A great wave of emotion suddenly crashed over Harry at the Headmaster’s words. Confusion, shock, anger, joy, and relief all flooded his body, and he could feel his magic reacting to them, simmering just underneath his skin. His thoughts were flying in a thousand different directions. A dozen questions lingered on the tip of his tongue– why hadn’t Dumbledore told him about the wards sooner and left him without protection? Did all of this have anything to do with his argument with Aunt Petunia or his accidental magic? Did this mean that he would not have to return to the Dursleys’ next summer? And why had Professor Snape been the one to fetch him if he had been in such great danger?

Dizzy with disbelief, however, it was none of these things that he finally said after a few moments of silence. Instead, he stupidly asked, “Is that why I never got a letter? From the Ministry?”

The headmaster chuckled. “A letter, Harry? Why would a letter have been necessitated?”

Harry felt his cheeks begin to go red. Shite. So the headmaster hadn’t stepped in to cover for him after all. Somehow, his outburst had escaped the view of both the Ministry and Hogwarts. “Er, I sort of accidentally blew up Aunt Petunia’s kitchen. Just the windows,” he added quickly, as he could see Mrs. Weasley’s face losing color across from him. He could have sworn Professor Snape snorted, but the man quickly began coughing softly into his elbow instead.

“Ah. Accidental magic.” Dumbledore murmured. The old man nodded once to himself before his wise blue eyes once again settled on Harry. “And this happened when?”

“The same day you sent your note.” Harry said. “Could my magic have been what caused the wards to break, sir?”

“Perhaps.” The Headmaster replied. He stroked his beard idly with his blackened hand; the normalcy of the action combined with the look of the  eerie, rotten flesh made Harry feel nauseous. “Although it would be quite unusual, as none of your experiences with accidental magic as a child caused any sort of damage. In order to counteract the blood magic, the spell in question would have had to be cast with nefarious intent, and done by someone within your immediate relations. As none of your remaining relatives have shown traces of magic, I am inclined to think that this is not the case.” Dumbledore continued on for a few moments, seemingly thinking out loud; all the while, Harry’s stomach began to churn, and he was beginning to regret the large meal he’d just wolfed down.

“...Nonetheless. I digress.” The headmaster finally paused. He was a man of many words, but not usually one for rambling. Harry wondered if the pain from his hand was wearing at him. “Now, your magic. I trust that the incident was not nebulous in origin?”

Knots seemed to form in Harry’s stomach as he shook his head. A horrible thought had begun to circle in his mind, a suspicion that was only growing the more Dumbledore spoke. The Dursleys may not have had any magic of their own, but Harry had plenty, and in that moment, all he’d felt was his burning anger towards Aunt Petunia, and a sharp resentment at everything that he’d been forced to endure, and in that moment, he’d wanted out . He could have shut his mouth and done what she asked, but instead, he’d provoked her and caused all this.

“Harry?” Dumbledore pressed, blue eyes twinkling with worry.

“No, sir. My aunt…” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “We had a bit of a row.”

“A bit.” Remus repeated, looking at Harry strangely. “You rowed a bit and blew out the kitchen windows.”

Harry suddenly began to feel uncomfortable. “Maybe I said some things I shouldn’t have, all right? But she– she–” he couldn’t help it; his voice was shaking as the intensity of the memory flooded his mind. The shrillness of her voice. His burning fury. Storming out, and the feeling of absolute vulnerability that prickled at the back of his neck as soon as he’d left the property of Number Four, Privet Drive. The timing was too close to be coincidental. It had to have been Harry’s spell that broke the wards.

But if his feelings and a bout of accidental magic had been all it took to shatter them, wouldn’t it would have happened years ago? He’d blown up Aunt Marge in third year, and he’d been just as angry then as several days prior if not more so. But his magic was much stronger after two more years of training at Hogwarts.

He felt as though he might be sick.

He didn’t realise that he’d closed his hands into fists until Mrs. Weasley reached across and began to gently pry his fingers open.

“No one is blaming you, Harry,” she said softly, massaging away the tension in his knuckles. “Professor Dumbledore just wants to know what happened.”

“She wanted me to do the cleaning.” He stated simply, pulling his hands into his lap. His throat bobbed as he struggled to keep his emotions under control. “She said a few things. She was upset. I got angry. We rowed.”

Snape groaned, looking as though he simultaneously wanted to strangle Harry and put his head in his hands. “For once in your miserable life, Potter, can’t you just swallow your pride and follow directions without arguing about them?” he snapped.

“I’m fairly certain I did follow directions this time, Professor ,” Harry sniped back at him, unable to keep the bitterness from leaking into his voice, “As my aunt very clearly told me to get out. And she didn’t seem like she wanted to see me again any time soon.”  

An awkward silence filled the room.

