Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 4

Not Just With Swords

"To decide to be at the level of choice, is to take responsibility for your life and to be in control of your life." - Arbie M. Dale

***

It was inevitable. In fact, Harry had started to wonder about the balance of the universe. After all, he hadn't had one single problem or run-in with the Slytherin slimeball thus far in the school year, and that in itself was enough to make Harry feel a little off kilter.

So Harry was actually sort of relieved to see the Slytherin leaning casually against the wall outside the History of Magic classroom.

"Potter," he greeted, grey eyes narrowed.

"Malfoy," Harry returned.

"And, of course, the sidekicks." Malfoy barely glanced at Ron and Hermione before pinning Harry once again with those icy eyes. "I've been asking around about you, Potter."

Harry paused in the act of walking away. What on earth was Malfoy talking about? "What for? You already know all about me." Harry kept his back turned, carefully nonchalant.

"Oh, but I don't." He heard Malfoy shift, the whisper of his robes against the stone wall. "There are lots of things I didn't know about you until this summer. Things I'm sure you're very careful to keep out of the hands of your adoring public."

Harry did turn then, out of curiosity more than anything else. "Believe me, Malfoy, there are few things about me which would truly upset me should they appear on the front page of The Daily Prophet." Blatant lie, but at this point that was better than showing his mounting concern. There were quite a number of things Harry would rather Malfoy, let alone the entire wizarding world, never got wind of---the Dursleys and the nature of his life with them heading the list.

"Oh?" That lazy snarl, as if the very act of showing contempt were beneath him, "Even the fact that you're half mudblood?"

Ron growled, the color rising in his cheeks. For once, it didn't look like Hermione would be holding him back. So Harry stepped in front of them, facing Malfoy directly.

"Who cares? My mother had muggle parents, I knew that"

Malfoy looked momentarily confused, and Harry guessed he'd been preparing for an attack, whether physical or magical. "Who cares?" he repeated, attempting to regain his conversational footing. "Why, everyone cares. The Great Harry Potter, born the lowest of the low."

"No, Malfoy," Harry said, drawing himself up. "Only you care. You and your narrow-minded father and friends. Personally, I'm rather proud of it."

"You would be, wouldn't you? How sad for you, Potter--the only thing you have to take pride in is your mongrel heritage."

"At least I don't take pride in however many centuries of stuck-up bigots for ancestors," Harry shot back.

"At least I have a family to be proud of," Malfoy said.

Ron made a sudden forward motion, and Harry put all his weight into his grip on the redhead's arm. It was a good thing, too, for Harry's own blood was singing for retribution. Malfoy knew just which buttons to push by now, and his dead parents were one of the things most likely to set Harry off. "It's rather fitting if you think about it," Harry said, the muscles in his face beginning to hurt with the effort of restraining his snarl. "Me being me, my mother being Muggle-born." He risked releasing one hand from Ron and lifted it, sweeping aside his bangs and ghosting a finger along the length of his scar.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. Harry was pleased to find a button of his own to push, though there was little satisfaction in seeing anyone, even Malfoy, jumping to defend Voldemort's name. "Why you son of a--"

"Exactly." Harry smiled sweetly at the fuming Slytherin, then turned away in what he knew would be the ultimate insult. "Come on, guys. We need to get to Care of Magical Creatures," he said, throwing an arm around both their shoulders. He had to tug several times before either of them would really get moving, but they finally caught on and fell in step.

"Harry ... that was..." Hermione trailed off and Harry grinned. She was rarely stuck for words, and usually when it happened she was infuriated, not pleased.

"Bloody brilliant is what it was," Ron said, grinning happily. "I doubt he'll be bothering us again for a while."

"Harry, I'm really proud of you," Hermione smiled widely up at him. "Normally I'd of had to drag either you or Ron off before you got expelled for using an Unforgivable. But you just stayed calm and cool."

"Oh, I was itching to deck him a good one. But really, think about it. He has called you a Mudblood how many times? But in the beginning you didn't care just because you didn't know what it meant. You and I both know having muggle parents makes no difference for a witch or wizard, so why should we get so incredibly offended when someone calls us a name which really has no meaning?" Harry stopped and for the first time realized that both his friends were gaping at him.

"Blimey," Ron whispered, "the Hermione oratory is contagious."

