"I have some news that might interest you," announced Daphne Greengrass, plopping herself down across from Harry at the Ravenclaw table.
"Good morning to you too, Daphne," Harry chuckled, setting down his forkful of eggs. He hadn't spoken to her once since term resumed the week before. "How was your break?"
"It's about Longbottom," said Daphne without preamble. "You're interested in developments about him, are you not?"
Harry's ears perked up at this. "Yeah," he said. "Is he alright?"
"Beats me," Daphne shrugged. "Apparently he's been sneaking out of the common room late at night. No one's seen him leave, but Snape caught him out of bounds during a bed check last night."
"How odd," Harry muttered. "Any idea where he's going?"
"I was going to ask you that," Daphne said pointedly. "Since you consider yourself a friend of his."
"In a sense," Harry shrugged. Truthfully, he hadn't spoken much with Neville lately, choosing to give him, Ron and Hermione a wide berth for the past few months. He really ought to keep up with that relationship, though, lest he neglect the most important friendship of them all.
"Well, that's all," Daphne sighed. "He lost Slytherin thirty points, so we're all cross with him, but I doubt you care about that." And she stood to return to her own table.
"Wait!" Harry said, halting her. "How are you doing, Daphne?"
Daphne narrowed her eyes at him. "What kind of question is that?" she demanded.
"We're friends," Harry reminded her. "We can talk about things other than our 'deal', you know. Like classes. Or hobbies. Or boys."
"Ugh," Daphne scoffed at this last cheeky remark, and spun around to leave. Harry chuckled to himself; he was determined to crack Daphne's tough exterior and get to know her beyond her political ambitions. If Tracey Davis could do it, so could he.
This Neville news was intriguing, though. Where was he sneaking off to late at night? And how was he getting in and out of the Slytherin common room without anyone seeing – particularly if, as Daphne said, he has 'many eyes on him at all times'? Harry had a hunch about both questions, and decided to investigate that very evening.
So after an uneventful day of classes, Harry slipped away from his classmates after dinner and headed to the seventh floor. He had some time to kill before nightfall, and he had a far more productive evening in mind than simply waiting around Ravenclaw Tower.
I need to visit my training room...I need to visit my training room...I need to visit my training room…
After his third pace back and forth before the blank stretch of wall, a door materialized, and Harry entered the Room of Requirement. He'd started coming here since the new term started, needing a private place to practice his spells without hurting anyone by accident. The room had provided him with a makeshift combat arena, complete with movable training dummies and absorbent walls that prevented errant spells from bouncing dangerously around the space.
Harry was quickly learning the many abilities – and shortcomings – the Room of Requirement possessed. When he got hungry after a particularly-long session, a door appeared that led directly into the kitchens to nourish himself. When he wished he had reading material to brush up on his spell vocabulary, a bookshelf materialized with a wide selection of books on hexes, curses and other combat tools. Notably, they were all library books, and none of them came from the Restricted Section...it seemed the room could only provide what Hogwarts already had to offer, and it knew that he did not have a pass to the more sinister books behind the locked door.
But no matter. He had seven years with which to expand his knowledge and grow to his full potential. Right now, he just needed to master basic spell casting and learn how to control his wand. So he launched himself into a furious attack on the training dummies, throwing everything he knew at them. He cast them as fast as possible, his wand a blur of movement as jets of light streamed out and pummeled their targets.
Harry had learned that his wand worked best when he operated on instinct – casting quickly and intuitively without thinking too hard about what he was doing. When he was forced to slow down and be more deliberate, the wand seemed impatient, often preferring to stir up trouble rather than do what he wanted. But these occurrences were lessening with time, as Harry slowly learned how to exert his will over the wand and force it to do his bidding.
As Flitwick had theorized, the wand seemed to respond best when Harry felt in danger. Harry realized that he could use this to his advantage by injecting a sense of desperate urgency into his intent, even with basic spells. I need to master the basics if I'm going to survive the war in a few years, Harry thought as he attempted a simple Levitation Charm. The wand initially resisted his will, but on the second attempt it finally relented, lifting the feather on the table in front of him up to the ceiling.
Will I have to act desperate at all times to get my wand to work? Harry thought glumly. But maybe that was exactly what the wand was demanding of him – a sense of urgency that he hadn't displayed thus far in his new timeline. He was enjoying the relative peace of having a loving family and not worrying about his future, but perhaps he needed to focus harder. It was as if the wand knew he had the power to prevent Voldemort's return, and that he was squandering that foreknowledge. Fair enough, he supposed.
