Harry sat across from Dumbledore in one of the very soft armchairs in his office. The glowing Pensieve, its surface still swirling from their latest excursion, was on the Headmaster’s desk. They had just finished discussing Tom Riddle, the twelve-year-old eventual Dark Lord, whom they had met at his orphanage, in Dumbledore’s memories. Harry expected to be dismissed, but the Headmaster, sitting back in his chair clasping his hands in his lap, said, “Harry, you look troubled. Is something wrong?”

Harry sighed. Plenty of things had gone wrong between this lesson and the first. Just two days ago, Katie Bell had been sent to St. Mungo’s, having fallen victim to a premeditated attack. But they had spoken of that already, of Malfoy and Mundungus, all of it.

He knew that if he said “no,” if he so much as shook his head, Dumbledore would not press him; he would wait for Harry to come to him. And yet, he also knew, as Snape had so pointedly reminded him, that delaying might cost lives; he needed a solution, and quickly.

“Yes. It’s just… Occlumency isn’t working out, sir.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore regarded him gravely over his spectacles. “How so?”

“I haven’t made any progress, and it’s been weeks.”

“It has not been two months since your first lesson this year, Harry. That seems a little early to judge.”

“I know, but…” Harry hesitated, wondering, not for the first time, how much Dumbledore really knew. Regardless, he glanced at the somewhat depleted shelves of the office, and remembered that the Headmaster had forgiven him his transgressions in the past. With faint spots of color on his cheeks, he continued, “I’ve been… er… reading some books on Occlumency, sir. I probably should have started earlier, like last year, even, but I didn’t know any better.” I’m sure the library at Grimmauld Place would have that sort of book, he thought, and tried not to. “You know, I thought it was just because I wasn’t trying hard enough, but it turns out, Snape’s not really teaching me. What he’s doing isn’t going to work, the books are pretty clear about that. But… he can’t teach me the real way, either, so I’m never going to learn.”

“Professor Snape, Harry. And I see that you are putting either your father’s cloak or your friend’s library pass to good use,” said Dumbledore with a twinkle in his eyes. “But why is it that he cannot teach you Occlumency the, ah, ‘real way’, as you put it?”

“You know how it works, right?” Harry began. He flushed as he heard the words leave his mouth; the man was Dumbledore – of course he did.

“I believe I do, yes,” he said, not unkindly.

“Well, yeah… so you know that we’re supposed to form a… uh… ‘a deep and lasting trust’, I think it was, and… it’s just that… I just don’t trust him! You keep telling me I should, but I just… don’t. I’m sorry, sir.”

“I appreciate your honesty, Harry. It is very difficult to change one’s beliefs, especially those that have been so ingrained. Nevertheless, you must try. I’m sure you understand how important it is.”

“I do. I really do, especially since Sirius, well… you know. I wish I could trust him; it would make things a lot easier. Why can’t you just tell me why you trust him? It’s not like I would tell anyone – I promise!”

“Harry, I have told you already that this is a matter between Professor Snape and myself,” Dumbledore said, in a tone that brooked no argument. More mildly, he added, “Did you not, the night you had your vision, think that Snape was spy for us, rather than Voldemort?”

“Er… I wasn’t really thinking, you know, since I just sort of jumped out of bed – I mean, I thought it was the logical answer! I’d completely forgotten Karkaroff even existed at the time! It’s not like that means anything.”

Dumbledore smiled slightly, but at Harry’s frustrated expression, he said, “You have heard this from me before, my boy, but I will repeat it as many times as you need to hear it. That is, do you trust me?” He peered over his half-moon spectacles into Harry’s face.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You know that I vouched for him before the Wizengamot; my opinion has not changed. Harry, I have good reason trust Professor Snape, even if I am not at liberty to disclose precisely why. Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” Harry replied grudgingly.

“Then there should be no problem, should there, my boy?”

“I guess not… well, okay, let’s say he’s not really a Death Eater, and he’s loyal to the Order, and all that. Even so, it doesn’t mean I want him to know all my secrets! It’s like saying… oh, Professor Moody, for example. Or someone else in the Order, who I don’t really know. Sure, they’re absolutely on our side, and that’s what you mean by trust. Loyalty, stuff like that. But just because we’re all against Voldemort doesn’t mean I want them knowing all my secrets either!”

“I understand. You are absolutely entitled to your privacy. However, before you insist upon that right, I would ask you to think of the nature of our situation. Do you, for instance, have any secrets that might endanger someone’s life, should they become known?”

Harry was did not speak for a long time. When he did, he could not keep his voice from shaking. “He’s dead already,” he said, every word a fresh torment.

Dumbledore regarded him sadly. “I am very sorry to have brought this up, Harry. Forgive me, but I must.” He closed his eyes, and opened them again, but the sadness remained. “So there are no such secrets now, my boy?” he asked, very gently.

