While Hogwarts buzzed with admiration for Harry Weasley’s enchanting skills and the success of the Great Lake exhibition, two minds, trapped in one body, schemed silently in the shadows.
Professor Quirrell, or rather the man who wore his face, paced nervously in his dimly lit office. His stammering persona was a perfect mask, but beneath it y the piercing intellect and cold cunning of Lord Voldemort.
His fragmented soul churned with frustration.
“This boy… this boy is dangerous,” Voldemort hissed through Quirrell’s trembling lips, though the voice inside his head was icy and commanding.
Quirrell flinched as if struck by an invisible whip. “Y-yes, M-master, but h-he’s just a f-first year,” he stuttered aloud.
“A first-year who can create wards strong enough to keep even older students at bay. A first-year who bends space and magic as if he were a master. Do not underestimate him,” Voldemort snapped.
Quirrell rubbed his temples, feeling the ache that always came when his master grew agitated. “B-but what do we d-do?”
“We make him ours,” Voldemort said, his voice dripping with venom. “We mold him, control him, and twist him into our weapon.”
Quirrell swallowed hard. “H-how?”
“Simple,” Voldemort whispered. “We exploit his ambition. Slytherins crave power, and this boy is no different. Offer him what he desires—knowledge, recognition, and influence. Let him think we are his allies, and when the time is right, we shall bend him to our will.”
Quirrell nodded hesitantly. “Y-yes, M-master. I will g-gain his trust.”
The next day, Professor Quirrell carefully observed Harry from afar. During Defense Against the Dark Arts, he pretended to stumble and stutter as always, but his sharp eyes noted every move Harry made.
Harry’s focus, his precision, and even the way he handled spells with an elegance most students cked intrigued Voldemort.
“He’s far more disciplined than his peers,” Voldemort mused. “And yet, he hides it well. But he is not invulnerable. He still seeks approval—particurly from his family and mentors.”
Later that afternoon, Quirrell decided to make his first move. He found Harry alone in the library, surrounded by books on ancient runes and protective enchantments.
“Ah, M-Mr. W-Weasley,” Quirrell said, his voice trembling as always. “Q-quite the s-student, I hear.”
Harry looked up, startled. “Professor Quirrell? Uh, thank you, sir.”
Quirrell smiled weakly. “I c-couldn’t help but n-notice your t-talent for wards. F-fascinating, truly.”
Harry shrugged. “I’ve had some practice.”
“I d-don’t doubt it,” Quirrell replied, edging closer. “But p-perhaps I could h-help you refine them? Advanced warding is q-quite the art, and I have s-some texts that might interest you.”
Harry’s curiosity was piqued, but he remained cautious. “That’s… generous of you, Professor.”
Quirrell’s eyes glinted briefly before the nervous mask returned. “N-no need to decide now. J-just know that my d-door is always open should you s-seek guidance.”
Harry nodded politely, but as Quirrell walked away, something about the encounter left him uneasy.
That night, as Quirrell y in bed, Voldemort’s voice echoed in his mind.
“He’s curious, but guarded. Good. Slowly, we’ll earn his trust. Offer him power. Offer him secrets. Feed his ambitions.”
“But, M-master, what if he r-resists?” Quirrell asked aloud.
“Then we remind him what it means to be powerless,” Voldemort hissed. **“We make him see that our path is the only path. The boy has ambition—we simply need to direct it toward us.”
And as Quirrell closed his eyes, his master’s dark ughter echoed in his head, growing louder as the night deepened.
Meanwhile, Harry was oblivious to the sinister pns forming around him.
He sat in his enchanted room, flipping through an old tome on magical barriers. Bise and Daphne were arguing over who had the best strategy for dueling practice, but Harry barely noticed.
Something about Quirrell’s offer nagged at him. There was an edge to the man’s nervousness that felt rehearsed—forced.
And yet, Harry couldn’t deny the appeal of learning more advanced warding techniques.
“Careful, Harry,” he muttered to himself, closing the book. “Curiosity killed the cat.”
Little did he know, the trap was already set, and the shadows were closing in.
Harry knelt beside his school trunk, pushing aside old textbooks, parchment rolls, and quills in search of one of the warding journals Bill had given him before leaving for Mexico. He wasn’t looking for anything specific—just something to distract himself for a while.
