"I thought Black might have been exaggerating," Morton- no, Quirrell said, as he settled down on one of the Room's couches. Ron had modified it so that their little sitting area was seemingly the only part of the Room; the training area, walkways, and other doors were all hidden by fake walls.
The other man wore slacks and a crisply ironed collared shirt - muggle attire, like the male teachers at Harry's primary schools had worn - and his brown hair was neatly combed. He looked distinctly out of place, though he didn't seem to feel it; he set his leather bag down at his feet, settled deeper into the couch, and said, "You look awful."
"Thanks," Harry said. Quirrell cocked his head, considering, then, abruptly, quirked his mouth with what might have been amusement.
Padfoot - who'd led Quirrell into the Room through the tunnel between it and his office - frowned at the pair of them, arms folded. It was clear he wasn't particularly happy about the arrangement, though Harry himself wasn't as sure how he felt about it all; Quirrell had tried to kill Moony and Dora, and had done horrible things as Morton, and yet, Harry was more prepared to accept his help than he would've been to accept Crouch's or Wormtail's, or (had he still been alive) Polkov's. By Vow or choice, Quirrell was no longer working with Voldemort and he'd come to help when Harry had that run-in with Riddle in his second year, and he'd protected Dudley last year after Polkov went after Aunt Petunia.
"Are you going to loom there all evening, or are you going to go away and let us get on with things?" Quirrell said at last.
"Would you like me to sit down?" Padfoot asked, rolling his eyes, but moved as if to do so.
"No," Quirrell said, and Padfoot stopped. "I'd like you to go away and let us get on with things, like I just said."
"I'm not leaving you alone with Harry," Padfoot said, scowling. Harry wasn't sure whether he was grateful for that or not.
"But you'll let me have access to his mind," Quirrell said, nodding. "Makes perfect sense." He and Padfoot glowered at each other. After a moment, Quirrell sighed. "The Vow ensures I can do him no harm, Black and since you've made it so I have to help, the least you can do is let me." Harry glanced at Padfoot then, but, while he was looking at Harry, it wasn't with any sort of expression that told Harry what Quirrell had meant by that; he was obviously looking for either permission or a protest.
Harry pulled his mirror out and set it on the table between him and Quirrell. Padfoot's mouth turned down a little, but he nodded, gave Quirrell one more warning look (which Quirrell, watching the mirror with undisguised curiosity, didn't see at all) and let himself back into the passage to his office.
"So-"
"What did you mean when you said Padfoot made it so that you have to help?" Harry asked. The question earned him a shrewd look.
"Do you know about my Vow?" Quirrell asked. Harry nodded. "A specific requirement within it is that I must do what I can within reason to help and protect those that- He or his followers seek to harm." Quirrell unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up. "You, Potter, are the very definition of that. Ignorance is bliss, of course, but Black brought your situation to my attention and that was the end of my say in it all."
"Sorry," Harry said uncomfortably.
"No, you're not," Quirrell said. "Look at you - you obviously need help."
"I- Yeah, I do," Harry said, running a hand through his hair. "But I know what it's like to not get a say, so- sorry about that. And thanks."
"No say in it, remember?"
"Still," Harry said. Quirrell sighed.
"You're determinedly decent, aren't you, Potter?" But before Harry could respond, Quirrell sat up a little and said, "So, let's hear it."
"You said Padfoot explained it," Harry said uncertainly; he'd sort of expected Quirrell to take Snape's approach and want to go straight in. Talking was… different.
"He's not experienced in the mind arts." Harry bit back a comment about Padfoot's Occlumency and instead said:
"Neither am I."
"But you know your head, and you understand what it's like to have Him inside it," Quirrell said. "As such, you and I speak the same language, Potter. So tell me about it."
And, strangely, there was something comforting about that; people could listen and they could sympathise, but other than Ginny, no one understood what it was like. Quirrell did, though, and despite their history, he was right; in this (even if in nothing else), they were the same.
And so Harry told him; told him about the dreams he'd been having every night without fail for the last few months, and, when Quirrell asked, explained the dreams and visions he'd had before that - both the ones Voldemort had had no idea about, and the ones he'd orchestrated (like the one about the dragon in the first task) - and about other run-ins Harry had had with Voldemort mentally. Quirrell knew some of it anyway; he, after all, had had to Occlude heavily to keep Harry's scar from hurting around him through most of Harry's first year, and he'd been there when Riddle appeared in Harry's head in second year. After all that, he had Harry explain to him the one and only Occlumency lesson he'd had with Snape a couple of nights ago, and the things Padfoot had explained afterward, about possession.