A clock on the wall chimed midnight. Harry swore; he'd lost track of time in the windowless room. I need to get to the library, Harry thought intently, waiting as the Room processed his request. Soon a portrait-hole materialized on the wall, and Harry pushed through it, finding himself on the first floor, just down the hall from the school library. Harry carefully closed the portrait behind him and crept along the darkened hallway.
He felt quite naked and exposed without the Invisibility Cloak or the Marauder's Map to aid him. Even when he'd had said items he was always on-edge, worried that he might stumble across the path of Filch, Mrs. Norris, or worse, Snape. Now he had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide if someone came across him. Fortunately, he knew his destination was close, as he inched along the halls towards the empty classroom he had traveled to so often during his original timeline…
Harry located the room and entered, softly clicking the door shut behind him. Just as he'd remembered, the Mirror of Erised sat in the center of the room, glimmering softly in the moonlight. Now that he was familiar with the mirror's true nature, he felt the subtle pull of the Compulsion Charm drawing him towards its surface, beckoning him to peer within. But for the moment he resisted the impulse, standing stock-still in the empty room, waiting. Listening.
It was subtle, but he quickly deduced that he was not alone. He could hear quiet shuffling of feet, labored, panicked breathing nearby. "Neville," Harry whispered into the darkness. "It's Harry Potter. I'm not here to get you in trouble."
There was a moment's silence. Then, Neville Longbottom appeared, pulling off his Invisibility Cloak, looking ashamed. "How did you find me?" he asked glumly.
"Not important," said Harry. "You're going to get in trouble if you keep coming here, Neville. There's nothing good for you here, trust me."
"But...you don't understand!" Neville protested, beckoning to the Mirror behind him. "My parents are in there! This is...this is the only time I get to see them!"
Harry's heart broke a little bit at the look on Neville's face. He knew the emotion well, the desperate longing he himself had felt in this very room the first time around. "I know, mate," he said sympathetically. "But the Mirror is just a trick. It isn't real."
"No, it really is!" Neville insisted. "Look!" And he grabbed Harry's arm, urging him forward to look into the mirror's surface himself. "See? There's my mum and dad. They're smiling and waving at us, can't you see?"
Harry resisted looking for several moments. But curiosity got the best of him – he'd been wondering lately what he might see in the Mirror, now that he had all the things he'd lacked in his previous timeline. With a resigned sigh, he glanced up at his reflection as Neville stepped aside to let him see properly.
For a brief moment, only his eleven-year-old form stared back at him. But then, before his very eyes, he began to morph and shift, growing into an older, taller, more formidable-looking young man. He stood tall and confident, towering over a crumpled figure: Voldemort, broken and defeated at the feet of his vanquisher. And kneeling all around him were many prominent figures of the wizarding world – Dumbledore, Fudge, his parents, the Hogwarts staff, and even Neville himself, bowing reverently to their savior.
In his last timeline, Harry had never wanted such attention. But now, having been denied the spotlight, he suddenly craved it. And why shouldn't he? In this timeline, he would have earned it. He wasn't thrust into fame by tragedy and a fluke of a spell gone awry; he had to work for everything he had now. He gawked at his older self in the Mirror, daring to believe it was possible, that he could make it a reality. So what if he wasn't the Boy Who Lived? He could still become the Man Who Won.
"Well? Do you see them?" Neville asked eagerly. That shook Harry out of his reverie, and he forced himself to break eye contact with the Mirror, shattering the illusion at once.
"No, Neville," Harry said sadly. "That isn't how the Mirror works."
"But I saw them—" Neville protested.
"The Mirror of Erised shows you the deepest desire of your heart," Harry explained. "You would give anything to have your parents back, right? So you see yourself with them, alive and well. But it's not real, Neville. You can't let yourself become obsessed by your reflection, because it will never come to pass." He realized he was speaking to himself as much as to Neville – he needed to remind himself that his own reflection was a mirage as well, and he couldn't indulge in such delusions of grandeur.
"Couldn't have worded it better myself," said an amused voice. Both Harry and Neville flinched as Dumbledore strode forward from a darkened corner of the room. "Mr. Potter is quite correct, Neville. Though I am sure you come here, night after night, in the hopes of reconnecting with your parents, it is but an illusion."
"P-Professor Dumbledore," Neville said, sounding quite frightened. "I'm s-sorry—"
"Not to worry, my boy," Dumbledore smiled, holding up a hand to stop him. "Greater wizards than you have gone mad before the Mirror, unable to face reality when their wildest fantasies unfold before their eyes. Which is why the Mirror will be moved tomorrow, and I must ask that you do not look for it again."
