A/N: wow, look, a non-HP quote...

"ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴀɴ ɪ ʙᴇ ꜱᴜʙꜱᴛᴀɴᴛɪᴀʟ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴀꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ? ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ." — ᴄᴀʀʟ ᴊᴜɴɢ

Chapter Twelve: Mirrors and Shadows (Are One and The Same)

The meeting with the Slytherins had left Harry unsettled.

What if I am like Voldemort?

He couldn't get the thought out of his head. What if — what if Voldemort had these shadows, too? Harry stared at fingers during classes and in the common room and the Great Hall, but did not see anything remotely like his shadows.

The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, after all...

"If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was the most powerful Dark wizard in written memory, and you defeated him as an infant, that can only suggest one thing, in my opinion."

He remembered Anthony's comment on the train.

"If Dumbledore used it, it can't be all that bad, can it?"

Yes... maybe, he should speak to Dumbledore. Dumbledore probably knew about things like this.

Or what about Quirrell?

Though he wasn't the best teacher, maybe he was just shy (Harry could understand that), like Hagrid said. And the dream; yes, Harry wasn't one to go in for superstition and all that, but it was worth a try, at least.

Anyway, it was Friday evening again, and the time for worrying about such things could be postponed until dreaded Monday morning.

"Have we got anything due for Potions next week?" asked Harry, as the three of them sat by the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room. In his flustered state, he'd put his ink inside his bag without the lid, and it had spilled all over today's notes, ruining them.

"Haven't got the foggiest," said Ron, who was currently sprawled out on the rug, playing with a chessboard — which Harry thought was an odd thing to do by yourself.

"Haven't got the foggiest?" Hermione repeated, looking scandalized. "Harry ruined his notes; what's your excuse? We've got that essay on Forgetfulness Potion due on Monday!"

Ron pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Well, Snape makes me not want to listen."

"Honestly," said Hermione, shaking her head. Harry thought she was much too distraught about this.

Evidently, she had gotten over it, because she leaned forward to have a look at Ron's chessboard.

"Is that chess?" she asked, looking at it curiously. "You've got funny pieces."

Hermione tapped what Harry supposed was meant to be one of the black rooks, except it was a funny little man bearing an enormous shield.

"It's wizard's chess," said Ron. "Fancy a game?"

Hermione nodded and slid over to face Ron on the other side of the chessboard. She moved to pick up one of the white pawns, but it did not budge.

"You've got to tell them where to go," said Ron.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Oh. All right, then. Pawn to C3, please."

Both she and Harry leaned forward to watch the pawn step obediently towards the correct square.

Once they got into the midgame, there was another surprise — instead of the defeated pieces being put away, they were (quite brutally) hacked to pieces.

Harry's mind began to wander, and he glanced away from the carnage (Ron's queen was excitedly stabbing Hermione's rook to death), his gaze straying to his own shadow on the far wall; a deeper, inkier black that he had expected, smeary and spotty, like a Rorschach blot.

Neither Ron nor Hermione's shadows looked like that.

A strange focus came over him, blocking out all the sounds of the common room and replacing them with the overwhelming loud sound of his stuttering heartbeat.

Frightened by what he saw, Harry looked away.

"...and when the pawn gets to the eighth row, it can become anything it wants — Harry, are you all right?"

"What?" he asked, panicked and desperately trying to clear the fog over his eyes and the fuzziness from his hearing.

Deep breaths. He sucked a shaky breath in through his nose and then out through his mouth.

In, out.

Again.

Why was it so cold? So dark?

"The fire's gone out," said someone, and it snapped Harry back into reality.

Percy Weasley was standing in front of the fireplace and frowning in confusion. And not just him, but a crowd of other students, frowning and murmuring to themselves.

The tableau mixed into a blur of colors, like watercolors bleeding into each other. It didn't make sense.

"Incendio — Incendio, I say — ah, come on!"

There was a loud snap, and then, the logs caught flame. The fire nearly leapt out of the fireplace in its sudden overexuberance, causing the people gathered around it to jump back in surprise.

Slowly, they all went back to what they were doing before the fire had gone out. Harry shook his head again, trying to clear it.

