Neither Death Eaters nor high water would be enough, of course, to convince Dolores Umbridge to cancel class, or even just to take it easy on everyone for a day. Instead Harry walks into Defence on the afternoon of November 1st and has only a few seconds to brace himself once he's sat down before she says, "There will not be a single mention in my hearing of this purported jailbreak, and I will not be taking questions, am I understood?"
Harry grits his teeth. She's looking right at him, because by now she surely knows how badly he wants to argue. "Understood," he adds to the chorus, when it comes, and she nods sharply and turns toward the chalkboard to begin her lesson. It's a bit of a surprise, but then she's probably as busy trying to figure out how to keep control and continue to press her claim that Voldemort isn't back in the face of this new news. From what she's just said, Harry suspects she'll be attempting to insist that until there's proof that it was a targeted jailbreak for Voldemort's followers, there's no connection—which is bullshit, of course.
Truthfully, she hasn't got a leg to stand on, but she has to stick to her party line or she loses all her authority. Harry knows it and she knows it and everyone in the school knows it. Being High Inquisitor doesn't mean anything if the Ministry doesn't have any real power, and they definitely don't have real power if they've been lying all summer about Voldemort and letting him run around breaking his followers out of prison to boot. But she's going to continue to claim it, and no one else seems willing to tell her to her face that she's wrong.
Fine. Harry will carry that weight too, because spying for the Dark Lord (or on the Dark Lord, or both) or not, he's not going to let anyone call him and his—Sirius, a liar. But for now, today, he's going to let it go. He's got other things to worry about.
Like the fact that Voldemort broke his followers out of prison. The names of some of those freed had been listed in the article, and among them had been Bellatrix Lestrange.
Even reading the name, seeing it there in stark black and white, printed impersonally in the Prophet for all to read… it's enough to make Harry's blood boil. She and her husband and his brother, as well as Barty Crouch Junior, had been the ones to torture his parents into husks of themselves. She's one of the most notoriously sadistic Death Eaters, too—Harry has read the modern histories as well as the ancient ones, and her name was there. So he knows. Even though Harry hasn't met her, hasn't seen court transcripts or news articles about her, he knows that she must have enjoyed it.
He wants to kill her, almost as badly as he wants to kill Pettigrew. It's a vicious, angry thought, one that would probably make Sirius give him a sad look and one of those protective hugs, but Sirius isn't here right now. Harry can't imagine actually doing it, can't think past the rage to imagine what it would be like, what he'd do if she actually were standing in front of him… but hatred tastes like ash in the back of his throat. She's free now, running back to her Dark Lord's side, while his parents are still imprisoned in the cage that is St. Mungo's, and the cage of their own minds. She doesn't deserve freedom. She doesn't deserve anything.
In Harry's hand, his quill snaps, ink spraying across the parchment that he'd been neglecting to take notes on. Up at the chalkboard, where she'd been lecturing about something pointless, Umbridge whips her head around and glares at him.
"Potter!" she screeches. "Detention with me this evening for disrupting class!"
Harry clenches his left hand hard, his knuckles going white. From the way her face changes from fury to satisfaction, he can tell she sees it. "Yes, professor," he grits out through his teeth.
"And tomorrow evening, too, for your disrespectful tone." Then she nods, satisfied, and begins to talk again as if she'd never interrupted herself.
Harry just ducks his head. At least she prefers to torture him privately, rather than taking points—he can get in trouble with her all he wants that way without earning the formidable ire of his House.
For the sake of not drawing any more attention to himself, Harry focuses as hard as he can on taking notes for the rest of class, and then ducks away from any company as quickly as he can afterward. They don't have any more class before dinner today, but he thinks he'll skip the meal, too—he wants to be alone, to think. So he runs back to his dorm, swaps his bookbag for his Cloak and the Map, and then ducks out again before anyone can stop him and ask what's wrong, or try to talk to him about the jailbreak.
It takes nearly an hour of walking quiet and unseen through the far empty halls of Hogwarts's less-travelled areas before Harry feels like he has his head on straight again, but once he's found his peace he consults the map, finds an empty classroom, and closes the door behind himself. It's silent and dusty inside, not a room he's used before, but there are a few chairs stacked against a wall and he manages to find one that hasn't decayed. He sets it up beside the window and sits, staring out at the mist crawling across the grounds, the Forbidden Forest visible in the distance.
