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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 18: The Headmaster's Study
Harry climbed the spiral staircase one step at a time, his heart pounding louder than his footsteps.
The stairs wound upward through darkness, lit only by the occasional floating candle that bobbed gently in the still air. Portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses lined the walls, their unnatural eyes following him as he passed.
At the top of the stairs stood a heavy oak door with a brass knocker shaped like a griffin. The door was slightly ajar, and warm golden light spilled through the crack, carrying with it the faint scent of lemon and old parchment.
He raised his hand to knock.
"Come in, Harry," said a voice from inside before his knuckles touched the wood. It sounded warm and welcoming.
Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The office was shaped like a circle. It was large, but it seemed like every inch of space had been filled with clutter. In a way, it was as he had imagined, but at the same time… it was not.
Silver instruments sat on polished tables, making noises and producing small clouds of smoke. Some spun in place while others ticked like clocks set to an unknown rhythm.
Bookshelves lined the curved walls, stuffed with ancient tomes and leather-bound volumes of varied colours.
As he scanned the room, Harry took note of something important that was missing. Something that Albus Dumbledore was well known for having in his office...Fawkes, the phoenix, was nowhere to be seen.
He had an idea as to the reason for the mythical creature's absence, but right now, he had no time to dwell on such details. His eyes landed on the man seated behind the desk, in a high-backed chair that might have been a throne: Albus Dumbledore.
The old wizard was dressed in robes of pure white; there was not a single thread of colour anywhere. The fabric seemed to glow faintly in the candlelight, giving him an almost ethereal appearance. His long silver beard flowed down to his chest, and his half-moon spectacles sat low on his nose. When he smiled at Harry, his blue eyes seemed to twinkle.
But Harry had seen that twinkle before. It was nothing but a performance. A mask to cover his true persona.
"Please, sit," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a wooden chair facing his desk. "I hope my request to speak with you has not caused you much trouble." He rested his hand on a glass jar and moved it closer to him. "Would you like a sherbet lemon? I find they help calm the nerves."
Harry sat down. "No… thank you, sir."
Dumbledore nodded, taking a lemon drop for himself and unwrapping it with meticulous care. He popped it into his mouth and smiled again.
"You must be wondering why I asked you to come here."
"The letter said all first-years have an interview," Harry said carefully. "I assumed it was routine."
"A routine," Dumbledore repeated. "Yes, that is what we say in the letter. But the truth is that I only meet with a few new students every year. My time is reserved for the most exceptional cases. And you, Mister Potter, are one of those cases." He leaned forward, his blue eyes fixed on Harry's face. "You are the son of James and Lily Potter. Two of the finest people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. They were loyal, devoted, and gave their lives for the greater good without a second thought." He paused. "Which is why I have high hopes for you."
Harry kept his expression neutral. "Thank you, sir."
"Tell me a bit about your home life in London," Dumbledore said, settling back into his chair. "You were living with your aunt and uncle, I believe. Muggles, yes?"
Harry wondered why he would ask about something he must already know. After all, it was Dumbledore who had left him there as a baby. "That is correct, sir. Petunia and Vernon Dursley, and their son, Dudley."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "And how did they treat you?"
Harry thought of Petunia's warm hugs, of Vernon's bedtime stories, and of Dudley's toy soldier – the one he still carried in his suitcase. He was about to open his mouth when something told him not to share too many details with this man.
"They were… adequate," he said carefully. "They fed me and gave me a room."
"Adequate," Dumbledore repeated, his tone dismissive. "I suppose that is the best one can expect from Muggles, after all. They lack the capacity for true depth, as I am sure you understand by now. Their minds are… limited. It is not their fault, of course. One cannot blame a fish for being unable to climb a tree."
Harry was taken aback by the way Dumbledore spoke of Muggles. There was no hatred in his voice – it was something else, something more chilling.
"Ehm… do you have something against Muggles, sir?"
Dumbledore looked at him and laughed. "Against them? Goodness, no. That would imply they are considered worthy of opposition. One does not hate an insect, my boy. One simply… acknowledges its existence and moves on. That is all."
The Headmaster said it so casually, as if he were discussing the weather.
Harry's stomach turned as he understood the man's way of thinking.
This person was nothing like how he had imagined. He was not a Dark Lord in the same way that Voldemort had been in the original tale. He did not hate Muggles...this is because he did not care about them at all. They were beneath his notice. They were less than human.
When people start seeing each other in such a way, the most monstrous atrocities become easy to excuse. It was a very dangerous way of thinking.
But Dumbledore continued speaking as if nothing had happened. "Tell me, Mister Potter… do you mind if I call you Harry?"
Harry blinked a few times. "No…"
"Wonderful." Dumbledore smiled. "So, tell me something, Harry. Did your aunt and uncle ever speak to you about your parents?"
"My aunt didn't seem to like to talk about them," Harry said. "I know that they died while working for you."
