Chapter 21: 2

There was nothing left to do but wait for Dumbledore’s return. However, my mind was racing with such impatience that I found myself absentmindedly stroking the head of a sleeping Neville to soothe my nerves. Before I knew it, the hands of the grandfather clock had swept past midnight.

"Maria, dear."

A voice called out. I lifted my face from where it had been resting. Standing before the fireplace—its role finished now that early summer had arrived—was the very person I had been waiting for.

With his leisurely, serene smile, he looked every bit the kindly old grandfather—though in truth, he was a wily old fox.

"I shall see to it that Neville is carried to bed,"

As he spoke those words in a near-melodic tone, he gave his wand a singular flick. In an instant, Neville’s body began to levitate, the dormitory door swung open of its own accord, and the blankets folded themselves neatly. The sleeping boy drifted through the doorway as if being pulled by an invisible tide. I could practically see the bedcovers peeling back and the pillow plumping itself up to receive him.

I watched in silence until the door to the boys' dormitory clicked shut. The old wizard—Albus Dumbledore—turned back to face me, offered a cheerful smile, and held out his arm.

"Now then, shall we go and fetch Harry together?"

"—HARRY!"

In that eerie subterranean chamber, centered around the Mirror of Erised—a space that felt as if some god-like entity had fashioned it specifically for this moment—I ran toward Harry. He was screaming in agony from the pain in his forehead, locked in a frantic struggle with Quirrell, who was obsessed with obtaining the Philosopher’s Stone. Quirrell was already a wreck, his body covered in burns and wounds, but Harry too was drenched in a cold, heavy sweat, on the verge of losing consciousness while clutching the Stone.

Frantically, I threw myself between the two struggling figures. With the fallen Harry at my back, I looked up defiantly at the man who had taken the Curse of the Unicorn upon himself on behalf of his Master.

But the man no longer had the strength to stand. With a wretchedness akin to a crumbling clay golem, he collapsed to the ground. From beneath his turban, the grotesque visage of Voldemort—the root of all this evil—had vanished without a trace. The man had been cast aside by his Master without a second thought.

"Harry! Harry...!"

Deciding that Quirrell was no longer a threat, I turned to the small boy who had finally lost consciousness. As I gathered him into my arms, the limp weight of a child’s body felt heavy for Maria’s eleven-year-old frame. Yet—I felt like crying at how light he truly was.

Harry was so much frailer than Ron or Neville. To think that "I"—the boy I once was—had been this fragile and small.

"Maria, Harry will be fine. His life is in no danger."

"Yes, I suppose so. You were always very good, Professor, at choosing the exact moment just before it’s too late."

"Maria..."

Dumbledore said nothing more. And I, for my part, could say nothing else.

I know. I know what you’re thinking. Who am I to talk? That’s what I want to ask myself—Maria.

Dumbledore and I are the same. We keep what we know and what we notice locked deep inside, moving those around us as if testing them. Sometimes, we are prepared to abandon them if necessary. That is always among our choices. We possess the cruelty to cast others aside without hesitation to reach our goal.

Just as the Sorting Hat once suggested Slytherin for the 'me' that was Harry—the more I knew him, the more I realized Albus Dumbledore was a man who possessed the justice of a Gryffindor but hid the resolve of a Slytherin within. He held the cold brilliance of a Ravenclaw and the magnanimity of a Hufflepuff all at once.

And oh, how I loved him for it—for how deeply human he was.

While I have my thoughts on the life of Harry Potter, whose very heart was moved like a pawn by Dumbledore’s cunning, the man was no divinely programmed machine. He had a heart. He suffered. He made mistakes. He was tormented by regret. And for that alone, I could forgive him.

I knew then that he wasn’t some all-seeing, god-like wizard; he was just a human who used magic, just like me.

I cannot bring myself to resent you.

"Please take care of Harry."

I held the limp, doll-like Harry one last time, pressing a comforting kiss to the scar on his forehead which burned with a painful fever. Seeing a look of slight relief cross his face, I handed him over to Dumbledore.

