Trigger Warning: Brief mentions of physical abuse.
Chapter 8: Shattered Reflections
The soft tick of an ancient clock echoed through the high, domed office. The candlelight wavered, casting uneven gold across the worn wood of the desk and the lined face of the headmaster seated behind it. Fawkes slept quietly on his perch. Outside the windows, the sky above the castle was pitch black and starless. Severus Snape stood rigid near the fire, arms folded, his robes absorbing the light.
"The Stone is gone," he said without preamble.
"Yes," Dumbledore murmured, his eyes distant. "It is."
Snape's voice sharpened. "You confirmed it yourself?"
"I did. The Mirror still functions. Its enchantments respond. But the Stone is no longer within it."
Snape paced a slow, deliberate line across the rug. "You believe it was taken by the Dark Lord?"
"I believe someone took it for him, or with his influence," Dumbledore replied. "The layers of magic that night were delicate but deliberate. Too skilled for any student."
"And yet," Snape said slowly, turning, "three students breached every ward and made it through. Granger, Weasley, and Potter."
"Charlus," Dumbledore corrected softly, "yes."
Snape's brow furrowed. "Their memories are compromised."
"Yes," Dumbledore said, folding his hands. "Whoever was responsible used memory magic I have not seen in decades. Their recollections end at the chessboard. They do not remember the potion riddle, or what lay beyond it. They believe they completed some task, but the details are cloudy. Too neat to be natural."
"And what of the boy?" Snape asked. "Harry."
Dumbledore paused.
"We do not know if he was there."
Snape frowned. "None of the three mentioned him?"
"No," Dumbledore said quietly. "Not once. They believe they acted alone. That he was never involved."
"And the castle?" Snape asked. "The portraits? The ghosts?"
Dumbledore's eyes darkened. "All unresponsive. Every portrait in the third-floor corridor was found asleep. Even the Grey Lady, who passes through that wing nightly, claims she remembers nothing unusual. Someone silenced them. Not with brute force, but with layered, subtle interference."
Snape's gaze narrowed. "You suspect Harry."
"I cannot say for certain," Dumbledore admitted. "He was not seen with Charlus in the weeks leading up to the incident. And there is no memory of him in the minds of the others. But he was... unsettled the next morning. I examined him discreetly at the feast. He bore no signs of the same tampering as the others."
"Which means," Snape said coldly, "if he was there, he remembers."
Dumbledore nodded.
Snape's voice was low. "Then question him."
"I would rather not," Dumbledore replied. "Not yet."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "You think he would lie?"
"I think he would retreat," Dumbledore said. "He is already wary of me. If I push too hard, I risk losing what little trust he may have."
Snape frowned, but did not argue.
"I do not know if he was involved," Dumbledore continued. "But I cannot ignore the possibility. I simply have no proof. And I am not willing to risk harming three children to dig further."
Snape looked toward the hearth, where the flames crackled softly.
"What if he did take the Stone?" he asked.
Dumbledore's voice dropped to a whisper. "Then he gave it away. Willingly or not."
Silence stretched between them.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "Keep an eye on him, Severus. Quietly. Note any changes in behavior. If he isolates himself further, if his magic shifts... come to me."
Snape inclined his head. "I will."
"And Severus," Dumbledore added, voice quieter still, "be kind, if you can."
Snape didn't smile. But he nodded once, sharply. Then, without another word, Snape turned and swept out of the office, his black robes trailing behind him like a shadow that refused to be shaken. The heavy door closed with a soft click, leaving the office still.
Dumbledore remained where he was, his hands folded before him, eyes fixed on the flickering hearth. The firelight cast long, uncertain shadows across the floor. He did not blink. The Philosopher's Stone was gone. That much was certain. Voldemort, some shade of him, some fragment of the man he had once been, had touched it. Had claimed it. And despite every ward, every enchantment, every safeguard meticulously put into place, Albus had failed to prevent it. Nothing had gone according to plan.
