A/N: Chapter revised as of November 2, 2024.
"Where are you off to, Potter?" demanded Anthony Goldstein, as Harry sprinted past a flock of Ravenclaws in the Entrance Hall. "Losing us more house points?"
"Can't talk now!" Harry panted, sliding across smooth stone as he rounded a corner towards the nearest staircase. If things went poorly, house points would be the least of his worries. He had to get to the third floor corridor, and fast – and that was only the beginning of his journey, if he was lucky.
Harry darted up two sets of stairs and through a secret passageway on his way to the correct corridor, fortunately encountering no other students or ghosts. He'd half-hoped to be caught by a teacher like Snape or Flitwick, to increase the odds of reaching Peter in time to rescue him from Quirrell. But he was alone when he arrived at the door keeping Fluffy at bay.
With a swipe of his wand, the door flew open for Harry, and he skidded to a halt in front of it. Fluffy was sound asleep, as the enchanted harp left by Quirrell continued plucking away in the corner. Harry wasted no time, crossing the room, and lifting one of Fluffy's heavy paws off of the trapdoor to pull it open. Then, after casting a quick Cushioning Charm on himself, Harry launched himself into the darkness.
He landed, as expected, on a soft and gnarled bed of vines, which immediately began to wrap themselves around him. "Incendio!" Harry shouted; flames burst from his wand and began licking at the Venemous Tentacula attempting to throttle him. It screeched in pain and released Harry at once, allowing him to slip through its folds and down to the ground below.
Harry rushed ahead into the next room, where a broomstick lay waiting for him as hundreds of winged keys fluttered overhead. "Accio key!" Harry yelled, pointing his wand into the air, but nothing happened. He tried a variety of other shortcuts, including a mass Freezing Charm and even a powerful Wind Charm to corral the keys, but nothing worked. Flitwick had obviously prepared his trap well. Harry would just have to catch the correct key the old-fashioned way.
He felt a rush of adrenaline as soon as he mounted the broom and kicked off from the ground. He'd missed Quidditch ever since watching Ravenclaw's first match of the season last fall – the wind whipping in his hair, the bursts of speed as he soared around. Now, of course, wasn't the moment to relish in the sensation of flying, and he felt rusty and stiff after months of atrophied muscle mass with no proper training. Still, his instincts guided him higher and higher as he sought after his target.
Soon enough he spotted it: a silver key with glowing blue wings, one of which was bent at an awkward angle, as though someone had manhandled it recently. Harry dove after it, ignoring the tiny pricks of metal peppering him as the other keys attacked him for his attempt. Previously he'd needed several passes to catch the key, but he had years worth of flying experience under his belt now, and he tracked down the key within a minute, cornering it along the southern wall and taking away all of its escape paths until he could snatch it out of midair.
The key unlocked the next chamber, which contained McGonagall's enchanted chess set. Again Harry tried his best to subvert the puzzle, including by flying over the board with the broom from the previous room, but again the professors' magic prevented any shenanigans, forcing him to do it the intended way. Very well then, Harry thought, exasperated, as he took the place of the black queen. Let's do it the hard way.
Harry was cautious out of the gate, but quickly realized that the white pieces were programmed to behave defensively – not extending too far and taking great pains to protect the king. It made sense, as McGonagall's aim was to buy time and protect the Stone at all costs, but it was an exploitable strategy. Ron had tried it himself after a few quick losses to Harry, only to learn the hard way that aggression and tempo were often the deciding factors in chess.
So Harry went on the offensive. He sacrificed a pawn in order to maneuver his minor pieces closer to the king's stronghold, as McGonagall's enchanted pieces continued trying to cling to a defense. At a crucial moment, Harry put his knight in harm's way, hoping that the white pieces would take the bait and capture it. It did so, taking the seemingly free piece, which freed up Harry's queen to swoop in and deliver a decisive checkmate three turns later.
As soon as the enemy king dropped his sword at Harry's feet, Harry strode forward off the board towards the next chamber. Now he had only Snape's potions riddle left to solve, and he'd be through the obstacle course…
Except he forgot about the troll.
He flinched at the sound of a great roar as the troll lumbered towards him from a dark corner. Harry rolled away from the swinging club, and nearly got tangled in a mess of frayed ropes. Clearly whoever had come through this chamber last had merely tied up the troll rather than actually deal with it permanently. Great, he groaned internally as he prepared himself for a fight.
Luckily, he had done his research on trolls last fall and knew their weaknesses. The first step was limiting their range of motion, so it couldn't get too close to him. Harry aimed his wand at the ratty loincloth hung around the troll's waist and began transfiguring it into a makeshift pair of pants, lengthening themselves and wrapping around the troll's lower legs.
The troll was visibly annoyed by this change, pausing momentarily to scratch at the lengthening fabric and attempt to tear it away. Harry waited until the fabric reached the troll's ankles, then tightened it, wrapping painfully across the troll's hardened skin and causing it to wobble unsteadily, eventually dropping to its knees in an attempt not to keel over.
