Chapter 1

Severus Snape sneered out at the assembled students, the only sound in the room the soft bubbling of cauldrons. He took no small amount of pride in that; even Minerva couldn't force the same silence that he could. Few students dared to make a sound in his class. Unfortunately, there were exceptions.

Draco Malfoy for instance, who was so sure of his own superiority that he would talk loudly to his two goons. He didn't do that anymore, at least not in potions. Severus had taken great pleasure in lecturing the young Malfoy in front of the entire common room about his Gryffindorish attitude and about his complete lack of Slytherin discretion. The boy had been furious, although that fury had twisted to shame when a letter came from his father the next day. Severus had certainly never liked Lucius, but he had respected him at the very least. A man as cunning as him would be quite disappointed in his son's behaviour.

Another exception was Neville Longbottom, though for the exact opposite reason. The boy was so pathetically timid that he whimpered whenever he came within a few feet of his desk, and when he loomed over him to peer into his cauldron Longbottom looked ready to wet himself. Snape sneered involuntarily as he watched Longbottom cut his bat spleen with all the skill of a particularly stupid toddler, and from what he'd heard the boy was no better in any of his other classes save herbology.

It was an accepted fact that magical children developed certain innate specialties throughout their childhoods, and then when they came to Hogwarts they would excel in that area. Children who grew up cooking often showed skill in potions. Those raised by dancers would have an unnatural sense of grace and balance, children whose parents were labourers showed above average physical strength. Children who were raised by carpenters or builders showed skill in transfiguration, those raised by enchanters excelled in charms, children of aurors excelled in defensive and offensive magic.

That was how family specialties started, when each successive generation grew up with a parent who excelled at the same magic; the Bones family was known for its affinity for wards, for example, and the Black family had been infamous for their specialties in the darker areas of magic. It was also how tales of elementals had been born. Children who grew up fishing, manning blacksmiths forges or tending the crops would sometimes be able to manipulate those elements with great ease. Some would even have abilities; instead of simply being able to fly a broom as soon as they mounted it, those raised by quidditch fanatics may be able to fly without one for a time, or those raised by gardeners might be able to make any plant grow far faster than it should be able to regardless of the conditions.

However, none of that meant that the child would be utterly abysmal in all areas for which they didn't have a natural affinity. Again, Longbottom seemed to be the exception to that rule.

Severus looked towards the boy's partner and felt the sneer squirm onto his face with renewed vigour. Potter. The child of his greatest friend and worst enemy. The resemblance to James Potter was uncanny; the same messy black hair, the same sharp features and the same slight frame. The only differences were the lack of glasses and his shining green eyes. It wasn't quite the same shade as Lily's, and God knew that Severus remembered the exact shade hers had been. Her son's were a little darker but just as striking, only they were cold as opposed to bright. They set Severus on edge from some reason, as did the boy himself.

There was something off about the Harry Potter, something wrong, but try as he might Severus couldn't quite put his finger on it. He was a loner by all accounts even despite Weasley's desperate attempts to ingratiate himself, opting to keep to himself rather than join in his housemates' boisterousness. Severus still had no idea how he'd been sorted into Gryffindor. That was not to say that he was meek and shy as one would expect of someone who avoided other people. Quite the opposite, actually. The few times that Potter had been seen interacting with other people he had seemed self-assured. Confident wasn't quite the right word, but Snape struggled to come up with something more accurate. It appeared to be less that Potter was scared of people and more that he simply believed them an unnecessary effort. That had Dumbledore worried for some reason, though Severus had yet to discover why. Personally he agreed with Potter's assessment for the most part, even if it pained him to agree with anything the spawn of James Potter said or did.

It was clear just from his first month at Hogwarts that Potter was going to grow into a very gifted wizard. He showed prodigious talent in both transfiguration and charms, something that Severus put down to his parents despite the fact he couldn't possibly remember them. Lily had excelled in charms and even he couldn't deny James Potter's skill in transfiguration, but neither had shown quite the same talent in either defence against the dark arts or, to Severus's annoyance, potions that their son did. He had tried to hamper that by putting him next to Longbottom but even that didn't seem to slow down his progress, not judging by the perfectly cut valerian roots that Potter had just dropped into his cauldron.

It wasn't uncommon for someone to come to Hogwarts with an affinity for two branches of magic. Even three wasn't unheard of. Severus himself had an affinity for potions, occlumency and the dark arts, even if that particular specialty took a little longer to discover. But four? That was very strange indeed.

Severus had spent many a night this term wondering over it. Was it something to do with the Dark Lord? Or was it simply that Potter just happened to have more magical affinities than most? But how? Severus couldn't see how growing up as a spoiled brat could transfer any particular culinary expertise that could rub off on him for potions, and he couldn't fathom how it could relate to defence against the dark arts. And they hadn't even got to runes, arithmancy or magical creatures yet!

He forced the issue from his mind as he stalked around the room to scrutinise his students' potions. Unfortunately, the majority of this class was made up of dunderheaded buffoons. Crabbe and Goyle were staring dumbly at their cauldrons, seemingly trying to work out how their potions had turned grey instead of pink. Severus doubted they would work it out if they had all the time between now and the moment the world finally crumbled to dust, and so he vanished their potions with a flick of his wand. The two boys blinked at him.

Draco's was adequate so far, although from the smug look on his face Severus was sure he thought it perfect. Greengrass's actually was perfect, as he had expected it to be. She was the only one able to match Potter for sheer skill. Granger's wasn't much worse, only a few shades off at the current stage, but he was already planning on marking her down purely out of spite. He had never met a more irritating person in his life.

He heard a faint hiss from across the room and turned to look at Longbottom's cauldron, already knowing it was going to him. There were yellow fumes billowing out of it as its sides bulged, and Longbottom was peering into it fretfully with a terrified expression on his face. The idiot boy was even continuing to stir in the misguided hope that it would suddenly fix itself, and Severus could already feel an acrid smell burning the back of his throat.

Suddenly, the cauldron exploded. Severus flung his wand out just in time to cast a shield to stop the fragments of metal from ripping his students to shreds, but that did nothing to stop the actual blast. Anyone within a six foot radius of Longbottom was thrown backwards and sent tumbling to the floor or, in Potter's case, into shelves of potions ingredients that came crashing down on top of him.

