For about the thousandth time, Sirius turns to check on his godson, lying stone still in a hospital bed. Harry is deeply unconscious, put down by spellwork rather than sleeping naturally, and it's obvious: his breathing is shallow and his hands lie limp. His usually warm brown complexion is nearly ashy, and he seems all the more washed out lying against white sheets. He looks like James, the James of now, especially with his eyes closed and Lily's stunning emerald irises hidden. The whole thing seems brought to life right out of Sirius's worst nightmares.
At least he's no longer trembling. The way he'd been shaking right after he'd stumbled out of the Floo into the Saint Mungo's lobby had conjured vicious memories of Lily and James in the early days of their treatment, before the Nerve Repair Potion had been developed. Both of them had shaken all the time, their whole bodies unsteady, unable to control their movements; Harry hadn't been that bad, not by any means, but he had shivered all over, his hands trembling terribly.
Sirius had been waiting for him. Neville Longbottom had come through into the night-quiet lobby of Saint Mungo's a little after midnight—fortunately, there's always someone on duty in case of late-night emergencies; this, all of this, definitely qualified. It had been less than an hour before the staff at Hogwarts was awake and mobilizing. Dumbledore and Sirius had Flooed to the hospital themselves, and that's when Sirius had gotten the news: Harry was still being held captive.
The hour that had followed might have been the most stressful hour of Sirius's life. He'd been sure, especially after Neville said that they'd been captured by Death Eaters, and what seemed to be Voldemort himself, that there would be nothing but a cold corpse to find, if they ever found anything at all. Dumbledore had insisted that Sirius stay at the hospital, and though he'd raged at the time, in hindsight he knows that he'd have been useless, half-mad as he was. And he's grateful—if he'd been out hunting fruitlessly for Voldemort again, he'd not have been there when Harry, dirty and a little bloodied and shaking like a leaf, had stumbled from the fireplace, dropped to his knees, and said breathlessly, "He's back."
Things had been a bit of a bustle after that, ending finally with Harry in a hospital bed and thoroughly dosed on painkillers, and then, before passing out, he'd told Sirius a horrifying story. Since then, Sirius had been sitting at his bedside, waiting. For what, he can't decide: someone else to show up? Harry to wake? The world to go back to the way it had been a year ago, when everything was fine and Voldemort was not once again walking the earth?
"Bloody fucking hell," Sirius mutters to himself, and leans back in the uncomfortable hospital chair. It creaks a little, and he curses at it too, just for good measure.
"I'm not sure your seat deserves such abuse," says Dumbledore's voice. Sirius jumps and twists himself over to look, and finds the Headmaster standing there, watching him with a compassionate look. "But I cannot say I do not understand the impulse. I'm so very sorry, Sirius."
Sirius shakes his head and slumps back again. Dumbledore comes around with quiet footsteps and the soft brush of his violet robes to stand on the other side of the bed from Harry, and looks down at Sirius, then sits in the chair opposite him and folds his wrinkled hands in his lap.
"How is he?" Dumbledore asks solemnly.
"Fine," Sirius says. "Well, fine as can be expected. Some bad bruises and a concussion, and it looks like he was held under the Cruciatus—between ten and thirty seconds, before you ask. No permanent damage."
"No, but well enough to disturb," Dumbledore says. "And what of his mental state? Is he alright?"
Sirius shrugs. "Hard to tell. He was in so much pain still…"
"I see." Dumbledore sighs. "Well. I have heard the tale from Neville, and certainly would like to hear it from Harry, but I won't force him to recount it again so soon—nor would I like to wake him. What did he tell you, Sirius?"
Sirius frowns at the Headmaster, unsure whether it's his place, and then he decides that it's probably better to spare Harry this, at least for now. Dumbledore does need to know some of what Harry told him as soon as possible; the rest, the whole of the story, can wait for when Harry is conscious and ready to talk about it. "It was definitely Voldemort," Sirius says. "Harry says he got Neville out, and then watched the Death Eaters—he said he recognized Barty Crouch Junior and Pettigrew, and heard the names Amycus and Alecto, so it must've been the Carrows—finish the ritual that Neville mentioned."
Dumbledore nods. "Did he catch any details?"
"Not much more than what Neville described, at least that he mentioned—you might ask him to tell you more later on. He was rattled."
"And then what?"