That broke the spell and they laughed the rest of the way down to the front lawn where Professor McKinnon and the rest of the Gryffindors and Slytherins waited.

"Alright then," the Professor said, clapping enthusiastically. "Let's get started. I'm sure you all remember me from the feast, but I'm Filia McKinnon. I'll only be teaching you until the Christmas holidays when Mr. Hagrid will return, but I intend to make the most of our time together. Ah, and who do we have here? Late on the first day. That's not a good sign, young man."

Draco scowled nastily at her, pointedly ignoring the Gryffindors. "Draco Malfoy," he said, as if the name alone was enough to allow him any liberty.

Professor McKinnon looked unimpressed. "Well, Mr. Malfoy, it's Slytherin, yes?"

"Of course." Again the condescending tilt of the chin. Harry couldn't imagine speaking to any professor with such insolence.

"Well, that will be fifteen points from Slytherin for your tardiness and lack of manners. Please take your place with the rest of the class."

"I like her already," Ron muttered, watching with glee as Malfoy stomped over to Crabbe and Goyle, looking highly affronted.

"I liked her before she did that," Harry whispered back. "Don't know why. She just ..."

"Reminds you of somebody?" Hermione surprised them by joining the conversation. She usually wasn't one for whispering in class.

"Exactly," Harry said, nodding as Hermione put a name to the strange nagging feeling he'd been experiencing every time he looked at the new professor. "Don't know who, though." He cocked his head to the side, squinting at the professor as she outlined the course of their studies this term. "But it's not so much in looks. More ... the way she smiles at everybody, even Malfoy ... there's just something..."

"Yeah." Hermione gave their teacher a once over herself. "You see it, Ron?"

"Well, now that you mention it, yeah. But Harry's right. She doesn't look like anybody I know."

Harry watched McKinnon as she handed out parchment copies of their schedule of creatures. On closer inspection, he could see that his age estimate of the night before had been more or less accurate. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail and fell halfway down her back. It was streaked with silver, one of the few indications of her age. Her face was only slightly lined, her skin tanned and healthy looking. Her dark brown eyes danced with a seemingly endless supply of merriment, colored with the shades of great and varied experience. Over all, she looked like someone who had lived a good, fulfilling life, possessing her own secret stash of joys and triumphs and tragedies, just as everyone did.

"Yeah," he murmured to himself. "Something..."

***

That night, after dinner, the trio was lounging about the common room, idly chatting as Hermione devoured their transfiguration book.

"Inanimate to animate. Oh! That's so exciting! It will be fascinating to learn how one brings life to an object--"

"You think Moody will be anything like Crouch last year?" Ron cut in. Harry glanced at Hermione and was dismayed to see the flash of hurt in her eyes. He tried frowning at Ron, but his friend seemed oblivious.

"Who knows?" he contributed, though he was more than curious about that question himself.

"Oh, Harold?"

"I mean, he'd have to have really done a bang-up job pretending. Or else Dumbledore never would have thought he was the real thing," Harry said, stretching his toes towards the fire.

"Harry!"

He jumped, then glared halfheartedly at the twins. "No need to shout, I'm right here," he grumbled.

"You weren't answering," the one with slightly bushier eyebrows said.

"That's because you were calling Harold. That's not my name," Harry explained, frowning. He really despised the name Harold for some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Harry isn't short for Harold?" Hermione looked up from her book. "That's unusual. You're just Harry?"

"Herm, I don't think he's just anything," Ron pointed out.

Harry couldn't really figure out how to take that, so he just ignored it. "No, it's short for something. Just not Harold."

"Well, enlighten us," the less bushy twin said.

"Heron," Harry muttered, feeling his face heat a little.

"They named you after a bird of prey? That's cool!" Bushier grinned at him.

"Wow. Just goes to show how well you can know somebody while completely missing something," Hermione said, eyeing Harry closely. "Why don't you go by Heron? It's a pretty neat name."

"I--I don't know. I just never have. I don't think I'd remember to answer." Harry squirmed again. He really wished they'd drop the whole thing.