The thing that's really bothering him is that if he were any use at all as a spy, he might have known about this. But he's not. Dumbledore asked him to become a spy—or, well, sort of. The truth is, Dumbledore hasn't really asked him or told him anything. All he knows is that he's lying to everyone, and so far not for any good reason. He doesn't have any important information, just this stupid impossible job that Voldemort had given him to hide an old book in a probably-mythical room, and even if he did, Dumbledore hasn't told him how to pass that information on.
Probably Snape has been reporting, Harry decides, turning his gaze up to the roiling grey clouds overhead, signs that a storm is coming. Snape has seen everything Harry has done so far, and Harry is pretty sure he's playing some sort of double agent. Harry's gut says that Snape is at best loyal only to himself, and at worst definitely a Death Eater, but he's managed to fool Dumbledore somehow or else he wouldn't be a teacher. So he's probably telling Dumbledore something about what Harry has been doing.
Or maybe Dumbledore just… doesn't care. Harry scrubs a hand over his face, almost dislodging his glasses, as that thought passes through his mind. But that's not true. Dumbledore is the Headmaster, and even if he's not perfect, he wants the best for everyone. He wants to see Voldemort stopped, and that's the same thing Harry wants—he'd even given Harry the option to really help with stopping him, which… maybe it would have been safer, happier, easier if Harry had let Sirius protect him like he promised, but then he wouldn't have been able to help. So, no: Dumbledore cares, just not in the smothering way that Sirius does. The Headmaster had given Harry the freedom to choose this path, and Harry isn't going to blame someone else for the choice he'd made.
Just… if only he knew what Dumbledore wants. He'd asked for help in the letter he'd sent at the end of last year, but he'd never heard back—maybe because the mail wasn't secure? Or… he doesn't know. He just doesn't know.
Harry sighs, frustrated, and looks again out through the window, trying to capture a little bit of the calm of the autumn stillness. Absently, one of his hands drifts up to clutch the lily pendant he still wears around his neck, and the dig of the metal into his palm reminds him suddenly of why he's doing this. Maybe he's confused and frightened, but that's fine—that doesn't matter. What matters is that Voldemort needs to be defeated. So he'll just… keep doing what he's doing for now. Soon, he'll be in a position where he'll be able to know things before they happen, like about this jailbreak, and he'll be able to help stop them. Or… who knows, maybe Voldemort has some larger plan to do with the Chamber of Secrets, and what Harry's doing now is going to be useful, and he just doesn't know it yet.
That kind of foresight really isn't his specialty, though. He's not a strategist, not like Ron, and he's not a very good theorist, like Hermione. But at least he can keep his head. He can stay steady on his course.
There isn't much to be done about the jailbreak, not while he's still at Hogwarts, but he can find the bloody Chamber of Secrets, and he will. With that thought in mind, Harry lets go of his pendant, slips out of the silent classroom, and goes looking for a snake to talk to.
Once he starts, he finds that there are actually a lot of snakes in Hogwarts. Well, painted ones, anyway—most often they hang at the edges of other portraits, or lie on tables. There aren't many on their own, and for the sake of avoiding the portrait gossip that's sure to reach unfriendly ears, Harry only talks to the ones that are alone in a portrait frame, decently out of earshot of other paintings.
Fortunately, everyone's currently at dinner, so he's able to hold Parseltongue conversations in the middle of the halls with impunity. Not that it does him many favours—most of the snakes he talks to aren't very helpful. Many of them never leave their portraits, preferring to remain in their designated beam of painted sunlight and bask, as is their nature; they're really very snooty, too. But on the third floor, not far from the corridor where Fluffy once lived, Harry does meet one friendly serpent. Its painting looks like it might have once contained a human figure as well, but the high-backed chair portrayed there is empty, the tall wooden staff leaning against it abandoned, and the snake has been left alone to drape over the back of the chair and coil endlessly around and around against the velvet.
It turns its head to regard Harry as he approaches, its yellow eyes fixed on him; they're strangely hazy, and he wonders if it might be blind. "Hello," he hisses to it as he steps closer, just in case it can't see him.
The snake's head recoils a little, and Harry can see now that it's shifted a bit that there are small, strange spines growing from its head. Some sort of magical breed? "Hello, Speaker," it says in return. "What a pleasant surprise."
"No one has talked to you in a while, huh?"
