"Professor."
Harry's gaze swept over the office, noting the various instruments spinning away or letting out puffs of smoke.
His head was pounding, his voice was croaky, he was feeling absolutely miserable about everything, and Dumbledore had called him to the Headmaster's office.
He took a sip of the tea.
He wasn't actually sick, thankfully. Hermione thought he was showing symptoms of "stress", like that was a real disease and not just something everyone had.
"Harry."
There was that other thing. He'd always been a bit wary of the Headmaster, but this year Professor Dumbledore seemed determined to dig past his lowest expectations. They did this song and dance every year; Voldemort put the school in danger, Dumbledore did nothing, Harry was forced to play martyr, they ended up in the office.
Except, this time, Harry had failed. Another student was dead and Voldemort was back for good. He'd almost been expelled. Worse, Umbridge was at Hogwarts.
Faced with such an obvious threat to his home, was Harry not supposed to defend it?
Apparently not, with the way the Headmaster was looking at him.
Well, at least the Headmaster was looking at him. Or in his general direction. Harry stubbornly kept his gaze on the walls of the room. Oh look, there were the portraits, silently mourning him as always. He resisted the urge to flip them off.
"Harry."
Most of the Order, even Ron and Hermione, talked about Dumbledore like he was a sage, powerful, all-knowing benevolent god. They'd clearly never seen Dumbledore like he was now, stripped of all pretences. A simple man, stressed beyond belief, ruthless and cunning and very aware of just who he was willing to sacrifice and who he wasn't.
Dumbledore never pretended with him.
There were, of course, the annual rituals. Where they pretended like Dumbledore knew nothing about the going on's of the castle, where Harry pretended he knew nothing of the world outside it.
Where Dumbledore stubbornly insisted that Harry was to be left blind for his own good, and preached about the virtues of childhood and innocence. Where they both tactfully ignored the (sometimes literal) blood staining Harry's hands.
The last ritual took place a week before Summer Vacation. Here, Harry pleaded.
He begged, he cajoled, he bargained, called Dumbledore some particularly creative swears, did everything he could to not be sent back to the Dursleys. And every time, the Headmaster informed him with sorrowful eyes that he wasn't safe enough anywhere else.
Harry didn't think he knew what safety felt like.
Outside of these well-established rituals, though, they didn't bother to pretend with each other.
Like today.
Dumbledore, resigned to the fact that Harry was not going to look at him, spoke, "Mr Potter. What on earth possessed you to poison Madame Umbridge?"
Harry replied innocently to the walls, "What makes you think I poisoned her?"
"Harry."
He slid down, settling into the cushions like a particularly grumpy cat. A wave of his hand simulated an insouciance he did not feel.
"Oh. You know. The usual. She was torturing children by making them cut into their hands repeatedly."
"I had it well in hand."
He finally looked at the man.
"Did you, Professor?"
"I had plans in motion, yes."
"And while your "plans" came about, how many children were you going to let her maim? There are eleven year olds crying in the common rooms, sir. Forgive me if I'm not particularly inclined to believe you."
They stared at each other a moment more.
"Harry."
"Sir."
"There seems to be a lack of trust, or perhaps respect here."
"Oh really? Merlin, I had no idea!"
"Tell me, what have I done to lose your trust and respect?"
Harry blinked. Surely, the man wasn't this oblivious.
"Professor, you never had my trust. My respect, sure, but I'm afraid that's in short supply lately. And honestly, sir, they're meant to go both ways, but I don't think you've ever trusted me either."
His headache pulsed.
Wait.
Was Dumbledore trying to read his mind?
Really? The man was really that petty?
His anger stirred, an ever-boiling pot dangerously close to spilling over. He wondered how many times he'd sat in this same office, begging for even a scrap of information while - apparently- Dumbledore picked through his head at leisure.
"Stop it. Stop looking through my head, you manipulative old goat."
A beat. Dumbledore frowned, eyes hard. That was the last side to him, which Harry knew only a few had ever glimpsed. The General.
"Mr. Potter. I am your Headmaster, and it would serve you well to remember it."
"Really, professor? The 'Headmaster' card? Any muggle school worth their salt would have fired you years ago."
"For what, precisely?"
Harry was too sick to focus properly. Normally, he'd have his alarm bells ringing by now, a firm reminder to shut up.
"Oh, you want a full list? Do you want to know why I don't respect you, professor? You've never earned my trust, but I did respect you at some point."
He got up from his chair, pacing about.
