In which a strange display triggers an essential conversation.

"Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents, which in prosperous circumstances would have lain dormant."

Horace

Several hours later, the others had joined Harry in the library. No one commented about the fact that, as always, Harry was the first one awake and in the library. It had not passed Hermione’s notice, however, that he seemed to be in a particularly restless mood this particular morning.

She had no way of knowing, of course, that Harry was only now beginning to regret his earlier loose tongue, especially considering the way his conversation with Snape had ended. Not only that, but he had also realized that he had forgotten to demand that the potions professor promise that he would not speak with the headmaster about anything Harry had told him. Dumbledore had told him that he could swear whomever he spoke with to secrecy, but he had completely forgotten at the moment, and now it was too late.

“Harry, are you alright?” Hermione finally asked, and Ron and Ginny looked up to see what had distracted the committed bookworm from her reading. Harry had just been wondering if Snape might still be in the basement, but knew that there was no way he could get away from the library to find out.

He looked up from the book that he was ostensibly reading. “What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that—“ To Harry’s eternal relief, she was cut off in mid-sentence by a pop. Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, had just appeared in the middle of the room, carrying quite a few envelopes.

“Fawkes!” Harry exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Hermione was sufficiently distracted. “Is that a phoenix?” she asked in an awed voice.

Harry nodded. “That’s not any phoenix, that’s Professor Dumbledore’s phoenix.”

Ginny and Ron nodded. “That’s the one that carried us out of the Chamber of Secrets second year,” added Ron.

By this point Fawkes had sidled over to Harry and had held out his leg. Harry was surprised to see that the magical bird had letters. Why would Dumbledore send these by phoenix instead of by owl? Nevertheless, he hurried to remove the letters so that Fawkes could be on his way. “Thank you very much, Fawkes,” he said sincerely. He might not feel very happy about the headmaster at the moment, but he was still on good terms with the phoenix, and didn’t want to damage that. Fawkes sang a few quick notes, and then with a flash disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

Harry then looked at the envelopes that had been delivered. It appeared that all of them had received their school letters. In addition, Ron, Hermione, and Harry all had another official looking envelope. As soon as Harry handed Hermione her letter, she squealed, “Oh, it must be the O.W.L. results!” Ron groaned.

Harry, for his part, was distracted by his third envelope, which unlike the others was personally addressed. Not only that, but he recognized the writing as the headmaster’s. Hesitantly he opened it, and began to read.

Harry,

First let me apologize for the unorthodox method of communication—owls can no longer enter Grimmauld Place because of the updated wards. We want to make absolutely certain that no one finds the house that shouldn’t. Thus Fawkes had to deliver these letters instead.

The second reason that I am writing this letter is to address the issue of Diagon Alley. Now that you have received your letters for school, I’m certain that Mrs. Weasley will soon arrange a trip to Diagon Alley. You may not go. I know you will be upset, but please try to remember that we are trying to assure your safety. If you give her your letter and a list of any other items you need, I’m certain that Mrs. Weasley or one of the other order members can pick them up.

Sincerely,

Albus Brian Percival Wulfric Dumbledore

Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards

Harry felt a cold fury building up inside of him at a rapid rate. How dare he?? The man had the nerve to say that he was looking out for his safety, after allowing him to fight a man possessed by Voldemort in his first year, fight a basilisk and a young Tom Riddle for Ginny’s life in second year, rescue Buckbeak, Sirius, and himself in third year, and take part in the TriWizard Tournament in his fourth year. And now the headmaster wanted him safe??

In his anger he had leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. He realized that Ginny was speaking. “—ry, are you alright? Can you even hear me?”

Harry blinked. The strangest sensation began to come over him. It was as if he were in the middle of a balloon, a balloon that somehow was an extension of him. He realized that he had felt this bubble around him before, in a vague sort of way, but now the balloon was growing larger. And just like a balloon, as it grew larger, it also became more fragile, and pressure was harder for it to take. Right now, the presence of his friends was compressing that balloon almost to its breaking point, even as it continued to grow larger.

Gasping in panic, he almost tripped over the chair he had upset trying to get out the door. “Just, please, don’t follow me!” He didn’t think he wanted to find out what happened when the balloon burst, and it was only a matter of time if he didn’t get himself alone.

