Thursday, 10 October 1991

"Come in," Albus Dumbledore said in response to the knock on his office door. It opened and in walked the person he'd been expecting. "Hello, Harry, how are you?"

"I'm fine, sir, thank you," the First Year said nervously. It wasn't usually good when you got called to the Headmaster's Office, though he wasn't aware of anything he'd done wrong (or rather, anything he'd gotten caught doing wrong) that would warrant the visit.

Additionally, Harry wasn't sure what to make of the aged wizard. James had made mention to Sirius and Remus of Albus's claim about a prophecy that may or may not refer to Harry, and how that revelation had something to do with his parents staying in Britain, to their ultimate demise. He was also the one responsible for denying Sirius his right to Harry that Halloween night, which both Cindy and Remus felt had direct influence on Sirius's eventual incarceration and the pain it had caused them both for so many years.

All of the family respected the man for his innumerable great accomplishments. None of them really liked him, though, and Harry had been warned to stay on his guard when in proximity to the Headmaster. The encounter with Remus the previous month – whose opinion of the man had the farthest to fall, and had done so with haste - had only reinforced that concern; when a man was more interested in protecting someone that bullied children than seeing justice done it was hard to figure out what that man's agenda might be.

Harry fought all of that down as he slowly and nervously approached the desk behind which the Headmaster was seated. As his eyes scanned the room they alit upon the perch on which sat a large majestic avian in red and gold. "Oh my god," Harry gasped, unconsciously changing course and walking toward it. "Is that . . . is that a real live phoenix?"

"Why yes it is," Dumbledore replied, hoping to put the boy at ease and maybe get him to open up. "Fawkes and I have been together for . . . well, for far longer than I care to admit to."

"Fawkes," Harry said absently as he reached the magical creature. The phoenix cocked its head to the side at the boy's approach but didn't shy away when a small hand tentatively came up. Before he touched Fawkes, though, he turned to the headmaster. "May I?"

"I think that's for Fawkes to decide," Dumbledore said with a chuckle, and Harry turned back toward the perched bird with a look that conveyed his desires. Emitting a short chirp of approval, Fawkes moved his head and bumped it against Harry's outstretched hand. Delight crossed Harry's features as he began to gently pet the great creature. "Are you familiar with phoenixes, Harry?"

"Oh yeah," Harry answered. "I love everything that can fly. I have since the first time I sat on a broom. Phoenixes, dragons, hippogriffs, occamy; if it has wings and is magical I'm a fan." His smile grew wider, and for a moment he forgot himself and who he was in the room with; not an enemy but almost certainly not a friend. "The summer before last we saw what we're pretty sure was a thunderbird as we were flying, though it was a long way off. I hope I get to see one up close one day. Actually, the core of my wand is a thunderbird feather."

Thunderbird. So he didn't go to Ollivander Dumbledore thought. To Harry he offered, "You may wish to speak with Hagrid when you have the chance; he keeps an eye on herds of both hippogriffs and thestrals in the Forest."

"I may do that, sir. Thank you," Harry answered as he continued to run his hands along Fawkes's chest feathers.

"So," Albus continued, hoping to garner some information, "since you say you saw what you believe was a thunderbird while flying, can I assume you grew up in the United States?"

Harry turned toward the desk in the room. "Why do you ask, sir?"

Dumbledore shrugged nonchalantly. "Idle conversation."

Harry smirked, and in that moment Albus almost gasped at how much the son before him now looked like the father he'd once known. The father he'd taught and eventually called a friend. The father he'd failed in his arrogance of believing he always knew best, that his plan was always the one that should be followed.

The father Albus had, no matter how tangentially, helped to murder, something that had weighed on Dumbledore's mind many days in the decade since it had happened.

James had said that they would leave, that they had someplace they would be safe; if that was where Harry had been raised it certainly seemed like an accurate assessment. Albus had balked at the thought of the Potters leaving Britain, though. The reason he'd given, that they would be safer where help could quickly reach them, was a good one but not the only one. In truth, the possibility of young Harry being the one destined to defeat Voldemort, and him abandoning Britain to its fate, terrified Albus.

And so he'd made decisions; taken actions that he was now second (and third, and fourth) guessing. Ones he was ashamed of. Ones that, in hindsight, nearly destroyed the Potter family. Their ancestral home was burned to the ground because they had continued to live in it; generations of history, memories, and legacy wiped out in the unforgiving flames of Fiendfyre. James and Lily had been killed, and only some still-not-understood twist of fate and magic managed to prevent a family that could trace its magical lineage back eight centuries from becoming extinct.

