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WALK AWAY
WITHOUT NOTICING
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Chapter 1
Penitence Empowered
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Harry Potter gazed up in blind rapture at his finger-trails through the dusty ceiling of his cupboard. The gifts he was receiving for his fifth birthday were flooding in! Memories! Knowledge! Information that would transform him forever. Somehow he was remembering what his future self knew: magic! power! understanding! How? After several hours he had all he needed and the strange events of his short life now began to make sense. He was a wizard! In the future he had become an Unspeakable and discovered how to send his memories back in time. Guidance had been bestowed upon him to escape the Dursleys' cruelty, and to prevent the suffering and deaths of future friends. A mix of sorrow and elation flowed through his sleepy mind and into his dreams...
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"Aunt Petunia," his little voice piped up the next morning once Uncle Vernon had departed for work and Dudley was glued to children's TV in the other room, "I found out why I'm a freak."
CRASH!
A cereal dish had slipped from Mrs Dursley's wet hand. White knuckles hugged a damp tea towel to her impeccable pinafore as, gibbering and near speechless, she stared at her nephew. The pitch of the boy's voice remained thin and childish, but his manner and tone had become curiously mature.
Harry waved his arms around as if feeling the reassurance of familiar old movements, testing that his body would respond to recollected instincts and intentions.
The boy continued. "I had a... a kind of dream last night, more of a vision really. The truth is that the strange things that happen to me are because of magic." He demonstrated by waving an arm and the poor woman found herself tightly bound and silenced as she was hovered into a chair at the kitchen table. "And YOU knew didn't you!"
The boy sat himself down opposite her and nodded happily as the teapot poured him a nice hot drink; he sipped it while quietly gathering his thoughts.
"I can hurt you now. You ... Vernon ... and Dudley." His hand moved slightly. Her face contorted in silent pain, perspiration sprang out on her tightly-furrowed brow, and Dudley eeped briefly in the other room before the sound of his body hitting the floor could be heard. "From now on you will all do what I say. Firstly, have you registered me yet for day school in September?"
Sweat trickled down the side of Petunia's face and her lips moved; Harry tilted his head and she could speak again. "no," she squeaked in a tiny, almost inaudible voice. "What have you done to Dudley?"
"Only stunned. He might have a bruise or two from the fall, but considering he's given me hundreds – which you ignored or even actively encouraged – none of you can complain. ... Now, have you ever registered me for anything? Health care? Census? Anything at all?"
She shook her head, scowled, and Harry knew bitter words were about to spit out of her mouth. Yet abruptly her jaw became clamped tightly shut. A tiny amount of blood appeared at the thin red line of her lips.
"So officially I don't even exist yet in the Muggle world. Good. Makes sense..." He paused, thinking ... realising why his future self had chosen his sixth summer to enlighten him.
"Dudley will empty out all old toys and junk from the second bedroom and clean up the room. There will be a permanent lock on the inside of the door, no one in or out."
Harry conjured plain robes and a simple wooden stick. "You will escort me to Diagon Alley; I'll show you where." He finished his drink and stood up. "Now!"
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Aunt and nephew returned from their shopping trip staggering with packages and bags. Harry had them strewn on his bed within minutes: potions, charms, books, and a few thousand Galleons clinking pleasantly together. He picked up an extension-spelled Mokeskin hip bag that was already bulging and tipped out the contents. Surveying all his new purchases together, he had to decide his priorities in light of future knowledge.
The wand he'd made Petunia buy for him in Knockturn Alley was already in his forearm holster. The wristwatch multi-Portkey came next; it needed calibrating. The fourth pointer at four o'clock would bring him back to this bedroom at four Privet Drive. In time he'd have another main residence in Muggle London plus a small base in Hogsmeade: those would come later.
The weeks following would be busy. The eager lad would retrieve the Marauder's Map from Filch's office at Hogwarts, and, in his bedroom, set up a phantom of himself and occasional lights visible from the street so Mrs Figg would assume he was still living there all the time. In reality he'd be Apparating in for half an hour a day for a week in the summer to keep the protection alive, and Dumbledore's monitoring not to trigger.
The most difficult challenge took place months later, on the twenty-fourth of December. First, informed by his future memories, he'd paid for a public copy of an Auror report concerning the murder of a wizard named Brenden Thomas. That got him inside the Ministry of Magic when he went to collect it.