“I see.” Dumbledore finally said. Lines spread across his face as his expression deepend into a frown. Surely the man was beginning to realize exactly what had occurred to Harry several moments earlier. “I will need to examine your memory to determine what, exactly, caused the damage, but it seems that we have an answer as to how the wards were broken. Your mother’s protection was built to withstand any outside forces and inner turmoil as long as Petunia kept you under her protection and you were able to call Privet Drive your home. Something that happened in your volatile exchange seems to have led both of you to… reject those ideas.”

Harry remembered how desperately he’d wanted out, wanted to be anywhere but there in that moment, and nodded once. “Makes sense.” he said quietly.

For a moment, there was silence. Remus was staring at Harry with wide, pitying eyes, while Mrs. Weasley wore a resigned expression, her lips pursed into a thin line. Dumbledore was still gazing at him as though he were some sort of rare specimen to be observed, and Harry felt miniscule under his piercing gaze, no bigger than a beetle. There was a strange heaviness in his chest, and a thick frustration had begun to seep into his veins like a slow poison– guilt and anger, anger at himself.

Across the table, Snape growled.

“Do you mean to say, Potter,” he said in a dangerously low voice, “That the blood wards your mother died to create were broken because you just couldn’t follow the rules for once and get along with your aunt?”

“My mother–” Harry choked out, his mind flying back to what, exactly, Aunt Petunia had had to say about his mother . Rage began to bubble in the pit of his stomach again. “She insulted her. And Sirius. She insulted my mum .”

Rage flashed in Snape’s eyes. “How noble, defending your mother’s reputation.” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Yet somehow you don’t seem to have enough respect for her to honor a sacrifice that she made in your name , you ungrateful brat!”

A hand came gently onto Harry’s shoulder. “Severus.” The headmaster chided. Harry felt his hands begin to shake. “My boy–”

“Get off!” Harry shouted, swatting the professor’s hand away. That awful, horrible, greasy git! How dare he talk about his mother, and how dare he call Harry ungrateful, as though he didn’t already know that he’d earned every cruel word, every punishment, every misfortune. He couldn’t hear anything anymore except the furious pounding of his heart and Aunt Petunia’s voice in his mind, accusing him, blaming him, telling him the awful truth– “You– you greasy git, you have no idea ! I think about her every day– my mum– all of them –” he raised his voice to a bellow. “ Don’t you think I already know it’s all my fault?”

The room fell into a shocked silence.

“A bit melodramatic, don’t you think, Potter?” an all-too-familiar voice drawled from behind.

Oh, Merlin, no. There was no way in hell he would be here. Harry’s head whipped around, and found that his senses weren’t lying to him– because there, leaning against the doorway as though he thought he owned the place, was Draco Malfoy.

Harry whipped his wand out of his pocket, pointing it directly at the blond. “Malfoy!” he shouted, leaping to his feet to defend himself. After five years at Hogwarts, Harry had learned that nothing good would ever come from his presence. He expected the others to do the same, but a quick glance showed that no one else looked remotely surprised.

“Ah, Mr.  Malfoy. Timely as ever.” Dumbledore said tightly, all but ignoring Harry’s outburst.  “Please, do sit down.”

Malfoy delicately folded his arms over his chest. “Oh, please don’t stop on account of me. I’d hate to interrupt such a riveting monologue.”

Harry’s gaze darted to the headmaster, who did not at all seemed alarmed by the blond’s unannounced presence, and then back to Malfoy again. Draco Malfoy– who was as Slytherin as they came, whose parents were some of Voldemort’s most avid followers,  who had practically eaten out of Umbridge’s hand last year– was somehow standing in the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, smirking at him as though he knew something Harry didn’t. And Dumbledore was sitting there, doing nothing .

Saying nothing.

Keeping his wand pointed at Draco, he slowly slid his gaze to Dumbledore. He clenched his teeth, trying to leash his anger. “Is there anything else you haven’t been telling me, Professor ?” he grit out.

The man suddenly looked incredibly weary. That usual twinkle in his eyes had begun to dim, and he did not look at Harry, nor offer a response.

To Harry’s immense frustration, however, Malfoy did. “You really don’t know, Potter? Shame. Keeping the Chosen One in the dark.” he shook his head pityingly. “You know, my father always told me everything.”

It took all of Harry’s restraint to keep himself from punching the Slytherin in the face. “Shut your mouth, Malfoy. Your father’s a piece of shit.” he snarled.

The smirk began to slip from the other boy’s face. “You don’t know anything, Potter.”

“I know that you’ve always wanted to stab me in the back at the first chance you got!” Harry said hotly, remembering the first-year duel, the incident with the “Dementor”, and how he’d almost gotten Buckbeak killed. Malfoy straightened, crossing his arms a little tighter around himself as he stared at Harry with his steel eyes.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and both boys looked over, thereby halting the argument. “I think,” he said tiredly, “That it is time for the adults to have a chat.”