He had expected a threat, yes, but not this soon. Not like this. And now, standing at the heart of that failure, were two boys. Harry Potter, who moved through the world like a mirror with smoke behind the glass. Watchful, unreadable, never quite where he was expected to be. And Charlus Potter, who charged headlong into danger with a Gryffindor's heart but little understanding of the world he now was a part of. Two halves of a mystery he still could not solve.
Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair, the firelight catching in the lenses of his spectacles. His gaze did not soften. If Voldemort had truly touched the Stone, then the timeline had shifted. The pieces were moving too fast, and he was already playing from behind. He would need to watch carefully. Guide what he could. Withhold what he must. But for the first time in many years, Albus Dumbledore felt deeply uncertain. And that unsettled him more than he dared admit.
The atmosphere in the Slytherin compartment was far from cheerful. The bitter taste of their stolen victory still lingered in the air, and no one was in the mood for casual chatter. Pansy sulked in the corner, Theo scowled at the window, and Blaise had taken to methodically shuffling his Exploding Snap deck, his expression unreadable. Harry sat near Draco, his hands curled loosely in his lap. The rhythmic hum of the train should have been soothing, but his stomach twisted tighter with every passing mile. Every minute, they were drawing closer to London. To the Dursleys. He stared out the window, watching the rolling countryside blur past, but the distraction did little to ease the gnawing anxiety clawing at his chest.
"Honestly, the injustice of it all," Draco huffed, breaking the tense silence. "I'd expect favoritism, but that was blatant theft."
"We should have hexed the banners back to green and silver," Pansy muttered darkly.
Draco nodded sharply. "Oh, don't worry. Father is going to hear about this."
That, at least, seemed to lift the spirits of a few. Theo chuckled, and Blaise smirked. Harry, however, wasn't listening. His mind kept drifting to that final night. To the Mirror. To the way Dumbledore had looked at Charlie. To the creeping suspicion that he had been completely, utterly played. But he couldn't say anything. He had no proof. No memory. So, he did what he did best-he kept his mouth shut. Until the door to their compartment slammed open.
"Harry!"
Harry clenched his jaw before even turning around. Charlie stood in the doorway, Ron and Hermione flanking him like some kind of self-appointed Gryffindor honor guard. Slytherin eyes immediately snapped to the intruders.
Pansy scoffed. Theo lazily flicked his wand like he was debating sending a hex just for the offense of them stepping inside. Even Blaise, who usually didn't bother with Gryffindor nonsense, looked mildly annoyed. Draco, seated next to Harry, rolled his wand between his fingers, his expression schooled into polite disdain, but there was an underlying challenge in his gaze. Charlie ignored all of it.
"Come sit with us," he demanded, arms crossed like he was doing Harry a favor.
Harry didn't move. "No."
Charlie scoffed, stepping further inside, completely ignoring the glowering Slytherins watching him like a pack of irritated vipers.
"Come on," Ron tried, giving Harry a forced grin. "You don't have to sit with them."
Harry felt the shift around him before he saw it. Draco stiffened. Pansy's grip on her wand tightened. Theo let out a low, amused chuckle that carried a distinct edge of danger.
"And who exactly," Draco drawled, "do you think he should sit with, Weasley?"
Ron opened his mouth but paused, suddenly very aware of the Slytherins now watching him with thinly veiled contempt.
"Harry," Hermione cut in, trying to salvage the situation. "We just thought-"
"I'm fine where I am," Harry said, voice even and unyielding.
Hermione wrung her hands, a desperate edge creeping into her tone. "Harry, don't you think-"
"No."
The finality in his voice stopped her cold. Charlie's face twisted in frustration. Harry knew that look. The one that always came right before an argument-before Charlie decided that he knew best and that Harry just needed to be pushed hard enough to come to the right conclusion. Harry met his gaze unflinchingly. Charlie seemed to sense it too because, for once, he didn't push.
He scoffed, stepping back. "Fine. Suit yourself."
