Struggle for Survival

Harry was about to triumphantly announce he had the Stone, when he froze.

Wait.

Something wasn't right, here. Something felt wrong. He could feel it in the air around him, he could hear it Quirrell's voice. What had that strange voice been? Something was very wrong with this whole thing – he could feel it deep in his chest, the unease festering like a rampant infection – but he didn't know what it was. They were alone, and yet they weren't. Someone was here with them...someone who had Harry's hair standing on end. He steeled himself – no, he wouldn't give Quirrell the Stone until he knew for sure who else was there with him.

Tom had urged caution, so cautious he would be.

"Christmas...a tree and presents, and my..." here, Harry forced himself to tear up a bit "...my parents."

Meanwhile, the professor cursed again. "Get out of the way," he said, pushing Harry aside.

Harry nearly sighed with relief, but then he heard that voice again.

"He lies...he lies..."

Where was that coming from?

Meanwhile, Professor Quirrell was starting to get very anxious, and had begun fidgeting and twitching slightly. "Potter! Get back here! Tell me the truth! What did you see?"

Harry frowned. "I'll tell you, but I want to know where that voice is coming from, first."

The professor scowled, and was about to yell at him again when the voice made itself known once again.

"Let me speak to him...face to face..."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I am strong enough...for this..."

Why did Professor Quirrell keep calling it Master? Voldemort wasn't actually with them, right? Or had he been speaking literally when...

With undisguised curiosity, he watched as Professor Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. Anxiety and excitement were growing inside him, and his heart was ready to leap out of his chest when his professor finished, and began turning slowly on the spot. And then a moment later he saw it - where there should have been a back to the man's head, there was a face, the most ghastly and horrifying face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake's. It wasn't the face of a man; it was the hideous visage of a monster. No...that...it...was it really...?

"Lord Voldemort?" Harry tried shakily.

"Harry Potter..." Voldemort whispered, and suddenly Harry felt fear. Why was he afraid? This was Tom, not his Tom, but still Tom. He shouldn't feel afraid. This person was going to be his friend, right? They were going to have a nice long talk and figure things out – they'd work together to...wait...

What was he supposed to do once he'd introduced himself? Tom said they needed to ally themselves with his master soul, but he'd never made it clear to what end. Harry had just always figured that Voldemort 1.0 would pick things up from there, and together they could come to a mutual agreement on what would be best for everyone, after the pleasantries of friend-making were over and done with. But now he wasn't so sure. The prospect of pleasantries and agreements didn't seem to match up well with present company.

Suddenly, Harry felt very uneasy, very lost. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

"See what I have become?" Voldemort continued, "Mere shadow and vapour... 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... 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 knew. He shouldn't be surprised. But still he hesitated.

"Don't be a fool," Voldemort snarled suddenly, clearly sensing Harry's hesitation. "Better save your own life and join me..."

Harry frowned, not too keen on the man's argument. It seemed so...crude for Tom. So presumptuous and simple. Tom was a selfish sort, but he knew not everyone was like that – he knew there were people who valued ideas, objects, and other people over their own lives. He knew people were complicated. Tom was more nuanced than this. More clever. Or, he should have been.

"...or you'll meet the same end as your parents; they died begging me for mercy."

Harry bristled. What was going on? Tom would never say something like that. He said his parents fought bravely; they did fight bravely. They fought so that Harry could live, so that he could have a life beyond the death sentence Voldemort marked him with.

He grit his teeth. "You can't expect me to give you the stone if you lie to me like that."

Voldemort looked at him with some mixture of amusement, irritation, and slowly simmering fury. "You accuse me of lying, boy?"

There was something in Voldemort's voice that sounded horribly like something Uncle Vernon would say when he was in for a beating.

Harry drew back and scowled, feeling his magic furiously twisting like an angry tempest around him. There was that feeling again in his chest, smouldering and simmering, and nearing boiling point, ready to explode. "Yes, I do! My parents fought bravely so that I could live. They died honourably for me!"

"They died for nothing," Voldemort hissed with a vicious, mocking grin, making Harry feel very small, very helpless; and that just made him angrier. "They died because they were fools who stepped in my way, and they regretted it in the end, as they begged, and pled -"

Harry furiously wiped away the angry tears running down his cheeks with a clenched fist. "No! They died because you were so cowardly that you had to attack a baby. You're the one who failed; you're the one who fell! You're the one begging for life, like some kind of parasite -"

He froze, his blood running from boiling to freezing point in an instant.

The face of Voldemort snarled at him, and he cried out furiously, "SEIZE HIM!"

"Wait, wait," Harry tried to say, feeling suddenly horrified with himself, "I didn't mean that -"

Harry felt Quirrell's hand close on his wrist. At once, a needle-sharp pain seared across Harry's scar; his head felt as though it was about to split in two, much like when Tom returned after an expedition with the injicio potion; he let out a startled scream, instinct taking over as he struggled with all his might, and to his relief, Quirrell let go of him.

The pain in his head lessened as Quirrell pulled away, and he looked around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone and saw him hunched over in pain, looking at his fingers – they were blistering with angry, festering boils right before his eyes.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" Voldemort shrieked out once more and without a second thought Quirrell blindly lunged at him again, knocking Harry clean off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands grasping around Harry's neck.

At this point, Harry's scar was almost blinding him with pain, but he could hear Quirrell howling in agony as well.

"Master, I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!"

Once again, Quirrell withdrew, and as the pain subsided only slightly, Harry saw his professor staring, bewildered, at his own palms – Harry could see they were covered in raw, bleeding burns.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" Voldemort cried out furiously.

Quirrell at once drew his wand, the word "Avada -" on his lips, and Harry panicked. No, no, no, he couldn't die here. He still had so much to do. He wasn't going to die - he couldn't die, not yet. He wasn't going to die...he wasn't going to die...

Completely overtaken by desperation and fear, he lunged forward and and grabbed Quirrell's face.

"AAAARGH!"

Not daring to let go, he hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and thrashed and tried to throw Harry off, but he wouldn't let go; he couldn't. He wasn't going to die...he wasn't going to die...

The pain in Harry's head was building...he couldn't see, he could barely feel anything besides the burning pain in his head...he could only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!", but soon even those died away...

And then everything went dark.

....

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