Disclaimer: Obviously, I didn't write the Harry Potter series. J.K. Rowling is responsible for those masterpieces, and I will always worship her for it. Please don't sue me. I'm already poor and my mom would yell at me.
Author's Note: Thank you reviewers! Sorry about the confusion at the end of the last chapter; you will soon find out what "Bella" I was referring too. Sorry the update took so long; I'm working on a paper for my anthropology class and two other papers for classical mythology all at the same time. Please keep reviewing, or I'll lose motivation! Thanks especially go out to tansy1354, Wiccan PussyKat (sorry about saying 'sidewalk' instead of 'pavement'. I swear I didn't know, but I'll remember that from now on!), dweem-angel (thanks for wishing me luck on finals, I'll need it!) and Miss Laine.
Chapter 5: Tell Me What to Say
Harry trudged sullenly after Mundungus Fletcher trying to mentally prepare what he would say to Dumbledore. He didn't want to go into a rant like he had that night after
'The incident', but he wanted to make sure the headmaster understood his frustration. After their mutual confessions and catharsis after the Ministry battle, Harry had thought there would be a more open line of communication between himself and the headmaster.
So far, though, Harry didn't see much change taking place. He was still stuck with his rotten relatives with no idea what was going on in the war, Dumbledore was back to leaving only vague secondhand instructions for him to follow, and now Death Eaters were prowling around the wards like vultures. For a moment, a feeling of suffocation took hold of him as Harry was reminded of how helpless and vulnerable he had felt the previous summer.
Soon they arrived at Arabella Figg's door and Harry felt his anger resurfacing along with a tinge of anxiety. As Fletcher knocked timidly, Harry toyed with the idea that maybe Dumbledore purposely limited the amount and lengths of the conversations they shared in order to intimidate him into being more easily controlled. Most likely that was only the devil on Harry's shoulder slipping in his word, but nevertheless, the thought still lingered in the back of his mind. Just in case, Harry swore to himself silently that he wouldn't let his awe of the legend stop him from pushing to get the answers he needed.
The door opened with a creak and Harry's old babysitter came into view. He caught a whiff of stale, cabbage-smelling air as it escaped the house.
"Mundungus Fletcher, what have you done now?" she snarled.
"Erm…nice to see you too, 'Bella,"
"Don't you call me 'Bella', or 'Figgy', or anything of the sort, you hideous excuse for a guard. Just tell me what it is that you want," demanded Mrs. Figg, stamping her foot impatiently. She obviously hadn't forgiven the man for abandoning Harry to fend off dementors alone the year before.
Fletcher began to stutter, making it clear to Harry that it was time to step in.
"Everything's fine, Mrs. Figg. He just brought me here because I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore," said Harry, stepping out from behind a relieved Mundungus.
"Oh, Harry dear, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. Are you feeling alright? You look a bit peaky. I've been meaning to tell you how sorry I am about your godfather…"
Harry thought he detected a hint of pity in her eyes and was suddenly angry again. The last thing he needed was another Mrs. Weasley mothering him and referring to him as 'the poor dear'.
"Yes, well, thank you I guess. Not to be rude, but I really do need to speak with the headmaster," Harry cut in irritably, not in the mood for sympathy or small talk.
"Right," she replied, straightening up and looking much more like the craggy old lady Harry remembered from his childhood. "Well, I'm sorry, but as I am sure you can understand, the headmaster is a very busy man. Unless it is of drastic importance, I would suggest you send him an owl."
Harry could almost understand how Remus must feel at full moons as he became aware of the little hairs on the back of his neck and arms standing up and his fingers arc and strain as if about to sprout claws. "Fine then. Do you think you could just fire-call him for me later and pass on the message that Harry Potter would like to schedule a tea time to discuss why Bellatrix Lestrange is wandering around Surrey looking quite pleased with herself?" With that, Harry turned and began walking calmly back down the pavement.
"POTTER! Get back here this instant!" she hissed. As soon as he was back within range, Mrs. Figg wrapped gnarled fingers around his right bicep and practically dragged him inside. Fletcher only just slipped in behind him before the angry squib slammed the door shut.
"What is the meaning of this? Where have you even been in the few days you've been home that you saw that wretched piece of Death Eater filth?"
Harry took a calming breath before folding his arms and stoically answering.
"First of all, this place is not my 'home'," Harry growled. "Secondly, while I may have very seriously thought about running off, I didn't go further than three blocks from the Dursleys'. In answer to your question, I saw Lestrange disapparate at the very edge of the wards. Now, either I talk to Dumbledore, or I go back to the Dursleys and practice underage wizardry until I get his or the Ministry's attention, whichever comes first. Your call."
