It's finally done, the second half of the Samhain chapters! Sorry for the long wait after that cliffhanger I left you on, hopefully this chapter makes up for it.
A quick recap:
During the student-run Samhain ritual, Harry asked his mother if James Potter was really his father. Before he can get an answer, the ritual is interrupted by a troll. With no way past the beast and unable to cast any magic due to the proximity to the veil, Harry tries to summon Voldemort's spirit in the hopes it will be powerful enough to defeat the troll. The magic of the ritual goes wild and Harry is struck by a bolt of green lightning. A strange light burns in his eyes as he kills the troll and cancels the ritual's magic. Then he collapses on the ground, screaming.
~Chapter 25: A Part of You~
"Your cowardice grows tiresome."
Quirrell flinched at the low, angry hiss, only slightly muffled by his turban, and aborted his surreptitious attempt to check that his disillusionment charm was still working. "I'm sorry, Master," he stammered. His palms were damp with sweat, but he didn't dare put down his wand to wipe them. "I just— what if the troll isn't enough of a distraction?"
"Do you doubt your master?"
Quirrell chewed his lower lip unhappily. There was only one answer he could give to such a question. "No, Master," he whispered.
In a way, Voldemort's ploy with the troll was brilliant, and Quirrell had initially felt proud that his affinity with the beasts would finally serve a purpose other than making him the butt of jokes at social gatherings. He'd complied with Voldemort's instructions to contribute a troll to the protections around the philosopher's stone without complaint, not batting an eye when he was told to bring a spare troll across the wards and hide it in one of the caves dotting the countryside around the castle.
Then he learned his master intended to free the spare tonight, when it was guaranteed a large number of students would be celebrating the old rites on their own down in the dungeons, and all his pleasure withered to ash.
They were using children as bait.
Dumbledore would have no choice but to go after the troll himself. He'd borne witness to Quirrell's fainting act and could not plead ignorance of the situation to duck off and check the integrity of the wards around the stone's gauntlet without risking further bad press. That task would fall to Snape, who was not only suspicious of Quirrell, but canny enough to realize the troll was either a bluff to draw their eyes away from the third floor, or evidence that Voldemort had already bypassed the majority of the protections and freed the beast in passing.
He would be wrong on both counts, but by the time he realized he'd been tricked it would be too late.
"Then move !" Voldemort snapped, his fury at the delay translating into an ache that radiated across Quirrell's scalp and down his jaw.
Quirrell looked up into the snarling leonine face of the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office and raised his wand. "Confundo."
Once the enchanted statue was out of the way, he hurried up the stairs and checked the door. It was locked.
He drew a thin, enchanted lock pick from an inner pocket and slid it into the keyhole, prodding the mechanism until it turned over with a soft click . Returning the pick to his robes, he opened the door a crack and peered inside.
The portraits of the former headmasters and mistresses were buzzing with excitement, news of the troll having reached them even here. Several of the gilt frames were empty, their residents having gone to help hunt down the beast. The rest were embroiled in a bitter argument over whether they should notify the ministry immediately or let Dumbledore take control of the situation first.
As the argument reached a fever pitch, Dumbledore's phoenix woke with a start. It pulled its magnificently crested head out from beneath its wing and looked around the office blearily, confused by the ruckus. Before it could rouse itself fully, Quirrell traced a series of runes in the air with his wand. "Dvala," he murmured.
The lights in the office dimmed and the frantic voices of the portraits tapered out, sinking into a deep, heavy silence. The phoenix's head drooped, its eyes fluttering weakly before it gave in to the spell and tucked its head back under its wing.
Quirrell counted to ten under his breath and then cautiously pushed the door open and stepped into the office. The soft whir and hoot of the enchanted devices crowding the shelves calmed him, and he found himself smiling absently as he looked around the domed room. No matter how many times he'd been summoned here in the past, the sheer volume of magic saturating the air always left him in awe.
"If you wish to stand here gawking like an inferius I will oblige you," Voldemort hissed, the threat dousing Quirrell's sense of wonder like a bucket of icy water. "One of the absent portraits may return, and if you do not catch them in time" — his voice dripped with disdain — "they will raise the alarm without you having found anything of value. That would be terribly unfortunate... for you."
Quirrell gasped and stumbled to the nearest cabinet. He ran his hands up the doors until they bumped against the handles and then pulled them open. The left door struck the side of his face and bounced back, sending him scrambling once more for the handle and cursing the disorientation he felt whenever he was disillusioned.
Voldemort hissed in displeasure and Quirrell bit the inside of his lip until it burned in an attempt to drown out the real and very horrible sensation that he was about to burst into frustrated tears. Such a display would not go over well with his volatile master, who Quirrell doubted had ever cried a day in his life.
Carefully this time, he raised his hands to the shelves and concentrated on running through the cabinet's contents for any hint to the Philosopher's Stone's current hiding place.
"There's nothing here!" he whispered once he'd completed a circuit of the office.
"Check his desk," Voldemort commanded. "He will have kept it close."
The first drawer contained stationary, spare quills, bottles of ink in outlandish colours and an unopened package of Sherbet Lemons. Once Quirrell was certain the stone hadn't been squirrelled away in an ink bottle or amidst the hard candies, he moved to the drawer below it, which was locked. Drawing his lock pick back out of his robes, he set to work and was soon able to pull the drawer open. It extended out and out, the inside clearly under the effect of an extension charm.
"Student files," he said, looking at the row of neatly labeled folders.
"Skip them."
He closed the drawer and moved to the other side of the desk.
"This one is full of letters."
"Copy any correspondence with Nicolas Flamel."
An indexing spell identified a handful of letters, which he transcribed into a pocket notebook before slipping them carefully back into place.
The last drawer in the desk contained records relating to the running of the school: financial and incident reports, teaching contracts, lesson plans and class schedules. He caught his breath when he came to a section about the castle wards and magical artifacts, but let it out in disappointment when he found no mention of the Philosopher's Stone. Indeed, judging by the fragile, yellowed parchment and antiquated language of the magical records, he doubted they'd been updated at all since they were written centuries ago.
"Master, there's nothing else here."
"Impossible!" Voldemort snapped. "There must be something. Flamel would not have parted with the source of his immortality unless he was certain it would be absolutely safe! Dumbledore cannot risk using magic I am familiar with, so he must be creating a new spell. Was there nothing with runic chains or arithmantic equations?"
"No," Quirrell insisted, though he returned to the start of the drawer and began going over the files once again.
"He could not have altered the third floor or modified the wards to accept Hagrid's flea-bitten nuisance on a whim! If his notes are not here, he may be keeping them in his private quarters."
"Could he have destroyed them?" Quirrell asked, glancing back at the embers glowing in the rectangular fire pit between the short staircases leading to a pair of doors, one of which he knew led to the headmaster's private sitting room.
