Morning came too quickly.
The common room was quieter than usual, weighed down by what had happened in the forest. Neville sat in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, clutching a steaming cup of tea with both hands. His eyes were distant, staring into nothing. No one asked what he had seen—what he had felt.
Harry stood by the window, watching the students filter through the courtyard below. The pale sunlight offered no warmth. His thoughts hadn't slowed since last night.
He hadn't said much after the centaur—Firenze—had saved them. Dumbledore hadn't called him. No questions were asked. But something had changed.
Neville's scar had flared. That thing, whatever it was, had been after the unicorn's blood. To extend life, Firenze had said. And Neville—Neville Longbottom—was the one who felt it in his very soul.
Harry clenched his jaw.
In his past life, that pain had been his. That scar had burned with prophecy and consequence. That burden had once been his to carry.
But here?
It was someone else.
He turned back toward the room. Ron had joined Neville, and they spoke in hushed tones. Hermione sat nearby, scribbling in a notebook, glancing at them occasionally. She hadn't spoken much since the incident, but she was clearly keeping track—of everything.
Harry crossed the room and sat beside them.
"Any better?" he asked Neville.
Neville blinked. "A bit. Just… tired."
Ron snorted. "Mate, you screamed like you were being Cruciatus-cursed. Gave me a heart attack."
"Sorry," Neville muttered. "It was just—this pain in my scar. Like fire. And when I looked up, I—I don't know. I couldn't move."
Harry nodded slowly. "You felt him."
Neville looked at him. "You saw him too?"
"I saw something," Harry said, tone quiet. "Whatever it was… it wasn't fully human anymore."
Hermione stopped writing and glanced at him. "You think it was Voldemort?"
The name dropped into the room like a stone.
Neville flinched. Ron looked away. Harry didn't even blink.
"Who else would drink unicorn blood and crawl around like a shadow?" he said.
Neville swallowed. "But he's… gone. Isn't he?"
"No," Harry said. "He's not. And he knows about you."
The words hung there, heavy.
Ron shifted uncomfortably. "If he's after Neville, we should tell someone."
"And say what?" Hermione frowned. "That a scar tingled and a centaur said vague things? It sounds like superstition."
"Still," Harry said, voice flat, "Neville shouldn't be alone. Not now."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Neville nodded. "Thanks. I don't know what I'd do without you three."
Ron gave him a lopsided grin. "Probably get eaten by another unicorn killer."
They chuckled, a momentary relief in the tension.
But Harry didn't laugh.
He leaned back in the chair, letting the noise of the room wash over him. The scar on Neville's forehead was faint now, but its weight was growing. The world had chosen someone else. That didn't change the memories in Harry's heart—the family he'd lost in another world, the friends who'd died beside him, the war that had ended with his blood sealing a gate to Hell.
That pain was still his.
But here, he was just Harry Potter. No scar. No prophecy. No fame.
And he would keep it that way.
He had no intention of stealing Neville's burden. But he would protect him—quietly, from the shadows. Because if Voldemort was rising again in this world, then Harry knew what came next.
And he wasn't going to let history repeat itself.
Not this time.
---
Harry was careful.
He had to be.
His memories from another life were sharp and heavy, especially when it came to the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. Every year, a new face. Every year, something dangerous.
And in his first year, it had been Quirrell. Nervous, awkward, stammering Professor Quirrell — who had fooled everyone until it was too late.
Harry didn't plan on making the same mistake twice.
He waited until the common room emptied after dinner, then slipped out with his wand tucked up his sleeve and a folded sheet of parchment in his pocket. He moved silently, making sure to avoid any staff or prefects as he passed through the corridors.
The charm he'd made was simple — nothing advanced. Just enough to let him know where Quirrell was moving in the castle. It was experimental, barely held together by instinct and raw magical will. He wasn't even sure if it would work consistently.
But it was something.
The ink on the parchment glowed faintly.
Still in the staff wing.
Harry leaned against the wall near a window overlooking the dark grounds, thinking. He didn't want to make a move yet. There was no proof of anything. Quirrell hadn't done anything suspicious — not openly.
But that was exactly how it had started before.
He sighed and looked out at the night sky. He'd been given a second chance. He wasn't the Boy Who Lived anymore, wasn't the center of attention, and he preferred it that way. Neville was taking all the spotlight, and while it stung sometimes, Harry had made peace with it.
But just because he was in the background didn't mean he could ignore the signs.
He'd seen enough to know how these things spiraled out of control.
Harry tucked the parchment away and turned back toward Gryffindor Tower. There was no need to act yet — not until he had something solid.
He'd keep watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
Back in the common room, Ron was in the middle of trying to build a castle out of chocolate frog boxes, while Hermione sat in an armchair correcting his technique with increasing exasperation.
"Honestly, Ron, that's not going to work. The base is too narrow."
"S'why it needs more height," Ron argued, stacking another one on top.
Harry sank into a seat beside them, his expression unreadable.
"Everything alright?" Hermione asked, glancing at him.
Harry nodded. "Yeah. Just thinking."
Ron's tower collapsed in a satisfying crinkle of wrappers.
"Brilliant," he muttered.
Harry smiled faintly, then let himself settle into the rhythm of the room — warm firelight, quiet conversation, and the hum of life around him.
But his eyes kept drifting toward the window.
And his thoughts remained elsewhere.
---
Breakfast the next morning was a blur of owls, pumpkin juice, and students chatting about homework and Quidditch trials. Harry stirred his porridge absently, eyes flicking to the staff table.