But as he sifted through the contents, his fingers brushed against something smooth and firm. He paused, his breath catching as he pulled out two neatly wrapped packages.
They were still pristine, untouched since Christmas. The golden ribbons glinted in the dim light of his enchanted room, and the elegant handwriting on the tags stood out sharply against the dark wrapping paper—Harry Potter.
Not Harry Weasley.
Harry stared at the parcels, his chest tightening. He had shoved them to the bottom of his trunk months ago, refusing to acknowledge their presence. It wasn’t just the contents that scared him—it was what they represented.
The Potters.
His past.
He had spent years convincing himself that they were the vilins of his story—selfish, heartless people who abandoned him without a second thought. But deep down, he had always known the truth wasn’t that simple.
“They’re just misguided fools,” Harry muttered to himself, but the words felt hollow.
For months, he had avoided opening the packages, afraid of what he might find inside. Afraid that it might change the way he felt about them—or worse, confirm everything he had already decided to believe.
But he wasn’t a scared little boy anymore. He was Harry Weasley—confident, strong, and surrounded by a family who loved him.
It was time to face his fears.
Harry took a deep breath and reached for the smaller of the two packages. He carefully pulled at the ribbon, letting it unravel before tearing away the paper.
He had no idea what he would find inside, but whatever it was, he was ready.
Harry’s hands trembled slightly as he pulled out the first item from the parcel—a photo album bound in dark green leather with gold trim. The cover was embossed with the initials H.P. in elegant lettering, and for a moment, he simply stared at it, unsure whether he wanted to open it at all.
But curiosity—or perhaps something deeper—pushed him forward.
He flipped the cover open and was immediately met with an image that froze him in pce.
It was Lily Potter, lying in a hospital bed, looking exhausted but radiant. She cradled two tiny babies in her arms—one with a mop of bck hair and the other with soft red curls. The babies squirmed and yawned, and Lily’s tired but glowing smile shifted slightly as she looked at them, her eyes bright with love.
Harry swallowed hard and turned the page.
There was James Potter, grinning widely as he held one baby in each arm. His gsses were askew, and his hair was a mess, but he looked so happy, so proud.
Another picture showed Sirius Bck, running around a grassy backyard with both toddlers chasing after him. One of the babies—Harry recognized his red hair—tripped and fell, but Sirius scooped him up instantly, twirling him around until the baby’s chubby face lit up with ughter.
Harry flipped through the pages, watching as the scenes pyed out like miniature videos.
The toddlers spshed in a small pool under the summer sun. They opened Christmas presents together, their eyes wide with wonder. They had birthday cakes with flickering candles, and James and Lily were always right there, smiling and cpping.
Harry shut the album with a snap, his heart pounding.
He felt like he had just been punched in the stomach.
These weren’t the heartless people he had imagined for so long. The smiles, the ughter, the love—they were all real.
But it didn’t change the fact that they had abandoned him.
Harry carefully unfolded the second parcel, his fingers brushing against the soft, silky fabric that shimmered faintly under the dim light of his enchanted room. The material felt unlike anything he had ever touched before—smooth as water yet almost weightless, as though it were made from mist or moonlight.
He lifted it, and the long, flowing material cascaded down, revealing itself to be a cloak—a rge cloak, clearly designed for an adult.
Harry’s brow furrowed as he studied it. It wasn’t just any cloak. The way it shimmered and seemed to fade in and out of focus set off something in his memory. He had read about this type of fabric before—in books about rare magical artifacts.
“Invisibility...” Harry whispered, realization dawning.
His gaze fell on the folded note pinned to the cloak, and he carefully detached it, unfolding the parchment to read the elegant script written in bck ink:
Dear Harry,
This cloak has been in the Potter family for generations—passed down from father to son for as long as anyone can remember. Now, it’s time for it to go to you. No matter where you are or what name you go by, I will always think of you as Harry Porter, my son.
I know we’ve made mistakes—mistakes I don’t expect you to forgive easily—but I hope this cloak will remind you of the legacy you were born into, even if you feel far away from it right now.
