Every pair of eyes in every head in the Great Hall turned from their intruder, now named, to the Harry Potter sitting in between Ron and Neville at the Gryffindor table, found in the side of the hall nearest the doors. Harry glanced round quickly and then ducked his head, emerald green eyes meeting the steady brown of Hermione's briefly across the table. He could feel the whole Hall focusing on him, staring, weighing him down.
The hall broke out in whispers.
"He's . . . what?"
"He's medically insane, that's what. You honestly believe this?"
"Well, he did break the wards. . . ."
"That only means he's more dangerous!" A seventh year Slytherin spat.
"Or more powerful," the dark-haired girl whispered.
A small first year spoke shakily, somehow heard over everyone else. "Look at Professor Snape." He pointed to Snape, who stood watching the self-proclaimed Harry Potter intently.
"What about him?" the seventh year shot back. The first year- his name was Tom, and he had nightmares, and he had always looked up to their Professor for his bravery- sank down in his seat, wishing he hadn't spoken at all.
The girl felt a jolt of hot irritation rush through her. Riled, she lifted her head, speaking directly to the seventh year. "He's assessing the situation and remaining in control of himself, as should you! Everyone needs to just shut up!"
Several Slytherins looked round at her outburst. She glanced down, fingers tightening around her wand, not knowing that three tables away a fifth year with untidy hair and a violently blushing face was in the same position.
Harry felt a gentle tug on his sleeve; he looked, and it was Hermione. She leaned forward, and Ron followed suit. "Harry," Hermione whispered anxiously, "you don't think that he could be a Death Eater, do you?"
"Well it doesn't seem much like there's anyone on our side powerful enough to break through the Hogwarts wards, does it?" He said darkly. "Or else we'd have heard of them- come to think about it, never mind."
"You don't think - it could be some bloke sent here from Dumbledore, d'you think?" Ron asked.
"I doubt it."
Neville leaned in from Harry's left. "Is it really that impossible, though- that maybe it actually is Harry?"
"No!" Hermione exclaimed. "It's completely impossible!" She seemed rather panicked.
"Shh." Harry gestured to the front of the hall, which had fallen nearly silent.
The man standing there spoke, and there was a powerful ring in his voice that Neville knew to be Harry's.
"You don't believe me; well, whether you do or not, you will soon. After all," he paused here to glance around at all of them, his roiling emotions shoved deep down as his eyes met their faces, "don't you all want to know who dies in the war?"
He nearly snorted at the predictable response; their eyes popped wide, the question on every mind; What war?
"Which war are you speaking of?"
Harry glanced at McGonagall, who had spoken. "The war that begins in about four months, June nineteen ninety-six. The war that everyone pretended would never happen; that war."
Dread settled over the Hall, and Minerva's insides twisted. Where was Albus now, how could they get him here? Surely he would know more about this, how to handle this.
The figure spoke. "Last year, as you all were told, Voldemort rose again. This year, he freed some of his most devoted and powerful followers from Azkaban. Now the Lestranges, Dolohov, Mulciber, and at least thirty lesser Death Eaters are at his side, and he's recruiting new members as I speak. He's focusing on magical minorities, people and creatures that are against the Ministry, against wizardkind, against muggles. Werewolves, vampires, giants, dementors; nearly all of them are against the Light, which is even more of a minority than any of them ever were. The Order of the Phoenix, the Light organization involving most of the Light supporters that are adults, is weak and unable to fight any Death Eaters with any hope of winning. No one under the age of seventeen is allowed in the Order, and some who are of age are still prohibited from joining. The few people who are willing to train the Order as an army are the most hated by them, and nobody is willing to learn that killing is necessary in war and that, yes, the Light side needs to become a group of killers in order to win the war. In short, we are in no way prepared for what is going to happen; and so we can never stand against Voldemort until we are."
Once the Hall had recovered from its collective, flinching silence, the figure held up a wooden box, stained dark brown and about the size of a book.
"This box," he said, "contains a book and a collection of memories. The book I wrote myself; in it are my past experiences, though much of the book is, for everyone else, about the future. Some of the memories are my own and some are the memories of others. Most of them, however, are from Professor Snape."