And just like that, he turned on his heel and stalked away, Ron and Hermione trailing behind him. As soon as the door slid shut, Draco let out a sharp exhale.
"Honestly," he muttered, returning to the seat beside him. "The audacity of Gryffindors."
"They act like they own the place," Pansy sneered.
"They certainly think they own him," Blaise said, eyeing Harry.
Harry didn't respond. Because the truth was, he wasn't angry at Charlie. Not in the way he should be. Because if what Harry suspected was true-if Charlie really didn't remember dragging him down to the Stone at all-then he wasn't even aware of what he had done. Which meant Quirrell or possibly evern Dumbledore had taken that memory from him. That was far more terrifying than Charlie just being an idiot. When the train finally screeched to a halt, the station burst into a frenzy of movement. Students poured onto the platform, their chatter mixing with the whistle of the steam engine and the distant shouts of reuniting families. Younger students bolted toward waiting parents, while older ones lingered for final goodbyes, making plans for summer visits or exchanging addresses for owl posts.
Harry stepped onto the platform at a measured pace, hands stuffed into his pockets as he let the crowd surge past him. The cacophony of excited goodbyes and hurried footsteps barely registered-his attention was fixed on the far end of the platform. Where the Muggle World waited. Where the Dursleys waited. His stomach twisted unpleasantly. He hadn't seen them in nearly a year, but he already knew what to expect-Vernon's impatient scowl, Petunia's pinched expression, and Dudley's exaggerated sighs of boredom. Before he could take another step toward his reluctant guardians, a hand latched onto his wrist.
"Come on," Draco ordered, yanking him in the opposite direction. "You have to meet my parents."
"Draco-" Harry barely had time to protest before he was being unceremoniously dragged through the throng of students.
They cut through the crowd with ease, people instinctively parting as Draco stormed forward with purpose. It didn't take long for Harry to spot them. Lucius Malfoy stood tall and rigid, his presence commanding even amidst the chaos of the platform. He was dressed in immaculate black robes that exuded wealth and influence, his signature silver-handled cane resting lightly against his palm. His sharp gaze flickered over the crowd with something akin to distaste, as though he were merely tolerating the presence of so many lesser individuals. Beside him, Narcissa Malfoy was a vision of composed elegance. The pale blue of her robes softened her otherwise imposing aura, but Harry could tell at a glance that she was just as sharp as her husband. Her posture was flawless, every movement precise and deliberate, as though carefully crafted to exude effortless grace. Unlike Lucius, her attention was already on Harry.
"You must be Harry," Narcissa said smoothly, tilting her head as she assessed him. "Draco speaks of you often."
Harry hesitated, suddenly very aware of the way both Malfoys were studying him.
Lucius's gaze was impassive, but there was something piercing about it, something calculating. It reminded Harry of the way Professor Snape looked at him sometimes-like he was a puzzle to be solved. Narcissa's scrutiny, however, felt different. There was something else lurking behind her cool blue eyes, something Harry couldn't quite place. Not judgment, not disdain-something more… thoughtful. He wasn't sure what Draco had told them, but the intensity of their gazes made him feel as though he was being weighed and measured.
"It's nice to meet you, Lady Malfoy," he said finally, keeping his tone neutral. Polite.
Lucius barely spared him a glance before consulting his pocket watch, his voice clipped. "Draco. We have an appointment."
Draco scowled, clearly displeased, but he turned back to Harry anyway.
"Don't forget. Quidditch."
Harry nodded. He wasn't quite sure if that was a promise or a command. Draco gave him one last meaningful glance before falling into step beside his father, the two cutting a striking figure as they moved with the confidence only pureblood aristocrats could. Narcissa, however, lingered. For a brief moment, she said nothing-just studied him again, as though trying to unravel something unseen. Harry wasn't sure why, but her scrutiny made him uncomfortable in a way Lucius's had not. Then, without another word, her gaze flickered over him one last time. She turned, moving with effortless grace to follow her husband and son.
Harry had never been more bored in his life.