Everything was still fuzzy. Spinning.

"Are you all right?"

Ron put his hand on Harry's arm, but it felt like an ice cube sliding down his sleeve, and he jerked away.

"You're burning hot!" said Ron.

"I'm not hot," said Harry, though he was shivering. "You're freezing."

The world slowly stilled and focused, and both Hermione and Percy were looking at him with a mix of worry and confusion.

"Did I faint again?" asked Harry.

They all frowned.

"No," said Hermione. "You went really stiff, Harry, and then the fire went out. It was really, really scary. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I am," said Harry, even though he didn't feel all right in the least. "I just want to know what's happening to me."

And somehow, he did not think he should get anyone else involved.

It might be dangerous.

And what if he really was — was like Voldemort? Ron and Hermione wouldn't want to be friends with someone like that, would they?

But all the same, Harry had to find out for himself.

The next time he snuck out of bed, Harry was careful.

But in his haste to get to the library by the darkest, least frequented hallways, he had gotten terribly lost. So, he resorted to wandering wherever he felt like, in the hopes of finding his way to either the library or the dormitory by morning.

The corridors couldn't be infinite, could they? At some point, he would have to find his way back.

Harry seemed to remember Anthony saying something about finding your way out of a maze by keeping your right hand on the wall. So he did, trailing his hand down the cool stone and smooth wood until the walls became darker and the air became stiller and colder.

He must have been in the Dungeons by now, maybe close to the Slytherin dormitory.

Just as he was about to turn back (the way to the library couldn't possibly be down here, he had to be going the wrong way), he heard a soft voice.

"Harry... Harry Potter..."

"Who's there?" he whispered, turning around and seeing no one. "Are you one of the ghosts?"

There was a strong wind, enough to make him stumble back, and then a ghostly figure was indeed floating before him.

Like all ghosts, she was see-through and seemed to be made of a cold breeze. The ghost wasn't so much frightening as haughty and proud; Harry was surprised that she had even revealed herself to him.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, hoping that he hadn't attracted her wrath. "Did I disturb you?"

"No one cares about disturbing me," said the ghost. "Certainly not little boys who should be in bed at this time of night, not wandering about the dungeons."

"I was looking for the library," said Harry lamely. "Sorry, what's your name?"

The ghost drew herself up to her full height. "The Ravenclaws call me the Grey Lady," she said. "You may, as well."

"How do you know my name?" asked Harry.

The Grey Lady arched an eyebrow. "I listen," she said. "Unlike some people."

She paused.

"If you seek knowledge of your inner self... that room to your left may be of use."

"Why?" asked Harry. "What's in it?"

But the Grey Lady had already melted back through the wall.

Well, it couldn't hurt to look.

With a quick glance behind him to ensure that he was alone, Harry stepped through the threshold.

Instantly, his footsteps began to echo all around him — the entire room must have been made of stone.

Far from the door, a faint glimmer sparkled in the darkness.

Slowly and carefully, Harry made his way towards it, feeling around in the dark to make sure he didn't walk into anything.

As he got closer, he saw that the sparkling thing was actually a grand mirror; rimmed with gold detailing and as tall as a classroom ceiling was high.

And when Harry came close enough to stand directly in front of it, he could read the words engraved on the rim in some strange language.

"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."

What was it? A magic spell?

But he supposed that it didn't matter, really...

"Who am I?" asked Harry, pressing his hand to the cold glass and staring at his reflection; solitary, hunched, and small amongst the curling, writhing shadows. "I'm not like Voldemort, am I?"

The surface rippled and turned opaque for a second, then burst with colors.

All of a sudden, his reflection was not alone.

"Mum?" asked Harry, staring in disbelief. "Dad? Are you — are you real?"

It felt like his heart was about to burst with happiness. No flesh and blood could stand this amount of emotion.

They did not answer. His mum and dad were smiling, each with a hand on his shoulder. The same way Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon used to do with Dudley.

But something was missing...

"Dad?" he asked, and his dad smiled bigger. "Dad, where's Ruby?"

They continued to smile. But there was something empty behind their eyes.

