Harry swallowed hard, forcing his feet to move even though his brain still felt slightly stuck somewhere between oh no, that's Dumbledore and don't trip over the rug.
"P-Professor Dumbledore," he managed, his voice betraying the tiniest stammer as he approached. He wasn't sure whether to bow, shake hands, or salute — he'd read about the man in Mrs. Figg's old books, after all, and those made him sound like someone halfway between a living legend and Merlin himself.
Dumbledore's gaze softened behind his half-moon spectacles, his smile kind enough to immediately ease the knot in Harry's stomach. "Ah," he said, rising just slightly from his seat before settling back down with the sort of grace only someone in absolute control of their chair could manage. "Harry Potter. At last, we meet properly."
That sounded… rather important, Harry thought nervously.
Behind him, the Weasley children shuffled in hesitantly. Ron stepped up beside Harry, his ears red, while the twins sauntered in with the casual air of people about to cause trouble just by existing. Ginny peeked out from behind them, her face pinker than Ron's, clutching the edge of the door frame as though it might save her from spontaneous combustion.
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled. "Ah, the famous Weasley clan," he said warmly, glancing from one to the other. "Ronald, I presume? I do believe your brothers are rather well-known in certain Hogwarts circles already… though mostly in ways your mother would prefer I didn't mention."
"We haven't even been caught yet," Fred said indignantly.
"Exactly," Dumbledore replied serenely, sipping his tea without missing a beat. "And yet, here we are."
George smirked. "I like him."
Ron made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a sigh, while Ginny's attempt at speech came out as a squeak that she immediately tried to disguise as a cough.
Harry, meanwhile, was still hovering awkwardly near the edge of the rug, unsure if he was allowed to sit. Dumbledore solved that by gesturing at the mismatched sofa opposite his chair. "Please, Harry. Sit. I find conversations are much easier on the knees when one isn't standing."
Harry perched on the edge of the cushion just as Molly bustled in, balancing a plate of freshly baked biscuits in one hand and her ever-present tea towel in the other.
"Professor Dumbledore," she said warmly, though there was the faintest note of maternal fussing in her tone. "You should have told us you were coming this early, I'd have prepared a proper lunch."
"Then I should have warned you I would refuse it," Dumbledore said with a soft chuckle, accepting the plate she set down on the low table. "These will do marvelously."
Harry's eyes flicked to the smaller plate nearby, laden with nothing but crumbs. Judging by how quickly the new plate vanished beneath Dumbledore's hand, it was safe to assume the man had a very dangerous sweet tooth.
The twins noticed too. Fred leaned over and whispered, "We've found our people."
George nodded gravely. "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship."
Ron elbowed them both in the ribs before they could start anything that would earn Molly's wrath.
Dumbledore, oblivious or pretending to be, finished his tea in three long sips and offered the pot around to the room. Molly's arched eyebrow — sharp enough to slice bacon — seemed to be warning everyone off, and so Harry and the others politely declined.
Setting his empty cup down, Dumbledore brushed a few biscuit crumbs from his beard and smiled faintly. "I wonder, Molly, if I might trouble you for a private room," he said gently. "I have a matter or two to discuss with young Harry here, and I'd rather not occupy your sitting room for longer than necessary."
"You're no trouble at all, Professor," Molly said at once, though she quickly waved her hand as if to shoo away her own words. "But of course, of course — come along."
She led him to an adjoining room just off the hallway, muttering about clearing away stacks of laundry and suspiciously noisy magical devices as she went. Before stepping inside, she turned sharply and caught her children's collective creeping in the corner of her eye.
"And none of you," she said in her most dangerous voice, "are to hover by the door."
Ron and the twins shared a look, identical masks of innocence settling across their faces like synchronized magic. Ginny tried to hide behind a lampshade.
"Not a sound," Molly warned.
"Yes, Mum," came the very unconvincing chorus.
Satisfied — or at least pretending to be — she left the sitting room door ajar and returned to the kitchen.
Then Dumbledore looked back and gave Harry a small nod, his expression calm and warm but carrying just enough weight to make Harry's pulse quicken.
