𝐢. 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐎𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐂 ; harry j. potter ( UNEDITED )

067. "wishing to become stronger, I cried"

"And what brings you here in the early hours of the morning?" said Phineas. "This office is supposed to be barred to all but the rightful headmaster. Or has Dumbledore sent you here? Oh, don't tell me..." He gave another shuddering yawn. "Another message for my worthless great-great-grandson?"

Harry didn't speak. He couldn't. Phineas Nigellus didn't know that Sirius was dead, but Harry couldn't tell him. To say it aloud would be to make it final, absolute, irretrievable. A few more of the portraits had stirred now. Terror of being interrogated made Harry stride across the room and seize the doorknob.

It wouldn't turn. He was shut in.

"I hope this means," said the corpulent, red-nosed wizard who hung on the wall behind Dumbledore's desk, "that Dumbledore will soon be back with us?"

Harry turned. The wizard was eyeing him with great interest. Harry nodded. He tugged again on the doorknob behind his back, but it remained immovable.

"Oh good," said the wizard. "It has been very dull without him, very dull indeed."

He settled himself on the thronelike chair on which he had been painted and smiled benignly upon Harry.

"Dumbledore thinks very highly of you, as I am sure you know," he said comfortably. "Oh yes. Holds you in great esteem."

The guilt filling the whole of Harry's chest like something monstrous. A weighty parasite was now writhing and squirming. Harry couldn't stand this; he couldn't stand being Harry anymore... He had never felt more trapped inside his own head and body, never wished so intensely that he could be somebody — anybody — else...

The empty fireplace burst into emerald-green flame, making Harry leap away from the door, staring at the man spinning inside the grate. As Dumbledore's tall form unfolded itself from the fire, the wizards and witches on the surrounding walls jerked awake. Many of them gave cries of welcome.

"Thank you," said Dumbledore softly.

He didn't look at Harry at first but walked over to the perch beside the door and withdrew, from an inside pocket of his robes, the tiny, ugly, featherless Fawkes, whom he placed gently on the tray of soft ashes beneath the golden post where the full-grown Fawkes usually stood.

"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, finally turning away from the baby bird, "you will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students are going to suffer lasting damage from the night's events."

Harry wanted to say "Good," but he knew that Dumbledore purposely left out one fact: There a damage that could never be mend. Regardless, it seemed to him that Dumbledore was reminding him of the amount of damage he had caused by his actions tonight, and although Dumbledore was for once looking at him directly, and though his expression was kindly rather than accusatory, Harry couldn't bear to meet his eyes.

"Madam Pomfrey is patching everybody up now," said Dumbledore. "Nymphadora Tonks may need to spend a little time in St. Mungo's, but it seems that she will make a full recovery."

Not everybody, Harry reminded himself, closing eyes, trying to calm himself. One was missing in that 'everybody'. And he was sure that none of his friends — only Neville — knew.

Harry contented himself with nodding at the carpet, which was growing lighter as the sky outside grew paler. He was sure that all the portraits around the room were listening eagerly to every word Dumbledore spoke, wondering where Dumbledore and Harry had been and why there had been injuries.

"I know how you are feeling, Harry," said Dumbledore very quietly.

"No, you don't," said Harry, and his voice was suddenly loud and strong. White-hot anger leapt inside him. Dumbledore knew nothing about his feelings.