"Not in a very long time, no," it says. "The last one had no interest in us, the relics; before him there was a long quiet season—to my senses, anyway."
"The last one?" Harry asks, his attention caught.
"There was a Speaker not so very long before you," the snake says, bobbing its head, as if nodding. "Arrogant. They often are, though."
"That's interesting," Harry says. "Do you remember his name?"
The snake shakes its head—the gesture is so clear, so strangely humanlike. It must have had a human companion at some point, Harry decides, to learn those gestures. "He never told us his name in our shared tongue, and I could not have picked out one particular bratling's name from amongst your human babble. Some other may know, though."
"Do you talk to one another? The painted snakes in the castle, I mean—I've talked to the one in the Slytherin common room, too," Harry says.
"Sometimes," the snake says. "More rarely as the seasons have grown long and cold for us. But I know the one of which you speak. He is clever."
"He has a tongue as sharp as his fangs," Harry offers, and laughs a little. The snake almost seems to join him, letting out a long rattling hiss without any words in it.
"Beware giving him that compliment, hatchling," the snake says, "or prepare to see a snake's skull swell to bursting."
"I'll keep that in mind," Harry says. "You seem quite clever yourself." Especially compared to the other portrait-snakes Harry had spoken too, which seemed closer to their animal natures.
Another low hiss without words, though the affirmation in it rings clear to Harry's ears. "I once spoke long with Speakers such as yourself. Their magic nurtured my mind, as did their words."
"So you had a human master?"
"A human friend," the snake says. It's not… sadness, exactly, that Harry can hear in that voice—maybe it doesn't feel quite the same way he does. But there's something there. "Long ago."
"How long?" Harry asks. "I'm seeking knowledge of history—of Speakers' history here in the castle. Maybe you can help me."
"Maybe," the snake says. "But my sense of the seasons is not clear. All I can say is, long."
"Have you heard of the Chamber of Secrets?"
There's a brief pause. "Something, perhaps," the snake says. "You seek Slytherin's legacy, Speaker?"
"Something like that." Harry shrugs. "I… have a secret, too. It seems like a good place to hide it."
"Hm." The snake goes quiet for a long moment, then as if on a sigh breathes out a quiet hiss, long and soft. "I cannot tell you the location of the Chamber, Speaker. But I can say that it is good that you Speak, for you would never find it if you did not."
"Thank you," Harry says, and he dips a shallow bow to the painting. It's not that he didn't already suspect—the Heir of Slytherin is the only one able to find the Chamber, and it made sense, therefore, that one would need to be a Parselmouth. It's still good to know for sure. "Is there any other wisdom you would offer me, uh—sorry, do you have a name?"
Another of those rattling, laughing hisses. "I do, Speaker, but let us call it my secret. If you find the Chamber, come back, and you will have my name."
"Alright," Harry says. "Thank you, then, serpent." The word "serpent" in Parseltongue feels like it could be heard as "kin", too, Harry thinks. Interesting. "Um, first question again, then. Do you have any other wisdom for me?"
The serpent bobs its head. "I like you, Speaker. So I will tell you this: when you enter the Chamber, bring with you tribute for the Serpent Lord, and you might just survive."
Harry shivers, nods, and bows again, deeper this time. So, maybe Slytherin's legendary monster is real. "Thank you. We will Speak again, serpent."
"I believe we shall, Speaker." Then the snake tucks its spiny head beneath its coils and seems to go to sleep, conversation apparently over.
Huh. Well, Harry thinks, turning back toward the dungeons and the common room, which is surely beginning to fill again as people finish dinner. Interesting indeed—and useful. He's still left with the problem of finding the Chamber. Now, though, he knows for certain that it exists, that his gift of Parseltongue will allow him access… and that one final trial waits for him within.
The next morning, Harry's breakfast is interrupted by the arrival of a note which appears in a puff of smoke and promptly falls into his eggs. Once he's extracted it and brushed off the clinging bits of scramble, he unfolds it to find written in tidy, half-familiar handwriting: Mr. Potter, I request your presence after dinner this evening at 7:30pm in my office. I have excused you preemptively from your detention with Madame Umbridge, never fear. Yours, Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. p.s. I currently favour the ginger snap.
Harry tucks away the note, and when Theo gives him a sideways glance, he says, "The Headmaster wants to see me."