"Let's see where to start. First off, Professor, are you aware that you essentially kidnapped me from my parent's house? I highly doubt you were my legal guardian, or that you had the right to dump me like trash on my relative's door."
"My boy, I had no other option. You were in danger from Voldemort's forces."
"Nope. I've got enough information from Hagrid and Sirius to make a timeline, sir. You made Hagrid come get me before Sirius even went after Wormtail. Sirius is my godfather, sir, you had no right to steal me from him. "
"I'm sorry. I let my caution cloud my judgement. I thought Sirius was the Secret Keeper."
"And yet, somehow, he never has a fair trial. Not even when Hagrid tells you Siri's gone after Pettigrew. Odd, isn't it, for the Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump?"
Dumbledore remained silent, watching him.
"I did not trust you, sir, because you dumped me with the most horrible bastard family you could possibly find, and never once checked up on me."
Dumbledore frowned, "I'm sure you're exaggerating, Harry. Families frequently disagree, but that's no reason to resort to name-calling."
Harry took a deep breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Are you aware, sir, that my Hogwarts Letter was addressed to 'The Cupboard Under The Stairs'?"
Professor Dumbledore visibly aged in front of him, all droopy and sad. Harry refused to feel bad, he still had an entire list of grievances to air out while his common sense was shut off.
"Ah."
"Yes, ah. But that's why I didn't trust you back then. I have entirely new reasons to distrust you now."
Harry felt a faint niggling of worry at the back of his mind. Why was he spilling all this to the Headmaster? He pushed the worry aside. It was too late to stop now.
The older man gained some composure back, staring piercingly at Harry. Good. He had his attention.
"Professor, I need you to be honest with me here. Why were the protections for the Philosopher's Stone so simple that a couple of first years could get through them? Why did you do nothing when children were being petrified? How did Fawkes know to bring me the Hat in the Chamber?"
Dumbledore sighed.
"I think you know, dear boy."
"I do. And I'm not even mad! What does make me mad, sir, is your fucking hypocrisy."
The man startled, "What?"
Harry laughed, a broken wet thing. He leaned against the desk, mimicking the man, "Oh, my boy, alas I cannot tell you anything to do with your own life, I can't even tell you why a genocidal maniac is obsessed with you and wants to kill everyone you care about. Trust me, my boy, I'm trying to keep your childhood alive. Oh, by the way, good job murdering the man who taught you for a year. And good job murdering the boy you became friends with, especially since you, a parselmouth, killed a humongous snake to do it. I'm not telling you why you can speak to snakes either. Don’t worry, I’m lying for your own good."
"And then! You send two children back to supposedly rescue Sirius, even though you could have easily gotten him a trial! He would have been free! I would have been OUT OF THERE! But no, Harry Potter is a special little boy who kills people like a good little soldier and then he's shunted off to Durzkaban when he's no longer needed."
Something was seriously wrong. He would never say this stuff aloud, not to Dumbledore's face.
The tea.
He grabbed it, trying to sense anything off about it. Slowly, he turned his head.
"You bastard. You drugged me, didn't you?"
Albus Fucking Dumbledore inclined his head. "I had to make sure where your loyalties lied, after what you did to Madame Umbridge, my boy. Surely you understand that?"
Harry hurled the teacup at the wall and watched it shatter. He considered throwing one of Dumbledore's instruments too.
"Fuck you. I haven't even gotten to the events of my fourth year. You know, I don't know how people don't see it. You sit here on your high throne and play with our lives like it's a game of chess. You sit and decide who lives and dies like you have any right to demand we sacrifice ourselves for your cause. The Greater Good, isn't it? Was Cedric just collateral damage? A spare? That's what Voldemort called him, y'know. A spare. Seems you're more alike than you think."
Yeah, he was doing it.
He picked up the nearest ornament, a delicate magical marvel, and flung it, with all his might, out of the open window. Then another. And another.
With the candy dish in hand, he spoke, quite mildly, "I hope you choke to death on your fucking hypocrisy. Or atleast your stupid lemon drops."
Harry made for the door. It was probably locked, but Hogwarts liked him.
He thought of the last thought he'd been repressing, even through the drugs.
"And Sir? You really need to keep up your image. You would have gotten me training if you truly wanted a soldier and not a martyr. Got me help. Taught me how to survive. People are starting to see, Professor, and I highly doubt you want them to."
Dumbledore merely closed his eyes and nodded. He didn't bother to lie. Harry didn't know how to feel about it.
"Goodbye, sir. Have a good day."
Harry left, slamming the door behind him.