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It isn’t fair. So many emotions are so similar to each other. Affection, fondness, admiration, camaraderie, respect, the desire for approval. The need to feel important. To feel loved. And there are so many different kinds of love here, Harry can feel them swirling all around the Great Hall; all the friendships, the crushes. Owls bearing letters from family missing their students, full of encouragement and pride.
Maybe that’s why it’s so much more confusing for him than it seems to be for everyone else. He has no sense of normalcy, no standard against which to measure his feelings. He feels everything so intensely, but has no way to categorize any of it. The way he likes Ron is different from the way he likes Hermione, but both of those feelings are still friendship, right? And the swell of pride that rises in his chest when Wood praises him, that little roar of pride that races through his veins, that’s different from the quiet, slow warmth in his cheeks and hands when Dumbledore catches his eye and gives him just the slightest smile before Dean stands from the bench, temporarily breaking Harry’s view of the staff table. In the second it takes him to move away, Dumbledore has returned to his conversation with McGonagall,and the moment is over.
It makes sense, he tells himself. Dumbledore is the closest he’s come to having a parental figure to whom he could appeal. Someone he wants to impress, to share his successes with and recover from his failures. This is just unfamiliar, but it’s how everyone feels.
Everyone feels this way.
And if he’s found hanging around the hallway leading to Dumbledore’s office after hours, it’s only because he can think of no other avenue to chase that feeling. His friends don’t have to fight for the right to feel this. They just have it. No one can blame him for wanting it, too. For not knowing how to pursue it. For wanting that reassurance, that confidence, that love. Is it love? There are many kinds of love, he knows that, but how can you tell them apart?
“Harry?”
And all of his thoughts are scattered, and his mind goes into a frenzy, both blank and busy, numb and so active it’s a wonder his body isn’t vibrating with the sheer energy of it. He’s frozen, rooted to the spot, flushing badly. Dumbledore stands patiently, head tilted. He wears a cloak over his night robes, shoes over bare feet. He was clearly out in the castle somewhere, and not, as Harry had assumed, in his chambers. Harry rocks back onto his heels slowly, takes a deep breath.
“Professor.”
“Were you waiting for me?”
The answer is so obvious, but Harry can hardly bear to say it.
“Yes, sir.”
“And how might I help you?” Dumbledore walks forward, and Harry steps back, but the old man is moving past him to the gargoyle at the end of the corridor. “Nosebleed Nougat,” he announces, and the gargoyle leaps aside smoothly. Harry raises his eyebrows in question. “Quite a clever pair, those two, don’t you think?” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle, and he gestures to the staircase. “Coming up, I assume?” Harry nods dumbly, stepping forward to stand next to the taller man. He stands in silence, still embarrassed, but feeling rather more at ease with the situation as Dumbledore hums quietly to himself and twiddles his thumbs together as though late night surprise visits from his younger students are perfectly normal and acceptable.
When they arrive at the top of the stairs, Dumbledore strides to the chair behind his desk, and sweeps a hand at the one in front. “Please sit,” he requests, gathering his cloak in front of his waist as he eases into his own chair. Harry puts a hand on the back of the proferred seat, moves it back slightly, then pushes it back into place and shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He glances up quickly, and is met with curious blue eyes before steepled fingers.
“I, er,” he begins eloquently. His hands grip the edge of the desk, the hem of his robes, his own fingers. His eyes cast about the room for something safe to land on, as though the many glinting, puffing instruments can help him find the words he needs.
“I’ve been, ah, really…” he trails off, flushing deeply as he realizes that he doesn’t have the faintest clue what it is that he wants from his Headmaster. He half hopes Dumbledore will speak up, offer some possible points to start from, but he merely sits in considerate patience for Harry to begin properly. For once, Harry wishes he wouldn’t.
After an uncomfortably long period of silence during which Harry has abandoned trying to parse out his feelings in favor of inventing an escape plan, Dumbledore finally speaks.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“No,” Harry replies automatically. He feels strangely uncomfortable with the idea of sitting across from the old man, nearly eye level, with a desk between them and the expectation of a certain type of appropriate dialogue, but he doesn’t know what any of that means, and has even less idea of how to express it.
“What’s on your mind?” Dumbledore tries.
Harry sighs, feeling something release inside him, as though he’s giving up a battle he hadn’t realized he’d been fighting. “I’m not sure. There are so many things, it’s like I can’t--I’m lonely.”
The statement takes him by surprise. Was that what he was feeling? He’d said it without thinking--does that make it true? Dumbledore’s gaze is level, contemplative.
“How are things with Miss Granger and Mr Weasley? Have you spoken with them about this?”
“No, it’s not… It’s nothing to do with them. They’re great. Really.”
