The Tenth Weasley - CH - 43

The day Harry was released from the hospital wing, he was greeted with a warm welcome from Daphne and Blaise, who were waiting for him just outside the wing. Both of them looked relieved and curious, their expressions filled with concern and anticipation.

“Harry!” Daphne exclaimed, rushing to his side. “Are you okay? We’ve been worried sick. Blaise and I couldn’t stop wondering what happened.”

“Yeah, mate,” Blaise added, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. “You disappear for a night, then the next thing we know, you’re in the hospital wing with no explanation. Spill it.”

Harry hesitated, glancing around the corridor. He remembered Dumbledore’s stern words before he left the hospital wing: "You must not speak of Voldemort’s survival or his involvement in the events that transpired. The news could cause unnecessary panic, and worse, it might alert his remaining followers. Some of them are still powerful and influential, and if they rally to his side, it will hasten his return. We cannot afford that right now."

Harry took a deep breath, forcing a casual smile. “I just had a bit of a mishap,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “You know me, always finding trouble. I got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Daphne narrowed her eyes. “That’s a very vague explanation.”

Blaise smirked. “Sounds like someone’s under orders to keep quiet.”

Harry chuckled nervously. “Let’s just say it was a bit more excitement than I’d planned for.”

Despite their curiosity, neither Blaise nor Daphne pushed further, sensing that Harry wasn’t ready—or allowed—to talk about it. They spent the rest of the walk to the Slytherin common room chatting about end-of-year plans and exams, carefully avoiding the topic of what had landed Harry in the hospital wing.

As they entered the common room, Harry was met with a mixture of admiration and wariness from his housemates. Whispers followed him as he passed, and he caught fragments of conversations.

“...He was involved in something big…”
“...Probably something dangerous…”
“...Wonder if it’s true he outsmarted a professor…”

Harry ignored the murmurs, grateful that no one knew the full story. He sank into his favorite chair by the fireplace, feeling the weight of everything that had happened. Daphne and Blaise sat beside him, their presence grounding him in the present.

Later that evening, as he prepared for bed in his private room, Harry couldn’t help but reflect on Dumbledore’s warning. He had faced Voldemort and survived—again. But the knowledge that the Dark Lord was still out there, waiting and plotting, sent a chill down his spine.

For now, he would keep the secret and focus on what lay ahead. The battle might be far from over, but Harry Weasley wasn’t going to back down.

The news of Professor Quirrell's death spread quickly through Hogwarts, and while many students expressed polite sadness, it was clear that his passing didn't stir much grief. For most students, Quirrell had been a stuttering, nervous man who rarely taught anything of value. His classes had been uninspired, his demeanor timid, and his reputation unimpressive. Many dismissed the news as yet another case of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher leaving under unusual circumstances.

However, those who paid closer attention—especially within Slytherin—noticed something peculiar. Harry Weasley had been Quirrell's undeniable favorite, and their frequent, private meetings hadn't gone unnoticed. The bond between them had been a topic of speculation for months, and now, with Quirrell gone, whispers began to spread.

“What kind of accident could have killed him?” one Slytherin murmured to another in the common room.
“Do you think Harry knows anything?” asked a curious Ravenclaw at dinner.
“He spent so much time with Quirrell—he must have some idea,” said a Gryffindor to her tablemates.

Back in the Slytherin common room, Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass cornered Harry after dinner. They had been patient, but their curiosity finally got the better of them.

“Alright, Harry,” Blaise said, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “What’s going on? First, you disappear, end up in the hospital wing, and now your favorite professor conveniently dies in an ‘accident.’ Spill.”

Harry, sitting casually in his favorite armchair, gave them a lopsided grin. “Do you think I’m some kind of walking bad luck charm?”

Daphne rolled her eyes, pulling up a chair beside him. “We’re serious, Harry. Everyone knows Quirrell favored you. If anyone knows what really happened, it’s you.”