Harry knew what was wrong. He had to bring her, too.

"Mum, Dad—"

He did not finish, because a sharp pain went through his head like someone had stabbed him through his scar. Harry crumpled to the floor, and the world began to go quiet and dark around him...

He did not return to the Gryffindor dormitories until early the next morning. Ron raised an eyebrow as he climbed back into bed, exhausted and shaken, and pulled the covers over his head, intending to sleep until at the least the afternoon.

"How half-Muggle of you?" came a scandalized voice from further down the main corridor of the dungeons.

Gemma.

Ruby leaned around the corner to see what exactly was going on.

Gemma and Alastair were standing in one of the alcoves over by the window. Gemma had her back to Ruby, but her posture looked tense — her arms were crossed.

She could see Alastair, though, who was scowling at Gemma.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she continued. She sounded on the verge of tears. "How could you let him say that to me — in front of everyone?"

Alastair cleared his throat, glancing out the window to avoid Gemma's gaze. "He's my friend—" he began.

"He's not your friend!" shouted Gemma, her voice breaking on the 'not.' "He's the person your parents want you to be friends with — you don't — you don't even like him!"

Alastair sighed. "Yes, he's a pompous arse, and we all talk about Hassan behind his back."

"Why can't you just stand up for me, just for once?" asked Gemma, and this time her voice was so quiet that Ruby had to strain to catch the words. "I know you don't care my mum's a Muggle."

"I don't," he said. Then, "Come here, and stop crying. You know I can't do anything—"

"—You could if you really wanted to," said Gemma, but all the same, she stepped forward, and Ruby saw Alastair wrap his arms around her and give out a long, shaky sigh.

Enough. This was private.

Quietly, she slipped back around the corner, and promptly collided with someone.

"Ow!" said Ruby, glaring at the person. "Watch where you're going — Harry, what are you doing down here?"

Her brother shrugged, rubbing his forehead.

"Didn't realize the Slytherins owned the Dungeons," he said irritably. "You should watch where you're going."

Ruby bit the inside of her cheek. He was clearly in a mood. "Sorry for elbowing you in the head," she said. "And snapping."

"Need to show you something," said Harry, and without another word and despite her protests, grabbed the offending elbow and pulled her down what looked like an abandoned corridor. It was very dimly-lit, showed signs of water damage, and smelled decidedly musty.

"Are you sure we're supposed to be down here?" asked Ruby. She didn't have a very good feeling about lurking around the dungeons. The older Slytherins had told some stories in the common room about unpleasant things they'd come across in the abandoned portions of the school... but she knew from experience that Harry wouldn't listen to caution.

"Yeah, doing what you're supposed to. Real talent of yours."

Harry snorted. Clearly, his mood had improved.

But why?

"It's in here," said Harry, finally letting go of her elbow and kicking a door open. She stepped in beside him, and it swung shut with a heavy clang.

"Uh, Harry? What if we get locked in here?" she asked, tugging on the handle.

But he had ignored her and was walking to the other side of the strangely-empty room; Ruby couldn't discern what on earth it had been built for. Why would anyone need tall, arcing ceilings fifty feet below sea level?

It didn't seem to bother Harry.

She knelt down to inspect something shimmering on the stone floor. There was an ancient-looking, rusty smear in the middle of the room. And around it, old, nearly completely-faded chalk drawings, twisting in strange loops and curves.

Whatever it was, Ruby found it very off-putting. A shiver went up her spine when she reached out to touch one of the chalk drawings, and she drew her finger back; it tingled like it had been burned.

What on earth had this room been used for?

Nothing good.

"Come here!" said Harry excitedly, grinning as he turned towards her. "Look in the mirror with me — it's our parents, do you see them?"

First, all she saw was her and Harry, tiny inside the vast room. And then, two figures stepped into the frame.

Ruby recognized them immediately. She'd committed every detail of their faces to memory, from studying every single picture from the photo album Hagrid had given them. But this was different. They were real. Breathing. Alive.

"You have Mum's eyes," she said, staring up at her mother (Aunt Petunia said — I will not let her ruin this). "And I have Dad's nose. The way it dips at the bottom."

