A/N: Chapter revised as of November 1, 2024.
"I have some news that might interest you," announced Daphne Greengrass, plopping herself down across from Harry at the Ravenclaw table.
"Good morning to you too, Daphne," Harry chuckled, setting down his forkful of eggs. He hadn't spoken to her once since term resumed the week before. "How was your break?"
"It's about Longbottom," said Daphne without preamble. "You're interested in developments about him, are you not?"
Harry's ears perked up at this. "Yeah," he said. "Is he alright?"
"Beats me," Daphne shrugged. "Apparently he's been sneaking out of the common room late at night. No one's seen him leave, but Snape caught him out of bounds during a bed check last night."
"How odd," Harry muttered. "Any idea where he's going?"
"I was going to ask you that," Daphne said pointedly. "Since you consider yourself a friend of his."
"In a sense," Harry shrugged. Truthfully, he hadn't spoken much with Neville lately, choosing to give him, Ron and Hermione a wide berth for the past few months. He really ought to keep up with that relationship, though, lest he neglect the most important friendship of them all.
"Well, that's all," Daphne sighed. "He lost Slytherin thirty points, so we're all cross with him, but I doubt you care about that." And she stood to return to her own table.
"Wait!" Harry said, halting her. "How are you doing, Daphne?"
Daphne narrowed her eyes at him. "What kind of question is that?" she demanded.
"We're friends," Harry reminded her. "We can talk about things other than our 'deal', you know. Like classes. Or hobbies. Or boys."
"Ugh," Daphne scoffed at this last cheeky remark, and spun around to leave. Harry chuckled to himself; he was determined to crack Daphne's tough exterior and get to know her beyond her political ambitions. If Tracey Davis could do it, so could he.
This Neville news was intriguing, though. Where was he sneaking off to late at night? And how was he getting in and out of the Slytherin common room without anyone seeing – particularly if, as Daphne said, he has 'many eyes on him at all times'? Harry had a hunch about both questions, and decided to investigate that very evening.
After an uneventful day of classes, Harry slipped away from his classmates and headed to the seventh floor. He had some time to kill before nightfall, and he had a far more productive evening in mind than simply waiting around Ravenclaw Tower.
I need to visit my training room...I need to visit my training room...I need to visit my training room…
After his third pace back and forth before the blank stretch of wall, a door materialized, and Harry entered the Room of Requirement. He'd started coming here since the new term started, needing a private place to practice his spells without hurting anyone by accident. The room had provided him with a makeshift combat arena, complete with movable training dummies and absorbent walls that prevented errant spells from bouncing dangerously around the space.
Harry was quickly learning the many abilities – and shortcomings – the Room of Requirement possessed. When he got hungry after a particularly-long session, a door appeared that led directly into the kitchens to nourish himself. When he wished he had reading material to brush up on his spell vocabulary, a bookshelf materialized with a wide selection of books on hexes, curses and other combat tools. Notably, they were all library books, and none of them came from the Restricted Section...it seemed the room could only provide what Hogwarts already had to offer, and it knew that he did not have a pass to the more sinister books behind the locked door.
But no matter. He had seven years with which to expand his knowledge and grow to his full potential. Right now, he just needed to master basic spell casting and learn how to control his wand. So he launched himself into a furious attack on the training dummies, throwing everything he knew at them. He cast them as fast as possible, his wand a blur of movement as jets of light streamed out and pummeled their targets.
Harry had learned that his wand worked best when he operated on instinct – casting quickly and intuitively without thinking too hard about what he was doing. When he was forced to slow down and be more deliberate, the wand seemed impatient, often preferring to stir up trouble rather than do what he wanted. But these occurrences were lessening with time, as Harry slowly learned how to exert his will over the wand and force it to do his bidding.
As Flitwick had theorized, the wand seemed to respond best when Harry felt in danger. Harry realized that he could use this to his advantage by injecting a sense of desperate urgency into his intent, even with basic spells. I need to master the basics if I'm going to survive the war in a few years, Harry thought as he attempted a simple Levitation Charm. The wand initially resisted his will, but on the second attempt it finally relented, lifting the feather on the table in front of him up to the ceiling.
