Disclaimer: All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J.K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.
Author's Note: Alert the Media! I've posted another chapter! Well, I originally thought about labeling this chapter "About Time Kittyrunner Updated this Fanfiction" but it simply wouldn't fit. I know that I owe each and every one of my readers a sincere apology for the long delay for this chapter. Almost two whole years! I assure you that I never intended the wait to be this long, and also that I never, ever considered abandoning this story. I think about this fanfic at least five times a week, and I assure you that there are several reasons why I took so long to update. The biggest one was the fact that I did not have access to my computer for over a year. I had a difficult final year of college and an even more difficult first year in the real world. Things are slightly easier now, and I can assure you that Chapter Eleven will come out much more quickly.
This chapter is dedicated to all of my readers who have remained loyal over the years (okay, this is sounding a bit like Voldemort's speech to his Death Eaters, sorry), and to those who have sent their kind messages and reviews. You have truly helped me greatly and I really appreciate you all. I cannot possibly name all of you, but here are a few thank you's to Gazlover12, ObiBettina7, restinpace, ILikeComps, Harry Albus Potter Dumbledore, ILoveHarryJamesPotter, 77DMK77, GreenRider02, Lord Dingsda, charliecharlie, AmaterasuSpiritWolf, 10th Weasley, shadowsfriend, sssssnake, Bubble, jayley, transgressions, MARGEmuffin, Emma-girl, Randomchick16, Element's Sole Protector, and Rosaleen.
And last but not least little-starling and angelmoongirl. Seriously, you two talented writers really keep me going. I cannot thank you enough for your support.
And now, onto the fanfiction!
Previously, in Chapter Nine…
Harry bit his trembling bottom lip.
"Will you let me, Harry?" Dumbledore asked softly.
"Y-Y-Yes," Harry stammered and buried his face in his headmaster's shoulder once more. He felt Dumbledore's hand sift under his hair, slightly damp with sweat, and stroke the clammy locks. "Everything will be all right," Dumbledore whispered and Harry could only nod into the soft fabric as he accepted the man's gentle comfort.
After a time, when Harry's grip on Dumbledore's robes had loosened and his breathing was much calmer, Dumbledore pulled away and told Harry it was time for dinner. Harry complied and got up from the bed. Dumbledore patted him on the back, but then removed his hand, seemingly out of respect, to allow Harry his personal space.
"Well, Harry, it seems that with all of this warm sunlight, you might be interested in venturing outside. After dinner, we could go for a little walk and I can give you a tour of the nearby countryside."
Harry nodded and said in a muffled voice, "Yeah, that sounds good."
And he followed the elder, tall wizard from the room.
Harry Potter and the Time of Transition
Chapter Ten
Natural Remedies
"In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks."
-John Muir
Harry followed his headmaster's graceful, loping strides through the tall grass. They were following the forest edge, which was bordered by a crumbling stone wall, about waist-high. The weathered rock had dull hues of purple, gray, and brown, all mottled and crusted with dirt. Damp leaves stuck to the rounded surfaces like leeches, deposited by the unforgiving rains that had fallen like pestilence from the week before. A plump hare fervently darted across the meadow, alternating between frantic sprints and halting into petrified stillness, its coal-shaped glossy eyes fixed on Dumbledore and Harry. Its tiny heart was throbbing in its chest so strongly that Harry could see the downy fur move with its cadence.
As promised, Dumbledore voluntarily let Harry outside for the first time since his arrival at Sugarplum Poplar. Not without a major stipulation, of course. The headmaster had insisted that Harry finish his entire plate at dinner or else they would have to delay their outdoor excursion for another day. Drained by the emotional events of the day, Harry wasn't really that hungry, but he forced his chicken breast down because he was simply that desperate for a change in scenery. He had placed a napkin on his plate to indicate that he had eaten all that he could, while surreptitiously blanketing two spoonfuls of peas that he was trying to hide from Dumbledore.
No such luck.
"Finish your peas, please, Harry," said Dumbledore quite gravely, as he intently folded his own napkin.
Harry blinked, feeling momentarily taken aback at how…well…paternal Dumbledore sounded. For a second, he felt like he was Dudley at the breakfast table, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon encouraged him to take his second and third helpings. Not that Dudley needed much encouragement. Or extra nourishment, for that matter.
