Chapter 11: Allies
On the surface, nothing changes after Halloween. To Harry, who drifts from one class to the next and tries to blend in a bit more with his peers now Voldemort has left, having fewer reasons to stick out, it feels odd.
Life in Hogwarts continues as before even though he knows with certainty that beyond the castle's walls, the Dark Lord will quickly rise to power. And yet, instead of the hushed and fearful speculations or loud denials he recalls from his fifth year at Hogwarts after Voldemort's return, the topic of the week is something entirely banal: the upcoming first Quidditch match of the season. One in which he is obviously not participating: Harry hasn't become the youngest seeker in a century this time around due to a waterfall of circumstances, starting with Neville's grandmother not sending a Remembrall as his parents are in charge of the boy and ending with Harry wishing to stand out academically, not by being granted privileges that will turn half of Slytherin against him.
''Are you sure you want to go?'' Hermione repeats for the fifth time. ''The weather isn't stellar and the library will be so empty today…'' she hints. Harry insists nonetheless, missing the sport even if he hasn't made the team this year.
Unfortunately, the match isn't quite like the ones he went to see with his godfathers over the past decade, nor at all how he recalls this particular game to have gone. Sure, Wood keeps most Quaffles out of the Gryffindor hoops and the Weasley Twins are masterful as always with their teamwork, but the snitch is caught within the hour – and not by the Gryffindor Seeker, who zigzagged around looking lost at the other side of the field. Right, there'd been a valid reason why McGonagall had put Harry on the team despite being a first year. Flying skills notwithstanding, she'd never have done so had there been a competent Seeker he would have replaced.
Rather disappointed about Gryffindor's chances of winning this year – and perhaps feeling a tiny bit of misplaced guilt knowing full well he could have prevented it, had he found another elaborate way to make McGonagall aware of his one true talent - he takes up Hermione's offer during the second Quidditch match of the season at the end of the November. While Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw battle it out in the biting cold, the two of them have the library practically to themselves.
Well, themselves and the always-present Quirrell watching from a distance. Not much has changed about the Death Eater's demeanour. He still plays his role to a T, continuing the stuttering and nervous ticks to not appear intimidating in any way. Only one change to his style stands out, as Quirrell now won't be seen without a pair of gloves. It isn't uncommon for adults to wear such accessories however – Flitwick wears a pair all the time, as well as Professor Vector with her long velvet opera gloves – so it doesn't catch anyone's attention but Harry's, who is starkly aware of the reason behind that particular fashion choice. He only remarked on it once, when joking that Quirrell needs to protect his hands from Nagini more than curious eyes now Voldemort doesn't control her every move.
Despite finding himself to be missing Voldemort of all stupid things, Harry is relieved to find the lack of constant supervision eases conversation with the librarian. They meet in the man's office on a more regular basis than is strictly professional, to catch up over tea. During those visits, Harry keeps both his promise of entertaining the hidden serpent until Voldemort can pick her up, as well as the one of elaborating on Muggle technology and possible progress. His hated summers at the Dursleys and Dudley's obsession with always getting his hands on the newest of the new gadgets finally have some use. Quirrell is meticulous in taking notes and thankfully always finds the right questions that enable Harry to form a coherent story, as it is difficult to describe the entire topic off the bat.
''Hey,'' his friend speaks up, nudging his arm. ''You're staring this time. Intended or not, be a little bit more subtle, okay?''
''There's literally no-one here, Mione. And he isn't- well, it's not really-'' Harry breaks off, grimacing upon realising he never kept one of the promises made to himself: to be honest to his friend once deciding where he and Voldemort stand. ''I need to tell you something important,'' he finally decides. ''But not here.'' It is telling that the girl interrupts her own homework midway, closing the book she's been reading within seconds.
''Dorms?''
''Somewhere in that direction,'' he answers, wanting the full splendour of the Room of Requirement to be a surprise. By the awed look on her face some twenty minutes later as they walk through the door that appeared at his request, he achieved the desired result. He hasn't visited this place since picking up the Diadem from the room of Lost and Found, having had no need for a secret base before. He didn't request that particular room this time, knowing Hermione would be far too distracted by the piles of fascinating lost tomes, instead revisiting another room dear to his heart: the large space the D. A. had used to train away from Umbridge's prying eyes. It's an incredibly handy spot immune to eavesdropping.
