Chapter Text
It's Quirrell.
The man's back is turned to Harry. He's standing in front of a giant mirror, one that Harry recognizes. He seems to be examining it, studying it for something. Probably the stone.
Before Quirrell can see him, Harry ducks behind a pillar by the entrance.
Okay, okay, what does he do? Think like a Slytherin, think like a Slytherin.
Draco was correct all along—Quirrell was the one trying to steal the stone. It wasn't Snape, though Harry had stopped believing that a while ago. Quirrell, on the other hand, had completely escaped from his mind. After the encounter in the forest, all he could think about was Voldemort.
But why was Quirrell after the stone? It doesn't make any sense. Eternal life seemed appealing at first, but the longer Harry had thought about it, the more and more he became repulsed at the idea. Living forever seemed like a lonely existence. Was it the gold? It had to be the gold, right? Or maybe Quirrell was working for Voldemort, and he was here for him? That made more sense, yeah. Voldemort was after eternal life and he was using Quirrell to get it. Quirrell got infinite gold in return.
But where was Voldemort? How had Quirrell been communicating with the greatest dark wizard in a century with nobody suspecting? Well, not nobody. Snape seemed to have suspected him, hadn't he? Was it Quirrell who had been cursing his broom at his first Quidditch match? Had Quirrell let the troll in on Halloween? And it must've been Quirrell who'd given the dragon egg to Hagrid!
Still, though, Harry had a hard time thinking about how and when the Dark Arts professor had crossed paths with Voldemort?
And then, suddenly, he remembers something that Hagrid had said when Harry first met Professor Quirrell in the Leaky Cauldron. “He was fine while he was studyin' outta books but then he took a year off ter get some firsthand experience… They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit o' trouble with a hag—never been the same since.”
Oh Merlin.
It was when he went into the Black Forest! He didn't meet any vampires in there! He'd met Voldemort, who'd probably been hiding out for years before Quirrell stumbled upon him!
Harry leans his back against the pillar, his hands clasped over his mouth. God, if Daphne could see how well he'd deduced all of this, she'd likely kiss him. The girl loved mysteries, and absolutely loved torturing all the other Slytherin first years into solving mysteries with her.
Deciding to bite the bullet, Harry rounds the pillar and stands right in the path of the mirror. He sees Quirrell's face lift up, then sees the man smirk. He turns, his arms spread wide. “Harry Potter. We've been waiting for you.”
We?
“Well, I'm here,” Harry lifts his chin up, “so, where's Voldemort?”
Quirrell flinches— actually flinches— and turns his head away, as if he's just been burned. “No matter where my lord is, Harry Potter,” Quirrell rasps, “the question is, where are your little friends?”
“Otherwise occupied.” Harry deadpans. “Where's the stone?”
Quirrell scoffs and turns his head away. “If I had the stone, I would not be standing here talking to you, Mr. Potter. It's a shame your friends are not here, though. I was hoping to have the pleasure of killing them and you.” Quirrell snaps his fingers; black rope appears out of nowhere and binds Harry head to toe. “The lot of you are too nosy to live. Allow me to get the stone first, though. Wait quietly.”
Quirrell turns back to the mirror and begins to examine it.
Harry tries to rack his brain for what to do. What would Hermione do? Draco? Ron? Daphne? Hell, even Theo?
Quirrell goes behind the mirror, still muttering to himself.
Harry stares at himself in his mirror, trying to figure out what's wrong with his reflection.
He doesn't see his family, not even his friends, and then, he sees it. Or rather, he doesn't. Reflection Harry isn't bound by ropes. In fact, the boy is smiling. It puts its hand into its pocket and pulls out a blood-red stone. It then brings a finger to its lips, then drops the stone back into its pocket.
Amazed, Harry feels a heavy weight drop into his pocket.
Just as he does, Quirrell comes back around the mirror. Harry does his best to school his expression, praying that his relief doesn't show on his face.
“Quirrell…” A dead, low voice rasps from somewhere in the room. To Harry's horror, the new voice seems to be coming from Quirrell himself.
“Yes, master?” Quirrell timidly asks.
“Let me speak to him… face-to-face…”
“Master, you are not strong enough!”
“I have strength enough… for this.”
Quirrell snaps his fingers, and the rope binding Harry falls away. Even with it gone, however, Harry can not move his body. Petrified, he watches as Quirrell reaches up to his turban and begins to unwrap it. When it's off, Harry notes that his head looks smaller without it on. And then the professor turns on the spot.
Harry tries to scream, but no sound comes from his mouth. Where there should be the back of Quirrell's head, there is another face—disgusting and ugly. It is chalk white and has glaring red eyes, with slits for nostrils.
