Chapter Text
He owed Snape a huge apology. A rather ill-timed thought from Harry, considering his current position.
It was Quirrell all along, which made sense in a way. He was there for all the key moments, always in the background, unsuspecting, unsuspecting Harry. He was on the ground, with vines wrapped around his body almost tightly enough to cut off his breath.
—I thought Snape...—he tried to say, struggling with the vines. Every time they moved, they seemed to get stronger.
—Snape?—Quirrell asked graciously, his trademark stutter gone. —He was trying to save you, which was pointless in my opinion, but useful to the cause. Always counterproductive, the dark professor with the affinity for the dark arts... why would he try to help the Boy Who Lived?
—He tried to kill me, we saw it,—Harry insisted, no longer convinced as he watched Quirrell mockingly.
—No, I tried to kill you,—he said, taking a slow, slow step forward. Harry felt the stinging pain in his scar again. —He was just annoying and stupid enough to oppose the Dark Lord’s plans. When I cursed your broom, he tried a counter-spell. Then he tried to protect you by being a referee. It was the same with the troll.
Panic gripped Harry as he noticed the pain in his scar subside just as Quirrell stepped away, walking towards the Mirror of Erised.
—I don't understand,—he whispered, touching the frozen glass with his fingertips. —It's inside... Do I have to break it? Help me, Master...
Harry felt his mind racing. He had to lure Quirrell back to him, had to figure out where the stone was before he did. The professor, meanwhile, stared with growing anxiety at the mirror, until a dark, icy voice whispered from nowhere:
— The boy... uses the boy...
Harry shuddered. His scar throbbed violently the instant Quirrell stared at him.
—Get up!—he ordered.
Seeing that Harry wasn't moving, he lost his patience and dragged him by the ropes, pushing him in front of the mirror.
—Tell me what you see.
Harry stared, hoping to see his father and Sam again. But he only saw himself, with Quirrell at his back, like a normal reflection. A chuckle escaped him involuntarily as he remembered Dumbledore's words about the mirror: Only the happiest man in the world sees himself in this mirror.
He didn't feel very happy with his life at that moment.
—Answer me! Where's the stone? What does the mirror show you?—Quirrell demanded, shaking him furiously. The vines were pressing themselves ever closer to Harry's body, making his ribs ache.
Harry stifled a gasp and looked back at the mirror. His reflection smiled, winked at him, and reached into his pocket. At the same instant, Harry felt a strange weight on his own: the stone was there.
—I-I see... I see Dumbledore. He's congratulating me... I've won the House Cup!—he stammered.
Quirrell roared with rage and roughly shoved him away from the mirror. Harry fell to the floor, panting, trying to think of a plan. His wand was far away, too far away; even if he ran, Quirrell would catch him in seconds.
—The boy is lying ,—said the icy voice. Harry shuddered. Quirrell turned on him, his eyes blazing with hatred.
—No! Why? Why all this? You've been trying to kill me all year!—Despair flooded him, knowing he had lost: Quirrell would have the Stone. —You were just following orders... and you failed again and again!
—Silence!—Quirrell shrieked, stopping abruptly. Harry smirked, though fear tightened his chest.
—You failed at Gringotts, didn't you? You failed to get to the stone, you failed to kill me... You failed just like Voldemort!
That name was the final spark. Quirrell lost control and yanked the ropes violently, lifting Harry until his feet dangled in the air. The professor's furious breath blew against his face, but Harry, with desperate courage, smiled back.
—And you'll also fail to get the Philosopher's Stone.—With a stroke of pure audacity, Harry smashed his forehead against Quirrell's. Quirrell let out a piercing shriek, knocking him off his feet. Taking advantage of the confusion, Harry dashed for his wand.
—Artemis, give me strength!—he cried, reaching for his wand despite the vines.
The wood grazed his fingers just as Quirrell recovered. A luminous gash erupted as he swung it, freeing him from the ropes. Harry dashed toward the still-flaming exit, determined to get the stone to safety. His heart pounded with euphoria, while a mantra escaped his lips:
—Artemis, Queen of Nature! Through your gift of the bow, strengthen my spirit...