Will I have to act desperate at all times to get my wand to work? Harry thought glumly. But maybe that was exactly what the wand was demanding of him – a sense of urgency that he hadn't displayed thus far in his new timeline. He was enjoying the relative peace of having a loving family and not worrying about his future, but perhaps he needed to focus harder. It was as if the wand knew he had the power to prevent Voldemort's return, and that he was squandering that foreknowledge. Fair enough, he supposed.
A clock on the wall chimed midnight. Harry swore; he'd lost track of time in the windowless room. I need to get to the library, Harry thought intently, waiting as the Room processed his request. Soon a portrait-hole materialized on the wall, and Harry pushed through it, finding himself on the first floor, just down the hall from the school library. Harry carefully closed the portrait behind him and crept along the darkened hallway.
He felt quite naked and exposed without the Invisibility Cloak or the Marauder's Map to aid him. Even when he'd had said items he was always on-edge, worried that he might stumble across the path of Filch, Mrs. Norris, or worse, Snape. Now he had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide if someone came across him. Fortunately, he knew his destination was close, as he inched along the halls towards the empty classroom he had traveled to so often during his original timeline…
Harry located the room and entered, softly clicking the door shut behind him. Just as he'd remembered, the Mirror of Erised sat in the center of the room, glimmering softly in the moonlight. Now that he was familiar with the mirror's true nature, he felt the subtle pull of the Compulsion Charm drawing him towards its surface, beckoning him to peer within. But for the moment he resisted the impulse, standing stock-still in the empty room, waiting. Listening.
It was subtle, but he quickly deduced that he was not alone. He could hear quiet shuffling of feet, labored, panicked breathing nearby. "Neville," Harry whispered into the darkness. "It's Harry Potter. I'm not here to get you in trouble."
There was a moment's silence. Then, Neville Longbottom appeared, pulling off his Invisibility Cloak, looking ashamed. "How did you find me?" he asked glumly.
"Not important," said Harry. "You're going to get in trouble if you keep coming here, Neville. There's nothing good for you here, trust me."
"But...you don't understand!" Neville protested, beckoning to the Mirror behind him. "My parents are in there! This is...this is the only time I get to see them!"
Harry's heart broke a little bit at the look on Neville's face. He knew the emotion well, the desperate longing he himself had felt in this very room the first time around. "I know, mate," he said sympathetically. "But the Mirror is just a trick. It isn't real."
"No, it really is!" Neville insisted. "Look!" And he grabbed Harry's arm, urging him forward to look into the mirror's surface himself. "See? There's my mum and dad. They're smiling and waving at us, can't you see?"
Harry resisted looking for several moments. But curiosity got the best of him – he'd been wondering lately what he might see in the Mirror, now that he had all the things he'd lacked in his previous timeline. With a resigned sigh, he glanced up at his reflection as Neville stepped aside to let him see properly.
For a brief moment, only his eleven-year-old form stared back at him. But then, before his very eyes, he began to morph and shift, growing into an older, taller, more formidable-looking young man. He stood tall and confident, towering over a crumpled figure: Voldemort, broken and defeated at the feet of his vanquisher. And kneeling all around him were many prominent figures of the wizarding world – Dumbledore, Fudge, his parents, the Hogwarts staff, and even Neville himself, bowing reverently to their savior.
In his last timeline, Harry had never wanted such attention. But now, having been denied the spotlight, he suddenly craved it. And why shouldn't he? In this timeline, he would have earned it. He wasn't thrust into fame by tragedy and a fluke of a spell gone awry; he had to work for everything he had now. He gawked at his older self in the Mirror, daring to believe it was possible, that he could make it a reality. So what if he wasn't the Boy Who Lived? He could still become the Man Who Won.
