Disclaimer: All of the credit for this wonderful Harry Potter universe go to JK Rowling, and I do not claim ownership for any characters, names, places, spells, etc. that originated from her novels.

A/N: This is an alternate-universe from HBP. It's meant to be a 2 or 3 chapter mini-story, and it explores the possibility of Harry not responding to Dumbledore's letter that was sent to him at Privet Drive before his sixth year. Dumbledore's letter is in JK Rowling's words, taken directly from Half-Blood Prince.

Come Back to Me

Chapter 1

Privet Drive

Hedwig's large, topaz eyes gazed at the short span of parchment on the floor. It was dimpled and smudged as though it had been crumpled up and smoothed over multiple times. Due to the repeated handling, the crisp parchment had softened until it was the texture of thin, supple leather. The once elegant, slanted handwriting now lay dull and blurry, yet the letter's contents were still legible.

Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven P.M. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.

If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,

I am, yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Indeed, her wizard companion had read and reread the message the day it arrived and then had let it lay, forgotten for the past couple of days. He had not written a reply. He had not asked her to send anything. She clicked her beak and ruffled her feathers anxiously, sensing that the abandoned letter had some kind of significance. There was an air of necessity and urgency surrounding the neglected message, as though there was a deadline that her master had been expected to abide by…and had allowed to expire.

Now she perched bracingly on top of her cage, watching and waiting for something to happen.

She did not have to wait long.

"Who the blazes are you?"

Vernon Dursley barked at the tall, slender figure before him. The man wore sleek, ebony robes and matching cloak that seemed to glimmer in the late evening starlight.

"Ah, yes, of course, Mr. Dursley, I admit we are quite unacquainted." The man inclined his head politely. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Albus Dumbledore, and Harry's Headmaster at Hogwarts."

At this admission, Vernon Dursley stared blankly at the stereotypical wizard who had dared to be on his doorstep on a fine, Saturday evening.

"Why are you here?" he asked suspiciously.

"I have come to see Harry."

"Vernon, what—" Petunia Dursley had entered the foyer, pulling cleaning gloves off of her hands, clear astonishment painted on her face as her eyes scanned the wizard from top to bottom.

"He's come to see about the boy," he called over his shoulder and then straightened himself up to his considerable height, which seemed to be quite lacking in comparison to Dumbledore.

"Look, Mr. Dummelbore, I need you to know that the boy's condition has nothing to do with us. We have left him alone this summer and therefore his behavior is due to his own fault and not ours."

"To what condition are you referring?" Dumbledore asked briskly.

Vernon Dursley's face turned scarlet. "That boy—he—well—he's sulking is what he is!" He nodded his head self-assuredly. "Yes, he has shut himself away in his room. We didn't do anything to him! It's some kind of temper-tantrum, adolescent rebellion—"

"My purpose here is not to castigate you for his present behavior, though I feel that I should for the maltreatment you have inflicted upon him in the past," the mage paused, his eyes gleaming. "Alas, I am not here to address your behavior, although I know that one day you will have to answer for it one way or another. I am here, however, to entreat a visit on Harry. I must insist that I enter your house and see to your nephew. I assure you that nothing will be put out of place during my presence."

The round-faced man's nostrils flared out, making him look like a bull ready to charge. Losing all sense of rationality or caution, he bellowed, "I DON'T CARE! YOU ARE TRESPASSING! I SHOULD CALL THE—"

But his voice faltered as he gazed at the suddenly sharp features on the old wizard's face. The wizard's eyes burned over his glasses as his voice grew dangerously soft, "I assure you, Mr. Dursley, that if you should contact your police force, the end result will not be to your liking. I have high respect for your law enforcement, though they can easily be subdued and dissuaded from getting involved in magical matters."

Both Dursleys paled, reflecting open fear.

Albus Dumbledore stepped closer to them. "I would prefer not to use force, but that is not my choice to make. It is yours."

