"Mate? Harry?"

"What?" Potter snarled.

Weasley, leaning over the edge of Potter's bed, hair mussed from sleep, jerked backward. That seemed to make Potter angrier, though at least he'd stopped hissing; that was what had prompted Weasley to wake him in the first place.

"Potter?" Draco said, and Potter turned to look at him. The look on his face was dangerous, but almost immediately turned to a furious sort of confusion, followed by a frown.

Potter blinked:

"Draco?" he asked sleepily.

"Obviously," Draco said, and Potter rubbed his eyes.

"Ron," he said, and Weasley's shoulders relaxed. He sat down on the edge of Potter's bed.

"All right?"

"Yeah," Potter said. "Yeah, I'm sorry, I—"

"I take it the Dark Lord's found out about the prophecy," Draco said from his bed on the floor.

"Yeah," Potter said, staring down at his covers. "Yeah, he's—"

"Not happy?" Weasley offered, looking a little amused.

Potter didn't smile though, had none of the smugness about him that he'd had last night when he was telling them about the prophecy's destruction.

"Your dad," he said to Draco, who stilled. "He's the one that brought the news. He's alive, but he's—"

"The Dark Lord doesn't tolerate failure," Draco said, and that wiped the amusement off Weasley's face. "If Father's delivering that news, he's responsible in a roundabout fashion. It makes sense he'd be punished." Or, at least, it would to the Dark Lord, who seemed—from the limited interactions Draco'd had with him, but also from what he'd heard from Potter over the years, and, more recently, Severus—unable to distinguish between messenger and culprit.

Potter nodded, though it was too dark for Draco to make his expression out properly.

Weasley opened his mouth and closed it again. He threw a quick glance Draco's way but it didn't linger.

"No permanent punishments?" Draco asked, keeping his voice calm and level.

"No," Potter said, swallowing, and Draco nodded.

Silence hung over Potter's dim room; Potter had a faraway look on his face, like he was still thinking about whatever he'd seen in the Dark Lord's mind, and Draco tried not to think about anything much at all, lest he accidentally reveal something in his scent that Potter might pick up on. Weasley looked between them, perhaps trying to decide who he ought to worry about more.

"I'm sorry," Potter said at last, reaching for his glasses.

"Potter," Draco said. He was feeling something now; exasperation, but that was all right because Potter would benefit from smelling that. "There are a number of people that could take the blame—or at least partial blame—for this. You are absolutely not one of them, no matter how creatively you look at it."

"Your dad probably wouldn't agree."

"Happily, I'm not my father, nor do I agree with him all that much," Draco drawled. "He's made his choice to serve the Dark Lord, and if the Dark Lord isn't happy with how he's doing that, that's between them."

Potter rubbed his eyes and slid out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Weasley asked.

"Training room," Potter said. "I won't be able to sleep again."

"Want company?" Weasley offered.

"Not right now," Potter said, and slipped out of the room. Weasley sighed and glanced at Draco.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm not sure that I'll sleep again tonight either," Draco said, leaning back against his pillow. "Bloody Potter." There was no heat in his voice though, and he knew Weasley knew it.

"He's still your dad," Weasley said after a moment. "If you're upset—"

"I'm fine," Draco said, and mostly meant it. They were at war, or soon would be, and Draco had chosen his side—Potter's side—to protect the people on it. He didn't want Father hurt, but Draco knew who he would pick if it came to saving Father or saving his friends. He just hoped he was never in a situation where he had to do that; Father's fate could be the result of his own choices, or the Dark Lord's, but not Draco's. "A war has sides, and he's chosen his just as I've chosen mine."

Weasley lay back across the foot of Potter's bed and waved his wand. The walls shimmered with a Silencing Charm.

"Have you thought any more about—"

"Not at all," Draco said sarcastically, and then rolled his eyes—though Weasley would probably not be able to see that—and snapped, "Of course I have."

"And?"

"And I still think you're insane for even suggesting it," Draco muttered.

"Good insane or bad insane?" Weasley asked, grinning for just a moment; Draco saw his teeth flash in the dark.

"Both, I think." Weasley's grin returned. "But if you're insane, what does it say about me that I'm very strongly considering it?"

Weasley didn't laugh like Draco might have expected:

"Yeah?"

"Everything you said makes sense, but if there's some part of it we've overlooked…."