But what exactly had happened after? Where had Harry been? How had he been raised? Could he indeed be the lightning rod that Albus hoped he'd become, a symbol for the people of Britain to rally to when Voldemort made his inevitable return? Because Dumbledore knew in the deepest parts of his soul that the Dark Lord was not gone as everyone believed. He wasn't quite sure how or where or when but the whispers were becoming too pronounced to ignore for much longer. And he was sure Harry would play a large part in what was to come, for good or ill.

Was Harry up to the challenge? From all accounts he was typical of many young people his age. He'd made friends, excelled in some classes and struggled in others, and gotten into only his fair share of trouble, though no more. Everyone Albus had spoken to said he was happy, intelligent, polite, and gregarious, much as James had been at that age. But was he his parents' son? Would he stand against the darkness or become the cause of it? Albus needed answers to fears and doubts that had been rising for some time now but had only spiked into something close to panic from the moment Hagrid had said Harry wasn't at the Dursleys.

All of these thoughts passed through Dumbledore's mind in the instant before Harry replied. "Sir, I've been told many things about you, and none of them have been that you are 'idle.' If you want to ask me something please just ask. Otherwise we'll be here all day and I have double Potions this afternoon."

"Fair enough. I'm curious about how and where you were raised," Albus responded honestly. "You see, on the night that . . ." Albus paused, unsure of how to begin this conversation. Harry helped him out.

"It's okay, Professor, you can say it. 'On the night that my parents were killed.' It's not the first time I've talked about it."

Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, then. On the night that your parents were killed I had you placed with your mother's sister, with the intention that she raise you and provide a loving home for you until you were ready to rejoin the magical world. So imagine my surprise when I discovered that you weren't there."

Harry stepped away from the phoenix at last and took the seat offered by the headmaster. "My parents' wills stated that I was to go to the Blacks. From what my mom tells me I was at the Dursleys for a while, but she came and got me."

"Your mother? You mean Cynthia Black?"

"Yes, sir. I know that she's really my godmother and not my birth mother, but she's the only mom I can remember."

"Of course, Harry. But, and I apologize for being a bit indelicate; doesn't it bother you that you were raised by the wife of the man that betrayed your parents to Voldemort?"

"Sirius Black did not betray my parents," Harry said heatedly as he stood. "Peter Pettigrew did."

"I'm sure that's what your godmother wished for you believe, but –"

"No, sir," Harry interrupted, his impetuousness letting his mouth get in front of his brain. "My mom is not a liar, so don't you dare try to make me think that she is. Both her and Pops know for a fact that Sirius didn't betray my parents." Harry sat back down. "It was Pettigrew; Sirius just avenged them."

Albus sat back, not quite sure where to go from there. Yes, he'd had questions – one might even promote them to suspicions - about Sirius ever since Barty had sent him to Azkaban, but to hear even second-hand evidence that Sirius might truly be innocent of what the wizarding world would consider to be the worst of his crimes made a shiver run down his spine. His meetings with Fudge and Bones now seemed even more imperative; he had to get in and see Sirius.

But first he had an agitated student that he needed to calm. "I apologize, Harry; I didn't mean to disparage your godmother. I was just pointing out that your claim doesn't fit the established narrative."

"Just because people believe something doesn't make it true."

Albus chuckled. "Too right, young man, too right. Merlin knows more than a few tall tales have been told more than a few times by more than a few people; I suppose it is how we respond that determines who we truly are." Albus lazily pointed a hand Harry's way. "Your responses show me much, and explain why the Sorting Hat had such a chore with you."

"Sir?" Harry asked, cocking his head.

"Well, it would appear that there's brashness and impetuosity as strong as any Gryffindor. Curiosity to rival any of Rowena's ilk. Loyalty to put Helena to shame." Dumbledore squinted, a wry smile on his face. "I wonder, though, if you have any traits of our fourth great house."

"Cunning, ambition, and the desire to get the best of every situation. Correct, sir?"

"I'm not sure if I would quite put it that way but I can see why others would."

Harry shifted forward in his seat. "How about a trade?" Dumbledore wasn't quite sure what that had to do with their previous discussion, but his expression showed his curiosity. "We'll trade information. No lies. No half answers. We'll be honest with each other."

"And what information would you like to trade?" Albus asked, perplexed but certainly interested.

