Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I have a very long memory, a very long memory, you know.

I remember that time when I was three, when Dudley broke my arm after I snuck out of my cupboard and tried to play with his toy trains.

I remember when Dudley ran into Aunt Petunia's treasured blue china vase, breaking it, and blamed me. I didn't get to eat that week, being locked in my cupboard and all.

You told me not two weeks ago that you have watched and guarded me since the day I was placed with my relatives - bearing in mind that these relatives hated my parents and all they stood for.

Yet no one came when I cried in the night, praying and hoping, holding out in vain, for the cold embrace of the darkness, of Death, for surely not even death was as bad as daily beatings, starvation, and slave labor.

No one came when I told my teachers of the beatings. They treated me no better than the rest did, as the freak I was raised to be.

No one came to help me down when Ripper chased me up that tree when I was eight.

No one came to heal my wounds when Vernon went too far, nearly killing me at least twice when he tried to 'beat the magic out of me.'

I was a stray puppy then, a little dog that had been beaten for wanting affection, for wanting love, for wanting a little kindness shown to me. Even that was denied me as the years passed. I grew, as both humans and dogs did and do, from underfed whelp to thin adolescent.

I was made, not born, forged in the fires of Hell itself. My Hell was Number Four, Privet Drive, something that I made sure to remind you of, Professor, at every opportunity, from the beginning to not two weeks ago. I was made, shaped in that dratted Trelawney's prophecy.

You told me that love was the power the Dark Lord knows not, but how can I use it if I cannot remember experiencing it? You told me that I went to my aunt's house, the place where my mother's blood dwells, because there I could not be harmed by Voldemort, but your wards were based on the premise that she would love me as her own.

I suppose it goes without saying that she didn't.

Who knew that I would need protection from my own family, my own kin?

You did old man. You did, after that fist few months, perhaps the first few years.

How could you not?

No child wears rags if they are loved, and living in a prosperous household.

No child is beaten when they don't do chores that would break a grown man.

No child is much too small for their age because of malnutrition, again in that affluent home.

Yet, and yet, you knew and did nothing.

Merlin knows how I survived a decade with those people and still remain a little normal.

I was the cringing dog you wanted, the dog you were to train for War.

In my first year, how could you not have known which of your staff wanted the Stone? I could virtually feel the evil rolling off Quirrell, as I look back on it in my memory. I ignored it then, as I believed in Snape's guilt, making me blind to everyone else.

When I asked you of my destiny, that afternoon in the hospital wing, you only patted my head and told me I was a good, if young, boy. I had done my job, and I had done it well. I was content with that, for I saw you then as a kindly grandfather figure.

In my second year, you knew of my Parseltongue, and all the symptoms of the petrified people. How did a Basilisk, a great serpent, manage to escape your sight?

I returned to you as a grimy warrior of the light, loyal to you, your soldier that had fought against impossible odds and triumphed once more. You saw my sword, and your phoenix, and the Diary. I had won once more.

I left your office without pressing you for information, thinking only of shower, bed, and the Feast, in that order.

My third year was the only one in which I didn't meet Voldemort face to face. Instead I get to learn of my parents' betrayal, and betrayer, information that had been kept from me.

Surprised? You shouldn't be.

That year I grew from a pup, a cub, into a strong young dog, a mastiff trained to not bite the master's hand. Is it any surprise that you were the master, Professor?

I took your word for it when you said that I couldn't free my godfather. After all, how could I fight you in your infinite wisdom? Only you, after all, could have been the one to tell me about the uses of a Pensieve.

My fourth year was the trial of a champion, your champion. I hate publicity, always have, yet you forced me to compete in that blasted tournament.

After all, what better way is there to see how good your fighting dog is than to pit it against others that are stronger than he? I was doomed, yet you made me fight anyway.

And I fought admirably, if not willingly. After all, this was part of my purpose, my life. What more or less could I do, or be?

Oh, right, I could live.

But how could I do that, if I had only known a cage my entire life? First was my cupboard, then my fame, then the knowledge of my fate. I will only be free of my cage when Voldemort is gone, or so I would like to believe.

I tried, you know; I really tried, to see what I had done wrong last year. You, my master, were ignoring me. I had gone back to being the whipped dog I was in my childhood, longing for a touch that wasn't made in cruelty.

I tried to learn Occlumency, but having someone yell, "Clear your mind!" before breaking down my defenses with a tank doesn't really count as teaching me.

I tried to keep a stranglehold on my anger, but really, I'm not all that surprised. Voldemort was breaking in to my mind on a nearly nightly basis, and really, Snape's bludgeoning didn't make me feel any better. Who can blame a teenage boy for something so far beyond the realm of his control?