Letting himself fall on a pile of familiar soft beanbags in the corner, Harry allows himself to relax. Being the first one to introduce Hermione to the Wizarding world and being so honest up front forged a bond of trust he'd only had with his friends much, much later in his first life. This Hermione heavily relies on his opinions and choices, with all the eagerness of an eleven-year-old child yearning for a place to belong.
''What is this… important information?'' she breathlessly asks, eyes wide and filled with impatience as she sits opposite him.
Leaning forward and clasping his hands together, Harry starts: ''On the day we met at Wool's, I told you where I really came from. A dimension where nothing turned out the way I - we – had hoped. That we fought a war on the wrong side, leading to our demise.''
''You tried to prevent it,'' Hermione recalls. ''By going back in time. But you also said that- that it didn't work correctly because you ended up here instead. Where everything is different.''
''Not everything. Too much is the same to simply hope that the fate that befell our people will be prevented on its own. I had good reasons to hide my true identity even from some of the people I love, like my godfathers. I didn't come to Hogwarts simply to enjoy a second, peaceful life. I came with a mission… to save this world from the same fate as the one I left behind.''
She is silent for a while, forehead creased and lips puckered. ''You also said-'' she hesitantly continues, taking a shallow breath. ''That the only man who could have saved us was dead. Did you come back to find him?''
Hitting the nail right on the head as usual.
''I did. In fact, I already found him. Hermione… how much have you read of the latest Wizarding war?''
As soon as he voices that question, he can see the cogs in her head turning. ''A fair bit...'' she admits, then shifts uncomfortably. ''It ended when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named failed to kill you. But surely you cannot mean him, not if he is already gone. Wait- Harry, you never mentioned at which point you returned. Did this happen before as well, or did you purposefully kill You-Know-Who?''
Alright, perhaps she's asking the right questions a bit too fast.
''I did not kill him that Halloween night. Not last time, not this time,'' he clarifies. ''Lord Voldemort ensured he can live longer than any other person has accomplished so far. His body was destroyed, yet his spirit lived on. Weakened and in search of a new body, but alive. In my old life, this came as a huge shock and was the cause for some… traumatising experiences. Having failed to kill me once, Voldemort made it his mission to hunt me down, and in turn, I too took up the task of ridding the world of him for good. A long and arduous process that cost many lives of those I loved.
I'll spare you the details, but after he revived, during the short span of time he managed to seize control of the Ministry, we lived in a state of utter tyranny. One we were all relieved to see come to an end when he finally lost for good. And yet…'' Subconsciously, Harry hunches over, hugs himself to combat the waves of upwelling grief. ''For all the horrors Voldemort inflicted, his rule was better than what came after. And without him… We stood no chance. I came back-'' he takes a deep gulp of air when realising how much he pressed out of his lungs ''-I came back to beg for his aid, no matter the cost.''
A torturous minute of silence is finally broken by Hermione's hushed voice: ''Then why destroy his body again? If you need his help?''
''The marks,'' he grimly answers, cancelling the disillusionment charm on his hand to show her the eye once more. ''The moment I was reborn and saw this, I knew whom it belonged to, even if I didn't realise what the mark itself meant yet. And when Voldemort came to my parental home that fateful night and I saw his own mark was the very lightning-bolt scar that would be caused by a backfired Killing curse… It was clear to me that this step of my old life would have to be repeated. Larger magic was at work here, something fated I don't quite yet understand.''
''Your Intended… is You-Know-Who? But- but then what was the deal with Mr Quirrell?'' comes the understandably frustrated question, revealing Hermione obviously thinks his story goes far too slow to clarify the situation.
''Voldemort lost his body,'' he patiently explains. ''He learned to interact with the world as more than a mere spirit by possessing animals, then people. Quirrell was one of them. Lord Voldemort was with us, here at Hogwarts, for a while.''
He knows the undignified look that clouds Hermione's face now. She's more than a little mad. ''You… Harry Potter! How could you keep something like that from me? You said you'd tell me everything!'' she scolds, balling her fists together at her sides.
