Chapter 16: Chapter Sixteen: Another Life

Disclaimer: I do not own the franchise of Harry Potter. The world and characters used in this story belongs to J.K. Rowling. Material has been altered to suit the needs of this fanfiction.

Warning: This story is rated M for strong language and graphic violence.

Chapter Sixteen:

Another Life

...

Godric's Hollow, 14 December 1991

Godric's Hollow.

Harry was not sure how he knew that name, but that was the name, and he was in that place.

Harry stood atop a gravel road cut into a rolling hillside. To his left, further up the road, there were other dwellings, half hid but the signs of postboxes, tire tracks and cleared out driveways giving them away. To his right, the road led to the countryside, green as far as he could see. In front of him, he faced a lone cottage guarded by a white picket fence line and surrounded by sessile oak and ash trees.

Harry had a strong gut feeling the trees should have already turned to oranges, then fallen browns by the cold seasonal weather, but he shook it off. He liked them better as they were; green like summertime was the way this beautiful landscape should always appear, Harry decided. In all, this place felt familiar; like he belonged here more than anywhere else he'd ever been before.

Harry unlatched the gate and stepped toward the two story cottage. He was drawn to the upstairs window furthest to the left. He imagined the room beyond it painted bright emerald in the light. The image left him unsettled just long enough to hesitate when he reached the front door, but even then, only for a moment. The smell of freshly baked cookies lured him inside.

"Harry, is that you?" a silvery voice chimed from further within the home.

Harry followed the voice to the kitchen, where the smell of cookies grew stronger. Letting his nose guide him, he found a sheet of chocolate chip cookies cooling on the stove top.

"There you are," Harry heard the soothing voice say again, causing him to turn around.

"Mum?" Harry asked, meeting eyes as emerald as his own.

She was lithe yet womanly, dressed in comfortable jeans and jumper. Long flowing locks framed her face, in a vibrant, deep red more pleasing than the Weasley orange Harry was used to seeing at school.

"Of course, who else would I be?" Lily Potter rhetorically responded. "Now come on, everyone's been waiting for you."

"For me?" Harry asked, as his mother ushered him through the house and out the backdoor. "What for?"

"For your birthday of course," James Potter shouted from outside.

Harry ran to his father, leaping into his arms. James spun him once before putting him down.

"Happy birthday Harry," James whispered in Harry's ear.

A chorus of "Happy birthday," rang out from the gathering of Harry's closest friends. Hermione, Ron, Neville, his Quidditch team mates and more filled the backyard clearing. Even Hagrid was there, hanging off to the side, ducking under the tall branch of an oak tree.

"There are presents," Tonks pointed out, while giving him a fierce hug. "Come on," she added, taking his hand and leading him to a wooden picnic table covered in wrapped boxes.

"Open mine first," Harry heard a raucous voice speak out from behind him.

Harry yanked his hand from Tonks's, covering his face with his arm, expecting to be hit. The blow never came. Harry peeked under his arm to eye his cousin Dudley warily. The plump boy was holding out a package wrapped in gold paper. He was smiling proudly at his gift.

"It's from all of us," Uncle Vernon gruffly said.

Aunt Petunia nodded along kindling. Her sweet smile was foreign to her face, but Harry could not deny she looked much prettier this way. There was even a hint of family resemblance between his mother and aunt he would not have seen before.

"Not so fast, me first," came another voice.

"Sirius!" Harry yelled for his godfather. "You're here too?"

"Can't miss my godson's birthday, can I?" Sirius answered. "Remember, I promised? Nothing and no one is taking you away from me again."

That was true; Sirius had promised. Harry was all alone before Sirius had come for him. As long as he had Sirius, he would never be alone, not like before.

But that wasn't quite right. A flash of memories played through Harry's mind; past birthdays at the cottage, holidays overseas, cheering from the bleachers at professional Quidditch matches in Exmoor. Sirius had always been around for the important events in his life, right alongside his parents. Prongs and Padfoot were never too long away from each other. Sirius was as much a part of his family as anyone. Had Harry ever been alone?

"Come with me Harry," Sirius told him. "My gift is up in your bedroom."

Harry laughed as he chased after his godfather, who had switched to his Animagus form to charge ahead. He followed as Sirius entered a harsh green-lit room. He was standing near were Harry knew a crib should be, but there wasn't a crib; there was a twin bed. Why did he expect to see a crib?

Harry shook his head to clear his confused mind; this was his own bedroom. There was his broom propped up in the corner, and his Falmouth Falcons shirt hanging over his desk chair. And the walls were a calming light blue, not the terrifying shade of green he had imagined.

"What's my present?" Harry asked Sirius.