In truth, Harry had no idea why he'd been named Heron, and it did nothing but remind him how little he knew about his parents. He hadn't even known that his name wasn't really Harry until the Dursleys enrolled him in school and he'd caught a glimpse of his birth certificate. The Dursleys had never called him Heron, not even when they were very angry. Harry figured it sounded too unusual or strange to them. He wondered with a spark of interest if there was anything about his naming in his mother's things. But then he remembered his two failed attempts to go through the box. The first had ended with him staring blankly into the fire for half the day, and the second with a fit of blinding rage at the man-thing that had dared do this to him. The extremes of emotion had surprised him on both occasions, for Harry had never been one for great outbursts, even in private. He had simply weathered the storm, put it down to unresolved grief, and tucked the box away in his trunk for later exploration when he was ready.

"Anyhow," a twin said, cutting into Harry's thoughts, "we came over here for your vote."

"Excuse me?" Harry blinked. He'd thought they'd said he was immune to all beta testing for their pranks.

"For Quidditch Captain. You know, that person that drives us like slaves and wins us the Quidditch Cup?" The other twin pressed a folded piece of parchment and a quill into Harry's hands. "Just write down who you would vote for, except for Alicia. She says she would rather just be Head Girl."

Harry gazed stupidly at the paper. He really had no idea who would make a good captain. He couldn't vote for one twin without feeling bad for the other, which left only Katie and Angelina. He pondered for a moment, catching himself about to put the end of the quill in his mouth. This might seem legitimate, but that didn't mean he was about to let his guard down in front of the twins.

Finally, he just scribbled Katie Bell for the simple reason that she came first in the alphabet.

"Thanks, Harry." Bushier took his paper, and without even reading it stuffed it in a pocket. "Here ya are." Out of the same pocket he pulled something red and shiny gold ... something shaped like a lion rearing on its hind legs ... something Harry had seen countless times in his first three years at Hogwarts.

He accepted it and goggled. "What--I mean you didn't even--how can I--"

"Your vote was just a formality," Angelina said. Harry jumped when he realized the three chasers had come up behind him. "The decision had already been unanimously made by the team, and Wood's parting recommendation."

"Congratulations," Katie added, smiling sweetly at him.

"Go on, go on. Put it on." Less Bushy was bouncing as he spoke.

Harry carefully pinned the insignia of the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain to his robes, next to his Prefect badge. "I don't--I mean--thank you and--"

"We know." Alicia patted his shoulder. "And it's well deserved. Just say the word and we'll hop."

"Let us know when Keeper tryouts will be," Katie added over her shoulder as the Chasers departed.

"And when you have a practice schedule worked out with Madam Hooch and the rest of the captains," Bushier said, thumping Harry on the back and nearly knocking him over.

"Better you than us," the other put in, with accompanying thump.

"But I don't know--" Harry waved a hand helplessly. "I can't even--Wood always had these diagrams--"

"Oh Merlin, you aren't going to do the diagrams, are you?" a twin asked, horrified.

"Er, I really don't know," Harry said.

The other twin shuddered. "Just be sure you warn us before you, you know, go batty. That badge does something to people."

"Watch yourself," the other picked up. "Examine everything you think and do. The thing is insidious, I tell you." With that and a duel jaunty wave, they headed off, looking mightily pleased with themselves.

"I--sure." Harry was still slightly dazed after the twins had sauntered off, leaving the trio alone by the fire. Harry reached up and reverently touched the badge. It was very old, having been used longer than anybody could remember. Yet it shone like new and was something almost every student dreamed of wearing.

With that thought, Harry's head snapped around to regard Ron, sitting across the fire and gazing steadily at him.

"Robe getting a little full with all the badges, eh, Harry?" he said, his voice forcibly jovial.

"Er," said Harry.

"Congratulations." He could tell Hermione was restraining her grin for Ron's sake. "Just be sure your studies don't suffer for all the time you'll be planning and practicing and Merlin knows what else on that broom of yours."

Harry locked eyes with her and nodded his thanks. They both knew it wasn't just for the good wishes. In that moment, Harry became aware of something that he had previously only half known. It was a sort of silent pact between them, something unspoken and instinctive. When Ron was feeling left out, or even worse jealous, they automatically teamed up to soften the blow or cheer him up.

Harry's heart swelled with something enormous and unnamable. Just knowing that he had an ally in Hermione, no matter how Ron blustered or raged, was enough to soften the blow for him as well. He remembered her steadfast friendship the year before, when no one else in the school would so much as look at him. He realized for the first time that he had never thanked her, never told her what a gem she was.