"He says the ritual knocked the Death Eaters out, and then… Voldemort rose—out of the flames, Harry said." Sirius scrubs a hand over his face. "For whatever reason, Voldemort didn't kill him right away, and Harry… managed to talk his way out of it."
Dumbledore sits forward, his expression intent; his eyes, as always, gleam behind his glasses, but with the fierce fire Sirius came to know in the last war rather than the benevolent twinkle that most people see. "Voldemort took an interest in him?"
"I don't know," Sirius says. "Harry—he wasn't making much sense. Said he used his Occlumency to fool Voldemort into believing that Harry wanted to join him. I hadn't realized he'd gotten that good, but… he must have. That wanker's a master Legilimens."
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmurs. "Join him, you said?"
Sirius nods. "That's what Harry said, that he told Voldemort he wanted to join him. I have no idea why the bastard bought it, but he did, I suppose—or he didn't. Doesn't matter. Harry said Voldemort told him that he was to come when summoned, and that if he didn't, what happened to his parents would be nothing. Then Voldemort used the Cruciatus on him and sent him away after Neville."
The lie Harry had chosen bothers Sirius, and seems to bother Dumbledore as well. Why say he wanted to join him? Why had that even come into Harry's head as a possibility? But then, Sirius couldn't imagine what other lie would have sufficed to save Harry's life, so for all that it disturbs him to imagine his pup claiming allegiance to Voldemort, he knows it's probably for the best that he did—at least in that moment. Because he's here now, lying on the bed between them, still breathing. On the mend.
Dumbledore hums thoughtfully, and looks down at Harry. "It was difficult situation that Mr. Potter found himself in. But he acted in a remarkably resourceful manner. I will have to speak with him myself, of course, but not immediately." He gets up then, out of his chair, and makes a small half-bow to Sirius. "Thank you, Sirius. I'll leave you and Harry alone, and perhaps you will be able to get some rest as well—it has been a long few hours, and your sleep was interrupted. I think that your ward and Mr. Longbottom will be granted a leave of absence from returning to classes—call it a week? And we can revisit at the end of that time; if Harry is struggling, perhaps a longer time away. But I suspect a return to some semblance of normalcy will be welcome."
"Normalcy." Sirius snorts. "Less than six hours ago, Neville Longbottom fell through a fireplace bleeding from the head and shouting that Voldemort had returned. The papers alone…"
"Well," Dumbledore says, and tilts his head to communicate his wry agreement, "we shall have to cross that bridge when we get to it."
"Let's hope we've got all the skill of the Three Brothers when the time comes," Sirius sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and waves Dumbledore away. "I'm sure we'll manage, Headmaster."
Dumbledore makes his exit quietly, and Sirius watches his back as he goes. He's wearing robes that Sirius had thought were purple, but actually shimmer and shift between violet and navy—even in a somber mood, Dumbledore can never resist a little flamboyance, Sirius supposes. But then, if the man ever dressed in black, Sirius would suspect the world were ending.
Not that it isn't. Bloody fucking Voldemort is back. Everything is starting all over again, the deaths and the violence, the suffering and loss. Sirius didn't want this, not for himself and not for Harry and his friends—his godson deserves to grow up without this. But no. The world isn't fair; it's not like Sirius doesn't know that, hasn't known it his whole life. There's nothing he's ever wanted that hasn't been complicated, and he's an adult, he understands it—but it's hard. Hard to see his kid, his son, or good as, having to learn the same lesson.
Sirius will do all he can, at least, beginning with this week. Harry will need care and love to recover from this trauma and bounce back. He's only twelve, still just a child really, and he's already seen more blood and violence than some adult wixen ever see. Sirius will gladly take the boon of a few days to take Harry home, make sure he's warm and safe and relaxed, and try to bleed out some of the poison of fear and pain. He wishes he'd had someone to do the same for him when he was Harry's age, and even when he got older—the forced independence of an unhappy home could be brutal, and he'll do anything he can to spare Harry that.
And then Harry will go back to school, to the embrace of the safety of Hogwarts and the warm presence of his friends, and hopefully be healed even further by that. Harry has found his place in Slytherin these past few months and Sirius is immensely proud of him; he's an excellent Heir, even better than he could have imagined, and overall a great kid.
