I had this idea and just couldn't get rid of it without writing it down.
It's a Wrong-Boy-Who-Lived story, but I hope it will be different than the others. There won't be neglect or outright favouritism, the brothers don't hate each other and no manipulative!Dumbledore.
Even though it might look different in the first chapter, this story will be largely from Harry's POV.
I hope you enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, the night Dumbledore leaves Harry at the Dursleys' doorstep:
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future - there will be books written about Harry - every child in our world will know his name!"
"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"
The Second Son
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Chapter 1
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August 1st 1980
"See you tomorrow, Healer Goodwin!"
Deborah smiled tiredly at the overenthusiastic trainee. To be this young and full of energy again…
"The day after tomorrow, Richard," she said. "Tomorrow is my day off."
Finally, the week had been long enough.
"Oh." He actually looked a bit sad for a moment. "Then Healer Thompson will be my supervisor. Great."
The lack of enthusiasm in his voice was like balm on her soul. At least she wasn't the only one in a bad mood.
Merlin. When had she become so bitter?
Probably during one of the exhausting forty to fifty hour shifts the war forced her to work, during one of the nights she'd been working tirelessly to save an Auror's life only to find him back at her hospital a week later, once again at the brink of death.
At least tonight had been more joyous, even if the memory was already hazy in her tired mind. Lily Potter had finally delivered her twins, two healthy boys with baby blue eyes and a shock of dark hair.
Harry, the older twin had been born right before midnight, on July 31st, and his brother Benjamin not much later on August 1st.
Harry and Benjamin. If she didn't know it any better, she'd think they were identical twins, they looked so much alike. Why, she'd nearly mistaken Harry for Benjamin when she given him to their mother. Or was it the other way around? Had she mistaken Benjamin for Harry?
Merlin, she was tired. A good night's sleep, that's all she needed; a soft bed and no interruption for at least the next twenty-four hours.
And so, with her thoughts far away, circling around comfortable cushions, Healer Goodwin left St. Mungo's unaware of the momentous mistake she had committed in her fatigue. Unaware that she had just changed the course of history, and possibly the fate of her nation.
.
Lily had known fear before in her life. She had feared, when she had found out that her mother was ill. She had feared for James when he told her of his plans to join Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. She had feared her own mortality when she had fought a Death Eater for the first time, a new member of the Order herself.
But now, staring into the blood red eyes of the monster before her, all these experiences seemed to pale in the face of the fear she felt as he threatened her children, her babies.
They were so young, so innocent, so full of life.
"Which child is Harry?" The Dark Lord hissed, his eyes fixed on the crib behind her, where both her boys lay asleep.
"Please, don't hurt him," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"You don't have to die, silly girl. Tell me who Harry is and you and the other one can live."
Ben. She could save Ben if she only sacrificed Harry. She wanted to laugh hysterically and cry in desperation at the same time. She could never sacrifice one child for the other; choose the death of one son over the life of the second.
"Please, don't. Have mercy," she begged, knowing if was futile. The monster standing opposite her had no mercy to give, no conscience to appeal to.
"Silly girl," the Dark Lord said and slashed his wand through the air. She nearly choked when she recognised the cutting curse as one of Severus' own inventions. The renewed proof of her old friend's allegiance nearly knocked the air out of her.
The curse wasn't aimed at her, but at her children. Her wand slipped in her sweaty palms, but she tried to deflect it nevertheless. When the floor lamp next to the fireplace was cleanly cut in half, she thought she had managed. Then a pained cry resounded from behind her, and she realized that she had only succeeded in part.
She wanted nothing more than to turn around to see which of her children was injured and how bad, but she didn't dare. Not in His presence.
"Stand aside, save yourself."
A movement to the right caught her eye. It was a painting of one of James ancestors. The white-haired man was asleep most of the time, and reading books during the rest, but now he was wide awake and waving at her, trying to get her attention as inconspicuously as possible.
"I'll get help," he mouthed and vanished from his frame.
Hope flared to life in her chest, but only until Lord Voldemort spoke again.
"It seems our time together is running short," he said and raised his wand once more.
She could see it in his eyes now that he had only been playing with them before, that the cutting curse had never meant to kill but only been a warning shot.
The next curse, she knew, would be the Killing Curse.
"Who of them is Harry, tell me."
She shook her head.
"Then I shall kill both. Now stand aside."
"Not my children, please. Kill me in their stead."
He laughed, a cold, high sound, but she was numb to its horror.
"As you wish."
She turned around and faced her two children, determined that the last thing she would see in this life would not be the merciless eyes of her killer.