"Oh," Theo says, and looks down at the bandages on Harry's left hand. "Do you think it's about her?"
Harry shrugs. "Maybe."
"You have been getting it worse than most of us," Blaise says. "You might consider trying to keep your head down, Harry."
"Oh, I've considered it plenty," Harry says, drawing a laugh from them both. "She just won't cooperate."
"You do take her bait more than you need to," Theo points out. "She knows how to rile you up."
"Yeah," Harry says, "that's true. But if yesterday's class is anything to go by, she'll find some reason to punish me even if I don't take the bait. Really, I don't get why she's got it out for me so bad."
"She just doesn't like anyone who's willing to stand up to her," Theo says. "I know her type."
Harry nods—he knows, too. "I s'pose that's true. But she doesn't go after Cedric Diggory half as much, and he's not exactly quiet about thinking she's a hag." Not that Diggory would ever put it in such terms, but he's intervened a number of times between Umbridge and younger students, and has no problems standing up to her any more than Harry does—it's what got him banned from Quidditch and all the teams disbanded. But he's never earned one of those detentions; Harry's never seen him walking around with a bandage on his hand.
"His father does work for the Ministry," Blaise says. "She may be avoiding making enemies."
"I'm Heir Black!" Harry says, incredulous.
"She doesn't care about the power of the Wizengamot," Theo says matter-of-factly. "She works directly for the Minister, and she's one of this new generation of paper-pushers who think that being the administration makes the Minister a god—but of course he isn't. He's definitely got more power than the seat used to hold, that's true, but only because he's seen Wizengamot members into high positions within the Ministry, so the power has shifted that way. Things used to be different, you know."
"I know," Harry says, because he does know now. The power of the Wizengamot is diminished—the Peers certainly still have a lot of personal privilege and a certain amount of sway, as well as the ability to pass or stymie law, but it's difficult to get anything done with the Ministry pitted against you, as Sirius's difficulties this summer had proven. The Ministry controls the Prophet, the DMLE, and magical Britain's diplomatic affairs, which are really the three things that shape the magical world in the modern age, more than any amount of lawmaking or court judgement. The Peers of the Wizengamot aren't like feudal lords any more, with the ability to raise an army from their vassal Houses and Families and make their will be done. It's Voldemort who wants a return to that, and ironically, the Ministry is going to hand it right to him if they don't stop trying to cling to their crumbling control and do something. Really, they should be supporting Lords like Sirius, who actually make good arguments in the Wizengamot and who get out and do things, and don't just depend on the weight of wealth and empty reputation to get things done. Unfortunately, him doing that makes them look bad.
But then, the whole system is corrupt, isn't it? Harry sighs. "She's just a perfect example of everything that's wrong in the magical world, really."
"You're right there," Blaise says. "You know she's a half blood?" At Harry's sharp look, he puts up his hands and continues, "I just meant that it makes her a hypocrite as well as a bigot. She's not so very loud about hating muggles, but—"
"It's there if you pay attention," Theo agrees, nodding. "I've heard it."
Harry frowns. He hasn't really noticed it, but he's also not used to some of the silent signals that exist in the magical world, the sly references that people make when they're prejudiced. He knows muggle ones better, really, from years of listening to the Dursleys make sly, snide comments about people with Harry's skin tone, or about gay people on the telly. Still, he can believe it.
"Anyway," Blaise says, waving a hand. "All that to say, you really should either stand up to her properly or step off, Harry."
"'Stand up to her properly'?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You could write Lord Black," Blaise says. "He'd be down here in a moment and she'd be out on her arse."
Harry's lips twist—it might be true. But then... "Sirius has a lot else to worry about this year. In case, you know, you'd somehow missed the news."
Blaise and Theo exchange a look. "Hunting—hunting Death Eaters," Theo says, looking anxious even to have said the words, "or not, he's still your guardian. He'd make the time."
"I know," Harry says. He talked to Sirius via the mirror last night, and he'd seemed worried, but relieved that Harry was—supposedly—safe at Hogwarts. Harry's not going to ruin that relief. "But I can handle this on my own. No half-baked bully has ever stopped me getting up before, no matter how many times they try to kick me down—I'm not going to let her be the first. I don't need Sirius's help for that."
"Maybe not, but..." Blaise trails off and sighs at the mulish look on Harry's face. "Fine. Whatever, Harry. But when he's furious at you for keeping secrets, don't say I didn't tell you so."