I trust your hands to hold this treasure.

"—Quirinus Quirrell."

Finally, I turned my attention to the man who was my original objective. He was gasping for breath, with nothing but death ahead of him. I reached out and touched him with my fingertips.

I could touch him. As I thought, Maria does not carry the protection of a Mother’s Love.

This was one of the things I wanted to confirm with my own hands, even if it meant abandoning Harry’s adventure. And there was one more reason I had to be here.

"Episkey."

"Maria..."

At most, it was only enough to soothe the inflammation of the dying man’s burns. That is the limit of a first-year’s magic. Even so—I wanted this man, at the very least, to have peace.

Ignoring Dumbledore’s questioning gaze, I simply held the dying man’s hand until his breath ceased.

You are the first person 'I' ever killed. The one who suffered the curse of a mother’s love. I pray that the light you head toward is not followed by darkness.

"Maria... do you feel pity? Even for the Dark?"

"No."

I gently let go of the hand that had grown cold. Quirrell was gone.

"I only did this for myself. It was all for my sake. Quirrell was used by me until the very end. Poor man—I won't let Harry be the only one to shoulder the burden of your 'sin'."

Because that’s how it was.

The "me" from before never forgot Quirrell. It was the guilt—the knowledge that I might have killed him with these very hands. It was a suffocating weight. I couldn't even confide it easily to Ron or Hermione.

That’s why—I just wanted to remove it from "Harry" this time. The weight of a life taken—the lonely agony of carrying that solitude.

The one I truly pity is myself.

"...Maria, let us leave this place. You must be quite chilled."

Carrying the unconscious Harry, Dumbledore stood and placed an arm around my shoulder. His voice was a soft whisper—the voice of a compassionate man comforting a wounded child.

"You are a kind girl, Maria."

I was intercepted in the corridor by Hagrid. "Intercepted" is the right word; I was paraded through Hogwarts at the end of my first year in a truly ridiculous fashion. Upon hearing of Harry’s recovery, Hagrid—already blubbering—tucked me under one massive arm like a log and carried me off.

It was, of course, involuntary. When a giant of a man grabs you by the waist, do you really think a chronically malnourished Maria can resist without magic? If it hadn't been Hagrid, I wouldn't have hesitated to use a non-verbal spell. (Mad centaurs are also an exception).

The gazes of the teachers and students we passed were strangely soft and amused. While I’ve grown used to Hagrid’s eccentricities (through a mix of habit and resignation), I felt a bit prickly at how quickly the "gallery" had changed their tune. Everyone was acting so differently compared to just three days ago.

It has been four days since Harry survived the underground chambers and stopped Quirrell and Voldemort’s plot. Harry regained consciousness on the third day—yesterday. Naturally, almost all of his close friends, myself included, rushed to the Hospital Wing to see him, only to be driven back by an incensed Madam Pomfrey. As a result, I—as Harry’s sibling—was the one to attempt a "revenge" visit the following day.

Well, to avoid tiring Harry out—and more importantly, to avoid provoking Madam Pomfrey—I had planned to storm the Hospital Wing alone. But heaven knows where he heard the news. I had no choice but to bring the charmingly weepy giant with me.

After managing to talk down Madam Pomfrey, who was still reluctant to let visitors see a patient who had recently been comatose, I led Hagrid to Harry’s bedside. Though, in truth, he was the one who had physically hauled me there.

As Hagrid wailed next to us, blaming himself for Harry’s scratches and bruises, Harry and I shared a weary, gentle smile. But it was the next moment that brought a lump to our throats.

"I sent owls to your parents' old school friends... gathered some old photos of the two of them. You really do look like 'em."

We turned the pages of the handmade, warm, and nostalgic leather-bound album Hagrid had given us. Slowly, we traced our fingers over the people who now only existed in photographs.

