CHAPTER THREE
Harry lay upon his bed back in his dorm room, legs crossed at the ankles and hands cupping the back of his head as he stared up at his bed's canopy. He was—presently, anyway—alone in the room, and Harry took the time to mull over his reaction to the first Dark Arts spell that he had ever cast.
It was, as he had told the others, a relatively minor one, and yet…
The rush of power that had surged through him as he had spoken the curse's words: for the first time in his eleven years, Harry felt like he was in control. The sixth year had been about to hurt him, but Harry had stopped him. Back at the Durselys' house, Harry had never been able to stop Uncle Vernon and Dudley when they were about to strike him. Now, though… He had protected himself. And he had managed to do it easily.
Harry's fingers trembled slightly, and he reached into the sleeve of his robe to wrap the slim digits tight around the holly wand. Magic had been able to stop a tormentor from harming him. The spell that Harry had used made sure that the sixth year knew what it was like to be bullied in return—and with the focus that Harry had put behind Malus Sententia, the boy was fully aware that the other would never raise his wand to Harry ever again.
"I love magic," Harry whispered, grip tightening further on his wand.
The day of the first Quidditch match dawned, and clear skies greeted those who glanced up at the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall; it was a perfect day for flying, a perfect day for Quidditch.
Tension filled the air as all of the four Houses settled down for breakfast, with Gryffindor being as loud and boisterous as ever: loudly proclaiming that their House would easily win the Quidditch Cup—after all, the Slytherin team would probably have to be using one of their reserve players to fill in the otherwise empty Seeker position—and how this game was already in the bag.
Harry ignored the other team's smug crowing, instead focusing on his breakfast. He wasn't very hungry—never was in the mornings, usually opting to eat some toast and down a mug of coffee—but today he would need his strength and, thus, Harry forced himself to eat something much more substantial. The breakfast, however, was briefly interrupted when Hermione came in, glaring in annoyance at her overly loud table, and darted up to the Slytherin table to give Harry a quick hug.
"Good luck today!" she whispered, Hermione being the only one who knew about Harry's position as Seeker. He had admitted it several weeks before when Hermione became curious and asked how he intended to win back points for his House—since, after all, Harry had become much more reserved in classes since the petty curses and pranks had begun. He never bothered to answer questions anymore, instead being willing to work on his spell practice with whoever he had been partnered with that day—more and more often Hermione once the professors had realized that there was a budding friendship between the two (which surprised most of them, but then all opted to look on it in approval since it meant that the Boy-Who-Lived was finally making connections back to the House of his parents)—and otherwise keeping to himself.
"Thanks, Hermione," Harry murmured in answer, giving her a quick squeeze in return. He was still quite uncomfortable with touching since most of the touches that he had received at the hands of the Dursleys were not, in any way, "positive." But Hermione was a sweet girl, exceptionally bookish, and Harry could already tell that the girl was extremely attached to him already. And though they came from different Houses, he did get on well with her… With Ronald Weasely very deliberately ignoring him and the chance for that particular friendship flown out the window, who was to say that Harry couldn't have a different "best friend"? And, in that case, why couldn't it be a girl?
Someone was better than no one, and…. Well. Hermione wasn't too bad. A bit bossy and quick to prove that she knew everything, but Harry was beginning to realize that, in a way, they were similar. He read voraciously to gain as much knowledge as possible—for the immediate scenario, to keep himself safe and protected from his House mates—and Hermione read as much as she did to prove to herself and others that it didn't matter if she was Muggleborn: she still deserved to attend Hogwarts. She still deserved to be known as a witch. Coming across that epiphany had been startling for Harry, and he… understood.
The boy's musings were broken by the arrival of the morning post, however, and it came as a surprise when several owls, all carrying a rather large package, swooped down before him, delivering the item.
"Wha…" Harry began, confused.
It was blatantly obvious as to what the package was. Whoever had sent it hadn't bothered to do a very good job of hiding the shape, and the form of a broom was rather distinctive. But who would be sending Harry a broom…? Who, other than Professor Snape and the other Slytherin team members, knew that Harry was the newest Quidditch player?