"And redo all that work in order to reverse his modifications?" Voldemort asked, his voice suddenly dry and flat. "I doubt he's that foolish… but perhaps my expectations of him are too high?"
"I'll check his quarters," Quirrell said quickly as he closed the drawer. It had been nearly ten minutes since he'd entered the office, and Dumbledore's return loomed closer with each passing second.
He jumped to his feet and was rushing towards the second door at the back of the office when he was walloped over the head with a lead pipe.
That's what it felt like, at least.
Black spots swarmed in his peripheral vision like a sea of tiny spiders as the rest of the world dimmed until even the warm glow of the embers in the fire pit were hazy and grey. He stared at them in a daze, not understanding what he'd done to warrant his master hurting him this badly.
It was a testament to the quality of their relationship that until Voldemort began to writhe under his skin, the wraith's howl's of fury as high and piercing as a banshee's shriek, he believed he was the only one affected. Then he became afraid. While his head did sting, it wasn't as bad as Voldemort's reaction implied, which meant it was the dark lord who was taking the worst of whatever spell or trap they'd triggered. No doubt he'd punish Quirrell once he'd recovered his wits. If not now, then once they were alone and no longer at risk of being caught.
As Quirrell stood quivering, undecided as to whether he should press on or retreat, he felt a gap form between them.
Voldemort was being torn from him like an old plaster.
For one blissful moment Quirrell was delirious with joy, then Voldemort sunk spectral talons into his chest, clinging to him with all his strength, and he plunged into a hellscape of pain.
When he returned to his senses, he'd slid partway down the stairs behind the desk, the hem of his robe was smoking as it lay in the embers of the fire, and Voldemort was still with him. His entire body ached and he wanted nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep, but the room seemed brighter and above him the portraits were stirring.
His spells had failed.
Terrified that he would be discovered now that he was no longer disillusioned, he tried to reapply the charm, but his hands wouldn't stop shaking. Giving up, he staggered to his feet, threw his hood over his head and rushed out of the office. One of the portraits shouted at him to stop, and as he careened down the stairs he prayed it hadn't recognized him.
He didn't slow until he'd made it back to his own rooms. Throwing the bolt, he sunk against the door and fought to catch his breath.
Voldemort had been curiously silent through the flight from the headmaster's office. He was still there — Quirrell could feel the soft fluttering of the wraith's lungs between his shoulder blades — but he offered no response even when Quirrell called his name.
Defeated and confused, Quirrell collapsed on his bed and shut his eyes.
White.
Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again slowly.
An expanse of empty white space stretched above him.
Where was he? It didn't look like anywhere he knew, and the surface beneath him was too hard to be one of the beds in the hospital wing.
Or, maybe this wasn't a place at all. His memories of what happened after he'd thrown Voldemort's name into the ritual cauldron were hazy, but he remembered the dizzying sensation of fainting. If he'd really lost consciousness, this might be nothing more than a dream — and while it seemed bizarre now, it would be quickly forgotten upon waking. If he woke.
The thought came unbidden, but as soon as he realized its gravity he bolted upright and pressed his hands to his chest and neck — anywhere he might find a pulse. His white ritual robe pooled around him, blending perfectly with the floor, which was just as blank and featureless as the sky above him. He swayed, struck by a sudden rush of vertigo that had him searching for the horizon, anything that would let him orient himself in the space, but there was nothing — not even the faintest line. The sky and ground merged seamlessly, robbing him of his ability to determine if he was in a space as small as his cupboard under the stairs or as big as England.
A low growl rumbled behind him and Harry went rigid with fear. When he wasn't immediately mauled, he gathered his courage and slowly pivoted in place. Then he looked up.
A black hound the size of a lorry glowered down at him, its nose pressed hard against the bars of a massive bird cage. A chain extended from the domed roof of the cage and stretched up into the air, the links slowly fading to grey before becoming indistinguishable from the featureless sky. The hound snarled when Harry met its gaze and began to gnaw at the cage, coating the bars with a sheen of saliva.
Harry clenched his hands in his lap as he watched the hound struggle to break free, the cage swinging violently as the beast threw itself from side to side, but the bars held and it collapsed in defeat. It panted for a minute, a colourless grey tongue lolling from its mouth, before it regained enough energy to pull back its lips and snarl.
Harry didn't wait to see if the cage would hold a second time. Pushing himself to his feet, he made to hurry away, only to discover that more cages had appeared while his back was turned.
They filled the sky around him, their bars ranging from pitch black to a grey so light he could barely distinguish them against the stark backdrop. None of the cages were empty.
He passed a light grey cage containing a broken bicycle he recognized as the one Dudley had run him over with when they were nine. Another held the three-legged stool he'd been forced to sit on whenever his teachers had accused him of misbehaving. Sometimes the cages contained people — a teacher he'd disliked or a neighbourhood bully. Like the hound, they were oddly colourless — as though they'd stepped out of a black and white film. Their language was not so bland, and he gave their cages a wide berth, hating the way they began shouting abuse as soon as he got close enough to see their faces.
Eventually the memories associated with the items grew hazier, things that had happened too long ago for him to remember more than a vague sense of unease, pain or fear. Some of these cages were broken. They lay on their sides, their chains snapped and bars warped — whatever they'd contained now long gone.
Rounding the base of one of the fallen cages he discovered he'd reached the end of the strange menagerie. One final cluster of cages hung ahead of him.
The four closest contained his relatives: Vernon, Petunia, Dudley and aunt Marge, but it was the final, farthest cage that drew his attention. There were chains woven through its bars, crisscrossing and intersecting in a way that reminded Harry vaguely of illustrations of protective amulets and curse tablets he'd seen while flipping through Herpo's book. He didn't understand how they worked, but a few of the shapes felt familiar.
There was a small, crumpled form in the middle of the cage. Curious, Harry stepped up to the bars to get a better look while ignoring the screams and jeers of the Dursleys, who'd kicked up a racket as soon as he'd drawn near.
It looked like a pile of tattered grey rags, and Harry was wondering why a bundle of dirty laundry deserved such an elaborate prison when the pile shifted. A skeletal human arm, black with sores and old bruises, crept from beneath the rags and pressed its palm to the floor of the cage. Harry shuddered and took an instinctual step back as the bundle unfolded, revealing a shape that was distinctly human. It raised its head, and despite its features being hidden by the tattered remains of a cowl, Harry was struck by the feeling he'd seen this person once before, when he was very young, and that it had terrified him.
A bolt of green lightning cleaved the sky.
At the same time, the bars of the cage exploded outward with a high pitched scream, shattering the chains. No longer supported, the cage's base dropped to the ground with a boom that knocked Harry off his feet. He tumbled backwards, tucking himself into a roll that ended with him crouched on his hands and knees.
