"Potter!"
"Harry!"
"Harry, mate?"
Harry forced his eyes open and tried to sit up. Pain lanced through his head – from his scar, he thought – and a hand seized his shoulder and held him down. For some reason, his shoulder hurt too.
"Easy, Potter," Wood said, as Harry squinted up at him. "It's not good for your head-"
"You know?" Harry asked, aghast. He wondered if his scar was inflamed, or bleeding, for them to know it was paining him.
"Flying into the post wasn't exactly subtle," Fred – at least Harry thought it was Fred, everything was still a bit blurry – said. "You're a bit banged up-"
"Bloody heavy too, for a speccy little git," George said. He was grinning.
"Good catch, though," Fred said, nudging his twin.
"Wait, you- The post?" Harry asked, confused. He lifted a hand to his head and winced, running gentle fingers over the tender lump.
Yes, the post, another voice said, sounding amused. I don't know who should be more embarrassed; you, for doing it, or me, because despite your obvious affinity for trying to get yourself killed, my older self hasn't managed yet. Harry's team took hasty steps back, and watched him warily.
"Are you all right, Harry?" Katie asked. "You're looking a bit green- Harry!" Harry knocked Wood's hand off his shoulder and forced himself upright. His head spun, and he ignored it.
Careful, Harry, you've just sustained a head injury-
Get out of my head, Harry snarled, getting unsteadily to his feet. Wood had his arms hovering by his sides, likely ready to catch Harry if he needed to. Harry shooed him away.
"Where's my broom?" It was pressed into his hand by a frowning Alicia. "Thanks," he said.
"Do you want us to take you to the hospital wing-" Angelina started, but Harry waved a hand at her, already setting off across the pitch.
"I'll manage," Harry said, and heard Katie telling Fred and George to follow him, just to be sure he was all right. "I said I'll manage!" he said, slightly louder, and kept moving as quickly as he could without running; he didn't think his head could handle that. "Sorry for- I'll see you all later."
That's awfully bold of you, Harry, Tom said softly. I wouldn't want to be alone with me, if I was you.
Harry ignored him, and tried to think. The voice in his head did sound young – younger than the Voldemort Harry heard around dementors, and younger than the Voldemort he'd faced last year. Harry wasn't sure how, but he thought he might really be dealing with Tom, rather than the adult Voldemort. No confirmation came from the voice, and Harry wondered how much access he actually had. Obviously he could talk to Harry, and hear Harry when he talked back, but what else could he find? Could he find the Secret, which Harry kept as Secret Keeper? Could he find the prophecy, which – if he wasn't the Voldemort Harry knew – he might not even be aware of? Could he find out that Harry and Padfoot had the locket? Could he find out that Padfoot had helped Harry become an Animagus – which Padfoot could very well lose his job over, if anyone found out?
Harry tried to keep those thoughts out of his head, but it was very difficult not to think of them once the ideas had occurred to him.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, he told himself.
Now really, Harry, I've been quiet this whole time. Was it Harry's imagination, or did Tom sound a little offended.
I told you to get out. Harry threw open the doors into the Entrance Hall, and stormed in. Chatter drifted out of the Great Hall on his right, where some people were still having dinner. Harry hoped Dumbledore wasn't among them.
He took the stairs two at a time, which made his injured head hurt more and more, but Harry hardly noticed, so intent he was on getting himself to Dumbledore's office.
Aren't we a good little Gryffindor, Tom said, but Harry didn't think he sounded as entertained as before; Harry imagined a meeting with Dumbledore might have put a damper on his fun. Off to Dumbledore at the first sign of trouble… I wouldn't waste your time, though, Harry. He won't be pleased to see either of us, when he hears what you've done.
Again, Harry ignored him, and tried to think of the password. Before he could, though, the gargoyle had stepped aside to reveal the staircase.
"Thanks," Harry said to it, and got a grunt in reply. He started up the stairs. Dumbledore opened the door to the office just as Harry lifted his hand to knock.
"Good evening, Harry," he said gravely, and moved back to allow Harry into the office.
