As they emerged from the pensieve, Harry immediately leaned on the desk for support, heart racing and legs trembling. For the first time since their body-switch, Harry could feel the weight of this body's age and an unfamiliar trepidation in his bones.

"Horcruxes," Harry said, truly unnerved and for the first time fearing that they would be unable win. "Multiple horcruxes."

Of course, Voldemort wouldn't make it easy on him. It wasn't enough that his enemy was an insanely powerful psychopath with a manic fixation on Harry Potter. No, even if Harry - or Dumbledore in this instance - were to best Voldemort in a duel, it wouldn't end.

He had the sudden, intrusive thought of a future filled with an endless hunt between the two of them. A future where Voldemort only had to be lucky once.

They could be anywhere, anything… Voldemort was truly as brilliant as he was insane.

Dumbledore placed a steady hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'm afraid so."

Harry closed his blue eyes, trying to quell the cresting panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

It could've been worse, he tried to convince himself. Dumbledore had caught on, but Voldemort had no hint of that. The odds were bad, yes, but that that was nothing new. If anything, it was on par for course, that sensation of fate being stacked against him and the crushing expectation that he triumph anyway.

There were, however, some parts that didn't make sense. Harry opened his eyes and took a deep breath, straightening his spine as he did so. Harry peered down at Dumbledore suspiciously, and took a stab in the dark. "Sir…Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

Dumbledore's silence was the only response he needed.

"Professor…"

But Harry had always been good at working under pressure, thoughts now rolling through what he knew of horcruxes, his strange dreams, and Dumbledore's desperate insistence that their souls and fates were still their own…

It was now clear to him that whatever connection he'd shared with Voldemort went beyond the sharing of minds. There was some strange, potent magic binding them together.

Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.

They were a duality bound by an interweaving fate, by shared blood and wand cores, by similarities in upbringing and magic.

That much, he had already known, and even then, it was enough to haunt him. But now... the pieces were coming together, and the fear cut him viscerally.

There was a… resonance in his soul that connected him to one of the most terrible dark wizards to ever walk the face of this earth.

("There are strange likenesses between us, Harry Potter. Even you must have noticed.")

A bond between them in the essence of their beings. Had it always been so? Had he truly been destined from birth to be the sort of person whose driving force naturally collided with Voldemort?

Harry wondered for the first time, how truly terrible his potential might be if he was the sort of wizard who could be so interlinked with Voldemort. That his soul might be a reflection of a being so monstrous as to mutilate his own.

He felt an idle horror at the implication that he and Voldemort were something very much like soulmates.

("A Horcrux, Harry, is a receptacle prepared by dark magic in which a Dark wizard has intentionally hidden a fragment of his soul for the purpose of attaining immortality.")

"A vessel for a soul fragment," Harry said aloud.

Then, like lightning, a terrible notion struck him. Harry's hands flew up to his forehead, where he was so used to tracing the outline of his scar. The smooth skin did little to reassure him.

His heart was loud in his ears.

"No," Harry whispered, looking at Dumbledore, at the vivid scar which had brought him so much pain. Dread coursed through his veins. "I'm not a – I couldn't be. That's insane. That's impossible. You're wrong."

Dumbledore's continued silence unsettled him more than any protest or affirmation could have.

Harry's heart raced, a cresting sense of panic overtaking him. He tried desperately to think of any other explanation but could not.

Harry half expected Dumbledore to not look him in the eye, but the Headmaster did. Dumbledore looked at Harry with strange brand of courage, a mixture of guilt and acceptance of imminent punishment.

"I don't want it," Harry said, his throat threatening to close before he could get the words out. "I don't want any part of him, get it out, I don't want his soul!"

It was immediately followed by the cold realization that he might be freed from it.

Harry had never been so grateful for Draco Malfoy in his life. He conjured a snake. "Can you hear me?" Harry asked the cobra, trying very hard to listen for that edge of parseltongue in his speech.

The snake did not respond, simply curling in on itself. Harry looked at Dumbledore expectantly, who opened his mouth and…hissed.

Dumbledore may have been saying hello, but Harry chose to believe it was more like oh, dear.

