This is the first chapter written fully under my new, self-imposed "Writing Rehabilitation" program. My earlier attempts with this story and You Can Go With Harry to kickstart my writing again were insufficient and stalled after an explosive start, so I have instituted a new regime. As of August 1st, I have set aside the same specific hour every day for writing only, when no other activities will be allowed (with exceptions made for potty emergencies). It has been a smashing success so far, with this chapter and most of the previous chapter being the initial results.
For anyone out there having trouble sticking to a writing schedule, making yourself an ironclad but simple (so as to avoid possibility for loopholes) rule and sticking to it is very helpful. I recommend it.
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
It was decided that Harry would go after Quirrel and Voldemort during the start of term feast in January. That would give him time over break to confirm the presence of the Mirror of Erised. It would also give him a huge audience. Voldemort's greatest asset had always been working out of the shadows; Harry wanted as many people to actually see him as possible. That would be much more effective in the long run than simply the rumors that had spread the first time.
How exactly he was going to do it was another question entirely. Ginny's original suggestion of just going up to him and shaking his hand, while ingenious in its simplicity, wasn't exactly feasible. For one thing, Quirrel would be sitting at the staff table and for another, what convincing reason could he give for wanting the handshake in the first place? The few weeks until the feast gave them some time to come up with a pretense.
The first heavy snow came in the middle of the month. The lake froze over, and Harry nearly died of laughter when the Weasley twins bewitched a pair of snowballs to follow Quirrel around and bounce off the back of his turban. He wished he hadn't forgotten about that image before, but because he hadn't known what was under the turban, it had just been a momentary amusement and not worth remembering. Now though, he was going to carry it to his grave. Every time he thought of what expression Voldemort must be making under there, he burst into wild laughter again. Ron and Hermione were beginning to think he was a bit touched.
The lead up to the Christmas holidays was very festive. The decorations in the Great Hall were just as spectacular as they ever were, and with the exception of Malfoy, who kept loudly mentioning how miserable it must be to have to stay in the castle over the holidays, everyone was in a cheerful mood. Though perhaps that would be considered cheerful for Malfoy.
Harry distinctly remembered spending a lot of his first Christmas season at Hogwarts in the library looking for Nicolas Flamel in an effort to find out what Fluffy was guarding, and looking back he couldn't think what exactly had compelled him to do it. All he'd known (or thought he'd known, anyway) at that point was that Dumbledore was hiding something at the school and someone, probably Snape, was trying to steal it. Unlike so many of his other misadventures at Hogwarts over the years, he didn't have any personal stake in the matter (that he knew of), unless he counted being angry at Snape for trying to kill him.
He brought this line of thought up to Ginny one night and she teased him about being nosy. Then she said it was simply an early sign that he was destined to be an auror; he just couldn't resist a good mystery.
When people left to go home for Christmas, the castle became very quiet. Harry and Ron spent a lot of time in the common room. Stephen Cornfoot and Natalie Moon had both gone home, so there was only each other if they wanted to play chess. Harry realized he still hadn't gotten around to getting a set of his own. He didn't even remember where he'd gotten the set he owned in his adult life, only that he'd had it for years. He'd need to get one soon. It was hardly a pressing concern, but as Harry had long been resigned to the fact that he was clearly going to be stuck here for a long time, he reasoned he might as well start making the best of it.
Christmas morning came and with it, presents. Harry had to turn away from Ron when he opened his very first Weasley jumper, since it nearly made him tear up. Biting into Mrs Weasley's homemade fudge actually did.
It hadn't really hit him until that moment just how much he missed his family – for the Weasleys were his family; there was no question. It had always been a dull, ever-present ache in his chest and one of the principal complaints he had regarding his situation, but now the full weight of their lack came crashing down upon him. Even though they were here – he saw Ron and the twins every day, after all – they weren't really here. These Weasleys were not the family he knew; they were different versions of the same people. They were not and would never be the Weasleys he remembered. Nor would his friends. None of the experiences and shared memories that made them the people they were – the people Harry loved – would ever happen.
