"Crucio!"

He felt the rush of power that flashed from his wand into the woman in front of him, reverberating back into his body and up his spine, filling him with an odd delight as Lestrange screamed and fell to the floor in front of him. His body, for a moment, felt hot-wired, brightly lit, and just for that moment, truly alive.

And all too soon, it was over, and he dove behind the golden statue trembling with amazement as the head of the statue was blown off, showering him with rubble.

"Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?" he heard. "You need to mean them! You need to really want to cause me pain!"

He held out a hand, watching it tremble. He could still feel the exhilaration…

He dodged her own Cruciatus curse, crouching against the house-elf and breathing hard. The elation of the last spell dimmed and disappeared as he cast a Stunning spell, but he knew that later on he would remember. He would remember the feeling…

Harry Potter sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't gotten much sleep the previous night. He wasn't sure why; he had just lain in bed late at night, unable to drift off.

He had expected to be plagued with dreams of Sirius. He had expected to see the veil hundreds of times over the summer. He had expected nightmares, pain, and depression.

What he hadn't expected was the emptiness he found inside himself.

What he hadn't expected was the anger.

What he truly hadn't expected was the restlessness, the need for change, the need for the feeling he had experienced just over a month ago…

He reached over to the bedside table and retrieved his glasses, pressing them onto his nose. The world focused. He partly wished that it hadn't, that he could live in pleasant fuzziness forever, where the world was softer.

Why?Why had Dumbledore not seen fit to simply tell him about the prophecy? He could have prevented so much, stopped everything that had happened…Sirius wouldn't have died, Ron wouldn't have ended up with nasty scars all over his arms, Hermione wouldn't still have extensive damage all over her body from whatever curse she had suffered…

He stood up and threw on an old T-shirt and pair of jeans. Both, surprisingly, fit him. At least, fit him better than they would have if they had been Dudley's hand-me-downs. Aunt Petunia had appeared wordlessly in his room a week ago with a pile of nondescript clothing, dropped it on the floor, then left. Harry supposed she had bought it cheap from some second-hand store, but he appreciated that he now had clothing that didn't make him look like a freak show.

Aunt Petunia appeared to be genuinely trying to acknowledge the warning given to her by the group of wizards at King's Cross three weeks ago. Not so with Dudley and Vernon; Dudley still took swings at Harry whenever he could without his mother seeing, and Vernon appeared to be in a state of barely controlled rage whenever he looked at Harry.

In general, it was a worse state than usual in the summer. Harry was on tenterhooks wondering when Vernon would snap. He kept out of the house as much as he could, and kept his wand with him; despite the trouble that it had caused him last year, he couldn't have cared less what the consequences of casting spells on his uncle would be.

He sighed and glanced at the letter on his bedside table. He had read it constantly since it had arrived.

Harry,

We think we can convince Professor Dumbledore to let you out of there before your birthday. We're definitely trying. Hang in there, all right? I know living with the muggles must be awful, but it's for your own safety.

Ron

It had been bad enough just having Dumbledore try to control his safety; now Ron was doing it too. How well could they possibly be protecting him if he had been attacked by dementors last year? Why wasn't headquarters as safe as Number 4, Privet Drive?

He pounded his fist down on the dresser, shaking the entire room and immediately regretting it. It felt good to let out some of his nervous energy, the adrenalin he got from thinking about what had happened, what he wished had happened…

He trotted down the stairs and out of the house, careful not to make too much noise or attract the attention of his "family". He had managed to get one letter to Hermione requesting some muggle money in exchange for Galleons. At least this way he could go and buy his meals himself and not rely on the charity of Uncle Vernon.

After that one letter, he had received a note telling him that it wasn't safe to communicate any more.

Of course, it probably hadn't occurred to Dumbledore that after the Department of Mysteries, the other five were probably targets just as much as he was, but of course, he was stuck here and they were all together at Number 12, Grimmauld Place having a lovely time without him…

He ate three pieces of toast at a small café several blocks from the Dursleys' house, and then wandered to the park, sitting down idly on the bench. He whiled away most of the days like this, avoiding his relatives as best he could.

