It was only when Harry stood just inside the imposing black iron gates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that he felt an overwhelming sense of disbelief. How had he ended up here, in the dead of night, soaked through to his skin, two weeks into his summer holiday?

To him the castle had always been a wondrous and awe inspiring sight, a monument to the very magic preformed within its walls. It brought forth feelings of belonging and safety, something he had, sadly, never experienced before his eleventh birthday and his discovery of his true place in the world. Now, standing at the edge of its boundary, the sight it presented was more ominous than wondrous.

Shrouded in darkness, its silhouette cut a frightening outline against the deep violet-blue of the cloudless sky. The little light there was from the waxing moon highlighted the rain soaked Gothic architecture in points and sharp lines, further adding to its seemingly dark presence. Harry suppressed another bone shaking shiver, but couldn't quite stop the tremors that ran though his chilled limbs.

It had seemed so important for him to make his way here only an hour ago. In the grip of panic, his frenzied mind had brought only one location to the forefront. One place he had always associated with feelings of warmth and safety. One place he truly belonged.

When his uncle's hand had connected solidly with his jaw, when his belt had lashed his fallen body, when his aunts gaze had caught his own and shown only hatred and disgust, he had grabbed his wand and jacket and fled. He hazily recalled his flight, running through the sheets of driving rain and unseasonably cold wind in no particular direction, his body protesting every heavy footfall with a hot rush of flame. He had run until he hadn't immediately recognised the surrounding buildings and streets. And then he had stopped running when he realised that no-one was chasing him.

Why would they?

He had stood in the torrent at the side of an unknown street, his breath coming in pants and hiccups, his wand griped firmly between frozen fingers and realised his situation through a hazy, adrenaline filled mind.

It had been two weeks since the death of his godfather, two weeks since his possession by Voldemort and his revealing conversation with Dumbledore. When he had returned to his relatives following the end of term it had been to the normal frosty reception and he had worked hard to stay out of their way. From overheard conversations between his relatives, carried out in harsh whispers across the kitchen table, Harry had gleaned that the Dursley's finances had suffered due to Vernon's ill thought out investments. It explained the perpetual foul mood that clung to his uncle, his beady, piercing eyes seeking out Harry whenever they found themselves in the same room.

The numbness he had experienced since leaving the school had, unfortunately, began to ebb away however. In its place was a pain that made him long for the detachment to return. It grew daily, its power reinforced by images of Sirius's face, his words on family and home, and the final flutter of the veil as it swallowed his godfather's body. Vernon's hostility and financial woes drastically paled in comparison, falling from Harry's radar as the pain consumed every other passing thought and feeling.

Harry had struggled with the onslaught, impotently attempting to force the recollections from his mind. Occulemency had proven, however, that he was inept at clearing his thoughts and despite his fervent desire for some talent to manifest, it was obvious that in spite of his desperation, no such skill would ever be within his reach. He had attempted distraction as a coping mechanism instead, occupying his time with half-hearted study, vigorous chores, walking aimlessly around the neighbourhood, really, anything and everything that could keep the memories at bay, and the unbearable pain shackled deep within his belly.

He had been marginally successful; until today.

Whilst rummaging in the bowels of his trunk for spare parchment when sleep eluded him, his fingers had brushed, for the first time, against the cool smoothness of glass. Without looking, his heart had begun to flutter against his rib-cage with realisation. Slowly, without losing contact with the glass, his other hand had reached in and peeled back the layers of clothes and knick-knacks that blocked his view.

When the first glint of light sparkled from the forgotten mirror shard his throat had constricted painfully, his body shaking almost violently. A cold sweat had washed over his back and he squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as possible, all of his efforts to bury the acute pain of Sirius' loss evaporating. With a heartbroken wail he had grasped the edge of the trunk with numb fingers and had flipped the heavy wood on its side, the crash of hard backed books tumbling to the floor loud in the small, depressingly sparse room.

Bent double, gasping for breath and struggling to contain the swell of anguish and fury, he hadn't heard the bedroom door open, nor had he heard the lumbering footsteps of his uncle as he entered the small space. If he had not been concentrating so hard on his intake of much needed air through an ever thickening throat he might have noticed the purple blotches of colour high on his uncle's cheeks or the way his meaty hands had curled into threatening fists at his sides.

As it was, an explosion of pain from the left side of his face had been all the warning he had received. The pain of the beating that followed may have been severe, and the shock of his Uncle finally following through with his historically endless threats startling, but in the back of Harry's mind, a part detached from the events unfolding, he recalled the relief that finally something had succeeded in driving his grief away.

Standing on the street, reliving the past half hour, he had felt the echo of repressed emotion lick the surface of his conscience. There was a pain in his chest that went much deeper than any of the physical injurious he was sporting. He knew he couldn't return to the Dursleys, even if Uncle Vernon hadn't taken his belt to him, Harry couldn't bear the thought of seeing his overturned trunk and its spilled contents again.

