Harry woke up in a bed of white linen sheets. Soft sunlight shimmered behind fluttering muslin curtains. His glasses were on a nightstand, which he reached for on instinct. He was sure he was in the infirmary, but he didn't understand how he had arrived there. The last thing he remembered was the third floor, the mirror, walking down to the tomb, Snape and Quirrell, Voldemort, death.

He touched his neck. There was no pain, no phantom feeling of her fingers. His body felt good - as if he had slept all night after a tiring day. He felt strong, invigorated. He could fly all the quidditch matches of the year at that moment. How much time has passed?

The table next to his bed was piled with papers. At the very top was a card; Get well soon - Ron and Hermione, it read. Below was a copy of The Archimedes, Hogwarts' newspaper. Dated from the very last day of school, it featured a wide picture of the Great Hall with the Slytherins throwing their pointy hats in the air as they erupted into cheers. The headline read "SLYTHERIN WINS THE HOUSE CUP FOR THE SEVENTH YEAR IN A ROW." Strangely, Harry didn't feel anger or disappointment rousing inside him. He didn't feel much of anything at all. He noticed, however, the seats of the Potions and Defence professors were empty.

He flipped through the journal's pages, trying to absorb everything he had missed. On page three, Flint held the Quidditch Cup, his group of brutes cheered to his left while Daphne stood silent at his right. Apparently, Slytherin had won the Quidditch Cup, as Gryffindor, missing its Seeker, had been unable to fly against Hufflepuff.

The only mention of the Grail was on the last page:

HARRY POTTER TAKES THE HOLY GRAIL; WHAT DID HE WISH FOR?

By the ever-watchful Shadow Mage

Another year comes to end, dear readers, and, at the risk of sounding like Professor Dumbledore, what a year it was! So much activity, so much excitement, so much mystery…

We had within our reach the rarest of all magical relics in the world. A myth on all accounts. A device to cast out the most powerful magic you could ever dream of - glory beyond measure! Riches without end! Here, this year and all we had to do was beat a single challenge.

As you are all aware, the Holy Grail had not been granted to the winner of the House Cup as promised by Sir Percival. Such an injustice to our silvery and green boys and girls in Slytherin. Yet it seems that Professor Dumbledore no longer had the grail to give. His challenge had been beaten. On the day the castle fell into an unwakeable sleep, it seems one student broke the spell. Harry Potter, a first-year Gryffindor, broke free of the curse and ventured into the third floor to take the world's greatest treasure.

Ah, yes, I know what you're thinking: how did this ickle firstie do what every other year tried and failed? I confess I've asked that myself many times. How did he get past whatever that protected it? What exactly was protecting it? And once he got the Grail, what did Potter wish for? I want to know. Potter sleeps at this moment at the hospital wing, jealously guarded by Madam Pomfrey, who has barred all visits but that of his closest friends. He is stable, she tells us, and his life is not in danger.

We must wait until Harry Potter wakes up - if he ever does - to satiate our curiosity. If he will cooperate or not is another matter altogether, but be certain, from here on this humble contributor shall keep a very interested and close eye on Mr Potter. Very close indeed.

Harry closed the journal and threw it at the edge of his bed.

The entire school now thought he had stolen the Holy Grail. The Gryffindor house, the quidditch team, Daphne… they all probably thought he abandoned them. He didn't even know how Ron and Hermione were feeling; their brief letter told him they had not forgotten him but, at the same time, had said almost nothing. And the Shadow Mage - Harry had thought they were friends. Maybe not friends, but at least had some sort of understanding after the Forbidden Forest. It seemed he was wrong.

He heard steps coming from the back of the infirmary, and Madam Pomfrey, the school matron, came walking from behind the curtains, carrying a heap of linen sheets. She saw Harry seated upon his bed and hurried to his side.

"Mr Potter!" She said, already fussing over him, holding a hand to his forehead and poking his ribs with a wand. Harry suffered it in silence. "When did you wake up?"

"Half an hour ago? I don't know," he said.

"And how are you feeling?"

"I'm good," he said.

"Any pain or nausea?" Madam Pomfrey said. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hogwarts, right? And I'm fine," he said. "How long did I sleep?"

The matron saw the paper on his bed and offered him a sympathetic look.

"It's been two weeks since the end of the term," she said.

"Oh."

Madam Pomfrey observed him, regarding him for a moment, then seeing Ron and Hermione's card said:

"Your friends, Mr Gryffindor and Ms Granger left a box of chocolate sweets with that letter. I saved it in my cabinet." She smiled.

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Harry said.

"I need to fetch the Deputy Headmistress, she asked to be notified as soon as you're awake. Don't get up, Mr Potter, I still need to have a proper look at you."

After she left, Harry inspected the table beside his bed again. A booklet remained. It was thin and black, and read Nightmares: Creatures of the Dark. As he flipped through the pages, Harry noticed the top edge had been folded on one of the pages. He opened to the page.