Everything felt muted in comparison to Hogwarts. The air was stagnant, the colors dull, and the days bled together in an endless, monotonous cycle. The magic that had filled every corner of the castle was absent here, leaving the house on Privet Drive feeling dead in comparison.
Charlie and Dudley, to his complete lack of surprise, had fallen back into their old rhythm, thick as thieves once more. It was as if their brief falling out had never even happened, and Harry was left on the outside, ignored as thoroughly as ever. He was nothing more than an unwelcome presence, a shadow lurking in the corner of their lives-tolerated only when necessary. Most of his days were spent under Petunia's ever-watchful eye, completing whatever arbitrary list of chores she devised. Scrubbing floors, trimming the hedges, repainting the fence-anything to keep him too occupied to be a nuisance.
Harry would have given anything to be doing his schoolwork instead. Unfortunately, his books, his ink, his quills were all locked away in the cupboard under the stairs the moment he stepped through the front door. Hedwig, at least, was safe. He had sent her to Malfoy Manor before the summer holidays began, knowing full well that Vernon would have loved to lock her up, too. Draco had assured him she was enjoying the Malfoy owlery, free to fly as she pleased. Still, she returned to him at night, always slipping through his window under the cover of darkness with letters hidden beneath her wings. It was a small comfort in a place that had never been home.
Charlie's precious cat, however, suffered no mistreatment. The thing had taken an immediate dislike to Harry last summer, as if it sensed that he wasn't welcome in the house. He was covered in scratches within a week, and he had already been tripped down the stairs twice by the furry menace. Yet, rather than being disciplined, the creature had endeared itself to Petunia. Harry had walked into the living room one evening only to find it curled up on her lap, purring contentedly as she absentmindedly stroked its fur. Harry nearly gagged.
It wasn't until later-after spending weeks in near-constant proximity to Petunia that he realized there was something… off about her. Something he hadn't noticed before. Magic. It was faint, repressed but it was there. The realization struck him like a lightning bolt. At first, he thought he was imagining it, but no… he could feel it. It clung to her like a whisper of something long forgotten, like a tightly coiled spring that had never been allowed to uncoil. Untrained. Unused. But there.
A slow smirk spread across Harry's face. He stopped folding the laundry, an idea already forming. It was reckless, slightly stupid, but if it worked… He turned to face her, hands clasped behind his back, expression carefully schooled into something innocent. Petunia glanced up from where she was peeling potatoes, her gaze sharp.
"What are you looking at, boy?" she snapped.
Harry smiled sweetly. Too sweetly.
"I think you should get my school books out of the cupboard."
Petunia scoffed. "And why, pray tell, would I do that?"
"Well," Harry mused, tilting his head, "I could just tell Uncle Vernon that you're a witch."
Silence. Petunia's whole body froze.
Harry continued, his voice smooth, almost casual. "I can feel it, you know. I never noticed before, but now I do. Just because you refuse to use it doesn't change the fact that it's there."
Her breath hitched. "H-how did you-"
Harry's smirk widened.
"I don't mind keeping it a secret," he said lightly, "as long as I can do my homework in peace. Just my books will do. I'll even let you keep my wand."
Petunia stared at him, face pale, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Satisfied, Harry turned on his heel and left her standing there, still gripping the potato peeler in her trembling hands. He had no idea if his gamble would work. She could cave, or Vernon could come storming upstairs with murder in his eyes, but it was worth a shot. He stepped outside, grabbed the trowel, and got to work on the garden, pretending as if nothing had happened. When he returned inside later that evening, a pile of books was waiting on his bed. Along with parchment, quills, and ink. Harry grinned to himself as he plopped down on the mattress, cracking open his potions book. Perfect.
For a time, things remained tolerable. Petunia avoided him. Vernon grumbled but didn't seem to suspect anything. Charlie continued to ignore him in favor of Dudley. Until one night. Vernon had been drinking. It wasn't unusual. He had been turned down for a promotion recently, and his temper had been steadily worsening with each passing day. Petunia and Dudley had learned to stay out of his way when he got like this, but Charlie…Charlie was an idiot.