"The truth," Sirius cryptically answered as he handed Harry a new deck of playing cards.

"The truth?" Harry questioned, staring down at the unopened pack.

What kind of gift was that? Harry wondered.

Perhaps Sirius was a little more touched from his time in Azkaban than he let on. It must have been difficult there. Prison certainly didn't sound appealing. Combined with being surrounded by Death Eaters and placed there falsely accused of murdering his own best friend, it would be enough to drive anyone a little mad.

The idea angered Harry. Who would ever believe Sirius would betray his parents? It was Wormtail who got them killed, and it was Voldemort who did the killing. Harry's mother had died right in the very room Harry stood in.

"Harry dear," Lily Potter said, as she joined him inside the bedroom. "Everyone wants to see you. Come back downstairs."

"This is where he killed you," Harry replied. How is she here if she's dead? "Isn't it?"

"Killed?" his mother asked. "Harry, I'm fine… see?"

She reached out and took his hand gently. Harry expected a warm, protected feeling to flood his body, but all he felt was icy shiver. Her touch was cold and lifeless. She was dead.

"Sirius," Harry cried for help, "what's happening?"

"This isn't real," Sirius whispered. "I'm sorry."

It was not real. Harry remembered now. He was not in Godric's Hollow. He was not celebrating his birthday. There were no past parties. The Dursleys' never bought him gifts. His parents were dead and had been as long as he could remember.

Harry fell to the stone floor of an abandon classroom. His wand was still gripped firmly in his hand, illuminating the room. Harry blinked to clear his head. Had he been dreaming?

The scene felt so real, even though Harry knew it to be false. He was in Hogwarts. It was Christmas break, and he had just broken into Dumbledore's secret room on the fourth floor.

Harry relit his wand light and looked around. The door to the outside was open, but only a crack. Harry vaguely recalled he had left it wide open before. He scrambled to stand and make his way back through the door, but he looked back into the room before taking his leave of it. Against the far wall, there stood a mirror. His reflection was barely visible through the grimy surface.

The oval shaped mirror was freestanding, ornate and tall, nearly reaching the ceiling of the small room. Harry was drawn to it, banishing any will to run. Instead of walking away, he moved closer. Within the large golden frame was an inscription of scrolling words, which read like gibberish: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. Harry wondered if it was foreign and possibly ancient.

He touched the engraved edges and felt a shock. He instinctively jumped back and looked at the mirror again, to see his own reflection. The image through the dirty face of glass was murky and dull, but Harry's green eyes still stood out. As Harry focused on his own eyes staring back at him, the colors and shades began to swirl until those same eyes belonged to a new face. It was that of his mother, looking the same as she appeared in his dream only a few moments before.

"Mum?" Harry asked the reflection.

"Hello love," Lily Potter's image answered back.

"Are you real?" Harry asked her. "No, you aren't real; Sirius said so. This is some sort of magic."

"I'm real as you want me to be, for as long as you stare into this mirror," Lily explained.

"It isn't real," Harry said more for his own reassurance than to his mother's reflection. "I need to go."

"Then go," Lily replied, "but come back to me, my Harry."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. He wanted to stay, and the longer he remained, the greater his urge grew. He fought the feeling, gathered his bag, which had fallen from his shoulder, and ran from the room.

He did not stop running until he reached the safety of his own dorm room. Out of breath and panting, Harry tried to process what he had just experienced. He had seen his mother for the first time; she spoke with him through the mirror. Before that, he saw even more; friends, family, his father. The house and the party seemed so real, but he had awoken from it like a dream. Still, he did see his mother after he woke, and that part definitely was not a dream.

She asked for him to see her again. He wanted to; there was a part of him that never wanted to leave. He also knew he shouldn't. The mirror was obviously magical of some nature, and it must be powerful for Dumbledore to be so secretive with it. Could the mirror bring back the dead, or did it only manipulate his thoughts?

Harry needed to talk to Sirius. He would know what to make of the mirror. If there was enough time before lunch, he would travel to Hagrid's hut immediately. Harry looked outside to gauge the time.

"What?" Harry said in surprise.

The sun was low, just peeking over the trees and mountain line from the east. It was early morning. Somehow he had lost an entire day. Harry was sure the mirror was to blame.

The Forbidden Forest, 15 December 1991

When Harry joined his classmates and professors for breakfast, he was chastised by Professor McGonagall for disappearing for so long the day before. His excuse of visiting the kitchens did little to appease her wrath. As there were so few wizards to occupy the castle, she expected Harry to be present for meals. This way she could at least check on his wellbeing each day until the new semester. She also ordered Penelope Clearwater to keep an eye on Harry. It was nearly half the day spent before he was able to shake his escort and disappear on his own to find Black Dog.