—And my purpose. Light my path with your wisdom and give me strength... —the dark voice finished for him.
Harry stopped dead in his tracks, paralyzed with terror. Part of him begged to run, to escape as quickly as possible, but his body twisted almost against his will.
Quirrell was still hunched over on the ground, his hands clutching his head. The blow had scarred him more than he expected: his skin was blackening as if burning from within. And then Harry heard it. The voice, growing clearer, no longer floating in the air... it was coming from him.
—How... How do you know that prayer?—Harry asked, his voice shaking. —No wizard should know it. Mortals are supposed to…
—Ah, there you are wrong, you and your kind,— the voice interrupted, harsh, lacerating, as if each word were tearing at Quirrell's skull. —Wizards are not mere mortals.
Harry, without understanding why, took a step closer, as if something invisible was drawing him towards him.
—Let me talk to him... face to face.
—But, Master, your strength...— Quirrell moaned.
— I have enough for this.
With trembling hands, Quirrell reached for his turban and began to unwrap it. Harry felt the air in the room grow heavier, thicker, as if every second stretched into eternity. Finally, where the back of Quirrell's head should have been, a face appeared: white, cadaverous, with red eyes and slitted pupils like a snake's.
Harry had faced fantastic creatures, heard stories of monsters and gods... but nothing, nothing compared to this.
—Harry Potter... —the specter whispered with an icy smile . —The little demigod.
Voldemort.
—Do you see what I've become? Nothing more than a shadow, dependent on my servant.
—How do you know... I'm a demigod?—Harry raised his wand, but though he wanted to cast a spell, no sound came out of his lips.
—Same old mistake ,—Voldemort hissed, every word seeming like an effort, but his voice was thick with venom . —The gods and their egos... and their children inherit the same pride. They think they’re above it all. Have you ever wondered why you were forbidden to mention your origins?
Harry hesitated.
—Mortals...
—You keep confusing mortals with wizards ,—Voldemort said with a hint of contempt, his red eyes fixed on him . —We're not equal. And that frightens the gods. That frightened your mother.
—My mother?—Harry asked, taking a firm step forward, despite the terror gripping him. He was standing before the man who had destroyed his life, and he needed answers.—What happened that night? Did you know my mother? What happened the night you killed my father?
Voldemort laughed. It was a high, chilling sound that made Harry's skin crawl.
—Did they never tell you? Not only did I meet your mother, demigod... I made her beg. After killing your father, she begged me to spare your life.
—Be quiet!
—That 's why they hid it. They'll never admit that a god begged a wizard for mercy. It would make them look like what they are: cowards afraid of true power. —Voldemort's eyes flickered with a feverish gleam. Quirrell's hand rose unnaturally, reaching for Harry. —Give me the Stone, Harry. Give it to me and I'll tell you what they've always denied you. The secrets of the gods, the truth of your forbidden origin. I'll give you your mother's name.
Harry hesitated. For the first time, fear and temptation flooded him in equal measure. His wand hand trembled, his eyes filled with tears. A dark voice inside him urged him to accept. Hadn't he spent his life surrounded by silence and evasive answers? Didn't he deserve to know the truth?
But then, he remembered. Outside that room were his friends. Those who had accompanied him every step of the way, those who had studied with him, laughed with him, shared a sweater and a book, those who had risked everything to stop the creature in front of him.
Harry took a deep breath and made a decision.
—Go to hell, Voldemort.
A blinding, warm light burst from his wand, illuminating the room and eliciting a piercing scream from the monster. Harry ran for the exit, but suddenly invisible ropes tangled his feet, sending him sprawling face downward. Quirrell threw himself at him, breathing furiously and desperately.
—I won't let you down again!—he roared, grasping at his robes. Harry struggled, trying to push him away, but Quirrell grabbed him by the throat.
And then he screamed.