Speaking of Harry being his Heir, Sirius will have to make some sort of statement to the papers as Lord Black. It'll be a pain, of course, but… when the House of Black speaks, people listen. Maybe this way they'll be able to ensure the populace is better prepared for the violence that's sure to begin shortly. It's unlikely, after all, that anyone would doubt the combined voices of Albus Dumbledore, the House of Black, and the Boy-Who-Lived. They had lost their chance to end the war before it began, but perhaps they've gained one to arm the people and gather supporters before Voldemort gains the sort of traction he'd had toward the end of the last war. After all, no one remembers the bastard fondly, and news of his return will surely galvanize the magical world to action.
But for now, Sirius is determined to focus on Harry. For the next week, that's his first priority. The rest can wait their bloody turns.
Potter and Longbottom return to Hogwarts a week after the usual end of Easter Break, Flooing into the Headmaster's office past briefly lowered wards. Security has been significantly tightened, all the Heads of House working in tandem with the Headmaster to raise additional wards and ensure that there are no further breaches, like the one that had led to the initial abduction.
And what a ridiculous lapse that had been, in Severus's opinion. A search of the Gryffindor common room had revealed a runestone probably planted there by Pettigrew during his flight at Halloween, one which poked a minuscule hole in wards that kept Hogwarts's Floos closed. It must have been missed the chaos. And now things were all the worse. At least Potter and Longbottom had both (somehow) escaped scot-free from the Dark Lord's clutches, but that did not change the fact that the Dark Lord had fully returned.
Severus's Dark Mark had been growing darker steadily over the last several months, and began to spark and flare with pain at irregular intervals around Christmas—the same time that the Dark Lord had gained the strength necessary to send visions to Longbottom through their link, whatever it was. At least Longbottom's Occlusion had become thorough enough that he no longer received dreams from the Dark Lord; it is a small mercy, but better than nothing by all means. As for Severus himself, he is only waiting to receive the first summons. It's sure to come soon—the Dark Lord is surely interested in verifying the continued loyalty of his spy.
And Severus will go, of course. What choice does he have? Dumbledore will need the information that only Severus can provide, especially since the Dark Lord's operations are still relatively small and subtle, and would therefore be difficult to detect. But that will change, and change rapidly; Severus suspects that the opening volley will be contact with all those Death Eaters left with their liberty after the last war, including himself and those with the influence to escape conviction, such as Lucius and Theodore Senior. For the time being, however, all he can do is bide his time, take stock of the situation at Hogwarts and decide what to report. He's unsure what Dumbledore will want, as he has yet to be summoned by the other of his two masters. Instead, he is left to stew—and watch over the brats, as usual.
At least watching Potter provides some interest. He still looks pale and a little ill when he returns, but comes back to his schoolwork and his socializing with alacrity. For all that he is surely still struggling with the aftermath of the Cruciatus—particularly harsh on young bodies—he seems to have rallied during his week's vacation with his dogfather and the wolf. A resilient child, he hides away whatever pain he might still be suffering and carries on, not betraying any difficulty or trauma. Severus is reminded a little of himself at the same age—he'd often returned from the breaks with bruises under his clothing, but God and Merlin forbid anyone be allowed to find out.
His main lingering question is not to do with how the boy is managing trauma, or how he is hiding his pain—well enough, is that answer to both of those questions. He has plenty of support from Black if he wants it, not to mention all his little friends and his less-little allies (Gemma Farley; a surprisingly prudent cultivation on the part of the brat). No, what Severus would very much like to know the most is how in the hell the boy escaped from Voldemort's clutches without receiving an immediate Avada to the chest—or the back. Even aside from the Dark Lord himself, there had been Death Eaters present, presumably including Pettigrew, and no Death Eater Severus can remember would hesitate in cursing a fleeing child in the back. Potter should not have made it out… but he did. Somehow.
Damn Dumbledore's reticence. He'd been keeping all the details close to his chest; Severus still only knows what's been publicized from Longbottom's account—that there had been four Death Eaters, they'd resurrected Voldemort, Longbottom had escaped first, and Potter was left behind to free himself. Not that the papers are printing the story in correct detail—a great deal of doubt has been stirred up by the Ministry in the immediate wake of the fiasco, claiming that Longbottom had perhaps been kidnapped by a lingering splinter of Voldemort's forces, but that there was no way that Voldemort could have returned; he was dead, after all!
Fools. Idiots. Death would cure them.
