Chapter Text
“Quirrell!” exclaimed Harry hotly.
Snape swung around from where he’d been facing off against the purple turban-wearing professor. “You fool of a boy!”
This was the distraction Quirrell needed. He snapped his fingers, and ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves around Snape.
“Sev!” shouted Draco. Quirrell snapped his fingers again, and now all three boys were also tied up.
“I had expected perhaps Mr Potter-Black to be down here,” Quirrell said, without a trace of his usual stutter, “and perhaps one or two of his little friends, but not you, Severus.”
Snape growled. “After all,” he continued, “Everything I did, I made it look like you were the one to blame. The troll being in the dungeons, your leg bitten by that mangy mutt, and then there was your whole… personality.”
Snape struggled in his bonds, but didn’t get anywhere.
Quirrell turned his attention to Harry. “You’re too nosy to live, Potter-Black. Scurrying around the school, getting older boys to do all your work for you. Ah, that reminds me; how was that dragon? Haven’t heard anything about it.”
Stay calm, he thought. “He moved country. Too cold here, see.”
Draco snorted at Harry’s snark, and Neville let out a quiet guffaw. Annoyed, Quirrell snapped his fingers yet again, and gags sprang into place on Neville and Draco’s mouths.
“Now, wait quietly, you four, while I examine this interesting mirror.”
It was only then that Harry realised that Quirrell was standing in front of the Mirror of Erised. He gave Draco and Neville a look, then motioned his head towards the Mirror. Both of their eyes widened in understanding. Snape only looked confused.
“This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,” Quirrell muttered. “Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this.”
He stared hungrily into it. “I see the stone… I’m presenting it to my Master… but where is it? Should I break it?”
“Not if you want the Stone to be lost forever,” said Snape in a deadpan. “I assume you don’t want that? What would your Master do, I wonder, once you told him?”
A spasm of fear flitted over Quirrell’s face. “I—I would not need to tell him. He is with me wherever I go,” he said quietly. “I met him as I travelled around the world. My Lord and Master showed me that my foolish ideas of good and evil were just that; and that there was only power, and those too weak to seek it. I have served him faithfully since then, although I have failed him many times.” He shivered suddenly. “He has had to be very hard on me, and he does not forgive mistakes easily.”
Quirrell cursed under his breath. “How does this infernal mirror work? Master, I beg you to help me!”
To Harry’s (and the others’) horror, a voice answered him.
“Use one of them… Use one of them...”
Quirrell rounded on them. “Hmm. Which one shall I choose. If it doesn’t work, I can always kill you and move on to the next then. Longbottom,” he drawled, “come here.”
He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Neville fell off. Neville got to his feet, and walked slowly over to the Mirror.
*Neville’s POV*
Neville took a deep breath to calm himself before looking into the mirror. He knew what he would see; it was what he’d hoped and prayed for ever since he could remember. His eyes met his reflection’s, pale and scared-looking at first. Then, his reflection broke out into a huge grin and was embraced on both sides by his parents. His sane parents. Ones who didn’t just give him back the wrappers to the gum he gave them every time he visited. He looked happy. Neville’s eyes started to water, and he sniffed. The tears fell when he realised that there were two smaller children as well. One, the boy, had blond hair, similar to his, and the girl had hair that looked almost black, like his father’s.
“What do you see, Longbottom?” asked Quirrell coldly, not caring a bit that his question was the most insensitive thing he’d ever said.
Neville remembered why they were here, and that Harry, Draco, and Professor Snape were counting on him to prevent Quirrell from getting the Stone, but that they likely didn’t want him to get killed, either. He looked into his reflection’s eyes again, and was startled when he smiled sadly, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a blood red stone, identical to the one in Harry’s watercolour painting. The reflection put the Stone back into his pocket—and as it did so, he felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow—incredibly—he’d got the Stone!
“I will not repeat my question,” Quirrell snarled.
“I see… I see me surrounded by my friends. We’re all laughing. There’s this prank set up behind us.”
Quirrell cursed again. “Get out of the way!”