Always so polite, Tom sneered, but Harry thought he sounded a bit afraid. He hadn't made any move to leave, yet, which Harry thought was odd; perhaps he had a message for them, or terms or something, or perhaps- Perhaps he wanted information. Harry stumbled and hit his hip on the desk. Dumbledore was at his side in moments, helping him into the chair, and propping his broom against the desk. Fawkes crooned from his perch.
"Sir," Harry said, "he's-he's in my head." Dumbledore's eyes, which had been fixed on the lump on Harry's head, moved to Harry's eyes at once. Dumbledore moved back, seemingly to get a better look at him.
"Could you please explain that, Harry? When you say in your head'-"
"I mean he's- I can hear him, and- I don't think he can tell much of what I'm thinking, but he can definitely- maybe it's just what's on the surface, like what I see and what people say to me-"
"He talks to you?" Dumbledore was very still.
Tell him I say hello, Tom said. Harry thought he sounded smug again.
"He says to tell you 'hello'," Harry said, and absurdly, felt Tom's delight that he'd listened.
Now tell him-
Shut up!
Rude little thing, aren't you?
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured. "If you'll excuse me for just a moment, Harry, I have some messages to send."
"Yes, sir," Harry said. Dumbledore didn't use the fireplace in the room with them, however; instead, he disappeared through the door that Harry suspected led to his chambers, and Harry, realising why – and, knowing his hearing might well be good enough for him to overhear despite the wall between them - plugged his ears. Unfortunately, that didn't stop him from being able to hear Tom.
He's worked it out, Tom said.
Worked what out? Harry snapped.
How I'm doing it, Tom replied.
Doing what? Being in my head? Harry would rather like to know how that was possible as well. Hang on… Harry said, frowning. How is it even possible? Last year, you couldn't even be touched by me – or Morton- Quirrell couldn't, because- Harry decided against saying what had protected him. –because it burned you.
Perhaps I'm not me, Tom said. So it doesn't work.
Not- Well, Harry that supposed that was more to support the notion that the Voldemort in his head was Tom instead.
But that isn't what I meant when I said how I'm doing it, Tom said.
What did you mean, then? Harry asked, irritably. He hoped Dumbledore would be back soon, so he didn't have to be alone with Tom for much longer. As if sensing that thought, Fawkes launched off his perch and came to rest on the back of Harry's chair. He looked as if he was only a few weeks past burning; he was still quite small, and his feathers were fluffy, like Hedwig's had been when Harry and Padfoot first brought her home. Fawkes let out a soft warble, and something hot dripped onto Harry's face, and then again. Shocked, Harry reached up to the lump on his head, and found it was healed.
"Thanks," he said, patting Fawkes, who rubbed his beak against Harry's hand, and ruffled his feathers in a pleased sort of way.
I meant, Tom said, and Harry could feel he was somehow disgruntled, that Dumbledore's worked out how I'm opening the Chamber, and controlling the monster. Harry almost replied with 'parseltongue', but didn't. He didn't want Tom to know what he knew.
How's that?
With you, Tom said, sounding smug again. I'd ask if you remember the first time I showed up in your head, but I know you don't; I took care of that.
Dumbledore returned before Harry could think of anything more to say.
"Ah," he said, "Fawkes has seen to you, I see." He favoured the bird with a smile.
"Yes, sir."
"Is Voldemort still with you, Harry?"
"Sort of," Harry said. "I think it's Tom, sir, not Voldemort. I don't know if that makes any sense, but-"
"Tom?" Dumbledore looked surprised. "And what makes you say that, Harry?"
"His voice. Some stuff he said."
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured.
"Is that even possible, sir? I mean he's- older now, only-"
"Oh, it is possible," Dumbledore said. "The ways enabling it to be are dark and complicated, but they exist."
What does he mean? Tom asked sharply.
Wouldn't you like to know? Harry asked him, though he himself didn't have much idea either. He wasn't about to tell Tom that, however.
Obviously, Harry, or I wouldn't have asked. Tell me.
No. Pressure and pain built behind Harry's eyes, and he was sure Tom was the cause.
"..rry. Harry?" With effort, Harry focused on Dumbledore, who was kneeling beside his chair, looking concerned. Harry's vision wavered again. "Harry, what's happening?"
"He's- hurting me," Harry mumbled, and then slumped sideways. His pulse still hammered beneath the skin at his neck, and his chest still rose and fell without difficulty, so Albus forced himself to relax. He added higher armrests to the chair, so that Harry couldn't fall out of it. He'd just finished doing that, when the fireplace flared green.