Perhaps it was only the thought of Sirius that filled his mind, but Harry could not think of any. He found his throat curiously tight, so he just shook his head.

A faint breeze ruffled his hair as Fawkes landed on the back of his chair and trilled softly in his ear. The song seemed to pull the ragged edges of the hole in his heart together, if only for a moment. After a few gulps of air, the lump in his throat had gone.

“Thanks, Fawkes,” Harry whispered. The bird flew back to his perch, letting a wingtip brush against Harry’s cheek, as if in acknowledgement.

Dumbledore reached up to Fawkes and ran his fingers over the bright feathers. “Harry, my boy,” the Headmaster said softly, “we were speaking of secrets.”

“Yeah… I guess… other than being really humiliated, nothing that terrible would happen.”

“Now, can you imagine the sorts of secrets Professor Snape might keep?”

“Pretty awful ones, sir, I know. He’s a spy and all that, so a lot of it’s stuff that’s important for the war.”

“Quite right, my boy. I would like you to consider, Harry, your secrets and his.”

“Well,” said Harry after a while, “I get that his secrets are probably much more dangerous than mine. But he’s the great Occlumens here – he can hide them all from me!”

“Do you recall, Harry, why I chose to have Professor Snape teach you Occlumency, rather than myself?”

“Because you couldn’t have Voldemort knowing what was in your mind, sir, through me. I know that. But even if Professor Snape couldn’t Occlude against me, I’m sure he’s Slytherin enough to come up with something else, like the Pensieve, or a potion, or something.”

“Perhaps I should have asked a different question. What, as specifically as you can recall, did your texts say about the teaching of Occlumency?”

Harry frowned, slightly confused by the question. “That’s quite a bit, you know, sir. I mean, that’s most of the book.”

Dumbledore smiled, with his eyes if not his mouth. “My apologies. I meant the part we have been discussing – that is, the part about trust.”

“Oh. Well, one of the books said something like…” Harry furrowed his brow, trying to remember. “Uh… something about ‘a deep and lasting trust’, I think it was, between the student and the teacher.”

“Precisely. I would point out to you, my boy, that the most important word here is ‘between’.”

“Er… what?”

Dumbledore chuckled at Harry’s perplexed expression, the twinkle returning to his eyes. “Why do you think the author wrote of ‘trust between student and teacher’, as opposed to ‘the student trusting the teacher’?”

“Wait… doesn’t that mean… that Snape ha- I mean, Professor Snape, has to trust me too?”

“Exactly right.” Dumbledore leaned forward, so that his clasped hands rested on the desk. The glow of the Pensieve glinted off the rim of his spectacles, framing the piercing blue of his eyes. They peered intently into Harry’s face as he said, “And, Harry, he knew this, from the very beginning.”

Harry was mutely gape-mouthed as the fact sunk in. “He… wanted to, er… have… ‘a deep and lasting trust’ with me?”

“I highly doubt it. He is a very private person, very reluctant to trust. And you… given your, ah, rather complex histories, I cannot imagine that he would want to trust you, Harry.”

“Then why…” Harry flushed, again, and looked away. “You mean, he doesn’t have a choice,” he said, very softly.

“One always has a choice. Do you remember what I once said about choices, Harry? About making the choice between what is right and what is easy?”

“I guess… it isn’t easy for Professor Snape to trust me, is it?” Harry said slowly.

“No, it is not.”

Harry glanced at the Pensieve, and looked away. “Probably even harder for him.”

“It is not my place to judge,” replied the Headmaster. Harry could not see his eyes, obscured as they were by the reflection of silvery memories in his spectacles.

Harry had slipped his wand from his sleeve, and ran his fingers along the length of wood. It seemed a little warmer, when Fawkes was so close by. He looked up at the bird, who fixed him with a jet black eye and chirped, once, the note lingering afterwards in the air.

He sheathed his wand. “I’ll do it,” said Harry. He seemed to have grown an inch or two, sitting suddenly straighter, his shoulders and the tilt of his chin bespeaking his renewed conviction. “I owe him that much,” he added, unsure himself which man he spoke of.

The angle of Dumbledore’s head was such that his eyes again met Harry’s. “You owe nothing, my boy, to anyone.”

“But I…” Harry blinked a few times. “I understand, sir. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Yes it is.” The old man smiled then, from his beard to his eyes. “I must say, Harry, I should think there are many people who would be proud of you, if they were here to see it.”

Harry merely nodded, swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat.

“I hope there is less trouble in your mind, now. Sleep well tonight, my boy.”

Harry understood it as a dismissal; he nodded, again, and stood to leave. But he lingered a bit at the top of the revolving staircase, and when he found his voice again, he asked, “I was wondering, sir, who taught him Occlumency?”

“Professor Snape, you mean?” The maddening twinkle had returned to Dumbledore’s eyes. “He is a natural Occlumens. Good night, Harry.”