Sitting at the staff table, Severus Snape felt a heavy, choking dread settle over him. The dark-haired girl looked up at him in concern; yet this movement was repeated all throughout the Hall of astonished students, and among the sea of turned heads he tried, but could not find her face. He did his best to focus, trying to guess whether the memories were personal or incriminating, or, as he guessed they would be, both.
A sudden burst of questioning sprang to his mind, and he had to work to keep his face blank. Would the memories show Regulus, Clarence, his childhood home life? Would they show the Dark Lord, reveal his duplicity in the war? Would they count them as evidence for his crimes, take him back to the Ministry for a second trial? Would they jeopardize Clarence's safety?
Feeling especially sick at that last thought, he banished the questions as best as he could until later. What should most concern him now was the question of how this "Potter" had gotten the memories. He was relieved when the man spoke.
"Don't worry, everyone. He hasn't been running around in my time with half of his life missing; the memories are duplicated. They were given, from Professor Snape, to an old friend of mine, who gave them to me years later. I hope that you'll all learn a lot from them."
Tucking the box under his arm, he walked along the length of the raised platform of the staff table and turned, walking toward Harry, Ron, and Hermione at the Gryffindor table. He saw his younger self's hand tighten around his wand, which he clutched protectively against his chest. He couldn't rid himself of the pang that struck him then.
He would give so much to be able to hold onto his younger self, seeing him so prepared to fight, hiding his fear. He would give so much to be able to reassure him, but he couldn't now.
The Gryffindors had flinched away as he moved forward. Harry watched as the man placed the box before him on the table, next to a large, now unappetizing chocolate cake. His wrist and hand, revealed from under his sleeves, looked thin and spindly. Up close, the eyes under the square-lensed glasses perfectly matched his, flecked emerald green. When the man spoke to Harry his voice was low, but the dead silence in the Hall made sure it carried.
"I'm giving you this book, Harry, because I'm ruined. It's not because of the choices I've made; it's because of circumstance, and I'm not the only one who's been affected the same way. There are things shown in here that go wrong that shouldn't have; what I want you, and all of you, to understand isn't that I want you to do exactly as this book says, and you'll understand why in the end. What I want is to save lives and to keep what happened before, what wouldhappen if I had never come here, from happening. I want less people to die in the war. I want more people to be able to live happier, more fulfilled lives than they would have ended up with after the war."
He sighed and walked toward the hall doors. This was it; his parting words, his end. He didn't feel as sick as he thought he would about it. He could never tell them what he really wanted to say; he couldn't lay out his own hopes for the future, because he felt that it would it wouldn't be right, because his old Gryffindor morals held him back again. He had conveyed in the book his true feelings; he could not give them any more than that.
"I've included a list of people who need to be present for every reading and memory viewing, and instructions on how to view the memories. The book is to be read one chapter a day, every day at dinner, unless the book says to watch a memory before moving to the next chapter. Someone will read it every day- yes, publicly- in the Great Hall. You will read the chapters and watch the memories only in the order I have laid out, though they can be reread and re-viewed at any time after the first. Don't start reading until everyone on the list is here and you've gotten rid of Umbridge."
He was standing directly in front of the doors now. He looked around and found their faces; his younger self, sick and disbelieving; Ron, Hermione and Neville, shocked, clinging to every word; Luna, smiling at him when he caught her eye; Snape, before he knew, before he understood, expressionless and staring; Clarence, tense in her seat at the Slytherin table, her face the same; Dray, when he was still blonde, when he was still a prick, before he'd been changed; Parkinson, looking the same as she had when Dray had laid on her corpse; and then, finally, Theo. He looked past the curly brown hair and wary expression into his eyes, the same shade of deep brown as they had always been. Theo was unnerved, he knew, but he didn't show it. He kept his eyes trained on Theo's as he spoke, for the last time.
"I hope that this is for the better and not the worse. Please, try to learn something."
His eyes wandered up to the enchanted ceiling, lingering on the clouds, close enough together to entirely block out the sun. It seemed to mean something, but it was too late to think about it now. Now he could only hope for a better future of which he could never be a part. He lifted his wand and forced the feelings through it, his last friend, and felt the magic tingle in his hand.
"Avada Kedavra."
The flash of green light was both one of his first and his very last memory.