That was a good thing, he reminded himself. So many of those experiences were terrible. He was sparing them all from years of pain and fear and grief. And he could make friends with them all again, of course he could. He'd already begun. But even once he did, the versions of them that Harry had first grown up with – the people that had truly been his first family – would still be gone forever. Only Ginny was left to him, and she'd lost all the same people he had.
'You all right, mate?' Ron asked. It was not possible, after all, to completely hide such an overwhelming outpouring of emotion. Harry did his best to play it off.
'Yeah,' he said, grinning through the wetness on his cheeks. He put on his new jumper and used the few seconds it took to compose himself. 'I've just never really gotten any presents before,' he explained, though of course Ron already knowing this was the reason for these presents in the first place. 'It means a lot, that's all.'
'Don't worry about it,' Ron said, his ears going pink. 'Mum was happy to do it, I guarantee you.' Harry, who knew this to be true, smiled genuinely.
'What's that one?' Ron asked, pointing to a small package Harry had yet to open. All the emotion his gift from Mrs Weasley had raised had caused him to forget for a moment, but now his mind was back on track. Now that this was finally in his possession again, the time for action was drawing near.
'Dunno,' he lied. 'Let's find out.'
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
Christmas day had been a largely enjoyable affair. For the first time, Harry allowed himself to enjoy his situation; there really was nothing like Christmas as a child, so why not have fun when given the chance?
He received a wizard chess set when George got one out of a cracker and traded him for a grow your own warts kit. He and the Weasleys had a proper snowball fight on the grounds, and he ate until he nearly burst.
That night, his brief bit of indulgence over with, it was time to get back to business and put his cloak to work. As soon as everyone was asleep, he sneaked out of Gryffindor Tower and went in search of the Mirror of Erised.
He didn't remember exactly where it was, but he had a fair idea which part of the castle it was in, and all the time in the world to look for it. It felt good to have his cloak back; much like his wand, it had felt like a part of him had been missing ever since he'd woken up in that cupboard six months ago.
He started on the fourth floor, since he knew for certain it hadn't been on the ground floor or the seventh, and was reasonably sure it hadn't been the first or the sixth, either. He'd start in the middle and work his way out.
Not for the first time (and surely not the last, he thought), Harry found himself wishing he had a pensieve. He could remember so few details from his first year outside of a few major events. He had a clear image in his mind of what the room with the mirror looked like from the inside, but the route he'd taken to get there was only bits and pieces. He remembered that he'd initially been in the library, but that wasn't much help, and he seemed to recall using a suit of armor as a landmark. That was slightly more useful, since even though there were suits of armor all over the castle, they weren't all next to classroom doors, and he could eliminate any rooms that weren't next to one.
Finally, after an hour and a half of searching, he found it. He might have been quicker if he hadn't encountered both Filch and Mrs Norris prowling the corridors, and had to wait patiently for them to move along.
The mirror was just standing there, exactly as he remembered it. He knew it would be, but the auror in him refused to leave anything to chance. He would come back every night to check on it until it was gone, at which point he would know it had been moved to its proper place, and that the Philosopher's Stone was safely ensconced within it.
He was about to turn and leave when he was struck with a mad surge of curiosity. What would he see if he were to look into it? He knew what he thought he'd see: himself and Ginny, returned to their adult lives, perhaps surrounded by their friends and family. But what if it was something else? An opportunity for self-reflection with such clarity as this didn't come along every day; it would be a shame not to take advantage of it. Just a peek, then.
He walked quietly over to the mirror, not bothering to take off the cloak, since the mirror didn't reflect his physical form anyway. Just before he got to it, he remembered some of what Dumbledore had said to him on his third visit to the mirror, and he wondered if the old Headmaster was present at that very moment, observing him. He was half tempted to cast homenim revelio, but Dumbledore of all people would be able to detect such a thing and would definitely want to know where he had learned it.
It then occurred to him that Dumbledore may well have meant for him to find this mirror. Why else leave it lying around where anyone could stumble on it? Why else leave it – the keystone to the entire series of enchantments guarding the Stone – out of the gauntlet until after Christmas, right when he, Harry, had just been gifted a remarkably useful invisibility cloak?
It was all circumstantial evidence and supposition, true, but Harry had a strong gut feeling about it, and he had learned to trust such instincts. Besides, it was just the sort of mad thing Dumbledore was prone to do. If that were the case, he probably was in the room. Wily old bastard.