"Well? Do you see them?" Neville asked eagerly. That shook Harry out of his reverie, and he forced himself to break eye contact with the Mirror, shattering the illusion at once.
"No, Neville," Harry said sadly. "That isn't how the Mirror works."
"But I saw them—" Neville protested.
"The Mirror of Erised shows you the deepest desire of your heart," Harry explained. "You would give anything to have your parents back, right? So you see yourself with them, alive and well. But it's not real, Neville. You can't let yourself become obsessed by your reflection, because it will never come to pass." He realized he was speaking to himself as much as to Neville – he needed to remind himself that his own reflection was a mirage as well, and he couldn't indulge in such delusions of grandeur.
"I see," Neville muttered. "I just thought...I had hoped...oh, well, never mind." And Neville moved to exit the room, but Harry stopped him.
"Actually, Neville," said Harry, "I'm going to need that cloak back."
"This?" Neville asked, suddenly alarmed as he clutched the Invisibility Cloak to his chest. "B-but it was a gift!"
"From who?" Harry asked pointedly.
"Erm...I'm not sure…" Neville stammered. "It came with a note that said it was a borrowed heirloom, but that I could borrow it for a while."
Harry had figured as much...it appeared the Headmaster had taken it upon himself to pass the Cloak on to Neville, rather than return it to the Potters.
"Dumbledore borrowed that cloak from my father," said Harry. "It has been in the Potter family for generations. I'm sorry, but I must insist."
Neville looked alarmed by this news. "But...but if it belongs to the Potters, then why was it given to me?"
"Maybe he felt your need was greater than mine," Harry shrugged.
"Why would my need be greater?" asked Neville. "What am I meant to use it for?"
"Listen, Neville," said Harry in a low tone. "I don't think Voldemort is truly dead. He's still out there somewhere, biding his time, and you might be in danger when he comes back."
Neville looked frightened by this news. "B-but he's dead," he said firmly. "Isn't he? He died after he tried to kill me."
"His body was destroyed, but his spirit lives on," Harry said cryptically. "Dumbledore meant well, I'm sure, by giving you something to protect yourself, but the Cloak wasn't his to give."
Neville looked wistfully down at the Cloak for a moment. Harry felt a twinge of guilt, seeing how much the gift had meant to him – but it wasn't truly his. Neville reluctantly handed the Cloak over, and Harry ran his fingers through the silky material, a familiar chill of excitement coursing through him.
"Sorry," Neville muttered. "I would never mean to steal from your family—"
"I know," Harry said quickly. "Wasn't your fault. I can let you use it on occasion, but it belongs to me."
"I get it," Neville sighed.
"I can at least walk you back to the common room," Harry offered. "So neither of us gets caught."
Harry and Neville traversed the empty halls, huddled together under the Cloak. They passed Professor Snape once, on patrol in the dungeons; he seemed briefly suspicious of a nearby presence before eventually moving on. Harry bid Neville good-night at the common room entrance and made his way back to Ravenclaw Tower, slipping into the dorms unnoticed.
He felt relieved to be reunited with his beloved Cloak once more. But he did feel badly for taking it from Neville, who didn't seem to have much going for him at the moment. He was sorely missing his parents and struggling to get along with his House mates, and now along comes the spoiled son of a famous Auror to take away the one valuable item of note in his possession. It may have been the right thing to do on paper, but Harry didn't feel great about the situation all the same.
The remaining winter months blurred into one another as Harry threw himself into his studies. Not only did he have to complete all his normal class work, he was also practicing his spell work in the Room of Requirement and dipping his toes into his studies of soul magic. He knew he was unlikely to find anything useful outside of the Restricted Section, but he was determined to solve the mystery of how Voldemort had split his own and achieved immortality. If he was lucky, he might even be able to find and eliminate some of them before the Dark Lord even attempted to resurrect himself.