"Come along, Harry," he said. "There are things we must discuss."
And just like that, Harry stood and followed him into the room, his stomach tightening with nerves, curiosity, and more than a little excitement.
The adjoining room turned out to be a cosy little sitting room, though it seemed more like a place furniture came to retire than somewhere anyone actually sat. Two slightly sagging sofas faced each other across a low table, and several other chairs — none of which matched — had been shoved haphazardly into corners as though someone had long ago given up on finding them a proper home. A faint smell of lavender polish lingered in the air, probably Molly's doing.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the wide windows, painting soft golden patches on the faded rug and scattering tiny motes of dust that floated lazily in the warmth.
Dumbledore paused just inside the doorway, surveying the cramped little space with a quiet sort of approval before lowering himself into one of the sofas. Harry hesitated for half a second, then perched on the opposite one, sitting stiffly upright as though perfect posture might somehow make him less awkward.
For a moment, the only sounds were the distant clatter of Molly fussing in the kitchen and the muffled voices of the Weasley children being forcibly not nosy.
Dumbledore folded his hands over one knee and sighed contentedly, as if settling into an old habit. "Well," he said at last, his tone warm and welcoming. "I suppose I ought to introduce myself properly, though I suspect you already—"
"You're Albus Dumbledore," Harry blurted, the words tumbling out far too quickly. "Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, one of the most powerful wizards alive — and you defeated Grindelwald in 1945, putting an end to his entire reign of terror."
The words hung in the air like startled birds.
Harry froze.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, blue eyes glinting faintly, while Harry's face burned hot enough to rival the sun outside.
"I— I mean— sorry," Harry stammered, wishing more than anything that he could sink into the sofa and disappear entirely. "I just— I've read about you, in, um, books, and it's… surreal. Meeting you. I didn't mean to—" He stopped himself, biting back further nonsense before it escaped, and mentally scolded himself for sounding like a starstruck idiot.
Dumbledore regarded him for a moment longer, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then he smiled again, softer this time, though Harry noticed the faintest flicker of something shadowed crossing his expression at the mention of Grindelwald. It was there and gone in an instant, like the passing of a cloud.
"Well," Dumbledore said lightly, brushing a crumb from his beard, "I see I shall have to watch what I say around you. If I so much as sneeze, you'll likely already know which century it was in and whether it caused any magical breakthroughs."
Harry blinked, then caught the teasing lilt beneath the words and managed a sheepish grin. "I… just like to read," he admitted, shrugging a little.
"Ah," Dumbledore said, leaning back and steepling his fingers thoughtfully. "In that case, you may find yourself fitting rather nicely in Ravenclaw."
Harry tilted his head. "Isn't that the clever house?"
"Clever, curious, fond of riddles and ideas for their own sake," Dumbledore agreed. "Though," he added with a glimmer of humour, "I suspect the Hat will have quite a lot to deliberate over in your case."
Harry frowned faintly, puzzled, but Dumbledore said nothing more, only watching him with an unreadable expression, the sunlight catching in his spectacles and making his eyes sparkle like blue glass.
For a moment, Harry forgot to fidget.
Dumbledore adjusted himself slightly on the sofa, folding his hands loosely atop his knee. His eyes — impossibly blue and impossibly kind — rested on Harry with an ease that somehow made the silence feel deliberate rather than awkward.
"I imagine," Dumbledore began softly, "that you have a great many questions."
Harry nodded mutely, though he suspected his questions would have come tumbling out if Dumbledore hadn't raised a gentle hand.
"And," the Headmaster continued, "I promise I will answer them. All of them, in time. But I must ask, Harry, that you be patient with me for a short while longer. There are things I must explain first, and I think they will make the rest easier to understand."
Harry pressed his lips together and nodded again, forcing himself to sit still and wait.
Dumbledore smiled faintly, as though he appreciated the effort.
"To begin," he said, settling back, "you are a wizard, Harry."
Harry had read the words before. He had read them so many times, tucked away in old wizarding history texts and fantastical accounts of legendary figures. And yet hearing them spoken aloud — to him, about him — felt entirely different. Like stepping from theory into reality.