"He can be mad all he wants," Harry says firmly. "What's going on out there is more important than this." He gestures at his bandaged hand to illustrate. "He might be mad at first, but he'll see that I was doing what was necessary—we have to have our priorities. This is war."
Another exchanged glance. The two of them still have their secret, silent language, but Harry can now read better the exasperation in both their faces—and the fear lurking just behind.
"I suppose it is," Theo says after a moment. "Just... be careful, alright, Harry?"
Harry looks at them both, watches them watch him, and then sighs. "I'm trying," he offers. It's not enough—not when he knows that they've noticed something strange going on with him. But it's all he has. "Listen—"
Blaise waves his hand again. That familiar, casually dismissive gesture becomes smoother, more practiced and more adult, all the time. When Harry had met him, it had felt a bit rude to be waved off that way; now it looks like an elegant affectation, and it's all the more effective.
"We both know that that Gryffindor heart of yours would rather be forthright with us, Harry," he says. "We understand the need for discretion, all the same. We're all Slytherins here. Just promise you'll warn us if trouble is coming?"
Harry nods. "I will. Thanks, you two. I know I've been... distant."
"It's okay," Theo says quietly. "These are hard times, Harry, and though I can't say I understand what you're up to, I'm willing to trust you. For now, anyway."
The smile that lands on Harry's lips feels heavy with everything he can't say. "Fair enough."
The rest of the day, at least, passes normally—class, meals, homework, idle chatter and the regular daily effort of being a student. Arithmancy homework is bloody hard as it is, never mind if Harry stops paying attention in class, so he has to fix his mind on that even with everything else going on. It leaves Harry too little time to work up much anxiety about his meeting with Dumbledore, though over dinner he finds himself poking at his food, dwelling on the coming meeting. When he realizes what he's doing, he gives up and leaves early. He heads back to his dorm and retrieves Voldemort's diary—he's not sure it's a good idea to show it to Dumbledore, but probably best to have it, just in case. Then he sits on his bed and talks quietly to the Marauders for a little while, passing the time with stories of pranks. They toss out some ideas for ones Harry might pull himself, and he laughs and agrees, though he knows he won't do it.
Just before he leaves, as he's putting away the Map, it occurs to him that once he finds the Chamber of Secrets he might be able to add it to the Map. Only if the 'monster' within doesn't prove too dangerous for him to risk others finding it, of course, but... that would maybe be a fitting contribution of his own to the Map. Of course, he'd have to figure out how to do it—maybe Sirius or Remus would help? How to ask without telling them what he'd found and why, though...
Those thoughts accompany him back upstairs to the door of Dumbledore's office. "Ginger snap," he tells the gargoyle, a little hesitant, but it shifts promptly to expose the staircase, which has already begun to wind upwards. He steps onto the old stone stairs and they bring him upward, eventually depositing him just in front of the plain door to Dumbledore's office, which swings open before he even has a chance to knock.
As always, there are about a thousand things in the Headmaster's office to catch and hold attention; today Harry finds his eyes drawn to the cabinet against one wall, which is usually closed. Today it sits open, revealing a shallow stone basin with runes carved all around the outside. It's tempting to go over and look, to see if he recognizes any of the symbols—he's been greatly enjoying his Ancient Runes class this term, as well as the books he'd read on the subject over the summer, though he knows he's still very much a beginner.
But the Headmaster is waiting, seated patiently behind his desk with his hands folded atop it and his blue eyes, as ever half-hidden behind his spectacles, fixed on Harry. So he turns that way and crosses the office, pausing before the desk, and he says, "You wanted to see me, sir?"
"Indeed. Have a seat, my boy." Dumbledore picks up his wand—knotted and gnarled unvarnished dark wood of some kind, clearly worn with age and use—off the desk and waves it, transforming the chair in front of the desk from simple wood into a luxurious armchair. Harry sits on the edge of the chair, his knees pressed together, and waits for Dumbledore to speak.
"I imagine you're wondering why I called you here, my boy," Dumbledore says.
"I figured it had something to do with, uh," Harry makes a vague gesture, "Voldemort. The Dark Lord."
"Indeed." Dumbledore's mild expression turns a little harder, more serious around the edges. "Severus has kindly provided me with several updates on your meetings with Lord Voldemort."