"You could ask Snape," Weasley said. "You've got to go through him anyway, so run it by him when you do?"

"Maybe," Draco said, but it was a good idea. "Although I got the impression he wasn't keen on knowing the prophecy, and if he thinks it's a poor idea, there's no taking it back. And it's one more head the Dark Lord might find it in accidentally—"

"If Voldemort can get stuff we don't want him to get out of Snape's head," Weasley said, "then we've got bigger things to worry about than him finding the prophecy."

Draco grunted, conceding the point.

"Although at least that would divert him from Potter, for a time."

"Only because he'd be too busy trying to murder you to worry about Harry," Weasley said. Draco huffed a laugh, but sobered quickly. He rolled over to stare at the ceiling.

"I just… I don't want to get it wrong."

"What's wrong?" Harry asked as he shut Grimmauld's front door; he didn't bother asking if Quirrell was all right, because he very clearly wasn't. He had bags under his eyes, and his dark hair was greasy and uncombed. His clothes were clean and neatly ironed, but they hung a little loose. Harry wasn't sure if he was stressed, or properly ill.

"We need to talk," Quirrell said, voice hoarse. A strange, shuddering convulsion passed over his entire body. "Now. Just us," he added, glancing over Harry's shoulder. "Quickly. Somewhere private. Somewhere we won't be disturbed."

Quirrell smelled like himself—though Harry could smell the tang of sweat on him—but he didn't have any of his usual composure; Harry curled his fingers around his wand, just in case, but tilted his head towards the stairs and started up them, Quirrell on his heels.

"Does this have something to do with why you left so suddenly last time?" Harry asked.

"Not here," Quirrell said. Harry frowned and led him into the drawing room. Quirrell's eyes flicked over it and then he drew his wand in a sharp motion and started tracing it over the doorway, walls, and window. Harry saw several spells gleam into being, and saw several runes he didn't recognise appear and then fade. Uneasy, he inched his wand out of his pocket and into his hand. He didn't raise it, not yet, but he was ready to.

Quirrell finished setting up his spells and turned back to Harry. His eyes went to Harry's wand and he nodded slowly.

"Smart," he said. "Right now, I'm more of a danger to you than you've ever been." He convulsed again, wincing.

"But your Vow—"

"Is conflicted," he said through gritted teeth. "If we're both alive at the end of this conversation, it'll be a bloody miracle." It didn't sound like a threat but Harry frowned and took a step back all the same. Quirrell made a strange noise and twitched; his wand flew from his hand—thrown, but maybe aborted partway through?—and landed on the carpet near Harry's feet. Harry, with no real way to hold it without releasing his own wand, kicked it under the couch. "I don't want to hurt you—very much the opposite, as I'm sure you'll be pleased to know, and as I myself was surprised to learn." Quirrell ran his hands through his hair. "But I also don't want to die—hopefully you can appreciate that."

"Sure," Harry said warily. Padfoot wasn't home—he was at work—but Harry was beginning to wonder if he ought to have told Moony or someone that Quirrell was here.

"And if I do die here, it needs to be after I've given you enough information to be getting on with, otherwise it will all have been for nothing." He fell silent, eyes on Harry, who was unnerved by the intensity of the stare. "So— How to tell you… The door— is not a door. Or rather, it's not just a door."

"What is it, then?" Harry asked, frowning.

"It's… a mental manifestation of something physical."

"Okay," Harry said. "But what—"

"Something… not so good," Quirrell said. "Something that's helping Him, which is why I'm compelled to say something."

"Then say it," Harry said.

"It's not something you're not going to like hearing," Quirrell said anxiously. "In fact, it'll likely hurt you, and therefore kill me, since I'm sworn to not hurt anyone who isn't aligned with Him."

"But you're not saying it to hurt me. You're saying it to help, right?" Quirrell looked rather grim, but nodded. "So shouldn't—"

"Unbreakable Vows can be very literal," Quirrell said. "And nowhere in my Vow was a disclaimer that I needed to be deliberately causing harm."

"Is it— would you be better off telling someone else, then? And then they can tell me. We can wait for Padf—"

"It will hurt him just as much," Quirrell said, shaking his head. "More even, maybe."

"What if I got Dumbledore or someone else instead? One of my friends?"

"Same problem."