Severus stepped out, his eyes landing on Harry at once. His lips thinned, and there was fear in his eyes, but he made no effort to move. He looked around the office.
"Black's not here, yet?" he drawled.
"I'd expected him to come through at once," Albus admitted. "Something seems to have delayed him, however."
"He's likely taken a detour to France, to fetch his furry-"
"Severus." Severus fell silent for a few moments.
"When we spoke, you said Potter was awake."
"He was." Albus couldn't be sure if Tom had rendered the boy unconscious, or if fainting was a side-effect of Harry fighting back internally. Neither boded particularly well; there were reasons for the laws prohibiting the use of mind magics on children under the age of thirteen. Anything more than a brush of Legillimency – and if Tom was inhabiting Harry's mind, then he was employing significantly more than that – could cause all sorts of damage.
Those words hung over the office, and it was quiet but for the sounds of Fawkes repositioning himself on the back of the chair, and for the sounds of Albus' instruments whirring on their table. Then, the fire flared again, and Sirius stepped out. He took several steps forward, toward Harry, then it seemed to register that he was unconscious, and paused.
"Dumbledore?" he asked uncertainly, but before Albus could respond, the fire flared again. Albus hadn't invited a third person, though he supposed that Severus could have been correct; that perhaps Sirius had stopped to get Remus on his way. It wasn't Remus that emerged from the flames, though. It was a shorter man, with darker hair, and a face that Albus had designed himself.
"Headmaster," he drawled. "Snape."
"Quirrell," Severus said tersely, with a glance at Sirius.
"I thought his input might be useful," Sirius said shortly, "so I brought him along. He's sworn to help, remember?"
"My input with what?" Quirrell asked, folding his arms. "Black was rather… sparing with the details-" Then he spied Harry. "Should have known," he muttered.
"Should have," Sirius agreed. "He's got Voldemort in his head." Quirrell glanced at Severus, and then at Albus, who inclined his head. "You've got experience with that; what do we do?"
"Nothing," Quirrell said. "He's eleven-"
"Twelve," Sirius snapped.
"Still not of legal age to be subjected to mind magic. Any of the three of us-" He gestured to himself, Severus and Albus. "-have the skill to aid him, I'm certain, but it's not worth the risk. He is perfectly capable of causing enough damage to Potter's mind without us blundering around in there as well."
"Skill?" asked a very pale Sirius.
"A combination of Occlumency and Legillimency, Black," Severus said quietly.
"Well outside your area of expertise, I'm afraid," Quirrell added. He seemed to miss the look that Severus and Sirius shared, but Albus certainly didn't. Quirrell began to pace, looking thoughtful. When he passed Fawkes, Fawkes flapped his wings and squawked until he backed off again. Fawkes had clearly not forgotten, nor forgiven that attack last year. "Was the boy himself, or was He talking to you through the boy?"
"Harry was Harry," Albus replied.
"It's new then," Quirrell said.
"What is?" Sirius asked.
"This… presence, or possession."
"You're certain?" Severus asked.
"Quite," Quirrell said coolly. "Possession begins in one of two ways; either there's a certain amount of trust between the parties which allows the possessor to have some power over the - let's call them the victim's – mental faculties. The other is brute force, but it's nowhere near as simple in people – even children – as it is in animals. It can take weeks or even years for the possessor to ingrain themselves deeply enough to have any real power over their victim. Since I've seen first-hand how Potter regards the Dark Lord, I highly doubt there's any degree of trust there, which suggests it's the latter."
"So-"
"So He will exhaust himself eventually, and have to leave to recharge-"
"Recharge?"
"Recover," Quirrell said, with a derisive look at Sirius. "And when that happens, you'll be able to assess the damage."
When Harry awoke, he was sick all over the carpet of Dumbledore's office. Both Snape and Quirrell stepped back, looking revolted, but Dumbledore cleared it away with a sweep of his wand, and moved forward with Sirius.
"Harry?" Sirius said softly, and Harry blinked a few times, his eyes unfocused. "Kiddo?" That got his attention, and he looked at Sirius.
Thank Merlin.