"I will tell you all about me growing up, and you will tell me about a prophecy concerning a young boy and the evil wizard who tried to kill him and got his parents instead." Dumbledore couldn't help it; he paled. "You have a terrible poker face, sir."

"What makes you think there is a prophecy?" Dumbledore hedged.

"I don't think there is one, sir. I know there is. You told my parents. My parents told Pops. Pops told me. You can deny it if you like, but our deal will be off. You have to give in order to get, Professor."

Albus shook his head slowly. "That is a very dangerous road to travel, Harry. Very dangerous indeed."

"How so, Professor?"

The headmaster carefully considered his next words. His desire for knowledge finally got the better of him, and so he clarified himself. "I have safeguarded the knowledge of the prophecy since it was made, since before you were born. With the deaths of your parents, I thought the fact it exists was known only to two, perhaps three people; it would appear I was mistaken. It may just be words, but words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.(1)"

"It was about me, though, right?"

"I cannot be sure –"

"But you believe it was."

Dumbledore sighed. "Yes."

"Then tell me."

"If only it were so simple."

"I don't see why it would be hard, sir. As far as I can tell, it's the reason my parents are dead. I think I have a right to know what it said, why it set Voldemort on us."

"It must be protected, Harry," Dumbledore said at last, coming forward in his seat, hands flat on his desk. "If Voldemort should ever learn of it –"

"Voldemort's dead." Dumbledore groaned and closed his eyes, cursing himself for the slip of the tongue. Talking before thinking isn't only for the young, it seems he thought to himself. He heard Harry's voice in a mere whisper of its former confidence. "He's not dead, is he, sir?" The elder wizard's eyes opened, and the look of shock and fear on Harry's face was unmistakable. Albus also couldn't miss Harry's hands, one tracing the very faint scar on his temple and the other fingering what appeared to be a very ornate medallion that he had pulled from under his robes.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I don't believe he is."

Albus saw Harry swallow roughly before taking a deep breath. "Then it's all the more important that I know, isn't it?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm sorry, Harry. Perhaps in a few years, when I am confident that you are able to safeguard it, we can have this conversation again." Harry glared at the headmaster, but Albus wasn't to be moved on this. "At the moment, though, there would be too great a risk of you, intentionally or not, letting it slip in the presence of the wrong ears." Like I just did he finished to himself.

Harry huffed, slamming his body into the back of the chair in apparent defeat. His hand again went to the medallion; if Albus was a betting man he'd say it was either a nervous tick or an indicator of deep thought. Suddenly the boy's eyes turned back to the elder mage. "What can you tell me about my scar?"

Albus managed to keep his stoic demeanor this time, though inside he felt pixies fluttering in his stomach. "That's a very odd segue, Harry."

"Not so much, sir. As you were the one that left me with my relatives, I'm sure you saw it," Harry said, tapping his scar. At Dumbledore's nod he continued. "It was very prominent for a long time, almost like it didn't want to heal, like it was more than a cut. Is there anything you can tell me about that?"

"I know it was the result of Voldemort's curse rebounding when he tried to kill you. As no one had ever survived the Killing Curse before that night I'm sure it, and some properties associated with it, are very unique."

"What else?"

"Should there be more?"

"God, you're evasive and . . . and . . . infuriating, and . . . not at all helpful," Harry stated angrily, rising from his seat and heading for the door. "When you feel like being open and honest with me, I'll be happy to talk. Until then, please don't call for me unless it's about school."

"Harry," Albus began but was ignored as the boy stormed out. He cringed when the door slammed shut and caused Fawkes to squawk in protest. Harry knew about the prophecy. He knew that there was something more to his scar than it just being a scar. And, thanks to Albus, he now knew that Voldemort wasn't dead. That would be enough for anyone to be getting along with, but Harry was only eleven. How much more would he have to deal with in his life?

Dumbledore sighed. "That could have gone better."

{-}

Hermione was worried but not yet frantic as she left Potions class. Harry hadn't been there, and Harry not being in Potions meant that there was something wrong; he was too enamored of the subject to skive off on a whim. She ran back to the Ravenclaw Common Room hoping to find her best friend there, only to be foiled once again when she saw no sign of him and no one present had seen him since the morning break. She rushed up to her room, intent on stowing her bookbag before grabbing her mirror out of her bedside table. However, when she pulled open the drawer she saw the device shaking softly, indicating someone was trying to call her. Grabbing the mirror before quickly pulling the curtains around her four-poster closed, she held it up and answered it, expecting Harry on the other side. She couldn't hide her disappointment when instead it was AJ. "AJ, it's not a good time."

