hermione turned to beam at him. Looking up at the high table, she added, "I wonder where Dumbledore is tonight."