But here and now, with Ron oddly silent between them and the rest of the common room bustling all around, was not the right time. Harry filed away the knowledge, bottled up that feeling he could not, he would not name. He put it all away for some other time when he could tell her in private and she would understand. Of course she would, she was Hermione.

***

Less than fifteen minutes later, Harry let out a sigh of relief as the portrait hole closed behind him. Despite Hermione's attempts to continue their lazy conversation, Ron was stubbornly silent. Harry finally couldn't stand it anymore and had taken his earliest opportunity to escape.

He made it to the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office in about five minutes at a quick trot. It was only then that he realized with a sinking feeling that he didn't have the password.

"Er, Pumpkin Pasty?"

Nothing.

"Every Flavor Beans? Lemon drops? Chocolate Frogs?"

"Skittles," a cheery voice called from down the corridor. Instantly the Gargoyle sprang aside revealing the tightly spiraling staircase behind.

Harry turned and greeted the Headmaster with a mock scowl.

"But that's a muggle candy! You cheated!"

Dumbledore chuckled and looked affectionately down at his student. Harry practically basked in the Headmaster's approbation, knowing instinctively that, once it was won, it was hard to lose.

"They're still quite tasty," Dumbledore said, gesturing Harry to precede him up the stairs. "And all those delightful colors."

"Hmm, I've never had any. Just seen them." Harry winced as he realized what he'd said. And of course Dumbledore caught it, and its significance.

"No, I don't suppose you'd ever been given candy before you came here." It wasn't a question. "Have you had any muggle candy?"

"Er," Harry was inwardly thankful for the time to think as they reached the top of the steps and entered the office. He noted in a sort of curious abstraction a stack of both opened and unopened boxes lining the wall to his right. Out of one of the open ones spilled a pile of papers, books, and assorted trinkets. It looked like someone was moving his office, but Harry doubted Dumbledore would be doing that. "I've had some," he replied to the Headmaster's question, then sought for another subject. "Hullo, Fawkes,"

"Well," Dumbledore said, his bright smile returning, "I happen to have a large supply of all kinds of sweets in here, and I'll have to insist that you try at least some of them."

"Oh, I really don't think that's such a good idea," Harry said hastily, settling in the chair before the Headmaster's desk. He'd been having the same trouble with his stomach, only more so. He didn't want to know what it would do with a heavy load of chocolate and preservatives.

Dumbledore frowned, studying Harry as he sat in the other chair, surprising Harry by foregoing his own seat behind the desk. Having Dumbledore so close beside him made him feel both warm and comfortable. "Why wouldn't that be such a good idea?" the Headmaster asked, and though his tone was casual, Harry saw the sharp attention in his eyes. "You look like you could use a little fattening up."

Harry's hand slipped unthinkingly to the front of his robes. Dumbledore was right. His ribs protruded as they rarely had before and his stomach was more concave than anything. "Oh, it's nothing. I'm just naturally small, I think. Anyway," Harry hurried to shift the topic, flailing about for a subject, "are you going somewhere?" He gestured at the boxes, only realizing the presumptuousness of his question after he'd asked it.

"No." Dumbledore looked as if he knew Harry was avoiding something, but as if he was willing to play along. "Those are actually from the Crouch Estate."

"The--oh." Harry cut himself off, his mind making the logical connections. The entire Crouch family was dead now, it stood to reason their possessions would be examined. Particularly since it seemed that Voldemort himself had spent part of the last year in their home.

"Anyhow," Dumbledore cast the boxes a somewhat distasteful look before returning his gaze to Harry, "what is it I can help you with, Harry?"

"I came up here to ask you a favor."

"Oh?" Dumbledore sat back, though still watching Harry with that chillingly perceptive look. Or maybe it was warming, Harry had yet to decide. "If I can at all help you, Harry, I of course will do so."

"Well, we're doing this project for our OWL in History of Magic, about a famous witch or wizard. My assignment is Godric Gryffindor. I'm sorry to have bothered you, I know how busy you are. I was just hoping you'd let me look at that sword I pulled out of the Sorting Hat in my second year. It has Gryffindor's name on it, after all." He faltered, for the first time really thinking about what he was doing here. He'd been so eager to escape the common room that he'd chosen to do something that at the least could wait months, and at most was only a flimsy excuse to enjoy the comfort that just being in Dumbledore's presence afforded him. Sure, he was very excited about this project, but this was ridiculous. He should just apologize and leave Dumbledore to his important work.