Looking fit to explode, Mrs. Figg gaped angrily at him before turning on her heel and heading into the living room. Harry remained watching from the hall as she tossed a handful of powder into the fireplace and stuck her head in to make the call. A minute later, she reemerged and stormed back to where he was waiting.
"Well, go ahead boy," she snapped. "I'd remind you to be respectful to your elders, but I doubt it would be any use." Without staying to see the conversation through, she hobbled off stiffly in the direction of the kitchen. Harry took a breath and walked over to the fireplace. What he found there surprised him.
The head of a very tired, worn looking Albus Dumbledore floated eerily in the flames. For an instant, Harry forgot his anger and hoped that he hadn't woken the man up; he looked as if he could use every moment of rest that came his way. Dumbledore's barely twinkling, sad eyes blinked at him and Harry shook himself out of his stupor.
"I believe you requested to see me, Harry?" initiated the headmaster.
Harry cleared his throat, trying to find his voice and nerve again. "Erm, yes sir. Well, to begin with, I had a bit of an argument with the Dursleys earlier and had to leave in a hurry,"
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed at this and Harry began to feel as if he were under a muggle microscope. "Yes, Harry, I can see that," said the headmaster coldly.
Harry suddenly became aware again of the long scratch on his cheek left by his aunt's wedding ring when she had backhanded him. His hand rose instinctively to feel it, but halfway through the motion Harry caught himself and slapped his arms back to his sides. For extra measure, Harry straightened up his posture, holding back a flinch when pain flared in his injured ankle.
"The point is that as I was walking through the neighborhood, I came across Bellatrix Lestrange." Before Dumbledore could begin the inevitable interrogation, Harry added, "I was wearing my invisibility cloak, so she didn't see me. I had my wand with me as well."
Dumbledore sighed wearily, whether in relief or defeat Harry wasn't sure. "Where exactly did you see her, Harry?"
Harry tried to brush away the feeling of guilt the question stirred up. "Exactly three streets down from Number Four," he admitted. Dumbledore inclined his head in acknowledgement but said nothing.
The guilt rose up again, but Harry refused to let it take hold of him. Remembering the matter at hand, he took advantage of the headmaster's silence and began his own interrogation. "Sir, just how long has Voldemort known where I live?"
This time when Dumbledore met his eyes, it looked like it took a lot of effort. "We cannot be entirely sure of that, Harry. Peter Pettigrew has known the location of the Dursley household ever since you first gave Ronald Weasley your address for correspondence. When exactly he passed that information onto his master, we do not know."
"Let me rephrase that," Harry bristled, "How is it that the Death Eaters were able to discover precisely where the wards end?"
"That is a question which requires a much longer explanation."
"All the more time for the Dursleys to calm down before my return, I suppose," Harry responded cheekily.
Dumbledore simply nodded obligingly and continued. "Harry, first of all you must understand that many different spells have been placed over this neighborhood. Your mother's sacrifice and your relatives' blood are by far the strongest protection you have, but there are many others in effect as well. For example, one prevents the use of portkeys, another misleads unapproved owls and animagi, and there is an anti-apparition ward in place as well. Those are only a few of the spells over Privet Drive. Now, the catch is that the only way to maintain all of these precautions at the necessary strength and coverage area is to tie them to one powerful magic source: the bond between yourself and your relatives."
At this point, Dumbledore locked eyes with Harry as if to make sure he was still paying attention. Harry gave a slight nod to indicate he wished him to continue.
"The only way to break this bond would be for Petunia Dursley to personally remove you not only from her household, but from the protection of the wards themselves. Unfortunately, the distances the wards cover depend upon the strength of the blood bond, or your relationship with your aunt and even to a small extent, your cousin." Harry groaned and was about to speak when Dumbledore raised a frail, wrinkled hand to stop him. "I am not quite finished yet, please."
"The first day that the Dursleys took you in, the wards covered approximately a five mile radius. However, they diminished slowly and gradually over the next ten years, and since your enrollment at Hogwarts they have suffered a drastic decrease in area," Dumbledore looked quite sad and apologetic explaining the effect of the Dursleys' ever-increasing dislike of Harry. "Finally, when the dementors attacked you and your cousin last summer and your aunt and uncle nearly forced you to leave the house, the wards' protection fell to an all time low. As you have witnessed, the furthest you can wander safely now is about three blocks from home."
"This is supposed to make me feel safe? And how does this explain how the Death Eaters know just how close they can come to the wards?" Harry pressed.