The Dursleys fell silent and pressed their backs against the bars of their cages, as far away as they could get from the figure slowly rising to its feet amidst the wreckage.
Harry heard the rasp of its breath as it laboured forward on broken, twisted legs.
"Harry Potter," the figure growled as it lurched over the edge of the cage. Its voice was low and hoarse, rubbing in his ears like sandpaper. A dark liquid spattered the ground in its wake and the overwhelming, sickly smell of rotting flesh rolled over Harry.
Bile rose in Harry's throat and he scuttled backwards, his legs shaking too hard for him to stand. "Who are you?" he squeaked. "What do you want with me?"
The figure paused, breathing hard. It raised an arm and pushed off the cowl that had kept its face in shadow. It was a man, his skin white as bone and rough with patches of scales. He had no hair, and two elongated slits marred the place his nose should have been. Cracked grey lips pulled back from rotten teeth, which parted just enough for an equally colourless tongue to slip out and lap the air the same way Basil's did when she'd caught an interesting scent. He turned his head in Harry's direction, and Harry saw that his eyes were clouded with cataracts.
"I have waited," he rasped, stepping forward. His left leg dragged behind him, and with a lurch of his stomach Harry saw the foot beneath the lumpy, misshapen ankle was facing the wrong way round. "I have been patient as you let those worms beat and starve you. I have endured it all, and now you will give me what I desire."
He lunged at Harry, his arms outstretched to grab him, but he misjudged the distance and caught only air. Harry skittered further back and bumped into Vernon's cage. He threw himself beneath it, crawling on his belly until he was ensconced in the centre.
The man did not follow immediately. He'd collapsed to his knees after his blind lunge and was now bent in two, whimpering softly as he kneaded his chest. The movement of his hands slowed as he recovered, and soon he raised his head and sniffed the air.
"I can smell your fear, Harry. Why don't you come out? I know you're still here."
Harry pressed his hands over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his breathing as the man's head swung towards him.
"Don't you wish to thank me?" the man asked. "Look at all I have done for you." He shrugged off his robe, revealing a body marred by trauma. Each rib was visible beneath his splotchy, cracked skin. Infected cuts and sores leaked pus and blood that ran in rivulets down his sides. Legs whose bones bowed grotesquely in the middle looked barely able to support his weight as he struggled back to his feet and took another step in Harry's direction. Then he was eclipsed by the cage and all Harry could see were his knees and feet.
Vernon shrieked and pressed himself back into the bars as the man's skeletal fingers scraped along the metal, searching for a gap large enough to squeeze through. The cage tilted under his uncle's weight, and Harry gasped as the heavy metal base ground into his left heel, pinning it to the floor even as the opposite side of the cage swung upwards.
The man lowered himself to the ground and lapped at the air before letting out a low, pleased hiss and pulled himself forward. Harry wrenched his foot free and tried to move away, but Vernon's weight was still on his side of the cage, eating up what little space there had been, and then the man was upon him.
A pair of cold, bony hands closed around his wrists. "I took the worst of your pain," the man gasped as he tried to wrestle Harry into submission. "Every disease. Every wound. You walk because I took the rickets that would have crippled you. You see because when your infant cousin pressed his thumbs into your eyes I spared you the damage that would have stolen your sight." His voice grew harsh. "You live because of me!"
Harry dropped back onto his stomach, his arms limp as he tried to regain his breath. The air beneath the cage was heavy and rank with the stench of infection, but it was the man's words that left him feeling sick to his stomach. He knew he hadn't had the best life at the Dursleys', but they'd never hurt him bad enough to cause the injuries riddling the man's body… had they?
"Who are you?" he whispered.
The man leaned in until their faces were nearly touching. "I am the owner of your soul," he said, his face splitting into a rictus grin. "And I will take my due." He drove his nails into the flesh of Harry's arms and dragged them from elbow to wrist. Harry's vision exploded with dazzling white spots and his mind was filled with a mad chorus of words and broken sentences. They screamed to ' swallow him' and ' take it for our own' . A feeling of impending doom clutched Harry's heart, and he knew he must fight. If he did not, he would die in this strange, pale world.
He lashed out with his arms and twisted his body back and forth, but the man's fingers were anchored deep in his skin and trying to throw them off tugged painfully at something deep inside Harry's chest. The man clawed him again and another wave of thoughts bombarded his mind. He gritted his teeth and focused on them, sorting through the crazed ramblings for any hint as to what was happening. When he found it, the blood drained from his face.
"I will not let you eat my soul!" he growled. He flipped his hands over and raked the inside of the man's arms with his nails.
The beaten, tattered remains of the man's soul tore loose beneath his fingers, and Harry shuddered as a part of it slid into him, bringing with it a rush of pain so acute it stole his breath away.
The man shrieked and tried to pull back. "What are you doing? Stop!"
His fear was the only encouragement Harry needed. He scrabbled at the man's arms, screwing his eyes shut against the pain as he dragged the man's soul out of his body. He expected to be embroiled in a desperate tug of war pitting the man's strength as an adult against his better physical health — but he may as well have been scooping up handfuls of sand for all the resistance he encountered. There was an occasional jolt when the man threw his body backward in an attempt to break their connection, but Harry held fast.
Sensing his resolve, the man grew frantic, his words dissolving into howls of terror.
The end came unexpectedly. A profound silence settled over Harry as the last wisps of resistance faded. His hands went out again, but there was nothing left to take. Slowly, Harry forced his eyes open and looked up.
The man's body was disintegrating into ash. It drifted away slowly, first the skin and then the bones beneath. As his head dropped to the ground the world lurched. The cage above Harry shuddered with a metallic groan, and he'd barely scrambled out from beneath the base when its chain snapped.
The cage hit the ground with a dull thud and began to sink. Vernon wailed in distress as he tried desperately to haul his body up the bars, but he wasn't strong enough to support his own weight. He fell into the thick, milky liquid swallowing the cage like quicksand and floundered, unable to regain his feet. As his head vanished beneath the surface, Harry looked around and realized Vernon's cage wasn't the only one sinking.
Petunia's face looked ghastly as she reached an arm through the bars, trying to catch hold of Dudley before he went under, but he had already sunk up to his neck and couldn't push himself close enough to reach her hand. Her anguished wail joined a chorus of desperate, panicked voices as one by one the chains of the cages snapped and they were sucked into the depths.
Harry pressed his hands to his ears, trying to drown them out, but recoiled when something cold and wet dripped down his neck. Pulling his hands away, he found an oily black liquid seeping from beneath his fingernails. It pooled in his palms when he cupped his hands and ran in rivulets down his arms, staining the fabric of his robe. Muttering a curse under his breath, he shoved his hands away from his body and shook them hard, scattering droplets in an arc in front of him. He shook and wrung and wiggled them until his wrists ached and he was panting for breath, but there was no end to the stuff. Eventually he bundled his hands in the hem of his robe and crouched down to try and regain his composure.