The rush of relief that swept through him left Harry feeling light-headed. He grinned from ear to ear. "Congratulations Headmaster," said Harry, voice laden with unholy glee, "you're the Chosen One!"

At Dumbledore's utter shock and resignation, Harry couldn't help but rub salt in the wound. "After all, you've been prepared for the prophecy far longer than I have. Whatever it is that connected Voldemort's powers to mine, whatever likeness or- or affinity…it's yours now."

"How did this happen?" Dumbledore asked faintly. Then, more frustrated. "What are we, if not our souls? Mind, body, soul. Our spirits… What possible action or ancient magic could have given rise to these circumstances?"

Harry tried to give a hum of sympathy but the smirk on his face rendered it less effective. "It's probably fate. Best not to question it."

Dumbledore's expression instantly turned thoughtful, a hint of something rueful and dear in the corner of his mouth. His green eyes softened as they flicked to Harry, shoulders slumping in one quick movement, as though a great weight had been removed from him. "You are quite right, Harry," he agreed, voice strong with absolute conviction. "It is infinitely better this way."

Harry faltered at the tears in Dumbledore's green eyes, confused by the utter wonder and immense relief he found in them. "Sir?"

"Oh, Harry," said Dumbledore, wiping at his eyes. "A great worry of mine troubles me no longer. Thank you, but I am fine." He laughed, joyous, and full, and loud. "Truly."

Somewhat thrown, but willing to take the Headmaster's word for it, Harry simply placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "What will we do now?"

Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. "As I am essentially you, for all intents and purposes, I believe my presence will be sufficient in recharging the wards at your family's house. Since you have remained there for one week, I shall stay there for another."

"And after?"

"Well," Dumbledore said, nodding to himself as he came to a decision, eyes alighting with playfulness. "I believe it is long past due for the greatest wizard alive to take on an apprentice."

For Harry, the first few days following their change in living places consisted of him trying to ignore the various summons from the Ministry, placate the Order members who were persistent in their attempts to extract information from him, and avoid the new Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour – a former Auror, so they said.

There had been an unbelievable amount of post and all varieties of appeals.

Inspirational and personal appeals from Pomona Sprout regarding the donation of potions and plants from Hogwarts greenhouses to St. Mungos: "If we do this as a goodwill gesture, Mungo's will love us. It would be so wonderful for the Healers, gives them more flexibility with their galleons. We've known each other a long time, and I'm sure I can count on you."

Scrimgeour's letters came regularly in the guise of consultation, as though he really wanted Dumbledore participate in decisions or changes. "Wonder if I could get your thoughts about this matter? Let me know when we can schedule our first public meeting."

Then there were others, like Barnabas Cuff from The Daily Prophet, who shamelessly pestered Albus for interviews, as though the last year of libel and slander had never occurred. His ingratiating tactics really worked up Harry's blood pressure - all of his oily letters were humble or friendly or flattering before making the same request: "I hate to impose on your time, knowing how busy you are, but we really ought to get your perspective. Best to forget last year's mess. Help me so I can help the wizarding world, you know."

It was enough to enrage Harry on the Headmaster's behalf.

Even Snape sent him missives of the quid-pro-quo variety. Ever the Slytherin, his letters smoothly reminded Dumbledore of past favors. Harry almost spat out his tea when he read Snape's intricate cursive on stained parchment: "I'm sure one so esteemed as you need no reminder, Headmaster, but I insist we meet to discuss the salary needs associated with my taking of the Defense position."

Flitwick was trying for approval to re-start the Dueling Club, and Harry put that in the very small pile of letters he intended to respond to. Even with the slightly impatient: "Everyone in this school thinks it's a great idea, Albus, and frankly it's about time."

McGonagall resorted to outright intimidation, which didn't surprise Harry whatsoever. He was growing quite used to her demands and threats. "If you don't help clear the paperwork on my desk, Merlin help me Albus, you'd better think about cleaning out your own!"