As time goes on, Severus is increasingly convinced that he will shortly be meeting his own death as well; the Dark Lord has not summoned him, which he feels a vague foreboding about. But no time for worry. He has a castle-full of dunderheads to guide through the last five weeks of term without any of them blowing up his classroom and/or killing them all with toxic fumes. And he has a meddling Headmaster to wrangle; and speak of the devil, he thinks, looking up from preparing himself a nightcap at the sound of his fireplace chiming a request for someone to call through the Floo. No one else but Dumbledore would be calling on him at this hour. He grumbles as he strides across his quarters to tap at the arched mantle's keystone with his wand; the next moment, Dumbledore's face appears in the low fire in Severus's grate.
"Severus," he says. "I would appreciate the pleasure of your company for a brief conversation—is now convenient?"
No, which Dumbledore surely knows, but Severus hardly has a choice. "Of course," he says through his teeth, and as soon as Dumbledore's face is gone, he grabs up a fistful of Floo powder and steps through. The internal pathways are still open, at least; navigating the castle would be a nightmare otherwise.
Dumbledore's office is as cluttered as always, and Severus resists the vague urge to cover his eyes against the flashing and blinking of coloured lights and gleaming metal. The constant movement of the Headmaster's inane magical perpetual motion machines is enough to make him nauseous, especially after a long day of attempting to mind upwards of 20 children all engaged in the deadly pursuit of potions brewing all at once.
"Headmaster," he says briskly, once he's fully into the room and has spelled the soot from his robes—not that it would be visible, black against black as it is, but he refuses to be uncleanly even if he were the only one to know about it. "What do you need?"
Dumbledore is standing in front of his desk, facing away from Severus, with his fingers laced behind his back. Inauspicious. So is the fact that he does not immediately make some milquetoast protest about how he needs nothing, can he not simple desire conversation with his friend and ally? Hell.
"Severus," Dumbledore says, "I would like for you to share with me your impressions of Harry Potter."
Severus can feel the scowl that passes across his face, pinching his features into the expression of the Dreaded Dungeon Bat. "An arrogant princeling," he says immediately. "A fitting heir for his father and his dratted dogfather, that's to be certain—with the addition of being Slytherin to his core, and therefore lacking what few ethics they possessed, if they could be said to have possessed any at all."
Dumbledore turns around to regard him with his steady gaze. Guarded as always, of course. "And is that all?"
Not remotely, but Severus has no intention of informing Dumbledore about the Occlumency lessons, or any other more intimate facts or deeper that he has gleaned about this one particular young Slytherin until he knows what this is about. "Quite," he says sourly.
"Hm," Dumbledore says. "I have gathered a rather different impression. Humour me a moment, Severus—picture for yourself a young boy, largely a stranger to magic for all that it is his birthright, who arrives at Hogwarts and is Sorted at once into the serpent House. He struggles to make friends—until suddenly he finds himself becoming rapidly integrated into very high society indeed, through a combination of his own buried charisma and a few allies who choose him for his potential. Talented, this boy. But damaged, as well, in a way that inclines him toward… utilitarianism at best. Perhaps a child you could call 'at risk'."
By the end of Dumbledore's little speech, Severus is glaring outright. He recognizes, of course, the description of himself—but also of Potter. Never mind that their situations are entirely different. Potter's 'friends in high places' are his own dogfather and Gemma Farley, both of whom are not bloody Death Eaters.
"So you fear that the Potter boy will be seduced to the Dark side?" Severus sneers. "That he would go willingly to join the monster who ordered his parents attacked, who led to their insanity, which persists to this day?"
"No," Dumbledore says solemnly. "But I know that it could be seen that way from the outside, which is why I have taken such interest, especially of late. Tell me, Severus, has Mr. Potter confided in you as to the manner in which he engineered his escape from Voldemort?"
Severus shakes his head, then irritably brushes the strand of hair that has fallen into his eyes away. "Certainly not," he says. "The boy has been somewhat withdrawn, but does not seem traumatized—certainly not to the point where he would choose to confide in me."
"It is less unlikely than you would think," Dumbledore says gently. "You are, after all, his Head of House. But it matters not. Severus, Mr. Potter escaped Voldemort by promising to join him."
"What?"
"A lie, of course," Dumbledore continues blithely. "One vouchsafed by advanced Occlumency technique that I suspect you must have taught him—but never mind that. It leaves him in something of a pickle, don't you think? Voldemort will eventually attempt to summon him, perhaps even using you yourself as messenger, or perhaps Theodore Nott the younger. If Harry refuses, he will become… a target. If he goes, he will die instantly, unless he manages to continue the deception."