"Would you like me to eat the plate too, sir?" Harry asked cheekily, as he stabbed at the last tiny vegetables with his fork.
Dumbledore had looked up, the tell-tale twinkle in his eye. "Only if you think you can manage it." He sighed ruefully, "Sadly, there is very little nutritional value in the china, and you may require a stomach-relieving potion afterward."
The flight of a magpie interrupted Harry's thoughts, bringing his mind back to the quiet, beautiful glow of a dwindling evening. The bird's ebony and pearl plumage glowed in the orange light of the dying day. "One for sorrow..." Harry murmured.
"Two for joy…" Dumbledore added, pointing to a second magpie that was perched on the stone wall fifteen feet away from where they stood. The headmaster's gaze was serene, enchanted, and engrossed by the beauty of nature.
Harry felt a smile twitch upon the corner of his mouth. With all of the war and suffering Dumbledore had lived through, Harry couldn't help but admire his headmaster's never-ceasing optimism. Dumbledore could always find the benefits within any tragedy. Harry supposed that perhaps Dumbledore's positive outlook aided his wisdom and powers of reasoning.
A wave of embarrassment prickled through his body. Dumbledore was so strong and thought so highly of Harry. Was Dumbledore's confidence misplaced? After all, Harry had fallen to pieces several times over this summer. He cringed, remembering how he had clung to Dumbledore like a toddler, how he had cried about his dreams…what a baby…
Yet at the same time, he guiltily remembered how he had enjoyed Dumbledore's comfort. He had felt warm and safe, ensconced in Dumbledore's embrace, with Dumbledore protecting him from succumbing completely to his emotions.
He exhaled sharply through his nose and then hurried up to keep pace with Dumbledore's graceful, loping strides.
Dumbledore made way along a narrow, beaten trail that led through a small copse of hornbeam trees, interspersed with purple beech. Since it was midsummer, their branches were laden with plump green leaves that left sunny dapples upon the flattened earth beneath them. Small, black beetles crawled along the aged trunks.
The headmaster narrated their trek through the faint trail, much like he had during the tour of the cottage's interior. He peppered his narration with plenty of anecdotes—"I would advise you not to climb any of these trees, Harry…I myself had fallen from this very beech tree and broke my left ulna when I was a mere boy of ten…And over here is something quite important…"
He led Harry along the perimeter of a forest of Elders, where he halted and turned to face Harry. "This is the edge of my property, and I would prefer that you not traverse through this wood. On the other side, about a mile away, is a Muggle town. Mind you, there are plenty of enchantments that prevent Muggles from passing this way, though I would rather you bestow upon them the same courtesy."
Harry quickly nodded his assent. "Sir? I've been wondering…Where are we? I mean, in Britain?"
"Dear me, I haven't told you yet, have I?" Dumbledore put his hand upon his head in slight bewilderment. "We are in the Lake District region, approximately eight miles from Ambleside."
"Oh…"
"Come along, then. There are more nuggets of excitement to discover on our walk! Aha! Here is an artifact of interest!"
Harry squinted his eyes at the sunny meadow at the gray and brown mass that loomed above the tall grasses that surrounded it. "A well…" he murmured.
The well was made up of smooth gray and black stones, with spongy moss creeping along the sides. A small, tiled roof hovered four feet above the lip of the well, an ancient wooden bucket dangling beneath. The rope was old and frayed, and interwoven with cobwebs. Harry pondered whether the rope was even strong enough to support a full pail of water. Fat spiders nestled upon the straw-colored strands, soaking up the last of the evening sun's rays.
"This was our family well," Dumbledore said. "My mother used to bring up water for her culinary and potion-brewing practices. As the years passed by, however, it dried up. Aberforth still used it, though. He would slide down the rope and dig out tunnels. Most of them caved in during an unfortunate miscalculation on his part. He was lucky to escape with his life."
Harry nodded and peered down the long pit. A draft of chilled air wafted up to him, rich with the scent of cool earth and rotted plant life. He could imagine the terror of nearly being forever entombed down there. He shivered and followed Dumbledore across the meadow.