As Neville was pushed aside, he felt the Philosopher’s Stone against his leg. What should he do? He surreptitiously tapped one finger against his pocket, telling the others he had it.
*Back to Harry’s POV*
“He lies...He lies...” the high voice spoke again.
“How would you be able to tell?” asked Harry, in a mock confused voice. “You don’t know him. You’re Voldemort, aren’t you? Show yourself, if you’re not a coward!”
Snape sucked in a breath, as did Draco and Quirrell. “Master, do not listen to him! You are not strong enough, and you need not prove—”
The high voice cut him off. “I have strength enough… for this…”
Harry knew he shouldn’t have done it, but protecting the others was the only thing he could think of now. Quirrell snapped his fingers, undoing Harry’s ropes and doing up Neville’s ropes at the same time, then reached up and started to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away, Quirrell’s head looking strangely small without it. Then, he turned slowly on the spot.
Harry would have screamed, he was sure of it, but for the fear and disgust that cemented Harry’s teeth together like Hagrid’s treacle fudge. Where the back of Quirrell’s head should have been, there was a face, a chalk-white face with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.
“Harry Potter...” it whispered.
Suddenly Harry found the courage to speak. Maybe a little too much courage. “If you’ve been on the back of Quirrell’s head all year, then surely you know by now that my last name, by blood and magic, is Potter-Black? Honestly, Voldy, where has your memory gone?”
The people behind him gasped, and Voldemort roared and hissed, obviously wanting to move closer to the source of his anger, because Quirrell walked backwards towards him. Harry realised he had probably gone a bit too far, but stood his ground. “Don’t be a fool,” he snarled. “Better to save your own life. Maybe sacrifice some of your little friends along the way.”
Now it was Harry’s turn to snarl, and he curled up his fists, forcing himself to stay where he was. “Oh dear me… touchy, touchy,” mocked the face. “After all, you don’t want to end up like your parents… they died, begging for mercy.”
“LIAR!” Harry shouted.
“Hmm…” it hummed. “I always did value bravery… Yes, your parents were brave… I killed your father first when he wouldn’t get out of my way… he put up a courageous fight… but your mother needn’t have died… she was trying to protect you… Now, get that lump of a boy to hand over the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain.”
“NEVER!”
Harry sprang in front of where Neville was, trying to protect him.
Voldemort rolled his eyes. “Such a waste. Quirrell.”
Quirrell turned around and strode over to Harry. He grabbed Harry’s wrist, but let go almost immediately with a yell. He hunched over in pain, looking at his fingers—they were blistering like crazy.
Of course, he thought, Mother’s Protection.
“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort, and Quirrell tried to obey, lunging at him and knocking him to the ground. Harry felt his head smack against the ground, and he saw stars burst before his eyes. Trying to keep conscious, he did the one thing he knew would hurt Quirrell—and Voldemort—he touched Quirrell’s arms where they’d locked around Harry’s throat.
Almost immediately, Quirrell was howling in pain again, and scrambling to get off him, but Harry only hung on tighter, reaching up on instinct to Quirrell’s face—
“AAARGH!”
Quirrell finally managed to roll off him, as Harry’s consciousness dwindled, having been both exhausted by the Mother’s Protection taking effect, and probably concussed after his head had hit the hard stone floor.
Harry sunk into obliviousness, and there were colours, and light, then nothing, as the blackness took over, pulling him under.
*
He came to slowly, seeing a pink-and-white blob come into focus. He blinked, and Professor Dumbledore was there, smiling at him.
“Good afternoon, Harry,” he said.
Harry stared at him. Then, he remembered. “Sir! The Philosopher’s Stone! Quirrell was—”
“Relax, my boy, relax. Quirrell does not have the Stone.”
Harry was confused. “Then—then who does?”
“Ah, you see, Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it from you before he succumbed to his injuries. The effort involved nearly killed you, it drained your magical core to the extreme. For one terrible moment, when I arrived, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it was decided by both myself and my dear old friend, Nicholas Flamel, that it would be better to destroy it.”
Harry thought for a second, then settled on being as clueless as Dumbledore would no doubt expect him to be. “Is he the creator? Won’t he die then?”