Severus sees already where this is going. "I will not," he hisses, as vicious and sibilant as the emblem of his House, "lure a child of my House into acting as your puppet, Albus Dumbledore."
Dumbledore has the gall to look hurt. "I would never treat a child as a puppet, Severus. But you must admit that Mr. Potter is in a bad situation."
"Of course he is!" Severus shouts, suddenly burning up from the inside with rage. Only years of practice keeps him from lashing out magically, as he had when he was himself a hormone-wracked idiot teenager. "And he is a child, Albus! Twelve years old! He should be protected, not used!"
"He must make his own decision," Dumbledore says firmly. "I had only meant to say that you should speak to him about it. After all, you are the only one who can attest to the experience of living undercover in Voldemort's service. You could make sure he makes the decision well informed, and if he chooses to pursue the path I am suggesting, you could guide him, keep him safe."
"You don't need him," Severus says. "You have me, do you not? Do you so desperately need another spy? Do you believe I intend to betray you, or perhaps that I am on the edge of dropping dead? If the latter, please do have the courtesy to inform me!"
"I only want to offer him an option," Dumbledore says. "You know I am right to do so, Severus, rather than attempting to make his choices for him."
Severus shakes his head again, harder, and this time does not bother to brush the hair in front of his face away. His glare will have no greater or lesser effect for being through the curtain of his overlong fringe; he has always been impotent at best in the face of Dumbledore's machinations. "I will not do this," he declares. "Potter is a child under your—and my—protection, and it is a protection that is owed him. Not to mention what Black will do to you when he learns you tried to twist his precious brat into a miniature version of most-hated Snivellus. When you come to your senses, I will take great pleasure in telling you that I told you so."
His piece said, Severus whirls on his heel and storms from the office, his robes flaring behind him as he goes. He will not hear another word out of the doddering fool's mouth. Potter, turn spy? At age twelve? No. He will not have it. He certainly will not be the instrument of it—Albus Dumbledore can hang. No more Slytherin children will be sacrificed to the gaping, bloodied maw of this war, not if Severus can help it. Some, he knows, he will not be able to help, because for all that he would like to imagine that he is an adequate protector, many of them are already out of his reach, and will make their own choices. They will follow in the footsteps of their parents, or take the opposite paths, for good or for ill, and that is well enough danger present for his House without actively leading them into peril himself like a twisted Pied Piper. And for all he professes to hate the Potter boy, for all that he does still think him arrogant and reckless beyond the pale, he will not himself wield the blade used to sacrifice Potter on an altar to Dumbledore's "greater good".
The final few weeks of term don't really feel real. Harry lets them pass him by in a daze. Oh, he does all his usual things, spends time with his friends and does his homework and has lessons with Sirius. He has no further lessons with Snape, which is good; his Occlumency is good enough to hide the damage done to his mind from Sirius, who still doesn't press very hard in their lessons, but he knows that Snape would suss out in an instant the bleeding wounds that Voldemort left on the underside of Harry's psyche. He has his moments of lucidity, where he can feel grateful for that, and for the warm embrace of his friendships, and for the normalcy of classwork and homework. He submits his choice of third-year electives to Professor Snape, and is able to be briefly excited for the prospect of Care of Magical Creatures and Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. A heavy courseload, yes, but nothing to Hermione, and after this year's immense pile of extracurriculars he's sure he'll be fine. Everything has been fine, especially whenever anyone asks.
Slytherin loses the final Quidditch game of the season, which Harry of course notices, but he can't bring himself to be very concerned. Instead, he's concerned with not forgetting to put up a Silencing Charm on his bed curtains every night, so that his screaming nightmares don't wake Blaise and Theo; and thank Merlin that hadn't begun until he'd returned from the Doghouse. He's also concerned with begging a little bit of magical concealer from Hussain, just enough to hide the dark circles under his eyes until end of term, when he'll be back at the Doghouse and finally safe enough to sleep again; he hadn't dreamed while he was there, and he hopes that will be the case again when he gets home. And, of course, he's concerned with not letting on to anyone, anyone, that half the time he feels nothing at all, and most of the other half all he can think about is the agony of the Cruciatus and that that must have been all his parents had known in the small age before they had known nothing at all. If they aren't still living in that hell now. How would he even know? How could anyone?
