Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

At Number 4, Privet Drive, lay the Dursley household.

This place had never held fond memories for Harry. And yet, it had been his home—a place that protected him, whether he liked it or not.

It was where the magic his mother left behind had shielded Harry from the Death Eaters. But this protection would end with his seventeenth birthday.

The spell's power had been tied to Harry's recognition of the house as his home and required him to return there once a year to maintain its effect. Once he turned seventeen, the spell would break, and Voldemort and his followers would surely attack.

Harry needed to leave before that happened.

"Harry, are you ready?"

"Yes, Professor."

The Dursleys were no longer in the house. The wizards had moved them to a safe location ahead of Voldemort's potential assault.

In their place were a group of trusted allies gathered to protect Harry.

There was Ron, tall and solidly built; Hermione, her rich hair tied back in a braid; Fred and George, the ever-spirited twins; and the dashing Bill, standing alongside Fleur.

Mr. Weasley stood with his shiny bald head gleaming, while Tonks and the seasoned Auror Mad-Eye Moody prepared nearby.

Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, and his friend Remus Lupin stood with reassuring smiles, while the towering Hagrid fidgeted nervously.

Among them were Kingsley Shacklebolt, calm and composed, and the perpetually scowling, bat-like Snape.

Finally, the one who had asked Harry the question—Albus Dumbledore, the great wizard whose blue eyes sparkled with wisdom.

With the exception of Snape, everyone here was someone Harry cherished. He couldn't help but feel grateful for their willingness to risk their lives for him.

"Harry, the plan has changed," said Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling as he spoke.

"Thicknesse has defected to the dark side. He has forbidden the use of the Floo Network, Portkeys, or even Apparition to or from this house."

Pius Thicknesse, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, wielded immense authority. Violating these new decrees would result in being branded a criminal and sent to Azkaban.

Officially, the rules were meant to protect Harry. In truth, they were designed to trap him in the house.

"And you still carry the 'trace,' Harry."

"The trace?"

"Yes, it's a spell the Ministry uses to detect magical activity around underage wizards. It doesn't actually smell, despite the name," Dumbledore said with a genial smile.

The trace was a serious problem. Any magical escape attempt would alert the Death Eaters via Thicknesse.

"So, we will use methods that leave no trace—brooms, Thestrals, and Hagrid's motorcycle. These don't require spellwork to function."

Though riskier than Apparition, these methods ensured Harry's location couldn't be tracked magically. The large number of protectors present underscored the danger involved.

Harry realized the gravity of the situation. His life had become a battle of survival and strategy.

"The advantage we hold," Dumbledore continued, "is that Voldemort does not know we plan to leave tonight."

False information had been fed to the enemy, suggesting Harry wouldn't move until the 30th. If Snape had still been trusted as a spy, the plan might have involved feeding him accurate information to gain Voldemort's confidence. However, Snape's cover had been blown when Narcissa defected.

Snape had made his own attempts to mislead the enemy, but the truth of his role was now known. That was why he was here.

"When we leave, Harry, you will head to Tonks' house. We have set protective spells there, and Portkeys will become usable," Dumbledore explained.

"Understood. But wouldn't it attract too much attention if all of us head to Tonks' house together?"

"That won't be an issue. Tonight, eight Harry Potters will take to the skies," said Dumbledore, pulling out a flask filled with a muddy liquid.

Harry recognized it immediately: Polyjuice Potion.

"No!"

Harry instantly understood the plan. Seven decoys would impersonate him to draw away the enemy while the real Harry escaped. It was a dangerous gambit, risking the lives of his friends for his sake.

Harry didn't fear for his own life. But the thought of others being hurt because of him was unbearable.

Dumbledore, however, shook his head firmly.

"Harry, this is necessary. Voldemort might ambush us, and half the Ministry is compromised. This house's location is no secret, and the protection spell will soon end. Worse yet, Mirabel might intervene."

"But—"

"Please understand, Harry."

Faced with Dumbledore's piercing blue gaze, Harry found himself unable to argue further.

As much as he wished he could sacrifice himself to save others, he also understood his importance in the fight against Voldemort.

Reluctantly, Harry pulled out a few strands of his hair and dropped them into the Polyjuice Potion.

The muddy liquid transformed into a clear, golden hue—not the bold and forceful gold associated with Mirabel, but a gentle, radiant light.

"Wow, Harry, you look even more tempting than Beresford," Hermione remarked with a teasing smile.