Kingsley liked to assert his authority and remind Albus about Ministry policies. "The PR meeting has been approved at the highest levels, Albus. The Wizengamot and the Wireless wants a speech from both you and Scrimgeour. You're not getting out of this."

Harry's response, of course, was neither enthusiastic commitment nor grudging compliance.

No, he was outright resistant.

In a decision that would have made Hermione proud, Harry had shut himself away in the Headmaster's office to research, leaving only to return to the library and peruse the restricted section for books he hadn't already read. He seized anything and everything that even looked remotely helpful. So far, no luck.

It was on the third day, as he was leaving the library, that McGonagall caught up to him.

She strode forward with great purpose, though her green eyes were filled with worry. "Albus."

To Harry's great relief, she did not sound irritated with him. In fact, she almost seemed distressed, a few wisps of hair falling out of her careful bun. "There's been an incident at Privet Drive, they're saying it's a surge of accidental magic. Harry's not in trouble for it, but considering the political climate and the strong possibility that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has infiltrated the Ministry…"

She left the sentence hanging, but there was no need for her to finish it. Harry quickly tucked the books he had in hand into one of the many pockets in his robes.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Minerva. I will see to it immediately." He gave her a bit of a wry smile, "I, er, don't suppose you would like to accompany me this time?"

She huffed a laugh, some of her anxiety melting away. "Thank you, Albus, but I must attend to another matter – Filius and I will be going over the castle's wards this afternoon."

Harry nodded at her. "Well then, I must be off."

Harry immediately spotted Dumbledore as he arrived at Privet Drive, a feeling of trepidation overtaking him as he did so.

The man who wore his face set a captivating scene.

Dumbledore stood on the well-maintained lawn with his arms crossed, black hair messy and wild from the magic crackling about him, green eyes absolutely blazing with a ferocity that astonished Harry - for it seemed that all of this power, all of this fury, was directed at the Dursleys, who cowered shamefully behind the half-open door.

Harry could hardly see the interior of the house, but from the glimpse he caught, it seemed a scene of utter devastation. The floors were absolutely scorched, parts of the kitchen were blown to pieces. The windows were cracked and shattered, glass fragments shimmering on the porch and on the lawn.

There were a handful of people gathered there - three Aurors in flashy, red robes, a few ministry officials, most likely from the Accidental Magic and Reversal Squad, and someone who looked very much like the Minister that Harry had been trying so hard to avoid.

Harry watched in a disbelieving trance as they grappled with obvious fear and awe, eyes darting about nervously. Even the Minister, with his fearsome, scarred visage, and his lion's mane of hair, had given Dumbledore a wide berth of caution, though his gaze was more calculating and curious than scared.

One of the ministry officials noticed Harry's arrival, an unfamiliar woman with blond hair and pale, gray eyes. Persephone Fawley, his mind supplied. Class of 1969. Obliviation Squad. The unprompted knowledge startled him so badly he nearly tripped.

"Headmaster," Fawley said, the relief evident in her voice. "Thank goodness you're here, we didn't want to get started without you."

Harry graced her with a brief glance of acknowledgement before he strode past all of them. He paused nervously when he reached Dumbledore, who was far enough away that the others could not hear them. He cleared his throat, hoping this would work, before calling out to him softly. "Professor."

Dumbledore looked up at him, as if drawn from a dream. As green eyes met blue, Dumbledore's aura of uncontainable fury lessened, became more subdued. "It seems I owe you a great apology, Harry," he said quietly, and so plain was his anguish that Harry found it hard to look at him. "Ten dark and difficult years, I condemned you to, yet when I opened the door to the little cupboard beneath the stairs… I found I could not bear the weight of that indignity for even three full days."

Shame flooded through Harry at the words, and he looked at his feet. He did not want to have this discussion, and perhaps he never would, but he knew he was required to say something. His mind scrambled for a way to close the matter. "They got better when my letter came. Even more when I told them about – about Sirius. Really. It's just… only words. I don't want anything from them."

Dumbledore looked even more defeated. "If you have learned one thing in the magical world, it is that words have power, intent even more so. In reminding them of the magical world, I did not, as I had hoped, instill in them a respect for your boundaries. Instead, I provided them with other boundaries to violate. In my many years…" Dumbledore stopped, struggling for words.