Harry immediately circled around behind the troll, ducking under its feeble club swings to get an angle on its neck. Trolls had a number of weak spots through which most spells and curses could pierce their thick skin, most notably at the base of the neck, where the skin was at its thinnest. "Stupefy!" Harry shouted, electing for a less-lethal method of dispatching the troll that had done nothing wrong to him. The red jet of light struck the troll right at the base of the neck and caused it to stiffen and keel over, stunned.
Relieved, Harry hastened out of the room before the troll decided to pull any more surprises on him. He slipped into the next chamber, which contained only a table with seven bottles of mystery liquid inside. A puff of smoke heralded the arrival of Snape's cursed fire, appearing at either door. There was only way Harry was getting out of the room now: by solving the riddle, which had taken Hermione upwards of half an hour.
Or was there? Harry had a few other tricks in mind. "Revelio," he muttered, waving his wand over the seven bottles. He knew they would automatically refill themselves after the previous visitor completed the riddle, but perhaps certain remnants would be left behind as a clue to which bottle was the correct one.
And indeed there was, as a slight shimmering on the smallest bottle drew Harry's attention. He picked it up and held it up to the torchlight, noticing that it had faint fingerprints on the sides and a bit of moisture on the rim. Someone drank from this bottle recently, Harry deduced. And given that there were no dead bodies in sight, he could safely assume it was not poison. It must be the way forward.
Harry uncorked the bottle and downed the potion within in a single gulp. He felt nothing aside from a cold sensation in his throat as it passed down to his stomach. He waited a few seconds, half-expecting to keel over in crippling pain, but nothing happened. He had been successful.
Harry took a deep breath, preparing himself for what lay ahead of him. He gripped his mahogany wand tightly, silently praying that it would obey him today, and stepped forward through the black flames. He felt a slight shiver as he passed through, but nothing else happened, as he reached the other side unharmed. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.
But it didn't last long, as he heard the unmistakable cracks of spellfire coming from up ahead. Heart pumping, he rushed forward, unsure of what he would find at the other end of the corridor. He arrived at another door and burst through into the final chamber, eyes widening at what he saw.
The scene was just as he remembered in his nightmares: the Mirror of Erised, erected in the center of the amphitheater-like chamber, and Professor Quirrell standing before it. But he was not idle as before, nor was he alone: he was engaged in combat with Peter, viciously firing spells at the caretaker as the squat man returned fire with equal gusto.
"Uncle Peter!" Harry shouted in alarm. Peter Pettigrew glanced momentarily towards the sound of the disturbance, eyes widening at the sight of Harry standing there, and was nearly taken out by a Stunning Spell from Quirrell.
"P-Potter!" Quirrell exclaimed, also looking alarmed at the first-year's presence. "You s-shouldn't be here!"
"Neither should you!" Harry snarled, and before Quirrell could respond, Harry launched into the fight, hurling as many hexes and jinxes as he could remember at the man. His wand surprisingly responded well, firing with such speed and accuracy that Harry could never remember achieving with his old holly wand. Quirrell was immediately forced on the defensive, erecting a powerful Shield Charm to block the incoming spells.
"Harry, you need to get out of here!" Peter said, sounding frantic. "It's dangerous for you here—"
"I'm not letting this bastard get the Stone!" Harry bellowed, and he continued his assault, rupturing Quirrell's Shield with a Blasting Curse. Quirrell was forced to roll behind the Mirror of Erised as Peter reluctantly re-engaged the man, joining Harry in the attack.
"Y-you'll be expelled for this, Harry!" Quirrell shouted from behind his temporary barrier.
"And you'll be chucked in Azkaban!" Harry shouted back.
"Please, Harry," Peter pleaded, turning towards the pre-teen, "let me handle this...you need to get far away from here—"
"I'll circle around to the right," Harry muttered in a lower tone. "You circle right, and we'll pin him from either side. Ready?"
Peter's eyes widened at the resolve in Harry's voice. But he swallowed hard and nodded, creeping counter-clockwise around the Mirror as Harry stole around the other side.
Quirrell realized what was happening too late. He frantically fired a salvo of curses at Peter while erecting another shield at his rear, but Harry burst through it with a well-placed Reducto and followed it up with a Binding Curse, pinning Quirrell in a bundle of ropes wrapped tightly around his body. Harry, unwilling to make the same mistake as in the Forest, rushed forward and kicked the man's wand aside before he could break free.
"Good one," Harry panted, looking up at Peter. "I can run and find a teacher, and you can make sure he doesn't—"
"Avada Kedavra!"
Harry barely processed the jet of green light that erupted from Peter's wand. It hit Professor Quirrell squarely in the chest, and the man gave one final jerk before falling eerily, deathly still. Harry stared down at the body in shock, unable to believe what he just witnessed.