Most nights, he dreams of Voldemort. Voldemort reaching out a hand and passing it straight into his skull and ripping all of Harry's secrets, dripping heart's-blood, out of the deepest and most hidden places in his mind. Voldemort's wand pressed to his throat, whispering Crucio again and again, until Harry knows nothing but pain. Voldemort extracting promises of service and soul in that smoke whisper, each time promising that if Harry agrees to just one more thing, to just give up this one last concession, he will get to live. At the end, he always asks Harry if he'll kill Neville in the name of the Dark Lord, and when Harry says no, Voldemort kills him anyway, no matter how many promises Harry had made before.
He just wants to sleep.
He doesn't get to, of course. Just before the end of term, a scrap of parchment appears on his pillow just after he wakes one morning, and on it is a summons to the Headmaster's office during his free period that afternoon. The note also says, Tell no one. Harry has gotten very used to not telling people things of late; this is no problem. He tells Blaise and Theo that he's going to study with Hermione, Neville, and Ron, and his Gryffindor friends that he's going to study with Blaise and Theo, and if they talk to each other, he'll tell them all that he got caught up in the library. And so he successfully slips away after History of Magic and heads for the Headmaster's office.
When he arrives, the Headmaster isn't there. However, his bird—a massive red-and-gold creature that Harry has noticed sitting on a perch a few times before, though never truly registered, lost as he was among all of the other oddities of the Headmaster's office—is sitting more front and centre than usual, and is looking quite sick. Perhaps the Headmaster had moved his perch in order to keep a closer eye on him in his illness. He does look very poorly—many of his feathers have dropped off, and he makes the occasional pitiful coughing or crooning noise, as if moaning in pain. Harry approaches cautiously, feeling deeply sorry for the creature, and reaches out to offer it a gentle touch. He hopes it isn't dying; it really was quite beautiful.
Just before he can touch him, however, there's a spark and a flare of flame, and in an instant the bird is engulfed. It cries out once, a clear ringing note, and then there's only the crackle of fire as the bird's body is consumed. Harry stumbles back, wide-eyed with horror and shock. He can't—he can't look away, watching, waiting for the figure to form once more and come and—
A hand lands on his shoulder, and he whirls with a shout, falling backward. He loses his balance and topples to the ground, staring up, sure for a moment that he's about to die. But he finds himself staring not at the black-robed figure of Voldemort, but at the Headmaster, who has appeared from nowhere and is now looking down at him with concern in those bright blue eyes. "Mr. Potter," he says. "I apologize for startling you."
"I—you—" Harry looks over again at the perch, not sure what he will see. But there's nothing. Only a final flicker of dying flame. No shadow appears in the wake of the brightness, no red light, red eyes. Harry drags himself up from the ground, needing to see, to be sure, but there's only a pile of ash where the bird had once been. "Sir," he says. "Your bird…"
Dumbledore is smiling when Harry looks over, which seems an odd reaction for a number of reasons. "Fawkes is a phoenix, my boy," he says. "It was his burning day; he is quite fine. You may go look, if you wish."
Harry steps tentatively closer to the perch, and sees that, indeed, there is something moving within the pile of ash. A little flesh-coloured head appears, grey with soot, a moment later, and Harry flinches back from it. A phoenix, reborn from fire. "Oh," he says, and looks away so that he doesn't need to see it after all.
"Ah," Dumbledore says after a moment, as if something had only just occurred to him. "I apologize, Harry. I had not remembered your description of the events of Easter until just now. Seeing Fawkes burn in such a way was surely disturbing for you."
Harry, staring at the ground, nods. He wouldn't admit to even that much, if not for that fact that he had just very obviously halfway lost his mind about it.
"Well. He is quite harmless, I assure you—in fact, phoenixes are creatures of pure light, whose powers are predominantly of healing and protection." Harry looks up again to find that Dumbledore has come around to sit at his desk, and Harry can look past Fawkes's perch without having to look at it any longer.
"Yes, sir," Harry says. "I… I'm sorry, sir. Why did you call me?"
Dumbledore nods and strokes his beard thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. Straight to business, then. Lemon drop, Mr. Potter?"
Harry shakes his head. He isn't really in the mood for sweets at the moment. He's actually more in the mood to throw up, but that will have to wait until after he escapes the Headmaster's presence.
