Chapter 7: Smoke and Mirrors
The second half of the school year passed in a strange haze of whispers, sneaking, and near-misses. Charlie, Ron, and Hermione were constantly disappearing, their heads bent together in deep conversation, their energy practically vibrating with whatever trouble they had gotten themselves into. Draco, meanwhile, was obsessed.
"They have a dragon," he hissed one afternoon, slamming his books onto the table in the common room. His face was flushed with irritation, his usual smug confidence cracked by frustration. "I know they do."
Harry barely glanced up. "That's ridiculous."
"I saw them," Draco insisted. "They've been sneaking off to Hagrid's hut every chance they get. And you know what I heard last night? Ron Weasley bragging about Norbert." He said the name with utter contempt, like the very idea of a dragon named 'Norbert' personally offended him.
Harry frowned. "They named it?"
"They have a dragon," Draco corrected, making it clear the name didn't matter, eyes glinting. "A real, live, illegal dragon."
That caught the attention of a few nearby Slytherins, but most dismissed it outright.
"Please," Nott scoffed. "Even if they did, what do you expect us to do about it?"
Draco crossed his arms. "Get them expelled. That's what."
The others exchanged glances, but none of them seemed particularly interested. Harry could see it in their expressions-they didn't care. It wasn't that dragons weren't dangerous but if Gryffindors wanted to be stupid, that was their own problem. No Slytherin was going to snitch to McGonagall over it.
"Fine," he sneered. "If no one else will, I'll handle it myself."
That was how, a few nights later, Harry found himself dragged out of bed by a determined Malfoy.
"We're catching them in the act," Draco whispered, handing Harry his cloak. "If we show up with proof, they won't be able to talk their way out of it."
Harry hesitated, staring at the handful of chocolate frogs Draco had placed on his bed in a clear bribe. He wasn't stupid, he knew exactly what Draco was doing. But he was curious. And, well… free chocolate was free chocolate. He stuffed the sweets into his pocket and followed Draco through the castle. They slipped past Filch, avoided Peeves by sheer luck, and crouched behind a massive barrel near the entrance hall, just out of sight. The corridor was dim and quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of an enchanted wall clock and the occasional creak of the castle settling.
They waited. Sure enough, just after midnight, four shadowy figures slipped in from the grounds. Charlie, Ron, Hermione, and Neville were all bundled in cloaks, all trying far too hard not to look suspicious as they trudged through the main doors. Between them, they carried something large, awkwardly wrapped in blankets and clearly squirming.
"See?" Draco whispered, his voice smug. "Told you."
Harry didn't answer. He narrowed his eyes as Charlie stumbled over a loose stone in the floor and nearly dropped the bundle. A soft, guttural growl escaped from within, followed by a brief puff of smoke that curled out from under the fabric and drifted into the cold air.
Draco's breath caught. "Merlin's beard… it really is a dragon."
Harry didn't argue. He was inclined to believe it now. The shape, the heat, the sound- everything about it felt real. They followed the Gryffindors from a careful distance as they made their way through the halls, up staircase after staircase. Eventually, they reached the Astronomy Tower, the highest point in the castle. From the shadows below the landing, Harry and Draco watched as the group slipped outside.
Harry frowned. A dragon was one thing. But what exactly was the point of this smuggling operation? Surveillance was fine, but if the dragon had already been confirmed, why were they still following them? What was the end goal? Before he could ask Draco, something shifted behind them. Footsteps. Heavy ones. Measured. Too precise to belong to students. Harry's breath caught. His instincts kicked in fast. He took a sharp step backward, one hand flying to his bag. Then he vanished beneath the silvery shimmer of the Invisibility Cloak.
Draco froze. "Potter?"
Harry smirked, "Self-preservation, Malfoy."
He wasn't going to risk getting caught because of Draco's insistence on following Charlie and his gang. Not when he had been hesitant about the whole thing from the start. Behind him, he could already hear the shuffle of footsteps as the Gryffindors returned, followed a second later by the unmistakable crack of McGonagall's voice echoing through the corridor. She had noticed. And her fury was immediate. Harry didn't look back. He kept his head down and slipped quietly into the nearest stairwell, footsteps light, cloak secure. Whatever came next, he wasn't going to be a part of it. He felt a flicker guilt for leaving Draco behind to deal with McGonagall alone, but it was small.
