Chapter 45

Just then, Professor Dumbledore came to the rescue, "And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" declared Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed. Wondering why Professor Quirrell was pulling his turban tightly over his ears, Harry looked back at Dumbledore.

The Headmaster gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore merrily, "and off we go!"

And the school bellowed:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they're bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we've forgot,

just do your best, we'll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot."

'Oh dear lord!'

Tears streamed from Harry's eyes as the deafening cacophony of noise bled through his tightly clamped ears and shattered his canals, and by the time the slowly stopped with everybody finished the song at different times, Harry's ears were ringing. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

And Harry, with many other traumatized first years, left, dazed to high heavens, for his common room.

Albus Dumbledore was a man defined by his mistakes. His sister's death, his brother's estrangement, his fight with Gellert Grindelwald, and of course, Tom Riddle.

On this fateful night, he was wondering if he'd have to add Harry Potter to the list now.

Over the decades, Albus had developed the habit of scanning through the first year children's' minds at the welcoming feast. While he knew that what he was doing was sketchy at best and downright criminal at worst, he felt that the risk of prosecution and the slight against his own morality was worth protecting the world from another psychopathic murderer. So, he identified and marked dark wizards in the school itself, using that information later to hopefully guide them out of the path of becoming a dark wizard, and failing which, use their identities in protecting of innocents.

Yet that little habit was also the reason behind his greatest weakness.

Pragmatic people liked to call Albus naive and unnecessarily forgiving to the point of being foolish when they would see him arguing to protect the Death Eaters from the Kiss or the Death sentence. "A dead dark wizard is a killer and murderer less!" they would scream at him. And to a certain degree, after the end of the last war when he had seen Sirius Black betray his closest friend, Albus found himself agreeing with them.

But how could he sentence them to death!

How could he stare them in their eyes, the very eyes that held nothing but innocence and dreams when they walked through the doors of the Great Hall when they turned eleven, and order the Dementors to get their souls sucked out!

He couldn't. And he knew that his inability to shake the images of the murderers and rapists as innocent children from his mind was one of the biggest liabilities to the light side.

His thoughts were conflicted as when he sensed his Deputy about to knock on his door.

"Come in, Minerva."

"What is this about Albus? You know I have the class with first years first thing tomorrow." Minerva seemed a bit frazzled, her slippers and fur gown evidence of her hurry in coming to his office on his call.

"I've come across something disturbing during my scans in the feast. It's …troubling."

Minerva's lips pursed. She had never approved of his actions. In a clipped voice, she spoke, "What is it?"

"It's about Mr. Potter," he paused and took a deep breath. What he was about to say was not to be said lightly. "His mind has shields. Shields well beyond anyone three times his age could ever have."

"What are you implying Albus?"

Her tone was worried, Albus noted. Minerva had shown unprecedented concern over the boy ever since she had returned, ripping into Albus after she returned from her trip to Diagon Alley to help him buy his supplies. She hadn't held back, and Albus hadn't dared contradict her promise of getting the boy out of that place.

Suspecting what he did now, he wasn't sure he even wanted the boy to go to Privet Drive, a place he couldn't keep a watchful eye on him. With a sigh, he placed his suspicions on the table, "I suspect that night the killing curse did more than kill the dark lord and give Harry a scar."

Minerva was quick to catch on, "You suspect he's possessed. By You-Know-Who."

"I do."

"But you do know that such shields can also be a side effect of serious physical and mental trauma," Her voice was accusing, and Albus knew that she was referring to the time he had not done anything about Severus Snape's home life despite knowing of his father's routine abuse, forcing him to turn to the other powerful wizard that did offer to help him.

And now, the faded dark mark on his potions master's hand forever remained yet another reminder of Albus's devastatingly powerful mistakes.

"I know. But still . . ."

Minerva stood up. "Well, I doubt it, Albus. I studied with Tom Riddle in Hogwarts. If there is one thing you and I know about him, it's that he is incapable of any emotions except rage. Harry…is…"

"Still Minerva, keep an eye on him will you?" He said, tiredly massaging his forehead.

Minerva sighed. "I will. But Albus, don't treat him like a pariah like you did with Riddle just because you suspect he is dark. Doing that only pushed Riddle more to the other side. Do yourself a favor and don't make the same mistake with Harry."

With that one last warning, Minerva walked out the office. Albus gently took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. So Harry was either dark, or he was abused so badly that he physically and mentally cut himself off from the pain of his past.

Either way, it was another devastating mistake on his own head. He sighed, before emptying a vial of a calming draught into his mouth.

Harry sat on his four-poster bed as sleep continuously evaded him. The Ravenclaw dorm beds had curtains, which with the word Duro could turn solid and wouldn't open for anybody except its user. They also had a built-in silencing charm that muffled all outside sounds. You had to keep your alarm in your bed in case you fell asleep with the silencing charm on, but it was a small price to pay for the privacy it afforded.

The Prefect had led them to the Ravenclaw Common Room, which was located on the west side of Hogwarts at the top of a spiral staircase, presumably on the fifth floor, and had a door without a doorknob or keyhole, but a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. In order to enter the room, a person had to answer a riddle asked by the eagle knocker; if they answered incorrectly, they had to wait for someone else to get it right.

The Ravenclaw common room was one of the airiest rooms at Hogwarts. It was a wide, circular room with a midnight blue carpet, arched windows hung with blue and bronze silks, and a domed ceiling painted with stars. During the day, Ravenclaw students had an excellent view of the school grounds, including the lake, Forbidden Forest, Quidditch pitch, Herbology gardens and the surrounding mountains. The room was furnished with tables, chairs, and bookcases; and by the door leading up to the dormitories stood a tall statue of Rowena Ravenclaw made of white marble in all her snooty glory.

According to Prefect Robert Hilliard, the sound of wind whistling around the windows of the tower was relaxing while going to sleep.

It wasn't. It really wasn't.

It sounded like the Grey Lady and Fat Friar, who was the Hufflepuff ghost, were getting frisky with each other just outside the window. It was stupid. It was distracting. And if not for the silencing charm, nothing would ever get done.

With absolutely nothing else to do, Harry started writing the last of the thank you letters to the people who had sent him gifts in the ten years he had been absent in the wizarding world. A lot of them had given him money, which was rather nice and practical.

He'd also, on Professor McGonagall's suggestion, written a letter thanking Amelia Bones, the director of DMLE, for getting some of her Aurors to sort through his mail and remove any malignant or cursed items.

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