—AAHHHHH! Master, burn!
Her hands blistered upon contact with Harry's skin, turning black like living ash.
— Idiot! Take the Stone!—Voldemort hissed from his spectral face.
Harry understood. Ignoring the pain shooting through his scar, he clung to Quirrell's face with all his might. Quirrell was screaming, his voice piercing, trying to push him away, but only making the pain worse. Harry couldn't tell who was screaming louder: Quirrell, Voldemort, or himself.
The pain in his forehead was unbearable. All of reality seemed to bend and crumble.
And suddenly, everything went black.
꒷꒦˚꒦꒷
A hand stroked his hair, combing it with a tenderness Harry never remembered feeling. An unusual calm enveloped him, as if the warmth itself had woven a cocoon around him. His consciousness was awake, but his body refused to respond. It didn't matter: he was at peace.
Suddenly, the hand stopped. The warmth began to fade, leaving an unbearable emptiness. He felt that presence leaning toward him.
—Harry ... I'm sorry ...— a calm, though tormented, voice whispered. A kiss fell on his forehead, and in that instant, Harry's heart tightened with a painful certainty.
—...Mom...—he murmured, opening his eyes with a gasp. Tears blurred his vision, barely allowing him to make out the outlines of the Hogwarts infirmary. He jolted upright, searching desperately for the owner of that voice, but when he turned his head, there was no one there. He lay still, tears rolling freely down his cheeks. Perhaps it had been a dream... but something deep within his mind refused to accept it.
—Harry, you're awake.
The voice made him jump. He clumsily wiped away his tears just as the door closed behind the tall figure of the director.
—H-Headmaster Dumbledore...?—Harry stammered, confused. He looked around. Presents surrounded his bed: piles of sweets stacked high, like a makeshift altar. Maybe he’d had a Quidditch accident. Yes, that would explain it. But... why was Dumbledore there then? It didn’t make sense. He remembered suddenly. The Stone! Snape! Quirrell!
¡VOLDEMORT!
—Sir! —Harry exclaimed, stumbling over his words. —Voldemort tried to steal the Philosopher’s Stone! My friends and I saw you guarding it, we found out from the Chocolate Frogs! It was Quirrell! He was with Voldemort! He fed on unicorns! It was stuck to the back of his neck, that’s probably why he’s bald! We suspected Snape because he’s so scary, but it was Quirrell! He attacked me, and then the mirror, and…!
He broke off abruptly when Dumbledore raised his hand, signaling for silence. The headmaster sat down in the chair next to the bed, a slight smile on his lips. A smile that, Harry thought, had no right to be there after everything he'd just said.
—Calm down, calm down, Harry. Everything's fine now,—the headmaster said calmly.
—But the stone...
—Quirrell didn't manage to get it,—he said, this time in a gravelly voice. The serious expression on the eccentric headmaster's face unsettled Harry. —I just got there in time to take him away from you.
Instinctively, Harry brought a hand to his neck. He felt a phantom pain on his skin, and memories hit him: Quirrell's piercing screams, Voldemort's palpable fury, the smell of burning flesh.
—He... is he...—He couldn't finish the sentence. But a flash of understanding and remorse flickered in Dumbledore's eyes. The headmaster shook his head slightly.
Harry was stunned. He'd hunted and seen creatures die before, he was no stranger to danger or death... but he'd never imagined his own hands would be responsible for ending a human life. A servant of Voldemort, yes, the man who had taken his family from him. And yet, he felt no justice, no relief. Just a knot in his chest. Quirrell's screams would haunt him forever.
—I'm very sorry, Harry,—Dumbledore said gravely, pulling him from his thoughts.—I was afraid I was too late.
—But... but you said Quirrell didn't get the stone,—Harry replied, trying to cheer himself up. However, it only made the headmaster look sadder.
—I wasn't afraid for the Stone, Harry. I was afraid for your life. You almost died in that confrontation. For a moment, I thought you'd never wake up." Dumbledore's blue eyes flashed with suppressed sadness. "I apologize. I was naive not to anticipate that Voldemort would personally go after the Stone."