By morning, the entire school had heard about it. Draco, Charlie, Ron, Hermione, and Neville had all been caught red-handed after curfew, caught trying and failing to explain what they were doing on the Astronomy Tower in the dead of night. Draco had apparently done his best to plead his case, insisting that the Gryffindors had been smuggling an illegal dragon. Unfortunately for him, Professor McGonagall had not taken the claim seriously in the slightest. She had been furious. All five of them received detention, and not the easy kind either. It involved the Forbidden Forest and something that howled. Harry, on the other hand, had slept peacefully in his bed.
For days afterward, Draco had been seething. His frustration was practically radiating off him every time the subject came up. But strangely, the anger was not directed at Harry. If anything, Harry had the distinct impression that Draco respected him more for slipping away when it counted.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" Draco muttered a few days later, his tone caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement.
Harry grinned, entirely unbothered. "Took you this long to figure it out?"
Draco narrowed his eyes. "How did you disappear so quickly? One second you were beside me, the next you were gone."
"Magic," Harry replied with a shrug, offering no further explanation. He didn't elaborate because he didn't plan to. The cloak was his, and he intended to keep it that way. After everything, the idea of it being confiscated or even questioned was not something he was willing to risk. It had only just been returned to him, and he was not about to let anyone take it away.
Draco scoffed, but there was no real malice in it. He seemed impressed more than anything. Harry had slipped away clean while everyone else got caught in the fallout. He hadn't gloated. He hadn't tattled. He had simply vanished when it counted, leaving no trace behind. And for a Slytherin, that meant something. Slytherins didn't like getting caught. They respected clever exits, clean lies, and the ability to disappear when the room caught fire. Harry had played the game better and Draco knew it.
The next night, when Draco finally stumbled back into the Slytherin common room, he looked worse for wear. He was paler than usual, his normally immaculate robes streaked with mud and torn at the hem. His boots left a trail of forest debris behind him as he marched in and slammed the door with enough force to make the portrait rattle. The handful of students still awake near the fire jumped in their seats, startled by the sudden noise.
Theo, who had been lazily shuffling a deck of enchanted playing cards, arched a brow without looking up. "Well, you look like you had fun."
"Shut up," Draco snapped, already storming toward the boys' dorms.
That, naturally, only made everyone more curious.
"What happened, Draco?" Pansy called after him, her tone light and amused. "Did Weasley trip and drag you through the mud?"
"Or maybe he got hexed for saying something stupid to Granger," Blaise offered, tapping his chin in mock thought. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Harry didn't join in. He had claimed one of the armchairs near the fire hours ago and hadn't moved since. The book in his lap had been ignored for the better part of the evening. He wouldn't say it out loud, but he had been waiting for Draco. It wasn't guilt exactly. But it was something close. Draco had gone into the Forbidden Forest while Harry had walked away clean. And even if Draco had insisted on tailing the Gryffindors, it hadn't sat right with Harry that he had been the only one not dragged into detention.
Now, watching Draco carefully, Harry could tell something was wrong. The usual arrogance was missing. No swagger. No sarcastic retort. Just a clenched jaw and shoulders held too tight. Blaise had a point. Draco could very well have said something idiotic to Granger. Harry himself had wanted to hex him more than once for his pureblood rhetoric. But this felt different. This wasn't the aftermath of a spat with a Gryffindor. Whatever had happened in that forest, it had shaken him. Draco whipped around, his face twisted in a strange mix of anger and something that looked dangerously close to fear.
"There's something in the Forbidden Forest," he hissed. "Something wrong."
That pulled everyone up short. The Forbidden Forest had always carried a reputation, but it was the kind of thing students learned to half-ignore. Everyone assumed it was just full of unpleasant creatures and stricter punishments. No one actually thought of it as haunted.
"What do you mean, something wrong?" Daphne asked, eyeing Draco with open suspicion.
Draco ran a hand through his hair, wrecking the perfectly slicked-back style he always wore. He didn't seem to notice. "I don't… I don't know. But something was killing the unicorns."