Harry was hesitant to bring up the mirror, even though he knew it should have been his priority. There was an overwhelming desire to revisit it and see if his mother would return again. Still, there were other important topics to discuss with his godfather. As soon as he stepped into the clearing within the Forbidden Forest, Harry knew what he wanted to hear about most.

"How did it go?" Harry asked Sirius, referring to his godfather's exploration of the third floor corridor.

"Not at all like I thought it would," Sirius said as he stretched his human form.

"What was past the trapdoor?" Harry eagerly asked. Finally the mystery was over.

"Nothing," Sirius said. His mouth twisted into a deep frown.

"I don't understand," Harry said in confusion. "Then while did Dumbledore go to all the trouble?"

"Diversion?" Sirius guessed. "I have even more questions now than I did before. The second door on the third floor was so well locked, I was unable to open it…at least not without signaling to the whole school I was there; nearly busted up my knife trying. The door hiding Fang, however, was as simple as an Alohomora to enter.'

"Fang was put in the corridor first, but he's guarding empty rooms and hallways so filthy, I don't think those walls have seen a hobby-elf in years. I saw signs of vines beginning to grow in one of them, it was so bad. But the door next to it, I can't get into. The same goes for that door you found on the fourth floor, and who knows what's in there."

The fourth floor? How could Sirius not get inside? Harry had managed it, and come to think of it, he had even spent the night in that room. The door was left wide open when he entered, and it was certainly open when he woke up in the morning. Sirius should have seen him already inside.

"There's a mirror," Harry confessed.

It was time to talk about his experience. Though there was a part of him that wished to hold back, keep the mirror all to himself, Harry retold his experience the best he could.

"That's dark magic, Harry," Sirius warned. "I've never heard of a mirror such as that one, but the desire you felt, the things you saw, there's no question a powerful curse is involved. You must stay away. Shield you're mind from its draw. Focus your thoughts like we've practiced. Promise me this."

Harry nodded. Sirius's response was not unexpected.

"A Cerberus guarding nothing, another beast locked away just one room over, and now a cursed mirror inaccessible by my magic yet not to yours," Sirius counted off his growing worries, "Ogres released in the castle, dark magic where children can stumble upon it…Harry, I fear the worst has yet to come."

"Will you try again?" Harry asked Sirius. "…to see the mirror, I mean."

"No," Sirius stretched the word out deliberately. "It's unwise to tangle with the Dark Arts not knowing the magic involved. I was barred from the room, yet you were lured in. My mind is better guarded than your own, but the mirror could have defenses I'm not prepared for. I need more information before trying anything else. We have the Map and Hagrid's loose tongue. In time, one will lead us to what we need to know."

Hogwarts Library, 18 December 1991

Harry huddled under his Invisibility Cloak, reading by wand light over the table of contents to a massive tome. It was late, long after curfew, not that curfew was so strictly enforced during the holiday. However, Harry was more than breaking curfew; he was out of bounds researching through the books found in the Restricted Section.

Harry was attempting to make it through Hermione's list. She believed one of the 42 titles would hold the answer to the mysterious package Dumbledore was trying to protect. Starting the Sunday after his friends left for holiday, Harry began his research in the daytime hours, going through the books not restricted to him.

Much of the reading was too advanced for Harry to grasp, and it was long before other visitors to the library cottoned on to this. Mostly fifth and seventh years studying for the end of year exams, the majority of library visitors ignored him, save for an odd glance or two. Fortunately for Harry, Penelope Clearwater felt it her duty to aid Harry ever since McGonagall told her to keep an eye on him. She was the one to show Harry he could use the table of contents to expedite his search through Important Modern Magical Discoveries.

Three days later, alone in the dark, surrounded by the moaning and rattling books of the Restricted Section, Harry silently thanked her. The particular tome he was reading, Godelot's Magick Most Evile, contained everything from potions to dark rituals. He was nearing the end of possibilities held within the book. Most artifacts listed were too large to fit; the ones small enough did not seem right either. There were chapters devoted to objects like the Hand of Glory, which though dark, was not really rare, nor that valuable. And those that were rare and small were like the opal necklace in chapter 12. Capable of killing anyone who wore it, the necklace appeared to be powerful, but there were other ways to accomplish the same task, making it not important enough to guard. Harry absentmindedly brushed a finger over his scar, thinking of the Killing Curse. It was mentioned in the book as well among two other spells, classified as the Three Unforgivable Curses.