Around him, the ground was a sea of black speckles. They seemed to waiver, shifting like static. Watching them made Harry's stomach churn so he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before cautiously reopening them.
The specks had spread. The ground beneath him was now stained with an unbroken black sheen and the edge of the dark patch was expanding outward at a terrifying speed, splitting the formerly featureless world in two.
Harry tried to stand, but the ground was slick as cooking oil and his feet slipped out from under him. He landed hard on his back and lay there, trembling.
"Please wake up," he whispered, turning his head just enough to see the stark divide of the new forming horizon — black below and white above — before he curled himself into a ball and tucked his head in his arms.
While Harry fought to retain his soul, the students in the underground hall breathed a sigh or relief and edged out from behind the shelter of the tables to see what had become of their saviour.
Selwyn was the first to reach Harry and he quickly took stock of the situation.
The magic of the ritual had faded entirely, taking the swirling vortex of spirits and most of the light along with it. There were a few candelabras flickering weakly on the tables that had survived the troll's rampage, but the candles of the chandeliers overhead had shattered the instant they came in contact with the intense chill of the ritual veil-fire and were now little more than tripping hazards.
The troll lay in a stinking heap nearby, silent and still. It was hard to believe it had been killed by a single spell. Trolls were notoriously resistant to magic, and had been known to shrug off even powerful curses. But after witnessing it pass through the veil, there was no doubt in Selwyn's mind that this troll had met its match in Harry — or at least in the power that had guided the boy's hand, and which was now exacting a terrible price on his body.
He knelt beside Harry, ignoring his screams as he writhed on the floor, clawing at himself, and steadied his head long enough to pry his eyelids open one at a time and check for the eerie glow he'd seen just after the troll collapsed. Only a spark remained, and even that was fading quickly. Then the area around him brightened as Rookwood hurried over with one of the candelabras, and Harry's eyes reverted to their regular, if startling, shade of green.
"Look at his arms," she said, holding the light up where it would cast the least shadows. "He's tearing them to shreds."
Selwyn felt ill when he saw the long gashes on Harry's forearms, and quickly restrained him, pinning his wrists to the floor so he could not hurt himself further. Harry struggled, his bloody fingers spasming, but he could not break free. Slowly, the ragged edges of the wounds began to knit back together. Scabs formed and flaked off before his eyes, leaving long, slightly shiny indents in Harry's skin that faded from red to a pale pink before the magic healing him either tapered out or was diverted to deal with whatever inner torment was causing him to scream as though he was being burned alive.
Chunks of frozen wax skittered across the floor as Harry's friends hurried across the room. A young girl Selwyn recognized as the muggleborn who had upset Theodore Nott threw herself down beside Harry and reached out her hands as if to touch him, but let them fall back to her sides at the last second. She looked up at Selwyn, and he was surprised that despite her eyes being red-rimmed and puffy, they were shining with determination.
"What's wrong with him?" she demanded. "Is there anything we can do to help?"
"There is nothing we can do for him here," he replied. "We need to get him to the hospital wing as soon as possible." He looked up from Harry and peered into the darkness, trying to make out faces amidst the crowd of students who were slowly edging closer now that the troll was no longer a threat. "Flint!" he bellowed, spotting the burly Quidditch captain. "Montague! Pull down one of the banners and cut it into a sling."
"What do we cut it with?" Flint asked, his voice tight with alarm at having been singled out. "We don't have our wands."
"Grab a knife off the table!" Rookwood snapped. "They're linen, not wool. Use your teeth if you have to!"
As they hurried to the nearest wall and began hauling on one of the banners, Selwyn looked over the rest of the students. They were huddled together, looking lost and afraid, and he realized just how young many of them were. "The troll may not have been the only danger in the castle tonight," he said, projecting his voice so it reached even the students at the back of the crowd. "Therefore, I want the seventh years to return to the common room, as quickly and quietly as possible, and retrieve their wands. Everyone else will evacuate to a nearby room and bar the door until the seventh years' return to escort you to the dorms. Is that clear?"
A murmur of acknowledgement went around the room, but still they hesitated. "Go!" he shouted, startling them into motion. As they filed out of the hall, Flint and Montague carried over a length of linen and spread it out on the floor beside Harry. The boy's cries had grown weaker, and he no longer tried to scratch his arms when Selwyn released his wrists to ease him onto the sling.
The quidditch players took up positions on either side. Grasping the fabric tight, they lifted Harry easily and then looked to Selwyn for instructions. Rookwood picked her way to his side, still holding the candelabra. He reached out to take it from her, but her hand tightened around the ornate stem and she gave him a look that made it clear she would not be dismissed. Selwyn did not have the energy to fight her. He motioned for her to follow them and was turning to the door when he realized the huddle of first years were not making their way out of the hall with the rest of the students.
"I told you to evacuate," he said sternly. "We won't be able to protect you if something happens on the way out of the dungeons."
The first years glanced at each other before hardening their resolve.
"We're coming with you," Draco stated.
"You'll just get in the way!" Rookwood retorted. She turned to walk away and slipped on one of the chunks of wax littering the floor. Selwyn caught her before she fell, and was warning Flint and Montague to watch their feet when Neville Longbottom hurried forward and, dropping to his knees, began to push the wax aside.
"We'll clear the way," he said, and was rapidly joined by the others, who forged a path to the door as quickly as the two students carrying Harry could walk it.
"It's a risk letting them tag along," Rookwood whispered to him as they turned up the path that would take them out of the dungeons. The candles that had been placed along the base of the walls as markers were still burning, though most of them had melted to little more than stubs.
He tugged gently on her arm, guiding her in front of Flint and Montague, both to provide extra light and to ensure they weren't overheard by the younger students, who were packed close by Harry's feet. A few of them had muscled their way into helping support the sling, grabbing at the fabric's corners and holding them as high as they could once they started up the stairs in an effort to keep Harry from sliding out. Selwyn smiled at the show of loyalty. It seems Harry was fortunate in his choice of friends.
"I'll send them to notify the staff when we pass the Great Hall," he assured her quietly. "They should be safe there."
"Will you have them tell the truth?" She gave him a sharp look, her expression grim. "Even if it turns out he used that spell?"
Selwyn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So it was true. He hadn't wanted to believe a first year student could have the skill, power and intent to cast such a curse, even if they'd managed to pick up the incantation, but Rookwood knew far more curses than he did, and was equally better at identifying them. "It may not have been him, in that instant."
"A possession?" Her eyes widened slightly, but the steely set of her jaw did not waver. She turned away from him, staring resolutely forward. "I doubt it would make a difference. Even if they forgave its use against a troll, which is barely sentient, they won't forgive him for being the one to cast it. Not with his reputation as it is." She clenched her fists. "And you still want to welcome him into our house! Even if he's a descendant of the founder, the boy brings nothing but trouble."