"I love you," she whispered the moment green light illuminated the room.
.
James was bleeding from a head wound and a nasty cut on his arm, but he paid it no mind as he ran up the stairs, desperate to reach his boys' room. He could hear Sirius' pounding steps behind him, could make out the faint noise of other people following in the distance, someone was shouting his name, but all of this was unimportant, all of this was meaningless.
The door the nursery had been blasted of its hinges, and James stopped at the threshold.
Lily.
His beautiful wife, the love of his life, lay sprawled on the floor. Moonlight, shining in through the window, was reflected by her red hair and surrounded her like a halo against the dark wooden floor. Her green eyes stared unseeingly.
She was dead. His knees gave in and he sank to the floor, quiet tears running down his face.
"James," Sirius breathless voice was close-by but so very far away at the same time. The edges of his vision began to swim, breathing became harder.
"He's in shock," someone said.
"Merlin, Lily," someone else cried.
"The boys are alive."
The last sentence brought him back to awareness.
"They're alive?" he croaked, unsteadily rising to his feet.
"Both of them, yes."
It was Albus who was speaking, he realised. His old Headmaster was standing next to the crib, watching James stumble towards him with a doleful look on his face.
"How?" James asked while he examined the still bleeding cut on Harry's forehead. Ben thankfully seemed unharmed.
"I believe that the prophecy came true. I don't know how or why, but when Voldemort attacked Harry it seems his curse rebounded and struck him instead."
Albus nodded at a discarded pile of black robes on the floor, and with horror James realised that they must have been Voldemort's.
James turned away. He couldn't look at this. Couldn't deal with this right now.
"Can you- can you heal him?" James asked Albus. He didn't trust himself with a wand just now.
"I can certainly try."
Albus moved his wand in tiny circles above Harry's head. The wound closed somewhat, but a zigzag scar remained.
"Dark Magic caused this wound," Albus explained. "It is wont to leave traces."
"Do you know which curse?" James dreaded the answer, but needed to know anyway.
Slowly Albus went to a crumbled pile of black robes and bent down as if looking for something.
"There is no wand," he said, more to himself then James, then took out his own and, with his eyes staring into the distance, performed a complicated wand movement James had never seen before.
"The last spell cast in this room was a Killing Curse," he said after a while. "It seems young Harry survived the impossible."
James accepted Albus' answer numbly, and carefully stroked his son's soft hair.
The following week went by in a blurry haze. James refused to let anybody come near his dead wife, and sat next to her silently for hours until Sirius finally pried him away.
Arrangements for her funeral had to be made; they had to find a new place to live in. The house in Godric's Hollow was destroyed, and even if it weren't, James couldn't imagine living there without Lily.
Soon the news of Voldemort's demise and his son's miraculous survival spread through the country. Witches and wizards on the streets congratulated him, people he had never heard of before sent gifts, strangers wanted to see his son, their hero, the Boy-Who-Lived, as the Daily Prophet called him.
Through all of this, James became more and more withdrawn. He moved in with Sirius, into his small flat in London, and refused to let anybody come near his children. Not even Molly Weasley or Alice Longbottom, old friends who had offered to help out. He couldn't stomach the thought of somebody else touching his sons, of letting them out of his sight.
And so, nobody but James ever saw the lightning bold shaped scar right above Ben's heart, hidden beneath clothes most of the time. He didn't think much of it. Ben had been there when Voldemort attacked Harry; it would have been a miracle had he escaped completely unharmed.
He never once thought that the scar could be anything more, that Ben could be the one who survived Voldemort's Killing Curse. After all, Ben was born on August 1st, the prophecy only applied to one of his sons, to Harry.
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July 31st 1991
"…and then they had the audacity to leave a note! A note! Of course Snape recognised their handwriting immediately and went to the Headmaster who firecalled me."
James took a sip of his floral-patterned teacup – Lily had bought it, and it was one of the few items he had taken from Godric's Hollow to their new house – while he half-heartedly listened to Molly Weasley bemoaning her fate.
Apparently her twins, who had just finished their second year at Hogwarts, had been raiding Snape's potions store and now the Weasleys had not only had to replace the expensive ingredients but also apologize to the surly Potions Master.
He could relate to their displeasure to do so. In his opinion, Severus Snape had no business teaching at any school, least of all Hogwarts. Reformed or not, he had been a Death Eater. Sadly arguing this point with Albus was futile.
It was July 31st, Harry's birthday, and like always they had invited a few befriended families. The adults were sitting on the patio enjoying tea and biscuits while the children played in the backyard.