“Harry Potter…” the thing rasps.
Harry tries to take a step back, but his legs still will not move.
"See what I have become?" the face asks. "Mere shadow and vapor… I have form only when I can share another's body… but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. Unicorn blood has strengthened me these past weeks… you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest… and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own. Now... why don't you give me that stone in your pocket?"
So he knows about the stone. The feeling in Harry's legs suddenly returns, and he stumbles backwards.
“Do not be a fool, Mr Potter…” Voldemort continues, “you are a Slytherin, you know better than to do something so foolish. Give me the stone, and I will give you everything you desire. You are so unlike your parents, so much smarter.” Harry feels a surge of anger, his face twisting into a snarled frown.
“We are much alike, Harry Potter,” it continues, “you can be great, you know? And I can help you with that, I can. Just give me the stone, and you will be powerful beyond your dreams.”
Harry unclenches his fists and allows his arms to fall limp at his side. “I just… just have to give you the stone?” he asks.
“Yes,” Voldemort says, “just give me the stone.”
Harry starts to lift his arm. Voldemort smirks widely, his face straining.
At the last second, Harry flicks out his wand from his very useful wand holster and raises it above Quirrell. He doesn't know what he's about to do, unsure which spell to use, and then—it practically comes to him, whispered in his ear. He'd heard some fourth year Slytherin's practicing it in the Conical Crypt down in the dungeons.
“BOMBARDO!” he screams as loudly as he can.
He really, really does not expect it to work, only hoping it'll distract Quirrell long enough for him to turn and run. However, the second after he says it, the ceiling above Quirrell implodes, crumbling down and thudding against the floor. Deciding not to dwell on the successful spell for too long, Harry turns and sprints off, back towards the entrance to the final chamber.
Just as he's about to taste freedom, a body barrells into his back. His scar erupts in pain, his entire body burning as he curls away from Quirrell. His wand falls from his hands, rolling and rolling away.
“You little brat!” Quirrell yells as he struggles with Harry. “You could have had power!”
“I'll find my own power!” Harry screams right back, then turns onto his back and grabs Quirrell's face, trying to push the man off of him.
To Harry’s horror, the professor screams as angry red welts begin to erupt on his skin. “Agh! What did you do!?”
Harry can barely focus, the burning pain in his head too strong. It's staggering, it's killing him, isn't it? Oh Merlin, he's dying, he's dying, he's dying—
Quirrell falls off of him, groaning and yelling in pain. Harry falls as well, his head thudding against the concrete stairs of the chamber. His vision is blackening, he can't feel anything except the pain in his head, he can't–
Something glitters above him.
Is that the snitch? That's the snitch? Why is the snitch here…
No… no… glasses? Glittering silver glasses? What is that…
And then nothing.
—
When Harry opens his eyes again, he's staring at a white ceiling. For a moment, he thinks, is this heaven? and then he hears Madam Pomfrey's voice.
“Heavens above, you fourth years are so reckless,” she's saying.
No, not heaven. Why would his nurse be in heaven with him?
Groaning, Harry sits up. His arms are heavy, feeling like lead as he uses them to support himself. He scoots up the bed, his back resting against the metal headboard and the wall. Piled on a table next to him looks to be half of the candy shop.
“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” Dumbledore says. He's sitting on the other side of the bed in a chair Harry knows is uncomfortable. "What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows.”
“And they all gave me candy?” Harry groans. “Isn't that ill-advised for recovery? Wait– how long have I been here?”
“Three days. Mister Weasley, Mister Malfoy, and Miss Granger will be most relieved that you have come around. They have been awfully worried.”
A thought suddenly occurs to Harry. “Sir…. the stone…?”
“Ah, yes. The stone,” Dumbledore sighs heavily, “it has been destroyed. When I arrived, you and Professor Quirrell were both on the stone steps. For a terrible moment, I feared I'd been too late.”
Harry laughs dryly. “You almost were. I don't think I could have kept him off if he attacked again.”
“Not the stone, Mister Potter. You. I was afraid we'd lost you, but alas, you seem to be quite the fighter.”
“Huh… wait, the stone was destroyed? Doesn't that mean that Nicolas Flamel and his wife will… die?”
“Ah, I wasn't aware you knew about Flamel,” a small smirk crosses Dumbledore's lips, “but yes, the stone was destroyed. For someone so young, I am sure the concept seems foreign, but for Nicolas and Perenelle, it's quite like going to sleep after a very, very long time.”
“That's… nice, I suppose. I can't imagine living that long.”
