Chapter 21- off to see the wizard

Chapter 21: Off to See the Wizard

This was it. No turning back now.

He'd just made it through the last obstacle - a riddle he believed to be crafted by none other than Professor Severus Snape - and he was on his own now. He'd needed Tom to get past the giant chess set for him (seeing as he didn't know how to play chess), and between the wards and the high-stakes chess game, the Dark Lord was so spent that Harry could barely feel him in the back of his mind.

But it was alright. Harry knew what he needed to do. He even had a mental checklist:

1. Subtly discern Professor Quirrell's loyalties. Subtly. Craftily. That was important.

2. Escape if he and Tom had been mistaken, or if someone else showed up. To that end, he kept his invisibility cloak handy.

3. Kindle a brand new friendship if they weren't in any danger and, as they thought, Professor Quirrell was 'friend material', so to speak.

Easy. Simple. He could do this.

"Here I come, Professor Quirrell," he muttered as he drained the little bottle in his hand in one gulp. The effect was immediate - cold water rushed over his skin and ice crept through his veins, causing him to shiver uneasily. Convinced that the potion had done its job, he put the bottle down and stepped forward into the fire before him.

Black flames licked at his skin and grabbed at his clothes, but sure enough, he couldn't feel them; they were little more than an illusion - a frightening one; the few moments when he could see nothing but burning blackness around him were disconcerting to say the least – and a moment later he was on the other side, in the final chamber. And sure enough, Quirinius Quirrell was standing right there in front of him, staring into a very familiar mirror.

It was that same mirror he'd seen in the abandoned classroom, those months ago – that frightening object cursed with some strange spell designed to remind him of things he did not want to remember. And yet...somehow, its presence was much different - this time, it didn't seem as ominous.

What the mirror was doing there, he didn't know, but that's not what he was there for. He was supposed to make a friend.

"Good evening, Professor Quirrell," he said softly with a slight smile.

The man spun around, shock crossing his face – shock, not fear - but then he smiled back at him. The usually nervous man's face wasn't twitching at all – it was still, firm, and almost eerily serene. "Potter. What a pleasant surprise."

Harry nodded a bit, stepping forward tentatively. Apparently he was a pleasant surprise. So far so good.

"You don't seem surprised to see me here," Professor Quirrell commented, one eyebrow raised.

Harry shook his head. "That's because I'm not. You weren't as subtle as you should have been, professor – you know, it wasn't very smart to let a troll in as a distraction when the obstacle you chose to hide the Philosopher's Stone was a troll as well," he commented mildly, assuming that the troll in the other room had been the Defence of the Dark Arts professor's doing. Given the variation in the obstacles he'd overcome to reach the final chamber, he'd deduced that several professors – Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape to be precise – had had a hand in protecting the Stone...it seemed only reasonable that one had also been the work of the Defence against the Dark Arts professor as well.

"So you knew about the troll, did you?"

"I figured it out a while ago. It was a bit of an obvious distraction."

Harry was hoping he didn't offend his potential new friend, so he was relieved when Professor Quirrell chuckled. "You really are a quick one, aren't you, Potter? I'm surprised you didn't end up in Ravenclaw – my old house, you know."

Harry nodded, pleased by the compliment. "The hat certainly thought about it." He frowned a bit. "You don't seem surprised to see me here either."

"I knew someone would try to stop me," Professor Quirrell said, "Of course I'm not surprised that it's the Boy Who Lived. You may be a Slytherin, Potter, but heroism is in your blood. Which reminds me..."

He snapped his fingers, causing ropes to materialize around Harry, hugging him tightly.

"I can't have you interfering."

Harry grimaced. "You know, I'm not here to stop you. I was just curious. I wanted to talk to you."

The Professor barked out a laugh. "You know, Potter, for a Slytherin, you're a rather pathetic liar."

Harry frowned. "That's because I'm not lying. I really did just come to talk to you. If I wanted to stop you, I would have gone to a teacher long ago; I told you, I figured all this out a while back."

Professor Quirrell grinned at him, clearly amused by his words. "Is that so? I admit, I'm surprised you would see past my facade. I would have thought that no one would suspect p-p-poor st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell. I am curious, though, when exactly did you know? Was it when I tried to kill you?"

The man's smile sharpened, and Harry got the impression that his professor was trying to intimidate him with this revelation (which wasn't really a revelation, seeing as Harry already knew all this). It wasn't working.

"Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with you; another few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom, no doubt. I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a counter-curse, trying to save you," the man said grandly.

"Ah, so it was him with the counter-curse," Harry said thoughtfully.

"You knew about the Quidditch game, too?" Professor Quirrell looked surprised. "So you knew about all of it. Really though, since when? When did you know?"

Harry thought about it. When had Professor Quirrell's intentions become evident? When had he and Tom truly suspected the man? Well, it was pretty much from the beginning, wasn't it? "The Quidditch game was when it really clicked, I suppose...but really, I've suspected something was wrong since the first day of classes, sir. Why else would my scar hurt in your class but in no one else's?"

The professor nodded. "Indeed, indeed. Truly, I'm surprised no one else caught on. It really was suspicious, wasn't it?"

"Maybe they did catch on," Harry said, suddenly aware of the fact that the more time he spent chatting with his Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, the more likely it was that they'd get caught.

