Albus Dumbledore pulled a few rolls of parchment and began to write a letter, a reply, and a confession. His hands shook violently, making his handwriting go from its normal loopy cursive to squiggly block letters.

Dear Harry,

I am sorry, Harry. I have failed you. I have hurt you in what I have done, which is much, and what I have not done, which is far greater.

I trusted in the love that exists in those that share the bonds of blood. I was naïve to trust so much. I hoped that Petunia Dursley would see enough past her dislike of magic, and of her sister, to raise you as her own son, to give you what you needed.

I was wrong, as you know far better than I do.

I did watch over you, but the wards I placed upon the house at Privet Drive were made to watch for your harm by outside means, like being hit with a Muggle bus.

Though Vernon and Dudley are each big enough to be considered a bus, Albus thought before returning to his writing. Tears flowed from his eyes, soaking his lined face and beard as he wrote.

I was naïve to think that Petunia's blossoming dislike for her sister and magic would bear fruit in her care for you, torturing you far beyond what anyone should ever be forced to bear.

I thought that love, not hate, could only be given to you, Harry; you had that effect on everyone, from Sirius to Remus to myself.

As both Lily's parents and James' parents died not long before your birth, killed by Death Eaters, I became something of your surrogate grandfather. I had dinner with your parents, godfather, and Remus at least twice a week up until Peter betrayed them. I watched you during the times when they could not. Since you screeched every time Peter got near you, he wasn't a very good babysitter.

Albus paused as he rummaged through his desk for a very old photograph. "Aha!" he murmured as he found the black-and white photo. It depicted Albus asleep on a couch, his silent snores making his moustache quiver ever-so-slightly. A baby – Harry – was curled up on Albus' chest, wrapping the long, silvery beard around him like a blanket as he slept peacefully.

Albus set the old photograph on his desk, as part of the letter he intended to send Harry.

I knew nothing of you wearing rags, at least not until Christmastime in your first year, when I saw you out of your robes for the first time. I was shocked then, and began to watch you and the Dursleys more closely.

I knew nothing of the Dursleys beating you until you were in the Hospital Wing after that confrontation with Quirrell and Voldemort, when Poppy did an average injury-viewing scan and found you had numerous old injuries. I resolved to pay closer attention to you over that summer.

I knew that Quirrell was after the Stone, but I knew nothing of his possession by Voldemort. I am not omniscient, Harry, and I make errors as easily as the next man. I trusted too much in the protections placed around the Stone. I had no idea that you would go down the trapdoor. I was oblivious to the fact that your bravery and conscience would not rest until injustice was vanquished and evil defeated.

I was more proud of you than I can ever say, that afternoon in the Hospital Wing. You had defeated our mutual enemy, and with only scratches to show for it. Your purity of heart had saved you then.

I was more frightened of you, of what you might have become, than I can ever voice. Much comes to these old ears, and I heard whispers of your hatred for the Muggles you live with. I mistook this for a dislike of all Muggles, and when you asked me "Why?" I couldn't answer you, in fear of what may have happened had you known of the Power-He-Knows-Not.

I was relieved beyond measure when you let the matter drop. I don't know what I would have done if you had turned into another Tom Riddle. It would have destroyed me.

I watched you at the Dursleys that summer, or rather, Minerva did. She is a very pretty tabby cat, isn't she? She told me that after that fiasco with the Masons, no one saw you for a week-and-a-half. I was calmed from my panic at the thought of your being hurt when Molly Weasley sent me an owl, telling me that the Twins and Ron had rescued you. She also told me of the bars on you window, and how thin you were.

I cannot pretend that I was not worried. What had the Dursleys done to you?

You returned for your second year, struggling through that fool, Lockhart, and the rather embarrassing affections of Ginny Weasley.

I admit I knew that a Basilisk was stalking the school, but Salazar had done his work quite well. He had made the snake a part of the School's defense system, and veiled the Chamber with many magics that prevented all but his own heir from finding it. Though you were not his heir, I believe that your Parseltongue allowed you access to the Chamber.

I could do nothing to save the students. I cannot tell you how much that hurt me.

I was bursting with pride that night – or early morning – in Professor McGonagall's office. I wasn't proud because you were loyal to me, or because you had triumphed against the Enemy once again. I was proud because you had put others before yourself.

To me, this proved that you were not a second Tom Riddle, and your questions on those similarities he has with you was the clincher. I let you walk out of the office to go to the Feast, secretly happy that you had not asked me of your destiny again. I felt a very strange emotion in regards to you, and the thought of inadvertently hurting you was painful to me. It was not a bad feeling, rather it brought me joy, but it was alien to me nonetheless.

You came into your third year with the knowledge that Sirius Black was on the loose, and attempting to kill you. I saw you as you ran away from Privet Drive, scared and frightened out of your wits. I have to admit that I was very tense during those few hours that I had no idea where you were, and if you were safe.

