Crookshanks:?

The candle flames were like illusory sources of light, floating silently in midair. Harry widened his eyes and carefully observed his own memories. Within a few short seconds, the blurred, distorted scenes in his memory rapidly drew closer, as though a layer of filter had been peeled away.

The flickering candlelight steadied, hanging in the air and burning quietly. Brilliant colors swiftly spread along the outlines of things, giving the scene a real texture. The sounds were no longer distant and hazy. Memories that had been washed blurry by the years suddenly became clear, as though he were experiencing them in person once more.

Within the scene of his own memories, Harry's perception took the form of an illusory figure, even more transparent than a ghost. No one in the memory could notice him.

"Lisa Turpin!"

"Ravenclaw!"

Professor McGonagall's and the Sorting Hat's voices rang throughout the Great Hall. Ravenclaw's cheers were restrained and cautious. The face of that girl in his year looked familiar; he had encountered her in many classes. Only now did Harry suddenly realize that he remembered her full name.

Harry composed himself, shut out the surrounding noise, and looked toward the High Table.

Dumbledore sat in the central seat, his silvery-white hair and beard faintly glowing. Professor Snape wore black robes, his deep gaze always directed at the Gryffindor table, yet he looked away whenever the bespectacled boy with the scar on his forehead raised his head. Harry had never understood it back then, but seven years later, he could now read that look.

Professor Quirrell sat beside him, his face exceptionally pale and his head wrapped in an abrupt, heavy-looking purple turban, making him seem profoundly strange.

Was Voldemort's weak, powerless wraith hidden beneath that turban?

Harry had a faint realization. A thought suddenly