Frowning, Harry reached out and snagged the letter that had accompanied the package, pointedly ignoring his Housemate's curious murmurs so that he could instead read the note. What he found there was enough to make him snort softly and quirk an eyebrow in derision.
My dear boy,
Severus has told me that you don't have a proper broom, and I thought that it would be a shame if the youngest Seeker in a century hadn't been properly outfitted for his first game. Your father was an excellent Quidditch player during his time here at Hogwarts, and I'm sure that you'll do his memory proud. I know that James would have treasured this moment and would have loved to be able to give you your first broom; in his stead, I hope that you allow me to do the honor.
As a side note, Harry, please do not open the package here in the Great Hall. I can't be accused of playing favorites, now can I?
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Grand Sorc., D. Wiz.,X.J.(sorc.),S. of Mag.Q.,Order of Merlin - First Class
Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards
Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot
The list of titles seemed a bit—more than a bit—overkill for something that was supposed to be a friendly note, and Harry glanced up to meet the twinkling gaze of the Headmaster. The old man winked conspiratorially at the boy, holding a finger up to his mouth in a gesture of secrecy—as if they had both shared some humorous joke that the rest of the school would never get.
What was frustrating about all of this was that it wasn't a secret: it was obvious as to what the package contained. And, unfortunately, Harry was already being given bitter, jealous, angry stares from his year mates. Grimacing slightly, Harry tucked the packaged broom beneath the table in an attempt to try the whole "out of sight and out of mind" theory, and then tried to return to his meal.
Body language easy, almost blasé in how much he didn't care, the dark-haired boy reached for a slice of toast and the bowl of jam; despite his cool attitude, however, Harry's inner thoughts were in turmoil. He didn't trust gifts from adults—his time at the Dursleys had taught him to rue the day when an adult actually gave him attention, offered him presents or some sort of prizes—and Harry couldn't help but wonder what, exactly, the Headmaster had planned with this… gift. Never trust adults; they always, always had a hidden agenda.
Idly, the boy wondered if the broom was actually cursed.
Later on that same day, Harry rued that specific thought, yelling out words that would have normally had points deducted from Slytherin as he tried desperately to keep hold on his broom. It bucked between his legs, moving every which way, and it was obvious that it—or someone who was controlling it—wanted him off, falling through the air, and preferably dead on the ground. In a pique of spite, Harry was tempted to give whoever was cursing his broom the gesture that Uncle Vernon usually gave to bad drivers (the same one that always had Aunt Petunia gasping at his coarseness in front of naïve, sweet Dudders), but opted instead to hold on for dear life.
If I ever find out who is doing this, Harry snarled to himself (with the hope that he'd be alive in order to make good on this threat), I'm going to have their eyeballs rolling into their skull and their toenails growing in and not out. Luckily, he already knew the curses for both promises—found, of course, in one of the Restricted Section's books.
Momentarily distracted by promises of dire restitution, Harry's grip faltered for just a second and the boy went arse over teakettle over the front of his Nimbus 2000. He yelled out in shock as he flew through the air—sans broom—and immediately felt himself the victim of gravity.
With the tendency of how these things tended to happen: In a huge cosmic joke, as well, it was as Harry was falling that he felt the small, cool metal of the Golden Snitch smack firmly against the palm of his hand. Instinctively, Harry's fingers curled tight around the Snitch because if he was going to die, he was bloody well going to win the damn game at the same time, too.
As he fell, time seemed to slow for Harry and in that second or two that stretched out into what felt like an eternity, the boy couldn't help but wonder why the staff members weren't doing anything to possibly save him. Did they all dislike him that much? Including his own Head of House?
Well, fuck that.
