1992, 1st year
"That wasn't so bad," Oliver mused as they left the Great Hall. "I was fearing the worst."
The first-years all took their exams together, seated in a random order – and Harry had ended up right between Sue and Oliver.
"I certainly did not expect Snape to know how to make a joke." Sue snickered. "Making us remember how to brew a Forgetfulness Potion."
"He does have his moments," Harry said, "although they are few and far between."
"Unlike McGonagall."
Harry frowned at her. "What do you mean?"
"Turning mice into snuffboxes? I've been wondering all year, but McGonagall gets irritated rather quickly with our house for always asking 'too many questions', so I never received a proper answer."
"She did tell us the animals would be fine," Oliver said.
"Unless you accidentally break the object you turned them into."
"If you accidentally drop a mouse, I imagine it would be just as hurt."
"If I accidentally drop a mouse, I imagine it would not break off an entire limb," Sue returned, irritation lacing her voice.
"Does Professor McGonagall not turn them back after we're done?" Harry asked curiously.
"That's the question, isn't it?" Sue said pointedly. "Partially unsuccessful transformations supposedly do not harm the animals – although I do not quite trust the literature on that. It's not like the animals can actually tell us what it's like being transfigured. What if they are never turned back into their original shape?"
"Would Professor McGonagall really do that to the poor animals?" Harry asked.
Oliver gave him a look.
Harry thought it over and then grimaced. "Yeah, I see what you mean."
"What I don't understand," Oliver said, "is why we need to turn mice into snuffboxes in the first place. Where is the use in that?"
"Where is the use in making pineapples tap-dance?" Sue shot back.
"Charms does have other uses, though – like lighting a light in the darkness."
"Or levitating heavy things," Harry said.
"Or creating fire," Blaise added as he and Daphne joined them. "What are you discussing?"
"The sense in turning innocent mice into snuffboxes and leaving them to their fate," Sue said dryly.
"Transfiguration does have its uses," Daphne spoke up. "We simply need to learn the basics first."
"But what about the animals?" Sue stressed. "What about the animals?"
"What if ..." Blaise began, but then did not continue.
"What if ...?" Oliver nudged him.
Blaise tilted his head, considering. "What if they were never actual, living animals in the first place?"
Harry turned to him. "What do you mean?"
"What if the mice we had to transfigure were snuffboxes transfigured into mice?"
"But wouldn't it be a different spell we would have to use, then?" Oliver asked.
"It is possible to transfigure an already transfigured object," Daphne said. "I cannot imagine McGonagall going through the effort, though."
"Nor would she go through the effort to un-transfigure the mice," Sue said.
"Only one exam left," Oliver said, deliberately changing the subject. "And then we won't have to think at all about all the beetles and hedgehogs and mice we left as buttons and pincushions and snuffboxes for six whole weeks."
"Yeah, but it's History of all things."
"Oh, it certainly won't be as bad as the other exams." Oliver grinned at them. "My first and only goal is to stay awake. All else will be a breeze in comparison."
Harry felt himself smile in return.
o
Harry woke up with a pounding headache, finding himself in an unfamiliar room.
The last thing he could remember was being relieved about leaving the last of his exams behind him and then … his memories were too blurry to recall.
The first thing he noticed, panic rising in his throat as he struggled to sit upright, was that he was bound with rough ropes.
Calm down, he told himself, deep breaths.
"He's awake," said an unfamiliar voice, high and raspy, and Harry followed its direction to see Quirrel standing in front of a large mirror.
They were in what appeared to be an underground chamber – rough, windowless stone walls lined with torches and a high, vaulted ceiling. The room was bare except for the ornamental, golden mirror standing in the middle, reflecting Quirrel's figure.
"You don't seem very surprised to see me, Potter."
Harry watched the man warily, remaining silent.
"Suspected me, did you?" Quirrel scoffed. "You are cleverer than I gave you credit for. Figured it all out – how I've been trying to kill you all year."
Did twice count as 'all year', Harry wondered
"What I don't understand is why," he dared to ask.
"Why?" Quirrel laughed, cold and sharp. "Why you ask? What an interesting question! Why, indeed."
Harry took a deep, silent breath. He could deal with this. He knew how to keep his emotions close to his chest. Panic would not help him get out of here.
"You proved to be surprisingly hard to kill, you know?" Quirrel continued.
He had completely lost his stutter, Harry noted.
"Always surrounded by people looking out for you, shielding you, bearing witness, ready to assist you when in need – and, as if that was not enough, that pesky little Lémure kept looking at me strangely, never failing to notice my presence ... I wonder what she was seeing ... But no matter. I have you in my grasp, now. No one knows where we are, I can take my time. Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror." Quirrel turned his back to Harry. "The mirror is the key to finding the Stone."
What stone? Harry wanted to ask. What was going on?
Quirrel kept muttering on – something about Dumbledore being in London and seeing himself presenting 'the Stone' to his master.