It was… freeing, and Harry found himself more comfortable talking about it all than he'd thought because there was no horror, no anger, no pity, just the occasional question - like did Harry ever work out how Riddle had made it into his head in second year, and how had that experience felt compared with what was happening now, and Harry's previous trips into Voldemort's mind? - or thoughtful humming sound. When Harry had talked himself hoarse, Quirrell leaned back and said:
"I think I'll be able to help."
"You-" Harry struggled to process that, and for the first time in months felt something like hope. Genuine hope, rather than the desperation that Padfoot had used to get him to try to work with Snape. "Really?"
"I think so," Quirrell said, shrugging.
"How?"
"Occlumency," Quirrell said. "Obviously we'll need to have a closer look to be certain, but it sounds like He's coming and going through whatever connection the two of you have - the dreams aren't constant, and you're not constantly being pulled into his mind… not that you'd expect that, given He obviously has greater control over the situation of late. But even before he had that, it wasn't happening…" Quirrell shifted on the couch, thinking aloud and Harry was reminded ever so slightly of Hermione: "It's a little concerning you don't feel the intrusions, but not necessarily surprising… He's talented with the mind arts and you're not, whatever natural or accidentally learned abilities you may have." Quirrell considered him.
"So… I need to learn to keep him out?" Harry guessed, and braced a little for a probe of Legillimency, though Quirrell didn't move.
"The fact that he has control over it suggests it can be controlled," Quirrell mused. "So yes, eventually, but the first step, I think, is to determine the nature of your connection with Him."
"Okay," Harry said. "It's like I said; I sometimes dream that-"
"No, no," Quirrell said. "I don't mean what it enables. I mean its nature - physical's not quite the right word, but it's better than mental... How does it work? Where is it?"
"Erm… in my head?" Harry offered. "And in his too, I s'pose."
"But how?" Quirrell pulled a sheaf of paper - lined, muggle paper, rather than parchment - and a lead pencil out of his bag. The mirror was pushed aside to make room for them both, and then Quirrell drew three circles on the paper, evenly spaced across the page. "These are minds," he said. "The first one is yours when Riddle entered it a few years ago." He drew a rough book and another circle, this one with long hair. "Riddle lived in the diary or in your friend, and when you were within proximity, he was able to jump across." He drew an arrow into Harry's head. "What remains to be seen is how he was able to gain purchase within it so easily-" A question mark appeared within the circle. "-but we'll come to that. The second circle is your friend's mind." A book - diary, Harry assumed - appeared beside it, with an arrow into the circle. "Based on what you told me, her proximity to the diary - and therefore Riddle - let him gain access, and her emotional connection to him let him establish himself in her mind, making for a relatively easy transition between." He made the arrow double-sided, and drew a little house within the circle that was meant to be Ginny's head. "It's also not a bad model for my own head during your first year, though I found him within a snake rather than a diary, and He was not back and forward much at all, with the exception of three owls." Harry stared at him and Quirrell shrugged, gesturing back at his picture. "Focus, Potter."
Harry remembered then that Quirrell had been a teacher at Hogwarts before joining up with Voldemort and becoming Morton, and that Quirrell had - or still? - taught at Smeltings.
"This one," Quirrell continued, tapping the drawing of the last circle, "is your mind right now." He drew two question marks - one inside the circle, and one outside it. The latter had an arrow to the former. "We don't know how He's getting in, and we still don't know how He's got enough of a hold to be as seemingly undetectable and in control as He is." Quirrell rolled the pencil between his fingers then dropped it and leaned back. "Did you go home for Easter?"
"What?" Harry asked, thrown by the sudden change in topic. "Yeah, I-"
"And the dreams continued?" Harry nodded. "Who was residing in the house overnight, when you'd be sleeping - you and Black? Anyone else?"
"We have a house elf," Harry said. "And Hermione stayed for a few nights, and some of the others for one or two nights." Quirrell waved a hand.
"Was Granger-" Harry was confused for a moment, until he remembered that Morton had known Hermione in first year and therefore would know her last name. "-there every night?"
"No, she was at the Burrow - Ron and Ginny's house - for a night."