While there, he entered the Department of Mysteries knowing precisely which staff were on holiday, and the one remaining Unspeakable was working in the Hall of Prophecies between ten and twelve-thirty that morning. Taking no chances, Harry turned his notice-me-not charm up full, slipped into the Time room, and retrieved a Time-turner. This would prove invaluable in creating alibis for some of his planned escapades at Hogwarts.
All went well, and Harry now had the huge advantage of being able to operate unnoticed in one place, yet observed elsewhere at the same time.
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Harry sat on a park bench, marshalling his thoughts very carefully.
I want you to help someone, he began to himself, writing down his thoughts as they came, a young girl who had a hard time and needs... needs a friend.
He waited for an answer.
I can get to know this person myself, but I'll need to know more about what is best for her. Note down as much as you can about yourself, your intentions for this person, how she can be made happy.
And so Harry first began an exchange that spread over a very long period of years, off and on, until he was satisfied he'd made clear all that he could to a bewitched artefact he'd purchased.
In between such sessions he was studying specific magics. He researched petrification in particular, and all its forms. Could it be cut short without waiting for Mandrake Restorative Draught to be prepared? He was determined that the Year Two of his previous existence would not be repeated in the same way. And he was preparing for other years too by practising advanced spells over and over, improving and polishing and reaching a peak of excellence in all that he needed to do.
Why can't we all have a more normal school life? Not just me, but as many as possible – without Trolls, Basilisks, Dementors, and curse attacks? Could he walk away without being noticed yet still improve the lot of those he cared about? There had to be a way.
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By 1991, Harry was satisfied he was as prepared as he ever could be, and in July of that year, he found himself gazing at a strange envelope received at his secure, unplottable home in Bexley. There was nothing unusual about the address: Mr H. Potter, 4 Privet Drive – much of his mail was redirected from there. No, what had caught his eye was the Hogwarts purple wax seal. He knew of course what it was; his future memories were now so enmeshed with his own that he was one self: a young child with the skills and knowledge of an older person.
He wrote out a brief acceptance, stating that his aunt had already helped him purchase all that was needed, and asked his house-elf, Fishent, to make sure it was delivered covertly, and thereafter to secretly monitor his old home to confirm, as hoped, that Hagrid did not visit.
Such it was, and as dark descended on the first day of September, 1991, Harry Potter Apparated to the small home he'd concealed in Hogsmeade, shrugged into his school robes, checked his watch, cast a powerful notice-me-not spell upon himself, then made his way into Honeydukes cellar. Using the tunnel beneath the trapdoor, he was soon inside Hogwarts castle where, from a corridor window, he gazed out over the black lake. Boats were already moored across the far side of the shining water and through the gloom he discerned the conspicuous figure of Hagrid standing on the shore.
Harry waited, sifting through recollections of that first time when he'd arrived with Ron. He sighed. No possibility existed of friendship this time around, no risk of anyone associated with him being targeted by the Dark One.
Several minutes passed.
There was no mistaking the distant whistle of the Hogwarts Express as it pulled into Hogsmeade station. Above the treeline Harry saw clouds of steam illuminated from below by lantern light. Hagrid was on the move now, and Harry straightened himself up for action. Before long, Thestral stagecoaches were trundling up the muddy path, bringing the older students in first.
Harry's body flinched, urging him to go, but he held fast. Steady... trust the plan.
Too late anyway, down within the castle he could hear hungry senior students greeting one another as they jostled across the Entrance Hall towards the Feast awaiting them.
And then finally, a squirming, winding crocodile of first-years emerged on the far shore of the glistening lake. Ron would be there, thought Harry, Hermione and Neville too – though he could not pick them out from among so many. A pang of loneliness swept over him; he should have been down there with them. He thrust the despair down within himself and began a slow walk...
Still unnoticeable, Harry came to the top of the grand marble staircase and waited once more. It was not too long before Professor McGonagall led the new students in and across the Entrance Hall into the reception chamber on one side. He heard a faint shriek and he knew the ghosts had made an appearance. Down the stairs he went, cautiously at first, but then, losing his nerve, more hurriedly. He took his place in the deep shadows beneath the stairs and waited.
When the children eventually emerged, eyes-swivelling, lips-gnawing, and were led across to the Great Hall entrance, he could now see so well the faces with which he was familiar, faces of people long dead: Neville being pushed by Ron, Hermione and Justin peering over their shoulders, Susan chatting with Hannah, and many others wending their way to a new life. Almost all of them had suffered horribly in his future life – all but a few. Draco Malfoy strutted along as if he knew one day he would own this old castle. Harry stifled his hatred, pushing it down deep where the loneliness wept. He would bide his time. Malfoy would not enjoy the same advantage in this new life.