Severus whirled his wand to clear the air of the toxic fumes and stormed across the room to Longbottom's desk. The contents of his cauldron had splattered across his shields and were now slowly dripping downwards in thick drops of yellow and occasional slashes of black, and when the globules finally met what remained of the desk they ate through the wood with a smoking hiss. He vanished the potion slowly, unsure how they would react to any large influx of magic. It could even trigger another explosion.

Only once every drop had been vanished did he lower the shield and turn to the cowering Longbottom with fury written all over his face. The boy whimpered, and Severus was just about to let him know exactly what could have happened when a chorus of gasps echoed around the room. Severus glanced behind him and saw Potter, covered in potions ingredients as he pushed himself up from a pile of broken shelves and shattered glass with one hand, though that wasn't what had made his students gasp.

His other arm was bent at an odd angle and he was covered in shards of glass that had buried themselves in his flesh, and there was blood flowing freely from a cut on the side of his head. Severus could even see the dent in his skull where his now slick hair dipped inwards. Instead of screaming or crying like Snape had expected, Potter cocked his head and looked down at his arm with a calm sort of puzzlement.

Snape flicked his wand to summon a calming drought from his personal stores. 'It must be shock,' he thought to himself. That was the only explanation as to why he wasn't acting as a child should.

"Mr Potter," Snape made to say, but the words died before they could reach his lips.

Potter had started plucking shards of glass from his arm as if he were picking flowers, and as soon as the glass was yanked from his flesh it immediately knitted itself back together without even leaving a scar. There was one particularly stubborn shard that had impaled itself so deep in Potter's thigh that he couldn't grip it well enough to pull it out, and as Potter looked down at his leg in mild annoyance Snape wondered whether he should do something. What he was seeing was wrong. Unnatural. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to utter even a sound when Potter yanked another fragment of glass from his skin and used it to dig the stubborn shard out.

Both shards dropped to the ground, and the resulting shatter made every member of the class flinch. Even Severus had to still the quiver that squirmed up his spine. Potter frowned and his arm was yanked back into place with a crack, and then he wiped the blood from his face with the edge of his robe. The bleeding stopped instantly as his skull popped back outwards.

Severus felt his tongue go dry. There was only one reason someone would come to Hogwarts able to do that…

He had seen many abused children come through Slytherin house over the years, far too many. In any given year there was almost always at least one, and Severus had always watched over those individuals even more vigilantly than the rest of his snakes. Cunning and self-preservation were drilled into those people from a young age, but children did not suffer through such things and come out the other side unaffected. Some had night terrors, others issues with rage, almost all had issues with trust. But he had never seen anything like this. Not even close.

Potter seemed to notice everyone staring and gave them all a dismissive look, though his confusion was also visible behind the well-maintained veneer of indifference. Did he not understand that what he had just done was not natural, not even for wizards?

"All of you out," Severus croaked. "Potter, with me."

His pale skin paled even further as stalked through the corridors with Potter following behind him, trying to imagine what must have been done to him to cause this. He was sure that the events of his class would have reached the ears of every student in Hogwarts before the hour was up, and while some would claim that it was this ability that allowed him to survive the killing curse – Severus wondered whether it actually could allow such a thing – anyone with the slightest speck of intelligence would figure out the truth almost immediately. He actually felt a sliver of pity for Potter. He would never want anyone to know if such things had happened to him, though he wasn't entirely sure Potter would even care.

"Poppy!" he shouted as he barged into the hospital wing.

"For Merlin's sake, Severus," Madam Pomfrey grumbled as she emerged from behind a white partition, "there's no need to shout."

Surprise flashed across her features when she saw Potter, especially given who was accompanying him.

"Ah, Mr Potter. I had a feeling I was going to be seeing you at some point; your father spent much of his time at Hogwarts here."

Severus sneered involuntarily at the mention of James Potter, but not enough to miss the lack of reaction of Potter's face. Most orphans would leap at the slightest mention of their parents. Very strange.

"Poppy, I need you to cast your most comprehensive diagnostics over Potter."

The mediwitch's head snapped up and gave him a dark look. The only time he asked her to cast those charms the students in question had had… troublesome childhoods.

She nodded and cast the spells, her wand movements sharp and quick, and after a few seconds of staring at the dancing colours the spells produced she looked back towards him.

"There is nothing, it's like he's never been injured. What is the meaning of this, Severus?"

There was an angry confusion in her voice. She wanted to know why he had made her cast those spells, knowing full well what conclusion her mind would draw when he asked.

"Because, Poppy, five minutes ago Mr Potter had a broken arm, a fractured skull, and he had countless shards of glass embedded in his flesh, some at least a couple of inches long."

Madam Pomfrey gasped. "You healed him?"

"No, he healed himself."

Madam Pomfrey stared at him. A first year knowing so many healing charms, even one that was clearly rather gifted? And casting them so well she couldn't even detect the damage? It was only then that she took note of the severity of his expression. It may as well have been carved from ice, but there was a distant horror in his eyes. It had been a long time since she'd seen horror in Severus Snape's expression. Not since the war, in fact.

"No…" she breathed, finally understanding what he meant.

This boy had suffered more in his first eleven years than most did in a lifetime, so much so that his magic had learnt to protect him. Learnt to heal him. What could his body not heal from? Where was the limit? Was there a limit? She had never heard of anything like this before.

"Is there a problem?" Harry asked.

Severus fought the urge to shiver yet again, just as he always had to on the rare occasions he heard Potter speak. His voice was so soft, so silky. It reminded him far too much of the Dark Lord in the days before he had lost his humanity. The only difference was that Potter's didn't ripple with malice as the Dark Lord's had done. Not yet, at least.

Madam Pomfrey glanced at him. What did she say to that? Was it a problem when he had already suffered through the agony required to cause such an ability?

"Not a problem per se," she started softly, "but… being able to heal yourself like that is not common. Not even for wizards. I've never heard of such a thing before, but I imagine gaining such an ability would require a great deal of… suffering."