That changed his plans somewhat, and Harry was now regretting his impulsive decision to have a look in the mirror, but he'd already committed, so there was no sense putting it off any longer. He stepped in front of the mirror and gasped. Even though he'd mentally prepared himself, the image that presented itself to him was shocking and heart-wrenching at the same time. He did indeed see himself and Ginny as adults, and they were surrounded by the entire Weasley family as they had been in his old life – the way he would never see them again. But Fred was with them, older than he ever had been, and his own mother and father as well. Remus and Tonks stood among them with baby Teddy and adult Ginny was pregnant; they were starting their own family. Lily and Mrs Weasley were looking at he and Ginny with loving fondness, and James, Sirius, and Mr Weasley were laughing together about something. It was an impossible scene – a scene showing his full and complete family as it might have been if not for the actions of a madman.
A hitch in his throat pulled him back to the moment. It would not do to lose himself in this image as he had when he was a child. He had satisfied his curiosity (though he now wished he'd left well enough alone); it was time to go.
Making sure the cloak was tight around him, he crept to the door and slipped out into the corridor. If Dumbledore had been watching, he would surely be wondering what Harry had seen to make him leave so quickly. For a brief moment he panicked and wondered if Dumbledore would know what he had seen, but then remembered that was impossible. For one thing, the mirror only worked properly if looked into directly, and for another, it only showed one's own desires, not someone else's. There was no way for Dumbledore to know Harry's deepest desire, and if he were to guess, he would likely guess the desire of Harry's eleven year-old self.
Harry chuckled at the thought. It really hadn't changed at all, save for a few altered details. There's something to be said for consistency, he mused, making his way back to the Gryffindor common room. Twelve years later, I still want exactly the same thing.
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
Harry briefly considered bringing Ron with him the second night to view the mirror as he had the first time, but decided there was no real point to it. Ron seeing the mirror had no effect on his plan one way or the other, and truthfully he'd rather keep his friends as far removed from anything Voldemort-related as possible.
He arrived at the room with the mirror quickly the second night. The problem he now face was that rather than simply checking if it was still there as he had originally planned, he would have to go in and look at it again under the assumption that Dumbledore was watching. He spent the better part of an hour sitting in front of it, though for most of that time he was not actually looking; as he was under the invisibility cloak, Dumbledore wouldn't know the difference.
The third night, Dumbledore spoke to him. That seemed to match with what he remembered, and he was relieved that this charade would finally be over with and he could move on with his plans.
'So, back again, Harry?'
'I didn't see you, sir,' he said, doing his best to sound like a contrite first year out of bounds at night addressing the headmaster. He wasn't sure he sold it, but Dumbledore was smiling anyway.
'Strange how short-sighted being invisible can make you,' the old wizard said. 'So,' he went on, slipping off the desk he'd been sitting on and coming to sit on the floor with Harry. 'You, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.' The young auror recognized the technique, as he'd used it more than once himself; getting on a child's level put them at ease and made them more receptive to speaking openly. He wished they could just get some chairs and have a normal adult conversation.
'The Mirror of Erised, sir?' he repeated, feigning ignorance. Talking to Dumbledore could prove just as precarious as talking to Voldemort; the old man picked up on the tiniest of details and was likely just as skilled at sniffing out lies, even without legilimency. Harry's only card to play was that the headmaster had no reason whatsoever to suspect he was speaking to an adult mind in a child's body.
'Yes. A very old artefact of some renown. I expect by now you have an inkling of what it does?'
'Well, it shows me with my family,' Harry answered honestly.
'Does it?' Dumbledore replied, sounding intrigued. 'Yes, I suppose it would.'
'It doesn't work that way for everyone, sir?'
'Not everyone,' Dumbledore acknowledged, and Harry knew at once what he was thinking about, and what the mirror showed him. 'Your friend Ronald, for instance, is not likely to see his family in it.'
'Is that because he can see them whenever he wants?'
'Yes indeed, though I confess it felt insensitive to say so.'
'So...' said Harry, pretending to think, 'it shows us what we want?'