They had been sitting at the dinner table, Vernon raving drunkenly about how "the only good kind of freak is a dead one."
Harry barely paid attention, instead watching Petunia's face. She looked sick. She always did when Vernon went on these rants. Harry knew better than to react. He didn't dare look upset-didn't dare give Vernon an excuse to turn his fury on him. But Charlie… Charlie's magic lashed out. It wasn't much, just a sudden, violent burst of energy, but it was enough to shatter the glasses on the table. The room fell deathly silent. Harry cursed under his breath. Of course. Eleven years of barely a peep of accidental magic, and now of all times- Charlie decided to prove he wasn't as normal as Vernon wanted him to be.
Vernon shot up from his chair, face turning a dangerous shade of purple. Before Harry could react, a meaty hand wrapped around his throat. His chair clattered to the ground as he was hauled upright, his feet barely brushing the floor.
"P-please don't-" he gasped, struggling against the iron grip. "I-I didn't-"
Vernon didn't care. He never cared. Harry was dragged up the stairs, tossed into his room like a ragdoll. The belt came next. When it was over, Harry lay curled on his side, his face hot and damp, his back a canvas of bruises and welts. He shifted gingerly, biting down on his lip to keep from making a sound. His body ached, his skin felt raw and burning, but he barely noticed. Harry was used to the lack of food. Used to the occasional slaps, the harsh words, the shouting that rattled the very walls of Number 4, Privet Drive. But this…this was new. He had been left to marinate in the pain of bruises that stretched like shadows across his back and thighs. His body ached with every shallow breath he took, but the pain was secondary to the silence. The silence was worse. Because it meant they were ignoring him. Charlie, Dudley, Petunia… They had all sat through it. They had all heard it. And yet, none of them had spoken up. None of them had stopped it. The house carried on as normal. Harry closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through the pain. Slowly, against his will, sleep pulled him under.
"You wish to see me, my Lord?"
Harry's eyes snapped open. Except… he wasn't in his room. The dim, flickering glow of torches cast eerie shadows along ornate stone walls. The air was thick with something old, something wrong, and Harry's instincts screamed at him to run. But he couldn't move.
Lucius Malfoy knelt on the ground before a cloaked figure, his head bowed low in submission. Harry's breath caught. They didn't see him. Didn't acknowledge him. It was as if he weren't even there.
"I entrusted something precious to you, did I not?" the cloaked man asked, his voice slow, each syllable slithering through the air like a snake coiling around its prey.
Lucius tensed. "My Lord?"
"The diary, Lucius."
A heavy silence.
"I require the diary."
Lucius swallowed thickly, his fingers twitching against his knee. "Yes, my Lord. Of course."
The figure shifted, reminding Harry of a predator preparing to strike. A flick of the cloaked man's wrist sent Lucius sprawling to the ground, screaming. A tortured, guttural sound of pure agony. Harry knew that scream. He had read about it when reading up on wizarding laws, not wanting to be caught breaking one unaware. The Cruciatus Curse. Lucius writhed, fingers clawing uselessly at the stone floor, his body jerking with the intensity of the curse. And the figure laughed. A cruel, indulgent sound.
"Do not make me wait," the man hissed. "I meant now."
The curse lifted, and Lucius gasped, sucking in deep, ragged breaths as he scrambled to his feet.
"Y-yes, my Lord. My apologies. I shall not fail you."
Lucius bowed deeply before nearly stumbling in his haste to leave. Harry barely had time to process it before the figure turned, and Harry saw the snake. Large. Coiled at the man's feet like a living shadow. The man reached down, stroking its scaled head.
"Soon, my resurrection sshall be complete, Nagini. I feel much sstronger thanks to the sstone."
The snake uncoiled slowly, slithering toward where Harry stood frozen. Its yellow eyes locked onto him. It saw him. Harry's stomach twisted.