Harry swallowed, a chill running down his spine. To him, it had all seemed like a simple faint. He'd never thought he'd been so close to death.
—...He's still alive, isn't he?— he asked, remembering the red eyes that had followed him in the darkness. —You-Know-Who...
—Call him by his name, Harry,—Dumbledore replied firmly. —Names have power, and Voldemort does not deserve to be feared for his. Yes, he survived. His ghost must wander, perhaps seeking another body to harbor it. But he has no power now. He will not return yet. Though that does not mean he never will.
Harry nodded silently, though the mention of Voldemort chilled his blood. Then, in a hesitant voice, he confessed:
—He... talked about my parents. About the night he attacked us.
The director watched him closely.
—Did he mention anything about your mother?—he asked softly.
Harry felt a lurch in his heart.
—Yes!" he exclaimed, with a hope he couldn't contain. —He tried to convince me, even though he's not very good at negotiating... he wanted me to give him the stone in exchange for telling me his name.—He stared at the headmaster expectantly, longing for him to know something no one else had ever told him.
But he only received a sad smile.
—I'm sorry, Harry. That's not my information to give you.
Harry looked at him suspiciously. It was the same answer he always received, disguised in new words.
—Why not?
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. His eyes glittered, but they seemed to travel to another time and place.
—You're going to have many adventures, Harry,—he said finally. —You're going to face things I might not even dare dream of. That's the destiny of all demigods. But you... you're different. I hope your destiny is different too.
Harry looked at him, puzzled.
—D-dem... demigods?
Dumbledore smiled knowingly.
—Did you really think Camp Half-Blood would leave you here blind?—Dumbledore let out a short, almost knowing laugh.
—HOW DOES HE KNOW ABOUT CAMP HALF-BLOOD?—Harry gasped. —He met Chiron?! He knew about it before?! It can't be... b-but mortals...
—You should lower your voice, Harry,—Dumbledore replied calmly, though with a certain gravity in his tone. —I may know that, but it's not public knowledge, and I don't think the Gods would be pleased if that changed.
Harry tried to process the information, his mind racing. All that time... Dumbledore knew. He could have gone to him, answered his questions...
—Chiron contacted me as soon as your letter arrived,—Dumbledore continued.—Your admission to Hogwarts had been planned for years, and we suspected you might need some extra help. That's why I gave you your father's cloak.
—You had it?— Harry asked, incredulous.
—He entrusted it to me long ago, believing it would one day belong to you.—Dumbledore smiled knowingly. —And how do I know about the Gods? Let's just say that sometimes you only have to look closely to perceive the impossible.
Harry blinked, stunned.
—That... doesn't make any sense,—he stammered. —I always thought wizards were mortals with access to divine magic, and I never questioned it. But Voldemort... he said the Gods feared magic. That's why they hid everything about my mother... because they didn't want them to know that... I beg a wizard for mercy.
—Voldemort will never hesitate to lie to get what he wants, Harry,—Dumbledore told him sternly. —But he is right about one thing: the Gods, like mortals, fear the unknown. They fear magic that challenges what they possess. That is why you will have to hide. Neither the Gods nor wizards can know your true nature.
Harry looked down, feeling heavier than ever. All his life he'd felt like he didn't quite fit in, that something about him was different. Now he understood: that was why he would be rejected, wherever he was.
—However,—Dumbledore continued, softening his tone, —fate has a curious way of writing itself. Perhaps that is why the Ministry of Magic cannot trace any spell cast in the presence of divinity.
Harry looked up immediately, seeing the headmaster's smile, as if he had just revealed a priceless secret.
—I trust you will use that information wisely.
Harry smiled radiantly.
He had no idea.
꒷꒦˚꒦꒷
—Ron, stop trying to hex Scabbers!—Hermione shouted.
—I swear I'm almost there!—Ron replied, ecstatic.—Do you think I could turn him into a falcon?