"Alright then. More for me." Dumbledore pops a sweet into his mouth from the apparently never-ending bowl on his desk, slides it into his cheek, and then says, "Mr. Potter, I wanted to speak to you about Easter. I do apologize for raising bad memories so soon after your trauma, but I wanted to catch you before you returned home for the summer."
"It's fine," Harry mumbles. It's not. Whatever. "What did you want to know?"
"Well, Sirius of course informed me of the details of what you told Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore says. "And I wanted to discuss with you what path you hoped to take moving forward."
"Path?" Harry frowns and looks up to meet Dumbledore's eyes. Mistake, he realizes immediately—he can feel the faint brush of a Legilimency probe, and his shields aren't properly raised. Before Easter, he thinks he wouldn't have been sensitive enough to feel it even without his shields, gentle as it is, but his mind is still healing and recoils from even this lightest touch. Dumbledore clearly notices, frowns briefly, and then wipes the expression away; Harry raises his Occlumency shields as quickly as he can.
"Indeed," Dumbledore says, as if the glancing mental exchange had not happened. "I mean, of course, your ploy in escaping Voldemort: your offer of service."
"Right," Harry says. "What… what about it, sir?"
Dumbledore takes a deep, slow breath, and laces his fingers together on his desk before himself. "Voldemort will not be pleased to learn you lied."
"No." That's a no-brainer. "But Sirius said he'd keep me safe."
"And I am sure he could," Dumbledore says. "There is, however, another option. I will not ask you to make a choice now, but I wanted to raise with you the possibilities you have lying before you, and ensure that you understood the ramifications of each in full."
"Sir," Harry says, "I don't understand. I… I can't go back to Voldemort. He—the Death Eaters, they tortured my parents. And he wants to kill Neville, and…" He doesn't understand what Dumbledore wants.
"It's alright, my boy," Dumbledore soothes. "May I explain my thoughts?"
"Yes, sir," Harry says, feeling dazed. He doesn't know what's going on. No, somewhere deep down, he thinks he does, and he doesn't like it.
"Your lie to Voldemort was clever," Dumbledore says, "and that you pulled it off successfully is an impressive feat indeed. Few can lie to Voldemort without being caught and suffering terribly for it. Which is exactly what I fear in your case. When Voldemort discovers your lie, presumably when you refuse to answer his summons, he will be terribly angry, and I fear for your safety, Harry. Sirius will be able to protect you for a time, and I will do all I can to aid him; of course, you will be safe here at Hogwarts. But…" He pauses and sighs, looking for a moment deeply sorrowful and far away, and then his attention returns to Harry. "I have made assurances of protection from Voldemort's wrath before and failed. Including, to my deep regret, to the parents of both yourself and Mr. Longbottom. I will do my utmost to support you and defend you on whatever path you choose in these coming dark days, Harry, but I will not make you any false assurances of certain safety.
"Instead, I would like you to consider the opportunity you now have to seize your own fate. It would not be any less dangerous—indeed, it might be more so, if you were to take on the role I would have you consider. You would be placing yourself in Voldemort's direct line of spellfire, and a precarious and lonesome position at that. But you would also have the chance to do immense good."
"You want me to be a spy," Harry interrupts. He understands now, very well. Too well. He can see exactly what Dumbledore is angling for: that Harry respond to Voldemort's summons, keep up the ruse that he'd begun to spin in that ash-covered sitting room a month ago, and play double agent. He'd look harmless to Voldemort—he's only a child, after all. Only twelve. But a twelve-year-old with access to Neville Longbottom and to Hogwarts and to Dumbledore himself. And if he can manage the lie…
"If you believe yourself capable," Dumbledore says. "I will not—I would never—force you."
No, he wouldn't. This decision is Harry's. Hide, be protected—maybe? Mostly? Let himself be held safe by Sirius and Dumbledore, shielded by the rest of his friends and allies until he's strong enough to keep himself alive in the face of Voldemort's wrath? He could do that. He doesn't have a terrible chance of surviving, doing it that way. He knows how strong his friends are, how strong his godfather and Remus are. It would probably be the Slytherin thing to do, to protect himself, wait until he was sure.