Harry found that he had precious little time to socialize with everything on his plate. He continued to converse with Hermione during classes, check in with Daphne Greengrass every once in a while, and banter with his dorm mates during meals and late evenings before bed. He also made sure to send letters home every once in a while, keeping his family informed on goings-on at the castle. Dahlia was hungry for as much information as possible about Hogwarts, so Harry sent her pages and pages on a weekly basis detailing his explorations of the castle and his studies of magic.
On top of all this, Harry continued to watch Neville from afar, making sure he was still on track for success. He had recovered from his initial gloom in the days after the Mirror incident, and seemed to be thriving in his classes and enjoying time with Ron and Hermione. He also appeared to have soured on his relationship with Draco Malfoy, as Harry often saw the blonde boy throwing nasty looks at Neville and whispering maliciously with Crabbe and Goyle. Harry just had to trust Daphne's word that he was safe in the dormitories, despite sleeping within a few feet of three future enemies if/when the Dark Lord rose again.
Then there was the matter of the Philosopher's Stone to worry about. Part of Harry wanted to sit back and do absolutely nothing, letting things play out as they had in the first timeline with Neville and company saving the day from Quirrell. But the troll incident had soured him on the idea of assuming everything would play out perfectly once more. What if he'd triggered some kind of butterfly effect and prevented the right sequence of events from happening?
Still, things were progressing smoothly in that regard. He overheard the trio whispering about 'Fluffy' on more than one occasion, and had even been asked by Hermione if he knew who Nicholas Flamel was. Harry did not tell her immediately, but did gift Ron with a Chocolate Frog one afternoon after Herbology, knowing that he would discover the answer they sought on Dumbledore's trading card contained within.
Speaking of Ron, Harry had taken to challenging him at chess during meals. He was dismayed to learn that Neville had no interest in the game, and worried that Ron would not get the necessary practice in to beat McGonagall's chess set in the dungeons. Harry had spent five years playing against Ron in the last timeline, and while Ron was always better than him back then, Harry was more experienced this time and knew Ron's play style to a tee. He crushed Ron the first few times they played, but Ron persevered and found new angles of attack to thwart Harry's defenses. As long as he stops hanging his bishops, he should be fine, Harry told himself.
Harry also made time every Friday to spend time with Uncle Peter in his office. This was a relationship he was especially attached to now, after all he'd heard from the other three Marauders during Christmas dinner. He was determined not to continue his father's legacy of leaving people out in the cold, and made sure to make Peter feel welcomed and loved. In fact, he was beginning to think such treatment could have prevented his bitter betrayal in the original timeline…
"You know you don't have to waste every Friday evening with me, Harry," remarked Peter one day as they munched on pastries Harry had brought from the kitchen. "I'm sure you have friends your own age to hang out with."
"I guess," Harry shrugged. "But most of them are too immature for me. And I like spending time with you, Uncle Peter."
"Back at you," Peter smiled warmly. "But surely you've made some friends? I'd hate for you to go all seven years here without growing close to anybody."
"Sure, there are some," Harry nodded. "I like Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein well enough. Hermione's nice, if a bit uptight and obsessed with grades. Ron and Neville are good people, though they're much closer with each other than with me."
"What about Miss Greengrass?" Peter prodded. "I see you talking with her sometimes. She's rather pretty, don't you think? Are you interested in her?"
"No, of course not!" Harry blurted out; he could not bring himself to look at his eleven-year-old classmates that way. Though, remembering that he himself was also supposed to be eleven, he corrected course a bit. "I mean, she's alright, but I just see her as a friend."
"That's alright too," Peter smiled. "I knew her father once – a good man."
The light teasing about Daphne made Harry remember something else from his Christmas meal. "Is it true that you were interested in Alice Longbottom in school?" he asked innocently.
Peter nearly choked on the muffin he was chewing on at this question. "W-what?" he spluttered. "Who told you that?"
"My mum did," Harry fibbed lightly. "Did you ask Alice out?"
"I…" Peter stammered, growing red in the face. "No, I did not. Well, in a sense. Look, it doesn't matter, we shouldn't be talking about this—"
"I want to know, Uncle Peter!" Harry insisted. "You don't have to be embarrassed about it. What was she like?"