"You are part of a wider community," Dumbledore went on, "a rather lively and occasionally eccentric one, I'm afraid, but one to which you very much belong. Britain has had a wizarding population for many centuries, though, as you may have gathered from your reading, we tend to keep ourselves… discreet."
"Because of the Statute of Secrecy," Harry said automatically.
"Ah," Dumbledore's smile widened, his eyes twinkling faintly. "So you have indeed been doing your homework."
Harry gave a tiny shrug. "I… like to read."
"So I gather." Dumbledore inclined his head. "Yes, the Statute. Concealment has protected our kind for hundreds of years, though it has also made it rather tricky for young witches and wizards to learn of their heritage if their families… do not inform them."
Harry hesitated, fingers twisting in his lap. "Like mine didn't."
Dumbledore's expression softened but he did not interrupt, letting the silence stretch gently before continuing.
"That," he said finally, "is partly why there are schools such as Hogwarts. To teach, of course, but also to gather the young together, give them a place where they can belong. Hogwarts has stood for over a thousand years, Harry, and though I may be biased, I dare say there is nowhere quite like it."
Harry perked up a little despite himself. He knew about Hogwarts from his books — had spent far too many evenings poring over half-torn diagrams of the castle and scribbled accounts from past students — but hearing Dumbledore describe it brought the place into sharper focus somehow, less distant and more… real.
"Four houses," Dumbledore continued, "each with their own qualities, traditions, and… spirited rivalries." His mouth twitched, as though he'd witnessed more of those rivalries than anyone ought to in one lifetime. "There will be time enough to learn about them once you arrive. For now, I only wish you to know that Hogwarts will be your home for the next seven years. A place to learn, to grow, and, I hope, to make friends worth keeping."
Harry nodded again, though his thoughts were spinning too quickly to form much else.
He hesitated before asking the question that had been needling him since last night. "Professor… why was I attacked?"
The change in Dumbledore's expression was subtle but unmistakable — his features settled, his eyes dimming just slightly as though a cloud had passed before them.
"The world," Dumbledore said carefully, "is… changing, Harry. You saw some of it last night. As they have dubbed it... The Turning."
"The Turning," Harry repeated quietly.
"Yes." Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, not unkindly but with the weight of someone measuring their words. "Its effects are still not fully understood, even by those of us who have studied it since its first signs appeared. It has touched every corner of our world — magical and non-magical alike. Some among the infected have slipped through protections we thought were strong. It is… possible that what you encountered last night was the result of that."
Harry nodded slowly, though something still gnawed at him. He swallowed, hesitating before speaking again.
"They knew my name," he said finally, his voice low. "Those creatures. They… said it. Like they were looking for me."
Dumbledore's brows lifted slightly before his gaze turned grave. For a moment, he said nothing, as if weighing several truths and deciding which to offer.
"It may be," he said at last, "that there are elements who would seek to frighten people. To unsettle them. And…" He hesitated, just briefly. "There are those who would harm you if they could."
Harry frowned, confusion prickling. "Why? I'm nobody."
Dumbledore regarded him with an expression that was… difficult to name. There was kindness there, yes, but also something deeper, something quieter and heavier, like a locked door behind his gaze.
"To our world you are far from nobody, Harry," he said gently.
Harry shook his head, baffled, and Dumbledore sighed softly, folding his hands more tightly.
"Then perhaps," the old wizard said, his voice dipping lower, "you should know a little of your history."
Harry's shoulders straightened without meaning to.
"Before you were born," Dumbledore began, "our world lived through a dark time. A wizard called Tom Riddle — though you will know him better by another name — rose to power. He called himself Lord Voldemort."
Harry flinched slightly at the sound of the name, though he couldn't have said why. It seemed to carry weight even spoken here, in sunlight and safety.
"He was," Dumbledore continued gravely, "brilliant. Charismatic. And utterly merciless. He gathered followers, sowed fear, and waged war upon all who opposed him. Those were dangerous years, Harry. Families torn apart, trust eroded, lives… ended."
Harry's breath caught faintly.
"Your parents," Dumbledore said softly, "fought against him. They were good people. Brave people."