I gave another invisibility cloak to Charlie so that he won’t feel left out or upset if he ever finds out about this one, but make no mistake—this cloak is special. It’s a family heirloom, and it carries the weight of our history. So please... don’t lose it.
Love,
James Potter
Harry read the letter twice, his expression unreadable.
A family heirloom. Passed down from father to son. And yet, it had been wrapped up and shoved in a box, just like him.
He ran his hand over the cloak again, its silky texture calming his nerves. Despite the resentment he still carried for the Potters, there was no denying the magic radiating from the cloak. It was ancient—powerful.
But instead of feeling honored, Harry felt conflicted.
Was this supposed to make up for abandoning him? Did James Potter think he could simply gift Harry something valuable and expect everything to be forgiven?
Harry balled up the note and stuffed it back into the box, but he didn’t put the cloak away.
Instead, he draped it over his arm and stood, staring at it for a long moment.
Whatever its origins, it was his now.
And whether or not he was a Potter, Harry decided that he would use this gift as a Weasley—not as a symbol of his past, but as a tool for his future.
The invisibility cloak gave Harry a newfound sense of freedom within Hogwarts. He no longer felt bound by curfews or locked doors and quickly became bolder in his explorations. At first, he confined himself to pces he knew—wandering the dimly lit hallways, slipping into empty cssrooms, and even sneaking into the kitchens to watch the house-elves prepare meals.
But curiosity soon got the better of him.
Harry found himself drawn to the restricted section of the library, where ancient books whispered secrets in the dead of night. He carefully slipped between the towering shelves, letting his fingers trace the spines of forbidden tomes that few dared to touch. The knowledge stored here called to him, promising answers to questions he hadn’t even thought to ask.
And then there was the forbidden corridor on the third floor.
Everyone knew it was off-limits, but that only made Harry more determined to see what was hidden there. He’d heard whispers of a three-headed dog and couldn’t resist the temptation to confirm the rumors himself.
One night, draped in the shimmering folds of his invisibility cloak, Harry slipped past the suits of armor and winding staircases until he reached the entrance to the forbidden corridor. The door creaked ominously as he pushed it open, revealing the flickering torchlight inside.
His heart pounded as he stepped into the corridor, the silence almost suffocating. But before he could take more than a few steps, he collided—hard—with something solid.
Harry staggered backward, his cloak slipping slightly, and when he looked up, he froze.
It was Professor Quirrell.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor stood there, his face pale and his eyes wide with shock and fascination. For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. Then Quirrell’s gaze dropped to the shimmering fabric that Harry had hastily tried to pull back over himself.
"Is that...?" Quirrell began, his voice trembling slightly.
Harry’s mind raced. He knew he was in deep trouble—not just for being out after curfew, but for trespassing in the forbidden corridor.
“I—uh—” Harry stammered, trying to come up with an excuse, but Quirrell’s expression shifted.
Instead of anger, there was curiosity in his eyes—curiosity and something else that Harry couldn’t quite pce.
“This cloak...” Quirrell whispered, stepping closer. “Where did you get it?”
Harry hesitated. He didn’t want to admit it had come from the Potters, but he also didn’t want to lie outright.
“It’s... it’s a family heirloom,” he said cautiously.
Quirrell’s eyes gleamed. “A most remarkable heirloom indeed.”
For the briefest moment, Harry thought he saw a flicker of something dark—dangerous—pass across Quirrell’s face. But before he could process it, Quirrell straightened and stepped back.
“Detention, Mr. Weasley,” Quirrell said, his voice almost too calm. “Two weeks—two hours every day after csses.”
Harry froze. He had expected some kind of punishment for sneaking into the forbidden corridor, but two weeks? That was excessive—even for Hogwarts standards.
“W-what am I supposed to do in detention?” Harry asked cautiously, his fingers tightening around the slip.
Quirrell smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Oh, we’ll find... plenty to keep you occupied.”
That didn’t sound reassuring.
Harry’s mind raced as he left the corridor. He had heard horror stories from Fred and George about cleaning cauldrons without magic, scrubbing dungeon floors, and polishing trophies until their fingers were raw. But this—this felt different.
Quirrell didn’t seem angry or disappointed like most professors. Instead, there was something almost... interested in the way he looked at Harry, like he was studying him—testing him.