When James saw that Sirius was about to open his mouth to offer thoughts on Molly's problem, he stood up. He really didn't want to get caught up in yet another argument between those two.
"Excuse me, Molly, I'll just check up on the kids. Who knows what kind of trouble they're getting into, it's been far too silent these last few minutes."
James left the table and took in a deep breath. In moments like this he felt Lily's absence even more. She would have known how to calm Molly down, would have said a few fitting words and then moved on to another topic.
"You know, I think Slowbottom would be a better fitting name for you," a snide voice called, just as James turned around the corner and caught sight of the kids.
The Smith boy, blonde and with a nasty smile plastered to his face, was standing opposite Neville Longbottom. He sighed. Neville's shy nature, quiet and slow way of talking as well as his clumsiness really made him a perfect target.
He was just about to intervene, when one of his son's stepped forth.
"Shut it, Zach, he didn't do anything to you," said Ben, arms crossed before his chest. After a long day in the sun the freckles around his nose, inherited from Lily, were more prominent than usual.
"Oh come on Ben, you don't even want him here do you? Harry said you dad made you invite him."
James eyes immediately searched out his elder son. Harry, with James unmanageable hair and Lily's green eyes, was leaning against a tree, following the happenings with a small smile, as if he enjoyed the spectacle. Smith's accusation didn't seem to faze him in the least.
Ben, his brown eyes narrowed to slits, glared at Harry. "I'm sure Harry didn't mean it, right?"
Harry only shrugged and Neville looked even more downtrodden, but Ben immediately put a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. "I told my dad to invite you, I wanted you to come over."
As he was observing his children, James once again wondered if it wouldn't have been better had Ben been the Boy-Who-Lived, if he would have been able to deal better with the early fame that came with the title.
He was more humble, more patient and, even if it pained him to admit it, often simply nicer than Harry.
James tried his best to treat both boys the same and to make them aware that Harry's status didn't mean he was better than his brother in any way. They were both normal boys, Harry just happened to be famous.
Sadly, as soon as they stepped out of their house, all his effort was for naught.
Even before Harry could write, people had been asking him to sign autographs and to take pictures with them. Every time they visited a shop on Diagon Alley, the shopkeepers gifted small things to Harry and people waiting in line let Harry go first without hesitation.
It was no wonder all of this had gone to Harry's head, but hiding away was not an option either. He wanted them to lead as normal a life as possible.
To get them out of this environment he had even made them join a muggle football club last year. But Ben simply didn't enjoy the sport and Harry… well… Harry it seemed didn't like the anonymity, maybe even detested that the other children had treated him just like anybody else.
A few hours later, when it was already dark and most of the children were sleeping in their tents in the garden – it had become tradition to make a sleepover out of their party, so that both boys could celebrate their birthdays with friends – James made one last round through the garden. He stopped in his tracks when the sound of hushed voices reached him.
"…mean to Neville. He nearly cried," Ben whispered.
"It's not my fault he's such a baby," Harry replied.
"He's no baby. Zach was really mean. You should have helped him."
"Neville should stand up for himself. You're not always there to help him out."
"But you saw that he couldn't." Ben sounded angry.
"Then he has to learn."
Ben – or Harry – sighed. "Moron."
Someone chuckled. "Back at you."
"Let's go to sleep before dad catches us."
They disappeared into the darkness and James was left standing alone.
As much as Ben often reminded him of Lily, he saw even more of himself in Harry. Looking back he could honestly say that he'd been a spoiled brat and not at all sensitive to other people's feelings. Thankfully he had grown out of it, and he could only hope that Harry would too.
.
"You could be great, you know. Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness," a tiny voice in his head whispered, and Harry held onto the three-legged chair he was sitting on even harder.
"Not Slytherin, not Slytherin," Harry thought as hard as he could.
Slytherin would be a disaster. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, people, among them his father and Albus Dumbledore himself, expected him to follow his brother to Gryffindor, to be the brave and pure hero they saw in him.
"Not Slytherin, ey? Are you sure?"
Harry nodded, and continued his silent prayer.
"Well, well… then better be RAVENCLAW!"
The hat shouted the last word for the students and teachers to hear, and Harry quickly took it off and handed it back to the surprised looking Professor McGonagall.
Well, Ravenclaw was better than Slytherin. He didn't even want to think about how much more difficult it would have made his life, had he been sorted into the latter.
The students at the Ravenclaw table were applauding enthusiastically, continued even after he had taken his seat, and a few prefects made their way over to welcome him to his new house.