Harry, bashful at the compliment, scratched his cheek awkwardly. Fred and George immediately whistled in unison, using the moment to poke fun at him and Hermione.

"Alright, those transforming into Harry, please line up," Dumbledore instructed.

At his command, seven individuals stepped forward from the group and lined up before the flask. The participants were Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Fleur, Tonks, and Sirius. Each took a dose of the Polyjuice Potion, which transformed them into identical versions of Harry Potter. After changing clothes, donning glasses, and perfecting the resemblance, eight indistinguishable Harrys stood side by side. Identifying the real one was nearly impossible.

"Now, let's decide on the pairings," Dumbledore continued.

"I will accompany George Weasley."

This announcement surprised Harry. He had assumed Dumbledore would naturally accompany him.

"Excuse me, sir... I thought you would be with me," Harry said hesitantly.

"That assumption is valid," Dumbledore replied with a knowing smile, "and I am sure Voldemort expects the same. That is why I have chosen to do the opposite."

Standing beside Dumbledore would arguably be the safest place in the world, making it the obvious choice for the real Harry. By intentionally not taking Harry along, Dumbledore aimed to outsmart Voldemort and divert attention.

"Kingsley will pair with Miss Hermione Granger.

Alastor, you'll be with Sirius. Arthur will escort Fred.

And Hagrid will accompany Ronald Weasley," Dumbledore announced, assigning the pairs.

As the partners shifted to their designated spots, Dumbledore continued, "Fleur will be with Bill Weasley, and Tonks, you'll go with Remus."

While the pairings were being finalized, Harry found himself growing increasingly anxious. This couldn't possibly be happening.

There was only one scenario he dreaded the most, and as luck would have it—

"Severus... I trust you to guard Harry," Dumbledore declared.

"If that is your command, Headmaster," Snape replied curtly.

Snape. Of all people—Snape! It was the worst possible outcome.

The partner Harry was assigned to would be someone to trust with his life. But Harry felt Snape was far from worthy of such trust.

Sure, there were personal grievances—Snape had been nothing but cruel and dismissive to him for years—but the issue ran far deeper. This was the man who had once served as a Death Eater, who had betrayed Professor Trelawney's prophecy to Voldemort. It was this betrayal that had set Voldemort on the path to murder Harry's parents.

Snape was, in Harry's mind, indirectly responsible for the death of his mother and father. How could Harry possibly trust the man he blamed for their deaths?

"Professor!" Harry protested.

"There will be no changes, Harry," Dumbledore said firmly. "I've chosen Severus precisely because he is the least likely person Voldemort would suspect of protecting you. Voldemort knows Severus's past and will assume I'd never entrust the real Harry to him."

That logic was sound, Harry grudgingly admitted. Having Snape as his guardian was indeed less conspicuous than pairing him with someone like Dumbledore or Sirius.

Still, Harry couldn't ignore the knot of unease in his stomach. It didn't matter how logical the decision was—being with Snape felt intolerable.

"Now then, Harry, could I borrow your Firebolt? It would add authenticity," Snape asked coolly.

Harry's love for flying and his prized possession of the Firebolt broomstick were well-known, even to the Death Eaters. It had been Snape himself, during his time as a double agent, who had leaked this detail to Voldemort's inner circle.

Reluctantly, Harry glared at Snape before handing over the broomstick. Snape, as usual, didn't seem fazed by Harry's displeasure.

"Harry, you'll ride the Thestral," Dumbledore instructed.

"No, sir. I'll take my broom," Harry retorted.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow but didn't push further.

To Harry, leaving himself vulnerable by relying on a Thestral—especially with Snape as his escort—was out of the question. He simply couldn't trust Snape. In Harry's mind, Snape wasn't just a poor guardian; he was the enemy, the man responsible for his parents' deaths.

If Snape couldn't be trusted, Harry concluded, he would have to rely on his own skills to survive.

"Even without the Firebolt, I still have my Nimbus 2000. Please, Professor, let me rely on my own strength to protect myself."

This statement was effectively a declaration that Harry did not trust Snape in the slightest. He made no effort to hide it, either. The sheer depth of his anger and hatred toward Snape as his parents' betrayer made it impossible to do so.

"…Very well, Harry. I will allow you to fly on your broom," Dumbledore conceded, though his expression was firm. "But please, understand this: Severus is here to protect you as well."