“A different sort of lonely, then.”
“Yeah.”
Dumbledore falls silent again, lowering his head to touch his mouth to his fingertips, considering. Waiting. Harry takes a hesitant step around the desk, then walks fully around it, settling to his knees on the floor a short distance from Dumbledore’s chair. The old man turns to watch as he walks, then grips the arms of his chair to turn it so he’s more or less facing Harry. Shifting somewhat, Harry settles into a cross-legged position.
“I don’t know what it is, though,” he says quietly. He can’t imagine what force has compelled him to be here, sitting on the--admittedly plush--rug in Dumbledore’s office, or why he seems to have such an interested audience, but there’s no turning back now, and maybe he can actually figure out what all of this means. “I’m not jealous, not really. I just keep feeling like I’m looking for something. But I don’t know what it is.” He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, upsetting his glasses and probably smearing the lenses.
“So you came to me to help you look for it.”
“I guess so?”
“And where should we start our search?”
“Err…”
Dumbledore’s smile then is amused, eyes crinkling in the corners.
“Here you sit, at... “ he turns to consult a metal coil on the wall that must have been some sort of clock, “half past one in the morning, on my rug.”
“Er, yes.”
“Are you more comfortable there? Does it ease anything?”
“I guess a little?” Harry picks at his chin. “I mean, yeah, I guess I’m pretty comfortable.”
Better now that he doesn’t have to take the lead in this conversation.
“Are you getting along alright in your classes?”
“Yeah, they’re okay. Well, potions… They’re okay. Yeah.”
“And I hear you’ve been spending time at The Burrow.”
“How did you…? Yeah, I have. It’s great, they’re really wonderful people.”
“Indeed they are.”
“It’s not the same, though.”
“The same as what?”
As this. I dunno. It’s not like talking to you.” He feels himself blushing further at that, catching himself off guard once again. “I feel better when I can talk to you, I guess.”
Dumbledore looked at Harry over the top of his glasses.
“I don’t know!” Harry exclaims, suddenly feeling exasperated with the whole thing. “I don’t know why it should matter so much to me, what you think. I know you’re busy and you have--what--hundreds of students? And of course you have to do stuff all the time. But I just want you to--” he stops suddenly, breathing harder and having risen back up to his knees.
“Yes, Harry?”
“T-to… to pay attention to me. More.” Shame sets in immediately. It’s not as though he weren’t already getting more personal attention paid to him than any other student at Hogwarts, as far as he can tell. His hands clench on his thighs, and he looks down to avoid Dumbledore's eyes. The rug has delicate gold threads woven through it. He realizes that they make a sort of pattern all their own, but with the desk sitting over the middle of it, he can’t quite tell what it is. He suspects it converges into--
“You have my full attention, Harry.”
He starts, glancing up and then quickly looking away from those piercing blue eyes. He’s not sure if he should act, speak, or wait. His glasses are blurry in the corner where he’d touched them.
“What should I do?”
“What do you feel you need to do?”
Harry considers. He seems to make the most headway when he stops thinking and starts just talking, or just acting, so, experimentally, he tries to let go. Easier said than done, of course. Trying not to think about not thinking, he stands slowly, touching the engraved designs on the desk for reassurance. Their breathing fills the room. Harry steps right up to Dumbledore’s, sneakers an inch from worn black boots, staring at Dumbledore’s lap and concentrating intently on not thinking at all. Dumbledore moves his hands from his lap to rest them on the arms of his chair.
“Can I…?”
Without receiving an answer (and possibly without waiting for one; time seems to be behaving very differently right now), Harry slides into the Headmaster’s lap, perching sideways awkwardly with one knee poking out under the chair’s arm and one foot still on the ground, just in case. He can see how the long silver hair of Dumbledore’s beard is tucked beneath the cloak.. Slowly, ever so slowly, Harry drags his eyes up towards his face, but as he gets to the long, crooked nose, he stops, unable to will himself any further. Dumbledore’s breathing is now the only sound in the room, as Harry seems to have forgotten how.
I should say something, he thinks. I should do something.
He’s gone too far to even consider stopping anymore. Time races, time stands still, and his heart feels like it’s pounding so hard it may soon burst.
“Harry.”
Every muscle tenses, waiting.
“Breathe.”
Oh, right. Harry takes a sudden, deep inhale, feeling his heart ease and his head swim.
“Sorry,” he exhales, not sure which part he’s sorry for.
“Quite all right.”
“Right. Er. Sorry,” he says again, thinking maybe he should stand up now. A warmth settles between his shoulder blades where Dumbledore’s hand comes to rest, and his eyes dart to meet that wise old gaze, instantly changing his mind as his thoughts blank out. He tries to remember… inhale, exhale. Good.