Peter looked pained as he considered Harry's question. "She was a saint," he sighed. "There wasn't a student in the school who didn't love her, I reckon. She was kind to everybody, and treated me like a person, even when...even when I didn't feel like one."
"You didn't feel like a person?" Harry asked softly.
"Look, I had some rough years at Hogwarts," Peter muttered. "It doesn't matter now. But Alice listened to all my problems. She offered to tutor me in Charms in my fifth year, mostly so we could talk in private and I could share my more personal feelings with her."
"Really?" Harry asked, surprised. He wondered if his parents knew this…
"Yes," Peter nodded sadly. "And I admit, I misread the signals. I knew she was with Frank, but thought she liked me too, and I...well…"
"Asked her out?"
"No," said Peter, shaking his head. "I tried to kiss her."
"You what?!"
"Actually, I didn't try to, I did kiss her. And she got weirded out, and told me she wasn't interested in me that way. Frank gave me a dressing-down the next day when he learned, and I'm sure he would have done worse if Alice hadn't asked him not to."
"Blimey...I'm sorry, Uncle Peter," said Harry.
"It's alright; it's in the past," Peter smiled weakly. But Harry could tell that wasn't entirely the case – this obviously weighed heavily on Peter, and contributed to who he was today. Peter was visibly distant for the remainder of the conversation, which ended abruptly when he made an excuse about needing to be elsewhere. Is it my place to encourage him to seek love elsewhere? Harry wondered. Such advice usually had to come from a close friend...but he wasn't sure if Peter had any close friends…
But Harry had other things to worry about than the love life of a man twenty years his elder. He spent nearly all his free time in the library or in his training room, poring over any textbook that he thought might hold the secrets to Voldemort's immortality. He always opened every book to the appendix, searching for every mention of the word 'soul', only to be disappointed by the absence of or vague references to soul magic. Was there no such curriculum on the matter? If Tom Riddle hadn't learned how to split his soul at Hogwarts, where and how had he?
He had forgotten all about his confrontation with Neville, and assumed it would be the end of the story, but he was mistaken. He should have realized Neville would go to Dumbledore to corroborate Harry's accounting of events. A prefect approached him at dinner one evening with a folded note, which Harry read:
Dear Mr. Potter,
Please see me in my office after dinner tonight. We have much to discuss.
The password is 'lemon drops'.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Harry felt a chill run down his spine...he'd hoped to avoid Dumbledore's notice for as long as possible. If anyone was clever enough to realize Harry's secret, it would be him. Harry still didn't know how much he trusted the man; after all, if he hadn't been kept in the dark about the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. And given what happened with the Cloak, Harry wasn't especially keen to tell him more than he needed to know.
Harry headed up to the Headmaster's Office once he'd finished eating, wondering what he would say. It was technically his first conversation with the man, and in this timeline, Harry would be someone of no particular consequence to Dumbledore. How would that change their dynamic? Harry hoped it meant he would not fall under particular scrutiny.
"Lemon drops," Harry announced, and the gargoyle leapt aside to grant him access. He climbed the spiral staircase and knocked before entering.
"Good evening, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore greeted him from behind his desk. "Please, have a seat."
Harry did so, looking around the office as he sank into one of the armchairs. The room looked identical to when Harry had last seen it in his previous timeline, albeit with no Sword of Gryffindor hanging on the wall. He heard a soft caw as Fawkes the phoenix suddenly took flight from his perch in the corner and landed upon Harry's shoulder.
"Hullo, Fawkes," Harry said, softly stroking the bird's plumage. Fawkes cooed softly at the touch, rubbing his head against Harry's; he was very warm to the touch, but did not burn Harry.
"Fawkes seems to like you," Dumbledore smiled. "Have you met him before?"
"No, sir," Harry said.
"Strange," Dumbledore mused as he took his seat behind the desk. "It's almost as though he's familiar with you already."