'Yes and no,' Dumbledore said. 'It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never known your family, see them standing around you. A man imprisoned would likely see himself free. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.'
Harry was grateful for this advice. Not in the present, but from twelve years prior, for it was the memory of that advice that had kept him from losing himself in the mirror this second time, with the longing being so much more powerful than it had been back then.
'The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable Cloak back on and get off to bed?'
Harry thanked the headmaster and left, the old wizard's words ringing in his ears. He had confirmed what Harry wanted to know, that the Stone would be hidden away in the Mirror no later than tomorrow night. But he had also said something else – something Harry had heard before but had never thought to apply to his current situation. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Since he had woken up in the cupboard under the stairs on Dudley's birthday, Harry had thought of almost nothing except how to get back to his own time. His own life. He and Ginny had made plans to arrange things to their favor in the event they were forced to stay, but he had merely been going through the motions in implementing them.
For the first time, Harry allowed himself to truly accept the idea that he really was stuck here, and there was no way to get back. That didn't mean he would stop looking for a way, but he couldn't let it keep consuming him. His amnesia journal was full of examples of his brain trying to tell him that it was burning itself out. What was the point, after all, of becoming a child again if you didn't at least occasionally allow yourself to be a child again?
When he returned to Gryffindor Tower, he stopped and inhaled the familiar warm scent deeply and looked around. This was one of his favorite places in the world, and he hadn't once taken a single moment to truly enjoy being in it since his arrival. There was so much here that he missed after leaving school: the armchairs by the fire, the long, comfortable couches, the bay windows overlooking the grounds and the way they filled with stars on clear nights like tonight.
The red and gold color scheme made the whole room cozy and inviting. And there were so many memories. The tables, with their years of exploding snap and chess games. The area near the back by the twin spiral staircases with its smoothed stone floor that had always been the agreed upon area for playing Gobstones. Sirius had appeared in that very fireplace on multiple occasions. And of course there was the lush red carpet just inside the portrait hole, where he had shared his first kiss with Ginny, with the whole house looking on.
It was that very carpet on which he now stood, taking in his surroundings as this flood of happy memories came back to him. Would he still feel the same about this place in seven years if he was constantly resistant to the thought of making any new ones?
Harry headed upstairs to talk to Ginny. He had to tell her the next step of the plan was now in motion, but more than that he just wanted see her face and hear her voice, and share these good feelings with her.
On the way to the boys' staircase, he pulled his amnesia journal out of his pocket and tossed it into the fire.
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
The start of term feasts after New Year's and Easter were typically smaller affairs compared to the beginning of the year, since they followed so closely after their respective holiday feasts. Still, they included the whole school and did possess a somewhat festive atmosphere, even if somewhat dampened by the disappointment felt by so many students of being back in school.
The important thing was that they were attended by the entire student body and every member of staff, including the headmaster. At no other time until Easter would everyone in the school be assembled all at once, nor would Harry have any guarantee of Dumbledore's presence. Harry sat, unenthusiastically chewing on some roast beef, watching the staff table out of the corner of his eye. Quirrell was sitting there next to Snape as always, though neither of them were talking much. Snape wore his usual dour expression, and Harry jerked his eyes away quickly lest the Potions master notice him looking.
The logistics of what he was about to do were still a bit fuzzy, despite he and Ginny going over them for several weeks, trying to iron out the details. He didn't expect it to be difficult to find a pretense to come in contact with Quirrell if he could manage to get close enough to him; the problem was that he had no reason to approach the staff table, and Quirrell had no reason to leave it. In the end they had landed on the idea of creating a distraction, for which he would need the help of Fred and George. Since coming to them with the plan beforehand would have been suspicious, he was going to try and nudge them into it, so to speak. Knowing the twins, it wouldn't take much nudging.
Steeling himself for a spectacle that could very easily go wrong, he took a swig of pumpkin juice and reached into his pocket for his wand.
He knew something was wrong almost immediately. Right as he swallowed the juice, his throat began burning and he felt like he had the worst fever of his life. His muscles started to seize and he fell backward out of his seat. People screamed and recoiled away from him, then some came back in to look down at him, panic on their faces. He could vaguely make out many of them calling his name, but already his vision was blurring out and it was becoming harder to breathe.