"Ah yes, I know about those projects," Dumbledore rose and crossed the room to where Harry could see the sword displayed in an elegant glass case. "And of course you can take a look at it. I suggest you make a sketch if you can." He turned and winked conspiratorially over his shoulder as the case opened at the touch of his wand. "A sketch might be the very thing to help pad out that long novel you're supposed to be writing."

Harry snickered despite himself. "You sound like me and Ron," he observed, watching with interest as Dumbledore returned to him with the sword flashing in his hands. The light in the room seemed to be attracted to the twinkling blade, flashing and bending about it beautifully. There was a sort of sharp fuzziness to the weapon, an unreality that was in itself more real than anything Harry could remember.

"Well, Harry, it may surprise you to know this, but I myself was once a teenager." Dumbledore carefully placed the pommel of the sword in Harry's hands, absently adjusting his student's hold to an easy, pliant grip suitable for the opening blows of a duel.

"When was that?" Harry asked, feeling bold and mischievous.

He was not disappointed as Dumbledore laughed outright. "Now that is something that I won't tell you. I think it might boggle the mind of a young man of your age." Dumbledore settled behind his desk this time, and pushed quill and parchment toward Harry. "Here you are. Feel free to take as long as you like." Their eyes briefly met, and Harry wondered if Dumbledore knew how much just sitting here helped him feel calm and at peace once again. Probably.

Harry accepted the writing utensils and set to work on a detailed sketch of the weapon in his hands. As he worked, he was surprised to hear the flapping of wings, and then to feel Fawkes settle on his shoulder. Looking up at the phoenix, Harry watched in amusement as the lovely creature regarded the sword on the desk with something like pride.

"I think your phoenix is a Gryffindor, sir," Harry observed, tentatively reaching up to stroke the brilliant plumage. He was gratified when Fawkes let out a beautiful, fluting note and arched into the touch.

"As if his coloring didn't give that away." Dumbledore looked at his familiar with unmistakable affection. "He was, after all, the one who brought you the hat, and thus that sword."

Harry made a soft affirmative noise, leaning close to the blade. He had just seen something, almost hidden by the glare of light on the blade. Tilting the sword, he squinted closely, then turned back to his sketch. He spent long moments carefully detailing what he'd seen, then looked back up at Dumbledore. The Headmaster was scribbling away with an enormous quill, the feather looking like it had come from a Hippogriff. Harry was loathe to disturb him, but he had said he would answer questions.

"Sir?" He tentatively pushed his sketch across the desk. "What does that mean?"

Dumbledore followed Harry's pointing finger to where he'd painstakingly copied the rune or glyph he had seen onto the correct position right where blade met pommel.

"Hmm." The Headmaster traced the lines with a long, weather-beaten finger. "To be honest, I have no idea. I've never seen it before on the sword. Then again I've never scrutinized the sword so closely." He took the blade Harry proffered and tilted it to catch the right angle. "Yes...most interesting."

"Do you know what language it is?" Harry sat forward, his natural curiosity sparked.

"It's oddly familiar," Dumbledore's voice was distant, contemplative. "As if I once knew, yet do not have the capacity to read it anymore." He at last returned the sketch with a sigh. "Ah well. If you are truly curious, Harry, I'm sure you could find something in the library."

"More padding?" Harry asked, the mischief still tickling his fancy.

"Just so. Are you finished?" Dumbledore took the sword at Harry's nod, returning it to its case.

"Thank you, sir." Harry rose and gathered his sketch. "I appreciate your time."

"Not at all, not at all. But do sit back down. I'd like to discuss a few things with you, since you're here."

Harry obeyed, curious. "What would you like to talk about, sir?"

"Oh, nothing of grave importance." Harry doubted that for some reason, but kept silent. "I just wished to thank you for the care you took this summer. Keeping your whereabouts as quiet as possible was very important, and you did an admirable job of restraining your ardor for flying during the day, as well as for the tempting prospect of a swim in the lake."

"It was nothing." Harry flushed slightly.

"Hmm," was all Dumbledore would offer in answer to that. He tilted his head to the side and studied Harry. Fawkes unfurled his wings and draped one about Harry's head. The long, shimmering feathers tickled his back and one fell forward over his eyes. Harry didn't dare disturb it. He felt something ... something tickling, tugging at the back of his mind. It was like something long sleeping was being prodded, asked to stir.