''He is a master Legilimens,'' he calmly states, having anticipated this question at least. The revelation indeed does work wonders to calm her down.
Just in case, Harry gave his friend books on mind magic before starting school and warned her against looking too long into the eyes of other people, but he couldn't specifically warn her against Quirrell without giving a valid reason to.
''Or at least, he was very proficient in it way back when and I didn't wish to risk him gaining information by snooping into the minds of my friends before I was ready to speak to him. Look, this school year is a weird one for me too, okay? I grew up with Muggles before and arrived at Hogwarts knowing nothing. I only realised that Voldemort had been possessing Professor Quirrell – he was the Professor for Defence then, not a librarian – in the literal last week before summer holidays. I learnt about Voldemort's history, personality, and skills much later, most of those after he'd regained a body. I had no information on Quirrell either, having believed him to be a bit of a cooky Professor for a year until it was suddenly revealed to be an act minutes before… before he died. That is why I didn't want to take unnecessary risks. I can protect my mind now, but you cannot. Telling you too much would have put us both in danger. Additionally, I had no idea how Voldemort would react to my attempts to contact him, or if he'd agree to my ideas for the future. Whether he'd be willing to help me.''
''Halloween!'' she suddenly exclaims. ''You-Know-Who left at Halloween!''
Impressed, he inquires: ''Correct… how did you figure that?''
''You became much more restless since that day. I've read all about how soul bonds affect people. There's supposed to be something that- that settles you when around your Intended for a while. I thought you were less anxious after summer because you finally arrived at Hogwarts, but it was probably his presence.''
Hermione sounds incredibly triumphant when explaining her deduction skills. As that triumph is well-earned, he smiles and praises: ''Well done. That's the smartest witch of our age for you. So… may I ask what you think about all I just uncovered?''
''I'm worried,'' she openly acknowledges, swallowing nervously. ''What I read about the war and what you just told me about what life was like under his rule sounds incredibly scary, if I'm being honest. I'd ask if it isn't just your bond that makes you think he's better than the alternative, but you travelled back before having one, didn't you?''
He nods slowly in resigned affirmation. ''They didn't exist in my world, no. Voldemort and I were still connected in a way because of my scar, but it worked differently. I never felt the slightest urge to join him when he was still alive. Only desperation made me turn to time-travel as a last resort to get him back.''
''Doesn't he…'' she warily says, ''Doesn't he despise people like me? Muggle-borns? I read that You-Know-Who campaigned for Pure-blood rights at the expense of those considered to be impure. That his followers hurt and killed those of lesser blood.''
Harry hesitates as he struggles to accurately respond. During the conversations he and this world's Voldemort shared, Muggles and the dangers they pose came up plenty of times, yet Muggle-borns had not. Somehow, with Voldemort being so much saner and willing to listen here, Harry had assumed the man to be reasonable enough to see how braindead it is to suppress even a tiny portion of their own population instead of strengthening everyone who wields magic. However, it's true that the Dark Lord fought for blood supremacy during the latest war. There is no guarantee he will abandon those ideals if Harry asks – especially not since he hasn't even done that much so far.
A sudden irking concern makes him restless. ''I need to speak to Quirrell about this, to pass on some messages. I might not have been clear enough when speaking of saving all of our kind. He has employed hideous tactics against Muggle-borns before,'' he grimaces. ''Although I don't know how much compared to the man I used to know. He is somewhat… better. Actually, much better than I remember.'' This doesn't appear to make Hermione feel more at ease, so he adds: ''It doesn't all depend on him, of course. I'm here, and I'll make sure to defend those who Voldemort won't fight for. Even against him. Nothing will happen to you or any other Muggle-born on my watch, that I promise.''
''I believe you,'' she firmly proclaims. Then, she giggles nervously. ''I'd no idea just how much you were still hiding. Please tell me this was the last big shock?''
''Errr…'' he hesitates, pulling a helpless face. ''I suppose I should rip off some more band-aids if you want everything laid out into the open.'' She'd better re-read those books on Legilimency too… Dumbledore may not be prone to casually and illegally prodding into the minds of his students, but if Hermione knows all and the headmaster sees any reason to take a peek in her mind, Harry will need to get out of Hogwarts fast.