A drawn picture covered half of its surface: an eye surrounded by tendrils of misty vines. The Dreamcatcher was written above it, and bellow read the following description:

Found in the wilds of North America, the Dreamcatcher is an exquisite and rare kind of spectre. Intangible and invisible, its existence was only confirmed in 1815 by American wizards after extensive research on native muggle myths and superstitions. Its only source of nourishment are dreams, good and bad alike, which are gone after their consumption, completely forgotten. This effect has been replicated with varying degrees of success over the years with the use of potions, charms, curses, and alchemical stones alike.

A Dreamcatcher is not immediately harmful, as having dreams stolen does not harm a wizard Nor does it actively pursue any wizard. It will only attack if it's territory is invaded, where it will force the trespasser into a slumber filled with nightmares until the Dreamcatcher can flee or the trespasser leaves. In the cases the trespasser refuses to leave, longer exposure to a Dreamcatcher's nightmare-induced state can cause significant mental injury.

The presence of a Dreamcatcher is detected by perceiving the absence of dreams during sleep in an area, and the subsequent discovery of its lair. There are no known methods of eliminating or capturing said creature, and the most reliable strategy in driving it away is the forced dreaming-state of a large enough group of people which overwhelms the creature. Sorcerers in the field theorize Dreamcatchers are native of the Realm Between and their manifestation in our world is simply partial.

It is also not known by which method or if these creatures procreate at all.

Harry shut the book and returned it to the nightstand.

"Case closed," he murmured, thinking of Hermione.

Against Madam Promfrey's instruction, Harry rose from his bed. The floor of the hospital wing was cold, but he paid it no mind. He moved to the window and, pushing the curtains aside, pried it open. The sun was reaching its peak, and a chilly wind blew on Harry's face as he watched the canopies of the Forbidden Forest. He was alive at least, although he couldn't find in himself to be happy about it.

Minutes passed until he heard the approaching footsteps from beyond the infirmary's door. Professor McGonagall came through, and when her eyes settled on him they were a mixture of relief and disappointment.

"Oh, Mr Potter… " she began, and Harry offered her his tiniest smile.

The professor dropped him off at King's Cross station the next day after Madam Pomfrey made sure he was healthy enough to return home. He had with himself his trunk and Hedwig, but the people passing by paid him no more attention than they did on his first visit. He plopped

down on a bench at the edge of the platform to wait for his aunt and uncle.

McGonagall told him she had informed his relatives of his situation before arranging the new date for pickup, but Harry knew they wouldn't care. She hadn't said anything about Ron or Hermione, and he wondered if he should send them a message. He knew Hedwig could deliver them easily, but the thought of explaining everything so soon made him ill. He still wasn't all that sure what happened.

"May I sit here?" A voice came from above him.

"Sure, of cour-"' Harry began, already pulling his trunk to make space, but stopped when he saw who had spoken.

Staring from behind his half-moon speckles, Professor Dumbledore smiled kindly. He wore a deep blue muggle suit that had been fashionable in the 50s. His very long silver beard fell down his front like a funny tie, and on his head, a top hat completed the queer look. The bench stretched to accommodate him as he sat down.

"Thank you," Dumbledore said. "Good morning, Harry."

"Professor Dumbledore? I - good morning," Harry said. "What are you doing here?"

"I have some affairs to settle in London. As to here - why, to catch a train, of course. It is my luck I found a student here, who could, hopefully, help me to endure the dreadful time that is waiting to board."

Harry didn't believe the old wizard was there just for that. In fact, he thought he knew the reason very well.

Casting his eyes to the ground, he said, "I'm sorry, Professor. I shouldn't have gone to the third floor."

"No, Harry," Dumbledore said. "No, it is I who must apologize to you."

Harry looked at Dumbledore again, who watched him with serenity and a hint of sadness.

"I failed to see what was right before my eyes and allowed Voldemort to spend a long time in the presence of my students. The harm he could have caused them is unthinkable. For that, I am deeply sorry."

It bothered Harry to listen to someone like the headmaster apologize. Looking away, he noticed the muggles continued to ignore them.

"You know everything?" Harry said. "Professor McGonagall didn't want to talk about it."

"I asked her not to. But yes, I know everything, as you say. It was Severus who told me what had transpired beyond the Mirror of Erised."

"Snape? He's not dead?"

"No. Luckily, he lived. It was he who brought you back and dispelled the enchantment plaguing the Dreaming Stone."

"Professor, he wanted to steal the Holy Grail too! He was helping Voldemort! Then Snape attacked her and tried to take it too!"

"So he did. Would you believe me, Harry, if I said that I asked Professor Snape to keep a watch on Professor Quirrell? It seems I was fooled twice; what an old man I've become." Dumbledore said, turning away to stare at the people boarding a train on another platform. "It is my fault alone, that I failed to notice that even someone like Severus Snape might wish for a miracle of his own."

"What happened to him?" Harry asked, remembering his vacant seat in the Archimedes.

"Severus shall not be returning to the position of potions professor next term."

"Oh."

For a couple of minutes, they stayed in silence, both watching the people going by their business. At last, Harry spoke again:

"Professor Quirrell - Voldemort - said something back there. She said that one wasn't her real body - that she used my mother's body before. Is that true?"