"So it's bad," Harry said, and Quirrell's face confirmed it. "Something that would upset people around me… something that I'm not going to like hearing. Am I in danger? Could whatever this is hurt me—more than it has already?" He watched Quirrell, took note of the change in his scent. "Or kill me even?"

Quirrell hesitated.

"It will not," he said after a pause.

There was something odd about the way he said it, something strained in his inflection and extremely tense in his scent, but he wasn't lying.

"But I might still die," Harry ventured. Quirrell stilled, then drew in a breath as if surprised to find he was still alive. "And it's because of this— whatever's in my head." Quirrell didn't seem to know what to say, but that was all right; if Harry could figure it out through questions, that was probably safer for Quirrell anyway.

But what to ask next…? Harry thought for a few moments, replaying their conversation so far over in his head to try to find another angle...

"How's this helping him?" he asked. "I assume it's something other than letting him put things in my head, or get information." Quirrell gave a short nod and looked around the room, scent frustrated:

"It's… protecting him."

"How?"

"Need to know, what do you need to know…" Quirrel began to pace, speaking very quickly: "For it to stop protecting him, it would need to be removed, or—" Quirrell swallowed. "—destroyed. I've been looking into ways that we might be able to do that, but so far I've not found anything. There may not be a way to do that that ends… well for you."

"Okay," Harry said, frowning. "So—"

"And even though that's the case, I need— If I survive this conversation, I'm going to need assurances from you that you'll be willing to do what's needed to deal with... this problem."

"I don't—"

"You don't have to mean it," Quirrell said anxiously. "You just have to make me believe it. Because if I don't, I'll be compelled to tell others, which is... problematic for a few reasons, not least of which because a second conversation about this could kill me just as easily as this one. Or, I might be compelled to deal with the problem myself, which would certainly kill me, and might kill you, depending on whether I succeeded or failed." He said all of this very quickly.

"Right," Harry said. "So it won't kill me, but you might… to get rid of whatever you found."

"Promise," Quirrell said. "Promise you'll take the appropriate steps, and that you'll never let me believe otherwise."

"I promise," Harry said, frowning. He pressed a hand to his head, thinking, and his fingers touched the edge of his scar. His hand stilled, and his memory conjured up an image of his face—much younger than he was now—reflected in his mirror and staring at his scar. Harry'd been looking through magical eyes at the time, and it had been black and green and silver.

Like Voldemort, he'd thought at the time.

Like the locket.

Like a horcrux.

And he'd run away to the Shrieking Shack, afraid of what it might do if it took control of him, of how dangerous he might be to Padfoot and Moony, even accidentally. But when they'd found him, Moony had suggested that it was just a magical residue from surviving the killing curse.

Dark magic's going to look different, Moony had said.

You bleed, Padfoot had agreed. Horcruxes can't be damaged.

And it had made as much sense as anything else, and Padfoot and Moony had believed it and so Harry had believed it and that had been that. Even when the extent of Harry's connection to Voldemort became apparent, there'd been no reason to revisit the concept.

But he should have; Voldemort had as good as told him on two separate occasions:

You're as involved as I am, Riddle had said, when the matter of his progress toward immortality came up down in the Chamber. Harry hadn't known what he'd meant, had been so worried about Ginny and Ron at the time that he'd not dwelled on it then. But then at the Riddle house in June, Voldemort had said, I can never die at your hand.

And Harry—exhausted and injured and reeling from Voldemort's offer to join him—had figured he'd meant something about the prophecy. And then Harry'd seen his parents and lost his hand and not thought about that either.

But he should have; Voldemort didn't know how the prophecy ended, didn't know that neither can live while the other survives.

And now it was abundantly clear what the prophecy meant.

Harry's first reaction to that should not have been relief, but it was.

He was no match for Voldemort, he knew that. He hadn't even taken his O.W.L.s, only had one hand, and—as he'd found out in June—didn't have what it took to cast a killing curse properly. But maybe this meant he didn't have to. He could try—would try, because he didn't want to die—but if he couldn't do it, then he wasn't dooming his family and friends and the rest of the wizarding world to Voldemort's reign. Harry could win against Voldemort, or he could die trying, and it wouldn't matter; if he failed, Voldemort would no longer be immortal, and Dumbledore or Padfoot or someone could finish him off.