He hadn't seen them do this for any other first year, but then again, Harry thought, he wasn't just any first year. He was special. And going by the dejected looks the Gryffindors shot him, the other students were aware of that too.
.
A prefect led him and the other first years up to the Ravenclaw tower and through the entrance – a blank door without a doorknob or keyhole but a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle instead. The door opened only if the person trying to get inside answered a riddle correctly.
His father had told him that the Gryffindor common room was protected by a password, which seemed far more secure to Harry. Surely Ravenclaws weren't the only students who could answer a riddle correctly…
The Ravenclaw common room was a round space. Overstuffed sofas and chairs in different shades of blue were scattered across a bronze coloured carpet in no particular order, and a few paintings and numerous books were lining the walls. No shelves were visible – or maybe not even there – and the books seemed to be floating in the air.
Harry had never seen so many books in one place. Well, maybe at Flourish & Blotts, but bookshops didn't count.
It seemed Ravenclaw had its own library, separate from the rest of the school. He grinned. Hopefully this would give them a bit of an edge over the other houses.
The prefect was had stopped in front of the painting of a blonde haired woman wearing a red dress that was way too tight. And otherwise pretty attention-grabbing too.
Harry sniggered. If Ben only knew that the Ravenclaw common room was home to the portrait with the deepest neckline in probably all of Hogwarts…
"Ravenclaw has been home to many great minds," Robert said, his head right next to the portrait's upper body.
"Biggest boobs, more like," whispered a blonde boy next to him, Anthony Goldstein if Harry remembered correctly, and Harry couldn't help but laugh.
The prefect glared at them.
"And maybe one of you will have their portrait up here too, in the years to come." His eyes flickered to Harry for a moment, and Harry's chest swelled with pride.
They walked further into the room until they reached two staircases leading down.
"Boys dorms to the right, girls to the left," the prefect explained. "On the wall between them you can see photos of the students who finished top of their year the year before. They will remain up here for the entire school year."
Harry watched the photos with interest. One showed a girl with dark brown hair, bent over a book in the library. 'Penelope Clearwater, 3rd year' was written on a little bronze plaque beneath it.
Next to picture Penelope were photos of students from the 1st, 5th and 7th year, so only four photos in total.
"It's a great honour and not easy to achieve. To be top of your year, you have to work hard not only in your favourite classes, but in all of them."
The prefect went on explaining about certain rules concerning the study tables in the back, apparently the older students had dibs on them, but Harry wasn't really listening anymore.
He was still staring at the photo wall.
When he was younger he had sometimes imagined that he would just pick up his wand and the magic would come to him – people already said he was a great wizard, how could it not?
When he had bought his wand though, Harry had quickly realised that his mysterious power to survive the Killing Curse didn't directly translate to being great in other magics too. He had had to practice to get his first spell right, just like anybody else.
It was extremely frustrating, and when his father had told him that it was 'normal' not to get a spell right at first try, Harry had been even more annoyed.
He had never been normal in his life, and he didn't want to start now. He had always been special, admired by strangers, better than the rest, and this wall was a first step to prove it to all those who doubted him – his father and brother, first and foremost.
He could feel someone's stare, and when he turned around, he saw that Goldstein was watching him, an amused smile playing on his lips.
"Bring it on," Goldstein whispered and turned away to follow the rest of their group down to the dormitories.
.
"If this isn't our most famous new addition… tell me, Mr. Potter, what would I get if I added powdered asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry looked up at the intimidating Potion's Master before him. He had heard of wormwood before, and asphodel sounded familiar too, but how the hell should he know what would happen if you combined them?
"I don't know," he bit out, angry that the Professor managed to embarrass him so thoroughly in front of his new peers.
"'I don't know, Sir.' Mr. Potter. You will address me with respect, no matter your supposed accomplishments."
Harry narrowed his eyes at the Professor. He was just as horrible as his father had said. Stupid git.
"I feel generous today, I will give you another chance to prove yourself. What is a common ingredient in most love potions?"
Harry was sure that this information wasn't even in their book. He had flipped through it, and couldn't remember any mention of love potions.
"I don't know," said Harry. "Sir."
"Well…" Snape drawled and made the word sound more condescending than should be possible. "Clearly, fame isn't everything."
Harry looked away. His father had told him not to provoke Snape, but by Merlin, he really wanted to give the prick a piece of his mind. That wasn't even first year material!
An idea came to Harry's mind and a slow smile stretched across his lips.