Harry shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. “Honestly, I don’t know much more than you do. I heard he was caught up in some kind of magical accident. It’s sad, but…” He trailed off, letting them draw their own conclusions.

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “You’re deflecting.”

Daphne leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Harry, we’re your friends. If there’s something going on, you can tell us. We’re not going to judge you—or betray you.”

Harry hesitated, his mind racing. He couldn’t tell them the truth—not about Voldemort, not about the Philosopher’s Stone, and certainly not about the dark magic Quirrell had taught him. But he also couldn’t ignore their concern.

“Look,” he said finally, “Quirrell was… complicated. He taught me a lot, but he was also dealing with things I didn’t fully understand. Whatever happened to him, it’s over now. Let’s leave it at that.”

Daphne and Blaise exchanged a glance but didn’t press further. They could tell Harry wasn’t ready—or willing—to share more, and they respected his boundaries. For now.

Elsewhere in the castle, rumors continued to swirl. Some students speculated that Quirrell had been dabbling in dangerous magic, while others whispered about a possible curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. A few even claimed to have seen Harry sneaking around the castle late at night before Quirrell’s death, though no one could confirm it.

Despite the growing curiosity and gossip, Harry kept his head down and focused on his studies. He had survived Quirrell, Voldemort, and the challenges of the Philosopher’s Stone, but the real challenge was staying one step ahead of the whispers—and whatever came next.

While most students whispered rumors or simply ignored him, the professors began paying him an unusual amount of attention. Harry could feel their eyes on him during meals, in the corridors, and even during classes. It was as if they were studying him, trying to decipher if he had been tainted by his connection with the man now revealed to be under Voldemort's control.

One morning, Harry received a summons to the Headmaster’s office. He knew this was coming but couldn’t shake the unease creeping into his chest. When he arrived, he found Professor Dumbledore waiting for him with his usual calm demeanor. Yet, there was a sharpness in his gaze that Harry hadn’t noticed before.

“Please, sit down, Harry,” Dumbledore said kindly, gesturing to a plush chair.

Harry complied, trying to mask his nerves.

“I hope you’re recovering well,” Dumbledore began, folding his hands on the desk. “I wanted to discuss the events surrounding Professor Quirrell. I understand you’ve already been asked not to share certain details, and I trust you have respected that request.”

Harry nodded cautiously. “Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling faintly. “You were under Professor Quirrell’s tutelage for quite some time. I believe he took a special interest in you.”

Harry’s heart raced. He knew where this was going. “He… He helped me with advanced studies, sir,” Harry admitted carefully. “Defense magic, mostly.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Advanced studies, indeed. And yet, I wonder… were there lessons he taught you that perhaps raised questions in your mind? Anything that seemed… unusual?”

Harry hesitated. “He knew a lot about the Dark Arts,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But he always said knowledge itself isn’t dangerous—only how it’s used.”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then said, almost casually, “You’ve built quite an impressive mental shield for someone your age, Harry. Occlumency, is it not?”

Harry tensed. “I thought Legilimency was illegal to use on underage wizards,” he said, his voice sharp. “But if you must know, my brother Bill taught me occlumency. He said it’s a good skill to have.”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Indeed. A most useful skill,” he said. “I meant no intrusion, Harry. You are quite right—Legilimency without consent is frowned upon. I simply needed to ensure your thoughts remained your own.”

Harry nodded, his expression carefully neutral, though inside he was furious. It wasn’t a lie that Bill had introduced him to occlumency, but it was Quirrell’s brutal, demanding lessons that had strengthened his defenses. He had no intention of sharing that detail.

As Harry left the Headmaster’s office, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Dumbledore suspected more than he was letting on.

Back in the Slytherin common room, Daphne and Blaise immediately noticed his unease.

“What happened?” Blaise asked, lowering his book.

“Dumbledore,” Harry muttered, slumping into a chair. “He tried to dig around in my mind.”