Harry remembered Dumbledore mentioning his brother before, while they were in Hagrid's cabin in his 4th year. He had gotten the impression that Aberforth Dumbledore was a bit of a delinquent. But gazing at the well, he felt a twinge of pity for Dumbledore's brother. It must have been difficult having such a brilliant and accomplished brother as the Headmaster. Harry wondered if Aberforth may have felt overshadowed, much like Ron felt overshadowed by his own brothers. Harry halted that train of thought. Thinking about Ron sent a pang in his gut.
"What does Aberforth do now?" Harry asked tentatively, wondering if he was being too personal with his headmaster. As if hugging him hadn't been personal enough, he thought as heat bathed his cheeks.
"My brother mixes and serves a multitude of beverages, as well as arranges lodgings for varied clientele of a magical sort. A bartender, in other words."
"Oh," Harry said. Then he added hesitantly. "Your parents?"
"Deceased. A very long time ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Ah, nothing to apologize for, dear boy."
The tour continued, with Dumbledore leading them both tirelessly along a worn, dirt path which intersected a grove of densely packed trees, all entangled with ivy. Harry recognized the bird cherry, blackthorn, and hazel. Shrubberies sprawled between the trunks and Harry caught the scent of foxglove and heather on the sweet August breeze.
The path ran parallel to a stream that seemed to divide the property in half. Dumbledore paused beside a particularly grassy spot bestrewed with a half dozen boulders. Here, he indicated that they should rest a moment.
Harry sat cross-legged in the tall grass with his back to a boulder. Dumbledore sat across from him. They were silent for a time, simply listening to the babbling stream and melodic calls of the wild birds nearby.
It was Harry who broke the silence first. "Thank you for bringing me out here, sir. It's nice to get some fresh air."
"You are most welcome, Harry. I had wanted to bring you out sooner, but I was afraid of you straining yourself whilst you were still on the mend." His voice sounded regretful. "However, perhaps nature truly is the best healer of all. I encourage you to spend as much time out here as you like."
"Professor Dumbledore?" he asked tentatively, while twining a thick green blade of grass around his fingers.
"Harry?"
Harry raised his head to look at Dumbledore's face. The headmaster's undivided attention was upon him. His posture suggested that of a studied yoga enthusiast, his back straight and tall, his open, relaxed hands placed loosely upon his robed knees, feet tucked underneath him, belying flexibility of a much younger man. The tangerine sunset behind the mage set his silver hair aglow with an apricot hue.
Dumbledore's eyes were patiently inquisitive as they regarded Harry's conflicted expression.
"What would you do," Harry voiced slowly, as if he was carefully weighing each word, "if you were in my position?"
Dumbledore exhaled through his crooked nose and his mustache rippled slightly.
"Could you please specify for me, the position which you are referring to?"
Harry fidgeted. "If you had a curse scar, a connection with Voldemort, and there was evidence that Voldemort was using this connection to hurt you and make you weaker, what would you do?"
Dumbledore blinked, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "A good question, Harry." He paused, worrying an elegant finger over a grass stain on his silver robes. The blemish didn't seem to bother him too much; his face was serene and thoughtful.
"I would resist," Dumbledore decided at last. "I would do everything in my power to endure its negative effects, and all the while try to glean a greater understanding of the nature of this connection, and whether there could be any benefit from it."
"Is there a benefit to my connection?" Harry asked, dropping all hypothetical pretenses.
"No," Dumbledore answered shortly. "Any apparent benefit that came to light before…such as spying on Voldemort, having a warning bell to Voldemort's proximity, et cetera…all of these pale in comparison to the costs of having such a connection."
"Meaning…?" Harry asked slowly, his bright peridot eyes boring into Dumbledore's cerulean ones.
"As long as you are being harmed by this connection, Harry, I can see no valid benefits," he voiced firmly.
"Then I should continue to resist?" Harry asked. "How? How can I resist if Occlumency is not working? If…if I can't block out the images and the pain? I can't even think, let alone move when my scar hurts. It's so unpredictable; I have no idea when it's going to hit me! I almost drowned this afternoon! What am I supposed to do next time it flares up?"
Harry's voice rose to a near-shout by the end of his speech, though Dumbledore's voice grew even softer in comparison.
"I am working on it, Harry. I will do all I can to help you cope with both the physical and psychological pain."
Harry winced at the word "psychological". It made him feel like some kind of nut-case.