Right before they had left, Sirius had told him about his old nickname for Snape – Snivellus. According to Sirius, Snape hated that nickname with a passion. After this humiliation Harry thought it was only fair if he shared the name with his fellow students and repeated it until Snape got stuck with it.
Harry went to work with renewed vigour.
.
After class, on their way to the Great Hall for lunch, Goldstein passed by him. "Didn't think you'd make it that easy, Potter! Clearly fame isn't everything," he mocked, repeating Snape's words.
"What are you talking about?" their fellow first year, Terry Boot, interjected.
"Well, Potter here seems to think that his picture will be up on the wall next year. But I think it will be mine."
"Why one of you? It could be me too," Terry said.
"Or me. I was always the best in my year back in my old school," Sue Li interrupted.
"Who wasn't," said Padma Patil, rolling her eyes.
Li seemed annoyed. "Doesn't change the fact that I'll be top again."
Harry looked between his peers in surprise. He wasn't used to someone fighting him about what he wanted – his brother sometimes, but family was different. The rest of the people he met usually went out of their way to accommodate him. Well, unless they were idiots who thought he didn't deserve his fame, but he never had to be around those people for too long.
He'd just have to work harder, then, he decided. There was no way he would lose to a bunch of stupid children. He knew people were watching him, some even waiting for the Boy-Who-Lived to fail so that they could rub it in afterwards, just like Snape. Jealous berks, the lot of them.
.
"Haarrry…" Ben moaned. "Don't be so boring, come on, let's go outside. Ron will be coming too."
"I don't have time for this, Ben," Harry said annoyed. "I've got to go to the library."
"You're in the library all the time, you're no fun anymore."
"Yeah, well. Goldstein and Li are too, I can't let them get ahead of me."
"Oh sod them! And what's so important about being first in our year anyway? It's no fun and only the people in Ravenclaw ever see that stupid wall."
"It's…" Harry didn't know how to explain this to his brother so that he would understand. "It's, well, Goldstein and the others think they're better than me. That I'm famous for doing nothing. I'm going to show them that they're wrong. I'll beat them."
"You're working yourself up too much over this."
Harry groaned. Ben just didn't understand, maybe because he was a Gryffindor? Their prefect had said that Ravenclaw was the most competitive house. "It's like-, well, you're pretty good at flying, yeah?"
Ben nodded.
"So if somebody came up to you and said that people only think you're good because they know dad was good, then you'd want to prove them wrong, right?"
Ben nodded again.
"So then you'd practice as much as you possible so that you could beat them in the next Quidditch match or whatever."
"Yeah…"
"And it's the same for me. Goldstein and the rest say, that people only think I'm great a great wizard because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, so now I'm learning a lot so that I can show them that I'm really good at magic."
"But…" Ben said. "They're right, aren't they? You're no better at magic than any other first year. People just buy into the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing way too much, dad always says that."
"Geez, thanks for the support."
"I'm not saying that you can't be the best in our year. With how much time you spend in the library you better be. But if you have to study just as much as them, doesn't that prove them right in a way?"
"Not if I win. If we spent the same amount of time studying and I win, then they'll have to admit that I'm better," Harry grinned and waved his brother good-bye.
"Oi, I wanted to ask you something else," Ben called after him. "Did you spread Snape's old nickname through the school?"
Harry only grinned and disappeared around the corner.
.
His brother was a moron.
To run after a troll of all things to save a girl he didn't even like. He could have died! But of course Ben refused to see the truth of Harry's words, and remained of the opinion that he had done the right thing.
It wasn't that Harry would have just left the girl to die, of course not, but he, in contrast to his brother, was capable of rational thought and realised that the most probable outcome of confronting a troll as a mere first year would be death. He would have gotten a teacher and let them deal with the mess.
Maybe Ben just wanted a bit attention for himself, be the hero once in a while and get out of Harry's shadow. As if knocking a troll unconscious could ever compete with defeating a Dark Lord.
.
James was watching the grey sky above him. Big snowflakes were falling down and melted by an invisible barrier above platform 9 ¾, it was the perfect weather for a snowball fight.
Ten minutes later the Hogwarts Express arrived, and soon he could make out his sons in the colourful crowd of people. Ben was walking with Ron Weasley and a bushy haired girl, while Harry waved goodbye to a few students with Ravenclaw-blue ties.
"Finally," James said when both boys stood before him. "I missed you so much." He bent down to embrace them in a bone crushing hug…
"Dad! That's embarrassing."
… and laughed when he heard them complain. "I'm afraid you'll just have to deal with your embarrassing old man."