"Huh," Harry said absently, unsure of what to say. Fawkes took flight once more and landed on the back of Dumbledore's chair, as the Headmaster opened a small tin of biscuits, tossing one up for the bird before indulging in one himself.
"I spoke with Neville Longbottom recently about the interaction you two shared earlier this term," said Dumbledore solemnly. "I must sincerely apologize for the misunderstanding with the cloak. You were quite right to request it back – it belongs with the Potter family, and it was wrong of me to hand it out to somebody else."
Harry's gut reaction was to say "It's okay", to placate the kindly old man, but he stopped himself. Because it wasn't really okay, was it? It was no simple 'misunderstanding'...it was theft, even if it was temporary. So he remained silent and simply nodded, waiting for Dumbledore to continue.
"I must admit, I am surprised not to be on the receiving end of a Howler from your father," said Dumbledore. "I know he was quite fond of that cloak, and surely would have been quite angry to learn what I had done."
"I, erm...haven't told him yet," Harry shrugged.
"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Well, I am in no position to ask you not to do so. I am most certainly in the wrong here. However, I am curious about something."
"What's that, sir?" asked Harry.
"I loaned the cloak to Mr. Longbottom via anonymous gift," said Dumbledore. "And according to him, he had no interactions with you in between receiving it and your confrontation shortly thereafter. So I wonder how it is that you know that I was the one who gave it to him, and that it was the cloak that belonged to your father? Or, for that matter, how you knew where to find Mr. Longbottom that evening?"
Harry froze. He hadn't really considered how to answer that question. There was indeed no way he could have possibly known any of this under normal circumstances. How could he explain any of this to the Headmaster? He wracked his brain for something plausible to say, but Dumbledore continued before he could do so.
"I also had an interesting conversation with one of the portraits in the dungeons last November," Dumbledore went on. "They witnessed the troll attack on the first-years during Halloween, and they swear there was a fourth person present, an invisible caster who took the troll down from behind before it could attack. And after conferring with my prefects, you were the only other student unaccounted for during the evacuation."
Harry's stomach dropped. So Dumbledore was suspicious, then, or at the very least curious. How could he explain his way around this one? He decided to settle on a partial truth.
"I sought out the troll after the feast," Harry admitted. "I read about them in the library and thought I could take it on myself. Except, I got frightened when I saw it and stayed back...I only intervened when it went the other three."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, processing this. "How curious that you always seem to show up in the wrong place at the right time," he remarked.
"Just keeping an eye on my friends," Harry shrugged, trying to remain casual.
"And yet, I rarely see you interact with Mr. Longbottom or Miss Granger," Dumbledore smiled. "I believe that is Mr. Ronald Weasley's role as of late. Though you seem to take a keen interest in their affairs, even to the point of asking Miss Daphne Greengrass to keep an eye on Neville in the Slytherin common room for you."
Harry felt like Dumbledore was shining a bright light on his soul. He was utterly exposed, and could only gawk up at the placid smile on the headmaster's face. But he was not fooled by the man's pleasant demeanor – he knew he was being pinned beneath the icy stare of the most powerful wizard on the planet.
However, Dumbledore merely chuckled. "But who am I to speculate on the social dynamics between first-years?" he smiled. "After all, Neville Longbottom is a major celebrity in our world, and I wouldn't put it past anyone to take an interest in him from afar."
"I...it isn't like that, sir," Harry stammered.
"I'm sure it is not," Dumbledore nodded. "Though I must ask, Mr. Potter, if there is anything you'd like to tell me at this juncture?"
For a maddening moment, Harry considered coming clean and telling Dumbledore everything he knew. It would certainly lighten the load and lessen the chances of a terrible war coming to pass. But he still had plenty of time – over three years before Voldemort would attempt his resurrection, and even more than that before he could rise to enough power to threaten wizarding Britain. Could he accomplish his task without needing Dumbledore's input?