"He saved our lives tonight," he replied, suddenly weary. He looked over at Harry, who had curled into a ball and was whimpering softly. He was so small — as light and gangly as a newborn fawn. It seemed inconceivable he'd survived everything thrown at him over the past two months.
"I know!" she choked. "Hecate take him!"
Selwyn grasped for anything that could ameliorate Harry's current circumstances, and through extension, their own. "You're certain it was that curse?" he asked, a bubble of hope buoying up inside him as he replayed the troll's death in his mind. "The ritual was still active at the time. Surely it would have negated it?"
"The ritual doesn't block black magic."
"But—"
She looked at him pityingly. "It's been hundreds of years since the information pertaining to that spell's creation was purged. They may call it a curse now, but I doubt it began as one."
The bubble burst. He ran a hand through his hair and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. "There's no choice, then," he said, turning back to her original question. "They cannot tell the truth — not all of it, at least."
"You'd best decide what they need to leave out quickly," she replied. "We're nearly there."
"Where is he?" Dumbledore demanded as he swept into the hospital wing a short time later. Professor McGonagall emerged from the privacy curtains hanging around a bed halfway down the ward and beckoned him over.
"I met them while returning from Gryffindor Tower," she explained, holding the curtain open for him. "It seems Mister Potter had a near miss with the troll."
"Them?" Dumbledore asked as he ducked through.
"The head boy and a handful of Slytherins."
Dumbledore grunted in acknowledgement and stepped up to the side of the bed, dreading what he would find.
When Minerva's patronus had burst through the wall and told him Harry Potter was wounded and he needed to come to the hospital wing immediately, his heart had lurched so violently that for a moment he'd been unable to breathe. He'd expected Voldemort to stir up trouble on the anniversary of his defeat, but going after Harry directly without first securing the Philosopher's Stone would rob him of the opportunity to obtain his cherished immortality. His hand had flown to the locket around his neck, ensuring both it and the stone it contained were still safely in his possession before he'd managed to calm himself enough to think the situation through. Perhaps Voldemort had not targeted Harry. If Quirrell's histrionics about a troll were true, it could be that the boy encountered that instead. The beast should not have been able to kill him, not if everything he believed about the boy was true, but it could maim him badly enough to force major revisions to his plans for Harry's future.
Harry was laying flat on his back, a medical robe covering his thin form as Pomfrey shifted a set of obsidian rune-stones to different points on his body. All his limbs were whole, his joints did not appear twisted or swollen and the only blood he could see was caked around his fingernails, which were black. He did not look like a wizard who had run afoul of a troll.
"What happened?" he asked Minerva, drawing her a few steps away so as to not distract the mediwitch.
"The troll found the students celebrating the old rites and cornered them while the ritual silence was active." Her throat spasmed and she looked up at him in bleak horror. "They had no wands — no magic at all with which to defend themselves. They could not even scream for help." She pressed her hands together. "They tried to cancel the ritual, but the troll destroyed the altar with its club. Albus, they told me they could see the veil!"
"What?" he asked, astonished. He'd never heard of such a phenomenon. "Who told you this?"
"The head boy," she replied quickly. "And the others collaborated on his description. They saw a host of spirits on the other side of the veil attack the troll and bring it to its knees."
Dumbledore could not believe it. Not even the gateway hidden in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries allowed living beings to look into death's realm. How thin would the veil have to become to be translucent?
"How was Harry involved?" To this point, there was no clue as to where the boy's injuries had come from.
"He ran towards the altar to summon another spirit," she replied.
"And was struck?"
She shook her head. "No, he succeeded. They don't know who he summoned, but it caused a violent reaction that ended with the veil swallowing the troll, killing it instantly." She grimaced at his look of patent disbelief. "I know. I have a hard time believing it as well."
"And Harry?"
"He collapsed at the same time the magic of the ritual dissipated. They feared the two were related and brought him here."
Dumbledore nodded and stepped back up to the bed. "How is he?" he asked Pomfrey.
The mediwitch looked troubled. "His results are full of contradictions. If I had a baseline to work from" — she shot a glare at McGonagall, who winced — "I might have been able to sort through them. As it stands, if I hadn't performed the tests myself I would have sworn they were for two different people."
"What do you mean?"
Pomfrey held up one of her rune-stones. "According to my diagnostic spells, he should be teetering on the brink of death with severe skeletal and internal injuries due to trauma, as well as physical deformities caused by long term malnutrition and illness. But even the most cursory physical exam shows no sign of any of it!" She shoved the stone into the pocket of her apron and lifted Harry's left hand, rolling up the sleeve and manipulating his arm so they could see the faint pink lines etched in his skin. "His only current injuries are these scratches, which are nearly healed, bleeding nail beds and an injury to his scar."
Dumbledore froze. "Do you mean his curse scar?" he asked, a terrifying idea creeping into his mind. "From the night his parents were killed?"
"Yes," Pomfrey confirmed. She placed Harry's arm down gently at his side and reached up to push his fringe out of the way. "I almost didn't notice it, he keeps it so well hidden."
The scar had always had an ugly look to it, red and perpetually inflamed. Now it was bleeding sluggishly, the skin around it dyed red from where the blood had soaked into the gauze Pomfrey lifted off of it. Dumbledore grabbed a clean piece of gauze from Pomfrey's cart of supplies and wiped the area clean. The swelling had decreased drastically from the last time he'd caught a glimpse of it under Harry's hair, and the tips of the jagged lightning bolt were starting to scab over.
"Did you detect any magic lingering in the scar?" he asked, startled to hear how his voice rasped. "Anything unusual about it at all?"
Pomfrey shook her head. "The first thing I did was check him for active magic, on the chance he'd been cursed, but those results came back clean." She hesitated, gauging whether she should continue. "There are many extant cases where the Samhain ritual has stripped charms and compulsions from participants due to their incompatibility with the veil. I believe it was even used to free individuals who were suspected of being under the imperius curse during the last war. If there was an issue with his scar in the past, it may no longer be affecting him."
Dumbledore was struck dumb, his mouth suddenly dry. He'd known that! He'd known, but it had been so long since he'd taken part in the old rites it had slipped his mind! Could the protection of Lily's sacrifice have been undone by something so simple? He'd never been able to determine how she'd thwarted Voldemort that night. There had been no evidence of a ritual amidst the rubble, and the explosion caused by the killing curse rebounding had erased any signs a counter-spell or shield might have left behind. His best guess involved the sacrifice of her own life in exchange for Harry's, but that would only have worked if Voldemort had intended to spare her, which was ridiculous!
"What is it, Albus?" McGonagall asked, her brows pinched in concern. "What sort of spell do you fear was removed?"
"A protective one," he said, drawing his wand and moving swiftly back through the curtains. "Forgive me, I must call Severus here at once. Please ensure Harry does not wake before he arrives."