A hush fell over the room. Even Pansy, who had been poised to toss out another cutting remark, froze mid-breath and frowned.
"Killing?" Nott repeated, his voice low.
Draco nodded, jaw tight.
"Hagrid made us…" He trailed off, grimacing at the memory. "He made us follow a trail. Silver blood. We thought it was just a wounded unicorn. But something was already there."
He stopped again. His mouth opened like he meant to continue, but nothing came out. Harry had been quiet until now, sitting forward slightly in his chair, watching the way Draco's shoulders had tensed. His instincts prickled. There was something in the silence between Draco's words that made his skin crawl.
"What did you see?" Blaise asked, leaning back into the cushions with his arms crossed.
Draco didn't answer. His lips pressed into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to speak, but couldn't. Harry's voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like a thread pulled tight.
"Malfoy. What exactly did you see?" he asked, causing everyone to look at him.
Draco's jaw clenched. His hands balled into fists, and for a long second he said nothing. Then, finally, he forced the words out.
"I saw eyes."
Harry's breath caught in his throat.
Draco's voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper. "Red ones."
A chill slid down Harry's spine, cold and immediate. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared. Red eyes.
He felt it like a punch to the chest. His thoughts spun, not fast enough to make sense of it, but hard enough to send warning signals all through his body.
Draco kept talking, though his voice had lost its usual sharpness. "I don't know what it was. But it wasn't human. And it… it looked at me."
The tension in the air was thick, brittle. No one moved. A few whispered exchanges stirred among the others, barely audible, but Harry wasn't listening. His mind had splintered off into a colder, darker place. That same suffocating weight he had felt weeks ago in the forbidden corridor wrapped around his chest again. The pressure pressed just beneath his ribs, tight and breathless, like something unseen had wrapped its fingers around him and refused to let go. He remembered how Quirrell had turned at exactly the wrong moment. How the air had shifted, charged with something ancient and hungry. The way magic had prickled along Harry's skin, not like a warning, but like a threat.
Since then, Quirrell had behaved as if nothing unusual had occurred. No apologies. No acknowledgments. Not even a second glance. It was as if the moment had been erased completely, at least from Quirrell's perspective. Harry had tried to believe it had been a fluke, a one-time surge of dark magic that meant nothing. But there was more. Quirrell had been lurking in the dungeons on Halloween and just happened to be near the troll that broke through the wards. He had acted strangely in class, his stutter slipping away whenever something particularly intriguing came up. He had been watching Harry too closely all year, his gaze lingering in a way that made Harry's skin crawl. Now Draco was describing the same red eyes Harry had seen.
That could not be a coincidence. Harry's fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his robes, his nails digging into the seam at his side. He had not realized how fast his heart was racing until the pounding echoed in his ears, rising and insistent. It drowned out everything else. Every word. Every movement. Every flicker of firelight across the stone walls of the common room. Draco, meanwhile, was still shaking slightly, clearly trying to cover it with anger.
"None of you would have lasted a second out there," he muttered, crossing his arms defensively. "I should get an award for not dying."
Daphne scoffed, "Oh, please, Draco. You probably just saw some half-dead werewolf and screamed."
Draco bristled. "You don't know anything, Daphne!"
Harry, still lost in thought, barely registered the way the common room burst into argument, with Draco loudly insulting everyone who wasn't taking him seriously. His mind was elsewhere steadfastly stuck on the icy terror that had settled deep in his bones.
Aside from the dragon incident and the resulting detention in the Forbidden Forest, an event Draco was still making a dramatic fuss over, the rest of the school year passed with relative quiet. Harry kept his head down, focusing on his classes, avoiding both Charlie and Professor Quirrell, and dreading the inevitable return to the Dursleys. He was confident he had done well on his exams. Even Snape had grudgingly approved of the Forgetfulness Potion he submitted for his final practical, which was as close to praise as Harry expected to receive.
Then, one night, everything went wrong. He had been walking back from the library, a neat list of books tucked in his pocket, titles he planned to buy from Flourish and Blotts over the summer. His thoughts were on potion expansions and a particularly useful shielding charm when he felt it.
A wand, pressed into his back interrupting his thoughts.