—You barely underwent any transformations, Ron. You'll be lucky if it only changes color.
—It's not my fault I'm not sucking up to all the teachers to get more O's.
—It's called studying,—Hermione replied with a sigh. —Something you'll need if you don't want to set your rat on fire for being ignorant.
—Harry, Hermione is meddling in matters that are none of her business.
—Harry, Ron's going to blow up his rat!
—Harry, Hermione is being unbearable...!
Everything went back to normal.
The school year was over, and if he had once been famous at Hogwarts, now every time someone passed by his compartment on the train, they would greet him or look at him with admiration. Everyone had somehow heard about his exploits under the trapdoor. Ron didn't seem bothered; after being discharged from the hospital wing, he found him on the dining hall bench recounting his heroic confrontation with the giant chessboard, while Hermione yelled at him to get off before noticing him and going to hug him.
They won the House Cup thanks to Dumbledore awarding them points, solemnly announcing it at the end-of-year ceremony. Harry swore that, if the Slytherins had had the chance, they would have sent him back to the hospital wing in worse condition than he had been when he started.
—Are you comfortable?—he asked Hedwig, offering her a treat, which the owl gladly accepted. Perched on his head as always, Hedwig seemed perfectly at ease. Harry was still thinking about Camp Half-Blood and how his life there would change. This year had given him a new perspective: he was no longer just the orphaned boy from Cabin 8; now he had family, friends, and a second home to return to.
—Drop my wand! —Ron shouted from the other end of the compartment.
—I miss them already,—Harry muttered with a grin, just as the train pulled into the station. The doors opened and the twins appeared with their signature mischievous grins.
—Hello, little heroes!
—Harry, almost dead, Potter. We're sure Mum will want to meet you,—one of them said, it didn't matter which one, as they were both equally handsome . They grabbed their bags and Hedwig's cage as they recounted how they'd tried to bring a toilet into the hospital wing to cheer him up, but Madam Pomfrey had stopped them at the door.
—Mom, mom, mom! It's Harry Potter, see?—an excited red-haired girl shouted.
—Ginny, it's rude to point at people,—a woman who appeared to be Ron's mother chided her as she approached to say hello, and was greeted with a solemn salute: Harry on his knees, fist to his chest.
—Mrs. Weasley, I appreciate your gift. I promised I'd wear it honorably, and I intend to honor that promise,—Harry said. The green jumper became a staple in his wardrobe, worn whenever possible, much to Ron's horror.
—Harry, people are watching us...—Ron whispered, aware of all the eyes on them. Mrs. Weasley laughed gratefully, though she frowned at the twins' exaggerated comments: "Of course, honorable Mrs. Weasley." "That's a wonderful sweater! A banquet should be dedicated to it!"
—Guys, my parents are here,—Hermione announced, pointing at the couple who seemed to be amazed by the platform. She looked uncomfortable, unsure how to say goodbye properly. —I... I guess I'll see you in September.
Harry didn't give her time to speak. He threw himself at her, sensing her hesitation, and then grabbed Ron, who looked even more uncomfortable with the hug than Hermione.
—Promise you'll write, please,—Harry murmured, his voice breaking and tears welling in his eyes. Hermione and Ron looked at him, touched, before hugging him tightly. —Hermione... try not to study so much, okay?—he said gently, squeezing her shoulder.——I hear London parks are beautiful... you should try to enjoy them a bit. And Ron,— he added with a rueful smile, —don't fight with your brothers so much. You're better than they are at many things, and your jokes... I'm sure they're brilliant, even if I don't understand them. I'm going to miss them a lot.
—...And we love you, bro,—said Ron, his voice softer than usual, earning an excited nod from Hermione.
Harry slowly let go of them, wiping his tears away as he smiled at them with all his heart. They each went their separate ways, and he stood on the platform for a moment longer, taking a deep breath, promising himself more adventures... this time with his friends and a little less risk .
Maybe a quiet summer at Camp Half-Blood was just what he needed.