If his hand hadn't already been in his pocket, he would never have made it. As it was, during one of his convulsions, his fingers closed around the wrinkly little object, and though controlling his movements was now something of a herculean task, he somehow managed to get it to his mouth just as he was blacking out.
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
When he awoke, he was still on his back, and from the feel of the stone floor, he hadn't been moved from the Great Hall. It must have only been a short time, then. He cursed himself for being caught off-guard a second time. Of course Quirrell and Voldemort would try to kill him again after being so openly repelled in their first attempt. What shocked him was their nerve at trying it right under Dumbledore's nose. Or maybe that was their idea – to draw out Harry's mysterious protector.
If that were the case, Harry may have just tipped his hand. He had carried a bezoar on him at all times ever since Ron had been poisoned by Malfoy in their sixth year. He'd purchased one in Diagon Alley during his school shopping as soon as he'd had the chance. He'd have to nick one from Snape's classroom now to replace it. Still, if it was a choice between giving himself away or dying, there was no real choice at all. The only question remaining was what would happen now.
His other senses started returning and he could hear a great collection of murmuring, and he knew the entire Great Hall would be crowded around him, talking about what had just taken place. Many would be afraid, others worried, and some merely curious. He could hear a few distinct voices from almost directly above him.
'He seems to be all right,' Dumbledore was saying. 'Though I must say, he was very fortunate indeed. What do you make of it, Severus?'
'Undoubtedly poison,' came Snape's voice, calm and cold as ever. 'And a powerful, fast-acting one at that. Were it not for the bezoar...'
'Why did he have one of those?' McGonagall interrupted.
'He – he bought it, professor,' explained Hagrid's voice. He sounded out of breath, as though he'd just been through a terrible ordeal. Harry supposed he had. 'When we were in the apothecary gettin' his school supplies. He saw them and asked the shopkeeper what they were. Laughed and bought one. "Just in case," he said.'
'That explains much,' Snape said, and Harry understood he meant the impromptu pop quiz he'd endured during his first Potions lesson. Fine, let him think that. At this point Harry was finally able to open his eyes, and he did so the tiniest amount, so as not to let anyone notice. The teachers he'd heard speaking were all gathered around him, but he couldn't see anyone else. He could only assume the remaining staff were engaged in keeping the rest of the students back.
'Indeed,' agreed Dumbledore. 'He was most fortunate to have kept it on his person. Quirinus, Severus, would you mind checking him for any residual ill effects before we move him to the hospital wing?'
'Of c-c-c-course,' said Quirrell. Snape merely nodded. They leaned down over him. Harry's brain finally kicked back into gear. This was probably the best chance he would ever get. He waited until Quirrell was close enough. Then he made a great show of returning to consciousness: he gasped loudly as his eyes shot open and he sat up rapidly, grasping the first thing that came within reach, which just happened to be Quirrell's wrist.
Pain such as he hadn't felt in over five years ripped through his forehead. He let out a great scream, but that was nothing compared to the horrific sound coming from Quirrell. A howl of pure, unceasing agony was bellowing from the defense teacher's throat. Around him there was pandemonium. Snape had recoiled and many people had shrieked, which quickly transformed in a cacophony of crying and cursing and screaming. Teachers were yelling for everyone to stay back, and Dumbledore had come forward to try to pull the two of them apart.
Not yet, Harry thought, instinctively gripping Quirrell's wrist tighter, despite the pain. Don't pull us apart yet. I have to drive him out.
'Master!' Quirrell screamed in pain. 'Master, help me! The pain! It burns! Help me, please!' His stammer was noticeably gone. However after that, his screams became more pronounced and he seemed to lose the ability to speak at all.
A horrified cry reverberated through the Great Hall. Harry would later learn that at that moment, Quirrell's turban had unraveled and fallen off, revealing what was underneath. He was about to black out a second time when Dumbledore was finally successful in wrenching the now horribly burned and blistered wrist from his ironclad grip.