"Uncle Peter…?" he stammered. "Why would you—" But Harry's wand was suddenly yanked from his grasp and plucked out of the air by Peter, who grimly stowed it away in his pocket.
"I told you, Harry," Peter sighed heavily, "you shouldn't be here."
"Why did you kill him?" Harry asked. "We...they could have questioned him! Found out the truth about why he was trying to steal the Stone!"
"He wasn't trying to steal the Stone, Harry," Peter sighed. "I am."
"What...you?" Harry asked, confused. "What are you on about? Why would you want the Stone?"
A voice responded to his question, but it did not come from Peter's mouth. Harry felt a chill down his spine as an all-too familiar, high and cold voice answered him instead.
"Don't you know what the Stone can do, Mr. Potter?" the ethereal voice said. "Do you know what I can accomplish with it in my possession?"
"Uncle Peter…" Harry breathed, stumbling backwards in sudden fear. "No...you didn't…"
"Let me talk to the boy, Wormtail," the voice said. "Face to face."
Harry watched on in horror as Peter reluctantly stowed his own wand away. Rather than remove a turban as Quirrell had, he instead removed his cloak and began undoing the buttons of his undershirt. When he pulled the shirt aside, Harry was met with the grotesque image of a human face in the middle of Peter's chest. A smooth, snake-like face that Harry had once thought he'd never have to see again.
"Do you know who I am, Harry Potter?" the face asked.
"You're Voldemort," Harry snarled.
"Very good," Voldemort sneered. "You see what I've become? Reduced to a shade, forced to inhabit the body of another...forced to drink the blood of unicorns to sustain myself…"
"That's how you escaped your bindings in the forest!" Harry exclaimed suddenly, pointing at Pettigrew. "You transformed into a rat and retrieved your wand!"
"Very good, Harry," Peter appraised him. "You see, Master? I told you the boy was brilliant."
"Wormtail and I have been very impressed with you, Harry," Voldemort agreed. "I haven't seen a first-year with your talent and instincts since I myself was at Hogwarts. I can help you harness your full potential as my protegee."
"Not interested," Harry said flatly. "My parents fought against you in the last war, and they'll do it again in the next."
"Come now, I have no quarrel with the Potter family," Voldemort tutted. "Your parents are talented fighters, but they needn't be permanent enemies. I would gladly forget their past mistakes if their son helped me rise back to full strength."
"Please, Harry, listen to him," Peter said gently, looking frightened of the thing protruding from his own chest. "He can protect you, all of you. He's more powerful than you could ever know."
"All I desire is the Stone, Harry," Voldemort said softly, sounding more like his persuasive younger self than Harry had ever heard him before. "Help me retrieve the Stone, and I will guarantee your family's safety for the rest of their days."
Harry wanted desperately to escape, to get as far away from this situation as possible. He could see his wand poking out of Peter's waistband, but couldn't see a way to grab for it without the man dancing out of reach and wasting his chance. "What do I have to do?" he asked, hoping to buy time to formulate a plan.
"Look into the Mirror, Harry," said Voldemort. "Don't you wonder what the future has in store for you? It will show you your deepest desire, the future you most covet. And I can help you achieve it."
Peter backed away from the Mirror to allow Harry to stand fully in front of it. Harry reluctantly stood in front of it, staring at his reflection, waiting for it to change.
Slowly, the scrawny boy staring back at him began to grow into that older, more confident man Harry had seen the last time he encountered the Mirror. The familiar image appeared: Harry Potter, the Man Who Won, vanquisher of the Dark Lord, the entire wizarding world bowed low at his feet. His burning desire to be respected was clearly still intact – his desire to take action and win the war he'd been thrust into unwillingly in another life. Fate may have had other plans for him in this timeline, but Harry was growing uninterested in what Fate had to say in how he lived his life.
"Well?" hissed the voice of the real Voldemort from nearby. "What do you see?"
"I'm...older," Harry stammered, unable to come up with a valid lie. "And powerful. More powerful than anyone. Everyone respects me. Fears me."
"Very good," Voldemort appraised him. "That future shall come to pass, Harry. All you must do now is ask for the Stone."
Harry was suddenly sorely tempted by the offer. What if he could have everything in his reflection? He could use Voldemort's protection to grow stronger, while working in the shadows to undermine and eventually defeat him. Then there would be none to question him or stand in his way again. He alone would be the most respected and powerful wizard alive – not Voldemort, not Dumbledore, not Neville Longbottom.
But something else in his reflection unnerved him, giving him pause. He could see his parents and Dahlia among the crowd, kneeling before him. But they looked up at him not with adoration and love, but with fear, and even resentment. Is this truly what I want? Harry thought, suddenly dismayed. Alone at the top with no one who truly loves me?
Quite suddenly, the image in the Mirror began to warp and change before Harry's eyes. Everyone around his older reflection disappeared, and the tall, confident man appeared to visibly relax. This Harry looked at peace, content and happy. Beside him appeared a woman, one he could not make out the features of, but she too looked happy and content as she held Harry's hand. And around them stood three children – Harry's children – laughing and enjoying their parents' company. Harry's heart swelled at the sight.
