The projection above the Pensieve shifted again.
Quirrell stood before the tall, ornate Mirror of Erised, muttering to himself.
A small figure—Harry at eleven—tried to stay hidden in the shadows.
He was spotted.
Quirrell’s wand flicked and ropes shot out, binding the boy tightly.
In the arena, several horrified gasps escaped the audience despite Harry’s earlier warning.
Real Harry lowered his novel, turned a cold glare on the stands, and the gasps died instantly.
He returned to his book without a word.
On the giant screen, Quirrell and the high, cold voice of Voldemort discussed the Stone.
Then Quirrell slowly unwrapped his turban.
He turned.
The back of his head was a hideous, distorted face.
The two voices spoke as one.
Quirrellmort grabbed Harry and forced him in front of the Mirror.
The boy struggled.
Then the grappling began.
Quirrell screamed as Harry’s hands touched him—skin blistering, turning grey, then crumbling to ash.
Harry broke free, then deliberately placed his hands on the possessed man again.
Quirrell collapsed, dead.
Almost at once a dark wraith tore itself from the body and rushed at Harry.
The memory cut to black.
Memory-Harry reappeared, expression grim.
“So, as you witnessed, I killed Quirinus Quirrell.
Yes, he was possessed.
Yes, it was by the shade of Voldemort.
And yes, a possessed person is basically a walking corpse that just hasn’t died yet.
The moment Quirrell allowed Voldemort to possess him, he was a walking dead man.
But that still does not mean I didn’t kill him.”
He paused, then began methodically dismantling the so-called defences.
“Now let’s go through those supposed traps that were—hardy-har-har—meant to stop a dark wizard getting their hands on the Philosopher’s Stone.
“The first door was locked by a simple lock that could be opened by a first-year Alohomora charm.
So any and every student in the school could get past it.
“Then we have Hagrid’s part of the sequence: the Cerberus.
The Cerberus could be put to sleep by playing music to it.
And wouldn’t you know it—Hagrid gifted me a flute the previous Christmas.
Sound fishy?
It did to me.
“Next was the Devil’s Snare.
Easily bypassed by simply relaxing.
That was obviously Pomona Sprout’s contribution.
And easy enough to understand how to get past when I discovered our resident Herbology prodigy, Neville Longbottom, had been told by Albus Dumbledore to explain to Hermione how not to get caught by it.
“Then comes the room with the flying keys, with a door that couldn’t be unlocked by Alohomora.
This was obviously Flitwick’s contribution.
And it begs the question: if his door couldn’t be opened by Alohomora, why didn’t they use that same anti-Alohomora charm on the first door?
Hmm?
“Plus, two brooms were left in the room to assist me—a prodigy Seeker—in capturing the right key.
“Next: the giant chess set.
And wouldn’t you know it, Ronald Weasley is a prodigy at chess.
“Next came the troll.
And the three of us already knew how to deal with one of those from when Hermione was nearly squished by one back on Hallowe’en.
“Then came the logic puzzle with the potions.
And Hermione Granger is a prodigy with logic puzzles.
“If you can’t figure out that this all seemed highly suspicious, you’re all even bigger idiots than I thought.
“Now, you could say this was all coincidental.
But as a famous Muggle novelist once said, ‘Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, but three times is enemy action.’ And here we have six such events.
What does that say for the happenstance-coincidence divide, hmm?
No.
It’s clear this was all a set-up.”
The arena was utterly silent except for the distant clink of the dragon’s chains.
Memory-Harry continued.
“This next memory occurred three days later.
It is the evening before the Hogwarts Express departs, and I’ve only just woken up after being unconscious since the wraith of Voldemort attacked me.”
The scene changed to the Hospital Wing.
Harry lay in bed while Madam Pomfrey fussed, scolding him for giving everyone “such a fright.” Dumbledore entered, calm and twinkling.
He told Harry he hadn’t “really” killed Quirrell, explained what had supposedly happened to the Stone, and offered him a sweet.
They spoke briefly.
Then Dumbledore left and Harry was released.
Memory-Harry reappeared, voice tight with controlled fury.
“Right.
There I was.
Eleven years old—almost twelve.
I’d just killed someone.
Dumbledore tells me I shouldn’t worry about it because the man was going to die anyway.
I’ve just killed someone and Poppy Pomfrey, the school healer, has scolded me for frightening everyone.
“Now I’m going to be blunt.
If you don’t like the language, too bad.
But… are you naffing kidding me?!
“At the very least, Pomfrey should have been organising a mind-healer so I could come to terms with what happened.
And Dumbledore should have been calling in the DMLE.
A man had just been killed, for naff’s sake!
“I was never interviewed by investigators of the DMLE, as should have happened with the death of someone.
I was never handed over to a mind-healer.
Nothing… except for what happened that night at the Leaving Feast.”
The projection showed the Great Hall decorated for the end-of-year feast.
Dumbledore stood to make announcements.
He was about to award the House Cup to Slytherin when he stopped and began handing out last-minute points.
One by one he awarded them to Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville—enough to swing the Cup dramatically to Gryffindor.
The memory ended on the stunned faces of the hall.
Memory-Harry returned.
“Did you all get that?
Dumbledore awarded me, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom the most ridiculous amount of points.
Fair enough for what Neville did, but it should never have been that many.
But he awarded the other three of us for flat-out breaking school rules!
“And he awarded me points—for killing a man!
“I’m sure you can all see there’s something mighty fishy going on here.”
High in the judges’ box, Amelia Bones leaned toward the silenced Dumbledore.
Her voice was low but carried clearly enough for those nearest to hear.
“In case you haven’t already figured it out for yourself, Albus, you’re under arrest.
When Mister Potter completes his task and you award suitable points, I’m taking you, him, Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey into the DMLE interrogation rooms for what looks like is going to be a very long chat.”
Dumbledore’s eyes flickered, but he remained silent.
He knew he was already in far too deep.
Memory-Harry let the arrest declaration hang for a moment before continuing.
“Now, my first year, as you’ve just seen, had my life at risk on a number of occasions.
First: what I didn’t show you—Quirrell jinxing my broom during the first Quidditch match, and me nearly falling to my death from a hundred feet up.
Second: that bloody troll incident.
Third: our staff-mandated night-time excursion into the Forbidden Forest.
And fourth: Quirrellmort trying to kill me when we three eleven-year-olds seemed to be the only ones who could deduce someone was making a play for the Stone that night.
“That’s four threats to my life in my first year alone.
And that’s ignoring the fact that Dumbledore had hired a Voldemort-possessed teacher to teach at Hogwarts for the entire school year.
And thereby being a constant threat to me, especially, for all but my last three days at school for that year.”
Real Harry turned another page in his novel.
The dragon at the far end of the arena let out a low, rumbling growl, as if even it sensed the weight of what had just been revealed.
The golden egg still sat untouched in its nest.
Harry had not moved toward it once.