Harry struggled to maintain consciousness as around him students continued to scream in horror. He caught a brief glimpse Quirrell lying on the floor, huddled and sobbing and...smoldering? That was extremely unsettling, but nothing compared to what happened next. A smoky, half-formed figure emerged from the former professor's crumpled form. The closest thing Harry knew of to compare it to was a ghost, but that wasn't quite right. It more resembled the banshee he had once seen Seamus's boggart become, though with less defined features.
This wisp, which Harry understood to be the part of Voldemort's soul that remained to him, flew off faster than Dumbledore could draw his wand on it, preoccupied as he was with Harry.
'Minerva!' the headmaster shouted. 'Return all students to their dormitories immediately. Tell them I will be coming to speak to them personally to explain what has happened here. Hagrid, could you please take Professor Quirrell to the hospital wing? It is possible we might still be able to save him. Severus, when you have made sure your students are safe, please come and join us.'
With that, he was off, levitating Harry on a stretcher ahead of him as he strode quickly toward this hospital wing. Behind them, Professor McGonagall and the rest of the staff were valiantly attempting to corral the chaos.
'I can walk, sir,' Harry said weakly. More out of habit than anything. Even after all these years, he didn't like feeling or appearing vulnerable.
'I confess I do not share your confidence on the matter, Harry,' Dumbledore said. 'Please indulge an old man his concerns.'
Harry said nothing further, knowing not only that it would be pointless, but that Dumbledore was probably right anyway.
'What...what happened, sir?' he managed to ask. It was a fair question. He wasn't entirely sure himself, though it looked as though Voldemort had gotten away.
'That is an excellent question, Harry, and one to which I hope we will possess an answer before the evening is over. In the interim, I'm afraid I must ask that you rest.'
It was amazing, marveled Harry, just how non-patronizingly Dumbledore could say what essentially amounted to, 'Sshh, be quiet.'
They arrived in the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey of course insisted he be placed on a bed at once. Harry expected there would be a lot of fussing, during which he was hoping to catch chunks of Dumbledore's discussions with the other members of staff, but he would never find out because despite himself, the moment his head hit that soft, inviting pillow, he drifted off to sleep. His fight with Quirrell and Voldemort had taken more out of him than he'd thought.
When Harry again awoke, it was dark, and the hospital wing was empty. Remembering Dumbledore's instructions to Hagrid from earlier, he assumed that could only mean that Quirrell had once again not survived their encounter. He pitied the man, who despite being foolish enough to trust Voldemort, and selfish enough to be taken in by his promises of wealth and power, did not deserve such a grisly fate.
On the other hand, this meant that his and Ginny's plan had been a success, albeit not at all in the way they had planned it. Did that actually count as a success? He supposed it must; it certainly wasn't the first time he'd completely stumbled his way to victory through sheer dumb luck.
What would he do with the rest of the year now? They had made contingencies that would no longer be necessary, including planning what to do about Hagrid's dragon, which would now also not be an issue, since Quirrell would not be there to give it to him.
Harry chuckled to himself. It had taken being thrown back in time for him to finally get to have a school year with nothing dangerous remaining for the majority of it. Would he perhaps finally see what a normal school experience was supposed to be like?
'Ah, awake, Harry?' called Dumbledore's voice from across the room as the old wizard exited Madam Pomfrey's office. The matron scurried along behind him. 'No doubt Madam Pomfrey will be anxious to look over you before we speak. I shall wait here.' He pulled up a chair and grabbed a magazine off one of the small tables placed against the wall. Those had to have been there for decades; even Dumbledore, who rarely had reason to be in here, must have read them all dozens of times.
Madam Pomfrey gave him a thorough examination, tutted a few times, and gave him a minty flavored potion, the purpose of which she did not divulge. It for once did not taste horrible though, and made him feel a bit more energized, so he drank it without complaint. Finally she deemed him well enough to endure a conversation with the headmaster, though she made it clear that in her opinion he really ought rather be resting.
'Only as long as absolutely necessary, Poppy,' Dumbledore promised her, and she headed back to her office.
'You have had quite an ordeal, Harry,' Dumbledore said, moving now to sit next to his bed. 'I daresay more than I hope most first year students will ever have to endure. Poisoned and attacked on the same night!'
'Attacked, sir?' The confusion in his voice was not feigned; that was a strange way of putting it.