He was tempted to flee, to run far from the office and hide from Dumbledore's piercing gaze in his dorm. But he knew the man would only watch him ever more closely from that point on. After all, if he was to head off Quirrell from seeking the Philosopher's Stone, he would once again have to draw Dumbledore's attention by acting on something he ought not to have known. And that wasn't even mentioning the other events that he had to prevent, such as the opening of the Chamber of Secrets and the graveyard resurrection of Voldemort. He had to give the man something.
"I have...visions, sometimes," Harry said slowly. "About things that are about to happen."
If Dumbledore was surprised by this statement, he did not show it. "What kind of visions?" he asked calmly.
"Dreams, I guess," Harry said lamely. "I saw Neville in that chamber, looking into the Mirror of Erised, holding my father's cloak. I dunno how I knew it was his; I just did."
Dumbledore regarded him curiously. "Do you often have dreams like this?" he asked.
"Sometimes," Harry shrugged. "I had another one about the troll. I saw it attacking my friends, so I hid myself and followed the troll so I could stop it."
"How curious," Dumbledore muttered thoughtfully. "Do you have any Seers in your family, Harry? I was unaware of any in the Potter line, but perhaps on your mother's side…?"
"My mother was Muggle-born."
"Ah, yes, that's right," Dumbledore nodded. "And you seem to know of the existence of the Mirror of Erised. Neville told me you knew how it functions. Was this part of a vision as well?"
"Erm...yes," said Harry. Then, deciding to tempt fate, he said, "I know it's being used to guard the Philosopher's Stone."
Now Dumbledore looked surprised. "You know that the Stone is here?" he asked. "Another vision?"
"That one I figured out from Hagrid," Harry said, and it technically wasn't even a lie. "He told me about the three-headed dog guarding the third floor corridor. And I think Voldemort is here, trying to steal it—"
"Slow down, Harry," said Dumbledore, now looking positively alarmed. "You believe the Dark Lord Voldemort is involved in a plot to steal the Philosopher's Stone? The same Lord Voldemort who was killed ten years ago?"
"I know it doesn't make much sense," Harry admitted. "But I...I saw him. Or at least, I think it was him. I saw his face."
"Where did you see his face?"
Harry hesitated before answering. Now or never, Potter, he figured. "On the back of Professor Quirrell's head," he blurted out. "Concealed beneath his turban."
Dumbledore could not hide his shock at this statement. "You saw the face of Lord Voldemort…" he said slowly. "On the back of your Defense Professor's head?"
"I know, it's probably nothing," Harry said quickly. "My visions aren't always accurate, you see, and I probably didn't interpret what I saw correctly—"
But Dumbledore didn't appear to be listening to his excuses. He was scribbling a note on his desk, tearing off a bit of parchment and folding it in half before holding it up to Fawkes. "Deliver this to Professor Quirrell, will you, Fawkes?" Dumbledore asked the bird. The phoenix cawed softly, clutching the note in its talon before vanishing in a plume of fire.
"You believe me then, sir?" asked Harry.
"I don't put much stock in prophecy, Mr. Potter," said Dumbledore. "But these visions of yours do concern me. When did you start having them?"
"I dunno," Harry shrugged. "Maybe a year ago?"
"And do these visions often come true?"
"I...I dunno," Harry said. "Sometimes things are slightly different, and sometimes they're not at all what I saw." This much was mostly true as well – he was describing the facts of his new reality, unable to be sure what was the same and what was different. So much of this timeline seemed the same, and yet, Neville was the one with the scar, Peter Pettigrew was an innocent man, and Merlin only knew what else might have changed.
Moments later, Professor Quirrell entered the office, looking confused. "Y-you asked to s-see me, Headmaster?" he said.
"Good evening, Quirinius," said Dumbledore placidly. "You remember Mr. Potter from your first-year classes, I presume?"
"Of course," said Quirrell, nodding politely to Harry. "B-bright young man. One of the brightest I've taught."