Vernon eyed the wizard, at his authoritative posture and piercing eyes. His own beady eyes kept flicking between the older man's hands and his face, as though trying to see whether the man was going to make a sudden move to pull out his wand on them.

"Come in," Vernon Dursley croaked, stepping aside. Petunia nodded vigorously behind him.

"How very sensible of you," Dumbledore said, stepping into the foyer, his robes swishing as he moved. "My thanks."

Dumbledore glanced up at the staircase, where a frozen, blonde boy, the size of a baby hippopotamus, clutched at the railing with both fists. "Ah, you must be Dudley," he said, tipping his hat. Said boy gave a muffled squeak and fled up the stairs, the door slamming in the distance a few moments later.

"Please leave him out of this," Petunia whispered, her hand gripping her husband's forearm in clear tension and perhaps restraint, while Vernon's face went from cherry-colored to custard-colored to plum-colored in two seconds flat.

"I have no intention of involving your son in these matters," Dumbledore said, his voice taking on a kinder edge.

"Now," the wizard clapped his hands together. "Please lead me to Harry's room. I wish to speak with him."

"And then what?" Vernon grunted harshly.

"And then we will both leave," Dumbledore replied glibly.

"I will take you there," Petunia said meekly. Her face was very drawn.

"Make sure he doesn't touch anything," Vernon hissed rudely.

Pretending he didn't hear that last comment, Albus Dumbledore followed Petunia up the stairs.

Harry burrowed his head further into the pillow, trying to block out the noises from downstairs. Uncle Vernon seemed to have gone off on a long rant regarding something or other. He had heard Dudley scamper up the stairs, his heavy footfalls making Hedwig's cage rattle. Dudley was behaving more and more strangely this summer, Harry had observed offhand.

Harry had hardly left his bed these past couple weeks except for short trips to the bathroom and the occasional bite to eat from the kitchen. He only ate a small meal every few days when the gurgling hollowness of his stomach became too loud for him to bear. Even so, after half a sandwich or a handful of crisps, the nausea would slither up from its den and prevent him from taking in anymore sustenance.

He wasn't ill, at least not in the typical fashion. He didn't have a fever or runny nose. He wasn't throwing up either. He just felt tired and hollow and like everything around him was wrong, out of balance. The world was wobbling off of its axis and the only place he could ground himself was in his bed. It was his lifeboat in a storm-tossed ocean of circling sharks. Sometimes he pretended that if he took one step off of the bed, then the Death Eaters would come and take someone else from him. A spark of red light and a fluttering veil...

He would not say his Godfather's name. He couldn't. He would say "Voldemort" all he wanted. He would bellow it from the London Eye and inside the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, but he would not say his name. No, his Godfather's name must be hidden, locked safe, buried in the deepest chamber of his soul. He would protect it there, cradle it, where it was his alone.

He pulled his covers over his head with one hand, and brought his knees up. It was sweltering beneath the blanket, even though it was nighttime. Harry didn't care. The heat made him feel floaty and sleepy and he savored the bits of twilight sleep he would get before the nightmares swooped in like vultures.

Harry flipped over to his other side, giving his left hip a break. He was experiencing more and more body aches, courtesy of his thin, unforgiving mattress. Sometimes, he would toss and turn for hours, contorting his body until he could find a bearable position.

He was facing the wall now, the olive wall like congealed, vertical split pea soup. Bemusedly, he wondered if peas and olives were made in the dye used in paint. Maybe he could crush up some peas and slather them on the wall to compare the color. He lifted his hand, finding the movement to be difficult. Sometimes, moving seemed to be too much of a chore. His body was so leaden and reluctant. His hand shook and felt jittery. He traced his finger on the grainy texture of the olive wall. His hand shivered again and he tucked it under the warmth of the blanket, crossing his arms. He rested his cheek against the cool wall. He could almost smell the olives and peas.

The thought of food made him feel suddenly queasy and he let his mind wander to safer topics, like warm blankets and gentle breezes and Hedwig's soft feathers.