Harry stood his ground. “I’m not going anywhere until someone explains!”

He had been hoping that someone would take his side and tell Dumbledore that he had the right to know, like Sirius had done last year. If Sirius were still here, he would have done it again, Harry was sure… Sirius was always looking out for him…

But Sirius was not here anymore. He was trapped behind the Veil, gone forever, and the only response Harry received was the popping of the logs as they burned in the old stone fireplace.

“Well?” Harry said loudly. He looked from the Weasleys to Remus to Dumbledore, hoping someone would just tell him, just once , but all of them didn’t quite catch his eyes.

Finally, Dumbledore sighed.

“The story is not mine to tell, my boy. But you must understand that Draco is staying here under my full trust and protection.”

“But–”

The professor closed his eyes and put a hand up to stop him before he could continue. “Harry, I can assure you that you are completely safe here, even in the midst of present company. That is all I can tell you at the moment. The rest will have to wait until tomorrow.”

And at those words, Harry saw red. After last summer, after the incident at the Ministry, after the wards breaking, Dumbledore still saw fit to hide things from Harry. How could he? His hands shook. He could feel himself on the edge of another outburst. “You– you–” he spluttered.

But his voice died in his throat. He was tired of this; he didn’t want to do this anymore. He was done with the secrets– if the professor wanted to keep them, he could have them, Harry thought indignantly. Taking a sharp breath, he bottled his anger before it could blow out another window and forced a neutral expression onto his face.  “Fine. I suppose I’ll leave you to your talking, then. Good-night.”

He turned on his heel and stomped out of the room, passing Malfoy without a spared glance, ignoring the dumbfounded expressions of the Weasleys and Snape’s vicious grumbling, not stopping until he had reached the room he had claimed as his own last summer and slammed the door behind him.

Once the door had been warded with the strongest silencing and protection charms he knew– he wouldn’t be taking any chances, not with the wards broken and Malfoy so close– he turned and let himself fall onto the bed, wallowing in his anger and frustration. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. He should get to be a full member of the Order, he should get to know the plans– after all, it was his job to take down Voldemort, not Snape’s, not Dumbledore’s, and certainly not Malfoy’s. He shoved his fists under the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, the same thoughts circling his mind until sleep began to overtake him...

At first there was nothing but darkness in his dreams; a comforting, all-encompassing blackness, not unlike the dimness of his cupboard. His whole world was peace and solitude and silence, and he embraced it, letting himself fall into it...

But then the world burst into color with a flash of green light and his mother’s familiar scream, and suddenly there was everything. The basilisk lunging towards him, aiming for the kill, and Tom Riddle’s awful smirk. The remnants of the horrible diary. An explosion of red and green as his and Voldemort’s spells collided, and the spirits of his parents emerged from the Dark Lord’s wand. Cedric’s body. The door in the Department of Mysteries. Sirius falling through the veil. And Harry’s own primal rage, enough to kill as he chased after Bellatrix Lestrange. Harry was there in the Ministry once again, heart pounding, lungs burning, as he set his sights on his godfather’s killer. He pointed his wand– no longer made of holly but instead carved from yew– and in a voice that sounded strangely unlike his own he bellowed, “Crucio!”

A high pitched scream tore through Harry’s mind as Bellatrix crumpled to the floor. The scene around him quickly warped, melting from the marble corridors of the Ministry of Magic into a small, dark cell. The Lestrange woman was writhing under his curse, begging for mercy that she would not receive. None of them would.

For the Dark Lord was furious. He would have what he wanted, even if it took torturing every one of his Death Eaters into insanity to get it.

“My Lord, please, please…” Bellatrix was begging, scrambling onto her hands and knees as she gasped for breath. “I am your most loyal servant– I kept my faith when others would not, I waited for you through all those years– I killed for you– lied for you–” she crawled towards him, reaching out to touch the toes of his boots.

Those words meant nothing now, he thought, looking at her with disgust as she dug her nails into the leather of his boots. He sent Bella sprawling onto the ground with a swift kick and rolled his wand between his fingers. “How can I know you are true to me when the one who betrayed us once spoke those very same words?”

“I will do anything for you,” she gasped out, “Anything, anything–”

Tired of her delirious moaning, Voldemort flicked his wand and she fell to the ground again, shrieking out in pain. As he watched her weak body convulse, a deep-seated rage began to fill him. Something had been taken from him. Stolen. And he was going to get it back–

Harry woke with white-hot pain blazing in his scar, his body uncontrollably shaking, and his sheets soaked with cold sweat. Bellatrix’s screams still rang in his ears. Clutching his throbbing forehead, he could barely breathe.

He did not sleep another wink for the rest of the night.