"Are you sure about this, Charlie?" Hermione's voice trembled slightly, her grip on her own wand uncertain.
"He needs to see the truth," Charlie whispered, his voice steely and unwavering. "He's been brainwashed by them. Once he sees Snape trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone, he'll understand."
Harry said nothing. His jaw was tight, his mind racing. He weighed his options quickly, but with Granger's wand pressed firmly into his back and Charlie practically vibrating with righteous purpose, there wasn't much room for argument. Any sudden move might earn him a hex, and he doubted either of them would hesitate if they thought he was about to bolt. They moved swiftly through the castle, their footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. The corridors were dim, lit only by the faint flicker of torchlight and the pale glow of moonlight through the stained glass. Harry kept his gaze darting toward every passing shadow, silently hoping for the sound of approaching footsteps, for a professor or prefect making a late-night patrol, for someone to stop this nonsense.
No one came.
He wasn't even sure what a Philosopher's Stone was. He had only heard the name in passing, mentioned once in an older textbook he hadn't finished. Something about alchemy. It didn't matter. He didn't know why Snape would want it, why it would even be at Hogwarts, or why Charlie had latched onto this theory like it was gospel. All he knew was that they had dragged him into it, and now there was no easy way out. They reached the third-floor corridor. The forbidden one. He exhaled slowly and braced himself. This was going to get worse before it got better.
"Are we seriously going in there?" Harry hissed, trying and failing to keep the unease from creeping into his voice.
"Of course we are," Charlie said, puffing up. "Stay close. You'll see I'm right."
He pushed the door open.
They descended through the traps one by one. The sleeping Cerberus, the Devil's Snare. The flying keys room came, and much to Harry's irritation, he ended up doing most of the catching. Then came the giant chessboard, where Charlie and Ron both insisted on playing. Harry let them. He wasn't particularly concerned when the pieces knocked Ron out cold. He did, however, pause long enough to make sure the idiot was breathing.
Then came the troll. It was slumped against the wall, motionless, its enormous body sprawled across the stone floor. The room reeked of blood and something fouler, something thick and cloying that clung to the back of Harry's throat. Its skull had been split open cleanly, far too cleanly for a creature of brute force.
Harry stared at it, unmoving. He had little doubt that Snape, or any skilled adult wizard, could have taken the thing down. But that was not what unsettled him. It was the air. The magic. Something about it felt wrong. The way the air crackled faintly, the chill that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with instinct. The residue of something dark and violent lingered in the room. It pressed in on him like a second skin. It felt too familiar. Too much like that night in the third-floor corridor. The moment Quirrell had turned. The moment everything in the air had shifted and the magic around him had gone from passive to predatory in an instant. Harry's hand hovered near his wand.
"It's not dead, is it?" Charlie asked, wrinkling his nose as he stepped around the hulking figure.
Harry covered his mouth with his sleeve. The smell was stomach-turning. "I doubt it's just sleeping."
Next was the potions riddle. Hermione dropped to her knees immediately, brow furrowed as she read over the parchment. Seven bottles stood in a line, glittering darkly in the firelight. Some contained poison. One would let them go forward. Another would send them back.
She began muttering under her breath, running her fingers along the labels and counting bottles in both directions. Harry turned to Charlie.
"Why are we doing this again?"
Charlie didn't even look at him. "I told you. Snape is trying to steal the Stone."
Harry stopped walking, eyes narrowing. "And instead of telling, I don't know, literally any adult, you decided to break into a restricted corridor?"
"We told McGonagall. She didn't believe us," Charlie snapped, his voice sharp with frustration.
Harry stared at him, utterly unimpressed. "So you just gave up? No other professors? No prefects? Doesn't Weasley's brother practically live for rules? You could have gone to him."
Charlie scowled and punched him in the arm. Harry didn't flinch. He was too busy thinking. Snape might be a miserable, sharp-tongued git with a talent for glaring, but he wasn't stupid. He would not leave magical residue like this behind. He would not have carelessly triggered so many of the defenses or, worse, left the body of a troll behind like discarded trash. Snape was precise. Deliberate. Whoever had come through before them had been powerful, but also reckless. Impatient. This was not Snape's work. No, someone else had come through here. And he was beginning to think it had everything to do with Quirrell and his odd behavior. Still, Charlie had dragged him into this mess to chase a theory that was already starting to fall apart. Harry clenched his jaw. Gryffindors.