The headmaster's eyes swept over the dimly lit corridor at the top of the stairs, taking in the numerous framed portraits of Dudley Dursley, arrayed on the wall like quilt squares.

Petunia's voice was hushed, as though they were approaching someone on their death bed. "My nephew's room is through the last door on the right." She paused. "He has hardly come out at all."

"And you did not think to check on him? Or at least to contact one of us?" Dumbledore's soft voice was heavy with disapproval. He noted a distinct trembling in Petunia's frame and decided to drop the matter...for now.

He turned to her. "You need not accompany me any further, Petunia."

While waiting for Petunia to return to the ground floor, Dumbledore noticed the door on the left was open a tiny crack. A sliver of Dudley Dursley's wide-eyed face was framed there. Dumbledore winked at him and pushed on the door on the right-hand side.

The door creaked open. The untidy, stuffy room's only occupant lay on his side atop his bed. The teenager faced the olive-colored wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and with his legs tucked up slightly.

The boy seemed not to have heard his door open, or perhaps, had simply chosen not to respond. He lay perfectly still, his eyes half-closed. His breathing was even, though not slow enough to indicate sleep.

"Harry?" Dumbledore's voice rang soft and gentle as a petal landing on water.

The teen did not respond at first, except for a slight pause of his breathing. Finally, a voice roughened by dryness and lethargy murmured, "You're here." Harry's voice tilted higher ever so slightly at the end of the words, indicating a faint questioning tone.

He didn't turn his head, but merely continued looking into the wall.

Dumbledore strode further into the room, grabbing a chair and settling himself close to Harry's bed.

"Why are you here?" Harry whispered. He still had not turned.

"Are you surprised by my presence?" Dumbledore intoned softly. "Did you think that your lack of response would prevent someone from checking on you, talking to you, or simply wanting to be near you? Did you think you could shut yourself away from those who care?"

Harry took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose. His shoulders were hunched. "Please leave me alone," he whispered.

"No," Dumbledore said matter-of-factly. "You have been alone for far too long, and you will not get rid of me so easily."

Harry sniffed, a barely noticeable trembling coursing through him. "Please," he exhaled, his voice thick with emotion.

Dumbledore felt his heartstrings constrict at the boy's tortured tone, but he knew he would not give in.

"Not a chance, dear boy. You remarkable boy. I cannot allow you to go through this alone. The world needs you."

The headmaster's voice was warm and soft. Harry let out a very small sob at Dumbledore's words, then bit his lip to stifle any others from slipping out.

"'Cuz of the prophecy," Harry trailed off.

"No, because you are loved."

Harry felt hot tears flood down his face at that.

"Please look at me," Dumbledore said sadly, needing to see Harry's eyes. He wouldn't dare use Legilimency. That would be inappropriate in this situation. No, he knew how vital to Harry's well-being this conversation was and he needed eye contact to convince him. Dumbledore felt such a strong urge to prove himself to the boy, to prove that he cared and that life was worth living.

There was an awful silence punctuated by Harry's hitched breathing. Harry had heard the headmaster's request, but wasn't sure how to respond. He was comfortable here like he was. He didn't want to face Dumbledore and the world. The world was cruel to him and traitorous. Better to ensconce himself in the bed where the blankets embraced him, kept him warm and safe and away from prying eyes and people that would get hurt because of him. The olive wall was safer, solid and rational. A barrier, not just physically but emotionally as well.

Dumbledore waited patiently, but after about five minutes, when Harry still had not turned to him, he continued speaking. "Within the past fortnight, I have received letters and fire calls from the following people who expressed their concern for you: Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Remus Lupin, Rubeus Hagrid..."