As the last of them pushed in through the doorway, Harry joined them from behind and lightened his unnoticeable spell. Whereas before he was almost undetectable, now he was an uninteresting nobody: the last person anyone would notice.
The Sorting was literally the same event as before; Malfoy into Slytherin, Hermione and Neville to Gryffindor.
"Perks, Sally-Anne!"
Harry reduced the power of his Notice-me-not charm even more; it wouldn't do for McGonagall to skip his name on the list. She didn't, but there was no loud cry like the others; her tone was flat, disinterested, like any roll-call...
"Potter, Harry."
Nobody muttered or murmured as Harry stepped forward. There seemed to be so many other, more interesting things going on to hold their attention. McGonagall absent-mindedly put the Sorting Hat onto Harry's head and considered the next name on the list, and what she might choose for dinner that evening, and whether Gryffindor might win the cup this year.
Extremely knowledgeable and understanding! came a voice in Harry's head. He knew the Hat couldn't read his mind nor explore his memories; the ancient artefact sensed only character, aptitude, and surface thoughts. Courage in abundance, and much love of those around you – you'd do well in Hufflepuff, but with your unswerving ambition, Slytherin would suit too. Where to put you...? where to put you...?
Are you saying I don't fit anywhere? thought Harry, gripping the edge of his seat.
"I'm saying you have the most abundant qualities of all the houses that I think I've ever seen! I could put you anywhere.
Not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor!
Not Gryffindor, eh? Well, if you're sure – better be... "SLYTHERIN!"
Harry felt his heart torn from his chest in that moment. He'd successfully done the deed he'd been dreading. He'd lost his nerve to reject Ravenclaw too, as he should have, knowing Luna would be there next year, and Hufflepuff would have been too friendly to resist companionship. Only in Slytherin did he feel confident he could remain utterly isolated and ignored. His trial of forty days and nights must be endured for seven long years.
"Thomas, Dean!" cried McGonagall, and all attention turned to a black boy even taller than Ron, who was having the Sorting Hat placed upon his head. Nobody took any notice as Harry slunk over to the Slytherin table. He sank down, leaving plenty of space for Zabini. Just to make sure, he reduced the power of his unnoticeable charm even more so that he wouldn't be sat upon by the last Slytherin.
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Much later that evening, Zabini was vaguely aware that someone had already taken the far corner bed in the first-year dormitory, so he took the one opposite. Malfoy was next to the side of Harry, with Crabbe, and Goyle nearer the door. Long after they had fallen asleep, Harry gave way to tears. What had he done? Could he sustain his grand plan for so long? He was utterly alone, friendless and without support from anyone.
It was understandable that Remus Lupin might have thought a werewolf would not make an appropriate guardian, but during Harry's years of suffering, Remus had never even come round to make sure he was happy and well cared for. "Not once!" Harry growled to himself, wiping his eyes.
And Sirius considered revenge on Peter as more important, ranted Harry in his head, not only immediately after the Potters' deaths but, even when he later escaped from Azkaban, it wasn't for Harry's sake but for revenge. What useful advice had Sirius given him during the Tournament? None. What help had he been during Harry's darkest days in the summer after being tortured by Voldemort in the graveyard? Had he counselled him? Provided advice and therapy? No he had ignored him completely when he was most needed. Hermione and Ron had the excuse of immaturity and the dominance of Dumbledore, but Sirius had the absolute moral obligation to consider Harry's trauma first – which he'd failed to do! Harry thumped his fists down on his mattress – but nobody would have noticed his upset, even if they'd been awake.
As for Dumbledore himself, the Headmaster had never truly cared about Harry's happiness and well-being – only about using the boy for his own grand purpose. And what if Dumbledore refused to give up his obsession with the Prophecy, what then? It would all be for naught. There was no arguing with the old man. Only when he was made to forget about his pawn sacrifice might he consider attacking the black king himself.
Eventually, Harry drifted off into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of failure, torture, and slaughter.
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Meanwhile, Dumbledore was tapping his fingers on a desktop weathered by centuries of headmasters' grasping claws.
Something doesn't feel right. What have I overlooked? The Philosopher's Stone is carefully hidden in my backroom until all the delaying traps can be completed in the new year. Quirrell probably is unlikely to show his hand before then, and if he does, well Poppy would heal any student's injuries quickly enough unless they had been fatal.