Before he realised what he was doing, his right hand had raised his wand and an instant later the knight bus exploded into being in a flash of blurry colour and startling sound. Stan Shunpike appeared at the rear entrance, his cocky smile faltering as he took in the sight before him. Harry's voice had shook and sounded younger than it should have as he'd asked if he could be taken to Hogsmeade. The ride had been a short one, as they always were regardless of destination, and thankfully Stan had kept conversation to a minimum, only handing him a slightly dusty handkerchief and pointing to his lip. It was testament to how sorry he must have looked when Stan conveniently overlooked the fare.

When Harry had been deposited in Hogsmeade he had immediately set off on the well-trodden path to Hogwarts, his eyes struggling to make out the route in the little light offered by the occasional lantern and the moon overhead. When finally he had reached the great iron gates, and caught sight of the castle outline ahead, a swell of relief and something else had thickened his throat so that catching his breath was made more difficult.

Standing at the gates he had hoarsely whispered a plea for entrance, unsure of whether or not he would be permitted entry at this point in the year. But he remembered Dumbledore's words in Hagrid's hut about there always being a place for students who required assistance and repeated it inside his head, almost missing the click and groan of moving metal. Looking to his right he found the source of the noise. A portion of the gate had swung open, almost like a small gate in its own right, and Harry had scrambled forward and passed through the entryway onto the grounds.

The gate had closed behind him without prompting and here he now stood; muddy, bloody and emotionally wrought. For the first time Harry noted light within the castle. Lanterns lit the entryway ahead and a warm glow outlined windows across the castle, signalling life within its walls.

He briefly wondered who would be there. Would Dumbledore be resident within the castle during the holiday? Harry felt his stomach contract with tension. He dreaded the thought of seeing his Professor again after the incident in his office and the resulting revelations, and yet longed for the wizard's familiarity and safety. His feelings for the Headmaster were a jumble of seething resentment and ragged neediness, with confusion, fear, respect and guilt thrown in for good measure.

His tumultuous state of mind forced him to question what reception would greet him within the castle. Would there be anger for not staying with the Dursleys? Disappointment for leaving the safety of Privet Drive and returning to Scotland unaccompanied? The thought of such a welcome had Harry questioning his reasons for coming here in the first place. He shuffled forward slightly, his feet numb with cold and limbs stiff from exposure. He made his way slowly uphill, his body protesting movement but not as aggressively as before.

As he neared the entrance courtyard he slowed, his heartbeat sounding loud in his ears despite the steady drum of rain around him, doubt blossoming. Impulsively, he cut to his left and made his way as quickly as he could towards the Quidditch Pitch, his sodden trainers stumbling across wet grass and loose stones. The pitch, like the majority of the castle, wasn't lit, but the sheer expanse of it caught what light was available and he could easily make out the gleam of the hoops towering far overhead and the stands surrounding the shining grass below. It was a comforting sight.

Making his way to the nearest stand entryway he shoved his wand into his sleeve and used both hands to navigate his way to the top of the steep staircase. Finally reaching the open hatch at the top he reemerged into the rain and walked carefully along the front of the puddle strewn benches, finally sitting, somewhat stiffly, at the end of the first bleacher.

The rain slowed and eventually turned to drizzle in the long minutes which slipped past, though the wind - which should have been seasonably warmish even this far north – continued to bluster in cold bursts across the expanse of the surrounding countryside, the summer storm blanketing the entirety of the UK it seemed. Pulling the edge of his jacket cuff over his hand, Harry wiped it under his nose, not particularly caring what state his jacket was left in.

At long last the acute panic and grief within had settled down and the pain in his chest it had caused had dwindled, leaving only exhaustion. He felt bone weary, as though he had just returned from an epic battle on distant lands, his body bruised and battered. The discomfort may have faded from within but it had left behind a thumping headache, to say nothing of the deep bruising pain across his back from earlier, which flared whenever he shifted too much against the soggy wood beneath him.

He was convinced though that all of his hurts had been somewhat dampened by the cold that had now sunk into his very bones. Harry wasn't sure he would ever be warm again.

He welcomed the numbing sensation. If he had known that all he had to do was freeze himself to near-death to rid him of such heart rendering hurt, he would have slept in front of the freezer at the Dursleys every night of the past two weeks! A bubble of hysterical laughter swelled in his chest as he imagined his Aunt Petunia's likely reaction, but like the rest of his emotions, it too quickly disbanded.