No.
NO.
He wasn't supposed to be seen! His heart slammed against his ribs as the snake moved closer, closer-
Harry bolted upright, gasping. His room. It was just…just a dream. Except… his skin was clammy with sweat. His fingers were trembling. His pulse raced in his ears. His hands moved on instinct, pressing against his chest, his arms, his face, making sure he was still here. Still real. His gaze flickered to the ceiling, his breathing slow and measured, forcing his heart to calm. Just a dream.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The light pecking against his window made him jump. Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before forcing himself to move. He dragged himself out of bed, ignoring the sharp pull of bruised muscles, and unlatched the window before Hedwig could wake the entire house. She swooped inside, hooting softly, a letter tied to her leg. Harry untied it, glancing toward Charlie's bunk. His twin was still asleep, his back to Harry. He flicked his eyes back down and unfolded the parchment.
Harry,
Mother has decided to leave for France early. We are leaving tomorrow before sunrise. We won't be able to take you to a Puddlemere game after all. She extends her deepest apologies, but apparently there's an ill great aunt or such that I've never met, and we must go pay our respects. It's terribly inconvenient. I argued for staying and watching the rest of the Quidditch season, but she insisted that family duty was a far better cause than a game. And then I got a lecture on 'getting my priorities straight.' Father was no help either. He agreed with her, of course.
I hope we are not trapped in one of the old Black properties for the summer. They are positively decrepit. Nothing like Malfoy Manor. Don't tell Mother I said that. She gets disheartened at the thought. Apparently, no one can claim the lordship, for a reason the goblins refuse to explain, and none have the necessary funds without an active lord to make major repairs. There's only so much house-elves can do after enchantments start wearing off. Many have tried, and-well-some have lost fingers. The ring has… sensitive enchantments, Mother says.
Your owl is still welcome to roost at the Manor. The house-elves will ensure she is well-fed and treated properly. Father will be remaining at home. He says he has important work to attend to. I will try to write, but I'm unsure of what Mother's plans are.
See you at term start.
Draco Lucius Malfoy.
Harry folded the letter slowly, pressing the edges down neatly before tucking it into his trunk. The disappointment sat like lead in his stomach. Draco had been his only chance. His only hope of getting away, of escaping. And now… Now, he was trapped. Another month. Another month of this house, this hell. He forced the thought aside, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an owl treat for Hedwig. He ran his fingers over her feathers, scratching the spot just behind her head until she hooted contentedly. She was his only real connection to the outside world.
"Take care," he murmured. "Enjoy the Manor."
She nipped his finger affectionately before taking off into the night.
Harry turned back to his room. Something was… off. His eyes flickered toward his nightstand. A towel. That hadn't been there before. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped forward. A small piece of parchment sat atop it, a single word scrawled in Charlie's unmistakable handwriting, Sorry. Harry's fingers twitched as he unfolded the towel. Two biscuits. His stomach twisted with hunger, but he hesitated. His eyes darted toward Charlie's sleeping form before narrowing. He inspected the biscuits carefully-checking for razor blades, poison, anything. When he found nothing, he ate them both. Not leaving a single crumb. Then, without a word, he neatly folded the towel and placed it on Charlie's dresser. He stared at the torn scrap of parchment for a long time. Then, he turned away.
A few days passed. Harry's body still ached, his bruises fading from angry purples and blues into sickly yellows and greens. The sting of the belt was gone, but the memory lingered beneath his skin, a dull throb that refused to be ignored. Vernon seemed content with the so called justice he had doled out, acting as though nothing had happened. The house had returned to normal-except for Harry. He rarely left his room. Not because he was locked in, though that had been a possibility. But because it was easier. Safer.
Petunia had only checked on him once, pushing the door open just enough to glimpse his swollen eye before disappearing again. She hadn't said a word. Hadn't given him a single chore. That alone was unsettling. Maybe she felt guilty. Maybe she was simply waiting for Vernon's temper to settle before throwing Harry back into the usual cycle of cleaning, cooking, and keeping out of sight. Either way, he took full advantage of the reprieve, burying himself in his summer homework.