He felt quite burdened by sorrow then, even though it was clearly a reasonable risk for them to take, considering the possible reward of trapping Voldemort. He tried not to dwell too much on such things.
The Headmaster turned his gaze upon a number of curious silver instruments standing upon spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke.
Harry Potter had arrived on cue. Pity he was not Sorted into Gryffindor – yet being bullied by pure-blood bigots might convince him even more to do the right thing when the time comes. I must speak to Severus; he must not betray any extra compassion for Lily's lamb merely because he's now a member of his own flock.
Dumbledore rose and entered the door to his private quarters. A cloak of shining silvery fabric hung within an open wardrobe.
Perhaps I might... yes, if I loan him his father's cloak as if it were a Christmas gift, that might not only endear him to me, but encourage him to be venturesome. He walked over and placed one hand upon the door of the tall cabinet.
But a show of humility is needed. I'll not sign the accompanying message in case it seems an obvious inducement to gain gratitude. He can find out later by some apparently innocent occurrence, then he'll appreciate the gesture more. Until then...
He slammed and locked the door before returning to his office.
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A week passed before Harry managed to meet a particular boy without seeming too obvious. As Slytherins and Gryffindors left their Potions class, he managed to get close.
"Are you Dean?" said Harry, holding up a sealed envelope. "Is your mother's name Pauline?"
Dean Thomas stared at him without answering.
"Only I was doing some research at the Ministry and came across an Auror report about your father's death – your natural father that is. I thought you'd like to have it."
Harry handed over the envelope to the dumbfounded youth. "He was a great wizard, Dean, and a hero."
Dean never noticed Harry walking away.
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In the following weeks, Harry studied his own books in class where possible, and kept his unnoticeable spell at half-power. That was enough for Snape to merely murmur his name disinterestedly during roll-call and ignore him for the rest of the lesson. Harry also cast the charm on Neville while watching for the boy's mistakes before he even made them. But something more was needed to help him covertly from the sidelines. The chance came a few days before the first flying lesson...
"Excuse me, there's safe pre-flying advice available for anyone that needs it," he said, after entirely removing his concealment as a cluster of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor first-years were passing by – but his voice was carefully channelled towards two students in particular.
Even so, Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was chatting with Hermione, muttered, "Surely the professional instructor is competent enough to..." His voice faded to a diluted muffling spell as Harry moved to more directly speak to Hermione and Neville.
"There are also book prizes and other incentives," he added, handing them each a leaflet.
Hermione's eyes brightened considerably. "Where'd we–"
–But Harry had moved on, pretending to offer leaflets to other students when in reality he was talking nonsense so they either laughed at him or circled warily around.
"Seventh-floor corridor," Neville said to Hermione, pointing at her leaflet. "Six-fifty prompt." He bit his lip anxiously.
"Don't worry," Hermione said happily, "I'll remind you."
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When the pair arrived almost right on time, Harry was standing beside an open door looking anxiously at his watch. "I was hoping for more..." he lied. "Oh, well..."
"So you have organised this?" frowned Hermione. "Does the Headmaster know?"
Harry nodded his head vigorously as he led them inside and they were diverted by the size and height of the chamber. Six coloured parcels were circling twenty feet above their heads below a pale blue ceiling.
"There's enough for six students. The red ones are a self-help book and the blue are personal organisers – you know, they help remind you of stuff like appointments and passwords and so on."
Neville's jaw dropped open. A longing shone in his eyes.
Hermione frowned. "Who's paying for all th–"
"–Think it's a trust fund," Harry said airily. "Look, there's cushioning charms everywhere," and he flung himself onto the ground where he bounced softly. "Not that they're needed because all broomsticks have sticking charms; you'd practically have to get knocked off to fall."
"What's in the green parcels?" said Neville, who was still looking up hungrily.
"Spare wands. Nothing special but useful if you forget your own. Now watch carefully..."
He walked over and took one of six broomsticks that were stacked against the wall. "There are only two controls, moving and steering, so it's dead easy when you know how. To steer you just point the front end where you want to go, left, right, or up and down, so as beginners you should only turn it very gently. Avoid rapid moves for now."
"What about movement and speed?" said Hermione, who was making notes in a little book.