It was a hot day; as the sun warmed his neck, he found himself leaning back on the bench and closing his eyes. A few peaceful minutes passed like that before he was woken by someone sniffing loudly near the bench.

"It's not a bed, young man," said an old lady, glaring at him. "There are children here. Go find somewhere else to sleep."

Harry looked at her. She had white hair pulled back into a tight bun reminiscent of Professor McGonagall and several children trailing behind her. He sighed. He wasn't in the mood for confrontation. He stood up and walked away.

I'm the only one who can save you,he wanted to say.I'm the only one who can stop the threat that is going to sweep down and annihilate you and everyone like you. Don't you dare look down your nose at me, you stupid old woman…

He would have to return to the house sooner than he had planned. Maybe he could get his invisibility cloak, come back to the park and lie down anyways.

He couldn't remember exactly who that old lady was, but she was clearly one who had succumbed to the Dursley's claims that he was an insane criminal. It frustrated him. In the Wizarding world and the muggle world no one believed him, only what was said about him.

He wondered who was on Harry-watch today. He needed to get out of here; his trunk was packed and always ready to go, and he was trying to keep track of who was watching him so that he could leave when Mundungus was on watch.

He walked in the front door and clenched his teeth. He had miscalculated. Dudley and two of his friends were sitting at the kitchen counter, wolfing down sandwiches, and Aunt Petunia was nowhere in sight.

"Hey, freak," said Dudley, walking toward Harry with a slight sway. His words were slightly slurred. Harry glanced at the counter and saw an empty bottle of port alongside the sandwich plate.

"It's only two in the afternoon, Dudley," he sighed. "Your mummy's going to be mad if she comes home and finds you drinking already."

"You don't bloody know anything about my mum," growled Dudley. Harry backed away slightly. "You don't belong here, you freak."

Dudley's two friends stood up as well. They weren't two that Harry recognized. He took note of his position; it wasn't a good one. He was backed up against the wall, and one of the boys was blocking the way to the door. He wouldn't be able to run from this one.

He pulled out his wand, brandishing it at Dudley. "Watch out."

Indeed, Dudley reared back for a moment, and then continued to move menacingly toward Harry. Harry wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the fact that he had two friends waiting for him to make the first move, but Dudley suddenly ran toward him.

"Stupef—"

Dudley, with great bravery and stupidity, reached out and grabbed Harry's wand, snapping it and throwing it over his shoulder.

That was all he remembered for the next twenty minutes except for the pain.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was dark. He lifted his head, wincing at the throbbing he felt around his temples and the base of his neck. He raised his right arm, which was miraculously not injured, and felt around the back of his head. There was blood there.

He took stock of his injuries. There was something wrong with his head. He was bleeding from somewhere. He couldn't move his left arm without excruciating pain, and his left ankle felt twisted. He didn't know how much weight he would be able to put on it. He felt bruised all over, like he had been run over by a train.

The front door opened and someone turned on the front hall light. Harry closed his eyes tightly, wincing at the pain the light was causing at the back of his head.

"What—Vernon!"

He relaxed only slightly at the sound of Aunt Petunia's voice. He continued to calmly analyze his injuries. He was lying on his back, his legs splayed out in an odd way, beneath, ironically, the cupboard under the stairs. He could hear a whispered conversation going on between his two guardians, then he saw Vernon's feet tramping up the stairs, creaking on the seventh one. He wished he could cover his ears and go back to sleep.

Were they going to get some kind of paramedic for him? Where was Uncle Vernon going? He was coming down the stairs, and there was an odd sort of thumping following him…

The front door was opening. Harry managed to pull himself up with his right arm into a seated position. He felt at his eyes, which were both swollen. That explained his problems seeing, as well as the fact that his glasses lay, broken, a few meters away. There was a cut in his cheek where the glass must have cut him as they broke.