A man with messy hair, looking exactly like Harry, waved at us, looking like he was having the time of his life. A woman with a beautiful face, looking exactly like Maria, smiled with her eyes crinkled in pure joy.

Ah—having lived a life longer than most by "cheating" with memories, I had already come to terms with my parents during my time as Harry. But for this little Harry, this was something he still desperately needed. And for me—I’m happy to see you again. Dad, Mum.

Seeing that we were too moved for words, Hagrid patted both our heads with his massive hands and left the Hospital Wing. We stayed there, silently watching our parents. When we reached the final page, Harry gently, reverently closed the album.

He let out a soft sigh that fell upon the cover. Then, in a small, innocent voice, he spoke.

"We’re a family, aren’t we, Maria?"

"We are, Harry."

We leaned our heads together over the album and giggled. Even though we were in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, it felt as though we were back in the cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive—the place where it had always been just the two of us.

"...Hey, Maria."

"Yes?"

"I want to tell you... only you."

"What is it, Harry?"

I stroked his head as he leaned it against my shoulder. He really was much lighter than Neville.

"Back then... when I was fighting Quirrell... I heard your voice."

"I see."

"It made me feel safe. Then I blacked out. So... I don't really know what happened."

"Mhm."

"...I think I might have killed Quirrell."

"........."

He is such a kind boy. This Harry. Much kinder than I ever was. To think it took the "me" from before an eternity to voice that—to understand and swallow it as my first sin. Having a sibling has made you reach that realization so much faster.

"Harry."

"Yeah?"

"I’m going to tell you a true story. It won’t be comforting at all."

I continued to stroke his messy hair. It seemed the Scouring Charms and grooming spells I had layered on over the past few days had sadly worn off; his hair had returned to the stubborn, bushy texture I remembered all too well. I’ll have to personally brush it for him again.

"Quirrell was the one who drank the unicorn blood."

"...Yeah."

"Even if it was Voldemort’s will, it was Quirrell’s body that took in the blood."

"...Yeah."

"Remember what Firenze told us happens to those who drink unicorn blood?"

"—They are cursed."

"You told Firenze that you'd rather die than be cursed forever."

"........."

"There was nothing left for Quirrell. He was already beyond saving."

Harry slowly raised his head.

"You’re right. That wasn’t comforting at all."

Scrunching up his nose and his eyes (which were currently without glasses), the little boy who had begun his walk down the thorny path of a Hero gave a watery laugh.

"I killed him, didn't I?"

Yes. 'I' killed him.

After that, we stayed huddled together on the bed until we managed to beg Madam Pomfrey for permission to attend the End-of-Term Feast.

By the time we escaped Madam’s fortress and reached the Great Hall, it was packed with students and teachers. As Harry and Maria tried to slip in unnoticed, a strange silence fell over the room. Fortunately, Ron and Hermione had saved two seats for us at the Gryffindor table.

As we sat down, I watched Harry look around the hall. The colors decorating the banners and tablecloths were silver and green. Even if Harry’s adventure was an "open secret," it was awkward to be confronted with the fact that our rule-breaking had left a massive point gap between us and Slytherin. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were all shrinking into their seats.

...Though, there was one student at the Slytherin table who looked even more conflicted, knowing what was about to happen. Honestly... Dumbledore really does play favorites with Gryffindor.

"Another year gone!"

The Headmaster’s speech began—the familiar recap of the year, summer holiday warnings, and the final House points. Gryffindor had 292, Hufflepuff 389, Ravenclaw 405, and Slytherin 422. A massive cheer erupted from the Slytherin table.

But then—Dumbledore added, "Recent events must be taken into account," and the room went quiet.

"I have some last-minute points to award. First, to Mr. Ronald Weasley."

Ron’s blue eyes widened. Fifty points for the best-played game of chess—his face turned so red his freckles disappeared. Then, fifty points to Hermione for her logic and cool head. She buried her face in her arms and cried for joy. And then...

"To Mr. Draco Malfoy."