Dumbledore leaned forward and clasped his hand on Harry's bony knee. "You are not alone," he said slowly, emphasizing each word with tender care. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," Harry whispered. He felt really touched by Dumbledore's sincerity and reassurance.
It was remarkable how comfortable Harry was starting to feel in Dumbledore's presence. It was a similar ease that he felt with the Weasleys, with Remus Lupin, with Sirius…
A brief pang clasped his heart, and Harry savored it. It meant that Sirius' memory, his love, was not forgotten.
Family. That was the word that echoed in Harry's heart. Dumbledore and the others felt like family to him. The Weasleys, Lupin, and Sirius were like uncles and cousins…Dumbledore, like a grandfather.
Harry startled for a moment. Did he just refer to Dumbledore as his grandfather? He shook his head at the awkward thought. He's my headmaster, not my family. He doesn't think of me that way, so I shouldn't either!
Yet at the same time, Harry recalled the warmth in Dumbledore's eyes whenever he would look at Harry, the tenderness in his voice when he was being soothed after a vision, and the gentleness in his arms when he held him earlier. Was it so hard to think of Dumbledore as a grandfather?
He supposed the concept of family would always be foreign to him, as he had not been raised in the traditional way and never was able to experience the life of a loving nuclear family. Indeed, there were so many aspects of his own true family that remained completely intangible to him. He did not even know who James and Lily Potter really were. He only knew them through the eyes of others. How peculiar it seemed that his own parents were strangers to him. He furrowed his brow as he stared at his knees, trying to picture what life was like for his parents. He didn't even know what they did for a living…
And then the realization struck him that sitting across from him was a person who had claimed to know his parents quite well. Here was a person who had watched them grow up, who shared both their triumphs and tragedies. He was one who was not biased and limited in knowledge, as Remus and Sirius (being James' loyal friends) were, but someone who was an impartial judge, an onlooker, whose perception was tempered with generations of experience and wisdom.
Harry's voice rang out before his mind could comprehend the words forming on his lips.
"What were my parents really like?"
Dumbledore didn't look at Harry. His eyes were staring at a passing kestrel overhead.
"They were very much like you, yet you still stand unique from them," replied Dumbledore finally. "Your father was a confident, suave man who enjoyed adventure and laughter. He was like James Barrie's Peter Pan, if you are familiar with the Muggle story. I used to worry he would never grow up, but it was your mother who helped mature him. She brought out a tender, vulnerable side to him that I'm sure James didn't even realize he had."
His eyes fixed intently on Harry. "I know that what you saw in Professor Snape's Memory disturbed you greatly, but know that your father was not perfect, and nor was your mother, your godfather, Remus, nor Professor Snape. You saw a tiny fragment of who they really are."
Harry nodded. He would like to forget the crueler side to his father, and instead, try to remember his father as he saw him in the photographs Hagrid had given him. Over all these years, Harry had placed his parents on a pedestal. They were a perfect couple dedicated towards fighting the Dark Lord and they had sacrificed themselves so that he, Harry, could live. To see them knocked down at a more human level definitely affected him.
"Your mother, on the other hand, was quite the humanitarian," Dumbledore's voice continued, as Harry stilled his thoughts to listen. "She was kind, compassionate, and believed in the good in everyone. Yet she did have some fire to her. And wit too, oh she was quite clever, and comfortable with being cheeky to those around her. She was not afraid to stand up to people, no matter who they were…" Dumbledore's voice faded as he smiled softly in his memories.
Harry soaked up Dumbledore's words as a dying plant absorbing beads of water. There were so many questions flying through his head that he could hardly pick out a coherent one to ask about.
"What did my parents do for a living, after they left Hogwarts?" he finally asked.
"Both of your parents were inventors, Harry," Dumbledore stated. "I don't believe anyone has told you this as of yet."
"What did they invent?" Harry turned sharply toward Dumbledore, trying to digest this new information.
"All sorts of things," replied Dumbledore happily. "Your father invented many useful spells for Transfiguration, while your mother was highly innovative in Charms. I believe that her final project was devising a way to improve the Fidelius Charm. It was both ironic and tragic that she died before the work was completed."
"I always wondered what they did," Harry said softly. "I know so little about them."
He picked at another clump of grass. "Were they part of some kind of wizard business chain or did they do everything on their own?"