He was being lifted, almost gently by Vernon's standards. He was moving. He tried to focus. Where were they taking him? Why was he being laid down now?

"Found you on a doorstep, we're leaving you on a doorstep," said his uncle brusquely. "Take your things. I never want to see you here again."

The door slammed, and he lay back down and let the darkness take him again.

He woke up again. How much later was it? It was still dark, although the street lights were bright.

Where was the Order?

All the anger he had been dealing with returned in a flash. They were supposed to be protecting him, and here he was, lying on his trunk on the Dursleys' doorstep with a broken arm and something wrong with his head.

Bloody hell.

They were supposed to be protecting him. If he had been allowed any sort of communication, he could have told them that he was worried that this sort of thing had happened. If their so-called protection had had any value, they would have prevented this from happening at all. He looked down and made out a slim length of wood, broken into two pieces, lying at his feet. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket.

What had the Order ever done for him?

He slid off his trunk, and it opened. He frowned, wondering why. Oh, it was too full. He began pulling out the clothing that Petunia had given him. He would keep nothing from these people. He left it all on the doorstep and even managed to remove the green shirt that he was wearing before the dizziness overcame him again. Then he shut the trunk and began walking unsteadily, shirtless, down the street.

They had kept him here with the promise that he was safe from Voldemort, but had Voldemort even made an attempt? All he really needed to do was wait for Harry's relatives to kill him. Or for the Order to somehow kill him, whatever their use was.

He stopped at the park. He couldn't go on. Where had the Dursleys expected him to go, grievously injured, in the middle of the night?

The world began to tilt and spin. Where was he? He began to slip out of consciousness, and tried not to. He had to find the Order. He had to find someone…

"Those fools."

He was shocked awake again as something was pressed to his temple. A wand! He jerked away, and then moaned as the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his head. How had he ever managed to get here without collapsing in the middle of the street?

"Hold still, boy. I'm helping you." Indeed, a moment later Harry felt a blessed coolness permeate his head. He physically felt the blood at the base of his neck vanish. His foot untwisted and his arm healed, leaving him much more clear-headed than before.

He turned to face his rescuer. It wasn't someone he had ever seen before; tall, with a long face, very dark brown hair and a pointed nose.

"Thank you," he said, taking a deep breath. "Are—are you from the Order?"

"The Order?" the man looked contemptuous for a moment. "Of course not. Your guard watched you walk into the house and then left for a firewhiskey."

Ah. So it had been Mundungus, then. A pity he hadn't left earlier.

"Who are you, then?" Harry asked. "I don't mean to sound rude…"

The man shrugged, but didn't seem inclined to answer. "Muggles. I haven't met one who trusted magic. Most don't react that extremely, but still…" he glared angrily in the direction of the Dursleys' house. "A wizard should never be forced to live with muggles, as you have. Playing to their needs. Acting as their equals, theirinferiors." He fixed Harry with an intense, blue-eyed glare. "Do you agree?"

Yes!Shouted something inside of Harry.We are not like them! They do not have our power!

No, said another voice, stronger. Muggles are humans as well. We were born with the power; we did not earn it.

"Um, I guess," said Harry. "I wish I was legally allowed to use magic against them, I mean." He glanced down sadly at the remnants of his wand, lying in his lap.

"Ah, yes," said the man. "I can fix that for you."

"You can?" asked Harry, shocked. He had never heard of anything that could fix a broken wand. Wouldn't Hagrid have fixed his wand, if he could?

"Of course," said the man, picking up the broken wand and placing it tip-to-tip with his own. He muttered an incantation that Harry couldn't hear, and a dense black cloud grew around both wands. Harry felt an intense chill, despite the fact that it was a warm summer night, and the man's face was glowing. When the cloud cleared, Harry's wand was whole again.

"Wow."

The man handed Harry his wand back and smiled. "Walk with me, young man."