Potter's eyes had glimmered with something almost like pride when he was told how uncommon his ability was, but by the end his face had become eerily blank. Severus knew that that particular subject was off limits.

He made an effort to swallow the lump in his throat before he spoke. Potter had always set him on edge, but now that unease had been magnified tenfold.

"Do you feel pain?" he asked. He didn't think he'd ever forget Potter's look of strange curiosity as he stared down at his mutilated arm

Potter shrugged with the smallest of smiles on his face.

"Not for a long time."

"And is there anything else that you don't feel?"

Potter raised an eyebrow.

"My sense of touch still works, if that's what you mean."

"No," Severus said quickly, cursing his racing heart, "I mean… sensations. Hunger. Pleasure, even."

"I used to get hungry. Not really anymore. It's nicer when I eat sometimes but…" he shrugged again, seemingly unbothered by the growing horror on Madam Pomfrey's face, "I don't need to do it much."

Severus almost didn't want to ask his next question, both out of embarrassment and out of fear for what his answer might be.

"And… and pleasure?"

A distant look appeared on Potter's face then, as if he was combing his mind for an answer and, judging by the frown on his face, coming up empty.

"What does that feel like, professor?"

Madam Pomfrey let out a horrified gasp as her shaking hand came up to cover her mouth, not that Potter seemed to pay her much mind.

"May I go, professor?"

Severus nodded as steadily as he could and fought the urge to flinch when Potter glided past. As much as he hated to admit it, the boy scared him.

"Severus," Madam Pomfrey said, a faint tremble in her voice, "what should we do? What can we do?"

"I'm not sure. Unfortunately I don't know where Potter grew up, else I would be on way there for a rather… unpleasant conversation. For someone to do such a thing to a child? To Lily's child?"

"Would Albus know where the boy has been living?"

"Undoubtedly. It is he who he has proclaimed that Potter has been growing up safe and happy all these years. What if…"

"Severus, you can't mean…"

Snape gave the matron a heavy look.

"But what if, Poppy? Albus Dumbledore is not a forgetful old fool, and this is Harry Potter we are talking about. I can't fathom why he would never check on the boy."

Madam Pomfrey spent several seconds fiddling with the hem of her apron.

"Perhaps we should ask Minerva? She is the poor boy's head of house, after all. Maybe then we shall visit Albus; I should think he will hear about it soon anyway."

Severus nodded before he strode from the room, Madam Pomfrey a few steps behind, and felt a scowl twist on his face before he forced it back behind his trademark sneer. What had been done to Lily's child?

~Scene Change~

'You shouldn't have told them so much,' a voice grumbled in the back of his head.

'They would have known most of it already. You think it has not been noticed that we rarely eat?' Harry thought back. 'And after watching us pull glass out of our arm I think they probably knew that we don't feel pain.'

'That's why I told you to act like it hurt.'

'Only after I'd started yanking! Honestly Tom, I reckon it would have looked a little strange if I'd just suddenly remembered that pulling glass out of our arm is supposed to hurt.'

The voice seemed to sulk in the back of their mind and Harry smiled slightly. Tom was just upset that people knew now. He didn't like it when they appeared weak. Harry, on the other hand, wasn't particularly bothered that people knew. The stares might contain some sort of pity that would make them more irritating than the usual worship, but their opinions and their thoughts didn't matter. He didn't need any of them, not when he had Tom.

Or, he supposed, he had himself. Because that was what Tom was, obviously – a piece of himself that for some reason had his own voice and his own thoughts. It was a bit unfair that Tom had been lumped with so many of their bad traits, even if he had plenty of positives as well. Tom was very good at getting people to do what they wanted, for example, a skill that had been quite useful once they learned how to poke the Dursleys into dancing to the appropriate tune. It was just a shame it had taken them so many years to figure it out and that it didn't work every time. It went without saying that failed attempts at manipulation were punished quite severely.

It wasn't like Tom had been the only one of them to be splattered with muck either. In fact, he had always been quite willing to do much of what Tom suggested. Tom had been there as long as he could remember. He had been scared of him at first, tormented by stories of demons and torture and possession that Petunia had screeched at them, cross in hand while she attempted to drive the magic out of them. Unfortunately, he had found out quickly that Tom was not the demon that plagued Privet Drive. He was an angel, actually, even if he'd been different then – loud and hateful and vitriolic, always trying to take control even if he never could. It still gave him someone to talk to though, and after years of simply calling him "the voice" Harry had decided to name him Tom after a movie his aunt had a disturbing fascination with. They would hear her watching it through their cupboard door almost every day, and Harry could hardly call a part of himself Dick could he? No, Tom it was.

Tom became better behaved as time went on until they got on so well that Harry would call them friends if he didn't know that you couldn't be friends with yourself. Tom had… mellowed, for lack of a better word. Harry supposed he had mellowed somewhat too, though certainly not to the same extent. He supposed that was just because of all the negatives that had been forced upon Tom. Harry thought that that was what growing up meant. Learning to be more controlled, learning to compromise, to think a little bit more before you just grabbed a kitchen knife and started stabbing.

Tom had very nearly convinced him on that one, and in the end they had settled on simply putting crushed sleeping pills in Vernon's coffee and hoping that he would die in a terrible car accident on the way to work. It had nearly worked too! Unfortunately, the time Vernon had spent recuperating gave his vicious rage a chance to build up. Once they had suffered through their punishment – not that it had taken them long to heal even then – Tom had grudgingly apologised when he realised how his plan could have ended. Prison and hospitals and psych wards, spending days drugged up to their eyeballs. Impulsivity was one of Tom's more annoying traits.

'Fine,' Tom said, 'let's go to the library. No point going to class when that stuttering fool is teaching it; we can learn much more by ourselves.'

One of Tom's better traits was his studiousness. Harry had never been particularly studious himself unless what he was learning had a point – although that was quickly changing now that he was learning magic rather than maths – but he supposed that was because Tom had gotten most of that particular trait. He couldn't deny that being knowledgeable was useful though, and so Harry nodded in agreement as he changed his course through the corridors. Quirrell certainly was a pathetic excuse of a wizard, there was no denying that, and it didn't help that Tom found him suspicious.