The world can, as I found out. The world has made me a lauded champion one moment, a deranged attention-seeking maniac the next. They were looking to the wrong person.

Does Voldemort give interviews?

Sirius died through a combination of my own stupidity, a Veil in the wrong place, and a very lucky shot from Bellatrix Lestrange. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that I am not at fault for the entirety.

You, Headmaster, are at fault for my failure in Occlumency, and at fault for Sirius' death.

How, you may ask? It is very simple thing.

Had I known of the prophecy, I would not have gone to the DOM.

Had I known why Voldemort wants to kill me, I would not have gone completely nuts in Snape's office.

Had I known of your meddling, I would have left you long ago.

You'd be short a weapon against an evil of your own creation. I use your in the plural, meaning the Wizarding World.

But you, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, provided the world their weapon.

You, Headmaster of Hogwarts, allowed that weapon to be shaped with the cruelty of his peers.

You, Leader of the Order of the Phoenix, led that weapon to the refiner's fire, the one meant to break him of his will and bind him to you, by way of his godfather's death.

You, Lord of the Light, permitted this weapon to cringe like a beaten, cringing hound beneath your boot as he was informed of his destiny.

You, Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, allowed justice to be subverted, time and again.

And to what end, the defeat of Voldemort?

Did you give any thought to what would happen to your weapon after the foe was conquered?

If you had, I can only shudder at what went through your warped consciousness, old man. Did you wish to lead me unto my death? Did you disbelieve the Prophecy enough to believe that if I died, you could defeat him? Did you believe that I would become a servant too powerful for the master?

I can only wonder, and tremble at whatever fate you had in store for me.

Call off all bets, Professor, for your dog has broken his chain. I'm loose, and I'm going to come back and bite you in whatever way I can, whether it is by pranking you until you die of exhaustion, proving your guilt through the Ministry, or simply killing you myself.

I like that last one. It would be a fitting revenge, a punishment that matched the crime, for the one who has destroyed all of my hope for a normal life.

You were scared enough of Voldemort to let a child fight him. What will you think of me, when I grow into adulthood?

Will you fear me as the only one who is the threat to your power?

Attack me, and I will marshal my power like the drain before the tidal wave, and no city, man, or power will stand before me.

And you can blame only yourself for this change in me.

You can weep for the boy I once was, who believed in the goodness of men's hearts.

You can weep for the boy who burned Quirrell in a trial by fire, the one you lied to.

You can weep for the boy that killed a Basilisk, and nearly died in defense of others.

You can weep for the boy which had mercy upon his enemy's most destructive servant.

You can weep for the boy, a broken and bleeding youth, who had 'shouldered a grown wizard's burden' and found himself equal to it.

You can weep for the boy who trusted you, like he did only four others.

You can weep for that boy, for he is an incarnation of me that you shattered. He will not return.

Welcome to the future, Professor Dumbledore. It's a nasty one, but it's one of your own creations.

Sincerely,

Harry James Potter

Weapon Extraordinaire 

0

The Headmaster read the letter Harry sent him. Tears rolled down his face as he read the rant. As he finished the letter, he put his head in his hands. He wept for the boy he loved as a grandson, feeling as if his soul had been torn in two from grief.

This new Harry was one wrapped up in righteous anger.

He had known the Dursleys weren't kind to Harry, but he didn't know, or even have an inkling that their dislike reached so far.

He had known that Harry had slept in a cupboard at the time he had received his Hogwarts letter, but not that he had slept in the-the broom closet for his whole decade there!

He had known that Quirrell was after the stone, but had trusted in the protections around it, perhaps a little too much, but knowing that Voldemort was possessing the man was just beyond his sight.

He had known of the Basilisk, but not where the Chamber was, so he could have done nothing. Knowing of Tom's Diary had 'slipped under his radar,' so to speak; after all, who looks twice at a little girl's diary?

He did know of a betrayal in the Marauder's ranks, but the identity of the betrayer was believed to have been Sirius Black, and he didn't think twice about Sirius' lack of trial.

He truly had tried to get Harry out of the Tournament, but the rules didn't explore the possibility of someone being entered against their will. He comforted Harry as best he could, as Harry's headmaster, when he had returned from the Third Task broken and bleeding.

He had done what he thought was best last year, in the sight of the greater good. He had not given a thought to Harry's feelings on the matter, which was a grievous oversight on Albus' part. He was still kicking himself over that.

Sirius' death was a dire loss to the side of the Light, not only because of his skills in battle but his connection, his relationship, with Harry. It was that relationship that probably kept Harry sane.

And now he was gone, without even a body to bury.

Albus broke down and wept, cursing himself for treating Harry this way, and for what he might have unknowingly done to himself… and to the world.