Not ten feet above the ground, Harry gritted his teeth and yelled out, "STOP!" A huge surge of magic boiled up from within him, and light formed into a bubble around him: green, the light was, with purple and black threaded through it in pulsing veins that almost seemed to mimic the arteries within a person's body. Harry's momentum ceased, and the Slytherin Seeker froze midair. He hovered, defying gravity, and then the bubble that encased him slowly began to drift downwards until he landed him safely upon the ground. With the entire school—staff, students, and visiting parents—watching on in wide-eyed surprise and shock, the bubble burst with a soft "pop!" and left Harry sprawled out on his back, blinking up at the sky.
In a move that was rather anticlimactic, Harry held up his arm, the fingers of his hand opening slightly so that his current audience could see the Snitch that he held.
"Harry Potter… has caught the Snitch?" Lee Jordan's uncertain voice sounded out, his commentary echoing through the large Quidditch stadium. The boy cleared his throat, though confusion at what had just transpired still bled through the tone of his voice. "…Slytherin wins?"
Immediately, one quarter of the stands erupted into exuberant yells, catcalls, and cheers for their victory—knowing that they had not only defeated Gryffindor in the first game of the season, but that they were now a step closer to winning the Quidditch Cup. Oh, and Harry had finally won back the points that he had lost with his stunt during Madam Hooch's class.
"Bunch of hypocrites," Harry muttered to himself as he finally began to push himself upright in preparation in being swarmed by his new and adoring fanbase.
Before anyone else could join him, however, Harry soon found that he had an armful of sobbing, frantic Gryffindor. "Oh, Harry! I was so terrified for you! I thought that you were going to die, and I tried to say as many spells as I could think of that would help, but they all just bounced off of you like there was something keeping them from helping you, and when I realized that…" Breaking out into tears, Hermione just hugged Harry tighter. "Oh, oh, Harry! I'm so glad that you're all right!"
Perhaps, Harry thought as he rubbed soothing circles over the small of Hermione's back in an attempt to calm the girl, it would be all right to trust one person. Even if it was just a little bit, but a little bit was a start—especially at the realization that there was at least one person, this girl, who truly cared for him.
Carefully, Harry began to hug Hermione back.
"Harry, my dear boy…" Albus Dumbledore began as he wandered deeper into the library, settling himself in a chair across from the green-eyed first year. Catching sight of some of the titles of the books that sprawled out before Harry Potter, the Headmaster's eyebrows shot up in surprise—Who had already given the boy access to the Restricted Section?, the old man thought worriedly—before frowning slightly in concern. Harry took note of the frown, but only closed the book that he had been reading, placing it aside so that he might give the Headmaster his full attention. Deciding to place his newfound concerns aside for now, Albus Dumbledore gave Harry a genial smile and inclined his head slightly. "First of all, I had wanted to come over to congratulate you on a well-played game," the man began, a twinkle once more appearing in his gaze. "And secondly, I wanted to come over to ask about that neat demonstration of wandless magic that you performed out on the pitch."
"It wasn't anything special," Harry hedged politically, averting his gaze slightly so that the old man might think that Harry was still looking him in the eyes when the boy was actually looking slightly to Dumbledore's right.
"On the contrary," the elderly Headmaster corrected, voice still friendly in an attempt to be approachable. "Not very many first years would have been capable of it. In fact, in all of my years as a professor, I've only come across one another student who would have been capable of something similar." Harry remained silent at that, and Dumbledore sighed quietly. "…tell me, my dear boy, why have you already begun foraging about in the Restricted Section?"
Surprised by the question, Harry's gaze flickered over to meet Dumbledore's, long lashes blinking and minutely obscuring his gaze. "Why wouldn't I?" he eventually began after a long moment of silence. "There's so much to learn in each area of the library. So why wouldn't I have taken advantage of reading books from the Restricted Section when I'm also reading so many other things from the other sections, too?"
"Ah, but the other sections don't have books on the Dark Arts—the few that Hogwarts has, anyway," Dumbledore chided quietly, the blue of his eyes deepening to sapphire in his concern and worry over the young first year.