Then Harry's parents were there again, but this time they stood beside their son, beaming happily at his new family. Dahlia was there too, and she stood beside an unrecognizable man, with children of her own in tow. The Potter family had swelled to numbers Harry never dreamed possible in his old, orphaned life. He saw generations of future Potters growing before his eyes, multiplying and raising families of their own...Harry felt as though he could cry at the sight…
"The Stone, Harry!" Voldemort said testily, snapping Harry out of his reverie. "What is taking so long?"
Harry's illusion had been shattered. He didn't want power or respect; he simply wanted peace. He wanted the only thing Voldemort could never help him obtain: love, and simple contentment with what he already had.
"I will not," Harry said defiantly, turning back towards the face in Peter's chest. "I won't join you."
Voldemort's face contorted in anger as Harry stubbornly glared at him. "Very well," he said coldly. "Kill the boy, Wormtail. He is of no use to us."
Harry's stomach dropped at this command. I should have just listened, he thought forlornly. Given him the Stone and found another way to stop him. He was frozen in place, unable to come up with a plan of escape.
But Peter suddenly looked conflicted. His hand twitched at his hip, where his wand sat waiting to be drawn, to cast the second Killing Curse in only a matter of minutes. But Peter could not bring himself to draw it.
"I cannot do it, my Lord," Peter stammered. "He is just a boy."
"He is a threat to us!" Voldemort snapped. "If he will not join us, he may become a dangerous enemy in the future."
"He's like family to me," Peter protested. "There must be another way."
"Don't be weak, Pettigrew!" said Voldemort. "He would not hesitate to kill you if the roles were reversed."
Peter was trembling, looking at Harry with fear in his eyes. Harry could practically see the conflict happening in Peter's mind: the close bond they had developed over the past year, contrasted with the direct order from his master. Harry truly could not tell which side Peter would choose.
But in the end, he would never get the chance. A new voice interrupted the scene – a high, squeaky voice that filled Harry with sudden dread. "Harry?" said Neville Longbottom fearfully, emerging from the black flames into the chamber. "M-Mr. Pettigrew?"
Peter spun around to face the new arrival. Neville gawked at the man, eyes widening at the visage of Voldemort on his chest.
"Well if it isn't the Boy Who Lived," said Voldemort. "Welcome, Neville. You're just in time to—"
Harry seized the moment while Peter and Voldemort were distracted. He lunged at Peter's waist, grasping for his wand but missing, his momentum causing him to tackle the much larger man to the ground. He briefly grappled for the wand on the floor, careful to keep his head as far away from Peter's chest as possible.
But Peter was much stronger than Harry, lifting the scrawny boy off of him and tossing him roughly aside. Harry landed in a leap at Neville's feet, who was frozen in place on the steps. "Neville, help!" Harry said, scrambling behind the Mirror of Erised for cover as Peter drew his wand.
"What do I do?" Neville said, panicking; he hadn't even draw his own wand.
"Grab his chest!" Harry shouted, briefly tripping over Professor Quirrell's lifeless body. "Hurry!"
But Neville could not move. He watched on in horror as Peter rounded the Mirror, attempting to subdue Harry.
"Ignore the spare!" Voldemort hissed. "Kill Longbottom!"
Peter hesitated once more, torn between the two boys. Harry once again used the diversion to dive for his wand, but this time Peter was ready, catching a handful of Harry's hair and holding him in place. Harry winced in pain as Peter held him aloft, face to face with Voldemort once more.
"You could have had it all, Harry Potter," Voldemort sneered. "But you chose to throw it away out of pride. Now say goodbye."
Harry had no fight left in him. He closed his eyes as Peter leveled his wand at him.
But no jet of green light came. Instead, there came two simultaneous screeches of pain, and Peter let go of Harry, causing him to topple to the ground. Harry scrambled backwards, opening his eyes to the sight of Neville with both his palms pressed across Voldemort's face. Both Peter and Voldemort were howling with pain, as the skin on Voldemort's face blistered and cracked.
"What's happening?" Neville shouted in fear. "What do I do?"
"Don't let go, Neville!" Harry said. He watched on in horror as both Voldemort and his host howled mightily at what must have been unbearable pain. Neville shouted as well, eyes scrunched up from what must have been excruciating pain in his scar.
Then, quite suddenly, Neville was thrown backwards across the chamber, colliding with a pillar and falling to the ground, unconscious. Harry thought for a moment that Voldemort had managed to fight the boy off of him. But then Peter toppled to the ground as well, and a black shade erupted from his chest as Voldemort's spirit fled its host.
Harry watched in horror as the black spirit hovered in midair before him. Not quite material like a person, but more real than a ghost – the disembodied soul of Voldemort, floating before him menacingly.