The routine was simple. Wake up, pretend the Dursleys didn't exist, study, repeat. It wasn't Hogwarts, but at least it was something. Then, one evening, a quiet whisper broke his concentration.
"Hey, can I tell you something?"
Harry tensed, glancing toward the door. Charlie had slipped into the room without him noticing, his expression raised an eyebrow, his curiosity rising despite himself.
"Professor Dumbledore told me not to tell anyone," Charlie began, before hesitating, "but I think you should know too."
There it was.
The first real crack in the puzzle.
Harry carefully set his quill down, schooling his features into something neutral. "What are you talking about? Does this have something to do with why Gryffindor got all those points at the feast?"
Charlie's face lit up like he had been waiting for this exact question.
"Yes! Listen-" He plopped onto the edge of Harry's bed, eyes alight with excitement as he launched into the story. And with every word, the pit in Harry's stomach deepened. Because Charlie's story wasn't real. It wasn't right. And yet, Charlie told it with conviction, his hands gesturing wildly, his voice filled with the kind of certainty that only came from believing something completely. Harry sat utterly still, his ears cataloging every detail.
The flying key.
The chess match.
The troll.
The riddle.
Quirrell.
None of it lined up with what actually happened.
"I beat back Voldemort with my bare hands-"
Harry raised an eyebrow. Bare hands, really? Charlie had rushed in like an idiot and been stunned in seconds.
"-but he had already gotten away with the treasure. Dumbledore says it isn't my fault though. He said Voldemort has defeated better wizards than me."
Harry's fingers twitched. Of course he was telling Charlie it wasn't his fault, that he had fought valiantly, that he had done well. But that wasn't what made Harry's stomach churn. It was the fact that Charlie truly believed it. He didn't remember. Didn't remember dragging Harry through the trials at wandpoint. Didn't remember forcing him into that chamber. Didn't remember Quirrell standing there, untouched, taking the Stone and walking away. And that could only mean one thing. Someone had erased those memories.
Harry exhaled slowly, controlling the tightness in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders. The pieces weren't fitting together. Dumbledore thought Voldemort had been there. Thought Charlie had driven him off but failed to keep the Stone out of his grasp. Harry wasn't sure what to believe anymore. Had Quirrell been Voldemort? It would explain a lot. The red eyes that had flickered in the candlelight, the way Quirrell's magic had felt wrong, twisted. The way Draco had sworn something with red eyes had been lurking in the Forbidden Forest, feeding on unicorns. But Voldemort had been gone for over a decade. So why now, had he been too weak all these years? Had he spent the last ten years barely clinging to existence, waiting for the right moment to return…
And if it was Voldemort… Then why didn't he kill them when he had the chance.
Harry's hands curled into fists. He couldn't dwell on it now. He needed more information. And the last thing he wanted was for Charlie-or worse, Dumbledore-to realize just how much he knew. Charlie was still grinning, looking far too pleased with himself. And for a brief moment, Harry envied him. How easy it must be. To simply believe you had been the have the truth twisted into something convenient. Something comforting. Something that made sense. But Harry didn't have that. He had fragments. He had doubts. He had holes in his memory that he didn't even know how to begin filling. So, he did the only thing he could do. He smiled. A slow, carefully crafted smirk, the kind that would have made Salazar Slytherin himself proud.
"You went chasing after a dark wizard instead of alerting a professor?" he drawled, voice smooth and unimpressed. "Typical Gryffindor. I guess we're lucky you lived to tell the tale."
Charlie flushed, but it was pride, not embarrassment. He didn't catch the subtle mockery in Harry's tone. Didn't see the way Harry's fingers were curled just slightly too tight into the fabric of his pajama trousers. Didn't realize that, beneath the carefully constructed mask, Harry was reeling. Because whatever happened that night…it certainly spelled nothing good.
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.