Harry had the impression that this was something of a rarity, and he seized the opportunity. "It's fine, really Professor," he muttered, voice low. "I'm fine now, and I know they're the worst sort of people. I know they're not to be, um, imitated, that they're not normal. And I'm not planning on any sort of - of revenge, or whatever, so you don't have to worry about that…"

Dumbledore looked at him, wand aloft and a righteous fire burning kindling in his eyes. "Oh, I never for a moment worried for that possibility, Harry. I have long known you would not succumb to that particular temptation. Since you gazed into the Mirror of Erised in your first year and obtained the stone, I have known that you are a singularly selfless individual, perhaps the greatest I have ever known. The Dursleys need not fear your wrath. No, in that you are a man greater than myself."

The Headmaster turned to look at the wreckage on the lawn, and Harry felt a flicker of intuition surge through his body. In that moment, Dumbledore resembled a man who had long been watching from atop a lighthouse, a safeguard content to watch and protect from his great height. A man who now was roused and walking down a treacherous path with no fear that it would tear him to pieces.

("We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom…Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit —")

"Sir?" said Harry, moved by the Headmaster's words. He was astounded at the anger radiating of off Dumbledore in waves, thrown by the vehemence and passion so plain in his voice. Harry's chest felt heavy, there was a strange and painful burning in his throat. He felt a mess of complicated, tangled emotions he had no idea how to sort through.

Dumbledore's faith in him was terrifying, and Harry could not help but feel as though he would inevitably fail to meet those expectations.

But above all, Harry felt… unworthy.

("SHE KILLED SIRIUS! SHE KILLED HIM — I'LL KILL HER!")

He felt viciously sick with himself. "Thank you, Professor, but I'm not really - I mean, I don't deserve..."

Dumbledore studied him for a moment before a deduction seemed to strike him. He lifted an eyebrow, but his voice was soft. "You blame yourself for seeking retribution against Madame Lestrange? It is only human, Harry, for you to have wanted such a reckoning… Terribly human, perhaps, but even so, from your account you were unable to produce the true Cruciatus. As you are now, you do not possess the irredeemable hatred and evil intent that serve as necessary conditions for the casting of that curse. The mindset required to cast it entails a hatred so consuming that it is akin to an isolating madness, a true distortion of the soul. Your attempt stemmed from injustice, from grief, and in your failure, I think you will find that it makes all the difference in the world."

Harry's instant inclination was to disappear at such a blunt discussion of himself, but without escape he settled for disagreement. "I still tried," he said, and just thinking about the witch, with her insane laughter echoing in his thoughts, provoked the devastating, open wound of Sirius's death. The pain was sharp and raw, though, and with it did come hatred, the same hatred that Dumbledore was so sure he was without. Hatred so fierce it seared through his veins and boiled in his heart. He wondered how Dumbledore could fail to see it smoldering in his eyes, even if they were now blue… "You're wrong. I still cast the curse on her, and even if I didn't as it was meant to, I didn't know that. I wanted her to hurt – I still want to hurt her. Just like-"

Harry stopped, breathing erratic. Magic crackled from his fingertips.

Dumbledore spared the sparks a glance but met Harry's gaze again. "Like she hurt you," he said quietly, knowingly. "To deny your challenges is to deny your success Harry, and the only sin in suffering is to suffer needlessly." He turned back to the front of the house, solemn. "For your suffering here, in the care of those who should have cherished you, has been needless, and that is my burden to bear. No child should grow up believing themselves to be unworthy of love." Dumbledore reached an urgent hand out to Harry's shoulder, something unfathomable and bright in his green eyes.

"You have inherent value, Harry. You are valuable. Not for what you or the Boy-Who-Lived can do for this world, but just for who you are."

("I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there.")

Harry was tempted to give into the feeling that is building in his chest, the one closing off his throat and searing in the back of his eyes. He was cared for. He was important. The thought was so big that Harry couldn't even let himself think of it.

"You are so loved, Harry."

He maybe gave in just a little.