"Yes, sir," Neville said forlornly, looking disappointed.
"Now, back to bed with you, before Professor Snape finds more reason to seek your expulsion," Dumbledore chuckled. Neville nodded and moved towards the door; Harry went to follow until a voice stopped him. "Just a moment, Mr. Potter, I'd like a word."
Harry felt a chill run down his spine as Neville gave him an apologetic look and left the room. He'd hoped to avoid Dumbledore's notice for as long as possible. He still didn't know how much he trusted the man; after all, if he hadn't been kept in the dark about the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. Did he really trust such a man with a secret as important as time travel?
"I'm sorry for sneaking out of bed, Professor," Harry blurted out as soon as Neville was gone. "I was worried about him, and thought I might find him here."
"Understandable," Dumbledore nodded. "I confess it took me some time to track him here myself – that cloak of his is remarkably effective. But you seemed to find him with no trouble at all."
Harry said nothing. Was Dumbledore suspicious of him, or merely remarking on his luck?
"I also had an interesting conversation with one of the portraits in the east wing last November," Dumbledore went on. "They insisted that they saw you hiding behind a tapestry, just outside the bathroom where Miss Granger was attacked by the troll on Halloween."
Harry's stomach dropped. So Dumbledore was suspicious, then, or at the very least curious. How could he explain his way around this one? He decided to settle on a partial truth.
"I knew Hermione was alone in there," Harry explained. "I went to go warn her, but...but I froze when the troll showed up. I wasn't brave like Neville and Ron were."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, processing this. "How curious that you always seem to show up in the wrong place at the right time," he remarked.
"Just keeping an eye on my friends," Harry shrugged, trying to remain casual.
"And yet, I rarely see you interact with Mr. Longbottom or Miss Granger," Dumbledore smiled. "I believe that is Mr. Ronald Weasley's role as of late. Though you seem to take a keen interest in their affairs, even to the point of asking Miss Greengrass to keep an eye on Neville in the Slytherin common room."
Harry felt like Dumbledore was shining a bright light on his soul. He was utterly exposed, and could only gawk up at the placid smile on the headmaster's face. But he was not fooled by the man's pleasant demeanor; he was being pinned beneath the icy stare of the most powerful wizard on the planet.
However, Dumbledore merely chuckled. "But who am I to speculate on the social dynamics between first-years?" he smiled. "After all, Neville Longbottom is a major celebrity in our world, and I wouldn't put it past anyone to take an interest in him from afar."
"I...it isn't like that, sir," Harry stammered.
"I'm sure it is not," Dumbledore nodded. "Though I must ask, Mr. Potter, if there is anything you'd like to tell me at this juncture?"
For a maddening moment, Harry considered coming clean and telling Dumbledore everything he knew. It would certainly lighten the load and lessen the chances of a terrible war coming to pass. But he still had plenty of time – over three years before Voldemort would attempt his resurrection, and even more than that before he could rise to enough power to threaten wizarding Britain. Could he accomplish his task without needing Dumbledore's input?
A different emotion was welling up in Harry now as he stared back into Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes: resentment. His illusions about the man had long ago dissipated – he was not the harmless, wise old man he presented himself as. He was the man who intentionally kept Harry in the dark. Who had never once checked on him at the Dursley's. Who likely would have sent Harry to die at Voldemort's hand to ensure the destruction of the soul fragment in his head. And – lest he forget, now that he had definitive proof – who had stolen a Potter heirloom and given it to Neville Longbottom, perhaps in the hopes that it would aid him in his fool's errand to fulfill whatever prophecy spelled his demise.
"No, sir," Harry said softly.
Dumbledore looked mildly disappointed by this. "I see," he muttered. "Well, then I must insist that you return to Ravenclaw Tower at once, and I would discourage you from appearing where you ought not to be any longer."
"Yes, Headmaster," Harry said, giving Dumbledore a jerky little bow before hastening from the room. It was unnerving to be under Dumbledore's scrutiny, and he didn't want to spend another moment in his presence if he could help it. At least he hadn't attempted Legilimency – Harry doubted he would have been able to hide the truth if he tried.
But why should he feel guilty? It wasn't as if he was doing anything wrong, aside from breaking curfew. Dumbledore might be suspicious of him, but what could he possibly do about it? Even if he knew the full or partial truth, what could he punish Harry for?