"We shall meet again, Harry Potter," Voldemort's voice echoed through the room. "And I will not show you the same mercy that this coward did." And the spirit rushed directly at him, crashing straight through Harry before disappearing from the room. Harry felt a cold jab of pain in his chest as he toppled over backwards, his head ricocheting off the stone floor, knocking him out cold.
Harry did not know how long he was out, but it must have been a long while, because when he awoke, his head felt supremely heavy and the world around him was blurry and gray. He gradually opened his eyes, bit by bit, until he became aware of his surroundings. Sterile white walls and ceiling. Creaking curtains. A stiff cot. The Hospital Wing. How do I always end up here every year? Harry groaned internally.
A few minutes later, Madam Pomfrey came by to check on him, eyes widening when she saw he was awake. "Good lord, Potter, you've given everyone a mighty scare," she said. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore," Harry managed to croak.
"I imagine so," Madam Pomfrey tutted. "You've suffered a nasty concussion and some bruising. I'll need to keep you here for a couple days longer to monitor your recovery."
"What's happened?" Harry strained to ask. "Quirrell...Pettigrew…"
"I shall fetch the Headmaster," Madam Pomfrey interrupted. "Sit tight." And she hustled off, out of the Hospital Wing.
Harry lay back on his pillow, head still swimming. He was becoming aware of his entire body now, and it felt just as weak, just as sapped of energy. He had put extra effort into his duel with Quirrell, so much so that he must have damaged his magic. But his wand had performed admirably, almost as though it had been waiting for such a challenge to prove itself – for Harry to prove himself.
Quirrell. Harry's stomach dropped when he remembered the professor, bound and helpless at Harry's hand, struck dead by Peter's Killing Curse. He'd been innocent all along – trying to defend the Stone, not steal it. And Peter had been working for Voldemort all this time – had been harboring him, during all of their Friday meetings, the Dark Lord listening in on Harry's every fear, concern and confession. A feeling of dread, guilt and shame washed over him as he grappled with this fact.
Soon after, the doors to the Hospital Wing clanged open again, and Albus Dumbledore rushed into the room, accompanied by Professor Flitwick, both looking gravely concerned. They approached Harry's bed, and Flitwick breathed a sigh of relief. "Glad to see you're alright, Mr. Potter," he said. "What on earth were you thinking, going down into that chamber?"
"I must ask the same question," Dumbledore said, piercing Harry with his powder-blue gaze. "Imagine my surprise when I entered the mirror chamber, which was heavily guarded and a tightly-kept secret, only to find two fallen staff members alongside two unconscious first-years."
"It was Pettigrew," Harry sighed heavily. "He was trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Quirrell was trying to stop him...I got there while they were dueling, and I...I helped Peter win."
Dumbledore and Flitwick both looked shocked by this admission. "You helped subdue Professor Quirrell?" Flitwick gasped. "But why?"
"I didn't know he was innocent, alright?" Harry said, exasperated. "I thought Peter was the one trying to stop him...I didn't realize he was working for Voldemort all along—"
Professor Flitwick gave a little squeak and nearly toppled over at the Dark Lord's name. Dumbledore, on the other hand, appeared unfazed. "How do you know he was working for Voldemort, Harry?" the Headmaster asked calmly.
"I saw him," said Harry. "He was...inside Peter's chest. He tried to convince me to help him get the Stone out of the mirror. But I refused, and he ordered Peter to kill me."
"But...but this cannot be, Albus!" Flitwick said, looking troubled. "You-Know-Who has been dead for over a decade! He could not have entered the school, could he?"
"It's true," a voice piped up from across the room. All three turned to see Neville Longbottom sitting up in a cot nearby, looking weak but defiant. "It was Voldemort, Professor Dumbledore. He...he wanted Pettigrew to kill us both."
"And, I take it, he failed to do so?" Dumbledore asked Neville placidly, ignoring Flitwick's frightened spluttering beside him.
"I...grabbed him," Neville said slowly. "Voldemort, that is. And it hurt him and Pettigrew bad. Burned them until neither of us could take it anymore, and then I blacked out."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully at this information. "That would explain the scorch marks on Pettigrew's chest," he muttered to himself.
"Sir...is Peter dead?" Harry asked. Despite the knowledge that the man was indeed a traitor in this timeline, he feared the answer, a part of him still caring for his well-being.
"Nearly, but not quite," Dumbledore sighed. "He was taken to St. Mungo's in critical condition, but they have managed to stabilize him. They believe that trace amounts of unicorn blood in his system may be the only thing that kept him alive."
"He'll be sent to Azkaban for certain!" Flitwick said indignantly. "Slaughtering unicorns...killing a fellow staff member...he must be locked away for good!"
"I quite agree," said Dumbledore. "However, it is best that we determine exactly what happened before the Ministry arrives. Harry, would you please give us your wand to conduct a few tests to reconstruct the events in that chamber?"
