I wait for him in my brightly-lit, shelf-lined office. All is quiet except for the soft pip-piping of Fawkes on his perch and the gentle whirring of my machines. Softly, slowly, the oak door opens and he walks in, closes the door carefully, and stands in front of my desk, hands in his pockets, waiting. Looking at him, I can tell that he has not slept for days. His skin is pale, almost translucent, and the darkness of his black hair only enhances the shadows under his eyes. He looks exhausted, worn-out, finished. My heart aches for him.
"Good evening, Harry," I say.
"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore," he says back automatically. I continue.
"I expect you know why you are here." He continues to stare at my desk, hiding his face with his unruly hair. His face, though, is flat, blank, expressionless. The only thing alive in him is his eyes. So green, guarding, protective. I look at him, this ordinary sixteen year-old with a great burden on his shoulders. How I wish to give him an ordinary life, to free him.
"You are troubled. We would have to all be blind not to notice." He raises his chin defiantly, and his mouth forms 'no', but he catches my eye. In that moment, I see sixteen years of unhappiness, of nightmares, torment and suffering. Slowly he nods.
"Would you like to tell me?" I ask cautiously.
This time the word make it out of his throat. "No." The word is sharp and quick, cracking through the dusty silence of my office like a whip. He stares at me.
I stare back at him. "Harry," I say, "I am not merely your Headmaster. I am here to look out for you and to notice when things are wrong. Most hurts in this world can be cured in an instant, but this is not something Madam Pomfrey can cure with some bad-tasting syrup. That is where I come in. You understand how close I was to your parents, and although it is my job to make sure everything is alright, I do not think of it as an obligation. It is something that I take very seriously. Just as you are not obligated to talk to me, but I assure you you will feel better once you do."
Still Harry was silent.
"Several of your classmates have been up to see me concerning this matter, Harry," I prompt gently. "Including Miss Granger and Mr Weasley."
Those are the magic words. At that Harry opens his mouth and speaks.
"Of course," he says, scoffing. "Everyone has to look out for the poor orphaned Harry. He can't take care of himself, oh, no, everyone has to nose into his business."
He continues in this vein for quite some time, but gradually it shifts toward other matters.
He tells me about his dreams. He tells me what it's like going through school each day. He tells me about the stares and the whispers. He tells me things I could never have fathomed. After forty minutes, his voice goes hoarse and he talks himself into silence. He is tired out, slumped against his chair. I can see small beads of sweat forming at his hairline. I get up and pour him a glass of water, which he drinks gratefully. When he is finished, he fiddles with his wand, waiting.
"You're going to be alright." I say, sounding much too gruff for my own taste. Hagrid has been having an influence on me lately.
"Yes," he whispers.
"I am very proud of you, Harry," I say. "I think you know why. Just remember that you need to keep going. And that I am here for you. We are all here for you." He nods understandingly.
"Thank you, Professor," he says, and I know what he means. He turns to go, wiping his eyes on the cuff of his robes. He thinks I do not see him. A faint smile finds its way onto his face once before he closes the door. I hear him slide down the wall outside my door, the gentle thud of his elbow on the wooden doorframe. He sighs and rests his head against the wall, dropping his bookbag next to him, taking deep breaths. Finally I hear him sniff and stand up and go. He has a strength in him, I think. Deep inside him. That is something that I do not possess. Courage of the heart is very rare - it does not happen to the ordinary. Harry is special. I do not think that he understands it, but he may, in time. In time.