Still, maybe it was for the best that Dumbledore was let in on a bit of what Harry was planning. After all, if he was to head off Quirrell from seeking the Philosopher's Stone, he would once again have to draw Dumbledore's attention by acting on something he ought not to have known. And that wasn't even mentioning the other events that he had to prevent, such as the opening of the Chamber of Secrets and of course the graveyard resurrection of Voldemort.
Maybe he would concoct some other excuse for how he seemed to always be in the 'wrong place at the right time', as Dumbledore put it. He would have to give this some thought. But hopefully it would be a while before he once again found himself pinned by that steely blue gaze.
As for the Cloak, Harry's suspicions had indeed been correct, and he could only imagine his father's reaction if he found out what Dumbledore had done. But surprisingly, Harry didn't feel the need to intervene. Neville's needs were greater than his own, especially as he got older and more people sought him out (with both good and bad intentions). Perhaps one day Harry would reveal the truth and reclaim his birthright. But the look of heartbreak on Neville's face after learning of the Mirror's true nature had made it impossible for Harry to deny him one more bit of comfort in the dark days ahead.
The remaining winter months blurred into one another as Harry threw himself into his studies. Not only did he have to complete all his normal class work, he was also practicing his spell work in the Room of Requirement and dipping his toes into his studies of soul magic. He knew he was unlikely to find anything useful outside of the Restricted Section, but he was determined to solve the mystery of how Voldemort had split his own and achieved immortality. If he was lucky, he might even be able to find and eliminate some of them before the Dark Lord even attempted to resurrect himself.
Harry found that he had precious little time to socialize with everything on his plate. He continued to converse with Hermione during classes, check in with Daphne Greengrass every once in a while, and banter with his dorm mates during meals and late evenings before bed. He also made sure to send letters home every once in a while, keeping his family informed on goings-on at the castle. Dahlia was hungry for as much information as possible about Hogwarts, so Harry sent her pages and pages on a weekly basis detailing his explorations of the castle and his studies of magic.
On top of all this, Harry continued to watch Neville from afar, making sure he was still on track for success. He had recovered from his initial gloom in the days after the Mirror incident, and seemed to be thriving in his classes and enjoying time with Ron and Hermione. He also appeared to have soured on his relationship with Draco Malfoy, as Harry often saw the blonde boy throwing nasty looks at Neville and whispering maliciously with Crabbe and Goyle. Harry just had to trust Daphne's word that he was safe in the dormitories, despite sleeping within a few feet of three future enemies if/when the Dark Lord rose again.
Then there was the matter of the Philosopher's Stone to worry about. Part of Harry wanted to sit back and do absolutely nothing, letting things play out as they had in the first timeline with Neville and company saving the day from Quirrell. But the troll incident had soured him on the idea of assuming everything would play out perfectly once more. What if he'd triggered some kind of butterfly effect and prevented the right sequence of events from happening?
Still, things were progressing smoothly in that regard. He overheard the trio whispering about 'Fluffy' on more than one occasion, and had even been asked by Hermione if he knew who Nicholas Flamel was. Harry did not tell her immediately, but did gift Ron with a Chocolate Frog one afternoon after Herbology, knowing that he would discover the answer they sought on Dumbledore's trading card contained within.
Speaking of Ron, Harry had taken to challenging him at chess during meals. He was dismayed to learn that Neville had no interest in the game, and worried that Ron would not get the necessary practice in to beat McGonagall's chess set in the dungeons. Harry had spent five years playing against Ron in the last timeline, and while Ron was always better than him back then, Harry was more experienced this time and knew Ron's play style to a tee. He crushed Ron the first few times they played, but Ron persevered and found new angles of attack to thwart Harry's defenses. As long as he stops hanging his bishops, he should be fine, Harry told himself.
Harry also made time every Friday to spend time with Uncle Peter in his office. This was a relationship he was especially attached to now, after all he'd heard from the other three Marauders during Christmas dinner. He was determined not to continue his father's legacy of leaving people out in the cold, and made sure to make Peter feel welcomed and loved. In fact, he was beginning to think such treatment might have prevented his bitter betrayal in the original timeline…
"You know you don't have to waste every Friday evening with me, Harry," remarked Peter one day as they munched on pastries Harry had brought from the kitchen. "I'm sure you have friends your own age to hang out with."
"I guess," Harry shrugged. "But most of them are too immature for me. And I like spending time with you, Uncle Peter."
"Back at you," Peter smiled warmly. "But surely you've made some friends? I'd hate for you to go all seven years here without growing close to anybody."