By the time he is done spilling some more secrets – the tale of the Hallows, the prophecy, the presence of the Philosopher's Stone at Hogwarts and his planned quest to save it from destruction – Hermione's jaw has almost hit the floor. The only bits he leaves out are those not his to tell. Similar to their conversation on the day he discovered Hermione in the orphanage, it is a huge relief to share all of this with someone who understands without judging. In a way, it feels like mending tears in time - his Hermione had known all of this once, it is only fair that her counterpart is fully informed. Harry keenly ignores that spilling intense truths about fate and death that would shake anyone's worldview might not be wholly appropriate for an eleven-year-old.
''How can I help?'' is her first question when his throat has become hoarse from talking too much.
He gives his friend a conspiratorial grin when a hundred ways for her invaluable, brilliant mind to be put to work present itself.
''Well… I might have one or two assignments for you to wrack your brain over. Did I already mention my problems with Professor Lockhart to you?''
''Good thing he's gone,'' Harry remarks with humour about two weeks later, when Quirrell slams the door of his office close, red in the face. It is rare to see the librarian so furious, and even Harry is impressed by how much anger the man shows now, in the confines of the office with only Harry as a witness. Nagini hisses at the interruption and lowers her body to the floor to slither away, never pleased when in the presence of non-Parselmouths, whom she doesn't consider worthy company.
''Those infernal twins! My time here would be infinitely easier if those two would be banned from the castle!'' Quirrell snarls. ''Merlin's beard, if my Lord had been here still-'' With jerking motions, his purple turban - soaking wet from the enchanted snowballs that have pelted it all the way from the grounds up to here - is unwrapped and draped over a chair in front of the fireplace that flares to life with a flick of the alder wand.
''They'll be punished for it, if I recall correctly.'' Of course, the twins get punished more often than anyone cares to keep track of and it never deters them, but Harry distinctly remembers this one: it'd been the first time McGonagall had personally shown up in the common room to yell at the boys for harassing a staff member, leaving a deep impression on then-eleven-years-old Harry. They'd gotten sneakier after.
Sniffing the air, he notes: ''It doesn't smell like garlic anymore. Please don't tell me that was really Voldemort's fault.'' Quirrell doesn't usually bother taking the thing off, but Harry expected wafts of garlic now the fabric is drying in front of the flames.
''Don't be so disrespectful,'' the Death Eater scoffs, at which Harry only raises a disbelieving eyebrow.
''It was a simple question. I did actually wonder about the smell, I must admit.''
After a few pondering seconds of silence during which Quirrell clearly attempts to gauge whether Harry is taking the piss out of him, the man grumbles: ''Indirectly. Having his face wrapped up in rough fabric wasn't a pleasant experience, so I used garlic oil on the turban to help with the discomfort. The oil has healing properties for the skin. It prevented dryness and friction injuries from forming. I doubt he has need for such a treatment after regaining a body.''
That is a greater relief to hear than Harry dares show. He never was fond of funny smells. Maybe leftover damage from Mrs Figg's home reeking of cat food and cauliflower. He hasn't set foot in that house in this lifetime, yet it haunts his nostrils at the first recollection. ''Thanks,'' he says, chasing the smell away by distracting himself with more important matters. ''Now, I didn't only break into your office for Nagini today. Had something on my mind that I need to talk about – either with you or Voldemort himself. Just to be absolutely clear: when I asked him to save our people, I meant everybody with a lick of magic. I'm aware a lot of his loyal followers have an issue with descendants of Muggles, but we really don't stand a chance against the entire Muggle population if we're divided.''
''He did wonder why you were running around with a Mudblood,'' Quirrell frowns, sitting down and dragging a stack of paperwork towards himself without batting an eye, as if he said nothing out of the ordinary. Harry gnashes his teeth to avoid instantly escalating this into a shouting match. From his research, Quirrell is a Half-blood himself, his father being a so-called 'Mudblood'.
''This once, I'll kindly ask not to use that word around me,'' Harry stiffly advises. ''Next time, I'll not be kind.''