The best likelihood the book possessed was only briefly mentioned in the forward: a Horcrux. Declared "the wickedest of magical inventions", Horcruxes were not described any further. Harry scribbled the word onto the corner of Hermione's list. He would keep an eye out for more information about them in other books, even though it was an unlikely match.

Deciding that was all the tome would provide him, Harry closed it while reaching out for Secrets of the Darkest Arts with his other hand. A loud wail cried out from the closing book, and Harry frozen. He sat quietly, listening for any signs he had been discovered.

"Someone's been naughty tonight," said a singsong voice floating out from the hallway.

"Nox," Harry whispered to extinguish his lit wand.

From the library entrance, Peeves the Poltergeist stuck his head around the corner comically.

"Oh but he's keeping out of sight," Peeves sang with glee. "Oh how I love games so much. Let's see if you can keep away from Filch's clutch."

Peeves began picking up books at random and throwing them against the wall. Each book made a 'Thwack' as it impacted against the wall.

"Student out of bed," Peeves screamed.

Harry did not wait to see what happened next. He held his cloak tightly around his body and ran from the library. Reaching the Grand Staircase, he looked back to see Filch hobbling in the library's direction. Hermione's list would have to wait another day.

Gryffindor Boys Dormitory, 25 December 1991

Harry awoke Christmas morning in the same manor he had every day since his fitful experience with the mirror. Though vague and fleeting, Harry remembered just enough to know his dreams were still plagued with an eerie yearning. Half-forgotten faces and false memories haunted his unconscious state, unwilling to let the visions from the mirror fade from his mind completely.

So troublesome were his dreams, Harry did not recollect what day it was until his eyes rested on the foot of his bed. Two wrapped gifts, one long present in Gryffindor red and gold, the other poorly put together in crumpled pink, sat along with several envelopes.

"Christmas presents," Harry whispered in awe.

Harry could not remember ever receiving Christmas presents before. He had seen presents plenty. He had sat at Christmas mornings around a warm fire near the Dursleys' fake tree. He had held presents before as he handed out each gift to the proper recipient, and he collected the leftover wrapping for the bin when the gifts were opened. He had experienced Christmas, but never had he been given a gift on the day, and never given a gift that did not come secondhand.

Sirius did his best to make holidays and Harry's birthday special. His arrival was gift enough that first summer. He had also officially gifted Harry his broom after several months of learning how to fly. But Sirius was limited with what he could do for his godson, a regret the wizard often mentioned.

In the past, instead of a proper Christmas, Harry privately celebrated his own belated present-day twice a year. Without fail, it would only take Dudley Dursley a few days after Christmas or his own birthday to become tired with the old and toss them from his room. Most things were stored for safe keeping by his mother. Harry was not allowed old video games, toys or anything else Vernon Dursley deemed nonsense. The clothes, though, they went to Harry. Too large shirts and oversized pants were Harry's gifts of the past.

Harry put aside the presents for last, wanting to savor the moment. The envelopes all held cards or letters from his friends. The first he opened was from Dean, a hand drawn scene of Hogwarts covered in snow and Christmas lights. Harry attached the drawing to his head board to show it off. The next cards were from Ron and Seamus, each simply wishing him a happy Christmas, but Neville's held a magically animated scene of Santa Claus dressed in red robes and coming out of a green flamed fireplace. Within the card, Neville wrote about his holiday away from the castle, spent with his grandmother. Harry would be sure to store the card with his Hogwarts admittance letter later.

Hermione's greeting card held the longest message. Written on both inner pages of the card and an additional leaf of paper folded inside, Hermione wrote to great length about wizarding traditions and myths of the holiday. The mention of Santa using Floo travel confirmed Harry's suspicions brought on by Neville's animated card, and the tirade over the myth that Santa used slave labor instead of employing his elves, set off bells in Harry's head to be sure and not show Hermione the Hogwarts kitchens anytime soon. But mostly Harry just skimmed over the history lesson. From what he gathered, traditions weren't too far off from what he remembered from living with the Dursleys. Harry added Hermione's card to Neville's for safe keeping, then moved onto the presents.

The pink bundle of wrapping paper, held together with long bands of Spello-tape, was a gift from Tonks. Within, Harry found a smart looking pair of Quidditch goggles. Harry smiled at the thoughtful gift; he couldn't count the number of time he had to push his glasses back into place when playing the sport. He tested them for fit, and then left them loose around his neck to open his second present.

There was no note attached to the package cluing Harry to the giver, merely a flourishing black ink 'Harry' written across one gold stripe of the wrappings. Harry was careful to preserve the handwriting in hopes of matching to the author later; he really should thank them for such an incredible present. That is, if the present was what he thought it was. Holding it in his hands, the weight and length, it really could be nothing else.