"Light or Dark, what does it matter?" Harry asked with a bemused quirk of his mouth. "Magic is magic. It's the intent behind the magic that makes the difference. I mean… the more that I've been here at Hogwarts, the more that I've realized that the Dark Arts has gained a bad reputation." Here, Dumbledore nodded encouragingly, though his brows furrowed as he saw where this train of thought was leading. "But why is that?" Harry asked, gesturing to the books on the table before him. "But you can cause just as much damage with a Light spell as you can with a Dark one."
"Oh?" Dumbledore began, concern growing as he questioned the boy further. "And what of the Dark Arts spells that truly have no other purpose than to harm? Blood magic, for example."
At that, Harry gave his Headmaster a flat look. "A lot of blood magic, from what I've learned, has to deal with sacrifice. My mum sacrificed herself for me—and it was a sacrifice, Headmaster, because Voldemort gave her the chance to step away. So her sacrifice saved me: a life for a life, from what I've read. Isn't that typical of blood magic rituals? But my mum has always been called a hero for what she did. So, see? It's all about intent. About perspective, too."
Troubled, Dumbledore murmured, "I can see that you've been thinking about this a lot, Harry."
"Not really," the boy answered, shrugging nonchalantly. "I mean… the more that I learn here at school, the more obvious it seems. You know?"
"Ah," came the thoughtful murmur, and the elderly man pushed himself up from his seat so that he could head out of the library and back towards the stairs that led up to his office. He had much, much to consider—and wonder, too, if history wasn't once more repeating itself. "Perhaps you do have a point. I'll leave you to your studying now, though. Pip, pip!"
Once he was alone again, Harry reached out and splayed his fingers over one of the books that he had been reading, stroking over the cover in a possessive, almost loving caress. True, what he had said to Dumbledore he really did think—about intent and how it really was all a matter of perspective—but there was still something about the spells that were labeled as Dark Arts that appealed to him more. It was a Siren's call, and Harry found himself lacking in the desire to resist.
He dreamt that night, dreamed of dark mist that trailed slowly over black earth, twining through the trunks of trees that clustered closely together, huddled against the sharp chill in the air. He dreamed, too, that he was floating—as insubstantial as the mist that surrounded him. He dreamed of the howl of a lone wolf, its silhouette stark against the rising full moon.
He dreamed of a ruby gaze, pupils slitted like those of a cat—like those of a snake. He dreamed of laughter that was husky, rich like dark chocolate. He dreamed of green light, a woman's scream, a surge of power similar to when he had cast his first curse—but more. So much, much more. He dreamed of the solid weight of a hand upon his shoulder, dreamed of the brush of lips against his ear as the man whispered to him, dreamed of secrets that he never thought that he would get to hear, get to learn. He dreamed of the night. He dreamed of the Dark.
He dreamed.
Oh, how he dreamed.
Harry…
"Harry, my boy, would you be interested in hearing a story?" Albus Dumbledore asked one morning just at the start of the winter holidays. Harry glanced up from his morning porridge and mug of coffee, looking in bemusement at the headmaster's attempt to play the doddering, congenial old grandfather.
He was curious to see what the Headmaster was up to and, thus, the boy slightly inclined his head in agreement. It would have been an understatement, as well, to say that Harry was immediately on his guard: that he would take whatever it was that Dumbledore was about to say to him with a grain of salt.
"Have you heard, dear boy, the story of the Philosopher's Stone?" Dumbledore asked, the twinkle so bright in his eyes that Harry was, frankly, surprised that the older man hadn't managed to blind himself.
After a moment and a realization that the other expected him to answer, the raven-haired boy shrugged absently. "Isn't it supposed to be some super-powerful alchemist tool? Turns lead into gold?"
"It does do that, yes," Dumbledore said in answer, smile broad as he reached across the table to rest his hand upon Harry's left forearm. "But there's so much to it, as well. With it, one can brew the Elixir of Life—a substance so powerful that it can, in a way, make a person immortal."