'Well, not in the traditional sense of the word, I suppose,' Dumbledore said. 'But we can concern ourselves with semantics another time, I think. For the time being, I am hoping that if the two of us pool our knowledge, we may both come to understand exactly what happened this evening.'
I let my guard down and almost got poisoned to death, Harry thought. Aloud, he said, 'All right, sir.'
'Let us start with the beginning, then,' Dumbledore said. 'As I'm sure you are aware, your pumpkin juice had been poisoned.'
'Yes, I noticed, sir,' Harry said, though not harshly. He had learned that keeping a sense of humor about this sort of thing helped keep from getting overwhelmed by it all.
'Quite,' answered Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. 'The poison itself was rather sophisticated. Professor Snape is still analyzing it, though I think there can be little doubt about who placed it there.'
'Quirrell, sir?'
'I'm afraid so. It appears poor Professor Quirrell allowed himself to be swayed and even possessed by none other than Lord Voldemort.'
'Sir?'
'It is a long story, Harry, but suffice to say that Quirrell was sharing his body with what remains of the essence of Lord Voldemort. How and why this came to be we may never know, since as soon as it became clear he was exposed, Voldemort fled, leaving his erstwhile host to die. He shows as little pity to his servants as to his enemies, I'm afraid.'
'Quirrell is dead, sir? What happened?' this part he already knew of course, but he had to keep up the act. Perhaps even more than that, he wanted to see what Dumbledore would say.
'Alas, it is hard to say for certain, Harry. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that it was your mother who drove Voldemort away this night.'
'My mother, sir?'
'Yes. You see, the night Voldemort came to kill you so many years ago, your mother gave her life to save you. Such an act of love can leave a very powerful mark that lives on in you, including in your skin. Possessed as he was by Voldemort, who has never been able to comprehend love or its power, poor Quirrell could not bear to touch you.'
'My scar really hurt when I touched him,' Harry said. He was being rather bold now, practically daring Dumbledore to tell him the full truth. Then again, he wondered if the old wizard even knew the full truth at this point.
'As to that, we can only make more guesses,' Dumbledore said. 'We seem to be doing a lot of that, but each guess has the power to lead us closer to the truth. I suspect that when Voldemort tried and failed to kill you, he left an imprint of his power upon you. It was likely this residual impression, combined with your close proximity to Voldemort – who after all was experiencing intense suffering – was what caused your pain. What I would like to know is, with the pain you were no doubt enduring as well as inflicting, why did you not let go?'
'I couldn't,' Harry said simply. It was true, if not for the reason that he was hoping Dumbledore would infer.
'Ah,' the headmaster said. 'How very curious. When I first tried to separate you, you seized up and your grip tightened. At first I thought it might be leftover effects of the poison, though you did seem sufficiently recovered from it at that point. You showed remarkable presence of mind, Harry, to swallow that bezoar. As much as it pains me to say it, we may have been too late to save you had you not done so.'
'It was like instinct,' Harry said, and that much was true. Like his Quidditch maneuver, it was instinct honed by years of training and experience, but instinct nonetheless. 'My hand was already in my pocket, and closed around the bezoar. I remembered what it was and tried to put it in my mouth. I didn't actually think I'd manage it.'
'Your instincts serve you very well,' Dumbledore said. 'I would advise you to continue to trust them. However, there is more that I must tell you. This was not the first attempt on your life this year. Professor Snape informed me that someone attempted to jinx your broom at the first Quidditch match. We can assume it was Quirrell of course, though it would be wise to consider that he may have had an accomplice.'
'I'm pretty sure it was him,' Harry said. 'He kept me after class one day and told me about it.'
'Indeed?' Harry could tell this was new information to Dumbledore. 'What else did he say?'
'That someone cast a protection spell on my broom. He thought I asked somebody to do it for me, and asked who that was.'
'That is very valuable information indeed,' said Dumbledore. 'That he knew about both the jinx and the protection spells indicates that he was, indeed, the culprit behind the attack. It sounds to me like he was trying to discover whom you trusted to help you.'
'Was it you, sir?'
'I wish I could say it was, Harry, but I had no reason to believe such precautions would be necessary. More fool I, it would seem. Professor Snape was preparing to perform a counterjinx when he realized what was happening, but the protection charms held and it was not necessary. It would seem you have found yourself a secret benefactor.'