He winked.

He winked.

Her heartbeat snagged in her throat.

I wish they could talk to us.

"Look, Harry—"

But he looked miserable, once she glanced over.

"I still can't see you with us," he groused. "And my head hurts again."

"Again?" The other thing was a problem for some other time. "What do you mean, again?"

"First time I came here," said Harry, rubbing his forehead again. "It started hurting."

"What started hurting?"

"My scar."

"Harry, you've got to tell someone," said Ruby, drawing him away from the mirror.

"It's not that bad," he said, but Ruby knew that the expression he was pulling was the one when he was trying not to wince. Besides, the blood had leached from his face, and he was leaning on her for support.

"What if you're sick?" asked Ruby, pushing at the door — it opened, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "There's a hospital wing here, Snape mentioned it."

"I'm fine," Harry said tightly. "I'll just go to the common room and lie down for a bit."

"Or the library?" asked Ruby. She didn't want him to just walk off. What if he fainted again?

"Yeah," said Harry. "The others said they're going to go study at three, anyway."

By the time that they got to the library, Harry's stubbornness had won out; he looked or at least, acted much better.

Still, she ushered him over to one of the window seats, forced as many pillows as she could find on him (each punctuated by a "Leave me alone, I'm feeling better!").

"Aunt Petunia used to prop up Dudley when he was sick," she said. "I can be just as stubborn as you."

But before long, Harry was sleeping, anyway. The sound was strangely comforting, and she found herself falling asleep, too, into a heavy, dreamless sleep that she hadn't had in ages...

Until someone was shaking both of them awake.

"Go away," Harry mumbled, putting a pillow over his head. "It's Saturday."

Ruby rubbed her eyes blearily and attempted to glare at the shaker.

"It's three in the afternoon, that's what it is," said Hermione as she tried to extricate the pillow from Harry's grip; it wasn't budging an inch, and nor was he. "Maybe if you slept at night, you wouldn't be so tired in the daytime."

"Hermione!" said Ron. "Maybe he's got that sleeping thing Muggles go on about. Informia."

"It's insomnia, actually!" said Anthony. "And—"

"Voices down!" hissed Madam Pince. "This is a library, not the Great Hall! Students are studying!"

"Fine," said Harry, sliding off of the window seat and onto the floor in a heap. He reached for his glasses.

"Right," he said, shoving them onto his nose. "Let's go study."

"Yay!" said Anthony.

"Yay?" whispered Ron as they approached an empty table. "Not even Hermione says yay about studying."

In fact, Hermione was wearing a solemn expression as she began to take out her notes, spreading them all over the table.

Harry nudged her. "Keep the mirror thing between us, okay?"

"Okay," she said, but wasn't sure if it was the best idea.

Anyway, there wasn't much time for complaining, because Hermione decided to start quizzing them.

By the time an hour had passed, Ruby felt like her brain had been replaced by cotton wool.

"Name the two best ways to cure werewolf bites," said Hermione, looking up from her stack of flashcards.

The four other first-years stared back at her with blank and bored expressions.

"Honestly? None of you can answer it?"

Anthony waved his hand, shrugging. "Somethin' about silver and, um, whatever else Quirrell said."

He yawned, then put his head on the table again and feigned sleep.

Actually, Ruby wasn't sure if he was faking it. He might have been one of those people who could fall asleep in an instant. Curious, she prodded his arm — yes, definitely sleeping. Weird.

"None of you are taking this seriously!" Hermione yelped, causing Madame Pince to glare at them all. "We've got our first exam in two weeks, and you haven't been able to answer any of the questions that could be on it!"

"Two weeks," Ron muttered. "Two weeks, and this is how she acts? Can you imagine what she'll be like two hours before the exam?"

He looked at Harry pointedly.

Harry made a noise that sounded only halfway like assent (probably in an attempt to pacify both Ron and Hermione) and went back to doodling a dinosaur at the edge of his paper.

The image of Hermione two hours before an exam was genuinely frightening. In fact, it frightened Ruby so much that she decided to excuse herself (under the guise of looking for books on the topic of curing werewolf bites, which earned her a pleased smile from Hermione).

