“Why is Voldemort after me?”

“Ah.” Dumbledore shook his head. “The first question you ask is one that I cannot answer.”

Harry scowled. “No, Professor. I cannot accept that.” He sat up a little straighter. “Voldemort is after me. And if you know why, then I deserve to be told.”

“Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I merely wish to ensure that you have the opportunity to remain a child as long as—”

Harry's bark of laughter interrupted Dumbledore. “I haven't been a child since I was two years old.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Dursleys worked me like a slave,” he said angrily.

“Surely, a few chores—”

“It was rather more than a few chores, sir,” said Harry angrily. “They made me do *everything*. I started learning to cook when I was five, because they expected me to do all the cooking. All the cleaning. All the gardening.”

“Harry, this exaggeration doesn't do you credit,” Dumbledore reprimanded him.

“Exaggeration?” He paused. “Have wizards got any way to compel truth? Or to view memories?”

“We do,” allowed Dumbledore. “But most of them are illegal to use on minors.” He considered for a moment, then said, “I have one, however, that could be used…” He stood up. “It will take me fifteen minutes to prepare. In that time, I suggest you meet with your friends, and allay their concerns.”