That caught everyone off guard. I looked over at the Slytherin table; for the first time, Draco wasn't acting. He looked like the eleven-year-old boy he actually was—young, cute, and stunned. He had completely forgotten his usual "gentlemanly" facade. I couldn't help but let out a small laugh.

"For showing true friendship across House lines and standing by a friend in need—I award fifty points to Slytherin."

Another roar of joy from the Slytherins. Gryffindor was at 392, Slytherin at 472. The entire hall was in a state of feverish excitement.

Harry was awarded fifty points (Gryffindor 442). Neville was awarded ten for his courage (Gryffindor 452).

Suddenly, Dumbledore stopped. I saw a few Gryffindors slump their shoulders. Ten points short. It seemed the joke of a comeback was going to end just shy of a victory for the underdogs.

But strangely, I felt no resentment. I felt refreshed. If Slytherin won like this, I felt I could truly smile and say "Congratulations." Maybe it was because I saw that look on Draco's face—the look of a child being praised by an adult for the first time in his life.

Ahem. The Headmaster’s throat-clearing cut through the air. His blue eyes twinkled under the floating candles as he surveyed the anxious and hopeful faces of the children.

Finally, Dumbledore looked at me and smiled.

"The courage to face great evil with justice. The courage to fight alongside friends. And the courage to stop a friend. All are rare and wonderful. But I must also honor a different kind of courage. To Miss Maria Potter—for the mental fortitude to carry a heavy heart alone and continue to trust in her friends, I award ten points to Gryffindor!"

ROAR! The Hall exploded. Harry immediately threw his arms around me, and Hermione jumped on me from behind. Ron leaped onto the table, and Neville was crying big, fat tears of shock.

In the end, the House Cup was a tie between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Yet, not a single soul—not from Hufflepuff, nor Ravenclaw—complained about Dumbledore’s decision. The unprecedented decorations, split between red and green, were beautiful. It felt like a second, generous Christmas party.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn't anxious about living as "Maria," an ordinary girl, instead of Harry Potter. But—yeah. A "happily ever after" like this isn't so bad.

On the Hogwarts Express back to King's Cross. I pushed my luggage—now twice as heavy with memories—into the carriage. Harry had naturally saved me a seat, but I left him in the care of his reliable best friends, Ron and Hermione. Instead, I found a compartment for just two people: Draco and myself. A makeshift, secret meeting room.

"Good work, Draco. You were a huge help. Going on an adventure with Harry must have been so exhausting, right?"

"Tell me about it."

Draco shook his head in genuine exhaustion at my tone, which was 20% appreciation and 80% teasing. His blonde hair looked a bit like wilted wheat harvested too late. Or perhaps a silk handkerchief that had been accidentally put through the wash. In short: he looked a bit pitiful.

"You told me about the traps the teachers set... but did you—I mean, you guys—really get through those with zero hints back then?"

"Yep. At eleven years old, not knowing left from right or even much magic. Our lives were on the line every second."

"...It seems the Great Hero is loved by a very harsh god."

We stared into each other’s eyes—his a pale blue-grey—and then, simultaneously, we burst out laughing.

It’s strange. Even though it was the same Malfoy-esque irony, it sounded so much kinder now. It was hilarious. He used to be such a git. He’s still mostly a git, but still. After we had let out our childish emotions, a more mature, somber silence wrapped around us.

"—Did Dumbledore know?"

"Of course."

"But he didn't help Harry and the others."

"It’s better that way... being kept in the palm of his hand."

I answered softly. I made sure Maria’s voice didn't sound like that of a lonely child.

I’m not sure what Draco thought of my answer, but after his fingers hovered in the air for a moment, he seemed to brush away his hesitation and reached out to my temple. His boyish fingers parted my red hair and gently stroked it. Over and over. Slowly.

"Good work, Maria."

"...Mhm."

The ancient castle filled with mystery and magic was now far behind. We didn't need words until the train reached King's Cross. We just shared that gentle moment.

I found myself praying that his hand would be there again next year.