Harry didn't reply.

He respected Dumbledore and believed in his wisdom. However, Dumbledore was still human, and humans could make mistakes. Harry was convinced this was one such instance—trusting Snape was, in his mind, Dumbledore's only true error.

"We are less than three minutes from departure. There's no need to lock the doors—it wouldn't matter anyway," Dumbledore said, bringing everyone back to focus.

Harry gathered his belongings and made his way to the front door. He carried a backpack filled with precious items, such as the enchanted mirror Sirius had given him and the Half-Blood Prince's textbook, which had been an invaluable asset over the past year. Despite never learning who the Prince truly was, Harry couldn't bring himself to part with the book.

He also carried Hedwig in her cage, unwilling to leave his faithful companion behind.

"Is everyone ready? Stay safe, and we'll meet again!" Dumbledore called out as the signal to depart.

With that, everyone took to the skies, splitting up into different directions. Harry, determined to avoid even glancing at Snape, mounted his broom and soared into the air.

Though it had been years since Harry had flown the Nimbus 2000, it remained a beloved companion, second only to the Firebolt. Harry had cared for it meticulously, and the broom responded just as it had in the past, smoothly slicing through the air with speed. The landscape blurred beneath him, just as he remembered.

"What do you think you're doing, Potter? You're flying too far ahead!" Snape's sharp voice barked from behind as he struggled to catch up.

Separating from his assigned escort was undeniably reckless. However, Harry didn't care. Instead, he leaned forward, urging the Nimbus 2000 to pick up even more speed, trying to leave Snape as far behind as possible.

"Enough of this nonsense! This isn't a child's game!" Snape's voice rang out again, louder and angrier this time. "For your safety, you must stay close to me!"

Snape's words only made Harry inwardly scoff.

Protect me? Harry thought bitterly. How ridiculous.

This was the same man who had despised his father and scorned his mother. How could someone like that have any genuine desire to protect him? No, Snape was surely plotting something—waiting for the right moment to strike from behind.

"You're just trying to earn my trust so you can hand me over to Voldemort—just like you did to my parents!" Harry shouted furiously.

The prophecy about the "Chosen One," made by Sybill Trelawney, had set everything into motion. Though Trelawney herself was rarely aware of the true significance of her words, her occasional genuine prophecies had secured her place at Hogwarts despite her lack of skill in other areas.

But Snape had eavesdropped on her prophecy, and as a Death Eater, he had delivered what he overheard to Voldemort. Unfortunately, Snape had only caught part of the prophecy—just enough to mention that the Chosen One would be "born to parents who had thrice defied Voldemort." This incomplete information led to the tragedy that followed.

Voldemort concluded that the child of James and Lily Potter fit the description.

The result was the murder of Harry's parents and the lightning-shaped scar that now marked his forehead.

Harry knew all this and had once confronted Dumbledore, demanding why someone like Snape was allowed to remain a teacher at Hogwarts. Why trust a man responsible for so much pain?

But Dumbledore had given him no concrete explanation, only saying, "He regrets his actions."

That answer had done nothing to placate Harry; it only deepened his resentment.

Regret? That can't be true.

He hated my father and despised my mother.

He must have laughed with satisfaction when my own parents died.

How could I ever trust someone like that? How could I ever think of them as an ally?

Because of this, Harry couldn't trust or acknowledge Snape. He was not an ally; he was an enemy.

"What…!"

"I know what you did! I know you told Voldemort the prophecy, and because of you, my parents were killed!"

"—!"

It was an outburst born from frustration.

Perhaps, if Dumbledore had explained things clearly to Harry, it wouldn't have reached this point.

But the information Harry had been given was never sufficient or trustworthy, and he was expected to blindly trust Snape without question.

This was the result—an explosive reaction at such a critical moment.

"I bet it felt good, didn't it? You probably don't even know how my mother died, do you? She begged for my life, and Voldemort killed her like an insect! This is all your fault!"

"...!"

At Harry's words, Snape's face twisted in what could be interpreted as a mix of anger and sorrow.

But all Harry felt for that expression was irritation.

No matter how he looked, Harry wouldn't be fooled. There was no regret in Snape—there couldn't be!

"I don't trust you. You're the one who killed my mother!"

The words cut deep, like a knife through Snape's chest.

An unforgivable sin, a mistake that could never be erased. Now, those words acted as the blade, piercing into Snape.

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