"Finally! Thank god," he said quickly, as if he didn't hear her. "I've been trying to call you for the last 2 hours."

"I had class," she responded tersely, then a thought struck her. "Have you heard from Harry?"

"Why do you think I've been trying to call you for the last 2 hours?" he shot back in a tone that insinuated 'well, duh,' and she was finally able to process the panic in his eyes.

"Is he alright? What's going on?" Hermione immediately asked, her own level of anxiety spiking at seeing the concern on the face of the normally even-keeled AJ.

"I'm not exactly sure," AJ answered with a furrowed brow. "He had some kind of meeting with the Headmaster this morning, and I guess it didn't go well. He called me right after it and he was pissed."

"Why? Did he say?" Hermione was now desperate for information.

"He wasn't making a whole lot of sense. He said something about 'double-talking bastard' and 'try to keep things from me, will he,' but that was all I was able to get out of his rambling."

"That's it?" Hermione's lip curled in a doubtful expression. "He skipped class because the Headmaster wouldn't tell him something? That seems a bit childish, doesn't it?"

"Maybe, I guess it depends on what wasn't said. I'm sure there's more to it than a simple 'no' to something Harry asked, but I got the impression he needed to vent more than he needed me to ask questions. One of those 'I don't want you to fix it, I just want you to listen' situations. But he got this gleam in his eye that he only gets when he's about to do something really impulsive and usually idiotic, and he hasn't been answering his mirror since. And unfortunately Dora doesn't have one so I can't ask her to go find him." AJ's eyes drifted away from her face. "I'm scared, Hermione. When he's gotten like this before one of us has always been there to reel him in. But I'm here and I don't want to call Mom or Pops because they've both already had to deal with stuff happening to us at our schools. If it keeps happening I'm afraid what they'll do. I know I don't have any right to ask, but can you please see if you can track him down and talk some sense into him?"

Hermione huffed. "He's my best friend, you don't even have to ask." AJ smiled at her. "Do you know where he went?"

"Before he ended the call he said, and I quote, 'Dumbledore can stick it up his rear' and that he was going to some spot the headmaster didn't want people going. Does that give you any clues? I'm going to guess by that expression that it does."

"I have to go," Hermione said quickly, cutting off the conversation and speeding out of her room and then Ravenclaw Tower. Harry Potter, you better have not done something reckless and stupid she said to herself as she rushed toward the third floor.

{-}

The First Year witch hurdled around the corner into the forbidden third floor corridor, any thoughts of potential danger pushed aside in her need to get to her best friend. She couldn't believe the relief she felt when she saw Harry's form at the end of the hall, sitting up against a door. His arms were around his legs and his head on his knees; if he'd noticed her arrival he didn't acknowledge it. "Harry!" she exclaimed as loudly as she dared; they'd be in so much trouble if anyone found them here. At Harry's lack of response, though, she carefully approached and, as she did, she could see his shoulders shaking; he was crying. "Harry, what's wrong?" She reached a hand out tentatively but pulled it back unsurely; it isn't just boys who sometimes have trouble dealing with crying people.

Hermione shook her head; whatever her thoughts right now might be, she needed to know what the problem was. She decided to start with process of elimination. "Harry, AJ said something happened with the Headmaster. Is that why you're crying?" She saw Harry's head nod up and down but he still did not raise it to look at her. "What was it?" Nothing. "Harry, please talk to me. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong."

"You can't help me, Hermione," she heard him mumble. "No one can."

"Harry, I'm sure that –"

"Voldemort isn't dead."

Hermione's head snapped back with confused expression crossing her face, and in a dumbfounded state her mouth responded as it usually did, with facts from a book. "Of course he is. It says in Modern Magical History that you defeated him the night he . . ." she faded off as brain and voice re-synchronized, not knowing how sensitive a topic talking about that night was to Harry.

Harry's head shook in the negative as he finally pulled his head up. Hermione's heart broke as she saw the look of pain and fear he wore. "He's not. Dumbledore told me so. Apparently he's known all along and didn't say anything to anyone. God only knows why. You'd think that, of all the things to keep secret, that there was still some crazy killer on the loose wouldn't be one of them.