~Scene Change~

"You gave him to her?" Snape hissed.

"They were the closest blood relatives Severus," McGonagall defended, even if she seemed even angrier than he was about what she had just been told. "Albus said that the blood wards would keep him safe from any of You-Know-Who's followers who still roamed free."

"And what of the dangers inside? Petunia has always been an abhorrent human being. Vindictive, cruel, hateful, devoid of empathy! He would have been safer with Lucius Malfoy! And you never thought to even check on him? On the saviour of the wizarding world?" Snape sneered.

"The Dursley's were adamant that they have no contact with the wizarding world. They refused to take him in until Albus had given a vow!"

"And at that point did you not think that maybe it wasn't a healthy environment for him to grow up in? Are you a fool, Minerva?"

McGonagall glared at him before she stormed from the room. Snape and Madam Pomfrey struggled to keep up with her furious strides as she made her way towards the headmaster's office, the gargoyle leaping aside when she approached, and then she burst into the office and started spewing a string of curse words that would make a sailor blush. Dumbledore just sat there in shock until she finally quietened herself, though flames continued to spew from her flared nostrils.

Dumbledore spent several moments struggling for words. It was clear that he had not yet heard about what they had discovered, and so they told him. Snape told Dumbledore exactly what had happened in his class, and he and Madam Pomfrey told him what Potter had said in the hospital wing, and through it all Dumbledore had continued to watch them with his chin resting on steepled fingers.

To most he would look calm, relaxed even. There was no stiffness in his posture nor trembling in his fingers. He appeared totally at peace.

Snape was not fooled.

The ever-present twinkle in the man's eyes was gone, as was the amused smile that could almost always be seen floating around his lips. He could almost feel the rage bleeding off him. He had never felt the like of it before. Not when the Dark Lord had attacked Diagon Alley, nor when he had attacked defenceless muggles. Even when he had informed him that the Dark Lord planned to murder two toddlers Snape had not felt such an overpowering anger oozing from the headmaster.

"Poppy, Severus," Dumbledore said softly after a few moments, "I understand you have never seen this before but, in your experience, how much would young Harry have to have suffered to bring about what you describe?"

"Do you remember Phillip Winters, Albus?" Madam Pomfrey asked. "Do you remember the injuries he had suffered that even magic could not heal by the time he came to Hogwarts? Without even considering the injuries that had healed and left no permanent mark?"

Dumbledore nodded heavily. The day he saw young Mr Winters had been the first time since he had dragged Gellert Grindelwald up the steps of Nurmengard that he had thought of their youthful ideals, and that had been the last time he had ever considered the Greater Good. Until today.

"Even he had nothing like what Mr Potter has. Not a milder version, not a similar ability, not even an inkling. That was not enough to create such an ability."

Dumbledore continued to sit there for several seconds that quickly stretched into minutes until, finally, he stood slowly from his chair.

"Minerva," he said without a hint of emotion, "I leave the castle in your charge until I get back."

And with that, he disappeared in a flash of flame.

He wasn't seen until four days later, and when he returned he looked every second of his hundred and nine years. He almost fell into his chair and sipped from a steaming mug, causing a hint of colour to return to his skin. When McGonagall asked what he had been doing he had smiled in a way she had never seen Albus Dumbledore smile before. It was almost bloodthirsty.

"I have been ensuring the Dursleys are properly punished."

"How long have the muggles locked them up for?" she spat. "I sincerely hope it's for the rest of their miserable lives."

"Oh no, that punishment would not be adequate. Child abusers are not well liked in any prison system, but the muggles would have made sure they came to as little harm as possible. It might have even become tolerable for them, and that would simply not do. Not after I looked into their minds and saw the cruelty, the inhumanity of their actions."

"They're not… dead, are they?"

"No, no, and they shall not be granted that courtesy for quite some time," he said with a grim smile. "They are in Azkaban, Minerva, on the very top level. Next to Sirius Black's old cell, actually."

McGonagall spluttered. Muggles in Azkaban? No muggles had ever been sentenced to Azkaban in all the centuries of its existence! Dumbledore must have used every ounce of his considerable political strength to get them sent there. And on the top level as well? That was where the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange and Augustus Rookwood were kept. The most sadistic, most vile excuses for human beings that the British Ministry for Magic had managed to capture. Where the dementors were allowed free reign as long as no one died. It was a hellish existence for all who were sentenced there. The fact that he had gone to such lengths to ensure not just that they were punished but that they suffered almost made her reconsider just how much she knew about Albus Dumbledore.

But as she imagined yet again what those people must have done to Harry, she felt any objections melt away. If even half of the sickening images her mind was conjuring up were true then the Dursleys made Bellatrix Lestrange look merciful.

It was only then that the final part of Dumbledore's words sunk in.

"Sirius Black? His old cell?"

"Oh yes," Dumbledore said, a somewhat dim smile appearing on his face, "Mr Black recognised Petunia when I brought her and her husband past his cell. He has a remarkable hold over his sanity after so long with the dementors and he put two and two together rather quickly. If he, Harry's godfather, couldn't raise him, well then it is a fair assumption that Harry would be put under the care of his closest relatives."

"And?"

"He started shouting quite loudly about what he would do to them if they had hurt a hair on young Harry's head, and then started threatening me if I didn't tell him exactly what was going on. He said he would strangle me with my own beard," Dumbledore said as a flash of amusement broke through the tired guilt that now stained his face. "Not once did he seem to even consider pleading his own case, so concerned he was for Harry. It didn't make any sense until he started begging me to tell what had happened, rambling all the while about Peter Pettigrew and animagus forms."

"Peter Pettigrew was no animagus!" McGonagall cried. "That boy was nowhere near the calibre of wizard that he would need to be to learn the animagus transformation without help."

"But with two of the brightest students this school has seen in James Potter and Sirius Black helping him? And what are werewolves of no danger to during full moons?"

McGonagall stared at him for a few moments before she burst into chuckles.

"Those bloody boys," she said fondly. James Potter always had been her favourite, and Sirius Black wasn't far behind. It did help that they were both prodigies at transfiguration.