The stare is unblinking. Truly undivided attention is worse than he’d thought. What to do with it? Where was he going with this? He felt encouraged and empowered to act, if only he could figure out what action to take. Too many emotions. They all blend together.
He realizes he was leaning forward, no longer meeting Dumbledore’s eyes, but focusing on his mouth. He’d never paid much attention to it before, but his mustache is carefully groomed, and his lips look soft. Harry doesn’t feel any pull in his groin, nor any particular attraction to the Professor’s features. He knows what it feels like to be turned on, and this isn’t it. Even as he closes the distance between their faces, he knows this. But he’s also very aware of the fact that they are now sharing air. It feels like every breath is pulled straight out of his lungs as he’s breathing it, and the air around their faces is warm.
His heart has stopped. Every call in his body is on hold, just suspended in time, as he hesitates less than an inch away. Dumbledore sits as still as the gargoyle outside. There is a decision to be made here. Harry’s thoughts take advantage of his hesitation and begin to buzz again. He can’t do this if he’s thinking. He could push forward anyway, but suddenly he’s not running on gut feeling anymore, and he doesn’t think he can find what he’s looking for with his mind, only with his feelings. The moment stretches. The buzzing in his head becomes more pronounced.
The hand on his back slides around to press gently against his chest. He lets go of the breath he was holding again and lets himself be pushed back into a fully upright position. The hand leaves him there. He can stay in Dumbledore’s lap, then, but the moment of permission was over when he stopped being sure that he was asking.
He can feel the eyes on him, evaluating, but no words are spoken.
“I’m… sorry,” he offers, scrubbing at his forehead with one hand. He receives no response, and shifts his weight on the man’s lap, noticing with sudden and detailed awareness exactly how the thin legs feel beneath his thighs and bum. He pushes off as gently as he can, and he stands. He can feel, rather than see, Dumbledore rising behind him, and the finality of the movement feels like closing a door through which he’s only just poked his head and let his eyes adjust to the light.
Stepping away to put some space between them out of consideration for how incredibly awkward this is, he shuffles hesitantly back to the edge of the desk. Probably he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to stop this just yet. Not until he knows for sure that it’s over.
“I-I’m sorry, Professor.”
“Hmm.”
There’s a rustle, and then Dumbledore is standing right beside him, hand returning to his back, even softer than before.
“... Sir?” Harry looks up, feeling embarrassed, feeling scared, feeling hopeful.
Wordlessly, Dumbledore wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulls him close. Harry ducks his head into the old man’s shoulder, reaching both arms up behind him to pull him up against himself. On his back, Dumbledore does the same. One hand comes up to cup the back of his head, stroking gently through his hair. A sob tries to rise, but Harry catches it in his throat, tightening it until no sound can escape and squeezing his eyes closed tight to keep the tears in.
The two stand together for a long time. They sway very slightly back and forth, holding each other tightly, until Harry can’t contain all the emotions that are fighting each other anymore and they come flowing out through his wet face, his trembling hands clenched in Dumbledore’s cloak, his heaving chest, and he’s still being held through it all.
The hand atop his head pets him lovingly and he chokes out the last of his tears, feeling emptied and hollow and… warm. And loved.
He sniffles, pulling back just enough to worm a hand up and try to wipe his nose. Dumbledore’s thumb is stroking behind his ear, and Harry’s trying to clean his glasses, but his eyes are too swollen to tell whether or not he’s very successful. He thinks Dumbledore is smiling down at him now. They’re still holding each other, but no longer pressing together as though a storm were upon them.
“Thank you, sir,” he warbles quietly.
“Of course, Harry.”
Dumbledore stills his hand on Harry’s head then, long fingers wrapping around to the base of his skull, and he bends down to press a dry, whiskery kiss to Harry’s temple. The hand leaves.
Somehow, Harry’s body finds enough moisture left to squeeze one more tear out, and he hiccups stupidly.
“I’ll… I’ll just go back to bed, then.”
“Yes, I suspect Professor Snape won’t be very pleased to find you dozing in his class tomorrow morning.” Dumbledore’s eyes are crinkling again, and he’s beaming at Harry as if he couldn’t be prouder.
“Oh, yeah… Potions…” That wasn’t something he wanted to be reminded of.
“Um. Thank you again. Er.”
Without thinking! Easier without thinking!
Harry darts in to wrap his arms around his professor again, giving one quick squeeze before pulling back and turning to the door. He was so focused, he couldn’t actually tell whether or not the hug had been returned.
“Good night, Harry.”
He turns back, and sees Dumbledore stifling a yawn as he sheds his tear-stained cloak and hangs it up, revealing dazzling magenta sleep robes.
“Good night, sir.”