Harry nods—as he'd suspected. "One right at the beginning of the summer, and one just at start of term," he confirms. "Do you want me to... report, or something?"
Dumbledore inclines his head. "I would be glad to hear anything you believe to be relevant."
"Right." Harry clears his throat. "Well, the solstice meeting was... I mean, I can tell you some of the names of the people there, but probably Professor Snape did that?"
"Yes. Including Marcus Flint—has he given you any difficulties?" Dumbledore asks.
"Not really," Harry says. "I mean, it depends what you mean by 'difficulties'. Flint isn't easy to get along with, but he hasn't threatened me at all or anything. I'm being careful."
"That is good to hear," Dumbledore says, and leans back in his seat. "I knew that you might have issues with him, but given his father's position I was unable to deny his return to Hogwarts to repeat his seventh year. I am glad to hear that you are bearing up so admirably under the pressure. However, if you do find yourself struggling to manage your Housemates—or any other aspect of your complex situation—I hope you will feel comfortable enough to come to me for help."
"Yes, sir," Harry says, pauses, then adds, "Can I owl? Or should I contact you some other way?"
Dumbledore makes a considering noise. "You might go through your Head of House. Ask him to tell me you have requested a meeting, and I will summon you."
Harry nods. "Yes, sir. Um, so, the September meeting then?"
"Yes please, my boy."
"Well, he called me. Or, told Snape to bring me. He's staying at Malfoy Manor, I think, because I saw Lord Malfoy there—he didn't look very pleased to see me. Voldemort sent him away, though. Then he told Snape to keep an eye on the kids of the Death Eaters." Harry shrugs. "You probably know that too."
"Yes," Dumbledore says. "Severus told me he was then also sent from the room. What happened then?"
"Um," Harry looks down, not sure how to continue. He twists his hands together, then forces himself to let go and runs his fingers through his hair. "He told me that he'd decided what to do with me. He said he had a job for me."
"A job?" Dumbledore's tone is patient, his gentle prodding insistent and steady.
"Yeah," Harry says, and looks up again, meets Dumbledore's eyes. That much at least he can do without fear; if his Occlumency will stand up to Voldemort, it'll stand up to Dumbledore. But there's no brush against his shields. "He gave me a book—a journal—and told me to find the Chamber of Secrets and hide it there."
"I see." Dumbledore folds his hands together on his desk, and for a moment looks distant and pensive, and then he refocuses on Harry. "Do you have this journal with you, Harry?"
Harry nods and reaches for his satchel. He pulls out the diary and lays it on Dumbledore's desk between them. Dumbledore picks up his wand once more and murmurs quietly, waving his wand over it in a complicated pattern; after a moment, the diary glows a deep bloody red.
"This is a dark artifact indeed," Dumbledore says solemnly. He doesn't touch the diary. "I would, if I were you, be very careful with it, my boy."
"I have been," Harry promises. Gingerly, he collects the diary and tucks it away once more. "I don't know much about it—he told me I should write in it, but because it was him who told me, I'm thinking I probably shouldn't."
Dumbledore nods. "That seems prudent, my boy. Thank you for showing it to me. Have you been searching, then, for the Chamber of Secrets?"
"Yeah." Harry shrugs. "Not having much luck." He's not going to relay the conversation he had with the snake portrait, not yet. He's not sure Dumbledore knows he's a Parselmouth, though Sirius might have told him. "Do you know anything about it, sir?"
"It was opened once before in my tenure here at Hogwarts," Dumbledore says, "when I was still the teacher of Transfiguration. I will admit: I had my suspicions about the culprit even then, and knowing what I know of Tom Riddle's later years, I feel vindicated in having suspected. But Headmaster Dippet," he waves up at the wall of portraits behind him, toward the most recent one, which is of a narrow-faced man in a pointy hat, who is currently sleeping, "was convinced otherwise."
"Right," Harry says. "Tom Riddle—he's…?"
"Voldemort," Dumbledore confirms, with a nod. "Thomas Marvolo Riddle, once, a lonely and misfortunate orphan, yet to become powerful—I introduced him to the magical world myself, in fact, in 1938."
Harry manages to keep the impertinent question that he wants to ask behind his teeth, but Dumbledore seems to sense it. "I do regret it," he says. "Though I suspect that he would simply have visited his cruelties on innocents in the muggle world instead, if he had never come to Hogwarts."