Harry snorted at that and tugged his arm out from beneath his Headmaster's hold. "There's no such thing as true immortality," he answered with the all-knowing wisdom of an eleven year-old. "There's always some catch, some way to defeat that promise. Right? I mean, that's always how it is in the books and I figure that it's the same way in real life, too." Dumbledore visibly deflated at this, and Harry had to try hard to hide a triumphant smirk. "Anyway, why are you telling me this, Headmaster?"
"Ah, let's just say that—for a little while longer—the why will remain a secret. I'm sure that you'll find out the reason soon enough, though," Dumbledore said and winked playfully at the dark-haired Slytherin. He stood then and began to make his way to the staff table, greeting students here and there.
Harry watched the Headmaster for a little bit longer before sighing to himself and allowing his gaze to drop back down to his breakfast. He knew, knew absolutely, that the grandfatherly act was just that—an act—because it had so often been repeated back at the Dursleys'. Countless times, Harry had been dressed up in his only fine set of Sunday clothes, paraded out before visitors so that they could look at him from over their upturned noses and praise his aunt and uncle for being so kind, so charitable. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would smile at that, expressions conciliatory, and soak up the praises over how they were such good people. They were anything but, and the kind act got rather old rather fast.
Dumbledore's act was still just an act, and the Slytherin had learned never to trust anything that an adult said at face value. There was a reason for "storytime," and Harry was still debating whether or not it was worth his time to find out more.
A moment's decision…
And no, Harry decided that it really wasn't worth his time or effort to investigate.
Chuckling, the boy returned to his food.
I wissssh for you to sssssteal it for me, Quirinussss…. I need it. I need it. Destroy the obsssstaclessssss if you have to, but bring it to me! Ssssssoon…
Harry paused in his exploration of the third floor corridor—tempting fate by being near the Forbidden Corridor but not actually being in it—and tilted his head to the side as he considered the voice that was snarling malevolently in the otherwise empty hallway. It was rather hiss-y, the words that had an "s" always drawn out—like the whispering murmur of a snake, almost. In a way, the overly exaggerated speech pattern was almost comical. And yet…
And yet, Harry couldn't stop the slight shudder that wracked his slight frame.
Silently, making sure that there was no way that the pair could hear him, Harry began to slowly retreat—only pausing briefly when he heard a low chuckle, a chuckle that was so incredibly familiar… But Harry had grown up with self-preservation in mind, with survival as the end goal, and this situation reeked of too much danger.
He wouldn't chance it.
Harry stared at the old, tarnished mirror with his head tilted to the side. He had stumbled across it by accident—or, thinking again of the circumstances that had brought him here, perhaps not so accidentally. There was an inscription upon the mirror, Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi., and its name was apparently The Mirror of Erised.
Harry stared at the mirror for several long moments before jumping, slightly, at the soft, breathy voice of Headmaster Dumbledore; the man had been sitting in a chair in a corner of the room and the boy hadn't seen him when he had first come in. Scowling at being taken off guard, Harry turned on his heel and gave his full attention to the Headmaster.
"This is the Mirror of Erised; it shows the deepest and most desperate desire of our hearts, Harry," Dumbledore informed the boy, smile soft and affectionate as he looked over at the child. "However, it should also be treated with caution. Men have wasted away before it, not knowing if what they have seen is real, or even possible."
The eleven year-old looked at Dumbledore for several more moments before silently turning his attention back to the mirror; once again glancing up at the inscription, his brows furrowed as he slowly pieced together what the inscription actually said: "I show not your face but your heart's desire."
"Precisely, my dear boy," Dumbledore murmured as a pleased smiled tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Glancing one more time at the mirror, Harry's furrowed brows deepened and he turned to leave the room. Surprised at the lack of curiosity, Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up until they nearly reached his hairline. "Do you not wonder what it is that you might see?" the Headmaster asked, all while concerned that his plans were slowly falling to naught.
"What's the point?" Harry answered as he left the room, reply cynically pragmatic. "It's not real. It's something that you want, but there's no guarantee that you'll get it. So, Headmaster, I'd rather not know at all."