Harry opened the package to find a new broom: a Nimbus 2000. Harry recognized the broom by name from the short list of brooms Oliver Wood claimed were best for a Seeker. The broom was supposedly very fast, with powerful breaks not found in other less speedy brooms like Harry's Oakshaft.

"Wait until Wood sees me on this," Harry whispered to himself.

Harry glanced through his window to look at the Quidditch Pitch covered in snow. Checking the hanging clock against the far wall, he noted that breakfast would be ready in the Great Hall soon. He most likely would miss it if he headed off for the pitch, but then again, lunch wasn't too far off. Harry jumped out of bed a dressed in his warmest robes; he was headed for the pitch.

Harry spent the morning flying on his new broom. It took a good portion of that time to get a handle on its increased speed; Wood didn't exaggerate about the difference between the Nimbus and the Oakshaft. Finally coming down from the high of his presents, the harsh cold of winter caught up with him and put a stop to his acrobatic flying.

Seeing smoke rising from Hagrid's chimney, he decided to pay Hagrid and Black Dog a visit. He knew he could get warm inside the hut, and he wanted to show off his new broom to Sirius.

"Happy Christmas Harry," Hagrid's booming voice rang as he ushered Harry inside.

"Happy Christmas, Hagrid. Happy Christmas, Black Dog," Harry spoke through chattering teeth, while heading straight for the lit fireplace.

Black Dog curled up with Harry near the fire, trying to help warm the boy up with body heat. His head lifted and nudged Harry, letting him know he'd seen the new broom. Harry beamed at him and nodded his head for a reply. Harry then shook the goggles hanging from his neck to show then off as well.

"Glad ya stopped by," Hagrid said, grabbing Harry attention. "Got sumthin' fer ya."

Fishing through his oversized robe pockets, Hagrid pulled out a brown paper wrapped present. Harry carefully took it from him, judging the weight of it. Removing the wrapping, he saw a brown leather cover. A book? Harry guessed. He examined the cover and did not see a title. So he opened it to see what inside.

Instead of text, he found pictures… pages of them. Each was black and white, but the images moved with magic. It took a moment for Harry to recognize what he was looking at. These were not just picture of young Hogwarts students; these were pictures of his parents.

"Been gatherin' 'em up since summer," Hagrid explained. "When ya told me ya didn't know much about 'em, I thought maybe I could show ya."

Harry did not dare look away from the pages as he watched the smiling faces of his parents and their friends, but his watery eyes and reverence when he whispered 'thank you' spoke of just how special the gift was. Better than any broom, Harry thought.

Hogwarts Owlery, 26 December 1991

Harry finished tying his last 'thank you' letter to a school owned barn owl. The letter was only addressed to 'N. Tonks', but Professor McGonagall had assured Harry at breakfast that was all a messenger owl needed to make the delivery.

Overhead, a white blur flew by. Harry looked up to see if it was Professor Quirrell's owl, but was disappointed to see the bird had far too many black spots to be nearly as beautiful as the owl called Hedwig.

Checking the time, Harry decided he perhaps should take up Quirrell's offer for a chat over the holidays. That way, he might get a chance to see the magnificent owl again. He really didn't have anything he would rather do with his day. He could return to the library, but he was tired of reading. He needed a break for Hermione's extensive list. He could also help Hagrid with the animals, or maybe look through the photo album again, or maybe visit the mirror to actually talk with his parents. What if he just went by the room to see if it was still locked? If it was: fine, he would go on his way. If it was not…he could perhaps withstand another visit with his mum; his last visit didn't hurt him any.

No, Sirius thinks it must be magic so dark even he won't go near it, Harry chided himself.

He really was trying to not think about the room, but was it really his fault the idea popped into his mind? Hagrid just gave him an album full with images of his family, each picture moving as if alive, but they couldn't communicate with him. The mirror, on the other hand, could give him a convincing facsimile of the family he craved. All he had to do was get inside the room again. But he would not do it; he promised Sirius. So, he headed for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom instead.

When Harry reached the main castle, he began to head left, taking the back way around to the classroom. The right lead to the Entrance Hall and was the most direct route to the Central Tower's Grand Staircase, but it also required passing Filch's office, a place he preferred to avoid.

"Blasted little demon," Harry heard a muffled disembodied voice grumble. It was followed by the appearance of Sir Nicolas de Mimsy Porpington, the ghost who students mockingly nicknamed 'Nearly Headless Nick', floating through the wall toward him.

"Hello Sir Nicolas," Harry greeted the apparition.