"I got a portkey made for us," James continued and held up an old newspaper. "Everybody got a hold? - Great. - Cookie."
The portkey activated and whisked them away from King's Cross, only to drop them in their living room moments later. Ben and Harry lay sprawled on the floor, and James couldn't help but laugh at their annoyed expressions.
"Minky prepared dinner," he said, once he'd calmed down. "She made both your favourite dishes."
Their houseelf had insisted on cooking two separate meals, and wouldn't let James talk her out of it. After the boys had left for Hogwarts she had been worried for days that they wouldn't get enough food there.
"So, how's Hogwarts? What pranks did you pull? Please tell me you got Snape good," James asked, winking at them conspiratorially, once they were all seated around the table.
"It's great," Ben started. "But didn't have much time for pranks. There are more important things going on."
James looked at Ben in surprise, and saw the sentiment echoed on Harry's face.
"More important things? You hardly ever study," Harry said.
Ben flushed. "Well, not studying. But, um, it's sort extracurricular work, and a secret."
"And Harry's not in on it?" James wondered aloud. Before Hogwarts, the boys had shared practically everything, as far as he knew at least.
"Obviously," drawled Harry.
"Yeah well, Harry is studying all the time. He's never around. This thin is between me, Ron and Hermione."
"Hermione? Is that the muggleborn you mentioned in your letters?"
"Yeah, she's great. Brilliant. The brightest witch in school, top in all of our classes."
"Only because you don't share any with us." Harry smirked at his brother.
Foreseeing an argument in the near future, James tried to change the subject.
"So how about your friends, Harry, who are you spending time with?"
"Mostly Anthony, um, Goldstein – I think you know his father –, Terry Boot, Sue Li and Padma Patil. All Ravenclaws."
"So they're you friends?"
Ben rolled his eyes. "Harry doesn't have any friends. Only rivals."
James glared. "Don't say something like that. So, are they your friends?"
Harry shrugged. "Maybe. More like study partners." He looked down at his plate, moving the food around with his fork. "But I don't need friends anyway."
"Told you," mouthed Ben.
James tried to hide his dismay. "Of course you need friends Harry. They are what makes life great."
"Yeah, and it worked out so well for you," Harry spat and got up.
"Harry wait, what are you talking about?"
When Harry didn't stop, James followed his son upstairs. He couldn't let Harry leave like that, not when something was so obviously wrong.
Harry was lying on his bed, looking up at the ceiling expressionlessly. James knocked carefully, stepped inside and sat down next to his son.
"Harry, what did you mean downstairs?"
"Isn't it obvious? I was talking about Pettigrew. He was your friend at Hogwarts, wasn't he?"
"Yes, Harry, but just because Peter was not who I believed him to be doesn't mean that there aren't good people out there, people who could be great friends to you."
"Like all those people who say I'm spoiled and aloof when I don't want to sign autographs? Who say that I just got lucky and shouldn't think so much of myself?"
James sighed. "Harry… I know a few people over the years have been less than understanding of our situation, but there have been good experiences too."
"Yeah, as long as I do what they ask me to, they're real great."
"I didn't- I didn't know this bothered you so much."
"It doesn't bother me," Harry hissed and turned to look at James for the first time since he had entered the room. "They just showed me how people really are. One second they acknowledge that I'm special, and as soon as I do something they don't like, they turn on me, and forget that I'm the reason all of them can live in peace."
James flinched back. "Harry we talked about this. Nobody knows what happened that night, we – you – got lucky."
"I'm still the reason he's gone. They should show a little respect. I bet Dumbledore never has to bother with stupid shit like that."
"Language!" James snapped automatically. "And Harry, you can't be serious. Dumbledore is much older than you. He proved, numerous times, just how extraordinary he is. His defeat of Grindelwald, his academic achievements, the role he played in the fight against V-Voldemort during the first war…"
"But it was me who got rid of him in the end. I think people could be a bit more thankful."
James stared at his son. He had feared that the early exposure to fame wouldn't let Harry escape unscathed, but he had always tried to outweigh that influence by treating his children equally, by providing a normal home life. That he had failed so completely…
"You don't really believe that, do you, Harry? You're just angry."
Harry remained mum, and James didn't know what else he could say either. They had already had numerable conversations about Harry's fame and everything that came with it.
Up until now he had been under the impression that even though Harry enjoyed the attention, he understood that his survival had been more luck than skill. It seemed he had been mistaken; it seemed his son actually believed in the myth of his own greatness and was miffed when others didn't.
