"I asked you to come alone, Harry," said the Headmaster—not with the stern reproach Harry had expected, but with a sharp, commanding tone. "Miss Granger, you may leave us. I have a confidential matter to discuss with Mr Potter."
"Wait, Hermione," the boy stopped his friend. "There's no need for you to go."
Then he turned his green eyes toward the blue ones peering over the half-moon spectacles and held his gaze until he saw the flicker of understanding—and the panic that followed. Because Harry, notably, wasn't wearing his usual round glasses.
With a touch of dry amusement, he addressed the Headmaster:
"Professor Dumbledore, sir, I don't believe there's any topic so secret between us that it requires confidentiality. Hermione was involved in everything—well, everything but my final encounter with Quirrell."
"Harry, I insist!" the Headmaster barked, the blue behind the lenses flashing dangerously.
"And I insist as well, sir," the Boy Who Lived countered, unwavering. "She will hear everything you say to me, and everything I say to you. Frankly, I can hardly recall our past conversations—" he stressed the last word, "—and I understand even less. Hermione's the thoughtful one—maybe she'll grasp it better and explain it to me, letter by letter. Besides, I owe her. She saved my life—big time! Did you see that, Headmaster?" he added with a sudden grin.
Dumbledore only gave a noncommittal hum in response, saying nothing of the raw flare of Life Debt magic that had just linked his Weapon to that bothersome Mudblood know-it-all—whose sharp, inquisitive mind so unnervingly resembled Lily Potter's.
A Life Debt, carelessly confirmed by Potter's words, could throw a serious wrench into Albus Dumbledore's grander plans.
"So be it," the Headmaster suddenly relented, collapsing into his chair. "Tea?"
"No, thank you. We've just had breakfast and tea," Harry answered for them both, casting a quick glance at Hermione.
"I want to hear what happened in the chamber where the Mirror of Erised was kept," Dumbledore said in a testing tone, his fingers steepled before him. "The rest, your friend young Ronald Weasley has already explained."
"Ron didn't see it all. After he was knocked out on the chessboard, Hermione and I went on. We came across the troll, and then—she solved Snape's riddle. Professor Snape's," Harry corrected himself. "I drank the potion that chilled me to the bone and stepped through the fire. Found myself in the room with the Mirror—and standing in front of it wasn't Snape, as we thought, but Quirrell."
Again, Harry studied the old wizard across the wide desk, searching for a reaction, but there was none. Dumbledore's face was stone, eyes cast down. So Harry went on:
"For some reason, Quirrell knew the Philosopher's Stone was hidden inside the Mirror," Harry pressed, his green eyes probing. "He was trying to figure out how to get it. Then I heard another voice—and Quirrell unwrapped his turban. Underneath it was another face! Did you know about that, Professor Dumbledore?" Harry suddenly cried, satisfaction flaring as the old wizard twitched. "Did you know Voldemort was living on the back of Quirrell's head?" His voice climbed to a frightened falsetto.
"Everything was under control, Harry. There was nothing to worry about," said the Headmaster in a conciliatory tone—but the falseness in it was thinly veiled. Ron might not have noticed, but Harry and Hermione certainly weren't fools. They heard it clear as day—the Headmaster had gambled with their lives without a second thought.
"What control, Professor Dumbledore? You weren't there! I was face to face with Voldemort, and he tried to choke me!"
"But you lived, my boy—he didn't kill you," the Headmaster insisted, his voice suddenly syrupy with optimism.
"Because the moment he touched my throat, his flesh began to rot and crumble!" Harry nearly shouted. "And then, from the back of his head, where the parasite's face had been, a ghost tore itself free and flung me down the stairs, leaving the whole room in shambles! Where were you? Why did you let us—first-years—go through that?!"
"My dear boy, you did marvellously," Dumbledore said with a smile. "I had complete faith in you…"
"What faith, Professor? I couldn't do anything! I—was alone with a Defence teacher…"
"You had your mother's Blood Protection, Harry. Her love shields you. As you see, even a professor possessed by Voldemort couldn't defeat it. That's why you had to stay with your Aunt Petunia. Where your mother's blood lives, you are safe—not just from Death Eaters, but from Voldemort himself. Did you feel anything around Quirrell?"
"Terrible pain in my scar—but I still feel it now."
"That night, on Halloween, when Voldemort appeared and cast the Killing Curse at you, he gave you a piece of himself."
"What are you saying? That wizards can share powers and knowledge just by casting spells? Then what's the point of school? Just throw your spells at us and pour the learning straight into our heads."
"It's not that simple. But for now, I won't tell you more—you'll understand when you're older. For now, we must discuss where you'll spend your summer," the Headmaster said more calmly, evidently seeing the storm had passed. "Your beloved relatives are expecting you."
"Beloved? You must be joking. There's no one I hate more in the world. And the feeling's mutual. The only thing we share is a deep, burning loathing. But since I have no other family, I'll go. And then—we'll see who kills whom first," Harry added with a sly smile, clearly enjoying how the Headmaster recoiled slightly. "Kidding—kidding. I won't kill them. But I make no promises about whether they'll manage to kill me."
"You'll stay with your aunt until the end of July," said Dumbledore, gathering himself again. "Then I'll speak to Ronald's parents—perhaps you can stay with the Weasleys for the rest of the holidays. With them, you'll see what a truly good magical family looks like."
Harry Potter fell silent, thinking. Giving Dumbledore his agreement would mean sealing his own fate. Something inside his head—it felt alien, intrusive—whispered a warning. In this world, words were magic. Words could carry power. Binding power. That's what the old fox was after. After all, a trial for Peter Pettigrew was coming, and the Weasley family stood on shaky ground. Caring for the Hero of the Wizarding World—The Boy Who Lived—would earn them massive favour in court.
"Clever old codger," Harry thought, strangely, as if the words weren't his own. "He's spinning me like a coin, so anyone can cash in on my fame—blast it."
So he simply said:
"Hmmm."
"Very well, then. Off you go. Mr Potter. Miss Granger."
_____
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