"Harry here has told me a most unfortunate rumor," said Dumbledore, looking troubled. Harry's heart dropped – was he about to tell Quirrell that he was the one who ratted him out. But then the Headmaster continued: "He claims to have witnessed a fellow student slipping something inside your turban in the halls."
"R-really?" Quirrell chuckled, subconsciously adjusting his turban. "W-wouldn't be the first time...those Weasley twins seem keen on stuffing items in there while my back is turned—"
"Perhaps you ought to check?" Dumbledore suggested. "So that I can perhaps trace the object back to the perpetrator and have them punished?"
Quirrell looked surprised by this request. Harry subconsciously moved his hand to his wand...what if Quirrell refused? What if he realized this was a trap, and lashed out? Dumbledore seemed unconcerned, but surely the man realized the danger this situation posed?
But Quirrell surprised Harry by saying, "I s-suppose so." And without preamble, Quirrell began to unravel his turban.
Harry's heart thumped madly in his chest as the purple folds began to come apart, until only the final layer remained. Quirrell pulled it free, and...there was nothing. Just a shiny, bald head staring back at Harry, as the professor rifled through the material in his hands.
"L-lucky me," Quirrell chuckled. "Nothing there."
"Nothing that has been disillusioned, perhaps?" Dumbledore suggested. And he raised his wand (which Harry now realized had been in the man's hand the entire time), causing a small pulse of magic to wash across the room. Whatever feedback Dumbledore got clearly gave him no cause for concern. "Ah, well, my mistake. I apologize for the inconvenience, Quirinius."
"N-no problem, sir," said Quirrell, as he began to put the turban back in place. "And thank you, Mr. Potter. I will keep a closer eye out for sh-shenanigans."
Quirrell took his leave soon after, leaving Harry and Dumbledore alone once more. "I'm sorry, sir," Harry said quickly. "I thought for sure—"
"It is unimportant," Dumbledore said, holding up his hand to stop Harry. "I thank you for bringing this to my attention, even if your vision did not prove to be accurate. I take the security of this school very seriously."
And yet you allow a mountain troll to be snuck into the castle? Harry thought bitterly. And yet a basilisk lies dormant beneath the school at this very moment? But he said nothing, merely nodding silently.
"I must ask that, in the future, you come to me with such concerns before attempting to take matters into your own hands," said Dumbledore. "Divining the future is an imperfect and ill-understood branch of magic, and must be treated with extreme caution."
"Yes, sir," Harry said solemnly.
"Very well then," Dumbledore nodded. "You are dismissed, Harry. And please pass on my apologies about the cloak to your father."
"I will, Headmaster," Harry bowed. And he took his leave from the office, heading back towards Ravenclaw Tower with his head spinning.
Quirrell wasn't harboring Voldemort after all? Was it some kind of trick? Harry doubted it, especially with Dumbledore ensuring as much himself. Was Harry mistaken about Voldemort's plot? But Gringotts had been broken into, hadn't it? Surely there was something he was missing...he just couldn't figure out what. At the very least Dumbledore was aware that something might be afoot – that at least provided him some small comfort.
Dumbledore had also bought his cover story, at least for now. Though it had been a spur-of-the-moment excuse, it wound up being a perfect cover, allowing him to selectively share information with Dumbledore without necessarily needing to explain how he knew it. But would Dumbledore insist on looking deeper into these visions? Would he attempt to expose more of his secrets than Harry wanted him to know? He decided he should probably start studying Occlumency to protect himself further. Perhaps without Snape assaulting him, he would have an easier time learning it in this timeline.
At the very least, Harry had the Cloak to hold over Dumbledore's head to keep him from getting too close. He would hold off on informing James about the Headmaster's treachery for now – that might be a useful bargaining chip if Dumbledore pried too much for his comfort. He still felt simmering resentment towards the man, not just for the Cloak, but for his role in both his and Sirius' deaths in the previous timeline.
Harry had made the mistake of trusting Dumbledore too much in his past life. He wouldn't make that mistake again.