Their eyes briefly meet until the other concedes with a curt nod. ''I've taken over my Lord's habit of using the term,'' the Death Eater confesses, which does nothing to calm Harry's worries. ''With the end of our society as you've described, I can imagine why you cling onto every last person with magic in their blood. That is not for me to decide, however. I'll be frank with you: the Dark Lord doesn't think highly of those born impure, although his definition is broader than that of most Pure-blood mages. Prominent families such as the Malfoys or Blacks usually define anyone with Muggle ancestry to not be a real witch or wizard, whereas the Dark Lord defines a true mage as anyone with at least one provable link to magical ancestry. Thus solely excluding Muggle-borns with a set of both Muggle parents and grandparents.''
''I do not care for his definitions,'' Harry manages to say in a calm and civil tone. ''I'll also remind you that the last remaining Heir to the Black family, my godfather, has very different ideas on who is or is not 'pure'. Anyone who is not perceived as a Muggle by magic itself needs to be protected. Squibs included, who decidedly are not affected by Muggle-repelling charms or Muggle diseases, proving they have access to magic on some level.''
''As I said, it isn't for me to-''
Quirrell lifts his inkwell just in time for it not to get knocked over as Harry's fist slams onto the desk.
''Do you know why we couldn't organise in a timely manner after being discovered?'' Harry thunders. ''Because of this. Exactly because of crap like this! Left and right, groups were frantically formed to work together, but ingrained beliefs like these were what stopped us from rising up as one until it was much, much too late. And just like Voldemort is the only one strong enough to deal with an invasion on such a scale, he is also the only one that certain Pure-blood families will listen to when it comes to 'defining magic'. So you listen well and bring him the following message: Every. Magical Being. Counts. Are we clear?''
The Death Eater remains pristinely calm during the outburst, previous anger over the Weasley Twins' actions all but forgotten, setting the inkwell down again and dipping a quill in while allowing Harry to catch heavy breaths. ''I do not disagree with your point of view,'' Quirrell says as he starts to unhurriedly write what appears to be a list of book titles. ''We're clear. I merely hope you are aware that the Dark Lord might be displeased about this sudden addition to your conditions of cooperation. Surely you were aware of his views, as you claimed to know him through and through.''
Harry clenches his jaw. He needn't justify himself to Quirrell, can't speak of the hope that this so far agreeable version of Voldemort won't become the inhuman oppressor who'd allowed the wands of Muggle-borns to be broken before excommunicating them for the inability to prove having inherited magic. He admitted before that 'his' Voldemort hadn't been as sane and shoved it on having split his soul once too many, but that doesn't explain the Dark Lord's actions during the last war being suspiciously similar in both worlds.
He settles on: ''I hope he is aware that I might be displeased about any urges from his side to murder those I care for. I didn't think that needed saying until being reminded of his targeting Muggle-borns when rising to power. Let's leave it at that for now. There's little use debating what he might or might not agree to before you pass the message on.''
The annoyed hiss that escapes through Quirrell's teeth tells otherwise, even before the man questions: ''Is this a condition you will not budge on? You'll need to clearly state it as such if so.''
The hollow laugh that bursts out of Harry is as cynical as anything. This is a damned if he does and damned if he doesn't situation, isn't it? Lying is tempting but useless. ''I came crawling to him for aid,'' Harry scowls, shaking his head tiredly. ''What good would giving ultimatums do? The only thing I can threaten Voldemort with is death, and I'd only have gone to the extreme of murdering him if he would have been completely unwilling to take my warnings seriously and thus been a hindrance more than a help. No, it is not a condition, for I have nothing to offer or withhold in return. I'm stating that it is in the best interest of us all if mages stick together. Plus, I'll be more inclined to be agreeable. I won't become his enemy either way, for larger issues are at stake, but the Dark Lord can't expect me to remain civil if he throws my friends out to rot with the Muggles. Or leaves them in graves.''
The quill scratches away at the parchment for so long that Harry considers leaving, no longer expecting a reply, when Quirrell asks: ''You truly killed the Dark Lord in your last life? And would have done so again?''
Harry can't decide whether the hushed tone is meant to be hostile or conveys awe.