"I'm afraid it is. He had been using Lily Potter's body for months before the war ended. I found her remains at your father's burned house that night when I arrived with Professor Hagrid. And now, I'm certain you will ask me why he attacked your home. I do not know for sure."

"That's alright," Harry said, feeling his throat tighten. It was still hard to believe what his parents were. He felt stupid - naïve. "She also said something else. She said she felt my mother's feelings… that I was like a son to her… I don't understand."

"It is funny how magic works. For years, I was afraid that Voldemort had somehow survived the destruction of James' house. I was afraid that, if he was still alive, already living in another's body, that he would seek you to enact his revenge. Yet, right as you take your first step into the wizarding world, your paths crossed again. He did not raise his wand at you, like I was sure he would, but chose to watch as you became a wizard.

You see, to take another person's body is not the same as wearing a robe, Harry; we are not only souls. Our bodies and minds are also part of the whole that makes each one of us, us. Though Voldemort drove away from your mother's soul, her mind was still very much alive inside her, and when the transition happened, it became his mind. Such a deeply entangled union is not so easily unmade."

Harry didn't understand, but it seemed Dumbledore was trying to say Voldemort hadn't lied about it.

"Is she dead?" he said, "Really dead now?"

"At last, now, yes, there is no doubt that Voldemort is dead. But perhaps not truly gone, unfortunately. Even to me, a great part of his magic he acquired during his life remains a mystery. It is ever prudent we remain vigilant of dangers dark, and more importantly, what careless magic can bring us."

His words didn't bring him happiness, no more than Harry's own thoughts had brought in the past day.

"Do you miss her?" Dumbledore said.

"I - " Harry began but couldn't continue.

"In this life," Dumbledore said, "we can make many mistakes. We can make mistakes in trusting, as I proved to you this year. We can make mistakes in loyalty when we blindly follow without thought. We can make mistakes even in aiding when someone is undeserving of our help. But one mistake we can never make, Harry, is to love."

Harry turned his head back at the wizard who was looking at him with the kindly eyes. It was like a boulder had been lifted from his chest, like a hand that clutched at his heart had finally let go. The edge of his eyes moistened, and he hurried to dry them with a sleeve.

"I - thank you, Professor."

"And now, I believe something happened to your wand?"

"It… was burned down there. I have to buy another one now. Voldemort tried to attack me, but it didn't work, I think; It went wrong somehow, it hurt her but not me, and it destroyed my wand. Do you know what happened, sir?."

"Another thing I can't tell you right now, for I'm not sure about it myself. It's something I had seen only once before: eleven years ago when Professor Hagrid and I arrived there to a destroyed house, no one but you alive inside, completely unharmed - as you were this year inside the mirror. Magic can remain a mystery even to someone who has lived as long as I did. When I know for sure, I will let you know. About your wand - I may have something for you with me," Dumbledore said, and Harry saw him produce a small, rectangular box from inside his suit. He offered it to Harry.

Harry caught it and carefully unlocked the lid. Inside was a wand about the same size as his old one. The handle was not quite the same, but it wasn't so different either. It was made of dark and polished wood.

"Yew and phoenix feather," Dumbledore said. "Try it."

Harry did and like with his first wand, a jolt of electricity ran up his arm and through his body. Sparkles flew, and Harry knew this one would serve him well.

"It works," he said to Dumbledore, "how did you know, sir?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Harry, but your first one was holly and phoenix feather?" Dumbledore said, and Harry nodded. "Given to you by Professor Quirrell at the Diagon Alley - a wand she herself had purchased? The phoenix that gave these two feathers was one and the same. The wand you hold now, I found it in your home - left there by the wizard who purchased it many, many years ago. It did not appear impossible to me that both would suit you, as both suited him at some point."

It was Voldemort's wand, Harry understood. He swished it once, and it felt exactly like his old one.

"Thank you, Professor."

"You are quite welcome."

"Professor, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"What was that place? That one inside the mirror?"

"Ah, yes, that place. An illusion created with the help of the Mirror of Erised; a land I visited long ago. It does not exist anymore, but only temporarily this year, plucked from the recesses of my memory. All but forgotten now. I thought it was fitting, for what I had in mind in the case Voldemort had fallen into my trap. But alas..."

Harry waited for a moment before asking again. "And the Holy Grail? Did it truly exist?"

"What do you think, Harry?" Dumbledore said as an intrigued expression covered his face.

"I think - it was far too good to really exist. It was perfect though if I wanted to lure someone into a trap."

Now Dumbledore looked truly delighted. "Let's go with that. But don't lose your wonder at the wizarding world just yet, Harry. There are still far many things for you to see, and far many secrets for you to learn. Now, aren't those your relatives?"

Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Duddley came in his direction, a distasteful expression settling on their faces when they saw him. Harry turned to bid the headmaster farewell and went to his family for what would no doubt be a long summer.

AN: Thanks to Lindisira for beta work. Thank you for reading.