"And you still dreamed?"
"Yes." Quirrell was quiet for a moment.
"Does Black visit your dormitory in Gryffindor tower? Overnight?"
"Er… no?" Harry said.
"What about Granger?"
"Not really," Harry said; before they'd had the Room she'd been there a fair bit but now they tended to meet in the Room. "And never overnight."
"The elf?" Harry shook his head. "Would you know if any of them did?"
"Yeah," Harry said. At that, Quirrell's eyebrows twitched up.
"Really?"
"Yeah." He'd smell them. Hermione wouldn't necessarily be out of place, but Padfoot or Kreacher's scents would be.
"How?" Quirrell sounded more curious than disbelieving now. Harry shrugged and Quirrell squinted at him for a moment. "All right. You're positive?"
"Yeah," Harry said for a third time.
"All right," Quirrell said again. "Then if proximity is the method of introduction, it's very unlikely to be through a human host; if it was, Granger's the most likely candidate, but it's also unlikely because moving between hosts is exhausting - not the sort of thing that could happen every night for months on end. What about pets? Or animals of any sort - vertebrates."
"Err... none that are in the dormitory and were at home?" Harry said, trying to keep up with Quirrell's leaping logic.
"Hmm." There was silence in the Room for a few long moments. "And magical objects? Things you handle regularly, or have an emotional connection to?"
"My wand?" Harry said. Quirrell sighed, reminding him of Hermione again; it was a you're being dense, Harry, sort of sigh. "And my mirror." Both of them glanced at the table, then Quirrell shook his head. "My cloak, but it couldn't be that." Voldemort hadn't had access to it. "And then there's my broom."
"No," Quirrell murmured. "And so we rule out proximity altogether, I think. Physical proximity, anyway."
"Sure," Harry said, as if he had any idea what Quirrell was talking about. This time the look Quirrell gave him was distinctly amused, but it changed into considering a moment later.
"Perhaps you were onto something before, when you said there was a connection in your head and in His. Maybe it's a magical connection, rather than a physical one. Or, rather, something that was formed magically rather than physically."
"How would that work?" Quirrell was quiet for a long moment, but Harry was sure he was thinking rather than ignoring him.
"I assume, since you've been in the wizarding world for a number of years now, that you're familiar with wizarding transport?"
"Yeah," Harry said.
"So, using a broom or apparating to get from one place to another is like establishing a natural connection between unfamiliar minds and without the aid of a spell - it takes effort, and concentration, and you can only cover so much distance without being limited by other factors, but, with focus, you can go anywhere." Slowly, Harry nodded. "Something like the Floo is also a proximity-based connection, but a facilitated one; it's less effort because the 'host' - a fireplace - guides you there. But, it won't work if you try to go too far - out of the Uk, for example - and it's dependent on there being a clear and already established destination at the other end. This isn't the best example, I'm sorry-"
"No," Harry said. "I think- I think I understand it. The broom or apparating's like what Snape did the other night, and the Floo's like the diary." He glanced at the sketches on the table between them. "What's the other sort?"
Twice, Quirrell opened his mouth and closed it, then, finally, scent resigned, he said:
"This is awkward," he shifted on the couch, "but are you familiar with Veils?"
"Veils?" Harry asked, frowning, and unbidden saw Padfoot falling through that dark curtain. "As in-"
"Actually, forget Veils," Quirrell said hastily. "They're not the best example anyway. What about Vanishing Cabinets?"
"What's a Vanishing Cabinet?" Harry asked.
"They're- well, cabinets, obviously. They're created in pairs, and there's complicated magic between them, connecting them. If you step into one, you'll come out through the other, and vice versa. It's simple - very little effort to move between them - and they could be placed continents apart and still work, but you can only travel between linked pairs."
"And that's what you think this-" Uncertain, Harry reached up and put his fingers to his head, just beside his scar. "-is?"
"Perhaps," Quirrell said, but he didn't sound completely sure. "It'll need investigating before we can say so with any confidence. I've never heard of a connection like this before, but in theory, it's possible for a connection to operate that way..."
That put a bit of a dent in the fragile hope Harry'd been harbouring.
"And you still think we can… I dunno… fix it?"
"I don't know if we can fix it," Quirrell said. "But we can certainly find a way to protect you against it. If we continue with our Vanishing Cabinet analogy… we find the door, and we put a lock on it."
