Daddy's Favorite

Why do people always insist on putting umbrella stands in such inconvenient places?

I was reflecting on this mystery of life (while picking myself up off the floor of 12 Grimmauld Place), when Moody's latest bellow cut through the air. "TONKS! HAVE YOU FALLEN OUT OF A WINDOW AGAIN?!"

"Coming Moody!" Honestly, some people have no patience! And besides, I caught myself didn't I?

I stop at the mirror and check my latest appearance. I'm experimenting with green and pink hair tonight. I'm rather proud of it. It's quite difficult to hold two hair colors at once. The mirror evidently is not impressed, judging by the rasberry sound it makes.

As I suspected, Dumbledore hasn't even arrived when I enter the kitchen. Remus Lupin is standing at the stove, brewing tea and looking mournful. He certainly has the right, but frankly he always looked mournful to me and I can't tell whether he's changed or not. Moody is propped up against the wall, eye rolling and mouth scowling. Arthur and Molly Weasley are sitting at the table, looking subdued. Both of them greet me quietly, as does Lupin. I can tell the Weasley's have been deeply touched by recent events. Molly doesn't even bother to raise a questioning eyebrow at my choice of hairstyles. Then again maybe she is just going easy on me because I am so recently recovered from the wounds I received in the Ministry of Magic.

I walk over and take a seat next to Arthur (I like Molly a lot but if I sit to close she is inclined to take that as a license to give advice). "When is Dumbledore supposed to be here?"

"Ten minutes ago!" Moody answers with a growl from the back of the kitchen.

"We don't really know," Lupin says in a much more civil tone as he brings the kettle around to fill our cups. "The Leavetaking Feast is tonight and he will have a lot to do. But he should be along any time now."

"Is that creature eating yet?" Moody asks.

"Buckbeak?" I sigh and shake my head, "Not a single rat. The poor thing misses Sirius so badly it's heartbreaking."

"Perhaps we should have Hagrid look in on him," Lupin suggests as he takes the chair next to Molly. "He belonged to Hagrid before he belonged to Sirius."

"I suppose he belongs to Harry now," Arthur says wearily. "For that matter, I suppose this whole house belongs to Harry - and Kreacher too." He gives a bitter laugh. I don't like the sound of it. Arthur Weasley is much too kind a man to laugh in that tone.

"Did Sirius leave it to Harry?" I ask.

"Who knows?" Moody snaps. "And besides, the man was still a convicted criminal!"

"I don't think that makes a difference as far as property goes Moody." Arthur says. "We will have to see what Sirius put in his will. He gave me a copy a short while ago for safekeeping."

"Me too," Lupin says smiling sadly. "It seems he didn't want to take chances. My guess is he left everything to Harry. Otherwise everything would go to his next of kin - that being his cousin, Narcissa Malfoy."

"I certainly hope he left everything to the boy," Moody says, his voice suddenly much gentler. "If love has anything to do with it, that would be the just thing." He suddenly seems to realize what he just said and blushes. "Besides," he continues in his normal half-roar, "I'm looking forward to seeing the look on Narcissa's face when she finds out the Black family property just got yanked out of her greedy clutches and plopped into the hands of Harry Potter!"

"I would be more interested in seeing Lucius' face." Arthur offers.

"Him too," Moody nods. "Maybe they'll do us a favor and line up for a family picture - Narcissa, Lucius, and that brat of theirs."

"Draco," I volunteer.

"Yeah, him. Turning him into a ferret was one good idea Crouch had, anyway." Suddenly Moody looks and my hair as if seeing it for the first time and winces. "What on earth are you trying to do this time woman!? Just when I thought I had seen everything!"

"Hardly," I chuckle. "You know what they say about a Metamorphmagus. If you ever see the true face of one, you'll be turned to ash."

"Do they now?" Moody growls.

Actually I made that one up, but it sounds awfully good, so I nod enthusiastically.

Just then a soft roaring announced that someone is about to arrive by floo. I turn to the fireplace just as Albus Dumbledore steps out of the smoke. I see that he is already dressed in some of his finer robes, so he must be counting on going to the feast almost immediately after our meeting.

"Hello everyone," he says in a weary voice. He moves to his usual spot at the head of the table. But rather than take his usual chair he slides it to one side and materializes a rather poofy cushioned thing with a couple of lazy wand movements. Then he sits down heavily and, to my shock, places his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands.

I am taken aback. The omnipotent headmaster of my school years, the champion of light, the head of the Order of the Phoenix, the greatest wizard of the age, the man who recently fought the Dark Lord into retreat while chiding him like a schoolboy, is acting like a tired, sad old man.

Something uncomfortably like fear coils cold fingers around my intestines.

After a few moments of what seems like absolute silence he raises his head and re-settles his half-moon glasses on his nose. His smile is kindly as always, but so very, very tired. "Forgive me friends. It has been a very difficult week for us all."