"No, no, no," Harry muttered, curling a little tighter beneath his blanket. He didn't want to hear this! Dumbledore continued onward, despite Harry's obvious discomfort. He needed to remind Harry of the very real people who wanted him to come back. He needed Harry to hear their full names, put faces to the names, and realize that there were people who missed him. He knew that Harry missed them, too, but he either feared to put them in danger or refused to allow himself to feel. Or most likely, it was a combination of both.

He pressed on, even as Harry began hyperventilating. "...Professor McGonagall, Nymphadora Tonks, Alastor Moody, Fred and George Weasley, Ginny Weasley,..."

Harry was screaming internally, imagining his friends in the room as Dumbledore uttered each of their names in his calm, even tone. The Death Eaters were going to get them. They would get snatched up and eaten or caught in the undertow of the Prophecy and it would be all his fault...all his fault...

The rippling veil...

Sirius, he had screamed. Sirius! As poor, sad Remus held him back, held him back from joining his Godfather into oblivion.

His name! His name! Harry clawed at the blankets, imagining they were Remus's hands restraining him as he tried to reach Sirius.

"Stop it!" Harry hissed, and arched his back, ripping the blankets off of him and then blindly slamming himself forward into the olive wall. There was a sickening thud that drowned out Dumbledore's voice. Lights blazed in front of his eyes like firecrackers and a shooting pain crackled across his skull. Hedwig squawked loudly from her perch.

Immediately, strong hands grabbed him by the upper arms and pulled him backwards. Harry kept his eyes screwed up as he felt himself get maneuvered until he was propped up onto something soft. Dimly, over the pounding in his head, he felt one arm curl bracingly across his chest and a palm press against his forehead, right where the pain was emanating.

Harry expressed his disapproval with a growling, pain-filled cry.

"I know, Harry," Dumbledore said in his outwardly calm voice. "Be still!" he added when Harry tried to squirm out of his grasp. On the inside, the old mage felt shock and panic bubble through him. Harry had hurt himself. Harry had caused himself physical harm, and the situation was far more serious than he had anticipated.

As soon as Harry had flung himself at the wall, Dumbledore had jumped from his chair and grabbed him reflexively, easing and restraining the teen against him. Dumbledore was sitting on the edge of the bed, near the foot, but facing the headboard. Harry's head was cradled on his lap, his feet on the pillow, as Dumbledore rested his hand soothingly in his hair.

Harry was still hyperventilating, softly, and Dumbledore took stock of his condition. His face was gaunt and wan, the skin almost waxy in appearance. The emerald green eyes were hidden beneath purple, sleep-deprived eyelids. Additionally, it was very apparent that Harry had lost weight. The blades of his rib cage pressed uncomfortably against Dumbledore's forearm. He removed his hand from the knut-sized lump that had risen at Harry's hairline.

"Just keep breathing, Harry," he reassured. "Slow yourself down. I will help you."

Harry wanted to nod, succumbing to the headmaster's words, but he knew that the slightest millimeter of head movement would escalate the pain to something unbearable. He sniffled instead, allowing himself to be soothed, just this once, though. The physical pain was miserable, but it also grounded him.

Dumbledore reached for his wand and cast a couple of basic diagnostic spells, frowning at the colorful runes and sigils that glowed over various parts of Harry's body. Harry suffered from an acute concussion, malnourishment, heart palpitations, dehydration, and muscular cramping.

Those would all have to be addressed, but first he pressed the tip of his wand against Harry's temple.

"A pain relieving spell, Harry," he said gently.

"Don't want it," Harry slurred, swatting his hand clumsily against the wood. He needed to be alone...And all the while, small bursts of pain skittered across his skull.

"Not negotiable, Harry," Dumbledore said calmly, and Harry detected an underlying steel overlapping the warmth in his voice. He dimly sensed that he would not win this argument against the headmaster.

"The fact that your face is all scrunched up tells me that you are experiencing some degree of discomfort, and if it were I who had a lump the size of a strawberry on my head," the headmaster added, "I would want a pain-relieving spell."