It would have been the perfect opportunity to – to do something – anything – but Harry was still tightly bound. He didn't even know where his wand was. This was ... not good. Not good at all. Quirrel clearly wanted to kill him. Why, Harry still did not know.
'An enemy from the past', he thought, 'a stolen object', 'a struggle between life and death' and 'an unexpected confrontation'.
The only enemy from the past Harry knew about was the Dark Lord Voldemort. And his followers, he supposed. The stolen object must have been the mysterious stone Quirrel kept muttering about. The struggle ... Harry hoped that one was about Quirrel's health and not an actual struggle breaking out between the man and himself. It was all quite obvious, now.
Too obvious, Harry thought. Was it supposed to be this obvious? But, then again, hindsight …
The high voice Harry had heard earlier broke through his thoughts.
"Use the boy," it said, coming most certainly from Quirrel, whose mouth was not moving. "Use the boy."
"Yes," Quirrel replied, raising his wand, "Potter – come here."
Harry felt himself being tugged forward. It took all of his concentration to keep his breathing steady as he stumbled to his feet and reluctantly approached Quirrel, finding himself staring right at his own reflection in the large mirror, Quirrel's eyes fixed on him.
What was he – Harry's reflection was pale and clearly shaken, but it smiled at him, holding a blood-red stone in one hand. The real Harry was neither smiling nor holding a blood-red stone. His eyes followed as his reflection put the stone in one of its pockets and he felt the weight of it appear in his real pocket.
Harry cursed internally.
Whoever had designed this mirror was an idiot.
Why did Harry now have the stone?! The moment Quirrel noticed, it would be all over! The mirror had clearly been keeping the man from obtaining what he wanted, but now there was nothing stopping him from simply taking it from Harry.
"What am I – supposed to see?" Harry asked, hearing his own voice shake, trying frantically to think of a solution.
"What do you see?" Quirrel asked. "Tell me!"
"I –"
Shitshitshit.
Despite Blaise's best efforts, Harry was still bad at lying.
"My own reflection?"
"Yes, obviously!" Quirrel was now clearly irritated. "What else!"
"Er –"
"Let me talk to the boy," said the high voice and Harry's heart jumped.
"But master –"
Whatever Quirrel would have said, whatever would have happened next – was interrupted by a loud bang as the door behind them was forced open and three people entered.
"Harry!"
Harry had barely flinched from the shout, when he was grabbed by the scruff and shoved behind a dark, towering shape and then arms surrounded him and tucked him away.
What was – Who –
"Harry! Harry, are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere?"
That was Daphne's voice. And the arms around him, slowly tucking him further and further away from Quirrel – those belonged to Blaise. Then the dark, towering – Severus, Harry realised, relief washing over him. Severus had come to rescue him.
"I'm – I'm okay," he forced out. "I'm okay."
Something fell from his arms and he only belatedly realised that Blaise had untied him, his heart still thundering in his chest.
"Oh, I'm so glad!" Daphne sighed. "We didn't know – But you are safe now."
Harry only distantly registered the angry voices coming from Quirrel's and Severus' direction, the unmistakable sounds of a battle being fought – his heart was still beating too loudly, his blood rushing in his ears and he couldn't stop shaking. Blaise's arms tightened around him.
"We've got you, Harry," he murmured soothingly. "We won't let anything happen to you."
Harry only then realised that Blaise was holding him with one arm, the other holding his wand at the ready. Daphne stood between the two boys and the adults, watching the fight with keen eyes.
"How did you –" Harry took a shaky breath. "How –"
A high-pitched scream drew their attention and Harry turned his head just in time to see Quirrel's face turn ashen with shock as he crumbled to the ground.
Severus cursed loudly.
"Is he – dead?" Daphne asked.
Severus glanced at them, then looked back at Quirrel's still form. "It appears so."
Had Severus – No. He wouldn't have.
"We can discuss what happened later," Severus continued. "Harry's well-being takes priority."
"I'm fine," Harry assured them. "He didn't do anything to me."
"Were you awake the entire time?" Severus asked sharply.
Harry blinked at him.
"Then you cannot know for sure what he might have done to you," Severus said darkly.
What he could have –
He distantly heard scandalised exclamations of "Professor!" and perhaps his own name and other spoken words, but Harry was too busy trying not to think about – Don't think about it! Don't think about it! – as his knees finally gave out under him and darkness enveloped him completely.
o
Harry woke in an unfamiliar room. Again.
There was a familiar, soft, warm weight on the pillow with him, pressed against his head. Harry absentmindedly raised his arm to pet Hedwig and was rewarded immediately with soft purrs.
He was not in the Hospital Wing. Or his dormitory. Or Severus' – No, wait. These were Severus' quarters. Just not the room Harry usually slept in.
