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Harry wished he could stop thinking about Dumbledore and Grindelwald, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t just that it was horrible, though it was, but more that it was so puzzling. And it got more so the more he thought about it.
The really weird bit was the letter. Oh, not just Dumbledore’s ideas about taking control of the Muggles, but the whole tone of it. It was… it was like he was wanting approval, wanting Grindelwald to say how clever and daring and clear-sighted he was. And that didn’t seem like Dumbledore at all, who had never bothered about what the Ministry or Skeeter thought about him. It sounded funny to say so, but it was easier to believe in Dumbledore being evil than in him being dependent. It just seemed completely wrong. It was like the time Hermione, who could usually see through people in five seconds, had a crush on Lockhart and wouldn’t admit…
Oh God. Surely not that? An almost physical wave of nausea swept over Harry. But the image of the laughing boys in the photograph came back to him, and he couldn’t push the idea away.
It wasn’t, he told himself firmly, that he thought the idea of Dumbledore being gay was disgusting. To be honest, the idea of any of the teachers fancying anyone made him queasy, but there wasn’t actually anything wrong with boys fancying boys (it was a bit weird and, well, yucky, but it wasn’t wrong wrong). But – fancying Grindelwald? It was like fancying Hitler. Of course, Grindelwald was a lot nicer-looking than Hitler, but that wasn’t much of an excuse. And anyway, liking someone didn’t excuse supporting them in bad things, and it didn’t make it any better…. Did it? No, of course not, that was ridiculous.
And it was still, basically, the most disturbing and disgusting thing Harry had ever thought about, and he wished he could stop thinking about it, but he couldn’t.
Part of him wanted to talk to Hermione, but the other part of him would rather have chopped his own hand off with a blunt penknife, because talking to a girl about something like that… come to think about it, talking to Ron – another subject he didn’t want to think about – might actually have been a lot worse.
Eventually, he plucked up his courage, although he still wasn’t sure where to begin.
“Hermione?”
“What?” said Hermione, looking up from her book.
“Do you think… Do you think Dumbledore might have been, sort of, I don’t know… gay?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Of course he was gay, Harry, he wore purple high-heeled boots. Even among wizards, that’s sending a pretty clear signal.”
“Is it? I mean… yeah… I suppose so.”
“I don’t see what it’s got to do with anything, though” said Hermione snappishly, and returned to her reading.
“What I actually meant was… Oh, never mind.” He gave it up as a bad job. Hermione probably never would understand, anyway, and she obviously wasn’t in the mood to be disturbed.
It was only much later that evening, when they had both gone to bed, that a thought that was, in its way, even more disturbing, presented itself to Harry.
“Hermione?” he called.
“What?”
“Um… I haven’t accidentally bought anything that… you know, makes me look gay, have I?”
“No, Harry,” said Hermione in exasperation, “Now go to sleep, or at least worry about something important like the Horcruxes!”