He raced down the hallway, only to stop as he tried to pass the kitchen. Hearing the sudden sound of footsteps, the motherly witch had exited the kitchen to see what was happening. Harry winced and backed off, moving back toward the library in the process. Only to feel compression from the other side, as Ron, Ginny, and Hermione caught up to him.

“No…” He focused all his energy on giving the balloon the resilience it needed to not pop. Some distant part of himself heard his voice say, “Mrs. Weasley, please, go back into the kitchen.” When he looked up and she was still there, staring at him in wide-eyed concern, he snapped, “Now!” This no-nonsense tone snapped her out of her daze and she immediately backed into the kitchen. Harry waited until he felt the pressure from that end subside, then took off down the hallway again, ducking into his room and slamming the door behind him. Finally, he collapsed onto his bed, exhausted and completely confused.

“Harry, son, it’s time to wake up now…” The teenage wizard moaned at the headache blooming as he slowly woke, trying to ignore the gentle nudging of his arm. There was a chuckle from above him and to the right. “I know, waking from a nap is lousy, but really, you don’t want to sleep away the whole of the day or you’ll never sleep tonight.”

“Uhh..?” was the most coherent response that Harry seemed capable of mustering. What was going on? The last thing he remembered was collapsing onto the bed… after that strange feeling… that morning… Finally his thoughts started to coalesce and he shot up to a sitting position, opening his eyes just in time to narrowly knocking into a red head that had been looming over him. “Ron?”

Another chuckle, one that, while familiar, was decidedly not Ron’s. Harry threw his hand toward his bedside table, scrambling for his glasses like the lifeline that they seemed to be. There were decided disadvantages to being blind without them, and not knowing who had just woken him was just one of them.

His visitor reached past him and then gently pressed the object of his search into his hand for him. Gratefully, he slipped them on, then realized that it was Arthur Weasley sitting across from him. He had only seen his friend’s father in passing since his birthday party a week ago; apparently he was working long hours at the ministry again, no doubt in part because of Fudge’s incompetence in not recognizing Voldemort’s return until seeing him with his own eyes at the beginning of the summer.

He blinked sleep away quickly. “Mr. Weasley? What are you doing here?” Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wondered why he had said them. Ron’s father had every right to be here, and in fact should not have been forced to put in such long hours at the ministry constantly, especially considering his pay or lack thereof.

But Mr. Weasley just chuckled. “Please, Harry, call me Arthur, at the least. You’re practically my seventh son, albeit without the red hair.” Then he turned more serious in answering Harry’s question. “Everyone’s been quite worried about you since this morning. What exactly happened, if you don’t mind telling me?”

Harry was relieved that Mr. Weasley wasn’t pushing him. Of the all the adults in his life, Harry thought that Ron’s father was the one he appreciated the most. He didn’t constantly come down on him like his aunt, uncle, and Snape, he didn’t baby him like Mrs. Weasley had a tendency to do, and he certainly didn’t try to manipulate him like Dumbledore seemed so fond of doing. He respected Harry, and Harry always had the feeling that it had to do with him and not the fact that he was the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ or ‘James Potter’s son.’

He frowned as he put things together. He actually did plan on answering the red-headed man’s questions, but first he had a few things he had to clarify. “How long did you say that I’d been sleeping?” It felt like it had only been a few hours, but why would Mr. Weasley be home in the middle of the day, and why would he be concerned that Harry was going to have trouble sleeping that night if that were the case?

Mr. Weasley laughed. “It’s almost dinner time; Molly’s helping Dobby put the finishing touches on the meal right now. She’s going to make certain that you make up for missing lunch, I’m sure.”

Harry forgot to groan in his shock. “Why did everyone let me sleep so long??” In all honesty, he really couldn’t believe that Mrs. Weasley had let him miss lunch, as she was as usual insistent on assisting him to gain any weight he had lost at the Dursley’s, and more.

“No one could get through the locking charm you cast on the door, we had to wait until it wore off.” Mr. Weasley frowned, and his voice took on a hard tone. “You are very fortunate that the Ministry somehow missed that piece of magic. Molly called me frantically and made me check and make certain, since you wouldn’t have been able to get the notice if you had been expelled. What were you thinking, Harry?”

Harry wrinkled his brow. “Mr. Weasley, I didn’t cast a locking charm! You have to believe me… I don’t want to get expelled from Hogwarts, and I came close enough last summer!” Even though the details of his return to his room were fuzzy, he knew he hadn’t touched his wand. He had just fallen into bed.