"Oh, James and Lily worked independently and separately from the Ministry," Dumbledore replied, a fond and faraway sheen in his eyes. "They didn't want anything to do with the corruption and power struggles at the Ministry, so they worked right out of their home. It was a fine partnership and quite convenient for them as well. They were quite happy."
Hearing about his parents made Harry's heart throb contentedly. He liked learning about them. It almost made it seem that they were still alive, and were simply gone for the weekend, while his grandfather watched him and told him stories of all the mischief his parents had once gotten into.
"Sickle for your thoughts, Harry."
Harry looked up to see Dumbledore studying him.
"Er…well," Harry squirmed uncomfortably. Dumbledore merely looked at him, his fingers creasing out a wrinkle in his robes.
Harry averted his eyes. He felt an overwhelming impulse to tell Dumbledore what he felt, but equally strong was a tenacious urge to keep silent. What if Dumbledore cared for him only as a student, and not like family? Would Harry's admission make Dumbledore distance himself again? Would Harry lose all of the trust and friendship he had already gained?
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head with a wry grin. He raised his eyes to meet Dumbledore's. A smile curved his face. "I just like hearing about my family."
Harry lay on his stomach atop his bed and brushed the silky strands of the feather against his cheek. It was approximately 9 o'clock at night. Dumbledore had finished the tour of his family's 50-acre lot about an hour ago and then left Harry to his own devices.
Harry thumped his leg on the bedspread in frustration. He supposed he should be more tired after the events of the day, but it was difficult for him to feel sleepy since he had already had a good nap during the mid-afternoon hours. He decided that now was probably as good a time as any to work on his project from Dumbledore.
Tickled to death, he thought wildly. Voldemort could tickle me to death. He didn't think Dumbledore would appreciate his sense of humor in his assignment…er…punishment. After all, he was supposed to be serious and thoughtful.
Drawing the quill away from his face, he scratched out, "Poisoned pumpkin juice at dinner" on the parchment.
He glanced at the title—Seventy Ways Voldemort Can Make Me Snuff It. "I'm on number 12—so far, so good," he thought.
Concentrating on the assignment was quite difficult, particularly since Dumbledore's words from the evening were spinning around in his brain. He was really excited to learn that his parents were inventors. He wished that he had asked Dumbledore more about it. What did they invent? Who did they invent for? Would he recognize any of their inventions? Perhaps they were researching how to make travel by Floo Powder less disorienting, or maybe…
He paused in his thoughts. Quickly, he dabbed his quill in the ink and etched, "Burned to death by defective Floo Powder." Beneath it, he wrote "Sends me a poisoned letter through the mail."
As soon as he had written it, though, his writer's block returned in full force, like a great wall of stone barricading his brain from his writing hand. He decided to take a break from his listing and to rifle through his suitcase for ideas.
His questing hands found the photo album that Hagrid had given him so many years ago. He flopped onto his bed, carefully easing his beloved album open. The spine creaked gently as he flipped the parchment leaves over, his eyes studying each moment that was preserved in the photographs. His fingers ghosted over the images as though they were delicate fossils, priceless relics that served as evidence of a lost time and place.
He looked at this photo album at least a few times each month, and each time, he usually had a new favorite photograph. The photograph that jumped out at him today was one that featured his parents in a little rowboat on the Hogwarts lake. They were surrounded by over a dozen other rowboats, each filled with Hogwarts students, fully garbed in their school robes. It reminded Harry so much of his own grand entrance into Hogwarts back when he was a first year; only this time, the students pictured were in their late teens. Many students were turned around, waving at the magnificent castle behind him, but James and Lily were staring forward, grinning at whoever was taking their picture. Lily's eyes were shining with tears, even through her smile. James had his arm draped casually over her shoulder. Harry surmised that this may have been his parents' last day at Hogwarts. Perhaps this was their graduation.