As he spoke, Harry felt the tip of the wand circle counter-clockwise against his hair. A cool sensation started just above his right ear and trickled through the rest of his head. His throbbing nerves soothed into gentle aches and then to a cool numbness. The scent of menthol permeated the air and Harry felt it clear his sinus passages as well. He didn't fight it, and when a soft groan escaped his throat at the same time as warm tears of relief leaked out of the corners of his eyes, he didn't even find himself to care. His fingers slackened in the bedding and he felt himself sink even lower into the mattress.

Distantly, he felt Dumbledore raise his shoulders and head off of his lap, and a pillow was whisked underneath him, the linen felt cool against the back of his neck. The protruding springs creaked as the headmaster rose.

"Goodness, Harry, how could you ever sleep on such a bed?" he muttered.

Harry opened his eyes to see Dumbledore hovering over him, his blurry face inverted. "Do you know where your glasses are?"

"No...lost them," Harry murmured tiredly. He enjoyed his room more without the glasses to be honest. The colors and shapes were softer, less edgy and all melty like ice cream.

"Ice cream.," said Dumbledore thoughtfully, and Harry realized that he must have spoken those last thoughts aloud.

"Are you still with me, Harry?" Dumbledore's voice was concerned. "Here are your glasses." Harry felt Dumbledore place them in his right hand.

Harry looked down at the round frames. "Where'd you find them?" he asked, bemusedly.

"Summoning Charm, Harry. Why don't you put them on? It would be nice to see clearly, wouldn't it?"

"Don't need them. I'm not going anywhere," Harry said, a little louder.

Dumbledore sighed inwardly. This was the most uncooperative he had ever seen the teen. In fact, this was the most uncooperative any student had been to him in recent years. But Harry was no ordinary student. He was suffering, and that was driving his behavior. This was no common obstinacy or insubordination. Here was a person who had endured too much in recent months and was pushing the world away. He felt no anger or even exasperation with the teen's refusal; only pity for the shell of the vibrant boy that Harry once was.

"Harry—I am going to get you something to help you feel better and then we will talk."

The teen continued to stare morosely at the ceiling, making no response to Dumbledore's words.

The old mage stepped out into the corridor and nearly tripped over a tea tray on the ground. It was complete with two saucers and cups, a steaming kettle, and a small pile of biscuits and candy bars. Dumbledore smiled at the door across the way. Perhaps there was some hope for that boy after all.

"Thank you, Dudley," Dumbledore said and heard a small squeak from behind the door.

Dumbledore picked up the tray from the floor and set it on a nearby end table. He then retreated to the stairs, pulling an empty goblet out of his robes.

Vernon and Petunia Dursley were standing at the bottom, muttering quietly. They looked up with trepidation at his approach.

"I am afraid that this will take longer than I had thought. I must make a request of you both."

Harry stared sullenly at the ceiling. He knew that no matter what he said, the headmaster was not going to leave him alone. He briefly considered getting up and running away, but the moment he sat up, he got dizzy and retched, resigning himself to lying flat. What was Dumbledore going to do with him? Was he still going to make Harry help him with whatever "errand" he had mentioned in the letter? Would he take him to the Burrow? Would he drag him off to St. Mungo's? Hospitalization did have a certain appeal to him...He wouldn't have to go outside at all; he could refuse visitors and just stay in bed all day and all night for weeks and weeks...

His thoughts were interrupted by the rattling of a tea tray. Dumbledore reentered the room with a tray laden with various tea items as well as Mars Bars, Curly Wurlys and Hobknobs. Well, the headmaster was known for having a sweet tooth, but this was taking things a little too far, Harry thought.

Setting the tray on Harry's night stand, Dumbledore held out a plain wooden goblet. Harry's bleary eyes traced his headmaster's every move.

"What magical concoction are you trying to dose me with?" he asked somewhat bitingly.

"It's a special brew that, if taken periodically, will help relieve much of your muscular cramping and heart palpitations," said Dumbledore calmly.