Fortunately, Mr. Weasley seemed to believe him. “Interesting… were you feeling particularly strongly about keeping people out of your room?”

Harry frowned. “Are you suggesting that I unintentionally cast a wandless locking charm, strong enough that no one in the house could undo it? And the ministry still should have detected it… not that I’m complaining that they didn’t!”

“Well, have you cast any other wandless magic since you started Hogwarts… oh, wait, I seem to remember hearing about you blowing up your aunt several years ago!” he seemed triumphant at having evidence for his theory. “And I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the ministry does not and cannot track wandless magic. Their tracking is based on your wand, which is why you never get warnings before you start at Hogwarts.” He winked, apparently under the impression that Harry was likely to use this information to start all kinds of magical mischief. Harry wasn’t sure about mischief, but he was already thinking about the advantages that this knowledge could give him. But…

“Wait a second! If it is based on my wand, then how did the Ministry know about my blowing up my aunt before third year? And for that matter, why did I get a notice before my second year for the levitation charm that Dobby cast??”

Mr. Weasley chuckled. “I’m afraid that you were simply unlucky enough to be living in a house with more wards than anyone cares to count. One of those wards means that no piece of magic cast in that home goes undetected, and since you’re the only wizard in the home, the assumption was always that you would be the source of any magic.” He seemed to process another part of what Harry had said. “And what was that about Dobby casting levitation charms in your house? Why would he be doing a silly thing like that? And if that was before second year, then wasn’t he still working for the Malfoy family at the time?”

Harry could never fault Mr. Weasley for being slow on the uptake. He had to remind himself that just because someone could be eccentric did not mean they were unobservant. Luna Lovegood had been quite an object lesson in that matter over the past year. Harry gave a less than amused chuckle. “It’s sort of a long story, sir…”

Mr. Weasley shook his head. “What did I tell you about calling me Arthur? Goodness, one would think you’ve never met me, with all your ‘sir’s and ‘Mr. Weasley’s!”

Harry gave a small but genuine smile at this. “Sorry, sir.” Then he groaned as he heard what he had just said. “Nevermind, s—Mr.—“ he choked on his instinctive words. “Seems to be a bit of a habit, I apologize,” he recovered finally, and Mr. Weasley just laughed good-naturedly.

“I have indeed noticed that. Now, about that long story…”

The wizard trailed off as they both heard Molly’s powerful voice carrying up from the kitchen. “Arthur, have you gotten Harry up yet? Dinner’s ready!”

Mr. Weasley looked to Harry. “We’d best get downstairs, before she comes after you for skipping another meal and me for encouraging it.” He winked.

But the thought of going downstairs reminded Harry once again of that frightening feeling of pressure that had emanated from everyone around him earlier that day. He didn’t think that he could bring himself to go down into the group of people that was surely gathering in the kitchen, even if they were all friends. “Mr. Weasley, I…”

The older man looked back from his position halfway to the door. Almost immediately his face took on an understanding cast. “How about I just go down and see what I can do about convincing Molly to let you eat your dinner up here?” Harry nodded quickly in appreciation. “Good, and then you can finish telling me this long story involving Dobby.” The man winked and then walked from the room.

Harry listened to the percussion of the man’s feet as he hurried down the stairs, contemplating the Weasley patriarch’s ability to understand what he was intending even when he didn’t say much—or anything. It was different than with Dumbledore. The headmaster of Hogwarts always gave Harry the feeling that his mind was being sifted through, most likely a very subtle form of the art of Legilimency. Mr. Weasley, on the other hand, simply seemed to understand him. It gave Harry a feeling of being normal and of belonging, as he realized that the man was simply drawing from his experience with his six sons to guess at what Harry would be thinking. He could hardly be overwhelmingly freakish or strange if he acted so similarly to the man’s own sons.

He was hungry, but when he saw how much food Mr. Weasley returned with several minutes later, he was overwhelmed. Even after he realized that the older man was eating with him, his ‘portion’ still seemed like more than even Dudley could eat—that was to say, more than twice what Harry would normally eat on a good day at Hogwarts. He sincerely hoped that Mrs. Weasley was not expecting him to finish all of the food that she had provided, or he might burst.

Mr. Weasley laughed when he saw the expression on Harry’s face. “Just eat as much as you can, Harry, and we can ‘dispose’ of the rest.” Another wink. Harry was really beginning to appreciate Ron’s father’s gentle, good-natured sense of humor. “And while you’re at it, tell me about Dobby.”