"He will do no such thing!" a booming voice shouted from across the Hospital Wing. Once again all eyes turned towards the entrance, and Harry's heart leapt when he saw James and Lily Potter hustling across the room towards their son.
"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Potter," Dumbledore greeted them cordially. "I'm glad my owl reached you promptly."
"Albus," James greeted the Headmaster brusquely, before dropping to one knee at Harry's bedside. "How are you doing, kiddo? Heard you've been through quite an ordeal."
"Hey, Dad. Hey, Mum," Harry greeted his parents, gripping their hands tightly. He grew a bit misty-eyed seeing the looks of concern on their faces...no parental figure had ever shown concern for his safety before. "I'm sorry...I failed."
"Failed?" Lily said, laughing softly. "Sweetheart, you're alive! That's all we care about."
"I should have realized Uncle Peter was evil," Harry said, choking back tears. "I thought he was better than that. I should have known."
"You couldn't have," James reassured Harry, kissing him on the top of the head. "None of us knew. Not even the man's own employer." And James cast a significant look towards Dumbledore, one loaded with meaning that Harry was not privy to. He remembered his father's drunken rants about the Headmaster at Christmas and wondered what other resentments lay underneath the surface between them.
"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said gently, "I believe it's essential that we determine exactly what happened between your son and Mr. Pettigrew last night, before the Ministry gets involved. If Voldemort has indeed returned—"
"Voldemort?" James scoffed, incredulous. "You hide behind that excuse to cover up yet another major incident at your school, Dumbledore? First a troll attacks innocent first-years on Halloween, then a professor is murdered in cold blood on school grounds? I imagine Amelia Bones will be here shortly, and she will have a field day looking into everything you've tried to keep quiet around here!"
"James, keep your voice down—" Lily urged her husband; everyone in the Hospital Wing, including Neville, Flitwick and Madam Pomfrey, were staring open-mouthed at James Potter.
"No, I will not!" James said indignantly. "You've long taken liberties that benefit yourself, haven't you, Albus? I haven't forgotten the Invisibility Cloak you stole from my family, you know! And I know you're on thin ice with Cornelius Fudge and the Board of Governors!"
"Mr. Potter, I assure you I have done nothing to profit myself at the expense of others," Dumbledore said patiently. "The war with Voldemort may not yet be won, and we must take every precaution—"
"The war ended over a decade ago!" James retorted. "Voldemort is dead!"
"He's not, Dad," Harry said nervously. "I saw him."
James' head whipped around to look down at his son, incredulous. He was momentarily stunned by this information, but just as quickly regained his composure. "Be that as it may," James muttered, turning his attention back to Dumbledore. "There has been a murder, and my son was there when it happened. I must do what I have to do to protect my family from legal trouble. His wand will not be inspected unless the Ministry orders it, and if you want Harry to tell you what happened, you can read his statement to the authorities when it enters the official record."
With that, James turned his back on Dumbledore and sat in the empty chair beside his son in a clear rebuke of the man. Harry had never seen anyone stand up to Dumbledore like that before – without fear of repercussions, or even of the man himself. For his part, Dumbledore did not appear angry or frustrated, merely nodding in silent comprehension.
"Pardon me, Mr. and Mrs. Potter," he finally said. "Get well soon, Harry." And he turned to leave Harry's bedside, a bewildered Flitwick casting one last look at his student before joining the Headmaster beside Neville's bed.
"James! What have I told you about speaking to Dumbledore like that?" Lily chastised her husband under her breath as soon as they were alone. "He's not a man to be trifled with!"
"Perhaps he should be," James muttered mutinously. "This should not have happened under his watch. He was a great wizard once, but he's lost a step, Lily. Perhaps his mind is going with age."
"Whatever; that doesn't matter right now," Lily sighed. "What matters is that our son is safe." And she caressed Harry's cheek tenderly; he leaned into her touch, relishing in the warm gesture. He'd spent so many lonely nights in the Hospital Wing, no parents to dote over him besides the Weasleys, which just wasn't the same as his two actual parents showering him with love and affection.
"Don't you worry about a thing with the Ministry, son," James reassured Harry. "There's no way they would suspect you had anything to do with Quirrell's death. I'll coach you through what to say, and once they examine Peter's wand, it should be a cut-and-dry case."
Harry nodded absent-mindedly. He still felt guilty about his role in subduing Quirrell in the first place, but a small part of himself relaxed knowing that his father had his back. It wouldn't be the first time he ran afoul of the Ministry's suspicions, but this time he would have a highly-respected Auror in his corner helping him fight his battles.
"Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Potter," said Madam Pomfrey, tottering up to Harry's bedside with a roll of gauze and a bottle of ointment. "I need to change your son's bandages."
"Is he badly injured?" Lily asked, concerned.
"Nothing permanent, I hope," said Madam Pomfrey. "Lift up your shirt, young man."