And then there was the problem about his mistrust of people. The thought that Peter was the reason his son didn't want to have friends filled him with renewed hatred for the traitor.
Harry had turned away from him, and James sadly looked at his elder son's back. If only Lily were here. She would know what to say, how to make this right again.
.
Harry was glad when he and Ben finally returned to Hogwarts. After talking to his dad that first evening, their time together had been strained.
His dad had tried to hide it, tried to pretend that everything was okay, but Harry saw the worried glances he shot him whenever he thought Harry wasn't looking.
He shouldn't have been so honest. He should have known that his dad wouldn't understand. Nobody did. Even his own father thought that he didn't deserve his position. That he was just like anybody else.
Well, Harry would show them. He would study and practice until nobody could deny anymore that he really was a great wizard. Not even his father.
.
The Philosopher's Stone. When Ben had told him that it was kept inside their school, he had thought his brother had finally gone crazy. His insistence that Harry had to come along and help prevent its theft seemed even more ludicrous.
Now though, as he was standing in front of a huge mirror, and the stuttering Professor Quirrel of all people, was threatening him into retrieving the stone for him, he had to admit – albeit grudgingly – that Ben had been right.
"My Master has been wondering if we'd meet you here," Quirrel said conversationally without the hint of a stutter.
"Your Master?" Harry asked, already dreading the answer.
"Yes, my Master. The greatest wizard in history, Lord Voldemort. I was so naïve before I met him, but he showed me the truth of this world, of the Dark Arts. He showed me that there is no good or evil, but only power and those too weak to seek it. I see it in your eyes too, Harry Potter, that wish to be powerful, that yearning for knowledge. Help me, and I will teach you the most powerful magic, give you knowledge you never dreamed of before."
Harry didn't answer. Oh yes, he wanted to be powerful. Powerful and great in his own right. But the Dark Arts were evil, weren't they? His father and Sirius had told him so repeatedly.
"Let me see him…" a new voice interrupted the silence. It seemed to be coming from Professor Quirrel himself, but the man's mouth remained closed.
"But Master…" Quirrel looked hesitant. "Are you sure you're strong enough?"
"Yes…" The voice hissed. "I have strength enough for this."
Quirrel began to take off his turban. He unravelled it slowly, layer by layer, and then it was gone.
The Professor turned around and Harry took a step back, his mouth hanging open but no scream would come.
At the back of Quirrel's head was another face, a pale face without a nose, and blood red eyes.
Lord Voldemort was alive, had somehow survived the backlash of the killing curse and was powerful enough to possess another wizard.
"Do you see what you have done to me, Harry?" Voldemort whispered. "I am a mere shadow of my former self… clinging to life by sheer force of will and the strength of my magic… With the stone I can create a body for myself, hand it to me and I will reward you richly."
Blood was pumping loudly in Harry's ears. Voldemort lived.
"Tell me…" The Dark Lord hissed. "What do you see in the mirror?"
Harry looked back at it. He saw himself, only a few years older; he was surrounded by people, who were looking at him admiringly. His dad was there, and his brother, and both of them were looking up to him too, as if they had finally realized that he truly was special. Next to them were faces of strangers, who regarded Harry fondly, as if he was their friend.
"I-I see myself, I'm top of all my classes," Harry said, the real image seemed too personal to share. "Does it show us the future?" Harry dared to add.
Lord Voldemort laughed coldly.
"This, dear Harry… this is the Mirror of Erised. It shows us our innermost desire. I want you to desire the stone, and then give it to me."
Harry turned back towards Voldemort, the man who had tried to kill him and had killed his mother. For all the knowledge, all the power in the world he couldn't work with a man like that.
"Never," Harry spat.
With two quick strides Quirrel was right in front of him.
"Make him look into the mirror, the mirror is the key," Voldemort said angrily.
Quirrel grabbed Harry's face and tried to turn him towards the mirror, but suddenly let go of Harry with scream of horror.
Harry followed Quirrel's line of sight. The Professor's hands were burned were they had touched him, angry, red blisters covering the skin.
"Kill him," Voldemort screeched, and Harry didn't wait for the Professor to follow his Master's command. Taking advantage of the man's momentary distraction, Harry closed the small distance between them and fastened his hands around Quirrel's arm.
He wouldn't die at the hands of an incompetent teacher; he wouldn't fall to Lord Voldemort's power. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. He had survived their first encounter, and he would survive the second.
Quirrel screamed and tried to shake Harry off, but Harry clung to him with all his might.