Or go back to Voldemort when the time comes, become a spy, try to make a difference in this war right from the beginning. He doesn't, can't, know how fast things are going to begin to happen. It could turn to bloodshed right away, over the summer even, or there could be a long period of waiting on both sides while Voldemort recovers his strength and Dumbledore tries to prevent exactly that from happening. Hogwarts might become a battleground, or it might remain safe and peaceful. Harry doesn't know when or even if Voldemort actually will call him, or if he'll decide in some intervening time that Harry was a liar after all and decide simply to hunt him down and kill him regardless. And if Voldemort does call, Harry doesn't know if he'll be able to hide himself away like he did on Easter, or if he'll give up the game immediately and die for nothing.
One way or the other, he thinks, it probably all ends in his death. That much is obvious. Dumbledore is right: no one will be able to protect Harry forever, not the Headmaster and not Sirius and probably not Harry himself. And people will probably die trying. But he doesn't think he can do it. Doesn't know.
He doesn't know what to do. He looks up and meets Dumbledore's eyes again, searches his face for guidance, for help, and sees nothing. The Headmaster has no answers, or won't give up whatever ones he might have. Harry is going to have to figure this out on his own.
"I… I don't know," Harry says, finally. "I can't decide now, I need—"
"I would ask," Dumbledore interrupts, "that you not speak to anyone about this. If you do choose the more dangerous path, you will only be made safer by as few people knowing as possible—perhaps even as few as only you and myself. And even the safer path, the protected path, will be easier to walk if few beyond those who already know about the sword hanging over you ever learn of it."
No, Harry wants to shout. He wants to refuse that order, walk out of this office, and spill all to Sirius or to Neville and Hermione or to Gemma. Or even to bloody Snape. Anyone. This is too much, too heavy a secret to keep, too difficult a decision to make on his own. But he remembers his own thoughts not so very long ago about which of his friends he could trust to keep the secret of Voldemort's potential return, and knows that this is a thousand times more important than that. This isn't about the grander game: this is his life, and one false move will see him lose everything. Telling someone, even someone he thinks he can trust absolutely, might keep him from losing his mind trying to decide, but it also might ultimately kill him.
He's gone this long without telling anyone other than Sirius about offering to join Voldemort. He can go a while longer. Just until he decides. Then he'll figure out who he can trust.
"Fine," Harry says. "Okay, fine. I—I won't tell anyone."
"I am sorry it has to be this way," Dumbledore says, and sounds genuinely mournful. "Would that things were different, Harry. But it is a difficult world we live in. I wish you the best in making this choice—and know that no matter what you choose, I will respect it. You have the right to safety if you wish it."
Harry nods. "Thank you, Headmaster."
"Don't thank me, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore says, and looks down at his still-laced fingers. Then he looks up again and says, "It is nearly lunchtime, and you look a bit peaky. Perhaps a spot of food will help."
"Yes, sir," Harry says. He doesn't want to think about food. He doesn't want to think about anything. But he'll go. Dumbledore dismisses him with a wave and a quiet, "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter," and Harry leaves the Headmaster's office, his head spinning.
The rest of the afternoon goes by. Harry eats lunch and manages not to be sick; eats dinner, manages the same. He goes to bed and sleeps and dreams the dream about promising Voldemort his whole soul if only he'll get to live, except when he looks up before refusing the final promise, Voldemort has become Dumbledore. He wakes screaming, as usual. He falls back asleep, because there's only so long that he can lie in the dark weeping quietly into his pillow before he gets tired again.
There's a week left to term, and then exams, and Harry turns his focus entirely to those. Then his second year is done, and all he has left is a decision to make: a promise of safety, one that's surely impossible to keep but a gentler, easier path? No one would blame him, he knows that, and he knows that this is objectively the smarter path. The Slytherin path. Or he could accept a part to play in the conflict to come, one which might very well see him dead before the summer's out, but at least puts no one else in harm's way.
Harry hates it, hates it, but he knows what he has to choose. His parents were tortured until they broke because of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Sirius and Remus are old before their time from loss and the stresses of war. Harry's best friend's parents are dead, and Neville himself is sure to be a target in this war, and Harry can't protect him if he's too busy being protected himself.
The last day at school arrives, passes, and Harry sits down at his desk in the hour before the Leaving Feast and writes a short note, which he gives to Hedwig to deliver to the Headmaster just before everyone is called to dinner. He goes home tomorrow, and while he knows he could have delayed a little longer, he doesn't want to write this particular letter under Sirius's nose. It's hard enough as it is.
Professor Dumbledore, it says. When the time comes, I'll answer the call. I'll do my best to help however I can.
Yours, Harry Potter.