"Can we start tonight?"
"No," Quirrell said. "You should sleep."
"I'd rather work on this," Harry said.
"And the first step to locking the door is finding it," Quirrell said. "If I can find it, I can study it. And I suspect, knowing Him that the door will be difficult to find, but we know - or suspect - it opens when you sleep, and that may be enough to work with."
"And if it's not?"
"Then I can build familiarity with your mind and have a better chance when I next try," Quirrell said, shrugging. "And, in the meantime, I can try to Occlude your mind from within it."
"Is that dangerous?"
"I'm bound by my Vow, Potter," Quirrell said.
"Not me - I meant if Voldemort-" Quirrell flinched. "-noticed you in there..."
Quirrell looked at him as if he was particularly strange, then shook himself:
"I'm an excellent Occlumens, and subtle - I kept things secret from Him when we were occupying the same mind for months."
"And I s'pose it's not really in his nature to rush in," Harry mused.
"Precisely. If I'm discovered, He'll take some time to process - what am I doing in your mind, and how am I even alive? - before retaliating. That should buy us at least a few weeks. And if not… there's not much in my mind that would be of interest or use to Him. anyway."
"Are you sure?"
"Sleep, Potter," Quirrell said.
"Will it be uncomfortable?"
"A little while I get in," Quirrell said. "I'm not a very good Legillimens, so please don't fight me. But, once I'm in, you shouldn't feel any discomfort - you'll be able to see me, but you shouldn't be able to feel me."
"All right," Harry said, and reached for his mirror. They'd been there for hours already; Padfoot was probably fretting and just one impulse away from coming back down the passageway to check on them, and Harry doubted it would end well if he walked in on Harry unconscious. "I'll just let Padfoot know."
"Can you have him have a house elf bring me a Wide-Eye Potion?" Quirrell asked. "I suspect I'll need it before the night's through."
Severus gave Draco a considering look when he opened his office door and that was all the warning he gave him… and all the warning he'd need, if he was paying attention:
"Is Potter an animagus?"
"I beg your pardon?" Draco asked, and paused, midway to his usual chair. He looked surprised, confused, and a bit doubtful, but not too much. Controlled, but was he using the control to downplay his response, or was he using it to manufacture it. Severus didn't know, and after the years they'd been working on faces, would have been disappointed if he had.
He could tell Draco was thinking, but that was to be expected, and again, determining what he was thinking about was harder.
Severus reached out with a probe of Legillimency. The skin around Draco's eyes tightened, and a light resistance met the probe, trying to block it, but not particularly hard; Severus' slipped into Draco's mind.
Despite all his time practicing Occlumency, Draco's mind had no physical appearance or shape; where Severus' was the dungeons and Black's was Azkaban, Draco's was… just a mind.
Or so it appeared.
Thoughts flitted by, as present and yet insubstantial as the silvery contents of a pensieve - which Draco's mind was modelled off in function if not appearance:
Potter, an animagus? Why does Severus think that? Is it even possible… I suppose Black did it young, but not this young, and I think I'd have noticed if he was working on it, though I suppose he hasn't been sleeping much. What would he be, I wonder? A stag, like his father? A dog like Black? Surely he'd have told me - it can't be true, because he would've. And mixed in there, surprise, curiosity, confusion, a little envy.
As each passed by, Severus examined it.
The story within Draco's mind was that he had never even considered the possibility of Potter being an animagus and therefore was unaware of whether he was or not. But Draco had months of Occlumency training behind him now, and Severus knew what he was capable of. The story in Draco's mind could have been just that; a story. Or, it could have been the truth.
"When I was in his dreams in the pensieve, his memories were… different," Severus said, withdrawing back to his own mind. "Either Potter's been dabbling with Sense-Sharpening potions, inherited something from his father, or had, somehow, managed to become an Animagus himself. I thought I'd ask."
"Different how?" Draco asked.
"He could hear things he should not have been able to," Severus said. "It's possible his mind made assumptions - as minds do in memories - but I don't think it's likely, namely because it would have been a gross overcompensation and because our location didn't change." Draco hummed, thoughtful. "You don't know anything about it?"
"Sorry," Draco said, shrugging. Severus studied him, both proud and frustrated, and Draco cocked his head. "Was this a test?"
"Isn't everything?" Severus asked.
"Apparently," Draco said. "Did I pass?"