"Sure, there are some," Harry nodded. "I like Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein well enough. Hermione's nice, if a bit uptight and obsessed with grades. Ron and Neville are nice, though they're much closer with each other than with me."
"What about Miss Greengrass?" Peter prodded. "I see you talking with her sometimes. She's rather pretty, don't you think? Are you interested in her?"
"No, of course not!" Harry blurted out; he could not bring himself to look at his eleven-year-old classmates that way. Though, remembering that he himself was also supposed to be eleven, he corrected course a bit. "I mean, she's alright, but I just see her as a friend."
"That's alright too," Peter smiled. "I knew her father once – a good man."
The light teasing about Daphne made Harry remember something else from his Christmas meal. "Is it true that you were interested in Alice Longbottom in school?" he asked innocently.
Peter nearly choked on the muffin he was chewing on at this question. "W-what?" he spluttered. "Who told you that?"
"My mum did," Harry fibbed lightly. "Did you ask Alice out?"
"I…" Peter stammered, growing red in the face. "No, I did not. Well, in a sense. Look, it doesn't matter, we shouldn't be talking about this—"
"I want to know, Uncle Peter!" Harry insisted. "You don't have to be embarrassed about it. What was she like?"
Peter looked pained as he considered Harry's question. "She was a saint," he sighed. "There wasn't a student in the school who didn't love her, I reckon. She was kind to everybody, and treated me like a person, even when...even when I didn't feel like one."
"You didn't feel like a person?" Harry asked softly.
"Look, I had some rough years at Hogwarts," Peter muttered. "It doesn't matter now. But Alice listened to all my problems. She offered to tutor me in Charms in my fifth year, mostly so we could talk in private and I could share my more personal feelings with her."
"Really?" Harry asked, surprised. He wondered if his parents knew this…
"Yes," Peter nodded sadly. "And I admit, I misread the signals. I knew she was with Frank, but thought she liked me too, and I...well…"
"Asked her out?"
"No," said Peter, shaking his head. "I tried to kiss her."
"You what?!"
"Actually, I didn't try to, I did kiss her. And she got weirded out, and told me she wasn't interested in me that way. Frank gave me a dressing-down the next day when he learned, and I'm sure he would have done worse if Alice hadn't asked him not to."
"Blimey...I'm sorry, Uncle Peter," said Harry.
"It's alright; it's in the past," Peter smiled weakly. But Harry could tell that wasn't entirely the case – this obviously weighed heavily on Peter, and contributed to who he was today. Peter was visibly distant for the remainder of the conversation, which ended abruptly when he made an excuse about needing to be elsewhere. Is it my place to encourage him to seek love elsewhere? Harry wondered. Such advice usually had to come from a close friend...but he wasn't sure if Peter had any close friends…
But Harry had other things to worry about than the love life of a man twenty years his elder. He spent nearly all his free time in the library or in his training room, poring over any textbook that he thought might hold the secrets to Voldemort's immortality. He always opened every book to the appendix, searching for every mention of the word 'soul', only to be disappointed by the absence of or vague references to soul magic. Was there no such curriculum on the matter? If Tom Riddle hadn't learned how to split his soul at Hogwarts, where and how had he?
Harry indulged himself with one day off in late February for Ravenclaw's second Quidditch match against Slytherin. As usual, Aidan Lynch looked dominant in comparison to Slytherin's Seeker, but the rest of the Ravenclaw team was outmatched. The Slytherin Chasers and Beaters were relentless in their attacks, forcing the Ravenclaw team into near-permanent defense. In the end, Lynch put up a valiant effort, catching the first two Snitches but losing the third after a nasty coordinated double-Bludger attack took him out of the chase. Slytherin narrowly edged out Ravenclaw 170-150 thanks to their dominant goal-scoring trio.
The disappointing result capped off an already-disappointing week for Harry, who had been frustrated by a lack of progress with his research. The selection of books in the school library on soul magic was frustratingly thin, and he knew (as he'd suspected all along) that he would find no answers in the general archives. What he sought could only be found in the Restricted Section, which he would need a pass from a teacher to access.
Harry knew Professor Flitwick would be his best bet, as the Charms professor had taken an immediate liking to him unlike some of his other teachers. He'd procrastinated asking thus far, unable to come up with a valid excuse for needing such a pass. But he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the weekend immersed in study, so he made his way to the staff room anyway, intent on salvaging something productive from the afternoon.
The staff room was empty when he arrived, aside from Professor McGonagall, who sat at a table reading the Prophet andsipping from a teacup. "Evening, Potter," she greeted him. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for Professor Flitwick," Harry explained. "D'you know where he is?"