Actually I have been hearing more than I have been doing. The ministry is in an uproar and the Order is awaiting new intelligence before making definite plans. Still, I can appreciate what it must be like for Dumbledore, newly returned to his school after facing the Dark Lord at the Ministry.

"Is Minerva going to join us? And what about Kingsley and Severus?" Arthur asks.

"Kingsley is detained on duties for the Ministry. As for Minerva and Severus - I am not sure they are the best people for this particular task."

Arthur accepts that with a shrug.

"Actually, in a way this isn't Order business at all. It is more in the way of a ... personal favor." Dumbledore folds his hands on the table and looks down, idly tapping his fingertips together.

"What do you want Albus? Just ask." Moody interjects, his voice perhaps slightly less rough than it would be with most people.

"I know you all get tired of hearing me say this, but I'm worried about Harry."

I for one don't get tired of hearing him say it, because I think he has reason to worry about the kid. Harry's already been through more than most people face in entire lifetimes, and he has the Dark Lord after him to boot. What's not to worry about?

"Possession again?" Arthur Weasley asks, his voice tense with concern.

"No, I think after his experience in the Ministry Voldemort will be reluctant to try that again immediately. I am worried about more mundane problems." He looks up with a sober expression.

When you are a Metamorphmagus, you learn a lot about faces and body language. You have to in order to properly control and channel your own talents. After a while, you can read things easily other people would not notice. Therefore I am sure that no one else in the room took note of the small twitch near Dumbledore's jawline, or the slight tension in his wrists.

I have never tried to "read" Dumbledore before so I study him more carefully with a delicious feeling of doing something slightly naughty. But that feeling goes away quickly when I note the tightness of the skin at the corners of his eyes, the slight hint of a ragged edge around two of his fingernails, and two blue throbbing veins in his neck nearly hidden by the collar of his robes.

He is good. Oh he is very, very good. But I have absolutely no doubt.

Dumbledore is not just worried, he is shaken and deeply fearful.

I feel bile rise in my throat and swallow hard. Dumbledore is not supposed to be fearful. Dumbledore is supposed to be the great wizard. Dumbledore is supposed to be the mighty leader.

Nevertheless, something has him quivering in his boots.

"What is it about Harry?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Is Harry OK?" Remus says fearfully. "He isn't taking this well, is he?"

If you are so concerned - I think uncharitably - you might try getting off your furry rear and checking things out yourself. Ironically for a werewolf Lupin has a pronounced streak of passivity in his character - and frankly I do not find it particularly appealing.

"No," Dumbledore says quietly, "he is not."

"Well," why I am taking the lead in this conversation I don't know, "what has he said to you about it?"

"After the - vigorous discussion - you mean?"

I nod. I really don't understand why everybody was so effing surprised at that. I mean you take a boy who's been neglected for ten years, tell him he's a wizard, and run him through a gauntlet of dangers for four years in a row. Then to top it all off you spend a year telling him nothing while some slug from the Ministry tries to get him expelled and the Daily Prophet runs articles every other day calling him either insane or a liar. Oh, and you give him a lifetime Quidditch ban as a bonus prize. All things considered I wouldn't have been surprised if he had blown up long before now.

Frankly I blame McGonagall. For a woman who's spent more than twenty years as the Head of a House packed with adolescent boys, she did a stunningly bad job of running interference on this one.

Then again, Minerva and I never did quite agree on most things.

"Harry and I have not talked since then. I fear he does not wish to be in my presence." Dumbledore's throat muscles tighten spasmodically. His fingers flex just slightly, as if wanting to clench. His jaws slide against each other ever so slightly.

All signs of extreme emotional pain viciously suppressed.

Now why would Albus Dumbledore be in extreme pain because he thinks Harry does not want to talk to him?

"Are you saying the boy is falling apart?" Moody's voice is gentle again. He has come up to the table and taken the chair Albus pushed aside. "Does he need to go to St. Mungo's? I know some people we can trust Albus. There's no shame in it. And heaven knows it's understandable after all Harry's been through."

"I don't know. And I don't think we can take the chance, anyway." Dumbledore is trying to talk briskly, but it sounds like there is something in his throat. "I think for now we have to try to help Harry ourselves."

"Like we did last summer?" That's Molly, and I'm surprised at the coldness in her tone.

"Molly," Dumbledore's eyes are dark with sorrow, "I made many mistakes last summer."

"Yes you did Albus!" No one can get into a rage like Molly, and she's working into one now. Already her face is going the color of her hair. "You kept coming up with excuses to keep him there! And what did it get him? Very nearly a Dementor's kiss!"

Dumbledore then does something I never thought I would see. He drops his gaze like a child being scolded. "I wanted to keep him safe," he says so softly I can barely hear.