A sound, above the whistle of the wind and the calls of nocturnal animals caught his attention for the first time. His wand jerked into his hand from his sleeve in staggered movements, stuck as it was to his damp skin, as he turned a stiff neck in the direction of the entryway hatch. A prickling sensation ran across his scalp and neck as he stared intently at the blackness of the gap, lifting a shaky hand to swipe at the drops of moisture marring his glasses.

Adrenaline forced his heartbeat to increase and brought a metallic taste to the back of his tongue as a definite creak of well used wood confirmed the presence of something, or someone else in the stands.

Harry considered his options as he stood stiffly and realised, rather grimly, that there weren't many. It was now, faced with an unknown opponent, that he began to realise how hasty his departure from the relative safety of Privet Drive had been. A scuffle from the stairway turned into definite footfalls and Harry forced himself to slow his breathing. He wouldn't be able to fight off an attack if he was hyperventilating when they sprung after all. He raised his wand in the direction of the only entrance and exit from the stand as the footsteps neared the hatch, his heart jumping almost painfully against his ribs.

A jumble of jinxes, curses and wand movements skittered across his mind; when the distinctive form of Albus Dumbledore emerged from the blackness however, several things happened at once.

Harry's wand slipped from suddenly lax fingers to drop onto the wooden decking, the clatter of wood on wood echoing a little around them. The tremors that had plagued him earlier but which had finally subsided, returned with a vengeance, making his teeth clack together and limbs jerk as though he had been the unfortunate victim of a hex. He forced himself to retake his spot on the bench, his wide eyes never leaving the wizard before him.

"Harry?"

The familiar, gravely sound of Dumbledore's voice confirmed the Headmaster's presence and Harry became alarmed when he felt his throat begin to ache and his chest begin to throb as the earlier swell of emotion rushed back in earnest, filling him so completely that he felt as though his heart would combust. An involuntary gasp left his mouth as he fought to swallow the reaction, his eyes burning.

The Professor appeared cautious as he slowly walked towards him, his crimson robe becoming wet as the silver edged trim trailed across the puddled wood, whatever repellent charms had been active disintegrating. Harry felt frozen to the spot, unable to form words or take his eyes from the penetrating gaze levelled at him. When he was close enough, Dumbledore reached a hand towards him, his ring adorned fingers curling inwards at the teens flinch however, leaving it hovering uncertainly between them.

Despite the gloom, it was easy, and alarming, to see the wizard's expression darken as his eyes finally caught sight of the developing bruising and swelling marring the paleness of the boy's face.

"Harry." A statement this time, Dumbledore's deepened voice relaying his concern and anger in equal measure. The darkness around the Headmaster's tall silhouette seemed to blacken further, the distorted quality of the air proving that magic was playing a part in the effect. It was too much for Harry.

He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, willing himself to get control of his wayward emotions. Relief, fear, anger, grief….the feelings swirled within him until he thought he might pass out or sick up. His arms wrapped around himself and head dipped further until he was a compressed ball of misery, attempting to force the swell back down…down into the pit of his stomach so he could breathe easily again. Long moments passed; the near silence around them broken only by Harry's stressed breathing.

A sensation breached his cocoon, familiar and distracting. Magic tickled his skin as it gently swept over and through him, a continuous stream of energy that slackened the rigidity of his muscles, buffeted him as it dried and warmed his clothing and too chilled skin and finally lifted when whatever other spells Dumbledore had cast were finished with their purpose.

The disturbance and forgotten awareness of heat returning to his body succeeded in driving Harry's overwhelming emotions back to where they were manageable, and brought his face out from hiding. He raised red-rimmed eyes to again meet the serious gaze of the Headmaster, who had stepped closer while he had struggled.

Dumbledore's voice was soft when he spoke; betraying no hint of the rare flash of incredulity or rage Harry had witnessed before. Without Harry realising it, Dumbledore's hand had found his own smaller one and squeezed. The elder wizard's hand was warm and dry, an echo of the familiar energy he had felt transferring to his own colder, shaky one on contact.

"Come, Harry. The castle awaits us."

Dumbledore stepped back and pulled Harry's hand a little, encouraging movement. Harry stood on slightly wobbly legs, glad of the support and clear, straightforward instructions. Once steady though, he pulled his hand away, using his sleeve to again swipe at his runny, clogged nose. He watched blearily as Dumbledore stooped to retrieve his wand, flushing a little as he realised he had forgotten about it.

He squinted slightly in the bright light cast from Dumbledore's wand as he negotiated the stairs leading to the pitch, their journey silent. The shimmering grass beneath their feet was spongy and muddy in places as they picked their way across the pitch and incline leading to the entrance courtyard, the pace slow. Dumbledore walked a stride ahead of Harry, leading the way, and Harry tried to ignore the occasional backwards glances the Headmaster made as they traversed the uneven grounds.

His stomach was beginning to flutter again with nerves as the castle loomed ever closer, the silence from the often effusive Headmaster not helping. His tired legs, though, welcomed the stone beneath his feet as they approached the entrance.