Hermione stood up, having pointedly ignored their bickering the entire time. Her expression was focused, brow furrowed with determination, and her fingers were still smudged with ink from her frantic note-taking.
"This one is correct," she announced with confidence, tapping the narrow vial with her index finger. Her voice held the same crisp authority she used in class when correcting someone's mistake. "There's only enough potion for two people to go forward. This one is to go back. Someone needs to get help."
She didn't wait for approval or input. In her mind, the problem had been solved, the path laid out. She had figured out the logic puzzle. The rest was simple execution. Harry, however, didn't find anything about this simple. Charlie didn't hesitate. He snatched the vial, threw it back like a shot, and stepped through the black flames without so much as a backward glance.
Harry blinked. "That was... reckless."
Hermione hesitated. "I should take the second one. He might need help."
Harry's hand tightened around his wand.
"No, you shouldn't."
Before she could react, he cast a soft sleeping spell. She slumped gently to the stone floor, snoring.
He sighed and nudged her with the tip of his shoe. "Sorry, Granger. You'll thank me later."
He looked at the second vial still sitting untouched. He could leave. He had every excuse to walk away. Let Charlie suffer the consequences of his own idiocy. But something twisted in his gut. Charlie might be an impulsive, self-righteous pain, but Harry didn't want to see him hurt. Not like this. Not if it really was Quirrell. Not if the red eyes Draco had seen were waiting behind those flames. Harry picked up the potion, felt the cool glass between his fingers, and swallowed it in one swift motion. The liquid burned slightly as it went down, and he barely had time to brace himself before stepping through the wall of black flames. They parted around him like water.
On the other side, the room was dim and echoing, cast in the pale, distorted light of a towering gothic mirror. The figure standing before it was tall and still, his hands folded neatly behind his back. His posture was calm. Composed.
"Harry Potter," said the voice. Smooth. Controlled. Not a trace of the familiar stutter. Professor Quirrell didn't turn to face him. There was no tremble in his voice, no nervous twitch of his fingers. The hunched shoulders were not signs of weakness, but something colder. Calculated. He stood like someone waiting for the final piece of a puzzle to arrive.
Harry's stomach twisted. He felt no satisfaction in being right. No vindication in his suspicion. Only a creeping chill that settled in his bones. Every hair on his body stood on end.
"You join us at last," Quirrell said, not turning from the mirror. "I'm afraid your brother did not remain conscious long enough to greet you."
Harry's gaze snapped to the floor. Charlie. He lay crumpled near the mirror's base, unmoving. Harry's stomach twisted. He forced himself to keep his expression blank, his mind racing. Quirrell said he hadn't remained conscious…not that he hadn't remained alive.
"Excellent thinking," Quirrell murmured approvingly, finally turning his full attention to Harry. "Charming the girl was a… practical decision. I disabled all of Dumbledore's wards that would have alarmed him. He should be none the wiser to tonight's events especially with your help."
Harry's spine stiffened. He didn't like this. The air felt heavy, charged with something unnatural. Quirrell's presence felt… wrong. His magic was wrong.
"You aren't really Professor Quirrell, are you?" Harry asked quietly.
A pause. Then, Quirrell turned. His gaze was sharp, calculating. His posture too stiff, too rigid.
"How very perceptive of you."
Harry resisted the urge to step back as Quirrell moved closer, resting a cold, bony hand on his shoulder. His grip was too tight.
"Tell me," Quirrell murmured, his voice almost gentle, "what do you see?"
He gestured toward the Mirror of Erised. Harry hesitated, eyes flickering to the inscription at the top. I show not your face but your heart's desire.