"Padfoot," he said hoarsely, and then spied Dumbledore, who was offering him a cup of water. Harry mumbled something that might have been a thank you, and sipped at it. "He left," he said, when he'd finished drinking. Sirius couldn't help but glance at Quirrell, who looked a little smug at being proven right. "He said he's going to come back, though, he said- he said it's been me, all this time, that he's been controlling me, and making me control the monster, and attack Colin, and Mrs-"
"It's not your fault, even if that is true," Sirius said at once, and wondered if it could be. "That's him, Harry, not you-"
"I'm sorry," Harry said, looking at Dumbledore. "I didn't-" Harry noticed Snape and Quirrell for the first time, and frowned. "Who's he?" he asked in a low voice, looking at Sirius. Sirius saw his nostrils flare as he took in the room's scent. Harry flinched back, and would have thrown himself off the chair, had it not had such high armrests. "Padfoot, that's-"
"Quirrell, yes," Sirius said, in a calm voice. "He has a new face."
"How did he-" Quirrell asked, pointing at Harry. Sirius hid a smug smile.
"Why's he here?" Harry demanded.
"You and I have something in common now," Quirrell said, before any of the rest of them could answer. "Your godfather thought I might be able to help." Sirius could feel Harry's eyes on him, and wondered what he'd see if he met them; betrayal, condemnation, anger, fear?
"Can you?" Harry asked in a small but somehow sharp voice. Sirius risked a glance at him, but saw he was now watching Quirrell.
"Possibly," Quirrell replied.
"Can you help me keep him out next time?"
"No," Quirrell said. "You're too young for Occlumency-"
"Can you help me stop him from possessing me next time he tries?" Harry asked. "I don't want to attack anyone else-"
"He's had you attacking people?" Quirrell asked, arching an eyebrow. Harry nodded, not meeting anyone's eyes. "And you remember it?"
"No, but he told me he covered it up with other memories, things that didn't really happen." Snape's face darkened, and the look he was giving Quirrell was so poisonous that Sirius was surprised the other man hadn't melted or something. "Is that possible?"
"It is," Snape said, practically biting the words off as he said them.
"It does, however, take a considerable amount of skill," Dumbledore said. "Skill that Voldemort has, but Tom…"
"You don't think he could?" Harry sat straighter, looking hopeful.
"No, I don't think so," Dumbledore said. "Erase them, certainly- Are there periods of time that you have no recollection of?"
"Does History of Magic count?" Harry asked wryly. Sirius snorted, as – surprisingly – did Snape and Quirrell. Dumbledore smiled at Harry. "No, sir. Nothing like that." Relief oozed out of him, light and heady and so strong that Sirius thought he could get drunk off it if he smelled it for long enough. "So it's not me? Tom was just-"
"Trying to scare you, I think," Dumbledore said. "Or distract you, perhaps."
"What do you mean by Tom?" Sirius asked. "That's twice that you've-"
"He's younger, Padfoot," Harry said. "Not like he was last year."
"How-"
"It is possible that Voldemort has found a way to leave- a part of himself? behind. Or, perhaps, in an endeavour to avoid recognition, he has experimented with time travel. I don't know. There are ways, I'm sure, I just don't know how likely-"
"It can't be time travel," Sirius said. "I get the newsletter from the Department of Mysteries-"
"Fabulous, aren't they?" Dumbledore asked, beaming.
"They've had a lot of trouble with time turners," Sirius said. "Awful accidents, like across-time splinching, and whole families being erased from the timeline, and they're experts-"
"Croaker was from the Department," Snape said hesitantly, "he might have had access-"
"Wrong area," Quirrell said quietly, but firmly, and no one argued. "I think, Headmaster, that your first idea – about him preserving himself somehow – is most likely."
"Not all of him," Harry said, tugging on Sirius' sleeve. "Only a piece. Maybe a Tom piece." He'd gone white, and Sirius caught on, moments later; was Harry suggesting that they'd stumbled across another horcrux? And what did that mean? First off, it meant that Voldemort hadn't split his soul once – in the locket – but that he'd done it again with- well, Sirius didn't know what it was with, but it was with something. And second, if it was a horcrux, and it was behind the Chamber of Secrets attacks, how on earth were they supposed to stop it?