"What, what?" the ghost asked, as he finally took note of Harry. "The newest Mr. Potter, a pleasure always. And call me Nick; everyone else does. I see you journey south; I suggest thinking better of it."

"I was headed to the Defense classroom," Harry said.

"Ah, I shall escort you, come along then," Sir Nicolas began to float down the hall toward Filch's office. "It's best we go this way. Peeves has struck once more, making all sorts of racket, and there's a smell… well, if I hadn't already died, that would have done the trick."

"Should we warn someone?" Harry asked, joining Nick.

"Our ever beguiling Grey Lady has made off to fetch the Bloody Baron," Sir Nicolas answered. "If anyone can put a stop to devil, it is he."

"He's not the nicest ghost," Harry commented.

"The Baron has his moments," Nicolas defended the gory Slytherin ghost.

"Oh, yeah… no, he's alright," Harry lied. The Bloody Baron was disturbing to look at, with his blood-soaked clothes and overall dark aura. But Harry wasn't referring to the baron. "I meant Peeves."

"Peeves is not a ghost," Sir Nicolas said, offended by the comparison. "A poltergeist is a horse of a completely different color." Nick could tell Harry was confused, so he continued, "All ghosts were once very much alive wizards. In 1492, I was a wizard of some renown, not unlike yourself, I dear say. I met my unfortunate end by the dull blade of an axe, a rather unjust punishment for a miscast tooth-growing charm."

Harry jerked his head to look at the ghost, and tripped as he stepped into the Entrance Hall.

"You were killed because you charmed someone's teeth?" Harry asked.

"Not just anyone, Mr. Potter," Nicolas said, "the lovely Lady Grieve, betrothed to a foul wizard by the name of Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore. He and I were rivals in our younger days, and when the opportunity struck, so did the executioner. Of course, Podmore got his in the end, and our rivalry lives on, even if we do not.'

"Peeves, on the other hand… he is a malicious entity, born and fed from chaotic energies and extreme emotions. His every action is a mechanism to promote more chaos and panic to feed from, and his childlike behavior is a direct result of feeding on the youthful emotions of Hogwarts students. A poltergeist in any other place could be quite deadly."

"And would require an e-exorcism," Professor Quirrell added, joining Harry and Nick in the hallway.

It was not until Quirrell spoke that Harry realized they had reached the classroom.

"Quite right," Sir Nicolas added, "though one could argue Peeves deserves one as well." Turning to face Harry, Sir Nicolas bowed, holding the top of his head to keep it in place. "You have arrived safely, so I will take my leave. Do take care."

With that, Nick sunk through the floor and out of sight.

"You came to see me then, eh Potter?" Quirrell asked.

"Yes sir," Harry answered. "You said I should stop by during the break."

"So I did," Quirrell recalled. "Come in, won't you?"

Quirrell backed away from the door opening to allow Harry to enter, and headed to the stairs leading to his office. Harry felt a blast of heat as he entered the classroom. Looking for the source, Harry was surprised to see the room covered in low burning torches and floating candlelight. Harry pulled at his robe to create air flow.

"A-ah s-sorry about the temperature," Quirrell stuttered, "but the fire is necessary."

Quirrell motioned to the far left corner of the classroom. Squatting atop on a backless stool, sat a pale green, hairless ape-like creature. Its shinny face shifted in form as its wide-spaced, beady eyes looked about the room independently of each other. Without any permanent structure, its skin and muscle slid around loosely, giving it a slimy appearance. Its long arms stuck out far beyond the length of the old brown robe it wore, hugging a pair of short legs. From next to the creature, a flame flickered, causing it to howl in a startled moan and rock wildly on its stool. Only its firm curled-toed grip of the seat kept it from falling off its perch.

"Caught this one pretending to be a suit of armor on the sixth floor," Quirrell said.

"What is it?" Harry asked. The beast was rather unsightly, but Harry could not help but feel bad for it.

"Right," Quirrell said sheepishly. "We haven't c-covered them in class yet. This is a Chameleon Ghoul. It's capable of mimicking shapes, like the suits of armor found all over the castle. Notice how its features won't stay constant; it's the flame's doing. The ghoul can't latch onto the form, and it has a natural f-fear of fire."

"Is it dangerous?" Harry asked, trying to piece together why Quirrell was willing to trap it.

"They can be," Quirrell explained. "Most ghouls are just annoyances, p-pests really. This one, however, tried to eat Filch's cat. I offered to keep it for class dem-demonstration rather than let Filch dispose of it like he wished."

"So you'll just keep it surrounded by fire until term begins again?" Harry questioned. "It seems a bit cruel."

"No," Quirrell said with a smile, "I'm training it! See the robe? Took two days for it to not mind them. It sits when told, as well. It'll be quite the little assistant by term, I'd wager."

