Harry's world spiraled into darkness.
Then, with a lurch, he was somewhere else.
The air was damp and cool, pressing against his skin. Torchlight flickered along the walls, casting long, wavering shadows. Before him stood the Mirror of Erised, its ancient frame looming, its glass reflecting more than just reality.
Where am I?
Panic coiled in his chest as he realized his body did not move as he willed it. His limbs felt wrong.
Thin, weak, trembling.
His breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, yet he had not chosen to breathe that way.
Then, a voice.
"You are playing a dangerous game, Quirrell."
Snape.
Harry's head snapped up. His body had moved without his consent, following an impulse that wasn't his own. His stomach churned.
This wasn't a dream.
Snape stood at the edge of the room, half-shrouded in shadow. His gaze was sharp and unwavering. His robes barely stirred as he took a slow step forward, his expression unreadable.
A nervous chuckle slipped past Harry's lips, no, not his, high and strained. "Severus, always so suspicious."
The words left his mouth smoothly, but the voice wasn't his own.
Cold dread slithered through him.
I'm not me.
"Curious," Snape murmured, his eyes narrowing. "That you are here, of all places."
The pressure in Harry's skull throbbed like something was coiling around his thoughts. An unseen force pressed against his mind, urging, whispering, "Deflect, Distract, Test him."
"I could say the same of you," Harry found himself saying, his voice. Quirrell's voice slid into something almost teasing. "So dedicated to guarding this little… trinket, aren't you?"
Snape did not move.
"You're testing the enchantments." His voice was dangerously quiet.
A shiver ran down Quirrell's spine.
"Simply ensuring they are secure," the words came unbidden, smoothly rehearsed. His lips twitched into a weak smirk. "Surely you would understand. What kind of professor would I be if I did not… check?"
A pause.
A flicker of something—analyzing, weighing.
Snape's expression did not change, yet the air did.
"You are lying."
It was not a question.
Harry—Quirrell—felt his jaw tighten. An itch of something deeper pressed against his mind, something colder than fear.
Something angry.
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
"And you hesitate," Quirrell said, tilting his head ever so slightly. "How interesting."
Snape's gaze darkened.
A tense silence stretched between them.
Quirrell let out a soft chuckle.
"You always were good at keeping your secrets, Severus," he murmured, voice low, measured. "You tell them what they want to hear. You play your role so well."
Harry felt a smirk curl his lips as Quirrell took a step forward, closer to the Mirror, closer to Snape.
"But I wonder," he continued, "when the time comes to choose… who will you truly stand beside?"
Snape's expression did not shift, but something behind his eyes did.
"You presume much," he said, voice like a blade in the dark.
"Do I?" Quirrell's head tilted slightly, eyes gleaming. "The Dark Lord had great expectations of you, once. Some say he still does. And yet, here you are, groveling before Dumbledore like a whipped dog."
Snape's wand hand twitched.
A spark of something dangerous flashed in his gaze, but he did not rise to the bait.
"You have no idea what you are talking about."
Quirrell's lips parted, but the words that slipped forth were not his own.
"Don't I?"
The room shifted. The air felt heavier.
Harry's pulse spiked. There was something else here, pressing against his thoughts, twisting and slithering.
In the corner of the Mirror's reflection, something moved.
A shape. A flicker of red eyes...
Pain.
A violent, crushing pressure slammed into Harry's skull, yanking him backward into darkness.
Harry awoke with a sharp gasp, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
The hospital wing ceiling blurred above him, the dim candlelight flickering against the stone of the walls. His entire body ached, his limbs cold and unsteady, as though something had been wrenched from him.
His heart was still pounding.
That wasn't a dream.
He could still feel it.
The weakness in his limbs, the press of Snape's gaze, the weight of the Mirror.
A presence.
His breath caught in his throat as his gaze shifted.
At the foot of his bed, stood Snape.
The man's arms were crossed, his expression impassive, yet too still, too calculating.
Something was different.
Harry swallowed. His mouth was dry.
The memory of the vision still clung to him, raw and unsettling. Snape had been there and had looked at him.
No, at Quirrell.
"You hesitated."
The words left Harry's mouth before he even realized he had spoken. His own voice sounded strange in his ears.
Snape's brow barely lifted, but something in the air shifted.
"I beg your pardon?"
Harry pushed himself up slightly despite the dull throb in his skull. He could still see it.
Snape standing in the final room, the Mirror reflecting something unseen.
"When Quirrell said… something about you," Harry continued, his voice careful now, watching. "You paused."
A pause now, too. Not long, not obvious, but there.
Snape did not look away.
"And how," Snape said, his voice too measured, "would you know that?"
Harry's fingers clenched in the sheets.
He could lie. But Snape would see through it. And avoiding the question would only make him more suspicious.
"I saw it."
Snape's expression did not change, but Harry could feel the shift.
"Saw what, Potter?"
"The room. The Mirror. The conversation." He swallowed. "Through his eyes."
A silence fell between them, thicker than before.
Snape didn't speak, didn't move.
But something behind his gaze sharpened.
And Harry knew Snape was reassessing him.
After a long moment, Snape exhaled slowly through his nose. His voice, when it came, was unreadable.
"Interesting."
He turned, his cloak whispering against the floor as he strode toward the door. But just as he reached it, he hesitated.
Not fully, just a fraction of a pause. A glance over his shoulder, a flicker of something unspoken.
Then, without another word, he disappeared into the darkness, leaving Harry alone with the unnerving weight of his thoughts.