"I imagine he'll be back from the Quidditch match soon," said McGonagall. "You are welcome to wait here for him."
"Thank you," Harry nodded, taking a seat at an empty table to wait. He began to brainstorm possible reasons for needing a pass that wouldn't draw suspicion. Even Hermione had had difficulty with it in her second year, and she was far more trusted than he was by the staff! I'll say it's something to do with wand theory, he decided. I want to research more about the bond between wand and wizard...yeah, that could work.
Professor Snape entered the room soon after, and not even the sight of Harry seemed to dampen his spirits as he sauntered over towards Professor McGonagall. He was always insufferable after a Slytherin Quidditch victory – especially now that their victory in the Cup race was all but assured, with only lowly Hufflepuff left to beat. Harry did his best to ignore Snape as he casually ribbed McGonagall about her struggling Gryffindor squad.
A third member of the staff walked in moments later: Professor Quirrell, nodding politely at Harry and casting a worried look towards Snape before turning to the back table to pour himself a cup of coffee.Nobody's on to that bastard yet, Harry thought, annoyed.
But that thought caused him to suddenly perk up in his seat. He had suddenly realized that he had a unique opportunity here: he could expose Quirrell with two crucial witnesses, and minimal risk to others in the castle. If Quirrell tried to fight or flee with his secret exposed, Harry had two capable professors to back him up and help subdue the desperate man.
Harry's heart began to hammer as he realized that the moment he'd been waiting for had finally arrived. I'll never get a better opportunity than this, he thought. With a quick glance around at Snape and McGonagall, Harry surreptitiously drew his wand from his robes and waited for an opening. When the other two professors had turned away from him, he made his move. It's now or never.
Harry got to his feet and pointed his wand at Quirrell's turban. "Discorpere," he whispered, using the spell he'd prepared for just this moment. The effect was immediate: the purple folds of the turban began to unravel, falling to the floor in a heap. Quirrell's little yelp of surprise drew Snape and McGonagall's attention, and they joined Harry in watching as the turban fell away and revealed the back of Quirrell's head…
Which was bald and smooth. No Voldemort in sight.
Quirrell spun around in horror, looking down at his turban and back up at Harry, who still had his wand drawn. He spluttered a few times in shock, hastily bending down to gather the fabric up in his hands.
"Potter!" McGonagall gasped. "I never...what on earth—"
"T-t-terribly rude," Quirrell stammered, his hands shaking as he attempted to re-apply the turban on his head. "D-deeply religious meaning...c-can't imagine why you would do such a thing…"
"Allow me, Quirinius," Snape said coolly, waving his wand; Quirrell's turban began to reform atop the man's head, the fabric folding back over itself to regain its old shape. Then Snape rounded on Harry, black eyes boring into his, a murderous expression in his eyes.
"I…" Harry stammered, at a loss for words. "I don't…"
"I cannot even begin to fathom what you were thinking, Potter," Snape said icily. "Even your father would never have pulled such a stunt to humiliate a professor."
"I must agree," said McGonagall, still looking ashen-faced at what she'd just witnessed. "Explain yourself, Potter!"
"I...I'm sorry," Harry said lamely. "I just thought...I was mistaken…" He tried to meet Quirrell's eyes, but the man looked horrified and deeply embarrassed, refusing to even look up at Harry, wringing his hands in the corner.
"Headmaster's office, Potter," Snape spat. "Now."
Harry didn't even think to argue. Shame-faced, he hurried out of the staff room. I'm getting expelled for sure, he thought glumly. There was no possible way he could talk his way out of this one.
But that wasn't even the most pressing issue on his mind. Was Quirrell truly not harboring Voldemort under his turban? Could it be some kind of glamour or illusion, to conceal the fact that he was there? Perhaps Harry should have gone further, attempting to dispel whatever enchantment was keeping the Dark Lord concealed.
Or perhaps Harry had been wrong all along? He still did not know how much was different in this timeline from the last. He was not the Boy Who Lived, for one thing...who's to say Quirrell was not the person responsible for attempting to steal the Stone in this timeline?
It just doesn't make sense, he thought as he headed up the spiral staircase to Dumbledore's office. If it isn't Quirrell, who else could it be? Snape? Earlier in the year he might have suspected Peter Pettigrew, but this was not the same Wormtail he knew in his original timeline – he hadn't betrayed the Potters, hadn't felt pressured into turning to the Dark Lord for protection at the end of the war. Besides, he'd come to trust the man after so many hours spent with him, learning what a decent person he was.