Dumbledore watched Harry leave, hands clasped carefully over his stomach as he mused silently to himself. This child was nothing at all like Lily or James; how was it that dear Harry had turned out so different from his parents? The apple couldn't have fallen that far from the tree…
And yet…
And yet.
"Dear child, you'll never know just how much your very existence concerns me," the old man murmured aloud to himself before pushing himself up from the chair to follow Harry back out of the room. More and more often lately, Dumbledore was so incredibly afraid that history was truly coming full circle and about to repeat itself.
"Oh, but Harry!" Hermione murmured as she worriedly wrung his hands together. She bit her lip when Harry seemed to ignore her, but immediately stopped the distraught gesture when the raven-haired yearmate glanced up and quirked an eyebrow at her. "Someone is going to steal the Stone, I just know it! You know as well as I that the events this year have been leading up to it!"
Harry snorted at that, not bothering to hide his derision. "So what?"
Hermione's jaw dropped, and the young girl flopped down into the library chair across from her best friend. "So what?" she repeated, voice horrified by the fact that Harry didn't seem to care at all. "Harry, it's the Philosopher's Stone! We can't just let someone come into Hogwarts and steal it! It's too dangerous in the wrong hands!"
The boy gave a small smirk to that, though, and tilted his head to the side as he glanced up at his first and only friend. Hermione had always had a weakness for logic, and Harry knew that he would probably be the winner in this particular contest of wills. "This is true, but why do we have to be the ones to stop whoever it is that's come to steal it?" Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Harry continued before the girl had an actual chance to say a word: "First of all, it was the Headmaster who decided to bring the Stone into the castle. Therefore, it's his responsibility to protect. Second of all, we know that Fluffy is just the first of several obstacles that we'd have to fight our way through in order to get to the Stone. We're only first years, Hermione, and the traps were set by the professors. With the small amount of knowledge that we've learned this year, do you really think that we'd stand a chance and actually be able to get to the Stone first?"
Hermione frowned at that, fidgeting in her chair as Harry began to lay out point after point as to why they should just leave the responsibility up to the professors.
"But, Harry…" the Gryffindor girl whispered, fingers curling in the school robes that pooled over her lap. "What if someone takes the Stone to do something horrible with it?"
To that, Harry just gave his friend a small smile. "Even if they manage to get to the Stone, they'd then have to get out of the school. Do you honestly think that the Headmaster—or Professors McGonagall or Snape—would honestly let that happen?"
"Well…" Hermione hedged, and Harry could see that she was finally relenting.
"It'll be all right," Harry said, consoling the girl and reaching out to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "You'll see."
Quirinus Quirrell ran down the staircase that led up to the third floor corridor, accidentally barreling into someone along the way. He snarled in anger, not even bothering to look down to see who it was that he had run into, and was immediately up and fleeing down the staircase as fast as he could run.
Before he could reach the doors, however, Professor Snape stepped out from his patrol of the halls; leveling his wand at the obviously guilty wizard, the dark man roared out, "Stupefy!"
And, not even putting up even a pathetic attempt at a fight, Quirrell fell down upon the stones of the Entrance Hall, immediately knocked unconscious. His purple turban went flying, revealing the grotesque face of the parasitic spirit that had latched onto the professor for the past year and a half.
The spirit screamed its fury, surging up from the back of his host's head. Professor Snape cried out in recognition and ducked, bringing his arm up to cover his head as the spirit misted into a vague form with serpentine features, and then exploded into a shower of dark green sparks.
At the top of the stairs, Harry Potter smiled and carefully pocketed the Philosopher's Stone, making his way down the corridor so that he could put himself someplace innocent—thus gaining an alibi and not a scrap of suspicion directed towards him. Still, however, Harry didn't bother smothering a soft, barely audible laugh as he slipped down a secret passageway and headed towards the library.
Professor Quirrell hadn't been at all subtle.
- End Year 1 -