“Alas, yes. He and his wife will die, but they have enough Elixir stored to set their remaining affairs in order.”
Harry lay there, as though lost for words. Dumbledore hummed a little tune, and smiled at the ceiling. Then, he looked back down at Harry. “Anything else, Harry?”
“What about Draco and Neville? And Professor Snape? The twins and Hermione?”
“Again, relax. They are all fine. The twins and Hermione came across me just as I returned, and they told me what had happened. They are fine, and even attempted to send you a Hogwarts toilet seat, no doubt to cheer you up.
“As for Misters Malfoy and Longbottom, they pulled Quirrell off you after getting rid of their ropes, and they and Professor Snape brought you up here. All three of them were discharged after a day’s rest in the Hospital Wing.”
This prompted Harry to look at his surroundings for the first time. He was in a white bed, covered by white linen sheets, and next to him, was a table filled with what looked like half a sweet shop. His eyes boggled out of his sockets, but quickly got control of himself again. “How long have I been here, sir?” he asked.
“Three days.”
Harry groaned.
*
“Just five minutes?” Harry pleaded. “You let the Headmaster in…”
“You need rest. And the Headmaster is one thing...”
“Oh go on, Madam Pomfrey,” he wheedled, “I’m lying down. That’s resting, isn’t it?”
She huffed, but let Draco and Neville in.
“Harry!” exclaimed Draco, looking ready to fling his arms around him again. The Mediwitch coughed disapprovingly, and he stopped short, pouting. Harry giggled.
“We were so worried about you,” said Neville. “We thought you were going to—”
“Don’t say it, Nev,” said Draco. “He still might.”
Harry snorted. “Do I look like I’m dying to you?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
They both looked at him closely, and Draco looked away first, blushing a bit. “No,” they answered.
“Good. So, how’s Gryffindor?”
Groaning, they both sat down, Neville on a nearby chair, and Draco on the edge of Harry’s bed.
“Awful,” Neville complained. “Fred and George told everyone everything, truthfully for once, but it’s a bit moody at the moment, Ravenclaw steamrollered us on the pitch, so we’re last for points, but at least the food at the End-of-the-Year Feast tomorrow will be good.”
Soon after, Madam Pomfrey bustled them out.
*
Surprisingly, they won the House Cup, with Dumbledore giving each of the Marauders’ Recruits points, for basically saving the school and preventing the return of Voldemort. Someone standing outside the Hogwarts gate could well have heard the explosion of cheers that erupted.
In the following days, they got their exam results back. Surprisingly, both Harry and Neville passed with brilliant marks, Ron got good marks, Hermione was only just in front of Draco, coming top of the year, and Fred and George got exactly the same mark, passing with flying colours, which, they insisted, was only because of Hermione’s study schedule. She blushed when they told her.
And suddenly, they were lining up to get into the little boats to cross the lake, their luggage already having been stowed on the Hogwarts Express. They boarded the train, and spent the hours talking and laughing about their year, watching absent-mindedly as the world around them became less wild and more civilised. Finally, they got off, and Harry was met by his godfathers. Neville’s Gran was there, and she broke into sobs when she saw him, beginning to lecture him almost immediately. Hermione waved goodbye and crossed through into the muggle world, promising to write as soon as possible. The Weasley family was gone almost as quickly, although Mrs Weasley reprimanded the twins when she found them exchanging a package of some sort with Sirius, while Remus watched on, laughing. The only one who didn’t look very happy, was Draco. Even though he knew that his mother couldn’t officially talk to him, he’d hoped she might slip away from his father to meet him. Harry noticed his sad, lost expression, and linked arms with him. “Don’t worry, Draco. You can come live with us. I have a surprise for you, anyhow. Did you know, Pads was disowned completely—burnt right off the family tree—and went to live with my dad and his parents?”
Draco shook his head. “How come he’s Lord Black now?
“He had a brother, and when his dad died, his brother decided to make him his heir.”
“It’s true, little cousin,” said Sirius, coming up behind them. “You’ll always be welcome to our home. Whaddya say?”
Draco smiled lightly, then said, “Let’s go home.”