"On that, Minerva," he said with the barest hint of a twinkle in his eyes, "we are agreed. As it turns out Mr Pettigrew's form was of a rat, and it was he who was the true secret keeper. Sirius told it as a rather brilliant bluff – everyone would think that he was the secret keeper, and why wouldn't they after seeing him and James in Hogwarts and when they knew that Sirius had lived with the Potter family for several years? And then Voldemort would come for him, never even considering that the true secret keeper may actually be Peter Pettigrew."

"And the blasting curse?"

"Peter's own. He cut off his finger and then transformed into his animagus form to escape into the sewers."

"And how…" McGonagall swallowed. It all sounded so plausible, but… "And how can you be sure he is telling the truth?"

"I wasn't. I suspected he was, of course, but even truth serums and legilimency are not fool proof, especially not on him. After so long in the company of dementors Sirius's memories were – are – quite fractured, and it will take a good deal of therapy to start putting them back together again. I wasn't sure of his story until I found Mr Pettigrew hiding in this very castle. It is rather peculiar, don't you think, that the Weasley family has had the same pet rat for the past ten years?"

She felt herself pale. There had been a grown man in her dormitories for years! A Death Eater had had access to sleeping children!

"He didn't…" her words trailed off in horror, but Dumbledore knew what she meant. She was sure that he had had the same thoughts.

"No, he did not. Luckily for us Peter Pettigrew is simply a coward rather than a sickening deviant. He now occupies Sirius's old cell while Sirius recuperates in St Mungo's, who I believe are currently having trouble keeping in his room. He doesn't know the extent of what happened to Harry, but I'm sure that he has long since guessed the gist."

"What should we tell Harry?"

Dumbledore shrugged tiredly.

"I don't know, Minerva. Sirius will not be allowed out of St Mungo's for quite some time. The majority of his physical injuries will be fixed in a matter of days, but mentally… the healers tell me that bursts of rage or of despair are quite common in such cases, as are periods of dissociation where he may become trapped in the throes of a waking nightmare. And that is for those who have suffered dementors sparingly for months, a few year at most. Not every day for a decade. Is it wise to expose a child to someone in such a state?"

McGonagall didn't have an answer.

~Scene Change~

'What does the old fool want?' Tom groused as they made their way towards the headmaster's office.

'I would hardly call him an old fool, Tom. Dumbledore is one of the most powerful wizards in recent history.'

'Anyone who tells children that a certain corridor is out of bounds if you don't want to die a painful death is either manipulative or a fool,' Tom argued. 'I'm just picking the option we would both prefer. It's like waving a red flag in front of a bull.'

Harry agreed with him, though unlike Tom he didn't think they had anything to worry about. After all, using an older student to relay the message to come to the headmaster's office after dinner just created a witness. And as long as they didn't go to the forbidden corridor they were fine. Neither planned on doing so, even if Harry was rather curious about the wild stories he'd heard about a three-headed dog. Just stories, he and Tom were sure. No one was stupid enough to keep a Cerberus in a school.

They continued to guess at Dumbledore's motive to speak with them when the hair on the back of their neck prickled. They had long since developed a sixth sense for when an attack was coming, and that was the only warning they needed to throw themselves behind a suit of armour just as a vivid yellow spell shot through the space their head had been a moment before. Another spell pinged off the armour's breastplate followed by a third and a fourth, and a fifth smacked into the wall and sent shards of stone flying into their face.

"Kill him you fool!" a voice hissed from down the hall.

Three more spells bounced off the suit of armour or smashed into the wall before they stopped, and Harry could hear footsteps quickly approaching. Tom was furiously trying to plan an escape, assessing the strength of their shield charm against the number of spells that would hit it before they reached the adjacent corridor and disappeared into the nearby passageway.

'Based on the casting speed our shield would take at least four spells, but I don't think it would be able to take more than three at best. Our best bet is to curse them when they get within view and then run.'

'Cutting curse?'

'Followed by a blasting curse. It's not very strong yet but should at least break a few bones if it connects.'

Harry crouched to make himself as small as possible and pointed his wand across the corridor as he waited for their attacker to appear. However, instead of appearing on the other side of the corridor like they had expected, a wand swung around the suit's helm right above him. Their attacker fired a bright green curse blindly and they were forced to duck so that it shot over their head, missing by bare millimetres.

Their cutting curse cut deep into their attacker's arm, and the blasting curse that followed shattered it and sent their wand flying just as its tip began to glow a sickly green once more. Their attacker howled in pain and Harry darted out from his hiding place, but before he could reach the next corridor and disappear into the passageway he was forced to the ground, his wand tumbling from his grip.

The overpowering stench of garlic filled his nose as a pair of hands wrapped around his throat. It was a horribly familiar sensation and Harry felt none of the panic one would expect, at least not until he felt Tom being slowly yanked away. He was dying! A part of him was being pulled away into the great unknown, and he could hear Tom spitting threats and urging him to get them out of whatever was happening. This had never happened with Vernon!

He reached blindly around the floor for his wand, and then he noticed another smell. Burning flesh. He didn't think he would forget that smell for as long as he lived, nor would he forget that glowing cross as Vernon approached him with madness in his eyes. The hands around his neck released and the distant screaming that Harry thought was a memory became louder and louder. Finally able to turn his head to see his attacker, Harry looked up at the terrified visage of Professor Quirrell as he looked down at his blistered, flaking hands.

He saw his wand lying a few feet to his right and reached desperately for it just as the hissing voice commanded Quirrell to kill him once more.

Quirrell lunged for him again, and then there was a flash of pink light and a spray of blood before Quirrell fell on top of him. Harry scrambled out from under him, now drenched in blood, and simply watched the rapidly growing pool of crimson spread out from Quirrell's twitching corpse. He and Tom shared a mental sigh of relief; their cutting curse may not be very strong yet, but it didn't need to be to cut through a couple of centimetres of muscle to get to Quirrell's carotid arteries. Harry found himself rather thankful for Tom's at times obsessive interest in human anatomy.