Harry wondered if he would even survive to meet that day. Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a spectacular send-off, surrounded by your friends, like a grand finale to an important chapter of your life? As Harry thought about all of his loved ones, he reached towards his desk, extracted his list, and began to write more…
Two hours later, a very satisfied Harry stared at his completed list and re-read some of his favorites: Convinces wizarding population to hate me and a giant mob attacks me on Platform 9 ¾...Voldemort appears at King's Cross and pushes me on the tracks...Derails the Hogwarts Express...Sends a horde of Inferi after me...Possesses me until I am driven mad from scar pain... Confounds someone to put a Boiling Charm on the Gryffindor showers...Causes me to sleep-walk out the tower window...Persuades a jealous lover to murder me (Harry chuckled as he thought of Cho. Nah, she wouldn't do that, really)...Directs a meteorite to land on my head as I am walking down to Hagrid's...Hijacks the Knight Bus and runs me over with it...Lures me to Hogsmeade where he attacks me...Drives me insane from scar pain...Has Snape take me to one of his Death Eater meetings...Convinces Hagrid to introduce murderous beast at a lesson (Oh, wait, that's just about every lesson, he thought)...and finally….Infects me with an Anti-Coagulant Charm and I bleed to death after the next paper cut.
Nodding to himself, Harry blew on the wet ink until the gleaming print faded to a dull coal color. Then he carefully folded it in half and centered it on the top of the desk. He had finished it a whole day in advance—Hermione would be proud. He glanced at the clock, frowning. It was 11 o'clock, too late to give it to Dumbledore. That was all right; he would just give it to him at breakfast.
Pulling his pajamas on, he fell into bed, barely noticing the tingling along his scar. His eyes closed and he knew no more.
Hours later, Harry sat at the elegant, mahogany table, watching the moisture from his fingertips leave crescent-shaped smudges as he traced them slowly across the veneer surface. His heart had yet to slow down. Though he did not recall the content of the nightmare, the aftereffects of the heightened emotion were slow to fade. Adrenaline singed his veins, leaving prickling heat. The hairs on his arms stood up and all vestiges of nighttime drowsiness were completely extinguished.
He didn't know why he had clambered downstairs to the dining room table at three in the morning. Normally he liked the soothing atmosphere of the parlor, but he was starting to worry that after being in the parlor so many times during his darker moods, the parlor may begin to lose its cheery effect on him.
A sudden gust of hot air fanned his hair and Harry turned sharply. A fireball blazed in mid-air before abruptly winking out, leaving behind an elegant scarlet bird.
"Fawkes!" Harry said, stretching out his arm toward the swan-like creature. Fawkes settled upon Harry's forearm and he guided Dumbledore's pet toward the table in front of him.
"Where did you come from?" Harry asked, massaging Fawkes' head. For some reason, it had never crossed Harry's mind to wonder what Fawkes did when Dumbledore was not at Hogwarts.
The bird chirped sweetly in his pure, clear voice that always soothed away Harry's worries.
A gentle creak in the floorboards caused Harry to look behind him.
Dumbledore was standing in the doorway, garbed in forest green dressing gown and nightcap, his half-moon spectacles reflecting the snowflake chandelier and Harry beneath it. His eyes looked tired, or maybe sad. Harry wasn't certain.
"I didn't mean to wake you, sir."
"Oh, you did not wake me, Harry," Dumbledore said matter-of-factly as he stepped into the room. "I, like you, sometimes rise from Morpheus' embrace when unseemly thoughts tickle my mind."
Dumbledore smiled gently at him. "Ah! I see that Fawkes has found his way here. I was beginning to wonder when he would turn up!"
Fawkes' head ascended luxuriously at the sound of his master's voice, then gave a melodic purr when Dumbledore stroked his neck.
"Where had he been?" Harry asked.
"Fawkes always comes and goes as he pleases, though he tends to stay nearby during the school year, in case I have need of him," Dumbledore replied. "During the summer holiday, he tends to explore. He has the endurance to circumnavigate the entire globe, if he desires to."
"But phoenixes have an additional sense to ours, Harry," continued Dumbledore. "Fawkes can sense when he is needed, for whatever reason, and then he always returns. And obviously, he sensed that it was important to come here tonight, which brings me to the reason why I am here at 3:17 in the morning."
Dumbledore slid smoothly into the chair across from Harry's and leaned forward.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I am," Harry said.
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.
"No really, I am. I just had a nightmare, is all."
"Scar pain?"
"Yeah, but I can't remember the content of the dream," Harry said hastily. And it was true, really. He couldn't recall any images. All he could remember were sensations, emotions, and perceptions. He remembered the feeling of stone beneath his fingertips, of sweat above his lip and along his hairline. There was fear, too. It was sharp and bitter in the dream. And there was a sense of purpose, that he was supposed to do something important and dangerous. It made him think about the Prophecy.