"He told me, and I . . . I just got so angry at him because it wasn't like he out and told me; he let it slip. If he had been paying better attention to what he was saying he wouldn't even have told me that much! And then he had the nerve to go and say 'I'll tell you more when you're older.'" Harry looked into Hermione's deep brown eyes. "If Voldemort really is alive and is still after me, how much older does he think I'm going to get?"

Harry wiped the tears from his face with the heels of his hands while Hermione gasped and put her hands to her mouth at his comment. "Hermione, he killed my mum and dad. He killed a lot of people. Good people. Smart people. Strong people. People with years of experience, practice, training." Harry stared off into space. "And he wants to kill me. What chance do I have?"

Hermione couldn't help herself; she launched herself at Harry and wrapped him in a hug. "We'll figure it out, Harry. You and me and everyone else that cares about you." She pulled back and gripped Harry's head in her hands as she stared him down. "You don't have to do this alone." On impulse she leaned in and gently kissed his forehead, near the barely visible scar that he'd gotten the last time he'd encountered Voldemort.

No she thought, not the last time. The first time, it would seem.

Harry took solace in Hermione's embrace, even more in her words, and wasn't quite sure what he felt when she kissed his forehead but he knew he liked it. They sat there in the forbidden corridor and held each other for an interminable amount of time before Hermione leaned back and sniffed the air. "What's that smell?"

"Oh. Yeah. There's a giant three-headed dog on the other side of the door." Harry's nonchalant response did not help at all.

"I'm sorry, there's a what?"

"A giant three-headed dog," Harry answered. "Dumbledore warned us at the Opening Feast to avoid this corridor unless we wanted to die a most painful death. After I ran out of his office, I wasn't really in the mood to listen to a thing Dumbledore had to say, and so I thought I'd come down here."

"That was very foolish, Harry," Hermine admonished. "Not knowing what was here, you could have been badly hurt and no one would have known where to find you."

"I know, Hermione. But I wasn't really thinking straight. I wanted to stick it to Dumbledore, and . . . maybe prove to myself that I was . . . I don't know . . . brave enough, or good enough, or whatever, do deal with all this." Harry pointed his thumb behind him at the door. "Simple Locking Charm, that's all that was on the door. When I saw that, I thought maybe there wasn't anything at all, and the old coot was just having a laugh at all of us. So I unlocked it and opened the door."

"And found a giant three-headed dog," she finished, still not quite believing.

"Right. Giant. Like, giant giant. As tall as the room. And it looked really angry. But it didn't even have to do anything; it didn't growl or bark or snap or anything. I just saw it, nearly peed myself, and slammed the door shut again." Harry slumped. "So much for proving myself."

"Harry, I don't think putting something solid between you and a giant angry three-headed dog is a sign of weakness or cowardice. Personally, I think it was eminently practical."

"I just wish I knew what it was guarding."

"What makes you think it was guarding anything?"

Harry looked at her. "Come on, Hermione. Giant three-headed dog? Cerberus was the guardian of the gates of Hades; it would only make sense that one would guard the doorway to something important."

Hermine blinked. "That's . . . that's . . . really brilliant deduction, Harry."

"Plus I saw a trap door under one of its front paws." Harry burst out laughing at the perturbed, and perhaps even a little bit betrayed, look Hermione gave him at that.

She eventually couldn't help but smile herself at the sound of his laughter. It was infinitely better than him crying which, if she could manage it, he would never do again. And if he did, she promised herself she'd be right there next to him, providing all the support she could. After all, that's what best friends were for.

A/N: So Harry knows about Voldemort much earlier than last time, but Dumbledore is still keeping his secrets. I can see that going well . . .

I have no idea what the plural of occamy is. I could have used occamies but somehow it just seemed more natural for the singular and plural to be the same.

The article "The Potter Family" on the Wizard World website (FFN won't let me put the link) says that the Potters originated in the 12th century with a man named Linfred of Stinchcombe, hence the 8 centuries of family history that were nearly destroyed in 1981.

I know Harry didn't technically get to the Dursleys until the night of November 1, but with the distance of time comes a certain 'close enough for government work' mentality regarding when things happened.

I had to add the line 'what the wizarding world would consider to be the worst of his crimes' because while killing 13 people would seem worse that leading someone else to kill 'only' 2, with the issues wizarding Britain has I'm not sure they'd see it that way.

The line in italics suffixed by (1) is of course a quote from the movie Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2. I don't recall it ever being in the book, but it's too good not to use.

Stay safe. And as always, thank you for you follows, favorites, views, and reviews.