“Yes, many can not. Though, most would take it if the opportunity arose. I am relieved that you did not take such an offer, Mister Potter.”
Wait, what does that mean?
“Why… why couldn't Quirrell touch me?” Harry asks instead. “When I grabbed his face, it was like it–it burned.”
“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mothers for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good.”
Harry stares down at his lap. He knew, in some way, that he was still alive because of something his mother had done. After all, you don't just survive the killing curse at a year old based on your own power, but Harry finds something warm filling his chest at the idea of his mother protecting him so well. He doesn't remember her or his father, but he thinks that this love protecting him is proof enough that they knew him and that loved him.
“Sir, I was wondering if–”
“Headmaster,” Madame Popfrey walks over suddenly, “I'm afraid you're going to have to continue this conversation at another time. Mister Potter needs his rest.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Dumbledore stands up and brushes imaginary dirt off of his robes. “Rest well, Mister Potter.” And then he exits the infirmary, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.
What had Dumbledore meant by that? About Harry not taking the offer of eternal life and gold? Had he– no, no, that's absurd! Harry decides to just go back to sleep, not wanting to think any longer about the still unanswered questions.
The very next day finds Harry pleading with Madame Pomfrey to allow Draco, Hermione, and Ron in.
“Please, just five minutes!” Harry pleads. “Look, I'm totally resting right now! Laying down and everything!” The woman is strict, and Harry hasn't a clue how to appeal to her.
“No, Mister Potter. They would only bring distractions!” she says with an upturn of his head.
“They won't! They really won't, Madame Pomfrey!” Harry curls his fists into the bedsheets and allows his bottom lip to wobble between his teeth. “Please, I–I just want to make sure they're okay. I–I haven't se–seen them since that… that night and I… I need to see them, please. ”
He sees Madam Pomfrey visibly deflate, her face turning into a sorrowful expression. “Oh, alright. But only for five minutes!”
And then she lets Draco, Hermione, and Ron in.
Hermione nearly flings herself at him, and Harry is grateful that she seems to reel herself in as his head is still very much pounding.
“Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to– we were so worried, we–” The girl brings a hand up to wipe her eyes, seeming unable to stop crying.
“The whole school is talking about it!” Ron exclaims, jumping down onto the edge of Harry's bed. “But there's a whole bunch of different stories! You have to tell us firsthand! What really happened?”
When Harry looks at them all, he sees determined and curious expressions all around. Seems as if none of them are too focused on Madam Pomfrey's insistence that he needs to 'recover' and wants all the details immediately.
Harry loves the complete lack of concern for him, honestly.
He dives into explaining the whole exciting and strange story: Quirrell, Voldemort, the stone, the mirror. The three of them are a very good audience, gasping and oohing at all the right moments. When Harry tells them about the successful bombardo spell, he gets furious nods from the three of them.
“The whole school heard it!” Ron exclaims. “When we heard it, Draco almost turned around and ran back!”
Draco blushes and then reaches across the hospital bed to swat at Ron's shoulder. “Don't act like you didn't try to run back with me, Ronald. We only stopped because Hermione insisted that we needed to get Ron to the hospital wing.”
“Yes, all three of you are very reckless,” Hermione admonishes.
This gets some laughs around the bed.
“So, the stone is just gone?” Draco asks. “Flamel and Perenelle are going to die?”
“Yeah, but Dumbledore said that it's quite like going to sleep after a long time, for them. I mean, they have lived a very long life,” Harry shrugs his shoulders. “So, what happened to the three of you? After Hermione and I parted ways, at least?”
“Well, I went back to the chess room,” Hermione starts, “and Draco already had Ron awake by then. So, we went to the key room and flew back up through the hole. Nearly got eaten up by Fluffy, but Draco put him to sleep by charming the harp to play.”
“Yeah, it was kind of cool,” Ron pipes in, “lucky that at least someone learned something in Flitwick's class.”
“Yeah, cause we all know you're incapable of learning, Ronald,” Draco says with a roll of his eyes.
“Yes! Thank you for understanding!”
Draco leans over the bed again and swats Ron's arm.
“Anyway, we were on our way to the owlery when we ran into Dumbledore. He already knew what was going on, just asked us if you'd gone after You-Know-Who.” Hermione continues. “Then he just hurtled off to the third floor.”
“How long was that after we left each other?” Harry asks.
“Well… not long, no more than ten minutes, really.”
Ten minutes… he'd been fighting Quirrell for longer than ten minutes, right? And he'd definitely spent a few standing behind that pillar, connecting all the dots… does that mean…?
“Harry,” Hermione says cautiously, “why do you ask?”