Dumbledore was still looking at him with those concerned blue eyes.
"I'm okay, really," Harry insisted. "I just have a lot on my mind."
Dumbledore nodded and withdrew his wand from his dressing gown. He flicked it and a tea tray with shortbread biscuits and steaming Earl Grey materialized on the table.
Harry gaped. "Did you just create that out of thin air?"
"That would be quite impossible," Dumbledore replied, as he poured Harry and himself cups of tea. "One cannot simply 'create' food. I merely summoned the necessary materials from the kitchen."
"Oh," Harry said, nodding his head in understanding. There were many kinds of magic that Dumbledore used which Harry didn't understand. He felt delighted that Dumbledore, as important as he was, would even bother answering Harry's trivial questions.
The headmaster poured an additional cup, setting it in front of Fawkes.
"Sir? Do phoenixes like tea?"
"Not to drink, dear heavens, no. Fawkes simply enjoys the scent and the warmth. Fawkes only eats food that which no human can eat, while humans only take nourishment that no phoenix will take."
Dumbledore said all of this very matter-of-factly, while plucking a shortbread cookie from the plate and nibbling it sedately.
Harry nodded slowly, quirking the corner of his mouth at Dumbledore's eccentric phrasing. He supposed he was quite used to the odd aspects of his Headmaster's personality by now. He remembered the first time he had seen Dumbledore on the night of his sorting.
Nitwit…Blubber…Oddment…Tweak
It seemed ages ago when he had asked Percy Weasley if the Headmaster was mad. Back then, things were far simpler.
"He's a genius…Best wizard in the world…but he is a bit mad, yes…" Harry recalled Percy's words. How strange it was to remember Percy as a Dumbledore-supporter back then, especially with his polar opposite attitude toward Dumbledore during this past year.
Mrs. Wealey's face flashed in his mind, grief-stricken at Percy's abandonment of his family. The pain, anger, and betrayal that he festered…that kind of wound wouldn't heal very easily.
"Professor?" Harry asked, raising his head to look at Dumbledore, who had been studying him carefully. "What ever happened to Percy Weasley?"
Dumbledore raised his snowy eyebrows. "After the events of last June, when Voldemort's existence was verified, Cornelius Fudge faced a vast wave of outrage and consternation that discredited him. His staff were re-distributed among various departments. Percy Weasley, I believe, was assigned as an assistant to Amelia Bones."
"Really?" Harry asked, surprised that Amelia Bones would take in someone like Percy. She was so logical and fair, while Percy was selfish and short-sighted. Harry couldn't help but feel immense respect and gratitude toward Amelia Bones. He truly believed that if it weren't for her, it may not have been possible for him to be cleared of his charges last August. He couldn't believe that his trial occurred almost a whole year ago. It felt like ten years had passed.
"Has Percy spoken with his family lately?" Harry asked, wanting to keep his thoughts away from the never-ending drain that was his 5th year. He sipped his hot tea carefully, while he waited for a response.
Dumbledore sighed. "Alas, he has not. Unfortunately, it is often in human nature that there is great difficulty in admitting error after one so adamantly insisted on being in the right for so long. However, I still have faith in Percy. When he is ready, he will reconcile with his family."
"Yeah, maybe it's a good thing that he is with Mrs. Bones. She might rub off on him."
A glimmer of a twinkle illuminated his eyes. "Let us hope so."
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "It is very kind-hearted of you to be so concerned about the Weasley family, but something tells me that another matter is troubling you as well."
Harry looked up at his headmaster, admiring his intuition. Dumbledore probably knew already what was bothering Harry, and Harry knew that they really needed to talk about the topic sooner or later. But he was exhausted, and didn't know if he could handle the conversation on the horizon.
Yet he owed it to Dumbledore to at least tell him why he had come down here in the middle of the night. He couldn't get all sulky and withdrawn again, or else the little progress he had made with Dumbledore would already be gone.
He licked his suddenly dry lips, took another swig of the Earl Gray, and concentrated on the tiny whirls that laced the grain of the wooden tabletop.
"I've been thinking about the Prophecy," he murmured.
He paused, waiting for Dumbledore to say something, but the headmaster was silent, expectant.