Hope blossomed in Harry's chest, and he felt lighter.

"I'm a horcrux, aren't I?" he asked Quirrell, who nodded, eyes wide and face white. Quirrell waited a few moments—maybe to make sure he was going to survive the confirmation—and then blinked rapidly:

"You've h-heard of horcruxes?" His expression turned suddenly shrewd. "The diary from your second year?"

"There was a locket too," Harry said, dropping down onto the couch.

"Three," Quirrell said, looking somewhere between horrified and impressed. He sat opposite Harry. "Steps toward immortality indeed."

"How hasn't it possessed me?" Harry asked. "It must have been put there when I was a baby, so I wouldn't have been able to put up much of a fight if it had tried—"

"Ah," Quirrell said, and surprised Harry by smiling. "No, and I suspect that's the key." Harry must have continued to look blank, because Quirrell hummed: "You see it as a part of yourself, and it, in turn, sees itself as part of you, and—in a way—it is; you're possessing it. It's why we couldn't find the door until we tried to link it back to Him."

"But usually… usually when I possess people— like Snape and like Voldemort—" Quirrell twitched at the name. "—I think I'm them, not the other way around. Snape said it was a way to hide."

"I'd have said the same, but you possessed me the last time we saw each other," Quirrell said.

"What?" Harry said, aghast. "I'm sorry, I didn't—" Quirrell dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand:

"Exactly; entirely instinctive and not at all a conscious thing. Effective, though."

"And I've been doing that since I was a baby?" Harry asked weakly.

"So it would seem," Quirrell said, shrugging. His eyes slid sideways to Harry, and after a pause, he said, "You're taking this uncomfortably well, Potter. That's not a complaint, mind, just…"

Harry shrugged.

"We've always known there was a connection between me and Voldemort," he said, making a face as Quirrell twitched. "Now we know exactly what it is. If we can do something about it—about getting it out—without killing me, then brilliant. But if not, at least I'll take a bit of him with me, and I won't be getting in the way of someone else finishing it." He shrugged again.

"You actually mean that," Quirrell said.

"You told me not to tell you otherwise," Harry said, one side of his mouth quirking up. "But yeah, I do."

Quirrell stared at him for what seemed like a long time, then cleared his throat:

"I've been looking into solutions," he said. "For ways to remove or destroy it without killing you. And I'm going to keep looking, for as long as the Vow will let me; I should be able to balance the Vow's desire to not do anything that would help Him with its desire to not hurt you. For a time, anyway, and assuming nothing major changes any time soon."

Harry nodded. They sat in silence for a bit, then:

"Who else knows?" Harry asked. "Other than us?" And Voldemort, he added silently.

"No one," Quirrell said.

"Can it stay that way?"

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Quirrell said. "The fact that I've survived telling you is nothing short of a miracle and I'm not inclined to test my luck further unless I absolutely have to. And as long as your attitude toward all of this doesn't change, I don't think I will."

"Good," Harry said.

"Black won't like that you're keeping secrets," Quirrell said, but Harry didn't get the impression that he disapproved.

"No," Harry said, grimacing. "But this isn't like what happened during the fourth task." He rubbed his hand over his left arm and the smooth scarring at his wrist. "I think— I don't think this is going to— I think I'm going to be okay, knowing. But he won't be." None of his friends or family would be. And that would drive them to try to help him and Quirrell find a solution, but if there wasn't one…. Harry was prepared to die for this if it came to it, but he wasn't sure the others would be prepared to let him, wasn't sure they'd understand. "It's better this way, I think."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Quirrell looked it, too. "Both for being the bearer of bad news, but also for the fact that there's bad news at all. There are a lot of people out there who deserve bad things, and there are several others who I don't like and so would be glad to see bad things happen to even if they don't truly deserve it." He looked at Harry, unapologetic, and shrugged. "You don't fall into either category, as far as I'm concerned."

"Thanks," Harry said. "And I'm sorry too." Quirrell frowned. "That the Vow keeps making you—"

"This is exactly what I mean," Quirrell said. He rolled his eyes at Harry, but his scent was a little sad and a little fond. Harry smiled slightly, warmed by that despite himself. "Let me reassure you: even without the Vow, I'd be on your side for this one," Quirrell said. "He set me up to die; I'd like to return the favour."