But that didn't matter now. His mind was scrambled, his body still seized up in shame at what had just happened. He entered Dumbledore's office, which was empty, and sank into one of the armchairs to await his fate. Dumbledore was already suspicious of him; surely this would be grounds for his expulsion from the school. There was no way he could excuse what he had done.
Unless he came clean with his secret? Harry was still hesitant to share everything he knew with Dumbledore, not knowing if he could trust the man. Especially if certain things in this timeline were the same as the last – such as the soul fragment in Neville's head – what was Dumbledore capable of if he knew that truth? Would he be willing to sacrifice Neville in order to prevent Voldemort's return? Harry couldn't imagine the guilt he would feel if that came to pass.
As he grappled with this dilemma, he heard a soft trill from across the room. He looked up as Fawkes the phoenix took flight from his perch in the corner and landed upon Harry's shoulder. "Hullo, Fawkes," Harry said, softly stroking the bird's plumage. Fawkes cooed softly at the touch, rubbing his head against Harry's; he was very warm to the touch, but did not burn Harry.
"Fawkes seems to like you," said a voice from behind Harry. He turned to see Professor Dumbledore entering the office, trailed closely by Professors Snape and Flitwick. "Have you met him before?"
"No, sir," Harry said.
"Strange," Dumbledore mused as he took his seat behind the desk. "It's almost as though he's familiar with you already."
"Huh," Harry said absently, unsure of what to say. Fawkes took flight once more and landed on the back of Dumbledore's chair, as the Headmaster opened a small tin of biscuits, tossing one up for the bird before indulging in one himself.
"Professor Snape has informed me of your actions in the staff room," said Dumbledore calmly, looking neutrally down at Harry. "I must say, I am at a loss to understand your intentions."
"As am I, Harry," said Flitwick, looking agitated. "Why would you humiliate Professor Quirrell like this?"
"I…" Harry said, lowering his eyes to the floor in shame. "I have no good reason for it, Headmaster. I am ashamed of my actions."
"It was obviously a juvenile stunt of the sort his father and friends might have pulled back in their day!" Snape spat. "This cannot stand, Headmaster. He must be punished severely for it."
"I agree, Severus, this will not go unpunished," Dumbledore said, waving the irate man off. "But I'm afraid I must insist on an answer, Harry. You did this deliberately and must have had a reason for doing so. Why did you unravel Quirrell's turban, and with such a specific spell designed for only that purpose?"
Harry hesitantly looked up at Dumbledore. At once, he felt a light prod on his senses – a Legilimency probe from the Headmaster. Harry was frozen; he could only stare wide-eyed into those piercing blue eyes as an image shimmered to the surface of his mind. His Occlumency had always been rubbish, and in his agitated state, he was powerless to prevent Dumbledore from seeing the memory from his first timeline, of Quirrell standing before the Mirror of Erised, removing his turban to reveal the visage of Voldemort…
Dumbledore pulled out of Harry's mind with a sharp exhale, looking deeply troubled. "Mr. Potter," he breathed. "Where did you learn of this room? What memory have you just shown me?"
Harry was in turmoil. He absolutely did not want Dumbledore to know his secret, much less Snape, who was looking rapidly between Harry and Dumbledore, curious as to what had just happened. He had to invent something, and fast. Some other excuse…
"I...I had a vision," Harry stammered.
"A vision?" Dumbledore frowned. "What kind of vision?"
"I...was dreaming," Harry said. "And I dreamed that Professor Quirrell was trying to steal something. Something hidden inside the Mirror. And then he removed his turban, and I saw that...that face...it scared me, and I had to check if it wasn't real."
"Such lies!" Snape sneered. "Surely you do not believe him, Headmaster? He is attempting to make excuses for his bullying behavior!"
Dumbledore ignored Snape. "Tell me more about these visions, Harry," he said. "Do you have them often?"
"Sometimes," said Harry, realizing he had to fully commit now. "I had one on Halloween, that Hermione would be attacked by a troll. That's why I followed her and waited outside her bathroom. And another one about Neville over holidays, that he was trapped in that room with the mirror."
"You cannot possibly take this seriously, Dumbledore," said Snape.
"There is no other way he could have known about the room I saw in his memory," Dumbledore muttered, deep in thought. "Or that the Mirror is being used to conceal a valuable object. I have not told another soul of this, not even yourself, Severus."
"Perhaps he has been snooping around the third floor!" Snape offered. "Pettigrew swears he almost caught someone sneaking around the forbidden corridor last term."
