Chapter Text
"Sit down, Harry, and shut the fuck up."
Dumbledore pulled a cigar to his mouth and inhaled. Then he blew the smoke out, letting it spread throughout the room and form into obscene words.
"You're going to listen to me," he said, cigar still in his mouth, "and you won't speak a goddamn word. Understood?"
Harry sat down instantly, utterly bewildered with Dumbledore's behavior. "Yes, sir."
Dumbledore pulled open a drawer and took out a pistol, laying it on the desk in front of him, the barrel facing Harry, who stiffened and shot a disbelieving look at the headmaster.
"Sir?"
"Didn't I say to shut the fuck up?" said Dumbledore. "You've been causing a lot of trouble, Harry. A lot of trouble. But I've let it go, 'cause it's been some cool shit. I mean, the flying car?" He puffed out some smoke. "Wish I thought of that." Then he shook his head. "But this shit? Too far, Harry, too far."
"But, sir!" Harry protested. "Voldemort — I thought — thought that — S-Sirius!"
"Yes, it is serious."
"No, I mean, Sirius —"
"I know what you meant," Dumbledore said, "but with Sirius now gone, someone's got to take up the mantle of making the Sirius-serious jokes, and it's gonna be me."
Harry looked at the headmaster in horror.
Dumbledore leaned forward. "And who's fault is that, you little shit?" he said, blowing smoke into Harry's face. "Stupid goddamn fucker. Fucking idiot. You forget about the mirror Sirius gave you on holiday, dipshit? Fucking unbelievable. We should check into the Potter family tree to make sure there's been no inbreeding."
Harry was shocked beyond words. "I... I... What mirror?"
Dumbledore rolled his eyes so hard he was surprised they didn't fall out of his skull. "WhAt mIrRoR," he mocked. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Something gold was glinting just above him. The Snitch! He tried to catch it, but his arms were too heavy.
He blinked. It wasn't the Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. How strange.
He blinked again. The unimpressed face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him.
"Crazy ass kid," muttered Dumbledore, as though it was perfectly normal to call students such things.
Harry stared at him. Then he remembered: "Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's got the Stone! Sir, quick —"
"Sit down," said Dumbledore, "and calm yourself. Merlin."
"But —"
Dumbledore snorted. "I honestly can't believe you just pulled that shit. Didn't Minerva tell you to bugger off? But no, you went after a Dark wizard with Lord Voldemort on the back of his head." He shook his head. "How you kids manage to live through seven years of moving staircases without falling to your deaths I'll never know."
Harry tried sitting up. He had known Dumbledore was rather odd, and vulgar, but this seemed too much. He didn't seem to be taking Harry seriously at all.
"I said sit down," Dumbledore said. "That cunt, Pomfrey, tried to throw me out already and I don't need to Confund her twice. The old tend to shit their pants when their minds are altered with."
Harry shook his head and tried sitting up again anyway.
Dumbledore pushed him back down, pulled out a revolver, and set it on Harry's chest, the barrel pointing directly at Harry's neck.
"What the —"
"What the fuck, indeed," interrupted Dumbledore, and he pulled out a long pipe, lit it, and began smoking it in front of Harry as though this was a normal everyday occurance.
"But the Stone, sir!" Harry exclaimed. "And Quirrell! What are you —"
"Quirrell's dead," Dumbledore stated, quite bluntly. "Deader than your parents, I'd say, and let me tell you, they were fucking dead." Harry choked on air. Dumbledore ignored him. "Nothing but ash left for Quirrell. Well, ash and his wand."
Dumbledore held up his pipe for Harry to examine. On a closer look, Harry could see that it was indeed Quirrell's wand, hollowed out and slightly modified. Dumbledore reigned his arm back in, put Quirrell's wand back into his mouth, and stood up.
"Well, Harry, get some rest," he said. "Don't worry about the Stone. I gave it back to the Flamels. They told me to tell you and others that we agreed to destroy it, so to protect the Flamels, but fuck all that. I've enchanted that pistol to fuck your shit up should you decide to get out of bed before that Pomfrey bint lets you go. Good day, Harry."
Harry rested his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes, a kind of numb shock still rolling over him, hoping with everything he had that this would all be a rather silly dream.
Harry set the Sword of Gryffindor down upon the table. The Weasleys, McGonagall, and Lockhart had all left, leaving him alone with Dumbledore. Harry gave him a weary glance, remembering his short time with him alone the year before, when Dumbledore had taken out a pistol and put it on his chest, and how that very pistol whacked him on the head when he reached over to grab a glass of water.
The sound of a drawer opening and closing took him out of his thoughts.
It was Dumbledore, placing a pistol, black and slick, down on the desk, pointing right at Harry.
"What? Are you — but this is McGonagall's room!" Harry said, looking at the pistol, then to Dumbledore, then back again. "How do you even have one here?"
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Are you done?"
"Am I done? How — how can you just — I don't understand —" Harry, tired and annoyed by the day's events, stopped and groaned.
"I think the Boy Who Lived," Dumbledore began, "needs to become the Boy Who Shut the Fuck Up."
Harry sighed and sat down, nodding.
"Excellent," said Dumbledore. "As for your questions — I am always prepared."
"Prepared for what, exactly?"
Dumbledore raised a single eyebrow. "You think I'm going to be alone in a room, unarmed, with a snake-speaking motherfucker like you?"
Harry spluttered. "But — but you're the greatest wizard to ever live! Why do you even need a pistol?"
Dumbledore shrugged. "I don't know where you're getting this bullshit attitude from, or why, so I'm going to have to kindly ask you to cut that bullshit out."
Harry looked up from the ground and into Dumbledore's eyes, which were blue and... highly red.
"Are — are you high?"
"No," Dumbledore denied instantly. "Maybe. Does it matter? I come here, I hear you've disappeared yet again, I know you're up to some bullshit, so of course I got high. Little asshole." He stood up. "A fucking basilisk... By Molly's desecrated cunt, you just can't stay out of trouble, can you?"
Harry closed his eyes. "Greatest wizard to ever live..."
"You're goddamn right," Dumbledore said, picking up the Sword of Gryffindor. "You said you slayed the basilisk with this? You didn't happen to cut yourself with this on your way back up here, did you?"
"No..."
"Hm. Shame."
"What?"
"Hm? Oh, nothing," Dumbledore said, tossing the Sword of Gryffindor into Harry's lap with a distinct lack of care. He looked at Tom Riddle's diary. "Would've just saved me a whole lot of trouble, that's all."
"What now?" Harry asked, ignoring all that. "What happens next?"
"What now?" Dumbledore repeated. "How about you get the fuck out? What is this, a therapy session? Think I give a shit about how you're doing? Go on, get. And I swear on Grindelwald's testicles, and what testicles they are, that if I have to deal with you in this manner again, I will personally make sure you get a family reunion, you orphan cunt."
Harry, who had gotten up and cursed under his breath, didn't respond as he walked out of McGonagall's office.
Dumbledore finished running his hand across the black stone, and at last turned back to Harry.
"All right," he said, "it appears the passage requires a bit of blood to get through. Rather useless protection, bet Riddle thought he was being clever by making it so easy to get past."
He stared at Harry.
Harry stared back.
"Well?" said Dumbledore. "It needs blood."
Harry raised his eyebrows and continued to stare, unimpressed.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Un-fucking-believable. I can barely get out of bed in the morning and I gotta bleed for this shithead?" he muttered, pulling out a knife and slicing his palm. "You're doing the next sacrifice, by the way."