'I won't complain,' said Harry. 'But wait, Snape tried to save me?' The question was unnecessary, but Harry judged it would be strange for his eleven year-old self not to ask it.
'Professor Snape, Harry,' Dumbledore corrected as always. 'He was prepared to, yes.'
'I always thought he hated me.'
'Professor Snape is, I will admit, not always the easiest person to get along with,' Dumbledore said. Harry was shocked; that was the most critical thing about Snape that Dumbledore had ever said to him. 'However, I can assure you that he neither hates you nor wishes you harm.'
Well, at least one of those is true, thought Harry. He probably should have just let it go, but even understanding it more as he did, Snape's vindictiveness still bothered him. And if he had to put up with it, he wasn't going to let Dumbledore off the hook about it.
'I don't mean to be rude, sir,' he said, 'and I believe you that he doesn't want to hurt me, but...' he let the obvious implication hang. Dumbledore sighed, a deep and tired sound.
'You have no doubt heard, Harry, that you bear a striking resemblance to your father.' Harry nodded, and Dumbledore went on. 'In most cases that would work to your favor; your father was a good man, and well-liked. Professor Snape, however, remembers him differently. The two of them never exactly saw eye to eye. They were very often at odds, not unlike yourself and Mr Malfoy. It is unfortunate that you remind Professor Snape so much of your father; it likely brings back a number of very unpleasant memories.'
'But that wasn't me!' Harry insisted, realizing he was having an argument he'd wanted to have for over a dozen years. It felt good to vent his frustrations, even if it wasn't to the person he really wanted to say it all to. 'Just because I look like my dad doesn't mean I'm anything like him, and even if I am, none of those bad memories are actually about me! He should - ', he stopped. He had almost said, 'He should grow up,' but thought that might be pushing his luck, even with Dumbledore.
'You are not wrong, Harry,' Dumbledore said. 'However our emotions are not always under our complete control, as I'm sure you must know. Professor Snape is human, after all, and as such is susceptible to the same weaknesses and failings as the rest of us. I will, if you like, speak with him on the matter.'
Harry was surprised. To his best recollection, Dumbledore had never offered to directly intervene between him and Snape before. He was about to jump at the offer, but then he imagined how Snape would react. He would see it as Harry (James) whinging to an authority, and that authority subsequently siding with Harry (James). If anything, it was likely to make his sense of unfairness even more pronounced, and his attempts to get back at Harry even more underhanded.
If Hogwarts were a normal school, he could likely complain enough to get Snape sacked, and rightly so. However, unpleasant as he may be, Harry understood the importance of Snape's presence, and wouldn't want him gone even if Dumbledore would ever actually consider it.
'I...er, thank you, sir,' he said finally, 'but I don't think you need to. I mean, it's not as if he's tried to kill me or anything.'
Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling. Harry was fairly certain he had a good idea how Snape would have reacted, too.
'Very well, I shall say nothing for the time being,' he said. 'If you change your mind, you can always tell me.' He was making it clear he was prepared to step in if Snape ever took his vendetta too far, which was the least he could do, Harry supposed. He nodded.
'With that, I think you ought to rest. I did promise Madam Pomfrey our discussion would be brief, after all. No doubt your friends will be anxious to see you in the morning. It would not do to keep them waiting.' He got up to leave, and Madam Pomfrey came back in to give him one final check before insisting he go to sleep. It was only after they had both gone, and he was left lying in the dark hospital wing alone, that Harry remembered with a jolt that he had completely forgotten to verify the status of the Philosopher's Stone, and that he now had no justifiable means of doing so.
It wasn't for several more hours that he finally found sleep.
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This chapter came out all right, I think. There was probably a bit more rambling than was absolutely necessary, and some decent revision probably would have cleared most of it out. However, as part of my Writing Rehabilitation, I'm trying to rid myself of the habit of compulsive over-revision, so I'm not allowing myself more than a single once-over of any given chapter. In the short term that means things will definitely be less polished, for which I apologize, but in the long term I think it will help my process a lot.
As will your feedback, so please keep it coming. Thanks for reading.