Something tightened in Harry's chest.
"On the night you turned one," Dumbledore went on, "Voldemort came for you. Why he sought you, specifically, is… a longer story, one we will return to in time. What matters now is that he found your home. Your parents tried to protect you, but…" Dumbledore paused, eyes lowering briefly. "They died that night, Harry. But Voldemort did not succeed."
Harry stared, numb. He knew, vaguely, that he had been adopted after his biological parents had died, but hearing it like this — hearing how — was something else entirely.
"You survived," Dumbledore said gently, "and in doing so, you did what no one had ever done before. Voldemort was… vanquished. His power broken. His followers scattered. The wizarding world rebuilt itself, in time. But you…"
Harry's throat felt tight.
"You became," Dumbledore finished softly, "a symbol of hope. The Boy Who Lived."
Harry let the words hang there, distant and absurd and heavy all at once. A dozen tangled feelings warred inside him — confusion, disbelief, a faint spark of awe and something strangely bitter, too.
He was an orphan here, too. In this life as well.
A part of him wished, fiercely and quietly, that he had known them. That he'd had more than borrowed names and shadows of stories.
For the first time since they'd sat down, he couldn't quite meet Dumbledore's gaze.
Dumbledore let the silence linger for a moment longer, his hands folded loosely in his lap. Afternoon sunlight slanted across the cluttered sitting room, catching in his silver hair and giving him an almost ethereal air. Harry sat opposite, shoulders hunched slightly, staring down at the worn carpet as though the patterns there might make better sense of his life than anything else could.
When Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice was soft, carrying neither command nor pity, only calm assurance.
"People," he said gently, "are very good at holding on to the things that give them hope, Harry. When the world grows dark, even the smallest candle can seem like a blazing sun."
Harry glanced up, uncertain if that was meant to make him feel better.
"They needed something," Dumbledore continued, "someone, to believe in after Voldemort fell. And there you were, the child who survived the unsurvivable. It is… nothing more mysterious than that."
Harry frowned, twisting his hands in his lap. "It's absurd," he muttered. "They say I did something — vanquished some dark lord, stopped him — but I was a baby." He lifted his gaze, frustration spilling unguarded into his voice. "How do you do anything like that when you're a baby?"
For a heartbeat, Dumbledore said nothing. Then the faintest smile curved his lips, a subtle thing, tempered with understanding rather than amusement.
"I am," he said at last, "very glad, Harry, that you are not in the habit of befriending fickle companions."
Harry blinked at him. "…Like fame?"
"Precisely." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, but the warmth behind them was real. "It is a most unreliable friend — one that insists upon clinging, whether you've invited it or not, and is all too eager to abandon you when it grows bored." He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "You did not ask for it, nor do you owe it anything."
Harry exhaled through his nose, some of the tightness in his chest loosening, though not entirely. "Feels like everyone else thinks I do."
"They may," Dumbledore allowed with a small shrug, "but that, too, is their business rather than yours."
He paused then, letting Harry absorb the words before continuing, his tone shifting just slightly, softening further.
"You may believe," he said slowly, "that you have done nothing special. That it is absurd anyone should think you have. But I would remind you, Harry, that last night you survived."
Harry started to protest, but Dumbledore raised a single hand, patient.
"You survived," he repeated, "just as you survived the night Voldemort came for you. That is no small thing." His gaze was steady, not piercing but deliberate, as though inviting Harry to sit with the thought rather than recoil from it. "It takes a kind of resilience — a bravery — that lives in us all, but not everyone chooses to use."
Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
"You have," Dumbledore said simply. "Twice now. And I am… glad of it."
There was no grandeur in the way he said it, no weight of expectation, only quiet sincerity. And somehow, that eased the knot of unease in Harry's chest more than any grand declaration could have.
Dumbledore leaned back then, letting the heavy air of the conversation disperse like mist in sunlight.
"So," he said lightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, "do not take upon yourself the burden of what others say or expect. Let the world whisper its stories if it must; they are not your duty to live up to."
Harry hesitated, then asked softly, "What am I supposed to do, then?"