"What's in it?" Harry glared at the goblet suspiciously.

"Hydrogen and oxygen, primarily."

"Did Snape make this?"

"No, but I am certain he could procure it."

Harry steeled his jaw. "I don't want any funny potions in my body."

"It's water, Harry," Dumbledore said, amusement flickering briefly in his eyes. "You're dehydrated."

Harry hesitated, eyeing the outstretched goblet.

"Please indulge me," Dumbledore said softly.

"I can't sit up," Harry grumbled. "I'm too dizzy."

"You are concussed," Dumbledore said smoothly. "I can use a spell to relieve your symptoms." He withdrew his wand.

"Wait, do I really—"

"Unless you wish to lie completely still until you vomit, Harry, I highly recommend you let me use this spell on you."

"Oh, go on then."

Dumbledore made a motion with his wand above his head that reminded him of waltzing couples at the Yule Ball. Then he doubled the motion, flicked his wand, and then promptly stuffed it back up his sleeve.

"I didn't feel anything."

"Quite normal, Harry," Dumbledore responded. "Now, why don't you try sitting up?"

Harry slowly raised himself up on his right elbow. So far, no dizziness or nausea. He tried the other elbow. He then tried pushing himself up on his hands and immediately flopped back to the pillow with a thump and a huff.

"You are weak," Dumbledore leaned forward concerned. "Here. Let me help you." He gripped both of Harry's biceps and pulled him to a sitting position against the footboard.

Once Harry was situated with a fat pillow at his back and another one beneath his knees, propping his legs up, the wooden goblet was placed in his hands.

"Drink all of it, please."

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, before tilting the water into his mouth. It was cool and clean-tasting, and brought into sharp focus how dry his mouth and throat were. Dumbledore accepted the empty goblet back from him and scooted his chair closer, folding his long-fingered hands beneath his chin expectantly.

Harry turned a glaring eye at his headmaster. "Is this when the interrogation starts? Now that I'm all comfortable and un-concussed?"

Inwardly, Harry cringed at himself. He knew he sounded like a brat. He knew that Dumbledore was just trying to help, but then a small wave of irritation flooded him. Where was Dumbledore all of last year when he needed him most? Yes, he was worried about Harry getting possessed, but surely an all-powerful wizard like Dumbledore could have overcome that. All Harry needed then was assurance and Dumbledore couldn't even give him that. Where was Dumbledore when he grew up getting stomped on by the Dursleys? All he cared about was winning his bloody war. Harry was a juvenile soldier to him, someone whom he was building up for the final confrontation. Dumbledore only wanted him healthy so he could continue fighting Voldemort. Well, what if Harry didn't want to participate anymore? What if he was done playing cat and mouse with the Dark Lord?

Dumbledore tilted his head to the side. "Interrogation? No, that is not my intention. Though I may ask you a few questions about how you prefer to take your tea..."

"Then why are you pampering me?" His dull emerald eyes were narrowed suspiciously.

The headmaster sighed. "If this seems like pampering to you, then it speaks volumes about the childhood that you had here." He paused, offering a comforting smile. "You are unwell, Harry. I am merely trying to help you."

"I can take care of myself," he said stubbornly, cursing his wavering voice.

"Hmmm," Dumbledore said thoughtfully, and turned his attention to the tea tray.

"How old are you, Harry?" he asked while pouring tea into two cups.

That's a stupid question, Harry thought. Dumbledore knows perfectly well how old I am. "I'm almost sixteen."

"And at what age does our world determine individuals to be 'of age,' that is, adults who can take care of themselves?" Dumbledore was now adding cream and sugar to one of the cups.

"Seventeen," Harry said, annoyed, "but I've seen and done—"

"—more things than most adults have," Dumbledore finished for him. "I cannot argue with you on that point, Harry. You have experienced things beyond what most adults can handle. Does this qualify you as an adult? Some people say so. But I disagree. Physically, you are not an adult. Emotionally and mentally, in some ways you are, and in some ways you are not."