I pondered whether to tell you of your parents' betrayal. I had decided to do so on that Hogsmeade weekend around Christmas.

But that evening, at dinner, I saw you desolate. I had no idea what had happened, but I did not wish to add to your pain. Now I know that you had found out on your own.

I did not believe that the Ministry would let us bring in Pensieve evidence of Sirius' innocence. Fudge held the dominance in the Wizengamot, and in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Even I could not have given Sirius a fair trial – even with the Pensieve evidence, and Veritaserum, Fudge could still order Sirius Kissed before I could say, "Lemon Drop."

The alien feeling I got the year before intensified, though I was still bamboozled as to what it could be…

I tried to get you freed from the Triwizard Tournament, but the rules were not written to let those who had been entered against their will leave. Really, I did try with all the weight of a persona I hate – the one of Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin 1st Class, Defeater of Grindlewald, and Lord of the Light.

I loathe it, as much as you hate the persona of Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived.

We are much alike, you and I. We were both forced to defeat an enemy by a prophecy. We both had our families wiped out by said enemy. And we both hold alternately the world's love, and then the world's hate, on a whim.

I felt a kinship with you, alike to the one I share with my brother, but this one was slightly different.

I did what I believed was right last year. I thought that by giving Voldemort less of an incentive to possess you, he would stay away from your mind.

I was wrong. Voldemort continued to ravage your mind as you slept, causing you pain.

I thought that Occlumency might help you, in your pain. Since I couldn't give you the lessons, I had to give them to Severus, as he was the only other Occlumens who could teach you. I thought that he might be able to ignore his loathing and dislike for James Potter and teach a teenager who needed the help.

I was wrong. Severus broke whatever mental shields you might have had in his rape of your mind. I left the Pensieve out for you so that Severus would stop the lessons.

Albus let his anger with Severus fade before he continued.

I agree in your sentiment that Sirius died through a combination of a Veil in a very inconvenient place, a timely Stunner from Lestrange, and stupidity.

I do not agree that the stupidity was your stupidity, however. It was mine, and mine alone. I had jailed Sirius in that terribly gloomy old house. I had kept him from contact with you, for the sake of his own safety. I had nearly broken his spirit, just as Death had broken his body.

For that I cannot forgive myself.

I agree that I am responsible for your failure in Occlumency.

I agree that I am responsible for Sirius' death.

I agree that I am responsible for you and your friends going to the Department of Mysteries, and therefore for the injuries that they sustained there.

I agree that I am responsible for the cruelty you have suffered through the years. I am neither omnipotent nor omniscient, and did not know of most of it. What little I heard, however, made my skin crawl.

You were blamed for Slytherin's loss of the House Cup in your first year, and probably took some gruff from disgruntled Slytherins for that. However, I am responsible for that. I did it because I wanted to see you smile at me. Childish, I know, but it was something I wanted for both your sake and mine.

You were blamed for the attacks against the various Houses in your second year. I know you took a lot of fear from others, as I listened in on many conversations in the Library after the ill-fated Dueling Club. I am at fault for that. Had I told the school of the basilisk, the governors would have closed the school, and I didn't want to send you back to the Dursleys.

You were lied to most of your third year, yet you took it with grace. I did what I thought would make you happiest, and that was keeping the biggest of the pains from you. I failed you in that.

You were slandered in the press, and in the halls, during your fourth year and the Triwizard Tournament. I could easily have announced that you were a legitimate champion, and that you were entered against your own will. I thought that the slandering you took would increase tenfold, this time calling you 'Dumbledore's boy.' I didn't want to add to your pain.

You were dragged through the mud last year. My ignoring you didn't help. Had we presented a united front, so to speak, and been more open with each other, the press might have had a harder time getting us libeled.

All of the Professors have their favorites. Professor Sprout has Neville Longbottom, Professor McGonagall has Hermione Granger, Professor Flitwick has Ginny Weasley, and Professor Snape has Draco Malfoy.

I have come to realize that you, my favorite, didn't see or understand what those looks my colleagues give me are. I have overstepped the boundaries that most Professors used, and created my own. I no longer saw you as an exceptional student of mine that I had a soft spot for. I finally recognized the alien feeling that has grown as the years went by as a father's love for his child. I consider you to be my grandson, Harry, and in my will I have it written that you will become the Head of the House of Dumbledore upon my death, making you Harry James Dumbledore Potter-Black – if you accept it, that is. You have the right to refuse, and I won't be offended.

I have wondered if you had noticed my presence near you, but now I think that you have not. I have watched you in the halls, during meals, during Quidditch practices and games, pretty much everywhere except for the bathrooms (No, I'm not that senile!)

In hopes of fixing our relationship,

Love,

Albus Dumbledore.