Shrugging off such odd notions, Harry simply regarded the Headmaster. "Was that all, sir?"

"Not exactly." Dumbledore smiled, obviously pleased with the way Fawkes had taken to Harry. "I'd also like to caution you about this year. I know in the past you've enjoyed a certain amount of freedom to do as you pleased. I'm sorry to tell you that those days died when Voldemort was reborn. You will have to take great care this year. I'd like you to be watchful, and not to be offended if you encounter certain individuals around your person more than usual. They are there only for your protection."

"Like bodyguards?" Harry was surprised by a flare of anger. "I would think that by now I'm not trusted to take care of myself."

Dumbledore looked momentarily taken aback, and Harry opened his mouth to apologize. But the Headmaster was faster. "I really am sorry, Harry, but it is necessary. Particularly this year of all years."

"Because Voldemort is back?"

"Partly, partly." Dumbledore looked contemplative for a moment, as if he were studying something he alone could make out. "But I will not recall the bodyguards, as you call them. And really, there will be no noticeable alteration in your routines. You might not even have known the difference had I not spoken to you."

For the first time in his life, Harry found the emotion and the force of will to question Albus Dumbledore. "Why, sir?" He caught the Headmaster's eyes and almost glared into them. "Why is it me? Why is it always me?" He knew he was sounding desperate, that he was almost whining but he couldn't seem to care. "I know you know something. Something that you are keeping from me. Please, sir, I need to know."

Dumbledore blinked. Then to Harry's great surprise and no less discomfort, those blue eyes shifted away from him. "I cannot, Harry." His voice was soft, regretful.

"But I need to know. If I am to fight, to take my place with the rest of the people you're bringing together, I need to know what my role is."

"And that is the heart of the matter." Dumbledore rose, pacing in agitation. "You cannot fight. Not yet. Maybe next year if things go as planned..." He trailed off and straightened his shoulders as he turned to face Harry again.

Harry noted in the back of his mind that Fawkes had removed his wing from over Harry's head and was now swooping towards his perch cooing in what could almost be called disappointment.

"What will change in a year?" Harry leaned forward, pleading silently for any enlightenment. He'd suspected for several years now that Dumbledore knew things about him, a suspicion which was only confirmed when he recalled that talk they'd had his first year when he was in the hospital wing. "A discussion for another time," Dumbledore had said then. Well, it was another time, and Harry wanted to have that discussion now.

"So very much, both you yourself and around you."

"But I need to do something. I can't just sit around." Harry traced the Headmaster's pacing figure closely. "In the past four years I've always just waited, let events happen around me and only acted to defend myself or others in the end. This year I want to be less passive. I want to help. I need to help." Harry was half-pleased to remember that this was his second impassioned speech of the day. Maybe Hermione really was infectious.

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded slowly. Harry smiled in relief. Dumbledore understood, as he always did. "I had a hunch you might say something of the sort. There are things you can do, Harry, but to be honest they may not be entirely to your tastes. They mostly involve a lot of reading."

Harry winced but squared his shoulders. "That's fine, sir. It may not be my favorite way of helping, but it's something."

"Well then," Dumbledore crossed to the boxes Harry had previously noticed. He bent, shifted some of them about and eventually turned back to Harry holding one of the smaller packages. "Here are the papers found in Barty Crouch Jr.'s possession. He apparently stored a large number of personal items in Alastor Moody's trunk."

Harry accepted the box with a nod. "I'm just to read them, Professor?"

"Read, and think. Anything you think may be of importance, anything that may help us track down Voldemort or even predict his movements."

"Alright. Thank you, Headmaster." Harry glanced down at the box, noting that it held a few books as well as loose papers.

Dumbledore took his seat again and turned back to his correspondence. "You're welcome. And now, Harry, I think it is past time you went back to your dorm and got some sleep."

It was a clear dismissal. Harry gathered his sketch and left, his mind spinning. He had never seen Dumbledore act like that, nearly distressed. If he didn't know better, he'd think the Headmaster was afraid. That look in his eyes, that impression he gave off of being in complete control, of knowing the course of the universe as a matter of fact had been absent. It was as if Dumbledore had only a little more understanding of the events around him than Harry did. That thought was enough to give Harry a cold, lost feeling and he quickened his pace back to the tower.