"Severus?" she said in confusion, and he caught a glimpse of her exchanging a bewildered look with Pomfrey before the curtain swung back into place.
It was difficult to summon a memory happy enough to cast the patronus charm, but he pushed his dread at the situation away long enough to see the spectral phoenix bearing his message dive through the floor.
It took an agonizing fifteen minutes for Severus to arrive. When he finally slipped through the hospital wing doors, his robes were in a state of disarray and there were hectic spots of colour high on his cheeks. He moved awkwardly, favouring his right leg as he strode up and shoved a small vial containing a clear potion into Dumbledore's hands. Then he collapsed against the foot of a nearby bed. The bed's metal legs scraped against the floor, prompting Pomfrey to poke her head out of the privacy curtains around Harry.
"What have you gone and done to yourself now?" she asked in exasperation, zeroing in on Severus, who scowled and tried to wave her away. His hunched shoulders and quickly shifting eyes screamed that this was the last place he wanted to be right now.
As Pomfrey fretted over Severus, Dumbledore returned to Harry's bedside, popped the wax seal off the bottle and eased the potion down the boy's throat. It was done so quickly that McGonagall didn't have a chance to object before Dumbledore was setting the vial aside and casting rennervate .
Harry woke slowly. He twisted his head back and forth, sighing deeply, before his eyes cracked open. He stared straight ahead, his face slack and eyes dark and glassy.
Dumbledore leaned close, tilting Harry's head slightly so the boy was looking directly at him. "What is your name?" he asked quietly. Harry's pupils twitched slightly but he did not respond. Dumbledore grabbed him firmly by the shoulders. "What is your name?" he repeated, louder and more insistent.
"Harry… Potter…"
A surge of relief swept over Dumbledore, but a name alone was not enough to erase all his doubts. Voldemort had gone by several names during his life, adopting and abandoning them to suit his needs. If he'd gained control of Harry's body, he may have decided to adopt his name as well. "Have you ever gone by another name?"
"Yes."
Dumbledore flinched; all the fear and guilt rushing back. Had the worst happened after all?
McGonagall was beside him then, bristling in outrage. "Did you give him a truth serum?" she asked, her voice high with disbelief. Her hands were balled into fists and she looked ready to deck him. "Albus! What is the meaning of this? Poppy! Poppy, the headmaster has given Potter veritaserum!"
Dumbledore ignored her and shook Harry's shoulders. "What was the name?" he demanded. "What other name or names did you go by?"
Harry's face twisted, transforming from placid to pained in an instant. He curled in on himself, his arms swiping at the air as though warding off an invisible enemy. He opened and closed his mouth, but instead of speech he uttered a strangled, choking sound.
Pomfrey returned to the bedside at a run. "He's fighting the potion," she said, her face ashen. "Severus, did you bring the antidote? Give it to me — quickly!"
"What was the name?" Dumbledore roared, giving the boy another hard shake even as Pomfrey tore one of his arms away and pressed the vial containing the antidote to Harry's lips.
There was a spark of triumph in Harry's eyes as he hissed . The Parseltongue slid over Dumbledore, cold, sibilant and completely undecipherable. Pomfrey took the opportunity to pour the antidote into his mouth and massage his throat to ensure he swallowed it all.
Harry's body went slack. For a moment he seemed completely disoriented; then his eyes lost their dull sheen and he groaned. "What did you do to me?"
"My dear boy…"
Instantly, Harry was on guard. He jerked away from Dumbledore's hand, nearly toppling out of the bed in his attempt to put space between them. "Don't call me that!" he shouted. "Keep away from me!"
Dumbledore sighed and drew his wand. "I am sorry, but this will be for the best." He pressed the tip of the wand against Harry's temple. "Obliviate."
The white sky stretched above Harry, endless and unblemished. It gleamed softly, despite there being no sun or other discernible source for the light.
He remembered it, and knew he was once again in that strange place.
…Again?
Had he left? It didn't feel like any time had passed since the cages had collapsed, but he was now laying on his back and he had no recollection of having uncurled or rolled back over.
He tried to sit up and discovered that the oily substance that had prevented him from doing so last time was now gone, as were the stains on his white robes. His nails were still black, but they were no longer leaking and didn't hurt when he pressed on them experimentally, which was a relief.
Brushing aside the strange colour as something he could worry about later, he rose to his feet and looked around. The ground was the colour of pitch and seemed to swallow the light from the sky. He could not even see his own reflection, let alone his shadow, and their absence left him feeling insubstantial — as though he wasn't really present.
Despite this, he did smile when he looked out at the new line of the horizon. Who knew such a simple thing could be so comforting? He laughed and spun in a circle.
There was a man standing silently behind him.
Harry's feet tangled together and he nearly fell down again — only saving his knees and elbows from a bruising with a series of undignified hops.
The man didn't react. In fact, he wasn't even facing him. He was staring up at a point just above the horizon as though it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Harry glanced up as well, thinking that maybe one of the hanging cages had reappeared, but there was nothing there.
Cautiously, he edged around the man in a wide circle, ready to bolt at the first sign of aggression. Not that he would get very far if he tried; the man was far taller than him, with a lean, athletic build Harry doubted he'd be able to outrun over any great distance.
The man was wearing a simple black robe that seemed to melt into the ground, hiding his feet from view. It had a low neck that accentuated the pale column of his throat and the strong line of his jaw. Black hair nearly as wild as Harry's own fell in waves around his ears; a single streak of silver extending from his left temple.
But the most remarkable thing about the man was his eyes — they were a scarlet so vibrant they appeared to glow — two spots of colour amidst the stark, monochromatic landscape. He turned those eyes towards Harry when he took a step closer, freezing him in place.
The man studied him critically. "It seems I underestimated you," he said. "How embarrassing — to have been bested by a child."
Harry didn't understand. "Do I know you?"
The man's dark brows quirked upwards and then — with a look of faint surprise — he ran a hand over his face. He lingered on his nose, frowning slightly as he pinched its bridge between his fingers, and then moved up to the top of his head. He hummed in thought as he stared up at a strand of hair before tucking it back into place.
"You don't recognize me," the man concluded.
"I…" Harry hesitated. He was certain he'd never seen this man before, and yet when he looked into his face he was struck by a startling sense of familiarity. After wrestling with the feeling for several moments he admitted, "I don't know. It feels like I should. As if I've seen you all my life, but never stopped to wonder who you were. Like a stranger I've passed on the street each day — or people I've seen around school but never talked to, you know?"
The man's expression turned pensive. "Familiarity without conscious awareness," he mused. "I suppose that is one way to describe our relationship."
Harry moved a little closer. "What's your name?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Why not?"
The man grimaced and made a self-deprecating gesture. "Because my independence was extinguished the moment I was subsumed. Naming me would be no different than naming a facet of your own personality."