Slowly, he reached forward. The surface rippled. His reflection changed. He wasn't alone. A man and a woman stood beside him. His breath caught. His parents. Lily and James Potter. Whole. Alive. His reflection wasn't a child. No, he was older, draped in fine robes, a wand firmly in his grasp. His parents stood proudly beside him, hands resting on his shoulders, their expressions warm and approving. A family. A place where he belonged. For a moment, his fingers trembled as he reached toward the glass-
Something solid met his touch. His fingers curled around it instinctively. He pulled back. A jagged, blood-red stone sat in his palm. Harry barely had time to process it before the mirror's image shifted again. His parents disappeared. Now, Harry stood alone. No family. No friends. No Charlie. No Draco, no Gemma, no Slytherins. Just him. And power. Books lined the walls of his reflection, towers of knowledge and magic stacked to the ceiling. His hands were steady, practiced. Spells swirled at his fingertips, dark and light alike. The world outside was blurred, distant. There was no one else. Just him and magic. His chest felt tight. Is that really what I want?
"The Stone," Quirrell ordered.
Harry blinked, the vision vanishing. Harry's gaze flickered between the blood-red stone in his palm and the mirror's surface. It was real. Solid. Ancient magic hummed against his skin, coiling around his fingertips, whispering something he couldn't quite understand. It wanted to be used. He could feel the power pulsing beneath its smooth, jagged surface, like a heartbeat thrumming against his own. And yet… It meant nothing to him. This wasn't what he wanted. His fingers tightened around it, his nails digging into his palm. Quirrell's grip tightened on his shoulder, bony fingers pressing hard enough to bruise.
"Give it to me, Harry."
A demand. Not a request. Harry let out a slow breath. Then, without hesitation, he handed it over. The second the stone left his grasp, a sharp chill crept down his spine. Quirrell's fingers closed around it hungrily, his pale knuckles almost bone-white in the dim light. His hand on Harry didn't loosen. If anything, his grip tightened. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand. A sickening realization settled in Harry's gut. His stomach dropped. Of course. He should have known that Quirrell wouldn't be satisfied with the stone.
"Imperio," Quirrell said calmly. Everything went black.
Harry's eyes snapped open. The flickering glow of enchanted lanterns cast long shadows across the cold stone walls of the Slytherin dormitory. The room was quiet, save for the distant drip of water echoing from somewhere deep in the dungeons. His chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths as his mind raced to make sense of where he was and how he had gotten there.
Quirrell.
The Mirror.
The Stone.
A wand raised toward him.
Harry sat up abruptly. The world tilted, and he grabbed at the edge of the mattress for balance, his fingers clawing at the blankets. He ran his hands over his arms, his chest, his face, searching for some sign of injury. A wound. A curse scar. Anything. There was nothing. No bruises. No burns. No pain. Just a blank space in his memory and the awful, lingering certainty that Quirrell had cast the Imperius Curse on him and Harry had no idea what the man had made him do under its influence. His hands trembled. His mind spun.
Whoever was impersonating their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had not just broken school rules. He had used an Unforgivable Curse. That made him more than dangerous. That made him a dark wizard. Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor biting at his feet. He raked a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself, but the dread would not loosen its grip.
Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold dungeon floor biting into his bare feet. He sat there for a long moment, frozen in place. His breathing came in short, uneven bursts. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly as he tried to calm the rising storm in his chest, but the dread refused to loosen its grip.
It had not been a dream, no matter how much he wished it had.
He remembered the room. The stifling weight of magic that had wrapped around him like smoke. The way the air had shifted, dense and electric. Quirrell's voice, smooth and composed, no hint of nervousness or stutter. Just calm, focused cruelty. And then that word. Spoken so casually it had almost slipped past him. Imperio. Harry had come across it when researching Lucius Malfoy's connections to the First Wizarding War at the beginning of the year. The Imperius Curse had been the cornerstone of Lucius Malfoy's legal defense. It was a curse designed to take control of its victim completely. It removed choice. Removed will. Left behind only obedience. And now Harry knew firsthand how that felt. It had happened to him.
What coiled tight and sick in the pit of his stomach was what he might have done while under its influence. Had he attacked someone? Had he said things he couldn't remember? Had he betrayed anyone? His fingers curled tightly around the edge of his blanket. Maybe he should tell someone. Go to a professor before Charlie or the others said something first. He had been there. He had gone through the trapdoor. If there was an investigation, he would be implicated. Maybe Dumbledore already knew. Maybe he was just waiting to summon him. Maybe they would send him to Azkaban. A dry, bitter laugh escaped his throat.