“Just wondering, I guess.” Harry shrugs. “I wish he'd gotten there faster. Quirrell was a bad guy, sure, but he didn't deserve to… y'know… die.” Harry doesn't want to tell them about his doubts about Dumbledore. He doesn't have any proof, for one, and for two, it's absurd. Dumbledore is the Headmaster! He wouldn't intentionally put a child in danger, surely not.
“Harry,” Dracy says seriously, “it's not your fault that Quirrell is dead. He made his choices.”
“No, yeah, I know.” Harry shrugs again. “I just feel bad, I guess. So! What did I miss while I was out?”
“Well, Gryffindor lost terribly in the game with Ravenclaw–” “Hey!” “–and unsurprisingly, us Slytherin's are in the lead of house points. You have to come to the end-of-year feast tomorrow night, celebrate our house winning.”
Just then, Madam Pomfrey comes rushing over. “Alright, you've had nearly fifteen minutes! Out! Out with all three of you!”
The three bid him farewell and exit the hospital wing, but only twenty minutes later, Hagrid comes mumbling in, his big face bright and his eyes puffy with tears. The large man sinks down into the too-small seat next to Harry's bed.
“It’s–all–my–ruddy–fault!” he sobs, his face buried in his hands. “I told the evil git how ter get past Fluffy! I told him! It was the only thing he didn’t know, an’ I told him! Yeh could've died! All fer a dragon egg! I'll never drink again! I should be chucked out an’ made ter live as a Muggle!”
“Hagrid!” Harry yells, quite shocked to see Hagrid so shaken up over this. “He would have found out some other way! It's Voldemort! He would've found out even if you hadn't told him!”
“Yeh could've died!” Hagrid sobs out. “An’ don’t say his name!”
“VOLDEMORT!” Harry yells. “I’ll say his name if I feel like it! I’ve faced him! Come on, none of this is your fault! Here! Have a Chocolate Frog!” Harry grabs one of the many sweets on the table at the end of his bed. “I've got loads of them.”
Hagrid takes the sweet thankfully, then says, “That reminds me, I've got yeh a present.”
“A present?” Harry repeats, head tilted to the side just the slightest bit.
Hagrid reaches into his coat and pulls out a handsome leather bound book. When Harry opens it, he finds himself faced with moving, smiling pictures of his parents. He feels as if all breath leaves him suddenly.
“I reached out ter all yer parents' school friends,” Hagrid says. “Got ‘em to send me some photos an’ I put ‘em in a book for yeh.”
Harry has no words, but Hagrid seems to understand how thankful he is. The man gives him a very loose hug and then bids him goodnight. After a good night's sleep, Harry feels all back to normal. When Madam Pomfrey comes by to check on him, he asks her if he can go to the feast tonight.
“Oh, I suppose so,” she says, “but do not exert yourself, okay? I don't want to see you in here at all for the rest of the school year.”
Harry thinks that, since it is only two more days, he can manage.
—
When Harry is finally able to get out of Madam Pomfrey's grasp later that night, he finds Adrian Pucey waiting right outside the hospital wing. Harry peeks back inside the infirmary. Was Gemma Farley or someone back there?
“I'm here for you, Potter.” Pucey says with a roll of his eyes. He puts a book—a different one than the two on detention night—into the pocket of his cloak. “Draco and those two Gryffindor's wanted to walk you to the Great Hall, but I told them that I would. As your prefect, it's kind of my job.”
“Oh, well, thank you,” Harry says.
They walk in silence until they get to the moving staircase. “Can I ask you a question?”
Harry swears that he can hear Pucey sigh. “Yeah, what is it?”
Harry has a million questions, a million things he can ask. He thinks that maybe Pucey will only answer one, so, finally, he settles on, “What do you think of Headmaster Dumbledore?”
“The Headmaster?” Pucey repeats. “Well, he's… strange. Wise, but strange. He definitely does what he thinks is best. I don't think he cares much for most people. Not us, at least.”
“'Us'?”
“Slytherin's, Potter. As a Slytherin prefect, I would tell you that he's a wise man with a lot to teach and give to the world and the new generations of witches and wizards.”
“And… what about just as Adrian Pucey? What would you say then?”
This time, Harry doesn't imagine the sigh that Pucey lets out. “I would say that you can't trust him, and to take everything he says with a grain of salt. There's a reason You-Know-Who feared him so much, and I don't think, for one second, that it's because he had powerful magic.”
And then Pucey is walking forward a few steps and entering the Great Hall, Harry right behind him. When Harry walks in, there's a sudden hush, and then everyone starts talking loudly at once. Pucey drops him off with the first-years and then continues on to the fifth-years. Harry slides into a seat between Draco and Blaise and tries to ignore the fact that people are standing up out of their seats so that they can get a good look at him.