Harry frowned. "Sorry, what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," he said quietly. "But if I wanted to kill you, I would have done so by now. I mean you no harm, I assure you."

Harry conceded the point, standing up and dragging his trunk with him. The tall man gave it a pitying look and waved his wand, shrinking and levitating the trunk in one movement. They began to move down the street.

"I shall take you to London, and then you should decide what to do from there," said the man. A trace of a sneer appeared on his face. "See if your Order will rescue you from there."

"They won't," said Harry bitterly, still slightly woozy from blood loss. He felt like he sometimes did after a late quidditch party, when Fred and George had added a little extra to the Butterbeer.

"They won't?"

"The whole—the whole lot of them are useless," he continued. "They act like I'm a child, like I need protection, then they don't even give it to me when I need it."

"What do they fight for?"

Harry frowned suspiciously upwards. The man was over a foot taller than him.

"I was a member of a similar organization, once," he said quietly. "It was not for me. I found them too restrictive, too attached to their own ideas, too resistant to change."

"I suppose they fight so that muggleborns can have the rights they deserve," said Harry. "I've never really thought about it. Voldemort is for it, then they are against it. That's just how it goes."

"But what is Voldemort for?"

Harry glanced sharply up at the sound of the name. The only other adults he had ever heard use the word were Remus, Sirius and Dumbledore.

"He wants to kill all the muggles, and the muggleborns, and the half-bloods. And me." The definition sounded wrong, even to him.

"And they…fight…so that muggleborns can have the rights they deserve? Tell me, what rights are they missing? They are inducted into our world, given places in our schools, our governments, our workplaces, places that are on occasion denied to people who grew up in this world and have nowhere else to go. What more do they want? What does the Order really fight for?"

"Mmm…I dunno," said Harry, his head spinning again. He felt exhausted.

"Really." The man suddenly gripped Harry's arm, and everything went dark. He was being squeezed, squeezed from all sides…compressed, smaller and smaller…

It was over. They were on the street outside the Leaky Cauldron. No one was around, though Harry supposed that was natural, as it was the middle of the night.

"You must excuse my informality in Apparating us," the man said carefully. "I had remembered some urgent business I must attend to. But first…Lord Voldemort wishes to kill everyone?"

"Yes," said Harry uncertainly. "Dumbledore says—"

"Ah,Dumbledore," said the man knowingly. "And you trust him with your life."

"Er—"

The man had gone. Harry frowned in confusion, then turned aside and walked into the Leaky Cauldron.

Hedidn'ttrust Dumbledore with his life. That was the problem. He had never heard of any occurrence where Voldemort had simply walked up to a muggle and killed him. Dumbledore had lied to him before, made bad choices before…

But Voldemort had killed muggle-borns in Harry's second year. Tried to, at least.

What was he doing? Justifying Voldemort's actions?

I have to kill him. That's all there is to it.

But something within him was doubting it. Wondering what the point was. Wondering why he needed to.

He squashed it, but he knew it was still there.

He woke to dazzling sunlight and an owl's indignant squawk.

Harry yawned and rolled over, rubbing his eyes. He still couldn't see entirely clearly, as his glasses were lying in pieces at the Dursleys'. But he could make out the figure of his snowy owl beating her wings against the closed window. He sighed and stood, blundering over and opening it.

He had somehow gotten a room at the Leaky cauldron, free of charge, for the night. Apparently fame did have its uses. The moment he had walked in and blearily rung the bell, Tom had appeared and shaken him warmly by the hand, leading him up to a room for the night and waving away Harry's halfhearted offers of paying the next day. It was the least he could do, Tom said, to someone who was destined to save them all. Harry had frowned and asked what he meant, but Tom had ignored his questions and left him in a room for the night.

It had become clear when Harry had seen the paper. He had apparently been deemed the "Chosen One" by reporters everywhere. Reading through the story, he was relieved to find that it was all speculation, and the real contents of the prophecy had not been revealed.