"That would depend on what your intention was," Severus said, arching an eyebrow. In response, Draco raised his own and Severus' mouth twitched. "Superficially, I am of the impression that Potter being an animagus had not previously crossed your mind, and that you are therefore unaware of whether he is one or not. But, having the Occlumency ability you do, in actuality, it could be that you are genuinely unaware, or that you simply wish for me to think so." Severus pursed his lips. "I cannot tell which."
Where Severus relied on inscrutability, on weaving lies that were both plausible and that were either supported by select fragments of memories or unable to be disproved because the memories that would do so were so securely and abstractly concealed, Draco took a different approach:
He relied less on lies and more on the truth, or half-truths, speaking in phrases that had multiple meanings, and relied on his expressions and his thoughts and his feelings, as well as his observational skills to guide whoever he was dealing with - mental or aloud - to a particular conclusion or assumption.
Severus had been the first test subject for that, over the previous summer, and then into the beginning of the school year, and, bolstered by its success, Draco had focused on it since.
Now, months later, their lessons consisted mostly of testing rather than teaching, of Severus finding holes and mistakes and bringing them to Draco's attention so he could deal with them as he saw fit.
"Your resistance to my first intrusion was a token attempt," Severus said.
"What do you mean?" Draco asked.
"We both know you're capable of keeping me out," Severus said. Not every time, but more often than not, and even when he couldn't, he still put up enough of a fight that it took Severus effort to gain access. Draco frowned. "There was no response when I did gain entry; no defeat, no pain, no irritation or frustration, no resignation. No attempt to remove me or block off particular sections of your mind."
"Maybe I decided I had nothing to hide," Draco said, but he had a thoughtful crease between his eyebrows.
"Maybe," Severus said, even as he reached out with another probe.
He felt… flickers; Draco wanting to resist but letting him in, felt Draco trailing after Severus as he looked through memories for any proof that Potter might be an animagus… a confession, a conversation, something pertaining to Draco being told, or made suspicious enough to ask.
Nothing appeared. Severus broadened his search, found conversations with teachers in lessons about it, saw Draco and his friends talking about animagi in general. Severus felt nerves from Draco, and deliberation - should he let Severus keep looking, or force him out? Severus pressed on, flicking through memories; Draco talking about Black with Potter, the children sitting in a Gryffindor dormitory, Potter's voice saying A giraffe?! Ginny! Laughter, and then Weasley joking that that would be more suited to her brother-
Draco's mind spiked with panic and he snatched the memory away and it was replaced with something less telling; Draco and his friends being splashed by water shaken from a very wet Black-as-a-dog-
Draco pushed Severus out, firmly enough that it would have taken Severus considerable effort to remain, but he didn't bother trying.
"So you have considered that he could be one - the idea was not as foreign to you as you initially led me to believe," Severus said, amused. "A good effort, though, Draco."
"Thank you," Draco said, expression utterly unreadable. That was his fallback, these days - though less and less commonly - when he couldn't trust himself to have control over the story his expression told; Severus suspected he was disappointed in himself.
"You did well," Severus said. "I have many more years of experience in the mind than you, andeven then it took me time to find anything. But if I may…?"
"Of course, sir," Draco said stiffly.
"I could feel your panic when I found the conversation about the giraffe, though you recovered well when you shifted the memory to Black. Quieten your mental voice. I might not have noticed the significance of it, otherwise." Draco nodded. "Additionally, when you are constructing lies, consider their believability; in this instance, it is probably more believable to think you would have discussed animagus forms than that you would not have, especially given Potter's family." And, Severus had been a teacher long enough to know Teen Witch and other such drivel often published useless quizzes on the topic.
"Yes, sir," Draco said. He gave Severus a shrewd look. "Anything else?"
"No." Draco smiled a little, visibly relieved that he had escaped with fairly minimal feedback. Severus watched him, amused, let him have this little moment of relative success, then refocused. "You will now attempt to convince me you've done the Potions homework I set yesterday… Have you?"
"Of course, sir," Draco said, without missing a beat.
"Even though it's not due for another two lessons?"
"Potter's still not sleeping much," Draco said, and shrugged. That was no lie, Severus was sure of that much, though Potter had looked better after the weekend than he had in a long time.
"Very well. What ingredient combination did you focus on?"
"Elderberry and gravedust, sir," Draco said.
Severus reached out with his mind.