So Harry ate slowly and explained everything about what had happened—Dobby coming to warn him and getting him into trouble with his family and the Ministry, Dobby closing the barrier to Platform 9 ¾, the enchanted Bludger, and finally his setting Dobby free. The story was hard to tell at times, as he tried to work around admitting his being locked in his room during the summer, and had to remind Mr. Weasley of the unfortunate incident involving Ron and the much-loved Ford Anglia.

Worst of all, however, was discussing the diary. Mr. Weasley thanked him profusely once again for saving Ginny from the basilisk and Tom Riddle, and seemed quite impressed that Harry had thought of a way to rescue Dobby from the Malfoys’ abuse, and had risked himself doing it. Harry, though, simply felt embarrassed; rescuing Ginny had been his responsibility, as no one else could have done it, and he couldn’t help being frustrated in retrospect that he had been so caught up in his social problems (e.g. being accused of being the heir of Slytherin) as to not even notice Ginny’s odd behavior and put the pieces together. And with all of Dobby’s “rescue attempts,” setting the poor house elf free had helped him as much as it had the elf.

When he had completed the entire story, Harry was surprised to find that he had finished more than half of the exorbitant amount of food that Mrs. Weasley had sent up. For a few minutes, both he and the Weasley patriarch sat back in a comfortable silence, letting the food in their stomachs settle. Finally, though, Mr. Weasley broke the silence with a more serious question.

“Before dinner, we figured out that you must have unintentionally cast a wandless locking charm on the door to keep people out—and explained why the Ministry didn’t catch on. But Harry, why were you locking yourself in your room? All Molly and the kids could tell me was that you apparently panicked in the library and wouldn’t let anyone come near you.”

Something in the man’s voice tipped Harry off that this was more than a casual question. This was what Mr. Weasley had been aiming toward finding out all along. He felt the vitriol not so far from the surface begin to bubble furiously as he began to suspect that this whole conversation was nothing more than another of Dumbledore’s elaborate manipulations. “Dumbledore knew that I wouldn’t answer him, didn’t he?”

“What?” The man sounded genuinely confused.

“Dumbledore. He ordered you to ask me what had happened this morning because he knew I wouldn’t answer him, didn’t he?”

Mr. Weasley seemed taken aback at the anger in Harry’s voice, but he recovered quickly. Leaning forward, he spoke quietly but earnestly. “Harry, I’m becoming concerned for you; everyone is, I think. You’re very angry, especially at Professor Dumbledore, and no one knows why. You’re quieter than usual, and you won’t open up to anyone. And then today I came home to find Molly and several Order members frantically trying to negate the locking charm on your door after you had panicked and disappeared in here; they were worried that you might have been attacked by Voldemort, or had some kind of breakdown. The only thing that Dumbledore has told us was to be careful and stay away from your room for a while, so we waited as long as we could but didn’t want you to miss dinner.” He sighed. “The adults in your life, especially those in the Order, are here to help you, Harry. You seem to think that you need to do everything on your own, but that’s not the case. I don’t know if this has something to do with living with your aunt and uncle, or your experiences at Hogwarts, or if it’s just some innate part of your personality, but you do need to learn to trust. What can I do to help you do that?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to be taken aback. He realized slowly that this was quite possibly the longest conversation that he had ever had with an adult. He had told Mr. Weasley things that he had never told anyone but Ron and Hermione. Granted, it was nothing important, and nothing to do with Voldemort, but still he was surprised at himself. Now, though, he had risked all the trust that he had begun to develop with Ron’s father by accusing him of being involved in Dumbledore’s manipulations.

“I—uh…” he stammered in response. He looked down, his cheeks taking on a slightly pinkish tinge as he realized how undeserved his accusations and anger had been. “I’m sorry, sir… It’s just, Professor Dumbledore makes me so angry sometimes. He’s not perfect… he even admits it… and yet he tries to control every aspect of my life. It’s like he doesn’t think that I can take care of myself, even after everything I’ve done.”

“Oh Harry…” Mr. Weasley breathed. “This is what I’m trying to explain to you. Most teens wouldn’t even think to try to take responsibility for the kinds of things that you take in stride. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, it’s that he wants to spare you from those responsibilities!”