Harry didn't understand the meanings of all the words the man used, but he latched on to the idea of independence. If the man had lost his independence, then he must have been free at one point, and would therefore have had a name.
"What was your name before, then?"
"As I said, it no longer matters."
"Well, what am I supposed to call you?" Harry asked in exasperation.
The man sighed, his shoulders drooping in resignation. He turned away and resumed staring at a point above the horizon. "Whatever you like."
Really? He had no opinion at all?
Harry contemplated giving the man the stupidest name he could dredge up from his imagination, but quickly discarded the idea. He'd hated when the Dursleys called him Freak and Boy, and had no desire to inflict the same pain on another. It wasn't as though he was naming a pet that wouldn't understand the meaning behind the name — this was another person!
Why in the world wouldn't he just tell him his name? It would make things so much easier!
"I'll call you Tom." Harry decided after mulling over a handful of options. "You look like a Tom to me."
The man's breath caught in his throat so violently that it pierced the space between them like a scream. He whirled back around, staring at Harry incredulously, as though he couldn't believe what he'd heard.
"Don't you like it?" Harry asked, startled by his reaction. "You shouldn't have let me pick if you're going to get all bent out of shape about it. You really do look like a Tom!"
The man took a shuddering breath and then ran a hand over his eyes. "Of course," he murmured. "Familiarity without awareness." He dropped his hand back to his side. "Whether I like it or not is immaterial. I forfeited my right to complain. Perhaps it was foolish of me, but I have been nothing but foolish of late." He sighed again. "I will offer no objections. If you wish to call me Tom, you may."
As unenthusiastic as the man sounded, permission was permission, and Harry decided to take him at his word. "What were you looking at?" he asked, pointing towards the spot above the horizon Tom had been staring at so intently a moment ago.
"You don't see anything?"
"No."
Tom hummed thoughtfully. "They've tampered with your memories."
"What?" Harry exclaimed. He turned to the man in shock, half-expecting him to laugh and chide him for being gullible. But Tom's expression remained serious.
"Look again," he suggested, pointing at the sky above them. "Your mind is in pieces."
Harry looked up and the blood drained from his face.
If the sky above them were an opaque pane of glass, then someone had gone and thrown a boulder straight through it. A spiderweb of jagged cracks extended from a hole in the firmament, shattering the uniform shade with slashes of shimmering, pearly grey. There were already several pieces of sky missing from the centre, and as Harry watched, a shard detached itself and began to fall.
Colours flashed across its surface, leaving Harry with an impression of faces crowded over him and cloying fear. He reached for the meaning behind them, certain he'd seen them before, but then the shard struck the ground and shattered into dust, unable to pierce the darkness beneath them. As it was obliterated, Harry's sense of deja-vu vanished.
"That wasn't there before!"
"It was," Tom replied.
"Then why didn't I see it?"
"Because you had not yet perceived the damage. We are in your mind." Tom looked around pensively. "Or perhaps your soul. I am no longer certain there is a difference between the two." He folded his arms behind his back and stared intently at Harry. "Are you familiar with the saying: out of sight, out of mind?"
"Of course I am. It means people will ignore things that aren't right in front of them."
Tom nodded. "This place is the inverse. Here, if you are unaware of a thing's existence, whether it be an idea, an emotion or a very real hole torn in your memories, it will be invisible to you."
Harry withheld from asking Tom what he was doing here, then. He doubted the man would be any more forthcoming than he had been with his name — and besides, he'd been telling the truth when he'd said Tom felt familiar to him. He still had no idea from where, and Tom's cryptic remarks about familiarity didn't help, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it would have been stranger for Tom to be absent.
"Do you know how to fix that?" he asked instead.
"I cannot restore your lost memories, but I can tell you what happened."
"You can?"
"Yes. It appears Dumbledore's spell was unable to reach my copy of our shared memories."
Harry looked at him in confusion.
"Down there," Tom explained, pointing towards the ground. "After you collapsed, you were transported to the hospital wing, where Dumbledore gave you veritaserum — a truth potion. I retained enough free will to fight off the potion's effect long enough for them to administer an antidote when he began to ask questions that may have put us in danger. Once we were free of its influence, Dumbledore obliviated you."
"What does 'obliviated' mean?"
"Obliviate: from the Latin oblivis, to forget. It is a permanent charm that removes a person's memories of a specific event or individual." He waved his hand towards the hole in the sky. "It's a pity you're unlikely to remember this conversation when you wake. The aged headmaster is a menace, and I would prefer for us to remain outside his sphere of influence as much as possible."
Harry clenched his hands into fists and stared sullenly at the ground. "Dumbledore again! First he threatens Basil, and now he erases my memories? Why does he hate me so much?"
"Indeed. I would not be surprised to find that level of malice directed towards myself, but against you it…" he trailed off.
"What is it?"
"Could he have known?" Tom muttered to himself, turning on his heel to take a handful of steps away before pacing back. "It might explain the child's placement. I would have crushed an infant's mind if I'd freed myself before the burden of keeping us alive had sapped my strength. But even if he detected my presence, to have correctly guessed the spell I used. Just how much does he know? I was always careful when I…" He shook his head in defeat and turned to Harry, pressing two long fingers under his chin, forcing his head up until he met his eyes.
"Listen to me very carefully. You are in danger the longer you remain where you are. You must get out of the hospital wing and back among your classmates. Do not meet Dumbledore on your own and do not accept any food or drink he has prepared. Do you understand?"
Tom's voice was deadly serious and a chill ran up Harry's spine. "I do."
"Good. Now, it is time to wake up. And child, do try to remember."
Tom stepped back and the world tilted wildly. Harry reached out, trying to catch hold of his sleeve to steady himself, but the moment his heel left the ground he began to fall up and up, into the sky.
Beneath him, Tom was standing on the wrong side of the ground — the pale pads of his feet two bright dots against the darkness. His face was barely visible, its details lost in a black haze that swirled around him, but his eyes gleamed like those of a great predatory cat, and Harry felt their gaze long after their owner was lost to sight.
"Harry! "
Harry started awake as a small, scaled nose slammed into his cheek. "Basil? " he gasped, groping blindly around his head. He was laying on a bed, but someone had removed his glasses and his surroundings were too dark and blurry for him to make out where he was. "Is that you? I can't see anything! "
"Of course it is me," she replied, curling a loop of her long, sinuous body around his wrist. He relaxed immediately. "I have come to rescue you! "
"Rescue me? " he asked as his glasses smacked into his nose. He caught them clumsily before they could bounce away and slipped them on. His hands felt oddly stiff, as though he was wearing thick gloves, and when he raised them up in front of his face he could just make out bandages wrapped from his wrists to the tips of his fingers. He pushed himself up and tried to get his bearings, but tall curtains had been set up around the bed, blocking his view of the room beyond. " Where are we? "
"In the sick place! " she replied, wiggling in agitation. "After the big stinky fell over, a bunch of two-legs carried you here. But you told me you didn't want to go to the sick place, so I came to rescue you! "
The sick place… was he in the hospital wing? He pushed the blankets off and found he'd been changed into a pair of thin pyjama pants with an open-backed top. His ritual robe was nowhere in sight.