And then I understand. It all fits into place so neatly I almost kick myself (I've done that by the way, but not on purpose). Dumbledore loves the boy. I'm so taken with the revelation that I barely hear Arthur quieting Molly.

I look at the old wizard now with a sudden flood of warmth. So that is what all this is about! Albus Dumbledore, Great Wizard of the Age, has decided he loves a fifteen-year-old boy and he's worried sick about him. Well, good for Dumbledore! Harry is a sweet kid, and goodness knows he needs all the love he can get, especially with Sirius gone.

I suspect Dumbledore hasn't TOLD Harry he loves him though. He strikes me as somebody that would be terribly silly that way. Well, first things first.

"What do you want us to do, Headmaster?" I ask gently.

"Harry isn't treated very well by his relatives," he says softly.

"You can say that again," Arthur Weasley replies with a growl that would do Moody proud, "I've said time and again Albus that we would be glad for Harry to live at the Burrow."

"And I wish he could." Albus shakes his head, looking even sadder if possible. "There are reasons he has to stay with his relatives part of the year. Reasons having to do with his safety. I honestly don't know if I made the right decisions, years ago. But with Voldemort back we can't do anything to compromise any refuge Harry might have."

I don't understand. Why would Harry be safe at a muggle house? But we are in the realm of High Wizardry now, and there Dumbledore is master and I trust him completely.

"Still, I do regret and repent of much I have done. I feared to interfere there because I did not want to compromise the refuge. I feared and dithered and delayed, and Harry suffered. Oh yes, he suffered," Dumbledore's eyes grow so dark they remind me of thunderheads, "suffered more than any child should ever have to suffer. But now I can dither no longer. Harry is wounded. He is wounded and tired and alone, and I will not have him treated like vermin!"

I want to cheer. I have not known Harry as long as the others, but the stories I have heard about his treatment at Privet Drive make me long to hex someone.

"What do you want us to do Albus?" Moody asks, grinning.

"I want you to meet Harry when he gets off the train tomorrow. I want you to confront his relatives. I want you to make clear to them that we WILL keep tabs on Harry, and they WILL treat him decently, or the consequences will not be appealing."

"I think we can do that," Moody says.

"Gladly." Arthur's grin is actually almost feral. He looks more like a werewolf than Lupin.

Molly nods fiercely, looking like she will deal physically with any muggle who dares object.

I nod as well.

Dumbledore forces himself to relax. "In that case, I will have a little tea then be going."

We rapidly break down into meaningless chitchat after that. I sit and stare at Dumbledore.

So you love Harry Potter? And I would bet a hundred galleons you don't have the courage to flat out tell him as much. It's really rather comic, and immensely sad. The destroyer of Grindlewald, the man who just went ten rounds with Voldemort, is afraid to tell a fifteen-year-old boy that he is loved.

The problem is that boy needs to know he is loved so very badly.

I am still thinking about this as we begin to break apart. Moody has a mission tonight. Arthur and Molly must get back to the Burrow to prepare for their childrens' return. As Dumbledore rises and approaches the fireplace to floo back to Hogwarts I approach him on impulse.

"Headmaster, a quick question about tomorrow."

"Certainly Nymphadora," he knows I hate the name and smiles to take the sting away. This is the Dumbledore I remember. "What is it?"

"If the Dursleys are stubborn, what should we do?"

"I doubt they will be. They are essentially cowards." He grabs a handful of floo powder.

"But what if they ARE," I ask, pressing the issue, "I mean, they probably know by now we won't threaten to kill them. I mean, what do we say if they as 'What are you going to do, kill us?'

Dumbledore pauses and lets out a deep sigh. He stares at the fireplace. I recognize his stance easily. It is the posture of someone lost in bad memories. Make that very bad memories.

"Tell them Nymphadora," he says at last without looking up, "that there are many worse things in the world than dying." Then he looks up at me for a brief moment, turns and floos away.

I walk slowly back to the kitchen table. Remus is busily washing up the tea things. He asks me something, but I don't hear him.

I am remembering his face.

I don't know why it happened. Certainly he didn't intend it to. I think he was too tired. Too tired and too sad and too overcome with love and fear and anger.

For one brief instant, less than a breath, all of his masks slipped at the same time. For just a single flash, all of the veils came aside.

And in that instant I saw the true face of Albus Dumbledore.

And I was not turned to ash, but something worse happened.

In that briefest of moments I saw how he truly feels about Harry Potter.

In that moment I saw what he would like to do to the muggles who have hurt his beloved child so badly for so long. I saw what he is restrained from doing only be his decency, by his years of service to the light, and by the fact that he blames himself before all.

I saw what he meant when he said many things in this world are worse than death.

And now I have to go to my room and start thinking about what I will say to the muggles tomorrow. Because I won't sleep.

No, I won't be sleeping for a very long time.