Dumbledore's smile flickered for an instant. "I'm afraid it is not that simple, Harry. You may not know this because you grew up in the Muggle world, but before you were born, our society became entangled in a nasty war against forces of chaos and disorder, a war that claimed many good people. Your parents were among those people. They died while fighting for the greater good. You should be proud of that."
"I am," Harry tried to sound sincere.
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment. His eyes drifted to Harry's forehead, to the scar hidden beneath his fringe.
"And your scar… does it trouble you?"
'He knows about that too?' Harry was unable to hide his surprise. He had not expected the old man to ask about that. "My scar, sir?"
"Indeed. I assumed you would have realised by now, my boy. That scar you have hidden under your hair is not a normal one. It was created by dark magic, the type of magic that can leave traces behind."
Harry frowned. He had assumed that his scar was a normal one because it never bothered him and because in this world, Voldemort was not supposed to exist. So if it was given to him by the use of dark magic, the question was…
"Who?"
"Who gave you that scar?" Dumbledore seemed to ponder for a moment. "It was done by the same person who killed your parents, Harry. A very evil wizard whose name I will not speak in this place. Of course, you would not remember any of this, as you were still a baby."
"Who was it?" Harry asked. "What was his name?"
Dumbledore made a dismissive gesture. "That is not a pleasant topic of conversation, Harry. Perhaps we could talk about it in the future. Right now, all I wish to know is…" He glanced at the scar. "Has the scar been bothering you, or made you feel something strange… something that you cannot quite explain?"
Harry shook his head.
"Never?" Dumbledore's voice was soft.
For a second, Harry thought about the dream he had had during his last day at home. The dream about Dumbledore reaching for him with his bony fingers and saying, "You belong to me, Potter."
"Harry? Is everything alright?"
"Y-yes." He recovered his composure.
Dumbledore nodded. "That is very good news. But one never knows when that could change. We must monitor it closely."
'Monitor it,' Harry thought. 'Or use it to watch me?'
"I could not help but notice that the hat placed you in Slytherin," Dumbledore continued. "A very unusual choice for a Potter. Your parents were both Gryffindors, as you may know, as was the entire Potter line, as far as records go… all have been in Gryffindor."
"The hat felt it was the right fit," Harry said.
"And do you agree?"
Harry hesitated. "I think… I think I can learn a lot there."
Dumbledore's smile returned, but it did not reach his eyes. "Of course you can. I am sure you could have fit in any of the four houses. I was just a bit disappointed to see the last Potter break away from tradition."
"Sorry about that," Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I will try not to disappoint you, sir."
Dumbledore's eyes glittered. "I am sure you won't, my boy. I will be watching your progress with great interest."
'Of course you will,' Harry thought while avoiding looking into the man's eyes.
The interview continued for what felt like an eternity. Dumbledore asked about Harry's favourite subjects, about his friends, about his thoughts on the other houses.
Harry answered carefully, giving nothing away, playing the part of a confused orphan grateful for the Headmaster's attention.
But all the while, Dumbledore's gaze kept drifting back to the scar.
Finally, the old man rose from his chair. "I think that is enough for today, Harry. You have a long journey ahead of you. I have high hopes for you – very high hopes indeed."
Harry stood, his legs stiff. "Thank you, sir."
"One more thing," Dumbledore said as Harry turned to leave. "The scar. If it ever begins to hurt...if you ever experience something strange, you must come to me immediately. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." Dumbledore smiled again. "You may go."
Harry walked towards the door. As he reached for the handle, he glanced back at the desk and froze for an instant.
A small silver instrument sat near Dumbledore's left hand; its surface was gleaming. It looked like a cone, or perhaps a horn, with a series of delicate gears turning silently inside a glass dome. Thin wisps of silver smoke emerged from its tip, curling upwards into the air.
The smoke was not dissipating. It was forming shapes that looked almost like words.
Harry could not read them from this distance. But he knew, with cold certainty, that the instrument was recording their conversation. Every word, every pause, and every lie.
He turned and walked out the door, descending the spiral staircase in a daze.
McGonagall was waiting at the bottom, her arms crossed.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Ehm… good," Harry said. "He just asked me a few questions."
McGonagall studied his face. "Anything else?"
"And he said he has high hopes for me."
McGonagall nodded slowly. "That is… good. I think." She turned and began walking down the corridor. "Your next class is Charms, on the fourth floor. I will escort you. You are already late, so let's not waste time."
Harry followed her, his mind still spinning.
He knew that the interview had been nothing more than a trap. Dumbledore had been probing for weaknesses, for signs of rebellion, for any hint that Harry might not be the grateful orphan he was supposed to be.
'And he was watching my scar,' Harry thought. 'The whole time. He knows something about it. Maybe he put something in there.'
This was the man who controlled the magical society, and he seemed to have plans for him.
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