''I don't make idle threats,'' he bitterly smiles. ''I did, I would have…. and I'm glad to have instead helped him to life now,'' he finishes, a tad milder than before.
As dark brown eyes bore into his, Harry wonders about Quirrell's age. In this light, sitting so hunched over and with a face that bears the tell-tale marks of possession if one knows what to look for, he appears a century old. The eyes are sharp, however, and once again, Harry is reminded that this same person had not hesitated a second to kill eleven-year-old Harry on Voldemort's orders alone.
''You are still quite the mystery, Mr Potter. Speaking of helping our Lord and our cause… Do your dealings at Hogwarts happen to take you to the Forbidden corridor on the third floor?''
Feeling this conversation might go on for a few minutes more after all, Harry pulls a chair close. ''The one the Dark Lord warned you away from to not draw attention to yourself? They might, why?''
''What are your plans for the Stone?''
Seeing through the hopeful gaze in an instant, Harry explains: ''My sole goal is preservation, as I refuse to let it be destroyed once more. I might let you have a look at it for the purpose of study, if you are so inclined. Depending, of course, on our cooperation when I get my hands on it.''
A thin finger taps nervously on the desk. ''You will likely not be at Hogwarts longer than I. I could ensure that no harm comes to Ms Granger during your absence, regardless of what ills might befall the school or how our laws might change.''
Harry blinks. ''That would be… appreciated,'' he carefully says. ''What if the Dark Lord orders the opposite?''
Quirrell's hand absentmindedly goes to the back of his head, as if trying to check whether the man in question is truly gone. ''Well…'' the librarian whispers, the corners of his lips quivering with a surreptitious smile. ''The way I see it, the Dark Lord never succeeded in killing you, Potter. I may bear his mark and do his bidding, but you'll always find an ally in me when you need one.''
''You're playing a dangerous game, Mr Quirrell.''
''I wouldn't have accepted His deal in Albania if I were averse to danger. Mr Potter… might I ask what became of the me in your memories? In your original timeline?''
Somehow, Harry is surprised this never came up, and wracks his brain whether he never hinted at the Death Eater's fate. When realising that in describing the events surrounding stopping Voldemort from getting the Philosopher's Stone, Quirrell has been less than an afterthought, he feels a twinge of guilt. ''You died coming June,'' he declares, watching the smile slip and twist into an expression of shock. ''In circumstances I've already prevented from coming to pass, I must add.'' Having survived the Killing curse a decade ago due to the soul mark rather than his mother's sacrifice, no ancient magic now prevents Quirrell or Voldemort from touching him, after all.
''So, I am safe?'' the man pushes, already pallid skin tinged grey, now.
''You won't meet the same fate as last time, it'd be rather impossible. Anything more, I cannot guarantee.'' It is the only truth he can give. For all Harry knows, this Quirrell will die of a heart attack tomorrow. He is only certain that it won't end with the man's body crumbling beneath Harry's hands.
''If you do not mind… I would like to process this alone.''
''Understandable,'' Harry happily agrees, getting up to gather his things, bag and outer robe set aside before he fed Nagini. He pats the snake's head a last time before turning to Quirrell once more. ''I'll return in a few days, earliest. Extracurricular plans aside, I still have to do my homework to keep up the act and would like to have the bulk of it finished before the holidays, as I'll have better things to do at home than writing essays about tapdancing charms. Will you be staying at Hogwarts?''
''No. After putting so much effort into getting the Yule week off for our original plans, which didn't end up being necessary, we decided it best to use those holidays to relocate my master's pet instead. The Dark Lord found a place worthy of Him to live.''
''Shame, she's been growing on me. I'll drop by before the Hogwarts Express leaves to say my goodbyes.''
Knowing he outstayed his welcome for today, Harry doesn't linger, casting the usual spells on himself to stay hidden. As soon as he slips through the crack of the office door, he melts into the shadows.
AN: I always was of the opinion that Quirrel was really underestimated when it comes to how dangerous and fanatic he was, probably because he dies so early on in canon.. I hope to feature him more in this story as I find he has a lot of potential ^^
Up next: a wholesome Christmas and a less wholesome encounter with the Mirror of Erised...
xx GeMerope