"Are you saying I'm immature?" Harry asked, feeling his temper rise again and his heart hammer irregularly in his chest.

"Not in an offensive way, Harry," Dumbledore said. "It is true that you have demonstrated a natural coolness under pressure during stressful situations that most adults take years to acquire. It is also true that you have good instincts and a confident decisiveness to act on such instincts. However, these adult-like traits do not make you an adult, Harry. Your brain is not done growing yet. Your magic has not matured yet. Why do you think we assign '17' as the number when you officially become an adult and not 15? Most of your brain and magic are not fully ripened. It needs to be nurtured and developed, Harry. Experience itself does not make us 'adults.' Experience can give us wisdom and insight, yes, but if we do not have the emotional tools, the social tools that are developed in one's critical teenage years and even beyond to one's twenties, if we do not have these coping mechanisms in place to help us acclimate to our experiences, we are most certainly not adults, and we are also certainly not capable of taking care of ourselves."

Harry couldn't think of a retort to that, but his eyes stung regardless.

"And this is not your fault, Harry," Dumbledore added softly. "You are just too young in years. These things take time."

He turned back to the tray. "Now, how do you take your tea?"

Harry's face wilted. Dumbledore was more stubborn than he thought. Maybe he should give in just a little to appease him. Maybe if he ate and drank a little more, the headmaster would leave him alone.

"I take it plain. No cream or sugar."

Within seconds, Harry was sipping at his hot beverage while Dumbledore was slowly rotting his teeth with his over-sugared cup.

"Biscuit, Harry?" Dumbledore handed over a Hobknob on a napkin. Harry nibbled at it. His teeth were ultra-sensitive and aching. He took several small bites until the cookie was half-consumed and then set it back down.

"I'm done," Harry said, meeting Dumbledore's eyes. "I can't eat anymore."

"Do you feel nauseous?" Dumbledore inquired softly.

"No, I just don't really have an appetite," Harry responded truthfully. "But thanks for stopping in. You can probably head out now."

Dumbledore's silvery eyebrows rose.

"You don't want to upset the Dursleys," Harry continued. "And besides, I'm sure you have a lot of work to do for the Order."

Dumbledore held a hand up. "Nice try, Harry. A valiant effort, really but I'm afraid it's not going to work."

"But what if I promise to eat and drink more?" Harry said, hating the desperate tone in his voice.

"You are not an adult, Harry. It is not your responsibility to take care of yourself."

"It's the Dursleys', and as you can see they have plenty of food in the house, so—"

The elderly mage shook his impressive head. "And have they enquired on your well-being, made sure that you were eating and sleeping and being happy and not in pain?"

"Well, they kind of have the tough love thing going for—"

"Enough. I will not continue this conversation with you, not when you have no argument to stand on. There is no justification that can be used to defend your guardians' behavior towards you. They are unfit to care for your current needs. I will be your guardian in situ and I will not abandon you. In fact, I will be staying here until your health and well-being are to my satisfaction."

Dumbledore didn't sound angry or stern, but he was definitely firm. He was using his authoritative voice that brooked no argument, and Harry felt his spirits sink even lower. He looked away from him.

"What do you want, Harry?" he heard Dumbledore say.

"Want? I don't know what you mean. I want...I want to stay right here."

"Forever?" Dumbledore quipped, his head cocked to the side.

"Why are you here, sir?" Harry asked, ignoring his headmaster's question and trying to deflect attention away from himself.

"I would have thought that was obvious. I came to see you, my boy."

His statement clearly infuriated Harry for he yelled, "You know what I meant! Stop speaking in riddles and for once tell me the truth! Why are you here? What are you going to persuade me to do?"

Dumbledore did not flinch or reprimand the boy for his surly tone. In fact, he was quite pleased that Harry was being openly angry. Better for him to vent his emotions than to suppress it all within.

"I am here on a 'welfare check,'" Dumbledore said calmly.