Fortunately, Dumbledore arrives moments later, causing a much longer hush to fall over the hall. He walks up to the podium at the front of the hall, then turns to face the school.
"Another year gone!" Dumbledore says cheerfully, "and I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were. You have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts.
"Now, as I understand it, the house cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy- two."
Harry has to cover his ears to block out the loud, raucous stomping and clapping from his peers. The Hufflepuff's are cheering as well—though a lot less loudly—while the Ravenclaw's clap politely and the Gryffindor's stay mostly silent. Some of the older Gryffindor's are clapping, but a majority of the younger ones are staying silent. Hermione and Ron are both clapping, however, Hermione even cupping her hands on either side of her mouth and whooping Harry and Draco's name loudly.
The next couple days go by pretty smoothly. Miraculously, they all passed their classes. Harry's surprised to see that he got an Excellent in potions. Blaise pulls him aside for a moment after the results and tells him that he knew he could do it. Hermione, of course, has the best grades of the first years, Draco coming in a very very close second.
And suddenly, their wardrobes are empty, their bags are packed, and everyone is bidding each other farewell. Hagrid meets them at the docks and leads them back across the lake and to the Hogwarts Express, where Harry sits with Draco, Hermione, and Ron again. They watch as the countryside turns greener and greener, passing by muggle towns and eventually going off to change out of their cloaks and into more suitable muggle clothing.
It takes them a while to get off the platform, an older guard letting them go through in twos and threes.
“You have to come visit this summer,” Ron says, “all three of you, really.”
Harry notices that Draco seems a bit shocked to be invited along, but the boy looks happy about it nonetheless.
“Maybe I can get Charlie to come visit, and he can tell us how Norbert is doing. I know Draco really misses him,” Ron says slyly.
“Oh, shut up, Weasley,” Draco snaps, but it's not hot or angry. It's teasing, almost.
Harry smiles about it, and when he looks at Hermione, he can see that she's relieved that they seem to be getting along well.
“Thanks,” Harry says, “I'll need something to look forward to.”
Ron leads them over to a woman with flaming red hair, a young girl with similar hair clutched tight against her side. Fred and George are already there, making fun of the girl about something Harry doesn't hear.
“Busy year?” Mrs. Weasley asks.
“Very,” Harry responds, “thank you for the fudge and the sweater, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Weasley reaches out her hand and ruffles up his hair, then turns to Hermione and Draco. “It's so nice to meet Ron's friends.” Mrs. Weasley stares down at Draco for a moment, an indecipherable look in her eyes. “It's nice to see you well, Draco.”
Draco lifts his head high. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Draco! Oh, love!” A woman suddenly walks up and envelopes Draco in a hug. She has the same silver hair as him, though it's black in a few places. “How have you been, son?” She pulls away, but keeps her hands on his cheeks.
“Agh, mom, I'm fine!” Draco sputters, trying to push her away. His pale skin has flushed red in embarrassment, and Harry can't stop himself from laughing.
“Oh, and you must be Harry and Hermione.” Mrs. Malfoy turns to Harry and Hermione, a warm smile on her face. She then looks over at Ron, her eyes going to Mrs. Weasley quickly. “Molly, it's nice to see you.”
Mrs. Weasley has a bit of a strained smile on her face as she shakes hands with Mrs. Malfoy. “You as well, Narcissa.”
“Ready, are you?”
Harry turns sharply, coming face-to-face with Uncle Vernon standing a few feet behind Harry. He's staring at the whole group with disdain cleare on his face, his lips turned up into an ugly sneer. Behind him are Aunt Petunia and Dudley, both looking terrified at the sight of Harry, with his owl and trunk of magical stuff.
He kind of loves it.
“You must be Harry's family!” Mrs. Weasley says happily.
“In a manner of speaking,” Vernon says, “come on, boy. We have places to be.” Then he turns and walks away, Petunia and Dudley following him.
“See you, Harry,” Hermione says, giving him one last hug.
“We'll write you a ton,” Draco promises. He pulls Harry in for a hug as well, whispering once in his ear, “If you need me to come get you, say the word.”
When Ron hugs him, he says much of the same thing as Draco. Harry has a moment to be amused at how similar the two boys are without even realizing it.
“Have a good summer, okay, Harry?” Hermione asks.
This, Harry finds himself grinning at. “Oh, I will,” he promises with a
wicked
Slytherin grin, “they don't know I'm not allowed to use magic outside of Hogwarts.” With a final wink—that Theo had taught him, actually—he turns and follows after the Dursleys.