As he swung his legs off the bed, a shift in the air caused the curtain on his left to ripple and Harry's stomach lurched when he thought he saw a flash of gaudy violet stripes on a blue robe — but it was just a trick of the pale moonlight shining through the window behind him. He pushed up his glasses and pressed his hands over his eyes.
Why?
Why had he been so certain Dumbledore was standing beside him? And why did that thought fill him with dread?
If he had assumed it was the mediwitch coming to check on him after hearing him stir he wouldn't have questioned it, so why had his mind gone immediately to the headmaster? Was it just because Basil was with him and he was afraid for her — or something more? It felt as though he should know. As if something terrible had happened here, in this hospital wing. But what?
"Try to remember," he whispered. The words felt familiar, as though someone had said them to him recently, although he couldn't remember anything about their voice or their face. Who had it been? It felt like grasping after a dream.
"Are we alone?" he asked Basil, giving up on his muddled thoughts for the moment; they could wait until he was safely away.
"Yes. The tall-hat woman went to her den," she replied, pointing the tip of her tail to the right. Assuming the mediwitch's office was at the back of the wing, the exit should be in the opposite direction.
"Good." He had no desire to fight his way out — he doubted he'd stand a chance in his current condition. While he didn't seem to have any major injuries, his muscles were aching and his legs nearly collapsed under his weight when he slid off the bed. Basil wrapped herself around his body, her coils helping him stay upright as he staggered to the curtain and began to hunt for a chink he could slip through.
He was sweating by the time he reached the door out of the hospital wing, so he stopped a moment to catch his breath, resting his head against the wood. When he found the strength to push the door open, he stepped out into a sea of stars.
Dozens of small, flickering lights lit the dark corridor. He heard a gasp and then a handful of lights bobbed towards him, revealing the worried faces of his friends.
"Harry!" Hermione cried, rushing over and throwing one of her arms around his neck — the other was busy cupping a candle in a small bowl. "We were all so worried about you— but what are you doing out of bed? You should be resting!"
Basil hissed menacingly, unhappy at the sudden proximity of a human to her speaker, and her head wove up towards Hermione's arm. Harry intercepted her attempt to strike by pressing a hand over her head and whispering that she should be calm. Hermione, having felt Basil's coils shift beneath Harry's shirt, squeaked in alarm and took a quick step back.
"What are you all doing?" Harry asked his friends as other faces swam into view behind them. He recognized a few of the Slytherin prefects and the girls who had helped prepare the Samhain feast. The Weasley twins were also there, their bright red hair gleaming in the candlelight. They were the only ones not wearing white ritual robes, as they had chosen to attend the feast in the Great Hall.
Harry scanned the crowd carefully. No professors, he remarked, relaxing slightly. Good.
"We're holding a vigil for you," Draco replied. He looked exhausted, and relieved. There were dark smudges under his eyes, which couldn't quite hide their red rims, and Harry remembered that Draco had been crying.
"What happened to the troll?" he asked, suddenly realizing he had no memory of how they'd gotten away.
"You saved us!" Neville said. "It was— umm…" His eyes darted to the tall figure of the head boy, who was standing just off to the side, listening.
"Not important right now," Pansy cut in, clapping Neville on the shoulder hard. "You look like shit, Harry. You should probably go lay down."
Harry looked between them, one brow quirking up. The rapid change of subject was suspicious, but Pansy had a point. He did feel terrible, and the sooner he could get back to his own bed the better.
"Okay," he conceded. "But one of you will need to give me your arm so I don't fall down the stairs on the way back to the tower."
"The tower? Isn't that a bit far?" Draco asked, his eyes flicking to the hospital wing door.
"I won't stay here," Harry replied, an edge to his voice that startled both himself and those around him. "Not ever."
No one dared protest, though several heads turned in Selwyn's direction, watching to see how the head boy would react so they could follow suit. Harry braced to defend his position as Selwyn stepped towards him.
"If that is what you feel is best for yourself and your health, then we will, of course, assist you," he assured Harry.
Harry was taken aback, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Thank you," he replied, nodding to the older boy. Then he turned to look at the rest of the faces illuminated by the glow of the candles. It was touching that so many people had cared enough about his well-being to risk being caught out of their dorms at night. Would they have stayed until morning if he'd remained asleep? Somehow, he rather thought they would.
"And thank you all for being here. I'm sure you'd rather be sleeping right now, but it was kind of you to watch over me. So… thank you."
"Of course we're gonna watch over you," Draco grumbled, holding out his arm. "Don't be an idiot."
Harry laughed, the fear that had oppressed him since he woke in the hospital wing lifting slightly. It was nice to be among friends, he reflected as he accepted Draco's arm and let himself be guided towards the stairs up to the seventh floor.
Rookwood picked her way along the shattered remains of the table in the empty ritual hall, counting under her breath until she'd reached the place Potter had been sitting. His plate had been buried under serving trays when the table had collapsed, but with a little careful digging she managed to pluck the card of parchment from beneath them.
'Yes,' the card read.
But yes to what?
She sighed and dropped it back into the wreckage. There was little point in speculating about its meaning until she learned what Potter had asked, which could prove to be a great deal easier said than done.
With a final look around the hall, she slipped between the doors and out into the darkness.
~End Chapter 25~
We've finally got another piece of Voldemort in play! I must have written at least four versions of Harry's interaction with him after their battle for control. In some of them, Harry recognized him as the man who attacked him, while in others he mistook him for his father. None of them really clicked until this last iteration, though. And I love that Harry decides to name him Tom - the poor guy can never escape his given name!
These last two chapters had a lot of events overlapping in time, so here's a quick breakdown of the timeline for the most confusing bit for those who are interested:
-Quirrell enters Dumbledore's office
-Harry throws Voldemort's name into the cauldron
-Voldemort's main soul resists the summoning
-Harry is struck by lightning and his horcrux is freed (his journey through the cages happens in an instant, though he perceives it at taking several minutes)
-The horcrux begins to absorb Harry, taking control of his body to kill the troll and end the ritual
-Harry fights back against the horcrux and his body collapses
-Quirrell comes to his senses and flees the office
Next time we'll jump into the first Quidditch match, where Harry will unintentionally sic Voldemort on someone.
Thank you so much for sticking with this story, and an extra thank you to everyone who takes the time to leave a comment! I love reading your thoughts on the chapter and any guesses for where the story will go from here. :)