He had given the Stone away. Whatever it truly was, whatever power it carried, he had failed to keep it safe. And somehow, he survived. Somehow, he had ended up back in the Slytherin dormitory, tucked into his bed, with no memory of how he had returned. That thought terrified him more than anything else. Harry sat there, perched on the edge of his bed, motionless. The silence of the dorm pressed in around him like a second skin. He felt like a puppet whose strings had only just been cut.
The next morning, at the End-of-Term Feast, Harry barely touched his breakfast. His eggs sat cold and untouched on his plate as he absently prodded them with the edge of his fork. The Great Hall was bright and loud, filled with cheers and chatter. At the Slytherin table, students buzzed with excitement. Tonight, green and silver banners would hang from the rafters, another House Cup proudly won.
But Harry could not think about trophies or points or pride. His thoughts were still tangled in the blank space in his memory. One moment, he had stood in front of the Mirror of Erised, Quirrell's wand raised, his own magic coiling defensively. The next, he had woken in his bed. No wounds. No signs of a struggle. No explanation. His thoughts were interrupted as a shadow loomed over him. His stomach dropped. Professor McGonagall. For a brief, panicked second, his blood ran cold. She knew. She knew everything. His mind raced-should he play dumb? Should he run? Should he-
"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, her voice clipped but not unkind.
Harry forced himself to meet her gaze.
"Professor," he greeted, keeping his tone calm.
"I thought you should know-your brother is in the Hospital Wing."
Harry's grip on his goblet tightened.
"He's awake," she continued, "but Madame Pomfrey insists he needs rest. I assume you'd like to see him?"
Harry took a long, slow sip of pumpkin juice before setting it down.
"No, thank you."
McGonagall blinked, clearly taken aback. "Mr. Potter, this is hardly the time for petty grievances."
Harry didn't flinch. "It's not a grievance, Professor. I just have no interest in seeing him."
Her lips thinned. Disappointment flickered in her sharp eyes.
"Family is-"
"With all due respect, Professor," Harry cut in smoothly, "I don't think you're in a position to lecture me about my family."
A muscle twitched in her jaw. For a moment, Harry thought she might argue, but instead, she exhaled a slow, measured breath.
"If you change your mind, you know where he is."
"I won't."
She studied him for a beat longer-then, with a small shake of her head, she turned and walked away. Harry exhaled, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. At least she hadn't asked anything else. At least, for now, he wasn't caught.
"What did that idiot do now?" Draco drawled, raising a curious eyebrow as he casually buttered a scone.
Harry forced his face into a neutral expression.
"Who knows," he said evenly.
He flicked his gaze up toward the Gryffindor table, spotting Hermione and Ron sitting together, whispering. They looked somber. Guilty. Harry's lips pressed into a thin line. They knew. They knew what had happened that night. But they hadn't said a word. Not to the professors. Not to the school. Not to anyone. Why? Why hadn't they turned him in?
He mulled over it for a while, absently pushing food around his plate as the others chattered excitedly about the upcoming feast. But Harry barely cared. His thoughts were still trapped in that missing moment. A gap in his memory. And a cold suspicion that he hadn't been the only one with missing memories. Nothing else made sense, why none of the professors had come to question him.
At the feast that night, platters of lamb dripping with thick gravy, warm pumpkin pasties, and mountains of treacle tart. Goblets of pumpkin juice and chilled butterbeer clinked together as students eagerly chattered about the end of term, already making plans for summer. The Gryffindor table was lively,laughter and excitement bubbled over. Students leaned across the benches, shouting to one another, already celebrating their inevitable House Cup loss with good spirits. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were in similar moods, enjoying the feast and swapping stories. But at the Slytherin table, the atmosphere was one of anticipation. They were waiting for the House Cup to be rewarded to them properly. Harry sat stiffly, his fingers curled around his goblet, watching the Gryffindor table erupted into cheers as Dumbledore rose to his feet.
The Headmaster surveyed the hall, his usual twinkling gaze absent. His posture was composed, his long fingers resting lightly on the head table, but his expression was not quite right. Harry narrowed his eyes. Something was different about him tonight. Dumbledore looked… pale. Not weak, not frail. Just unnerved. The quiet weight of his hesitation was subtle, but Harry caught it. Still, the old wizard pressed on, voice steady as he surveyed the room.