Of course, she did not seek out said books, instead drifting past the table where her housemates sat (Malfoy was talking rather loudly and consequently, Theodore kept his head down when he saw her — she heard something whispered about Mudbloods, whatever that meant — it didn't sound nice, given that it made Pansy giggle) and closer to the edge of the library, which looked almost abandoned.

The lighting grew darker, and the air seemed thicker and stiller. The books' titles became more and more esoteric; the covers grander and adorned with gold leaf and complex scrolling. Ruby ran her hands over their spines, inhaling the heady scent of dust, ancient paper, and knowledge.

She came to a velvet rope, beyond which lay beckoning darkness. Without thinking, she reached to unhook it, drawing her hand back instantly as static shot up her arm.

"You're wandering awfully close to the Restricted Section."

Ruby nearly jumped out of her skin. Alastair Montague, a prefect, she suddenly remembered, was standing just a few feet behind her.

Was she about to be punished? Regardless of his friendliness, he was still a disciplinarian.

Alastair looked nonplussed. "It's only natural to be curious about what is hidden," he said, fiddling with one of his heavy rings. "I often was, too. If you work hard over the next few years, Potter, you may gain the trust required to look beyond this rope."

"What's in it?" Ruby asked. "Why would a book require trust?"

Alastair simply smiled. "The Dark Arts, Potter."

Seeing her shocked expression, he continued, "Do not be frightened. As our Headmaster says, fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. And we should not fear the darkness, fear power; only be wary of losing ourselves in it."

"Now, run along back to your friends and continue your studies," said Alastair, as he unhooked the rope separating the Restricted Section from the rest of the library. "It would not do for you to perform badly on your first exam."

Ruby watched him disappear into the Restricted Section, his robes billowing around him as he melted into the darkness that lay beyond.

Run along back to your friends.

In hindsight, not bad advice. She didn't want anyone to worry...

"Hey, Potter!" Pansy shouted as she walked past the other first-year Slytherins on her way back. "I know your secret!"

Keep your head down, keep your head down. You can do this, imagine she's Aunt Petunia. They can't know. They can't possibly know.

"Give us a rise, c'mon!" shouted Blaise.

"Looked in a mirror lately?" That was Tracey. "Did it crack?"

She found the rat. I shouldn't have done that, I shouldn't've, I was just so angry!

Ruby glanced at Theodore, but her heart sank as she saw him laugh, too. Even Daphne smiled.

"Is there a reason you find it appropriate to speak at such a volume in the library, Miss Davis?"

Ruby turned slowly. Snape was sneering at all of them. Even though she disliked the greasy-haired professor, Ruby had to admit that seeing their gleeful faces fall collectively was strangely gratifying.

"What is it that you find so amusing, Miss Parkinson, Mr. Zabini?"

"Nothing, sir," they chorused.

"Professor Snape, what does Mudblood mean?" asked Ruby, before she could stop the words from escaping her mouth. He sneered down at her.

"And where, Miss Potter, did you hear that?"

She pointed vaguely at the table.

"Mudblood is a derogatory term for those of lesser blood — witches and wizards born of Muggle parents. I suggest that you refrain from using such a word in polite company."

And with that, Snape swept out of the library. As soon as he was out of earshot, Ruby walked back towards the bookshelves, hoping to pass without incident.

"Refrain from using such a word in polite company. Well, my father says—"

"Blah, blah, blah, your father says, Malfoy," Ruby muttered, shaking her head in disbelief as she continued back towards Hermione and the others, snatching an appropriate-looking book on her way there.

Looked in a mirror lately? Did it crack?

Maybe I should. Would it crack? Am I that ugly?

Suck it up.

"...Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practicing! Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. The incantation is Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the "gar" nice and long."

Harry leaned over the desk, watching everyone around him glumly. Though he'd gotten some proper sleep over the weekend (and felt better for it), he was still finding it extremely hard to concentrate.

Well, at least he hadn't fallen asleep in any classes this week. Yet.

Swish and flick.