Dumbledore regarded him with the kind of patient fondness that made Harry feel, oddly, as though he were being seen in a way he couldn't quite name.
"Be happy," Dumbledore said simply. "Be brave when it matters. And above all, Harry… be kind."
The words settled between them like something fragile and enduring.
Harry didn't trust himself to speak, so he just nodded, a little awkwardly. But there was a quiet steadiness to the gesture this time, a sense that something inside him had shifted, however slightly.
For a while, neither of them said anything, letting the soft creak of the old house and the distant clatter of crockery from the kitchen fill the silence. Finally, Dumbledore gave a small, almost theatrical sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards again.
"And here I am," he said, "taking up your precious afternoon, while your friends wait to drag you into mischief."
Harry blinked, startled into a laugh he hadn't realised was waiting in his chest. "I'm not sure Ron counts as mischief," he said, "but the twins…"
"Yes," Dumbledore chuckled softly, "I rather suspected as much."
With that, he pushed himself slowly to his feet, straightening his long robes with an absent tug. Harry followed suit, still feeling a little as though the room was holding onto the weight of their conversation even as they stepped away from it.
By the time they reached the doorway, there was a small but genuine smile on Harry's face. Dumbledore returned it with one of his own, the kind that seemed to carry an entire unspoken reassurance within it.
And together, they stepped back into the Burrow's sunlit chaos, the air buzzing faintly with life and the promise of everything still to come.
The door to the sitting room clicked softly shut behind them, and Harry blinked at the sudden contrast. Where the quiet of Dumbledore's words had been gentle and steady, the Burrow beyond was… anything but.
The living room was alive with its usual chaos, a space crowded not just with furniture but with the sort of easy, unselfconscious noise only a Weasley household could manage. The worn sofa sagged beneath the weight of the ginger-haired siblings and a squirming Ginny perched at the armrest, while Fred and George lounged on the threadbare rug, bickering over a half-finished contraption that looked suspiciously flammable.
The moment Harry stepped into view, every head turned toward him with startling synchronicity, and he had just enough time to register Ron's broad grin before the barrage began.
"Well?" Fred demanded, springing up with theatrical flourish. "Did he—"
"—tell you the secret—" George chimed in seamlessly, eyebrows raised, "—of your mysterious destiny?"
"Or Quidditch?" Ron interrupted hopefully.
Ginny was listening with a look that she would've been awed even if he had recited Dursley's grocery list.
It was Percy, however, who spoke with the most gravity, his polished prefect badge gleaming importantly in the sunlight filtering through the crooked windowpanes. He folded his arms in what he clearly thought was a dignified manner. "I imagine," he said, "that whatever the Headmaster discussed with Harry is private, and—"
"—and therefore we should ask him until he cracks," Fred concluded, grinning.
George slung an arm around Harry's shoulder before he could retreat, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Blink twice if it's something dangerous."
"Blink once if it involves dragons," Fred added.
Harry, caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation, opened his mouth to protest, but was saved by an unexpected sound: the faintest quiver of a moustache.
He glanced up. Dumbledore, standing just behind him, had one hand clasped loosely around the other, his gaze warm and unbothered. Yet there it was — the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth, betrayed by the silver arcs of his moustache.
"I'm afraid," Dumbledore said gravely, "that you will find Mr. Potter's blinking patterns entirely unrelated to dragons."
Fred gasped in mock outrage. "So there are dragons involved!"
"Boys!" Molly's voice cut across the room like a well-aimed spell. She emerged from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour and cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove, wooden spoon still in hand like a weapon. "Leave Harry be; he's only just come out. I swear, you lot would interrogate him before he's had a proper meal."
She turned to Dumbledore then, her expression softening instantly. "Now, Albus," she said warmly, "you'll stay for lunch, won't you? I've just finished the stew, and there's treacle tart cooling by the window."
It was an invitation Dumbledore might well have considered — indeed, for the briefest flicker of a moment, his eyes twinkled as though he'd quite like to say yes. But before he could reply, a sudden ripple of cold magic stirred the air.
