Harry potter The Boy Who Remembers

Was that what happened when you split your soul? You take away some of what makes you, well, you. A soul is an abstract but sacred thing. Seeing someone tamper with it made him want to throw up. It was sacrilege that for some reason made Harry angry. And the obvious taint from the unicorn blood had even suppressed even the few things that the man enjoyed. Voldemort couldn't be called a man, because his soul could barely qualify as one. He would never experience joy because of what he has done to unicorns, he will never experience love, and he will never empathize with any being.

All he could experience was hate and rage. What a cursed experience, even if he came back to his body he would be as miserable as he was as a wraith. The mere thought of being forced to serve such a man was so revolting. Deep down in his soul, Harry was utterly disgusted with the length the man had gone to for power. Death was preferable. He didn't know why he refused his self-preservation instincts and tried to fool the dark lord somehow, to live another day, but it was like his body moved on its own.

Of course, the man's intelligence was still there. And unfortunately, Harry's gambit with sending a letter to Dumbledore hadn't panned out. For one, the headmaster probably already knew about Quirrell being guilty, especially with the rumoured personality changes. And also, the Dark Lord simply didn't care about his threat. It was a half-baked idea, but Harry couldn't have done anything else.

No, he could have, but he was unwilling to do it. He was so certain that everything was going to go with the script, that he was safe. But Voldemort hadn't confronted anyone before trying to steal the stone, and yet he did Harry. This wasn't a story. People didn't follow some sort of script because the stories said so. No, things were different, and banking on them was utterly foolish. Harry wanted nothing to do with the spat between Dumbledore and Voldemort and yet was pulled into it regardless.

He was an idiot for not taking things seriously, for considering this to be a children's story. And when Quirrell revealed his crimson eyes, Harry knew deep down that everything had changed. Voldemort had completely taken over the man's body and wasn't just hitching a ride.

No more.

He wasn't going to stand aside and wait for the story to occur in front of him. For one, he had no faith in Longbottom of all people, and he definitely didn't trust Dumbledore or Voldemort. He was going to live his life how he wants it because it was his. He was going to fight for his own side, for his own right to freedom, and if some wannabe Archmages wants to stop him, then he will surpass them all.

With a renewed sense of confidence, Harry felt things snap into place. His magical crest warmed up slightly, but instead of the intense heat and discomfort he always felt, it was oddly comforting.

Speaking of the crest, there was still something that he was missing. How did the conflict end? He refused the dark lord's offer and tried to blackmail him, banking on Longbottom killing him because of the whole love magic bullshit that he probably had, or at least, that the headmaster wanted to convince the boy he had. Harry was still convinced that it was an elaborate sacrificial ritual, but it was not like he could convince anyone if Albus Dumbledore himself said otherwise.

Back to the conflict, Harry started to remember. Voldemort had cast the killing curse at him. But something happened. He was like he was hypnotized again by his crest, but it was a little more forceful than the time in the forest. He clenched his hand enough to get some blood and palmed his cloak, which was his invisibility cloak in disguise. When he touched it, he heard a voice in his head. It was more like the wind itself was whispering in a language that Harry had never learnt but could somehow understand, "No magic can touch those who travel between worlds!"

And then Harry felt his magic being dried up, and then absorbing forcefully the ambient magic around. Calling it painful would be an understatement. It barely lasted more than a fraction of a second, but Harry could feel as if his body was tearing itself out. The curse passed through him and splashed into the enchanted castle walls. Afterwards, everything turned black.

Was this a capability of the cloak? To somehow phase through magic? If that was the case, it was somewhat overpowered, but it was very costly magically. Harry doubted that he would be able to do it without consequences any time soon. After all, if using it once had sucked his magic dry enough to put him in the infirmary for what felt like days, he was not planning on doing so anytime soon.

Harry was so engrossed with his thoughts that he hadn't noticed that the room was not silent, at least not as much as it should have been. He heard two faint voices speaking. It took a few seconds for the Potter to recognize them, the voices belonged to Longbottom and Dumbledore.

The boy sounded surprisingly vulnerable, the encounter with the monster who killed his parents must have shaken him, deeply. The mere revelation that Voldemort was still alive must have terrified the boy to his bones. Of course, the headmaster kept reassuring him, and told him about Voldemort being alive and the fate of the stone. Harry didn't trust the man one bit and didn't actually believe that the real stone was in the forbidden corridor, in the first place.

The conversation seemed stale until Longbottom asked, "Why couldn't Quirrell touch me?"

Oh, so, Quirrell had died in exactly the same way as the stories. That was something. It was hard to believe that the man that had so easily beaten Harry could have been destroyed by the accidental touch of a twelve-year-old boy that's barely more than average in his magical studies. There was something odd about it.

Of course, the man started a small speech about the power of love, and his mother's sacrifice.

The boy, funnily enough, didn't seem to take it at face value, "Professor, I thought it was some kind of alchemical ritual or something. Something about a life for a life."

The aged headmaster's voice took a harsh tone, "Who told you that, my boy?"

"Potter did, sir. He said it was the only way he could think of. That it was preposterous that people believed that I was involved in any way."

"He's a clever boy, young Harry, far more advanced beyond his years, and yet he doesn't know anything. In a way, he was correct. Many theories emerged on how exactly you survived. People tried to scry for years in an attempt to take a glimpse of what happened and replicate it somehow. I will admit that such a method did enter my mind, but there were simply no signs of a ritual there, not even a single trace, which would have existed should something of this magnitude have occurred. Such a ritual would also not continue to protect you now. Sometimes, people tend to forget about the simple things in life. They make convoluted theories about complex subjects, forgetting how something as simple and as pure as love can even ignite the stars themselves. Isn't that right, Mr Potter?"

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