He was still mulling over the mysterious stranger who had brought him here last night. As he let his owl in, he mentally kicked himself over and over again for so completely trusting a man who refused to state his name. It could have been Voldemort, for all he knew.

He gingerly opened the door and walked down the stairs, moving toward the blur that was Tom. He still had some Galleons at the bottom of the trunk.

"Er, Tom, is there somewhere in Diagon Alley where I can get a new pair of glasses?"

"Oh, of course, Mr, Potter," said the innkeeper, sounding delighted to be of service.

I doubt I would have gotten this sort of bootlicking last summer,Harry thought disgustedly as he listened to Tom's direction. The public's opinion of him rose and fell, completely controlled by the Ministry.

We need a new ministry.The thought rose unbidden in his mind. The current one was so corrupt as to almost be helping Voldemort instead of hindering him. Through some complex political maneuver, Fudge had managed to stay in office, probably by paying the opposing candidate, Rufus Scrimgeour, some large sum of money, as well as granting various other favors.

He wandered down the street, looking for number 46, Diagon Alley and trying to figure out how much gold he had in his bag without actually taking any of it out. He arrived at the store at the same time as he determined that he had twelve galleons, four sickles, eight knuts.

The man in the store noted his scar instantly and began kissing up to him as much as Tom had. Harry sighed.

"I need a new pair of glasses, please."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Potter, it's an honor to serve you—"

"Can you just find me a new pair without talking?" he said harshly. The man gave him a rather hurt look, but went about his business, humming quietly.

"If you would just choose a pair of frames to fit you, Sir, or would you prefer our new—"

"Those ones," said Harry, pointing at a pair of wire-rimmed glasses similar to his old ones. "How much?"

"Ten Galleons, please. And they will, of course, adjust automatically to fit your prescription."

"Yes," said Harry distractedly. He settled the new frames on his nose, feeling slightly disoriented for a moment as his vision blurred more, then became clear. "Here." He shoved ten galleons at the man and walked out of the store, suddenly unsure as to why he had acted that way. He was not generally so curt, so impatient with anyone, but it hadn't seemed worth it to make conversation, to be polite. The man was only a shopkeeper.

He sighed and began to walk back to the other end of the alley, towards Gringotts. He needed some new clothing, and he didn't feel like wearing heavy robes. He had found one plain white T-shirt in his trunk and he was wearing it right now, but he was sure that he needed more if he was going to be staying here for a while.

Diagon Alley was nearly empty. He supposed, since it was a Tuesday afternoon, that no one would really be out shopping.

Gringotts was bustling with goblins, all going about their business. Harry noted a flash of red hair in one of the corners, but he didn't feel like a chat with Bill Weasley. Bill would probably try to make him return to the Dursleys.

What would he do in that case?

Perhaps run. But more likely, if they were alone, Stun Bill and leave…

"I need to make a withdrawal," he said flatly to the goblin behind the nearest desk. "Do I have to come down to my vault, or can I just ask you to get it?"

"I can obtain the gold for you, Mr—" the beady eyes flickered upward to his scar. "Potter."

They're all the same,he thought in frustration. Were he anyone else, he doubted the goblin would have bothered to make the cart trip by himself just to retrieve a pile of gold.

By the time the goblin had come out with the 100 galleons Harry had requested, his presence had been noted by several others. It wouldn't be too long before he was noticed by Bill. He took the money curtly and left fast, hoping that he would not be seen.

Avoiding the Order was illogical, he knew. They would find him soon regardless. But preying on his mind was the question posed to him by the stranger last night, who had seemed so scornful of the Order: What did they actually do? When had they truly gone out to battle with Death Eaters for the lives of muggles? He couldn't remember a single occurrence.

"Harry!"

He sighed. Bill had caught up to him. He kept walking, trying to shake the older man off, but Bill's long stride kept up with him easily.

"Bugger off, Bill," he said harshly, more so than he had intended.