Without touching them, the doors opened before them with a groan of welcome, a gust of warm air washing over Harry as they passed the threshold that had him shivering in earnest. The familiarity of his surroundings – from the torchlight that made the ancient stonework glow to the smell of dust, wood and parchment – comforted Harry like nothing else could. He hadn't realised he had stopped, eyes closed in relief as he absorbed the sensation of homecoming until a touch on his arm startled him back to awareness.

Dumbledore's gaze held both understanding and sadness as Harry snapped his eyes to him, causing Harry to warm a little, wondering how long he had been observed. He watched the wizard's eyes as they flickered across his face, the customary twinkle distinctly lacking. Instinctively, Harry lifted a hand to cover the side of his jaw, his fingers probing the tenderness and mapping the new contours of swelling around his lip self-consciously, his gaze now averted.

He wasn't sure why he felt embarrassed of his injuries, but that was definitely the sensation that was creeping through him. He started a little as Dumbledore moved towards him, the dichotomy of need and resentment from before flaring brightly again. It must have shown in his eyes, as the Headmaster faltered slightly, considering, before a deep breath seemed to shore his resolve.

"You have every right to be angry with me, Harry. I will submit to whatever accusations or curses you wish to throw at me – Merlin knows it's the least I deserve. I would ask, however, that you find it in within you to set such feelings aside for the moment. I wish only to help you."

The plea in Dumbledore's voice was sincere. Harry hesitated only a moment more before nodding to show his compliance, not having the words to say nor the energy in which to find them. There was some unexpected relief in submitting to the wizard's request, a welcome respite from the tumultuous mass of conflicting feelings in his relationship with the Headmaster.

"Thank-you, Harry. Can you make it the rest of the way?" Dumbledore's tone was gentleness itself; infused with such concern that Harry had to look away again, swallowing uncomfortably.

In lieu of an answer, Harry began walking again – the destination obvious. His feet were beginning to drag a little as he climbed the stairs, his grasp of the banister a little desperate. A fortnight with little in the way of food and adequate rest was definitely showing; sheer force of will only able to do so much it seemed.

The sneering gargoyle came into view finally, a rather fearsome guardian, in Harry's view, to what was supposed to be an approachable office. The grind of stone was harsh in the silence of the empty castle, sounding more like a growl – rather fitting, Harry judged, considering his views on the entrance. The revolving staircase appeared, though Harry did not immediately move towards it.

Memories of his last visit here chose that moment to re-emerge, his face losing what little colour it had gained as he recalled the scenes – and the reasons for them.

Unbeknownst to Harry, Dumbledore was studying him carefully – easily reading the hesitation for what it was. Harry had yet to speak, a fact that hadn't escaped the Headmaster's notice – but the teen's expressive eyes and features were very telling. Lost in thought again, warring with exhaustion and despair, the boy was oblivious to everything outside the vivid recollections he was no doubt reliving.

Carefully, so as not to jar the boy too badly, Dumbledore laid a hand between pointy shoulder blades, the thinness of inappropriate and overlarge summer clothing, considering the weather, doing little to hide the sharpness of bones beneath his hand. When Harry gasped however, jumping away from the slight pressure, the Headmaster knew that it was more than mere fright that caused such a reaction. The flash of pain, instantly repressed, was enough to confirm the old man's suspicions.

Dumbledore schooled his own reaction to the confirmation and instead concentrated on his efforts on getting them by this first hurdle, though the effort was difficult to say the least.

"We are merely passing through the office, Harry, to get to our final destination, and shall not be loitering. I promise."

Harry's decision showed on his face even before he moved, the Gryffindor courage his house valued rising to the occasion.

The office was darker than it was wont to be on an average evening, the torches burning low. Upon the Headmaster's entrance, they were designed to flare to appropriate brightness, but a subtle movement from Dumbledore's hand once he and Harry had breached the unique, circular room subverted the common practice, maintaining a basic ambient light; enough to navigate by but dim enough to create shadows.

In truth, any evidence of Harry's destruction had long since been removed. What couldn't be repaired had been replaced, if not by Albus himself then by the dedicated and eager Hogwarts house elves.

Taking the lead, Dumbledore walked ahead of the still quiet Harry, trusting that the boy would follow. The spiral staircase clanged softly as mud covered boots met the metal of the stairs, both rising quickly as they sought to escape the memories below.

The portrait guarding the Headmaster's private residence, as though sensing the mood of the pair now facing it, simply nodded in greeting and swung open to reveal a much brighter hallway, the candelabra giving off dancing light as new air swirled in.

The Headmaster stood to one side and gestured Harry to precede him, secretly summoning the strength of all the Hogwarts houses to see him through the upcoming hours.