They continued to watch as the spread of blood slowly grew until the pulsing ripples finally stopped, and a second later a howl of rage echoed around the corridor. Black mist rose from the back of Quirrell's head and glared hatefully at Harry before it flew through the wall, and at that moment Professor Snape wandered into the corridor.

He took one look at Quirrell's lifeless corpse and the blood-covered boy who was just sat there watching before he flicked his wand to conjure a silver doe. It bounded off through the wall while Snape cast spells to dissuade anyone from entering the corridor, and Tom immediately decided that he wanted to learn how to cast it. It looked to be a very impressive piece of magic.

'Do you think we should pretend to feel guilty?' Harry asked.

'Why? He tried to kill us first.'

'But normal people would probably feel guilty if they killed someone.'

Tom snorted.

'We are hardly normal.'

A small smile appeared on Harry's face that he quickly hid lest Snape think he was some sort of maniac.

'No, we are not.'

Snape didn't approach, instead opting to remain at the far end of the corridor. Tom suggested it was something about maintaining the crime scene, but both of them preferred the idea that Snape was simply scared of them.

A few minutes later Dumbledore came rushing into the corridor, his eyes widening when he saw Quirrell and widening even further when he saw Harry.

"He tried to kill me first," Harry said, hoping to avoid being accused of a random act of murder.

Dumbledore levelled him with a heavy look as he summoned Quirrell's wand and murmured a spell. A series of sparks shot from the end, and by the time the sparks stopped the suspicion in the headmaster's eyes had vanished.

"A rather nasty gouging curse and assorted dark magic followed by the killing curse. It appears that young Harry is telling the truth."

Tom broke into quite angry ranting about how obvious it was they were telling the truth as the two professors continued to look around the corridor.

'If we'd just decided to kill him out of the blue we wouldn't have made such a mess of it! We'd have planned it! Who does he think we are? Some fool? And we certainly wouldn't have hung around to get caught with the body!'

Harry smothered a smile.

"Mr Potter," Dumbledore asked as he walked towards him, appearing to float an inch or two off the ground, "I'm going to have to ask for your memory of the event."

"My memory?"

"Quite harmless, I assure you. It in no way affects your own memory; it simply takes a copy that can then be relieved from an outside perspective in a pensieve."

Tom was already planning ways to get a hold of one of those pensieves when Harry nodded his consent. He had to fight the urge to flinch when Dumbledore pressed his wand tip lightly against his temple and told him to concentrate on his memory of the past few minutes, and when he pulled his wand away silver light was dangling from its tip. Harry wondered whether memories had to be given willingly or whether they could be taken by force as Dumbledore dropped the memory into a conjured vial.

"Thank you, Harry. Now, Timby!"

A strange little creature appeared dressed in a white uniform with the Hogwarts crest covering it's chest. It had green, almost grey skin and huge brown eyes, a bulbous nose and ears that looked more like wings. Harry couldn't help but stare at it. Dumbledore chuckled ever so slightly.

"Timby, please take Mr Potter somewhere private where he can wash and change his clothes. I'm afraid you won't be able to leave the room Timby takes you to until I have verified what happened, Harry."

Harry frowned but nodded nonetheless as the creature – Timby – reached a long-fingered hand for his wrist.

"Severus," Dumbledore said as soon as Harry disappeared, "I trust you can take care of the scene?"

Snape nodded and started casting various charms across every inch of the corridor, the results of each being noted down by a quill and parchment that floated beside him. If the aurors became involved it would be crucial that they have solid proof of what had happened.

Dumbledore walked through the corridors with well concealed urgency as students streamed past on their way to their common rooms. Even Fawkes' calming trill did little to relieve the tension that had settled in his stomach as he pulled his pensieve from the cabinet. Harry hadn't seemed at all bothered that he had just killed someone. It reminded him far too much of Tom Riddle, a comparison that he did his best to force away just as he had done since Harry strolled into the Great Hall. Harry was not Tom Riddle, and if he treated him like he was he could very well create another Voldemort. After the horrors he had experienced Dumbledore could honestly not expect him to be a child like any other at Hogwarts. It made him wonder if he had missed something in that orphanage all those years ago.

When he was finally thrown from the memory Dumbledore retreated wearily behind his desk and fell into his chair with a sigh. The high, hissing voice that had commanded Quirinus to kill Harry featured heavily in his nightmares even after all these years. Quirinus had been possessed by what remained of Voldemort, and he had done so willingly; the mist that rose from his corpse did not have the strength to control another human by force.

He knew that someone, likely an agent of Voldemort, had been in the castle. His wards and charms over the 'defences' that guarded the stone made that clear. Of course, there was only one true defence: the mirror. The keys, the chessboard, the logic puzzle, even the cerberus and the troll were little more than distractions meant to dissuade any students from getting to the mirror. He regretted that the students even had to know about it, but he couldn't have a dangerous unknown slinking around the castle and searching every nook and cranny. No, better to keep the efforts of any potential thieves confined to a single rarely used corridor. The mirror itself was one of the most disturbing, most parasitic examples of magic that Dumbledore had ever encountered, but it was one of few things that could protect the stone from a thief who was able to breach even Gringotts' defences.

And to think all this time he had assumed that someone was sneaking in and out of the castle for each attempt to steal the stone! He'd never even considered that it could be someone who inhabited the castle full time! It had seemed like a preposterous notion. There were few students he thought would be willing to act on the Dark Lord's behalf and he doubted that Voldemort would trust such an important task to a mere student in any case. And the professors! He had trusted every member of his staff without an ounce of concern. Even Quirinus had been a well-liked staff member for several years before his sabbatical.

He forced himself to calm down. There was nothing to be done now, though he would be moving the stone somewhere else as soon as possible and then making a very public announcement that the third floor corridor was back open. He would not put his students in danger anymore than he already had simply for a favour for an old friend. The students' safety came first.

And, as much as he hated to admit it, he feared that that safety was put at risk by the presence of Harry Potter. The boy himself wasn't dangerous – well, he most certainly was, but not to the common student – but Dumbledore feared the boy would attract more trouble to Hogwarts over the years. This was the first time something dangerous had happened at Hogwarts since the fall of Voldemort, and it was not the first time that powerful artefacts and the like had been housed within its walls.