"It's the angle of your body to the broom that counts. So leaning slightly forward will cause the broom to move very slowly in the direction it is pointing; leaning forward at more of an angle increases the velocity, and lying forward flat along the pole will accelerate to the broomstick's maximum speed so avoid that until you become more expert."
"Erm..." Neville had anxiously raised his hand. "What if... I mean what about...?"
"Stopping?" Harry grinned. "Widening the angle of your body will slow your speed proportionally. Sitting upright will eventually bring it to a hover. And if you really need to brake strongly then you lean back – remember though, leaning back will eventually move you in reverse so sit upright when you've stopped."
Harry swung his leg over and began to demonstrate. "Note that these brooms are magically restrained so I can't fly faster than about eight miles an hour nor higher than six feet – and look!" He flung himself off the broom and bounced on the floor once more. "It's simply impossible to come to serious harm with how these are set up. Want to try?"
Nervously at first, Hermione and Neville mounted their broomsticks and cautiously inched forward, testing the response to their guidance.
"Why, it's SO easy!" cried Hermione.
Neville was beaming. "To think I was dreading hurting myself in Thursday's lesson!"
"Circle around for a while to get really comfortable, then we'll reduce the restrictions just a bit."
Within twenty minutes, Harry had removed all restraints, and the three of them were weaving about, swooping down from fifteen feet to skim the ground, landing and taking off again at almost twenty miles an hour.
"Want to try for a prize then?" called Harry. "Remember, red is a book, green is a memo organiser, and blue is–"
–But with squeals of delight, Hermione and Neville were racing up to grab a parcel each. Without realising it, they were descending one-handed as they each clutched their precious rewards.
"Confidence, Humility & Friendship," murmured Hermione, as she stroked the title of her new book, then began leafing through, fingers tracing the animated examples.
Neville stared at the pocket whiteboard he'd unwrapped, unsure at first what to do. After a few moments, instructions appeared.
"You just tell it what you need to remember and when," said Harry. "And it won't answer anyone else but you, so nobody else can read your private notes, shopping lists, etcetera. There's also an encyclopedia, dictionary and other–"
"–This is so... this is so..."
"Useful? Brilliant? Stupendous?" prompted Harry, who could see Hermione eyeing Neville's award quite enviously.
Harry looked up at the remaining parcels. "Pity no one else turned up. Guess they'll have to be thrown away..."
"WHAT!" cried Hermione. "I mean, that would be such a waste!"
"I suppose..." said Harry. "Tell you what, if you can catch a parcel when I throw it, then you can keep it." And up he sped.
Needless to say, the two of them walked away quite contentedly, each with a self-help book, a personal organiser, and a wand that had been custom made for them at a shop in Knockturn Alley. Harry had known exactly what they needed – but they didn't know that.
He held back slightly to become unnoticeable once more as he cast a gentle Obliviate on the other two. They'd only vaguely remember the session itself, and would never quite recall who had conducted it – nor even be interested.
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At the end of October, Harry used a mild compulsion spell to guide Hermione to the back of Charms class where he sat almost unnoticed beside her. As in his future memories, she was first to cast the levitation charm successfully, while he made himself more noticeable and pretended to struggle.
"Oh, Harry, it's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."
Her manner was not at all as pompous as she'd been with Ron in the previous life; perhaps she'd taken to heart the section on humility and friendship in the book she'd received at the pre-flying lesson. At the end of the class he steered her well clear of the fiery-tempered redhead, and was satisfied to see her eating over at the Gryffindor table at dinner that evening.
"Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know." came the expected cry of Quirrell.
Who cares? thought Harry, and walked away.
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Christmas brought snow to this remote corner of Scotland, but Harry was not going to miss the Batman TV premiere for anything. He Apparated down to his home in Bexley, ordered a turkey takeaway, put up his feet, and relaxed without a care. Nobody's been seriously attacked at Hogwarts so far – not even me!
Meanwhile, far to the north, Dumbledore was fuming as McGonagall asked him to pull her cracker during the feast. "Is Mr Potter not with us, Minerva?"
"I don't recall his name on the list of those staying, Albus."
"Christmas is a time for family," said Flitwick. "You did say the boy lives with relatives, didn't you, Albus?"
Dumbledore sighed to himself. If the Dursleys were spoiling the child, he might not be prepared to accept his obligations when Voldemort fully returned. That could be a serious problem. What to do... what to do?