Harry doubted the creature's usefulness as he watched the ghoul's large bucked-teeth gnawed on its robe sleeve.

"Enough of that now," Quirrell commanded, sending sparks out from his wand to startle the ghoul into obedience. "Come along, Harry. It's less stuffy up the stairs."

Once atop the stairs, they entered the cluttered space of Quirrell's office. The office had torches like the ones placed in Quirrell's classroom, but none were lit, leaving the room much more livable than the classroom. The professor used his wand to move a couple dozen small straw-stuffed wooden crates to clear space to sit down. He then sat behind his desk, kicking his feet up on a corner of the desk to relax. Harry took one of two matching padded chairs on the other side. From near the window ledge, Hedwig glided to Harry and sat on the armrest.

After some hesitation, Harry kicked his feet up on one of the crates to mimic Quirrell, and noticed heat emanating from it through his worn out shoes. Warming Charm, Harry thought. The felling was rather pleasant in the cooler office space. Now aware of the warmth, Harry could feel it radiating from several sources in the office. He really did need Sirius to show him the spell, especially with the cold Quidditch practices he knew would be ahead of him.

"After your conversation with Nick," Quirrell said as he searched his desk, "you may find this of interest."

Harry busied himself by petting Hedwig in a soothing manor, as Quirrell riffled through a drawer. Eventually, the professor pulled out group of clippings that had been stuffed in a folder. He spread the news clippings on his desk turning them to all face Harry. They were headlines and stories filled with gruesome Muggle killings, haunted houses, and mysterious sightings on lonely roads. Several of them were in languages Harry did not recognize.

"Ghosts, spectres, poltergeists, d-dementors," Quirrell began, pointing to different articles. "All are apparitions of a sort, yet very different in behavior and origin. Spectres are no more than shadows of events and people past, harmless as a moving photograph. Dementors, on the other hand, can r-remove one's soul. Ghosts and poltergeists fall between the other two, one a memory made sentient, the other emotion given life, but they all must feed off energy, emotion, magic.'

"The occupants of the castle and the land its rests on provide all the ambient energy the ghosts need to survive. They do well, and Peeves in comparison is more t-troublesome. Don't let them fool you though; a ghost can be as p-powerful as the magic which created it. How they are perceived is chosen by the emotional state the wizard was in at the time of his d-death. That's not just their outward appearance, but how they're r-remembered as well."

Quirrell paused to let the information sink in. Harry's brows were knit together when he looked up from the articles to stare his professor in the eyes.

"Take our Grey Lady of Ravenclaw," Quirrell pointed out, "who is she, or rather who was she? We don't know, yet s-someone must have known her at the time of her death. We don't know because she does not wish for us to know. Whatever past shame or secret she's hiding; her identity has been forgotten thanks to the magic in her creation."

"So a ghost can change our memory?" Harry asked to clarify. "One day someone we know could die and then they could make us think whatever they wanted of them?"

"Whatever they subconsciously desired," Quirrell corrected, "and to the limit of the magic involved in their death, yes, but no magic is invincible. A memory once hidden can be found again."

"That's rather dark magic to discuss with a first year," Professor McGonagall said, making her presence known. Speaking to Harry, she added, "Perhaps your time could be better spent with the other students. A couple Ravenclaws were playing chess in the Great Hall. I'm sure they let you join… or you could go flying. I believe you received a new broom. You should be familiar with it before Mister Wood gets ahold of you."

"You got a new b-broom for Christmas?" Quirrell reintegrated himself into the conversation.

"Yeah," Harry said excitedly. "I also got a new pair of goggles from Tonks, and Hagrid gave me photographs of my parents."

"Did you get anything from your a-admirers?" Quirrell asked with a grin.

"My what?" Harry asked in confusion. "No, just my friends."

Harry looked back and forth between his professors to explain.

With an exasperated breath, McGonagall said, "You were given other gifts, many others from wizards all over England. We've kept them back, but for good reason. When you came to our school, you were placed under our protection. For every wizard with good intentions, there could be another who could hurt you without even meaning to do so."

"Ah," Quirrell nodded his head in understanding, "l-love potions and the like could mess with your head. Who knows what kind of c-charms a lovesick witch might use."

"More than just that," McGonagall said. "Cursed objects, Portkeys and magical contracts could all be hidden within something as small at a letter. We could return them all to you; however, the Professors would need to check them all first. It would take time, and would not be without risk."

The mirror on the fourth floor and Sirius's warning of dark magic came to the forefront of Harry's mind.

"No, professor," Harry said, "that's not necessary. I don't really know those other wizards anyway."