The eldest Weasley looked taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. I don't need you or the Order right now."At least, not until I've worked out how I feel about them.

"Harry, what are you doing away from your relatives? You're in great danger here."

"More danger than I was in back at that house?" Harry snarled. He wished momentarily that he had something to show for his beating besides words and a new pair of glasses. "The muggles you claim are protecting me beat the shit out of me and left me to die on their doorstep. Well, I suppose they didn't leave me to die. They expected me to leave first."

"What? What happened?"

"What happened?" Harry shouted, suddenly turning to face him. "What happened is that I wasn't allowed to use magic this summerdespitewhat happened last time. My so-called "family" attacked me and I couldn't defend myself, and all your wards and guards were useless. They left me to bleed to death!"

He stopped, breathing hard. Bill looked shocked by his outburst, but still took a step forward, for some reason looking over Harry's shoulder…

He turned around, and was completely unsurprised to see Dumbledore there.

"I'm sorry to hear that you and your relatives are not getting along," he said quietly. "But as there are no signs of physical ill treatment, as you claim, you shall have to return, for your own protection. It is time that you grew up, Harry. The Dursleys clearly did not harm you; what gives you the right to harm them with power that they cannot possibly possess?"

"How the bloody hell did you know I was here?" asked Harry angrily. He glanced back at Bill, who shook his head.

"Harry, I will take you back to your relatives' house. I expect you to stay there until one of us comes and retrieves you." Dumbledore stated firmly, as though he hadn't heard either one of Harry's small outbursts.

"How can you just assume that I'm lying about being hurt?" Harry spat, all his pent-up rage at the headmaster clamoring to be released. "Your pathetic guard wandered off before I got beaten. Probably to get drunk or something." The look on Bill's face, behind the headmaster, told him the information had been correct.

"Someone not in the Order found me and healed me. Tell me, what is it that you people actually do? You can't even keep an eye on a sixteen-year-old boy confined to one neighborhood."

Dumbledore looked deeply troubled by this news. "Someone found you and healed you?" Harry felt something permeate his mind, a touch far different than Snape's had been, but just as intrusive.

"I'm telling the truth, if that's what you're trying to find out by invading my private memories," he snapped. The touch withdrew, but Dumbledore had evidently found the information he needed.

"My deepest apologies, Harry. I believe you, of course. I would like to learn more about this stranger that you met."

"I'm not going back there," said Harry flatly. "I can live here. Just leave me alone."

"No, Harry, I'm afraid that the next safest house will be Headquarters. Your friends are already there, so I am sure that you will enjoy it."

"Oh, so all I had to do to get out of that bloody hellhole you call a home was to get viciously beaten up by my cousin? Why didn't you take me out when I was six, then?"

"Now, Harry, I know you did not enjoy a wonderful childhood—"

"Damn right!"

"—but it is over now, and you were protected in your youth. That is all that matters."

Harry snorted, but something was nagging at him. Wouldn't Dumbledore have disapproved of his conversation with the tall man, who had been unimpressed with the Order and with its leader? Why hadn't he asked more questions? Had he gotten all he needed to know from that single light touch on Harry's mind?

Harry opened his mouth to argue Dumbledore's last absurd statement, but the Headmaster beat him.

"Bill, will you escort Harry to Grimmauld Place? There are things I must attend to."

And with that, the Headmaster vanished.

"You saidwhatto him?"

Ron and Hermione, far from being pleased, were horrified to hear of Harry's conversation with Dumbledore.

"The muggles beat the bloody shit out of me, Hermione, and Dumbledore wanted me to go back there. Would you really expect me to go along with it?"

"Well, no," said Hermione, looking troubled. "But he only had your best interests at heart, Harry. He was trying to help."

"He was trying to help when he didn't tell me anything last year, and got Sirius killed," Harry snapped. "Maybe he should stop trying to help."