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After a relaxing Christmas break, Harry returned to the castle as before, by Apparating to Hogsmeade then joining on to the end of the students returning from the Hogwarts Express. Up ahead, he could see Hermione chatting not only with Neville, but Justin and Hannah; were they forming a much earlier and deeper friendship than in Harry's former life? Had they been talking and laughing and – Hannah and Justin would have Muggle parentage in common with Hermione – becoming closer all the way from King's Cross! A pang of envy clutched at Harry's soul but his resolve was too strong, hardened by witnessing the unspeakable horror of their deaths previously.
Not in the mood to watch them, he avoided dinner in the Great Hall, turned up his Notice-me-not charm to full, then entered his shared dormitory.
Excited laughter assailed his ears, but the greetings and chatter were not for him. Nobody took the slightest interest as he swerved around the other four, flung himself on his bed, and closed his eyes on the world.
"This is bigness, Draco, with a capital G!" came Crabbe's excited voice. "We'll have fun getting payback on the Weasley twins with that!"
"And your mother sent the parcel belatedly?" Zabini's voice, tinged with curiosity.
"Yes," drawled Draco. "It's just one of many heirlooms the Malfoy family possess. "The parcel had slipped off my bed, it's so gossamer-light."
"...weirdmost cloth I ever seen!" babbled Goyle.
"Or not seen," Draco said cryptically.
"And this was the message with it?" said Zabini. Harry could almost hear the frown in his tone.
Presumably Draco had nodded, because Zabini read it out:
"Your father left this in my possession
It is time it was returned to you.
Use it well.
A Very Merry Christmas to you."
"Like slithery, watery silk..." said Goyle.
"So... Lucius had it, then left it with your mother to give to you but she forgot until now?" Said Zabini – Harry opened one eye – Zabini was scratching his head. "Doesn't quite make sense," added the boy.
"Makes perfect sense!" snapped Draco. He snatched the note back from Zabini, screwed it up and threw it in the wicker waste basket against the wall. "Come on, let's eat!"
Harry caught only a glimpse of what they had been talking about being stuffed into Draco's travel chest and locked up tight before all four of them went down to the Great Hall.
Harry blinked. He could not believe what he had seen and heard. He swung out of bed and reached down into the waste basket. The note was neither addressed nor signed, and the right-hand side had been cut off. He knew exactly what had been written there at the end of the first line, having seen it himself in a future Christmas:
before he died.
It was not Narcissa's writing, but Dumbledore's, and referred to Harry's father not Draco's. The garment must be the invisibility cloak the Headmaster had intended for Harry! Had it slipped off Harry's bed, not Draco's? Or had Draco simply stolen it, thinking no one could prove its ownership, so he could always pretend it had been a simple mistake to assume it was for himself.
Either way, this was a new dilemma. Harry couldn't simply demand it back without an explanation of how he knew it rightfully belonged to him!
Keeping his Not-notice-me spell up full, he went down to dinner, but despite eavesdropping on all that the others said, they never referred to the cloak once. And to make Harry even more miserably happy, Hermione and Neville were sitting close together at the Gryffindor table in deep conversation. Good! he told himself, I'm glad they're getting together! But somehow his heart didn't agree with his intellect. To remain unnoticed by his former friends was painful.
For the rest of the school year, Harry had to regularly consult the Marauder's Map to limit seeing Hermione's, Neville's, and Justin's togetherness, as well as to ensure Draco wasn't nearby under the invisibility cloak. Not that Harry would be noticed even if he were. He was nobody.
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Dumbledore stared aghast at the shattered Mirror of Erised. Trapped forever within those shards of glass was the Philosopher's Stone, and Quirrell had fled empty-handed.
Without unicorn blood, Voldemort's physical possession would eventually fail. He would be a wraith once more and surely Quirrell would die when gangrene set into the back of his brain.
"Why hadn't Harry worked out all the obvious clues and confronted the defence teacher?" he ranted to himself. "The traps were easy enough even for someone as average as the boy. And his mother's protection would have made it easy to destroy Quirrell before the stone was lost!"
After all his careful preparation, nothing had been achieved. And how was he to explain to Nicholas Flamel that his precious stone was irrecoverable?
I can only hope that when Harry eventually faces Voldemort, that Lily's sacrifice will play its part in the downfall of the Dark Lord.
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—oOo—
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Author's Notes
This short, five-chapter novella is finished and I'll be uploading a chapter roughly once a week or ten days, so you won't have long to wait.
Still working on my other current fics so at least one of those should be ready to follow on from this one.
Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults — I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)
- Hippothestrowl
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