"Wingardium Leviosa."

Harry mouthed the words to make sure he'd gotten them right.

"Wingardium Leviosa," said a familiar voice. Harry turned his head to see Hermione near the other end of the classroom, with her feather hovering a respectable half-a-foot from the desk; not quite as high as Professor Flitwick's had been.

"Excellent, Miss Granger! Excellent, wonderful — look at that swish — ten points to Gryffindor!"

Flitwick reminded him of a grown-up Anthony, sometimes. Harry had never before met an adult who was so... not serious.

"Very good, Mr. Nott, you've almost got it — more wrist movement — here, there we go, keep it steady now!"

Oohs and aahs went up amongst the classroom as the air began to fill with white feathers. Across the classroom, Ruby's feather rose a few shaky inches. Ron's freckled face broke into a grin as he finally managed to make his feather rise.

"Harry, look—" he started. Harry looked down.

He was an utterly useless wizard; if he couldn't even make a feather float — "Wingardium Leviosa, please work!" — then, what was he any good for?

Wingardium Leviosa. Wingardium Leviosa.

He muttered it like a prayer, willing with every bone in his body for the feather to obey his pleas.

If I really, truly can do magic, please work.

And if he couldn't control it, like the others could, maybe he wasn't a wizard. Maybe Uncle Vernon was right. Maybe he was just a freak.

Nearly everyone had gotten their feathers to budge except Harry, and the lesson was almost over. Even Seamus Finnegan had managed to explode his. He looked around and saw dozens of white feathers floating in the air.

Freak! he heard Uncle Vernon say. Tears clouding his glasses, Harry flicked his wand aggressively, stammering out the incantation, and the feather rocketed towards the ceiling with the force of a bullet.

Harry gaped, staring up at the white speck dangling far above his head.

"Excellent, Mr. Potter!" called Professor Flitwick. "Merlin's pants, just look at that height! Very impressive — another five points to Gryffindor."

Flitwick did not notice the thread-like wisps of black wind coiling around Harry's fingers. Nor did Harry; he was too relieved to do anything but gape at the floating feather until the end of class.

"I can't get this spell to work again," said Harry glumly. "Swish and flick. Wing-gard-ium Levi-o-sa. I am doing it right, aren't I?"

Hermione, who was still furious with Ron over yet another one of their incomprehensible arguments, refused to speak.

"Wingardium Leviosa. Wingardium Leviosa. Ah, what's the point?"

Harry slumped against the table. "Maybe I'm bad at being a wizard. Maybe I should just give up. I don't belong here."

"Yeah, you do!" said Anthony. "You got your feather to go up higher than anyone else in class. Professor Flitwick was really impressed."

"I did a spell once. Big deal," said Harry.

"Harry, I've seen you do magic loads of times before we knew what it was!" Ruby protested.

"But what's the point if I can't do it on command?"

"Maybe you're just tired," Ruby suggested, but Harry doubted it.

All of a sudden, Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Help me.

"Hey, what was that?"

He stared at his shadow on the candle-lit walls.

Harry had his arms crossed.

So why was his shadow screaming and tugging at his hair?

"It's just a shadow, Harry!" Ron laughed. "Don't worry, Fred and George said most of the ghosts are pretty friendly anyway."

"Right."

Harry didn't think that this kind of thing was ordinary, even in a world of magic and ghosts.

"I think you should talk to someone about the shadows," said Ruby. "What if it's got something to do with your scar hurting? Or—"

"Or me being bad at magic?" Harry prompted. "I don't know… what if I get in trouble?"

"What about Professor Quirrell?" asked Anthony. "He's supposed to know about stuff like this. Did you know he got his turban as a gift from an African prince 'cause he got rid of a zombie? And he fought vampires, and—"

"That's a good idea!" Ruby said quickly. Once Anthony got going, he wouldn't stop talking. "You should talk to Quirrell."

And so, Harry found himself standing in front of Quirrell's office on a Thursday afternoon, wondering if he should just leave well enough alone.

A flash of red hair told him that Ron (and probably the others, too) were waiting to make sure he went in.

Harry sighed and knocked on the door.