"The Headmaster kept trying to speak with you," came the man's voice from the doorway as he entered with a tray in his hands.
Harry slowly sat up, reluctantly leaving the comforting embrace of Hedwig's vibrating purrs, and Severus pressed a bowl filled with a thick, greenish liquid into his hands. Harry wrinkled his nose at it, but dutifully drank the medicine. He felt better almost instantly.
"You are perfectly unharmed aside from the issues that were already present before your kidnapping, some mild dehydration and a minor concussion that should be healed by now."
Severus swapped the empty bowl with a glass of water and this, too, Harry dutifully drank.
"The only magic used on you appears to have been a stunning spell."
"That's – good," Harry said slowly, looking up at Severus. "Right?"
"It is by far better than we feared. I –" Severus averted his eyes, the frown between his brows deepening. "I apologise. I did not mean to upset you further when I knew you were already greatly unsettled."
Harry looked down at his lap. "It's alright. I think that wasn't actually what – It was all too much already by that point. I'm surprised I managed not to let it get to me before you came and –" Harry sniffed. "Thank you for coming."
"You have your friends to thank for that."
"I know."
Severus' voice softened. "Get some rest. No one will disturb you here."
"Where are you going?"
"I will be in the living room, right behind this door. I can leave it open, if you want. And, Harry?" Severus paused in the doorway. "Your friends are waiting eagerly to visit whenever you're ready."
Harry rubbed his eyes. "Okay. Thank you."
Only after the man had left, did Harry realise how uncharacteristically soft this behaviour was for Severus. As if someone had given him a thorough scolding about how to behave around a person who had just been rendered unconscious, kidnapped by a teacher trying to kill them, and used to steal some unknown ... object ...
Where was the stone?
It couldn't be with Quirrel, Quirrel was – Quirrel was dead.
Harry frowned. Quirrel had died, hadn't he? Somehow.
According to Blaise and Daphne – yes. Yes, he had.
"We went to Rhea first," Blaise explained when Harry finally managed to ask how they had found him, "but she refused to get involved – Daphne immediately figured out that this meant Quirrel was part of this."
It took Harry a moment to make the connection.
"We split off, then – I went to find Professor Snape and Daphne went to find Longbottom."
Harry blinked. "Neville?"
Blaise smirked. "To call in the favour he owed her. I don't know the specifics, but Longbottom got the Weasley twins to locate you."
"Pansy always did wonder how they seem to know where everyone is at any given moment," Harry remembered.
"Exactly. And Professor Snape somehow knew exactly how to access your location. You won't believe what kind of traps we had to navigate to get to you. It was the most ridiculous thing."
When told more about the traps, Harry silently had to agree with that statement.
And later, Pansy filled Harry in about the thing with the Stone: It had apparently been the Philosopher's Stone – an object created by the famous alchemist Nicholas Flamel. The Stone had temporarily been handed over into the care of Albus Dumbledore at the beginning of the school year for reasons the rumour mill was rather divided about. None of the stories, Pansy told Harry, could provide a believable explanation as to how this decision could ever make sense in the context of how flimsy the protections surrounding the Stone had been that the Headmaster had had the teachers set up.
The Philosopher's Stone had apparently been destroyed to prevent a repeat of the events no one was supposed to know about. Pansy was fairly sure Nicholas Flamel and his wife were in truth not as alright with this decision as Headmaster Dumbledore claimed they were. Harry didn't know the Flamels, but could imagine anyone being upset about their greatest achievement being destroyed at the hands of the person you asked to look after it.
Thinking about it, the entire circumstances surrounding the Stone's presence at Hogwarts were ... strange.
And Quirrel?
Quirrel had supposedly been possessed by the Spirit of the Dark Lord – the rumour mill was quite excitedly holding onto that far-fetched story. More likely, Quirrel was simply after it for his own greed.
"Or to save himself from whatever was ailing him," Pansy concluded with a shrug. "Rhea says he would have died a slow and painful death regardless, but she won't elaborate no matter how nicely I ask."
A possession by one Dark Lord Voldemort would have explained why Quirrel had been trying to kill Harry though, he mused to himself. And who that second voice had belonged to. Still, it was a rather far-fetched theory no matter how you looked at it.
In the end, Harry missed the end-of-year feast because Severus kept him confined to bedrest. He was told on the train ride – which Severus had only reluctantly allowed Harry to take, including the boat ride from the castle to Hogsmeade Station – that Hufflepuff had won the House Cup to everyone's surprise, including Hufflepuff. Pansy smirked at them during the entire conversation, but kept shtum about it. The others speculated that there must have been a mix-up with the points somewhere, but, ultimately, no one actually minded, because (in Draco's words) 'Hufflepuff never wins the House Cup, the poor bastards'.
AN
No time for proper illustrations, have some low effort anime-style character sketches:
something-rotten tumblr com/post/752793157154062336/harry-friends-for-like-fading-memories-over-on