Professor Quirrell sat between Flitwick and Sprout, hands clasped, gaze low. Nothing unusual. Just the same nervous mannerisms—tiny flinches, hesitant sips from his goblet, constant readjustments of his turban. It was exactly as Harry remembered.
That didn't make him feel any better.
"Oi, you alright?" Ron asked, nudging him. "You look like you're about to duel someone."
Harry blinked. "I'm fine."
Ron raised a brow but let it drop. Hermione, however, wasn't as easily convinced.
"You've been watching the professors all morning. Did someone give you detention already?"
"No," Harry said quickly. "I'm just… being careful."
Hermione frowned but didn't press. She knew he was holding something back, but she also knew he'd dig his heels in if she pushed too hard. Instead, she changed the subject, talking about a theory she'd read on wand wood resonance. Ron, predictably, tuned out five words in.
As they left for Charms, Harry's fingers brushed the edge of the parchment in his pocket again. He hadn't activated the charm this morning. There was no point. He needed to conserve what little magical energy it had. The ink had already started fading the night before.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick paired them up for practice. Harry and Hermione ended up together while Ron got stuck with Seamus, who immediately caused a book to explode into confetti.
"Do you think Quirrell's hiding something?" Hermione asked under her breath, halfway through their wand motions.
Harry hesitated.
"Why would you ask that?"
"You keep watching him."
Harry gave her a noncommittal shrug. "I don't trust people who act too nervous. Sometimes it's an act."
Hermione didn't argue, though her expression darkened slightly. "I thought you'd like him. He's a good teacher."
Harry said nothing.
It wasn't about liking.
It was about history repeating.
After lunch, the three of them walked along the courtyard. Leaves had started falling, scattering gold and orange over the cobblestones. Ron was grumbling about a History of Magic essay.
"I swear Binns doesn't even know we exist. I bet I could vanish mid-lecture and he'd still keep talking."
"Probably," Hermione muttered, nose in a book.
Harry looked up at the sky. "I think it's going to rain."
"Great. That means double Herbology's going to be in the greenhouse," Ron groaned. "Hot, sweaty, and full of biting plants."
As the clouds rolled in, Harry felt the same weight press down on him that had followed him since term started. There was a rhythm to the year. He could feel it, like déjà vu—each class, each moment echoing what had come before.
But some pieces were out of place.
Neville, not him. The scar missing from his own forehead. The way Snape watched him with narrowed eyes—not hatred, but scrutiny. Curious. Judging.
And Quirrell… too quiet. Too careful.
After dinner, Harry returned to the dormitory early, leaving Ron and Hermione behind. He sat on his bed, curtains drawn, and unfolded the tracking parchment again.
The ink didn't respond.
The spell had burned out.
Harry sighed and tossed it aside. He'd have to find another way—less magical, more mundane. Shadowing him between classes, noting his habits, watching who he spoke to. It would take time.
But he had time.
This world might be different, but danger always came. It was just a matter of when.
------
The storm came down hard that night. Thunder echoed through the towers, and rain battered against the tall windows of Gryffindor Tower. Most students were huddled near the common room fire, playing Exploding Snap or finishing homework by candlelight.
Harry sat in the far corner, polishing his wand with a cloth, pretending to listen to Seamus and Dean argue about which Chudley Cannons player had the fastest broom.
He wasn't paying attention to them.
His eyes were on Neville.
The Boy Who Lived was busy recounting the story of how he'd "faced Malfoy in a duel" two nights ago. He puffed up slightly every time he said it, and Ron added dramatic flourishes—gesturing how they'd barely avoided being caught.
Harry didn't interrupt. He didn't correct. He didn't even speak.
He just listened.
"I still think the whole thing was idiotic," Hermione said sharply from the chair next to him. She was knitting something—badly. "Going out at night. Losing house points. Getting detention. Honestly."
Ron snorted. "It was worth it."
Harry smirked faintly. "Only because you didn't get caught first."
Ron grinned and slumped back into the couch.
"Seriously," Hermione added, "you should be more careful. Just because he has a scar doesn't mean he's invincible."
That earned a slight pause.
Neville glanced at her, a bit uneasy.
Harry's smirk vanished, and he lowered his voice. "No one is."
Hermione looked up from her yarn. "What?"
Harry shook his head. "Just saying. Even the ones with scars can bleed."
He didn't mean it as a jab, but Neville grew quiet. The others didn't catch the tone, but Hermione watched him carefully again, sensing something different.
Before she could speak, the portrait door creaked open, and Percy poked his head inside.
"First-years—lights out in fifteen minutes!"
A few groans answered him. Ron got up to fetch his pajamas, and Neville followed.
Harry remained seated until the common room thinned out. Then he slipped up the stairs, changed quickly, and climbed into bed.
He waited until the dorm was quiet.
The thunder outside rolled again.
He reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a notebook—one he had enchanted to look completely blank to anyone else. On the inner flap, he had scribbled observations from the last few days:
Quirrell teaches well. Confident in theory, nervous in speech.
Avoids eye contact often.
Never enters the Great Hall late or leaves early.
Doesn't touch his turban. Odd.
He tapped the parchment, thinking. There was nothing wrong with the man. Nothing concrete.
But it had felt like this before.
He remembered the way Quirrell had stammered in the past… how he had lowered his head… and how, beneath it all, there had been something else.
And yet…
Harry closed the notebook.
What if he was wrong?
What if he was projecting a past onto someone who had done nothing?
The thought itched in his skull.
"Keep watching," he whispered under his breath. "If he's hiding something, it'll slip eventually."
Lightning flashed, lighting up the windows.
Harry rolled over, facing the wall, and stared at the shadows until sleep took him.
-----------------------
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