Harry obliged, pulling up the pajama top he'd been placed in while unconscious. He was surprised to see that his chest was wrapped in bandages – he hadn't even noticed them through the dizziness and dull pounding in his skull. Madam Pomfrey waved her wand, unraveling the bandages and laying Harry's chest bare. Harry's eyes widened as he looked down upon it: a deep black stain lay across his rib cage, almost like a scorch mark.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Residual effects from Professor Snape's enchanted flames, I imagine," Madam Pomfrey sighed, as she began dabbing cold ointment over the stain. "How two first-year students managed to survive them is beyond me."
Harry said nothing as she began to re-apply the bandages over the freshly-spread ointment. He suspected that the mark had come from somewhere else entirely: it rested directly over his heart, right where the shade of Voldemort had passed through him and caused him to fall unconscious in the first place. Even now he felt a similar icy pang as the new bandages magically tightened around his chest. But he decided not to say anything, taking his father's advice of sharing as little information as possible.
His parents continued to fuss over him and ask questions about his ordeal for the next few minutes. Harry mostly tuned them out, focusing instead on the cot across the room from him, where he could see Dumbledore leaning in and speaking with Neville Longbottom in hushed tones. He wondered if he was giving Neville the same speech Harry had received in his first timeline, explaining his mother's sacrificial protection that saved him from Quirrell (or in Neville's case, from Peter).
But Harry's head was still spinning, literally and figuratively, both from his injuries and from the many major developments of the morning. He muttered something about being dizzy, and Madam Pomfrey hustled over with a Sleeping Draught, spoon-feeding it to Harry until he mercifully dipped back into unconsciousness.
Harry spent another week in the Hospital Wing as Madam Pomfrey fussed over the 'scorch mark' on his chest. Harry did not tell her where he suspected it truly came from, but reassured her that it didn't hurt him at all. After running a few tests and lathering it with an assortment of ointments and creams that did nothing to dissipate the black mark, she eventually gave up and discharged Harry, with strict instructions to return to her if it gave him any further troubles.
Harry returned to a subdued atmosphere as he rejoined his classmates for regular lessons again. Nobody knew exactly what had happened, but everyone seemed to know that Professor Quirrell had been murdered by Mr. Pettigrew and that Harry and Neville were somehow involved. Harry suspected that the other students had been instructed not to pester them about it, because everyone gave Harry a wide berth for the rest of the year. That was just as well for Harry, who just wanted a quiet end to the year with no more issues.
James reassured Harry that he would not have to answer any questions about what had happened in the mirror chamber until the summer. Pettigrew's trial would begin in July, and James reckoned that it would be a swift open-and-shut case. Harry hoped so; as much as he was upset with his Uncle Peter for betraying his trust and working with Voldemort, he didn't think he could bear watching a prolonged trial as the man attempted to defend his actions. He just hoped he wouldn't have to take the stand before the Wizengamot and give testimony against his former friend.
The end of year exams came and went, and Harry felt that he'd done fairly well. His wand continued to give him minor hiccups, particularly in precise subjects like Transfiguration, and his Potions final could have gone better with Snape hovering menacingly over him as he concocted a tricky antidote to salamander poisoning. But his Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts finals, both proctored by Flitwick, went swimmingly; he had no problem with his written papers or with casting the required spells to pass his first year with flying colors. Maybe I even beat Hermione this time, he thought with pride.
The Closing Feast was a mostly somber affair, as Dumbledore gave a rousing speech in honor of Professor Quirrell that made Harry's stomach churn with guilt. He also awarded a few last-minute points to Ron, Hermione, and Neville (but notably, not to Harry), the latter of which pushed Slytherin over the top to win the House Cup for the seventh year in a row. It was quite a sight seeing Neville lifted up onto the shoulders of boys who would likely become his mortal enemies in a few short years. Enjoy it while you can, Neville, Harry thought forlornly.
The train ride home to King's Cross was usually a time of good-byes and promising to write to one another over the summer, but Harry just wanted to be alone. He found an empty compartment and sat alone, burying his nose in a textbook just to preoccupy himself. A few people stuck their heads in to look for seats, but changed their minds after seeing him sitting there. Harry could only imagine the rumors swirling around his involvement with Quirrell's murder, given his prior history with Pettigrew.
The compartment door slid open once more as the train rumbled out of Hogsmeade Station, and Neville sheepishly stuck his head in. "Alright if I join you?" he asked.
"Erm...sure," said Harry. "No Ron and Hermione?"
"I'll join them later," Neville said awkwardly. "Can we...talk for a minute?"
"Alright," Harry nodded. He was curious about what Neville had to say, given his avoidance in recent weeks and the significant revelations the boy had had since their last conversation.
Neville sat across from him and fidgeted nervously for a moment. Then he looked up and asked, "How did you know?"
"Know what?" Harry asked. "That Peter was going after the Stone? Truthfully, I didn't know it was him."
"Not that," Neville corrected. "How did you know my touch would hurt him?"