“Yeah, well, his attempt to protect me from the responsibility of the prophecy last year just ended up making me responsible for my godfather’s death,” Harry responded bitterly. When he saw the shock cross Mr. Weasley’s face he realized what he had just said. “I mean… uh…”

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley began sternly. “You are not responsible for Sirius’ death. That blame could fall to Bellatrix Lestrange and perhaps ultimately to Voldemort, but it does not fall to you.”

Harry’s frustration at the perpetual condescension bubbled over again. Did they think that he couldn’t see the truth? “I’m not stupid, Mr. Weasley. If I had practiced Occlumency more often, Voldemort wouldn’t have been able to plant those images in my head. If I hadn’t gotten Snape angry at me, he might still have been able to teach me enough to at least recognize a false vision. If I had remembered that Snape was a member of the Order before Umbridge caught me, he could have checked and told me that Sirius was at Grimmauld Place. Or if I had remembered the mirror that Sirius gave me, I could have checked for myself, without getting tricked by Kreacher. Even if I had listened to Hermione and realized that Voldemort was manipulating my ‘saving people thing,’ I could have still waited instead of rushing into things once again.”

Mr. Weasley leaned forward, sighing in frustration. “You could as easily blame Professor Snape for not being more patient in teaching you Occlumency, or Professor Umbridge for obstructing you at every turn, or Kreacher for lying to you. Or you could blame Voldemort for putting the vision in your head and Bellatrix Lestrange for knocking her own cousin through the veil. Besides which, I don’t think Sirius would have wanted you to blame yourself when he rushed into the battle of his own accord.”

Harry felt tears burning at the backs of his eyes and blinked desperately, refusing to let them escape. “But don’t you see? I could have stopped it, if I had done any one of many things! Instead, I made mistake after mistake after mistake, and now it’s my fault that I don’t have Sirius anymore!” In the midst of this admission of his own guilt and shame, several tears slipped out despite Harry’s best efforts. Turning his head away from Mr. Weasley he angrily swiped at the wetness on his cheeks, trying to hold back the sobs of anguish that were now collecting in his throat.

“Harry… Harry!” At the urgency in the older wizard’s tone, he turned his head back to face the man, trying to ignore the embarrassing wetness still on his cheeks. The shared grief on Mr. Weasley’s face threatened to undo him. “Oh, Harry, you’ve been trying to deal with this all on your own, haven’t you?” Choking down a sob, Harry nodded slowly, not willing to voice his feeling that he really didn’t see another choice. The older wizard opened his arms subtly, and whispered, “Come here, Harry.”

Harry hesitated for a long moment. To say that the Dursleys had never offered him any physical affection when he was a child would have been the understatement of the century. He had at times suspected that the reason that they hadn’t abused him more actively throughout his life was that they didn’t want to touch him, afraid that they would be infected by his “freakiness” if they did so. Still, there was a large part of him that yearned to be wrapped up in someone’s arms, to be held as he felt miserable and mourned the loss of one of the last connections to his parents. Slowly, though, he shook his head. He just couldn’t let himself go.

Mr. Weasley sighed in understanding. “There’s nothing wrong with crying, Harry… you need to grieve.”

Harry replied with a small nod. “I know, but… I just… can I be alone, for a while?”

Mr. Weasley hesitated, then smiled in understanding and stood to his feet. “Certainly, Harry… I’ll just go downstairs and let people know that you are resting and don’t want to be disturbed. If you’re up to it, you can always come down later.” He paused, smiling down at Harry affectionately. “But please, Harry, remember that you can always talk to me. I have never once let one of my sons go through anything like this on their own, and I won’t let you either.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” he whispered, and watched as the man turned and walked out the door. Right before the door closed, Mr. Weasley stuck his head in.

“Sleep well, son.”

Harry was certain that as soon as he had the room to himself, he would burst into the sobs that had been gathering at the back of his throat, and let the tears in his eyes fall at long last. If nothing else, he would have predicted that Mr. Weasley calling him “son” would have allowed him to let go.

The sobs continued to collect, threatening to choke him, but he just couldn’t let them out. He closed his eyes tightly and one tear leaked out, but he couldn’t let them fall. He beat at his pillow in frustration, wanting more than anything to release the grief that threatened to swallow him whole and knowing that the release would never come. Choking on a sob of frustration, he tore his glasses off and got under his covers. Pulling them all the way over his head, he waited for sleep to come and give him a brief reprieve from the neverending pain.