Harry raised his head to look at him, but Dumbledore's eyes seemed momentarily distant before they settled on Harry. It was at this point that he realized that this topic wasn't just difficult for him, but for Dumbledore as well. The headmaster's eyes glimmered with an entire spectrum of emotion and pain, each whipping by and blurring together so that no distinct one could be isolated.
He frowned and was about to say "never mind," when Dumbledore shook his silver head slowly.
"My apologies if you misinterpreted my lack of response as a disinclination to have this conversation. I was merely 'lost in thought' as they say." Dumbledore's eyes crinkled in kindness as he gazed down at Harry. "Please continue."
Harry fidgeted in the hard, wood-backed chair. "I just feel so…I don't know…I was pretty numb to the whole prophecy business a couple months ago when you told me, but I had a dream about it tonight." Here, Dumbledore leaned forward in concern…" But there wasn't any pain, so I know it's just in my head and not a vision or anything." Harry babbled on, knowing he wasn't being very coherent. "I can't sleep now because I just feel so…so…"
"Anxious?" Dumbledore volunteered. "Frightened?"
He nodded. "And just…I don't know…helpless too. It's like I can't see how I'll be able to defeat him. It's like there's absolutely no hope for it. I might as well just go walk up to him and ask him to kill me now and get it over with!"
Dumbledore's eyes seemed quite serious and solicitous at the beginning of Harry's brief tirade, but now they seemed to twinkle slightly and Dumbledore's moustache was twitching amusedly.
"How is this funny to you?" Harry asked, surprised and admittedly a little hurt as well.
"Ah, Harry…Harry…" Dumbledore said, shaking his head paternally. "All of these feelings are quite natural. Believe me, had I been in your shoes at your young age, I would be experiencing quite similar thoughts and feelings."
Harry gaped at him, flummoxed. "But…so you're saying that I should accept the fact that I can't beat him?"
"Heavens, no, dear boy," Dumbledore said. "Quite the opposite. You are facing a tumultuous future, that is certain…"
"—future? My whole life has been rocky—"
"True, but I fear that things will only escalate from this current point in time. However, this does not mean that all hope is lost. It is normal to have doubts, Harry, but there is no logical reason for despair. You need to give yourself more credit. Look at your past history with Voldemort. How many times have you escaped him? It is not just 'luck' that has enabled you to thwart him on so many occasions."
Harry nodded his head slowly. A moment or two passed and then a tendril of a smile bloomed on his face. "I suppose I should hold off on surrendering myself to Voldemort."
"That would be most wise, yes."
Harry laughed. "Though, I admit, it's funny picturing the look on his face if I just walked up to him."
"I'm sure he would be pleasantly surprised, though albeit suspicious of a trap," Dumbledore conceded.
"Still," Harry said, "once he'd realize that it wasn't a trap and just my own stupidity, he'd probably thank me for it."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.
"Or," he continued, spurred on by Dumbledore's skepticism, "maybe he'd even be merciful. You know, give me a quick death."
"I think you are being delusionally optimistic, Harry."
They both laughed then, and instantly, Harry felt the tension leave him. The butterflies stilled, and a pleasant sleepiness floated over him. The snowflake chandelier sparkled in gentle undulations. The darkness beyond the windows formed a protective mantle over the occupants inside. Harry blinked blearily.
Dumbledore scooted his chair back, the legs scudding across the wooden floor. Harry looked up at him and Dumbledore patted his hand.
"Bed, now," he said. "You need to rest more."
Harry placed his hand on top of Dumbledore's holding it there for a moment. "Thank you, sir," he said earnestly. It felt like the right thing to do. He hadn't felt this peaceful in a long time.
Dumbledore tilted his magnificent head to the side, almost quizzically, astonished by Harry's sincere gratitude.
"You are welcome, dear boy."
Harry rose and tottered off to bed.
"And thank you," Dumbledore murmured to the now vacant doorway, "for giving an old man some peace of mind tonight."
Author's Note: Well, I hope you liked it! Please feel free to hit the review button and tell me how you feel. I don't have a beta, and I don't let my friends read my work, so it's your feedback that helps shape my writing and inspires me to do more. Once again, I would like to thank everyone who still reads my work, and I can assure you that the next chapter will come out in a much more timely fashion!
Thank you,
Kittyrunner