And that was not even considering the danger to Harry himself. The boy's horrifying ability to heal and to feel no pain did not render him either invulnerable or invincible. Hogwarts was not a fortress, it was a school. He could never be kept absolutely safe here and, prophecy or not, Harry deserved to be safe from harm for what would be the first time in his life. But where would he go? Dumbledore knew that Harry would never give up the opportunity to learn magic. According to the professors, the only time Harry showed even a glimmer of happiness was when he mastered a new spell.

What in the world should he do?

"Timpy," he said tiredly.

The elf appeared in front of him with a pop.

"Please bring Mr Potter here."

She disappeared and returned a second later with Harry in her protesting grip, his shoelaces flicking against the stone floor and his tie lying undone around his neck.

Harry glared at the house elf before she disappeared once more.

Dumbledore felt a chuckle escape from his throat; house elves were always so literal. He'd assumed Timby would at least wait for him to finish getting dressed.

"Why don't you sit down, Harry?"

Harry took a seat in front of the desk without an ounce of emotion on his face. The only indication that he felt anything at all was the slight stiffness in his limbs, and Dumbledore felt guilt wash over him once again that such control was necessary in a boy so young. Happiness was something to be stamped out at the Dursleys while sadness had been an indicator of ungratefulness, which was very nearly as bad.

"You won't be expelled, Harry," Dumbledore said, and that faint stiffness faded away almost instantly, "although, you can choose it if you wish."

"Sir?"

"Allow me to ask you a question. Do you like Hogwarts? I don't mean the freedom of being away from those despicable animals you grew up with, nor do I mean the simple chance to learn magic. Do you like the castle? The school?"

"I'm not entirely sure I understand, sir."

Dumbledore sighed.

"You have not yet been at Hogwarts three months, and yet there has already been an attempt on your life. You do not socialise with other students either in your dormitory or in class beyond the bare minimum required. So, Harry, do you enjoy being at Hogwarts? If you were given an opportunity to learn magic elsewhere with tutors and at your own pace, would you take it?"

Harry spent a few seconds staring up at him, his head cocked slightly as he seemed to have a conversation in his own head.

"Would it have a library, sir?"

Dumbledore smiled to himself. He sounded so very like his mother. Dumbledore remembered another dark-haired boy's enamorment with the Hogwarts library but chose to ignore it in favour of young Lily Evans's love for the same thing. Harry was not Tom Riddle, no matter the similarities between them. Not for the first time did he wonder what exactly the sorting hat had seen in Harry that made it place him in Gryffindor. He was a Slytherin or even a Ravenclaw if ever he had seen one.

"Yes, the place I have in mind has a library that may even rival Hogwarts own and holds books over an even larger range of subjects."

Harry's eyes gleamed.

"There would, of course, be some conditions and it wouldn't be possible right away, but if given the choice between that and Hogwarts?"

Harry was perceptive enough to notice that Dumbledore had a preference that he was trying quite hard to hide. The fact that Dumbledore would rather he go didn't bother him – he supposed this was because he didn't want an eleven year old killer in the school – and was rather more focussed on the promise of this other library and of no longer being held back by the common fool. Tom was already salivating at the thought; the Dark Arts!

"I'll go, sir."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled despite the sorrowful look on his face.

"I regret that you will be unable to truly experience Hogwarts in all her glory, but I feel this may be for the best. It will simply be safer, and I think we both know that you would get bored in classes here. I was quite bored at times during my years here as a student as well. Now, as this may well take a little time to put together you will remain at Hogwarts for a time. You are to say nothing about Professor Quirrell to anybody."

Harry nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. I think it time you return to your dormitory then Harry; I fear I will have quite the number of floo calls to make tonight."

~Scene Change~

Dumbledore smiled out at the assembled students as they picked at their food, the air thick with anticipation. Three schools and countless nationalities all learning at Hogwarts without conflict beyond the occasional glare. A good proportion of the next generation's most gifted were in this hall; healers and spellcrafters, curse-breakers and aurors. It was the sort of thing he'd hoped for ever since he became headmaster.

It was a shame that young Harry couldn't be here to see it, but honestly Dumbledore doubted that he would care. He'd spent more than enough time with the boy over the past few years to know that all Harry really cared about was magic. It was almost concerning how obsessed he was, but Dumbledore couldn't begrudge his passion. It reminded him very much of Tom Riddle, but now that comparison was far less worrisome than it had once been. In fact, in many ways Harry reminded him of himself more than he did Tom. He remembered having much the same passion in his youth, always searching for new magic to learn, and if Harry took that a step further then who was he to judge. Magic was all he had for a decade, after all. It was the only reason he still survived.

That did not mean, however, that he had been allowed to lock himself in a room filled with books and not come out, no matter how much Harry would probably have liked that. No, he had been forced to socialise. At Hogwarts there was a minimum amount of social interaction required to simply exist within the castle walls, but once he was removed from Hogwarts they had been forced to come up with some other way to ensure Harry actually spoke to people that weren't over three times his age.

That had been one of the hardest parts of the whole affair; convincing the Ministry and the board to allow Harry Potter to leave Hogwarts for private instruction, getting a waiver for the Statute of Secrecy to allow him to practice magic outside of Hogwarts and finally arranging tutors for him was easy compared to making Harry do something he didn't want to do. It had taken the promise of unfettered access to the usually restricted parts of the library to make him agree, and even then it was grudgingly.

Dumbledore would have been more concerned by such a young boy having access to books about the Dark Arts, especially considering his lack of reaction to what he did to Quirrell, were it not for his tutors assuring him that there was little to worry about as long as he felt he could still come to them with questions about whatever he read. It was when he felt he needed to be secretive that trouble would arise. It was for that reason that Dumbledore had actually hired Harry a Dark Arts tutor – certainly not something he had ever imagined himself doing.

"And besides", they had said, "he would have figured out a way to read them soon enough anyway. Keeping magic away from Harry Potter is pointless and ultimately futile, that we have learnt from experience."