"Please try to understand, Harry, that the Dursleys' hatred of everything magical is no more my fault than it is yours. I wish I could do more to keep you safe, but alas, your relatives are the only ones with that power.
"As for the Death Eaters; that is a problem that neither I nor the Order have been able to solve quite yet. No one meaning harm to you or your family should be able to even detect the wards. The only possibility I have been able to come up with is that somehow, Voldemort found a way to link a harmless spell of his own to the protection spells over Privet Drive to serve as a marker. The problem is neither he nor one of his servants would have been able to activate it. The only people who are capable of introducing a new spell into the network that has not been approved by myself are those under its protection."
Harry contemplated this. "I certainly haven't cast any spells like that, and Petunia and Dudley couldn't have. They don't have the slightest bit of magical talent!"
"Ah, but I did not say they had to cast it. They would simply have to introduce it. For example, if Voldemort were to cast the marker spell along with a magical bonding spell on a simple object, your aunt or cousin need only bring that object willingly into the area of the wards for it to naturally merge with the protections already in place. Neither spell the object carried is in itself harmful, so they would not be deactivated. After that, the Death Eaters need only apparate a long distance from your address and carefully work forward until they detect the marker spell..."
Harry gave a derisive snort and finished, "…which Bellatrix Lestrange has already done."
Silence settled over the room once more, and Harry could practically feel the tension rising.
For the first time in the whole conversation, Dumbledore looked away. If it was possible, the fatigue was now even more evident on the man's aged face.
"I had hoped it would take much longer for them to pinpoint the exact location. However, leaving you in the care of the Dursleys as an infant, I never imagined that…" the headmaster's words trailed off as he stared sadly at the bloody scratch marring Harry's cheek.
This only served to further inflate Harry's anger, however. "That what, Professor? That they'd hate me? That they'd loathe me enough to make me sleep in a closet when they had three decent-sized bedrooms? Or maybe that they'd think me so worthless the only purpose I could possibly serve on this planet was to slave away for them like a house elf? Or wait, perhaps you meant you never imagined that they would despise me enough to lock me in a room, bar the windows, and starve me like some criminal!" Harry finished, shouting.
For the first time Harry could remember seeing, Dumbledore appeared shocked and speechless. Harry didn't feel the slightest bit of sympathy for him. After all, the man had seen to it personally that he was left at the mercy of the Dursleys with no one to check up on him. Just thinking about the man he had once looked upon with wonder and admiration actually being the person who abandoned him to endure a miserable, unloved childhood made Harry's throat constrict painfully.
"Well sir, I hope it's all been worth it to you. I suppose it must be. I'm still alive, so I can still serve my purpose according to the prophecy. 'Neither can live while the other survives' and all that, right?" Harry mumbled, feeling more drained by the second. "I do know exactly what it means, though. I don't suppose constantly watching your back for murderers, traitors, and dark lords constitutes 'living'. Worrying which of your friends will be the next victim after you've run out of family members isn't much of a life either, I guess."
"That is enough, Harry." Dumbledore stated solemnly. "I am sorry you feel this way. I assure you that if there was a way I could take your place or relieve you of the burden of the prophecy I would. Alas, it is impossible. The most I can do is offer you the best safety I am capable of creating."
"And if it isn't enough, what am I left with?" Harry asked rhetorically. "I'm left with fifteen years of hate, misery and insults. Oh yes, and safety, how could I forget. Did you know that if I could, I'd trade all fifteen of these years for one week of life as Ron…just to see what it feels like, you know? To belong in a family? To have people worry over my grades, my health—to have someone to be proud of me whether I won or lost at quidditch. But I'll never have that; it wouldn't have been safe, and Merlin forbid the Boy-Who-Lived be spoiled by his family like any other child out there."
By this time, Dumbledore looked very hurt and deeply saddened. Harry was sure that his own expression probably mirrored the headmaster's. "Harry, I believe we both have much to think about. If I am not mistaken, neither of us can be of anymore aid to each other at the moment. However, please believe me when I say that I never intended to do you any harm; it is the last thing I would ever want. Unless you have anything more that you need to know tonight, I bid you farewell."
Harry, too tired for words, shook his head in answer.
"If you will please come back next Friday then, Harry, perhaps we can attempt to sort through some of our troubles. Now, I will be sending Fawkes over momentarily with a message for your aunt and uncle. I believe it should suffice to keep them in line until then."
Harry did not answer. Dumbledore nodded sadly one last time.
"Good night then, dear boy," he said before his head faded from the flames.