When he realized that he couldn't get rid of Harry the way he was trying to, the former Professor pushed Harry up against a wall, and Harry's hit his head hard. Too hard, he realised, as the edges of his vision began to swim, and darkness took him.
.
Harry's opened his eyes. He was surrounded by white and for a short, terrifying moment he thought he was dead. Then thankfully, a voice interrupted the silence.
"Harry? Are you awake?"
He turned his head to look to the side. His brother was lying in the bed next to him, wearing a bandage around his head, where the chess figure had hit him on their way to the stone. A huge pile of sweets was on the table between their beds.
"You look like crap."
Ben grinned. "You're really not in a position to talk."
Harry stuck out his tongue. "Yeah, but I was fighting evil Dark Lords, what's your excuse?"
The moment he said it, cold dread coiled in the pit of his stomach. Voldemort was alive. How the hell had this not been his first thought upon waking up?
"Please," Ben continued the easy banter. "Snape's scary but hardly Dark Lord material."
Harry tried to sit up, but the movement hurt his head and he felt dizzy. He resigned himself to looking as serious as possible while lying down flat.
"No Ben, it wasn't Snape, it was V-Voldemort. Or his spirit or something."
"That's not funny."
"I'm serious. He possessed Quirrel and his face- it was at the back of Quirrel's head! Under the turban." The more he spoke the clearer the images returned. "Voldemort was after the stone."
Ben was watching carefully, as if trying to decide whether Harry was having him on or telling the truth.
At that moment the door to the infirmary opened and their father and Dumbledore stepped inside.
"Good, you're awake," Dumbledore said while James crossed the room in a rush.
"Harry. Ben. Thank Merlin. I thought- Don't ever do that to me again, do you hear me?"
Harry nodded, but his thoughts were still circling around Voldemort and the stone.
"Professor," he addressed Dumbledore, "Voldemort, he was down there, he was after the stone. Did he- did you-?"
"I managed to reach you in time Harry. The stone is safe."
Harry breathed a sigh of relief, but not all of his worries were soothed yet.
"It was really Voldemort, wasn't it? He's alive?"
Dumbledore's eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, looked old at that moment.
"I wouldn't call what he is alive, Harry. But I fear he is not as gone as we had wished."
So he was alive then. Harry wasn't in the mood to discuss semantics.
"He will try again, won't he?" Ben asked from beside him.
Dumbledore turned slightly to include his brother in their conversation.
"Alas, Voldemort has the rare talent to see what people crave most. He finds their soft spot, if you will, and forces his way into their thoughts and hearts. As longs as there are people susceptible to his manipulation he will find opportunities to regain a body."
"So then I only delayed his return."
"Oh my boy, not only, not many could have done what you did. Greater wizard have cowered in fear at the mere mention of his name… but you, who has experienced Vodemort's terror first hand, who has lived with the consequences of his actions all your life, you found the strength to stand up to him nevertheless. It speaks of great bravery and might allow us to live a few more years in peace."
The answer didn't satisfy Harry. He didn't want a few moreyears. He wanted Voldemort gone for good – Voldemort and all his stupid followers, all the Quirrels in the world.
Suddenly another thought occurred to him.
"Professor, when Quirrel tried to force me to look into the mirror he touched my face…" Harry shuddered involuntarily, the memory still too fresh. "…and touching my skin, it burned him. Why? Why couldn't he touch me?"
"Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in you very skin. Quirrel, full of hatred, greed, and ambitions, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."*
Dumbledore turned to leave, but lingered at the door. He looked at Harry once more, his blue eyes frighteningly bright.
"Did you get a chance to look into the mirror, Harry?"
Harry only nodded, but didn't elaborate and Dumbledore didn't press for details.
When the Headmaster had left, Harry turned to his family. Ben was already telling their dad about the obstacles – Fluffy, the Devil's Snare, the flying keys and finally the giant chess set, where he'd been knocked unconscious – and Harry impatiently awaited his turn to share his adventure.
.
Outside the hospital wing, Albus slowly made his way back to his office.
To hide the stone inside the mirror had been one of his more brilliant ideas. Only someone who wanted to find the stone, without using it, would be able to get it out.
It shouldn't worry him as much as it did, that Harry had looked into the mirror and been unable to retrieve the stone. He was only a child, of course he wished for gold and eternal youth.
Nevertheless, while Albus was now sure that Harry would pass any test of courage with flying colours, he just couldn't shake the feeling that the boy had just failed his first test of character.
The story will become more detailed and diverge more from canon (the things happening at Hogwarts, I mean) as it progresses. But I think the fast pace is necessary in the beginning.
*Quote from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.
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