"Impossible," Flitwick pitched in. "The defenses are air-tight. We would know if someone had attempted to breach them."
"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded. "When did these visions begin, Harry? Have you had many of them, throughout your life?"
"Erm...only recently," Harry said nervously. "Only a handful of times, every few weeks."
"And do these visions often come true?"
"I...I thought so, until today," Harry said, ashamed. "I thought, if there were witnesses around when I exposed the face on Quirrell's head, someone might believe me." He chanced a glance at Snape as he said this; the man clearly did not believe a word he was saying.
"And did you recognize the face you saw, beneath the turban?" asked Dumbledore.
"I...it looked sorta familiar," Harry shrugged. "Do you know who it was?"
He could tell from the troubled expression on Dumbledore's face that the Headmaster knew exactly who it was. If anyone would have recognized the gnarled visage of Lord Voldemort, it would be him – one of the few men who had glimpsed it and lived to tell the tale. But Dumbledore merely shook his head.
"It is unimportant," Dumbledore muttered. "But I am troubled by these visions you are having, Harry. I must ask that you come to me with such concerns before attempting to take matters into your own hands. Divining the future is an imperfect and ill-understood branch of magic, and must be treated with extreme caution before acting on such visions."
"Come now, Dumbledore, the boy is no Seer!" Snape laughed mirthlessly. "He's a troublemaker trying to wriggle out of trouble!"
"As I have said, Severus, he will not escape punishment," Dumbledore said calmly. "Regardless of your reasoning, Mr. Potter, what you have done is unacceptable treatment of a member of our staff. I expect you to apologize to Professor Quirrell at the next opportunity."
"Yes, sir," Harry said shamefully.
"I think detention will be in order as well," Dumbledore continued. "And a point deduction. What say you, Filius? Is fifty points excessive?"
"It is less than I would have taken from him myself," Flitwick said solemnly, regarding Harry with a look of supreme disappointment.
"Very well then," Dumbledore nodded. "You are dismissed, Harry. And remember to come to me in the future if you have visions of this sort again."
"I will, Headmaster," Harry bowed. And before Snape could protest, he stood from his chair and exited the office as quickly as possible. As soon as the door shut behind him, he could hear Snape's indignant shouts echoing down the stairwell, no doubt still lobbying for Harry's expulsion.
He knew he was about to become a pariah in Ravenclaw once word spread of what he had done and what he'd cost them in the House Cup race. But all he could feel in the moment was relief – Dumbledore had bought his story, at least for now. Though it had been a spur-of-the-moment excuse, it wound up being a perfect cover, allowing him to selectively share information with Dumbledore without necessarily needing to explain how he knew it.
But would Dumbledore insist on looking deeper into these visions? Would he attempt further Legilimency against Harry, exposing more of his secrets than Harry wanted him to know? He needed to solidify his alibi to make sure he had his story straight the next time it came up. He also knew that, as loathe as he was to admit it, he should probably start studying Occlumency to protect himself further. Perhaps without Snape assaulting him, he would have an easier time learning it in this timeline.
"Where have you been?" asked Terry Boot as Harry trudged into the first-year boys' dormitory.
"Dumbledore's office," Harry muttered as he flopped despondently onto his four-poster.
"What were you doing there?" asked Anthony Goldstein, perking up at this news.
"You'll find out tomorrow, I reckon," Harry sighed, before closing the blinds on himself. He would deal with the ire of his peers tomorrow, along with everything else plaguing his future. For now, he wanted nothing more than the blissful nothingness of sleep.
A/N: I'm not going to address every review complaining about the cloak situation, except to say this: Harry is deeply sympathetic with Neville's situation and doesn't want to deprive him of the comforts that he himself enjoyed in his first timeline. That's just the way it's going to be, at least in these early stages of the story...if you're looking for an independent, OP Harry who does whatever he wants, this is not the story for you. And don't forget that there are 6.5 years left to go in this story...this is not the end of the tension over the cloak between Harry/Neville or James/Dumbledore! Trust me, I have plans in place for all of the Hallows, and things aren't as simple as they seem on the surface.
A few people have also pointed out that this isn't a true 'WBWL' fic as Neville is the rightful Boy Who Lived. All I will say in response is, without spoilers, to hold such questions for a few more chapters because this fic has a few unique twists in regards to the prophecy and not everything is identical to Harry's canon timeline. It's still early, folks! I promise I have grand plans in place and I didn't start this fic just to follow all the conventional tropes to a tee. I'll try to get through the first few years quickly so we can get to the good stuff in years 4 and beyond!