"What about the 'errand' that you mentioned in the letter?"

"It is not relevant anymore. Not when you are clearly distressed. Besides, I took care of it myself this morning. My new prerogative is to get you well again and to escort you safely to the Burrow."

"And what if I don't want to go?"

"My dear boy, that is entirely your choice. I will not force you to do any—"

"I am not your boy, and I am not your pawn in this war either!" Harry snarled.

There was no response. Harry deflated, squeezing his eyes shut, hating himself for saying those ugly words, especially after the headmaster had tended him so kindly.

"Harry," an old man's whisper hung in the air like the humid silence before a rain.

"I didn't mean..I..." Harry stammered, remorse filling him, hating himself for saying those words out loud.

"You meant how you feel, Harry. This is how you perceive your situation," Dumbledore said heavily. His voice was so slow and hesitant. "I cannot begrudge you for saying it aloud, nor do I have the persuasive qualities to convince you otherwise."

He absentmindedly caught the edge of Harry's duvet and turned it over in his elegant, fragile fingers. "All I can give you is my word, Harry." He looked up from the forest green bed covers and gazed imploringly at Harry's face. "My word, Harry, that you are not a pawn to me. It is true that I can be construed as Machiavellian, how I analyze people's strengths and find how they may be useful to the war effort. That I even know what motivates people, that I can find a cause that will sway them to my purposes." He closed his eyes painfully. "But that doesn't mean that I don't care about the people I give orders to. That doesn't mean that I don't see them as individuals of free will, and it doesn't mean that I disregard their feelings or that I don't value them for who they are, and not just for what they are for my plans."

His eyes opened and Harry was mortified to see droplets wreathed around the Headmaster's lower eyelashes. Harry couldn't believe how much he had hurt him.

"I'm sorry," he began again, his own throat constricting.

Dumbledore shook his head. "It's all right, Harry," he said, straightening his spine and blinking away the moisture from his eyes. "It is I who am so very sorry. You are not just a pawn to me, though I understand why you feel that way."

He patted his hand on the bed twice and turned to stand, but before he could straighten up, he felt a tug on his robes. He turned back toward Harry and saw the boy shift around to a sitting position while using the headmaster for support.

Dumbledore wouldn't believe it possible, but Harry looked even paler than before. The boy swayed, and Dumbledore reached forward quickly to steady him. One small white hand grasped his wrist. He looked at Dumbledore imploringly.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his throat thick, "for the way I'm acting."

Dumbledore made a soft shushing noise and sat back down on the bed.

"It's okay," Dumbledore murmured, mildly surprised by the sudden deterioration of Harry's defensivenes. "It's quite understandable. It's been a rough time for you. These past months have been so very cruel."

Harry nodded again and swallowed. His right hand still grasped his headmaster's wrist, and for some reason, he couldn't let go.

"I just want to be away," Harry whispered. "I want to be someone different. I don't want to be Harry anymore."

"Oh dear boy," Dumbledore tilted his head in understanding. "How often we've all wished this of ourselves before. But it is not our choice to make. You are who you are and there is no escaping that. True, you are a magnet for trouble. It was written in the stars shortly after your birth. You can't escape your own destiny, but you can choose how you are going to form it."

Harry creased his forehead, his eyes fluttering. "I'm really tired, sir," he said.

Dumbledore nodded and helped Harry lay back on the bed. "What's going to happen?" he asked. "What about the Dursleys?"

"I have convinced them to take a short holiday to the Cliffs of Dover," Dumbledore replied as he pulled the sheet up to Harry's shoulders. "All expenses are paid for, of course. They will return here in three days' time."

"But—"

"Three days' time for me to help you feel more like yourself."

"Good luck wi' that," Harry murmured sleepily, his eyelids fluttering shut.

"Three days for me to get you back," Dumbledore said softly, but Harry didn't hear him.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please review, when you get a chance! Your feedback keeps me going!