"Professor Quirrell?" he said. "Sorry for disturbing you—"

The door swung open, and Harry drew back slightly. He was almost disappointed that Quirrell was indeed in his office.

"P-Potter!" said Quirrell, looking around as if checking to ensure that the corridor was empty. "T-To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Quirrell's nervousness was beginning to unsettle Harry.

"I just wanted to ask you something," he said. "Can I—"

"Of c-c-course, please come in," said Quirrell, stepping away from the doorway and ushering Harry inside.

His office smelled just as strongly and unpleasantly of garlic as his classroom did, but the fire crackling in the hearth made it rather warm and cozy, and the chair that he offered Harry was quite comfortable.

Quirrell sat down opposite Harry, looking expectant.

Harry fidgeted in the chair, tugging at the edges of his sleeves.

"I've been seeing shadows," he blurted out. "They're not regular shadows. They're like smoke, and some of them never go away."

Harry lifted his wand hand to show Quirrell the shadows curling around his fingers.

"They're really faint," he explained, "but sometimes, other people can see them when I manage to do a spell."

Quirrell was silent.

"Is it normal what's happening to me, sir? With the shadows?"

"N-Normal?" stuttered Quirrell. "Why, it's e-extraordinary, Mr. Potter. I am so glad that you've c-confided in me. I always liked to go to P-Professor Slughorn myself, when I was your age."

"Professor Slughorn, sir?"

Quirrell's expression was strangely wistful.

"Y-Yes. Used to teach Potions, y-you know. Very admirable man. Extraordinarily helpful, to those who were a-academically or p-politically inclined. But you wouldn't be much interested in that quiet sort of life, would you, P-Potter?"

"Er — um — I don't know, Professor. Do you think I should be worried at all about the shadows?"

"No, of c-c-course not, Harry!" exclaimed Quirrell, patting him on the shoulder all of a sudden. Harry started, not just because of the panicky feeling in his stomach from Quirrell's hand gripping his shoulder, but because Quirrell's gaze had gone strange and calculating all of a sudden.

"You were right to come to me, Harry Potter. If you are at all interested in learning to... control... to develop... your power, I may just be able to point you in the right d-d-direction."

His voice was different. His eyes were — no, Harry was just being silly.

"Um, thanks," said Harry, still unsettled, even though Quirrell's eyes and voice were back to normal. Perhaps he'd imagined it all.

"I so en-enjoyed our c-c-conversation," said Quirrell, getting up from behind the desk. "Do c-c-come again soon — take a bit of cake, H-Harry — from my t-travels in Albania, you know."

Though Harry was loath to take anything from Quirrell's garlic-scented office, he smiled weakly and selected the smallest square of the syrupy, stodgy-looking cake Quirrell offered him.

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Harry?"

The stutter was gone again. Perhaps he felt more comfortable now.

"The mirror," he said, barely thinking about what was coming out of his mouth. "The Mirror of Erised. My scar's been hurting, and I don't understand why..."

In fact, it was hurting now. It wasn't as painful as before, but it still stung like a fresh cut.

Quirrell's eyes had not gone odd again; but his expression had gone very ugly and very greedy. Strange.

"Thank you for your honesty... You can t-t-trust me, H-Harry. Do c-come by. A-anytime. My office d-d-door is always o-open."

Harry mumbled a quick, polite-sounding goodbye to Quirrell and dashed out of the office.

It has been an unsettling experience. But Quirrell definitely knew something.

Maybe he would take him up on the offer.

Today's random details: The cake Quirrell offered Harry is shendetlie, which according to Google is a traditional Albanian cake. I don't think my stats say I have any readers from Albania, but if you're out there, feel free to fact-check :)

Did you catch Voldemort's cameo (and the Legilimency) or the title references? What is he up to? And what does it have to do with the Mirror of Erised business?

Also, can you answer Ruby's question? Not sure if it's obvious what the Mirror room was previously used for, but if not, I'd love to hear your theories.

(There's a hidden pop-culture-y reference in the chapter, too, but it's fairly obscure. If anyone spots it, I'll be shocked.)

See you next week!