After the usual hugs of greeting and an enormous Molly Weasley dinner, he had finally gotten around to telling his friends what had happened. Ron was interested in the man he had met, but Harry couldn't bring himself to tell them about him any more than that his wand had been broken and repaired. Hermione had found this fascinating, and Harry knew that as soon as she could excuse herself politely she would likely run off to research this.

"Tell me," he began quietly. "Do you ever wonder if everything the Order does really helps anything?" he backtracked at his friends' scandalized looks. "I mean, when have you actually heard of them doing anything to protect muggles, or muggleborns?"

"They do all the time, Harry," said Ron carefully. "That's what the Order is for. Someone has to protect people from Voldemort."

"Yes. Someone does, I suppose." Harry sighed. "I need to sleep, guys. It's been a long day."

It had been, he reflected, as his friends left the room at last. He and Bill hadn't spoken at all on the journey to the house, Bill he supposed because he was hurt and confused and Harry because he was thinking about his conversation with Dumbledore.

He had been working on his Occlumency over the summer, and had managed to erect what he saw in his mind's eye as a rather sloppy shield, which he could call up at will. He hadn't been prepared for Dumbledore's subtle attack, that was all.

He stretched out on the bed, closed his eyes…and was suddenly somewhere else.

It was a circular room, entirely white. He frowned around at it. Was he sleeping? He looked down at himself. White shirt. White trousers.

"Where am I?" he said out loud.

"You were taking a long time to fall asleep," came a voice from behind him. Harry jumped and spun, reaching into his pocket for a wand he didn't have.

It was the tall man from the park, wearing nondescript white clothing just as Harry was.

"Where am I?" Harry repeated.

The man smiled. "This is your mind, Mr. Potter. I wished to speak to you again."

"How…did you get here?" Harry asked, feeling strangely calm. "Did I let you in?"

"You did," said the man. A plain white chair appeared beneath him. "You wanted answers. I can give them."

"I don't want answers," said Harry automatically, then stopped. "Well, I do. I want to know who you are, for a start."

"Is that really all you want to know?" the smile vanished. "No. It isn't. You want to know why Dumbledore simply let you come here without asking questions. You want to know how I repaired your wand. You want to know—"

"I want to know how you got here," said Harry strongly. "Into my mind, I mean."

"I told you. You invited me in. And for the other questions…I presume you wish to know the answers?"

"Yes," said Harry quickly. He did.

"Dumbledore didn't see any of your conversation with me when he invaded your mind. I shielded it from his view." The smile returned, bitterly this time. "I know how he operates, you see. He takes the mantle of "leader of the light", and believes that everything he does is justified. And because he believes it so strongly, others believe it as well.

"But you, Harry, you are slowly abandoning that belief, aren't you. You know that what he did to you last year was wrong. You know that he is not all-powerful, not after today. He makes his mistakes. He has made more than his usual amount of mistakes with you, but he still expects your forgiveness and acquiescence to his demands."

"He won't get it," muttered Harry quietly.

"He certainly did today," came the scathing reply. "Followed his wishes just as he said them, didn't you? Would you have gone back to the Dursleys?"

"No!"

"I wonder," said the man, standing up.

"I would never have gone back there. Never."

"You believe it, do you?" said the man, conjuring a chair behind Harry with a lazy flick of his wand. "The think you need to know about Albus Dumbledore, my boy, is that he gets what he wants. However he has to. Legilimency, manipulation…he'll stoop to whatever he needs to, as long as it is not officially termed, 'dark'."

"Of course Dumbledore would never use dark magic," said Harry, not entirely sure why he felt the need to defend the aged man.

"Really? And what, exactly, is dark magic?"

"How did you fix my wand?" asked Harry, holding his eyes.

"Your friend won't find it in your library," said the man mockingly. "Dumbledore is too narrow-minded to allow it."

"What? What does that mean?"

"Perhaps nothing. Then again, perhaps something extremely significant." A wave of the hand, and the man vanished. The white room vanished, and Harry lapsed into ordinary sleep.