The professor laughed at his words, though. "Perhaps, Potter, perhaps. But they're not here now, are they?" He scowled. "Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror."

The man glared at the mirror. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this...but he's in London...I'll be far away by the time he gets back..."

Oh, so that's why he chose tonight...that's why he wasn't worried about time. Makes sense.

"So," Harry began, not wanting the Professor to forget about his presence, "If Professor Snape was muttering the counter-curse, did he know about all this as well?" This would be a good time to sort out Professor Snape's allegiances. After all, Professor Snape not wanting him dead didn't guarantee his allegiance to either side.

"Yes," Professor Quirrell said idly, walking around the Mirror to look at the back. "He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I'd got. He suspected me all along...tried to frighten me -"

Ah, so Professor Snape was trying to thwart him. Good to know. Apparently Tom was right in referring to the man as a traitor then.

"- as though he could, when I had the Dark Lord on my side..."

Harry didn't react to that, but was internally pleased. He already knew who Professor Quirrell was working for, but now proof was unfolding right in front of him, and soon he could proceed with his friend-making quest. Tom would be relieved.

Professor Quirrell came back out from behind the Mirror and stared hungrily into it. "I see the Stone...I'm presenting it to my master...but where is it?"

"Your master...is Lord Voldemort?" Harry tried to confirm.

He watched Professor Quirrell flinch at the name.

"Is he the one who asked you to steal the Stone?" Harry asked, trying not to sound too pushy.

Professor Quirrell stared at him for a long moment. "You know about that too?"

Harry nodded. "Like I said, it was the pain in my scar that gave you away. It didn't really leave much to the imagination."

The professor narrowed his eyes at him.

"Lord Voldemort," Harry said, feeling some sort of amused satisfaction when Professor Quirrell flinched again. "Where is he now?"

The professor froze, and Harry watched his eye glaze over slightly, growing distant.

"He is with me wherever I go," the man said quietly, the thin, quivering quality of his voice sending shivers down Harry's spine – there was something very eerie about those words, though he didn't know what it was. "I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it..."

Then he was definitely working for Voldemort 1.0.

"Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Professor Quirrell's voice had grown hoarse and strained, and he shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts -"

Harry's eyebrows went up. He'd tried to rob Gringotts? That was awfully...brave. Apparently Professor Quirrell had some Gryffindor in him.

"- he was most displeased. He punished me...decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me..." the professor's voice trailed away.

Harry tilted his head to the side. Apparently, Voldemort 1.0 had little tolerance for mistakes, much like Tom. Still, something seemed...off...about Professor Quirrell's statement. There was something implicitly...horrible, terrifying about the Voldemort he spoke of – something in his voice made Harry's blood run cold.

"I'm very sorry you had to go through that sir..."

The man scoffed.

"...but if you wouldn't mind elaborating," Harry said cautiously, "I would appreciate it."

"Enough, Potter! You've distracted me enough!"

Harry grimaced. "I'm sorry if it came off like that, sir, but I need to -"

Professor Quirrell ignored him, and swore under his breath. "I don't understand … is the Stone inside the Mirror? Should I break it?"

Harry really had no idea at this point – where the Stone was, how to get it – he didn't care, either. Something was off about this whole thing, and he needed to get to the bottom of it before he made his move. "Pro -"

"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!" the man exclaimed desperately into thin air.

And much to Harry's surprise, the thin air answered.

"Use the boy...Use the boy..." The voice was cold and high; thin, weak, and papery...yet terrifying, in a way.

Professor Quirrell rounded on Harry, eyes narrow and critical. "Yes - Potter - come here." He clapped his hands once and the ropes binding Harry fell off.

Harry slowly walked toward him, his movements cautious. He didn't understand what was going on. What was that voice? There wasn't anyone else there...was there?

"Come here," Professor Quirrell repeated. "Look in the Mirror and tell me what you see."

"Professor, I need to talk to you. It's about -"

"Shut up, Potter, and do as I say."

Harry sighed. Perhaps Quirrell would be more willing to talk after he got the Stone. So Harry steeled himself, closed his eyes, stepped in front of the Mirror, and opened them again, feeling more than a little apprehensive about what he was about to see. But instead of the frightening vision he'd witnessed back in December, he saw himself in the mirror this time, him and his green eyes – a proper reflection, pale and uneasy, no trace of Tom or anyone else present. In fact, this was the first time in a very, very long time that he could actually recall seeing himself in a mirror, not just his face as it was worn by his best friend. The serenity of being able to look at just himself, and no one else, pulled him in, and for a moment, he forgot where he was.

But when that moment passed, the reflection smiled at him. For a second, Harry thought it might be Tom after all, but then it put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a shimmering crimson stone. Then it winked and put the Stone back in its pocket – and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his actual pocket.

He froze, and did his best to remain still and silent. What incredible magic! What was that? Somehow, the mirror had acknowledged his presence, and manifested something in reality that had rested only in a false reflection a moment earlier. What sort of magic was that? Was it looking inside him? Somewhere in his thoughts and memories the same way it had done months prior? Or was it more like the incredible magic of the Room of Requirement, responding to some some need, some active desire his mind had created then and there?

"Well?" Quirrell said impatiently with a scowl, oblivious to Harry's awe at the magical contraption in front of them. "What do you see?"

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.