"No." Dumbledore sat slowly back. "That is strange. There was article after article about his betrayal of James and Lily, of course, but all based on the fact that he was found laughing and crying at the scene where young Peter and the Muggles died. Laughing and crying and saying it was his fault." He looked at Harry then. "Why would he say that if he was innocent?"
"He might still feel like it was his fault even if he didn't directly betray them, sir. I know I've felt responsible for things that weren't really my fault."
And Healer Letham is working with me to change that. But that was the kind of thought that only needed to belong to Harry himself. Well, and maybe Healer Letham.
Dumbledore stroked his beard. "Now that you place it before me, Harry, I do feel shortsighted not to have recognized the problems with the claim of betrayal." He gave Harry a rueful smile. "I hope that Sirius will forgive me if it turns out that we all rushed to judge him in the court of public opinion instead of in the court of the Wizengamot."
"I hope so, too," Harry said. He was feeling a little more hopeful this time. Maybe Sirius would listen to Dumbledore, and stop stalking Harry, or hanging around in the background, or brooding on top of towers, or whatever he was actually doing.
"But in terms of the prophecy," Dumbledore said, "I would like to make sure that we are protecting you and training you to face Voldemort when the time comes."
Harry stared at him and blinked. Then he said, "Who's we?"
He hadn't thought of the question more than a minute or two before he said it. He thought, even as the words came out of his mouth, that his father would probably be proud of him.
Dumbledore said, "What?"
"Who's we, sir? You haven't offered me training before. Would it be you? Professor Lupin?" Harry grimaced in spite of himself. He really didn't want to learn anything from Professor Lupin except what he had to to pass Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Dumbledore seemed to see and misunderstand the grimace. "Professor Lupin is a good teacher, Harry," he said chidingly. "Or I would not have hired him."
"It's Mr. Malfoy, Headmaster," Harry said, staring at him. "And I'm sorry, but you hired Lockhart."
Dumbledore seemed utterly thrown for a long, long minute. Then he laughed, and shook his head ruefully. "Ah, Mr. Malfoy, I miss the days when students surprised me on a regular basis. But I actually meant not just professors here at the school, or me. During the war in which your p—the Potters died, I led an organization called the Order of the Phoenix. We were some of the few who dared to oppose Voldemort, whose very name evoked fear. I would like to call them back together and give you lessons in stealth, tracking, battle magic, and other spells that aren't regularly taught at the school."
Harry sat bolt upright, feeling a thrill run down his spine. "Brilliant! I can't wait to tell Draco, and Ron and Hermione—"
He paused, because Dumbledore was shaking his head. "What?" Harry asked, sure that this was going to turn out to be a disappointment.
"I'm sorry, but I cannot allow you to tell young Draco," Dumbledore said gently. "The word would get back to your father. And I am doubly sorry for this, but even with a son Voldemort was hunting, I cannot be sure that Lucius Malfoy would turn his back on his Dark Lord."
"I think he would," Harry whispered. "For me."
"He might try to persuade Voldemort to leave you alone or choose a different target. But I do not believe he would succeed. And when he failed, then he would have no reason not to pass on those secrets."
"When I'm dead, you mean?"
Dumbledore gave him a sad look, and a nod.
Harry swallowed. "I—sir, this just doesn't make sense. If Voldemort killed me despite all this training you'd be giving me, what would it matter that I'd had the training? What kind of secret would that be to pass on then? Who would care? Besides, I think Mother would castrate Father if he did something to cause my death."
"Entertaining as that image is, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said with a slight shake of his head, "I don't think your father would have a choice about fighting at Voldemort's side. The Dark Mark makes it impossible for his servants to turn from him."
"Then Father shouldn't have been able to tell people he was under the Imperius, either," Harry snapped. "I think that you don't really know this would happen, Headmaster. You just assume it would. And we've already seen what happens when you assume things about Sirius and me."
Dumbledore clasped his hands on his desk. "It's true that's an assumption," he admitted. "But Mr. Malfoy, I know more about fighting Voldemort than almost anyone else. I believe you need the training. And I believe that you cannot tell your family about it."
Harry thought for a second, longingly, about learning from a whole bunch of people like Tonks. Maybe Flitwick would have taught him how to duel. And a friend of Dumbledore's would teach him to be an Animagus. And Dumbledore would share powerful, mysterious magic with him like the kind that the Headmaster was always said to be able to secretly wield.
But Harry had to reject it. There was just no choice.
"Sorry, Headmaster, but no."
"You—Harry, please. I want to see you survive this war."
"And I can't do that if I turn my back on my family."
Dumbledore sat up at once, a brilliant, outraged light in his face. "You fear your father would kill you if you accepted my offer?"
"I mean, emotionally," Harry said, feeling weary to the bone. Dumbledore thought his family was evil, and so did Sirius, even though Harry was trying so hard to love Mrs. Malfoy and Mr. Malfoy and feel like part of their family. And his parents thought the Potters were evil, and Harry didn't know how he felt about them. But it seemed like no matter who he called Mother and Father, or Mum and Dad, someone would hate them, and tell him he should choose the other set.
"Harry—"
"I told you not to call me that, sir," Harry said, and got up and left the office, even though he hadn't been dismissed. He heard Dumbledore call after him, but he didn't actually try to keep him there. Harry supposed he could be grateful for that.
He rode the moving staircase down, his eyes closed and tears threatening beneath his eyelids.
....
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