Daphne’s eyes widened. “Legilimency? That’s… intense.”

Harry nodded. “I blocked him, but now I feel like everyone’s watching me. The professors, Dumbledore—it’s like they’re waiting for me to snap.”

Blaise leaned forward. “Well, what did you say? Did you tell him about Quirrell?”

“Of course not,” Harry snapped. “I just told him what he wanted to hear. But it doesn’t matter. They already think I’m a ticking time bomb.”

Harry made his way to the hospital wing, the news of Charlie Potter's recovery swirling in his mind. He felt conflicted—visiting Charlie meant entering the lion's den of Potters, but Harry felt it was something he needed to do. After all, Charlie deserved to know the truth, even if it was uncomfortable.

When Harry reached the hospital bed, he saw the Potters gathered around Charlie, smiling and chatting as if the recent events hadn't shaken them to their core. Charlie’s bed was adorned with brightly wrapped presents, cards, and even a few enchanted balloons sent by his admirers in Gryffindor. Harry hesitated for a moment, but then Charlie spotted him.

"Harry!" Charlie called out, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Hey, come in. It's good to see you."

Harry stepped closer, feeling the watchful eyes of James, Lily, and Rose Porter on him. "Hi, Charlie," Harry said, keeping his tone even. "How are you feeling?"

Charlie shifted slightly, wincing as he moved. "Tired, but better. They say I’ll be fine in a few days. Thanks to you, of course. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what would’ve happened in that chamber."

Harry shook his head, trying to downplay it. "You were the one who defeated Voldemort."

Charlie snorted. "Don’t sell yourself short. I saw how fiercely you fought. I just got lucky."

The Potters exchanged nervous glances but said nothing. Lily finally broke the silence. "It was very brave of both of you," she said, her voice filled with maternal warmth, though her gaze lingered on Harry a little too long, as if she was searching for something.

Harry nodded politely, but he didn’t linger on the conversation. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out the photo album the Porters had given him for Christmas.

"I brought you something," Harry said, placing the album gently on the bedside table.

Charlie's eyes widened, and his smile faltered slightly. "What’s this?"

Harry avoided his gaze. "Something your parents gave me for Christmas. Thought you might want to have it."

The Potters stiffened, and James’s hand twitched as though he wanted to grab the album. Lily’s face paled, her expression torn between panic and guilt.

“Harry—” Lily began, but Harry cut her off.

"He already know, Mrs. Potter," Harry said quietly but firmly. "Voldemort told him…. It’s not exactly a secret anymore."

James opened his mouth, but Harry didn’t give him a chance to speak. "Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Take care, Charlie."

With that, Harry turned and left the room, ignoring the whispers that broke out behind him. He had done what he needed to do.

As soon as Harry was gone, Charlie picked up the photo album, his brows furrowed. He flipped it open, and the first picture stopped him cold. It was of his mother in a hospital bed, holding two tiny babies—one with dark hair and one with red.

"Mom?" Charlie asked, his voice trembling. "Dad? What is this?"

Lily’s eyes filled with tears, and James ran a hand through his hair, looking like he wanted to disappear. Rose sat frozen, her eyes darting between the album and her parents.

"You have a brother, Charlie," Lily finally said, her voice breaking.

Charlie’s face turned pale, and his hands trembled as he flipped through the album, seeing photo after photo of himself and Harry as babies, toddlers, and small children. The images moved, showing moments of laughter, play, and togetherness.

"But… why didn’t you ever tell me?" Charlie asked, his voice cracking. "Where has he been all this time?"

James sighed heavily. "It’s a long story, son. One we should have told you sooner."

Rose sat back, her expression unreadable. "So Harry… he’s really my brother too?"

Lily nodded, tears streaming down her face. "Yes, he is."

Charlie closed the album and stared at his parents, anger and confusion warring on his face. "You need to explain. Everything."