A shimmer of pale silver burst into the room, coalescing midair into the sharp, elegant shape of a crow Patronus. Its wings stretched wide in one graceful sweep before folding neatly at its sides. Without so much as a glance at anyone else, it dipped its beak toward Dumbledore and spoke in a low, urgent murmur only he could hear.
The old wizard inclined his head slightly in response, face unreadable. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the Patronus dissolved into motes of fading light, scattering like snowflakes in sunlight.
Harry stared, curiosity sparking, but Dumbledore gave no explanation — only turned back to Molly with a small, apologetic smile.
"I fear," he said, "I must decline your generous offer, Molly. Duty calls me elsewhere."
"Oh, that's a shame," she said, though there was no mistaking the genuine fondness behind her disappointment.
"However," Dumbledore added, "I wonder if I might impose upon you in another way." He inclined his head toward Harry, whose curiosity sharpened further. "Would you be so kind as to take young Mr. Potter along when you make your trip to Diagon Alley for school supplies?"
"Of course!" Molly said at once, sounding faintly scandalised by the idea that he'd even had to ask. "We'll be heading there next week anyway."
"Splendid." Dumbledore's gaze softened as he turned to Harry. "And you, my boy, needn't worry about a thing. Hagrid will meet you on the day — both to help with supplies and to escort you to St. Mungo's for a quick precautionary check-up."
Harry frowned instinctively. "A check-up?"
"Nothing alarming," Dumbledore assured him, his voice warm and even. "Merely… thoroughness. Consider it the price of surviving spectacularly inconvenient events."
That earned him a small huff of laughter from Harry despite himself, though somewhere in his chest the word checkup sat uneasily.
By then, the noise from outside drew their attention — a low rumble, followed by the unmistakable crunch of boots against gravel. A moment later, the door creaked open to reveal an enormous figure filling the frame, shaggy hair catching in the sunlight like an untamed mane.
"Hagrid!" Ron exclaimed, grinning broadly.
"'Lo, everyone!" boomed Hagrid, stepping inside with a gust of fresh air and the faint scent of damp earth. "Blimey, smells good in here, Molly."
"Thank you, dear," Molly said distractedly, giving him a quick once-over. "You've been out on your business, haven't you? Don't track mud on my rugs."
Hagrid chuckled sheepishly, muttering something about dragons — which earned him a pointed look from Fred and George — before Dumbledore approached, his presence somehow dimming the room's chaos without ever commanding it outright.
"Ah, there you are," Dumbledore said, clasping Hagrid's forearm with quiet familiarity. "All well?"
"Aye, back from Hogwarts, Diggle dropped me off, Dumbledore sir," Hagrid said, lowering his voice slightly. "Though there's summat stirrin' in the forests — centaurs've been restless."
Dumbledore's expression flickered, thoughtful but unsurprised. "I see," he murmured. "We shall speak more at the castle."
He turned then, addressing Molly once again. "If you could send me an owl when you intend to visit Diagon Alley, I will ensure Hagrid knows precisely when to meet you."
"Of course," Molly said briskly, brushing her hands on her apron.
With that, Dumbledore inclined his head to her, then to Harry. There was nothing grand about the farewell, yet somehow the weight of his presence lingered even before he'd stepped away.
"Until then, Harry," he said smiling slightly. "Enjoy the days as they come."
And then, with a subtle gesture, he and Hagrid stepped just beyond the threshold. One soft crack later, they were gone, leaving only the faintest ripple of displaced air behind.
For a moment, the Burrow seemed almost unusually still, as though the house itself were catching its breath after the Headmaster's departure. Then Fred clapped a hand on Harry's back, nearly sending him into Ron.
"Well," Fred said cheerfully, "since we've been denied secrets by both Dumbledore and your blinking habits, I say we make up our own theories. George?"
"Starting," George declared solemnly, "with dragons."
Harry groaned, but despite himself, the sound was threaded with something lighter — a quiet assurance that hadn't been there before.
Somewhere beyond the crooked windows, sunlight spilled across the wild Weasley garden, and for just a moment, it felt as though the promise Dumbledore had spoken of — to be happy, to be brave, to be kind — wasn't so impossible after all.