He had been hoping to persuade Harry to take up football or rugby, maybe hockey now that he couldn't play quidditch, not that he'd shown any interest in the sport during his time at Hogwarts anyway. Something that would force him to work as part of a team and learn to properly interact with people. Unfortunately, the one time they had forced him to at least try it he had gotten into a rather heated 'argument' with another boy about not passing the ball.

Eventually they had settled on some muggle fighting style that Dumbledore had long since forgotten the name of. It was violent and widely individual just like Harry himself, and he was apparently quite good at it. There was some mention of belts that frankly confused the old headmaster but he didn't think on it too much. What mattered was that Harry was being forced to learn how to interact with people whose opinion of him would be formed entirely by his own actions. It had helped him learn to control his temper at the very least.

And, if what he had heard was true, Harry might have actually made a few friends there over the past three years. Though, Dumbledore had a feeling it would be more accurate to say that there were a few he found more tolerable than others. Harry certainly wasn't a people person. He didn't seem to understand them.

He did sometimes wonder if Harry's absence from Hogwarts was a good thing. He liked to think it was, of course, but there would always be a little doubt niggling in the back of his head. Harry was happy with how things were, almost certainly more so than he would have been at Hogwarts, but Dumbledore did occasionally wonder if being around all the other students would have turned Harry into something more childlike, just as he wondered whether that would have been a good thing anyway. The notion that Harry would have eventually allowed someone in if he had remained in the castle was as heartening as it was ridiculous.

The effect of his absence on Hogwarts herself was difficult to define, but Dumbledore thought that it was more than likely positive. He was sure that had Harry been at Hogwarts last year then the escaped Death Eaters would have been at the very least tempted to attack him in revenge for their master's defeat. Bellatrix Lestrange had always been dedicated in the extreme and had possessed an impressive lack of control ever since her school days; Dumbledore didn't think she would have been able to stop herself, and he didn't think any of the other escapees would have been inclined to talk her out of it. The Lestrange brothers were just as obsessed as she was, Pettigrew was too cowardly, and Dolohov simply liked killing far too much. Instead, they had stayed away and had in fact not been seen in months, presumably having left the country.

Dumbledore felt vaguely guilty for his relief that they were someone else's problem for the time being.

That dreadfulness in what would have been Harry's second year would have happened regardless of Harry's presence, although he did wonder if it would have somehow been worse had Harry still been at Hogwarts. As it was that period of terror had only lasted little more than a month; a rather forceful interrogation of a ghost and a few threats to lessen her reluctance had told him exactly where the entrance was, and then all that had been required was a few weeks of stationing disillusioned house elves in the corner of a girls lavatory. The board had sung his praises when he showed them the fiendfyre-scorched remains of Tom Riddle's diary. Except Lucius Malfoy, that is; he had immediately gone pale with a mixture of fear and anger. Dumbledore seriously doubted that Lucius knew just what he had unleased on the same school that his son attended.

That had been the final confirmation of how Lord Voldemort had survived that night all those years ago, and the fact that Severus's mark still remained showed that he had made more than just the diary. Progress on that front had been annoyingly slow; he had never bothered to look into Tom Riddle's background before. Why would he have? Knowing details of the monster's past would not have helped defeat him. Now, however, the opposite seemed to be true. Tom Riddle was far too arrogant to house pieces of his soul somewhere that was not important, either to him or to the world at large. Unfortunately, he was also embarrassed enough by his heritage to destroy all records of it.

He was frowning, he realised. Only Severus seemed to have noticed his momentary dip in mood before he pulled his lips back into their benign usual smile, though he never could actually be sure whether Alastor noticed something or not. His eye made it impossible to know where he was looking and the man seemed to have only one facial expression ever since he came to Hogwarts: a growl.

Dumbledore chuckled; Alastor never had liked children. Even the recruits at the auror academy were too young for him to tolerate for long. He supposed that was what was causing the man's somewhat strange behaviour, and having so many people in the castle likely wasn't helping his infamous paranoia either.

He stood from his chair, finally deciding that he'd made the students wait long enough.

"Mr Filch, the casket please."

The students watched intently as the blue flames continued to dance until, finally, the flames flickered to red and a thin slip of parchment shot out.

"The champion for Durmstrang is… Viktor Krum!"

The broad-shouldered boy rose from his seat to uproarious applause from every student bar the other Durmstrang hopefuls. One boy in particular was cheering and whistling so loudly that he almost drowned everyone else out. Krum didn't so much as glance at any of them as he stalked towards the front and into the antechamber, his perpetual scowl still on his face.

"Knew you had it in you, Viktor my boy!"

Dumbledore restrained a frown. Igor Karkaroff was a thoroughly detestable individual; not only was he a death eater, he was a cowardly, traitorous one too. He had tried to bar Karkaroff from the school in favour of the Durmstrang deputy headmaster, but unfortunately even his political influence had its limits.

The flames burned red a second time and another slip came out.

"The champion for Beauxbatons is… Fleur Delacour!"

This time there were wolf-whistles mixed into the applause as Miss Delacour rose primly from her seat and made her way towards the front of the hall, her nose upturned and a haughty look on her face. Dumbledore glared at several of his students as they continued to wolf-whistle the poor girl; she hid it well, but she clearly did not like the attention. He pitied her, frankly. He had not met many veela during his life, but those he had all shared the same hatred for the sexualisation of their people.

"And finally, the champion for Hogwarts is…"

Dumbledore hid a smirk as he allowed the pause to go on and on until his students looked ready to burst.

"Cedric Diggory!"

There were a few disappointed groans, but the vast majority of the school erupted into noise. Clapping, cheering, whistling, shouting and screaming. Cedric blushed as he pushed himself from his seat and wandered towards the front with a proud smile on his face. Dumbledore could only imagine Amos's reaction if he were here; he'd have put even the Hufflepuff table to shame.

"Now then," he said once the noise had died down, glancing uneasily towards the still burning goblet, "now that our champions have been selected-"

The flames flashed red a fourth time, and Dumbledore felt a lump settle in his stomach as he snatched the slip from the air. He knew exactly what name was written on that parchment before he even opened it. Murmurs rose around the room as he stared down at it, and he could practically feel the gazes of Karkaroff and Madame Maxine burning holes into his back.

"Harry Potter."