"He's a wizard," Harry says. "Even if he's evil… it would've been wrong to keep him from coming to the world that he belonged in, wouldn't it? If anything, leaving him in the muggle world would have been worse, because he'd have just felt like a freak his whole life, instead of just for the first few years of it."
Dumbledore's gaze is sharp, and he inclines his head forward, his eyebrows scrunching. "Is that how you felt, my boy, before you learned of magic?"
Harry shrugs. "Of course. Weird things happened to me all the time. I was a freak—but at Hogwarts, I fit."
There's a pause, where Harry studies Dumbledore's calm, inscrutable face, and then Dumbledore lets out a slow breath. "I am sorry, Harry, for your struggles growing up. I had hoped you would be safer and happier with your family, far from the difficulties of our tumultuous post-war world. But I was wrong."
Harry blinks, surprised, and then swallows hard. He looks down at his hands again, which without his noticing have wound tightly together again in his lap. "I understand, sir," he says. "You had your reasons." Which isn't the same as I forgive you, and Harry thinks Dumbledore's probably smart enough to know that, but he's not going to lie. Not right now.
"Indeed," Dumbledore says quietly. There's another pause, longer this time, and then off to the side Fawkes makes a low crooning noise from his perch and Harry glances up that way, startled. The bird is watching them with one molten gold eye, and when he sees Harry looking he makes another soft sound, just on the edge of song. Harry glances back over at Dumbledore, and finds him smiling. "Well then," he says. "Perhaps, for your sake, we should work out a system of check-ins, hm? Say, within a week should you find yourself summoned by Lord Voldemort, and as soon as possible should you glean information some other way—for example, from your friends in Slytherin House. And otherwise, once a month?"
Harry thinks about that, and then says, "Maybe every other month, sir? Otherwise it'll seem too regular to really be excused."
"Very astute," Dumbledore says. "So: every other month, and the other times that I described. Does that sound good?"
"Yes, sir," Harry says. "What if I don't have anything to report?"
"That doesn't matter, my boy," Dumbledore says. "I am also interested to know how you are doing, of course; I'm concerned for you. You should know, if at any time you feel your position has become too precarious, we can pull you back and put an end to this all."
"Okay," Harry says, knowing already that he won't ask for that. It's not like his position can get any more precarious than it already is, really. "Is there anything in particular you want me to try to learn?"
Dumbledore shakes his head. "We don't know yet what your place within Voldemort's ranks will look like, should you gain one. Best to play it by ear, hm? Any information you gain is useful—your work, I suspect, will be invaluable in winning this war. Already we have more information than we did: about this diary of his, which may well be of some importance, if he wants it hidden in so obscure a location."
"Okay," Harry repeats. "Um, yes, sir."
"Is there anything else, my boy?"
"No, sir." Harry shifts, resettles his satchel in preparation for standing up. "Oh—actually… this isn't about Voldemort, but… you know Umbridge really hates you, right?" She makes sniffy comments about Dumbledore's leadership of the school in her classes from time to time, almost as blatant about her dismissal of Dumbledore than she is about Harry's claims that Voldemort has returned.
"I am aware," Dumbledore says. "However, I am also quite unworried. She may seek to oust me, Harry, but you will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me. Hogwarts will remain protected."
Which is to say, Harry thinks, even as he nods and says polite goodbyes to the Headmaster, that it would be up to those like Harry himself to keep the school safe should Dumbledore be forced out. Those who believe in fighting for what's right, and protecting what really matters in the world. Not money or power, but places like Hogwarts, like Dumbledore's Hogwarts, where everyone can find a home, no matter who they are. Even Tom Riddle had once called Hogwarts home, Harry thinks, and Dumbledore hadn't denied him a place here—no matter how much he might have wished he had. Umbridge's Hogwarts would be a place where a lonely orphan would never be welcome; in her vision, anyone not a perfect, obedient pureblood is a freak without a place in the world.
Harry makes his way down the stairs from the Headmaster's office and out through the corridors, back toward the dungeons, and he looks around at the sheltering walls of the castle as he walks. Sturdy, steady, home: that is Hogwarts, not the twisted version Umbridge wants to create. As for Voldemort, he just wants to tear it down—to destroy Hogwarts and all the people within it, all the people who love it for what it is, and remake the world in his own image. Harry refuses to see either of those things happen, so he'll fight. Whatever it takes.