"Another year has come and gone."
The students quieted, waiting for the House Cup announcement. Dumbledore took a measured breath.
"And now, the time has come to award the House Cup. In first place, with 472 points-" He paused. His lips twitched slightly, as if reluctant."-Slytherin House."
For a single, glorious moment, the Slytherin table erupted. Decorum and manners forgotten. Draco whooped, pounding his fists on the table, while Pansy clapped enthusiastically beside him. Even the older students, who usually remained composed, allowed smug smiles to stretch across their faces. They had done it. Another victory to add to their house streak. The banner above them gleamed green and silver. Harry could feel the tension in his chest release. They had won.
But then-Dumbledore raised a hand. The cheers died instantly. A cold pit settled in Harry's stomach.
"However," Dumbledore said, his voice smooth but heavy, "recent events require recognition."
The entire hall stilled. Harry felt his fingers tighten around his fork. Dumbledore's gaze swept across the room, finally landing on the Gryffindor table. Charlie sat up a little straighter, his back rigid. Harry's blood ran cold.
"Many of you may not be aware," Dumbledore continued, his voice measured, "but just days ago, a most courageous act took place within these very halls. I cannot share the details with you, but these actions require due rewards nonetheless."
Harry stared at him. For once the headmaster wasn't staring at him, his gaze had landed directly on Charlie.
"Through bravery, determination, and a selfless willingness to stand against the darkness, Mr. Charlus Potter has proven himself a true Gryffindor."
The Great Hall exploded. The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers so loud it practically shook the enchanted ceiling. Ron clapped Charlie on the back, grinning ear to ear. Hermione beamed, her eyes shining as though she were close to tears. The Weasley twins leapt onto the benches, shouting "We got a hero!" while younger students gawked at Charlie with admiration.
Harry barely heard any of it. His breath hitched in his throat. What? What does Dumbledore think happened that night? His fingers curled tightly around his fork. A flicker of unease coursed through Harry as he studied Charlie. His twin looked… different. Not smug. Not arrogant. Just strange. And he wasn't looking at Harry. Not once had Charlie even glanced his way. Not in resentment, not in anger-not at all. Like he didn't even remember. And maybe… maybe he didn't.
Dumbledore continued. "For this, I award fifty points to Gryffindor."
Gasps rippled through Slytherin. Draco, beside him, tensed sharply. Whispers broke out across the hall. Dumbledore's voice carried effortlessly through the stunned silence.
"And for their unwavering loyalty and support, twenty-five points each to Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger."
Slytherin's victory vanished. Right in front of their eyes. The Gryffindor table exploded into celebration, a wave of cheers and whoops filling the hall as the enchanted banners shifted from green and silver to red and gold. The Slytherin table sat in stunned silence.
"This is rigged," Daphne hissed, her arms crossed tightly. "We won fair and square."
"My father is going to hear about this," Draco growled, practically vibrating with fury.
For once, no one mocked him. Blaise and Theo looked disgusted, while Pansy muttered darkly under her breath. Across the table, older students exchanged sharp glances, some glaring openly at the head table.
Gemma looked absolutely murderous, "He just stole our victory."
Harry swallowed. His gaze slid back to Charlie. His brother wasn't gloating. He wasn't grinning. He was simply nodding along as Dumbledore murmured to him quietly. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Dumbledore believed Charlie had fought Quirrell. That he had been the hero. That he had stood against a powerful dark wizard and survived. But that wasn't true. Harry turned back toward Dumbledore. The old man still looked pale.
Even as he raised his goblet and murmured, "Congratulations, Gryffindor," there was no warmth in his voice.
Even as he clapped, it was subdued. Even as the Gryffindors celebrated around him, Dumbledore's expression remained carefully blank. Harry wasn't sure what it all meant.
Disclaimer:
Disclaimer:
I disagree whole heartedly with many of JK Rowling's views.
Protect Trans Youth.
I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters or world.
This is a reupload of a story with the same name and plot. Things have been heavily edited and expanded. Please enjoy.