"Oh," said Harry. He thought Neville would have asked something else first, like how involved he'd been with Quirrell's murder, or why he'd gone down the trapdoor in the first place. "I dunno. I guess I was just panicking, and hoping you would help somehow."
"Huh," Neville said thoughtfully. "But it sure sounded like you knew it would happen. Like you expected me to burn him at the touch."
Harry didn't really want to burden Neville with his secret just yet, not when the poor kid had so much else to worry about. "Well, either way, I'm glad it did work," Harry said instead, hoping to deflect the conversation elsewhere. "I owe you my life for what happened down there, and I swear I'll repay you for it."
"You don't have to," Neville said quickly. "I know you would have done the same for me."
Harry certainly would have. But he was grateful nonetheless, and he knew just the thing to express that gratitude. He reached into his robes and withdrew a length of shimmering fabric, holding it out to Neville.
"Here," he said. "Take it."
Neville stared at the Invisibility Cloak, wide-eyed. "B-but it's yours!" he stammered. "I don't deserve to have it! It's a Potter family heirloom!"
"You need it more than I do," Harry shrugged. "I'm not the one with a lunatic Dark Lord after him. You can borrow it for a while."
Neville stared blankly at the Cloak, and Harry recognized the look of longing in his eyes. Clearly Neville had grown attached to the Cloak already and had been reluctant to give it up, even if he was now reluctant to accept it as a borrowed gift.
"Are you sure?" Neville asked uncertainly. "What if you end up needing it?"
"Then I'll ask for it back," Harry reasoned. "Use it in the meantime. If anyone is gonna need it, it's you."
This time, Harry felt no remorse in giving over the Cloak willingly. He was troubled by the impulses it gave him – the desire to sneak off and get himself into more trouble. His tendency to act without thinking had already resulted in an innocent man dying and nearly aided Voldemort in his early return to power. Harry had to start thinking more like a Ravenclaw than a Gryffindor, and the Cloak would only encourage him to take more unnecessary risks and make rash decisions.
Neville reluctantly took the Cloak from Harry, running his fingers along the cool fabric. "Thanks," he said sheepishly, pocketing the Cloak. Then, he chuckled. "You're good at making deals, Potter. Maybe you should've been a Slytherin instead of me."
That piqued Harry's curiosity. "Why did the Hat place you in Slytherin, anyway?" he asked. "No offense."
"None taken," Neville muttered. "The Hat told me I lacked self-confidence and needed to embrace my more ambitious side. I asked it for Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, but it told me those houses wouldn't challenge me the way I needed."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "It told me something similar," he said. "And it was right. I wasn't using my brain enough."
"But you're the most brilliant student in our year!" Neville protested. "Everyone says so. Don't sell yourself short."
"I could say the same to you," Harry pointed out. "Don't doubt your talents, Neville. You'll be a great wizard one day, if you just believe in yourself and reach for your full potential."
Neville once again looked uncomfortable at this encouragement. "Everyone expects me to be some prodigy because of what happened to me as a baby," he lamented. "But it was a fluke! Dumbledore said, it was just because of my mum's sacrifice, nothing that I did."
"Your past doesn't matter," Harry said firmly. "What matters is what you do with the rest of your life. You know now that Voldemort is after you, so what are you going to do about it? Whine and complain that you're not strong enough, or become the wizard you need to be to defeat him?"
"I c-can't beat Voldemort!" Neville said, looking panicked.
"Not yet you can't," Harry agreed. "But you never will if you keep that defeatist attitude. Push yourself harder and you might just stand a chance."
These were the words he wished someone had said to him in his original timeline. No one ever pushed him to work harder in his classes, or learn how to duel properly until he taught himself in Dumbledore's Army. Years of wasted potential that could have saved Sirius in the Department of Mysteries. Years of thinking he wasn't good enough when he could have been arming himself with the tools he needed to succeed.
Neville looked stricken by his words. At first Harry thought perhaps he'd been too harsh, that he'd scared the poor boy into retreating into his shell. But Neville looked up at him with a fiery look, clearly empowered by the message. "I will," he nodded resolutely. "Will you help me?"
"Always," Harry nodded. Neville extended a hand of thanks, which Harry shook. Then, impulsively, Harry stood and wrapped the boy in a tight hug. Neville stiffened at the touch, but eventually relaxed enough to pat Harry awkwardly on the back. Harry wondered the last time Neville had been properly hugged – Augusta Longbottom didn't exactly seem like the affectionate type. But he looked like he could use a bit of affection right now.
Neville mumbled some excuse before exiting the compartment in a hurry. Harry watched him go, hoping he'd managed to light a fire underneath the boy. If he was going to help fight this upcoming war from afar, he wanted to be sure that the young man at the center of the conflict understood what he was up against and what he needed to do to survive. He wouldn't allow Neville to make the same mistakes he'd made originally.
And Harry had to stop making those mistakes himself.