"A wise decision Mister Potter," McGonagall approved.

"Right," Harry said, "thanks…I think I'll go flying now." Harry glanced to the crates. "That is if one of you wouldn't mind casting a Warming Charm on me. Chess is more Ron's speed than mine."

"I was never one for chess either," Quirrell spoke as he cast the spell silently. "Then again, I was never any good at f-flying a broom. Now, magic carpets on the other hand…"

"Are illegal," McGonagall interrupted." Run along Mister Potter; Professor Quirrell and I have a staff meeting to attend."

With a quick goodbye to Hedwig, Harry left to retrieve his broom. He cut through hallways and passages with thoughts on memory altering magic, ghosts, death, and dark artifacts running through his mind. When he reached an old wooden door, he gripped the cold iron handle to pull it open.

Iron Handle? Harry questioned. He was headed to Gryffindor Tower, where he last left his broom. Did I take a wrong turn?

Harry stepped back, hand still on the handle, to see where he was. Instantly he knew; he was on the fourth floor, standing before the room holding the dark mirror. Startled and scared, he released the handle. But it opened on its own.

"Harry," his mother's voice rang out. "Come to me, Harry. I've been waiting for you."

"We all have," that was James Potter; Harry was sure of it.

"Dad?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer.

As quickly as that, Harry found himself embraced by his dead parents. They were on the porch of their home again, the same porch where they celebrated his birthday. Godric's Hollow, Harry thought. No, Hogwarts; I'm at Hogwarts. He was surrounded by stone, inside the castle where he attended school, not Godric's Hollow, wherever that may be. Godric's Hollow, with green forest and his parents' home. His mother led him to the railing of the porch.

"Do you see Hogwarts?" Lily Potter pointed off into the distance. Trees parted, landscape shifted until the castle rose into view.

Yes, Hogwarts, that's right. Harry thought, but he was seeing it from a distance, he should be inside of it.

Harry shook his head to clear the fog. His mother was in front of him through the glass of the mirror. Harry turned away from her, to see the door to the room had already closed behind him.

"When did I get inside the room?" Harry questioned. Last he remembered, he should have been outside of it.

"Harry," Lily called for him. She was still in the mirror, but her arms were outstretched from it, reaching for him.

"Harry," She cried again.

Harry closed his eyes so not to be tempted.

"Harry," her voice was raspy and firm.

"Harry." That was not his mother's voice.

Harry was shaken hard, and when he opened his eyes, he found blue ones staring back at him. Albus Dumbledore was half kneeled down before Harry.

"Come with me Harry," Dumbledore said, the hand on Harry's shoulder not giving him a choice but to move where Dumbledore did.

He led Harry back into the hallway and further down the corridor until the room with the mirror was out of sight.

"You fought against it," Dumbledore finally spoke. His eyes bored into Harry's until the boy couldn't take it any longer and looked away. "I'm sorry you had to face it. I hoped my protections would keep it away until it could be moved again."

"What was it?" Harry asked. Even Sirius was not for sure.

"The Mirror of Erised," Dumbledore said, "it is a powerful magical artifact capable of showing one's deepest desire. You saw your parents, yes?" Getting the affirmative nod, Dumbledore continued, "you long for your family more than anything else, so the mirror showed your family.'

"But you must not return to the mirror again. There is danger in finding comfort within the mirror's thrall. The mirror has a desire of its own; it craves to be seen, and feeds on your magic once you gaze upon it. Its hunger is insatiable, Harry. You feel tired; that is the mirror's doing. That is the result of its power. You can rest now; it is safe to do so. When you wake, the mirror will be move elsewhere, and you will not see it again."

Dumbledore was right, Harry was tired. His eyelids were too heavy to keep open.

"Sir," Harry began to ask, fighting to stay awake. "You saw the mirror; what did you see?"

"A warm pair of socks for a cold day," Dumbledore whispered his response as Harry drifted off.

A/N: Some different and some the same, what did you think of the mirror?

Harry received only a couple presents. Students can't leave the castle to shop for gifts. Also, it feels silly for Molly to knit a jumper for Harry this first year. Harry is one of Ron's new friends, but Molly has never met him.

I'm getting messages about Harry's wand and the Invisibility Cloak, so hopefully this will clear things up for readers:

Harry has the yew wand instead on the holly; this is on purpose, and the switch is explained by Ollivander in Chapter Three.

Sirius was aware of Filch taking the Marauder's Map, but had no idea Wormtail was the one who stole James's Invisibility Cloak. This is explained by Sirius in Chapter Fifteen.

Next Chapter: Harry handles Hagrid's gambling problem.