When Hari stepped through the black flames, he came upon a wide, almost empty chamber. At the very centre of the room, he recognised the Mirror of Erised in all its glory, centre stage. And, looking into the Mirror was none other than…

“Professor Quirell?” Hari blurted.

The older man, blood red turban balanced precariously on his head, turned around to face Hari. Gone was the trembling, fearful man, replaced by a cocky, smirking man, his eyes narrowing at Hari.

“Hari Potter,” said Professor Quirrel, his voice as clear and steady as ever.

“It was you!” Hari exclaimed, pointing. “You’re the one trying to get the Philosopher’s Stone?”

Professor Quirrel smiled, tilting his head slightly. “Are you surprised, Hari? Who were you expecting? Snape?” asked Quirrel.

Hari shrugged, looking down at the floor. “Were you not working together this whole time?” he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

Quirrel burst out laughing, throwing his head back. “Snape? Working with me? As if!” he retorted, grinning. “Oh, no. Snape has been doing his damned most trying to stop me from getting the Stone, if you must know.”

Hari folded his arms, taking another step towards Quirrel. He watched Quirrel closely, peering into the Mirror of Erised with an irritable frown. Hari looked into the Mirror himself, surprised to find only himself, no family behind him. How odd.

“Still no closer to getting it, are you?” asked Hari.

Quirrel kept his back turned to Hari, still staring intently into the mirror. “I know it is here. This Mirror is the key to getting the stone, but I just cannot think of how…” His voice trailed off in thought.

As Hari neared Quirrel and the mirror, he swore he heard a faint, almost silent whispering sound coming from somewhere. It grew louder with every step closer, coming from… somewhere on Quirrel.

Hari’s eyes caught his own in the Mirror of Erised again. He saw his own reflection smiling at him, winking. Hari frowned, disconcerted at the uncanny nature of his odd reflection. And then, still grinning, the Mirror Hari reached into his pocket and pulled out something vivid red and twinkling in the low lantern light. The Philosopher’s Stone. As the Mirror Hari dropped the stone back into his pocket, Hari felt the sudden jolting weight of it in his own pocket.

“What do you want the Stone so badly for? Is it for Lord Voldemort?” asked Hari, trying to stall for time.

”Do not speak his name!” hissed Quirrel, spinning around to face Hari again, his face twisting with fury.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” said Hari. “You’ve been working for him all this time. It was you I saw in the Forbidden Forest that night and it’s been you this whole time.”

Quirrel’s fury turned into a sneer again and he nodded. “Very good, Hari. I knew you were clever,” he said. Another whisper in the air, Quirrel twisted again, murmuring incoherently under his breath. “Although, then again, you have been raised by one of the smartest witches of her age. I suppose it was only inevitable.”

“Don’t speak of her,” Hari snapped.

But Quirrel just ignored Hari, listening intently to the odd whispering. “But Master, you aren’t strong enough…” Quirrel whispered, turning again. More whispers. “Are you sure?”

Then, clear as day, Hari heard the whisper at its loudest, a high, cold voice that grated on Hari’s skin, hair sticking up on the back of his neck. “Ask the boy what he sees in the Mirror.”

“Well? What do you see in the mirror, Potter?” repeated Quirrel.

Hari looked in the mirror again and furrowed his brows together, trying to look thoughtful. The weight of the stone in his pocket grew slightly in his awareness. He couldn’t admit the truth, but what else could he do? What could he say?

“I see… my family,” said Hari, thinking back to months ago when he first saw the mirror in that dark, abandoned classroom. “All of them. I see my whole family surrounding me. They’re proud of me.”

“He lies!”

“Tell the truth!” snapped Quirrel.

“I am,” Hari snapped back.

The cold voice laughed, the sound rattling around the room, unnatural and unhuman. “Let me see the boy,”

Quirrel hesitated only a second before reaching his hands up to his turban, beginning to untie its elaborate wrapping. Hari held his breath, watching in growing horror as Quirrel unraveled the scarlet fabric, around and around, letting the fabric trail to the floor in a heap. Hari inhaled at the sight revealed beneath the cloth.

It was another face. The face of Lord Voldemort on the back of Professor Quirinus Quirrel’s head. It was sickly pale and snake-like, two slits for a nose and a pair of beady, blood red eyes narrowed at Hari. Hari’s scar burns like a brand and Hari slaps a hand on his forehead, looking into the eyes of the man that killed his parents, that tried to kill him.

“Give me the Stone, Hari Potter,” the second face hissed.

“Never!” Hari yelled, stepping back as far as he could before he would run into the black flames blocking his exit.

Lord Voldemort ordered Quirrel to grab Hari and the other man spun around, lunging towards Hari. Hari stumbled back, falling over, just as Quirrel grabbed his wrist. Hari closed his eyes, preparing to face his end…

Quirrel screamed, yanking his hand away.

Hari’s eyes flew open and he looked up at Quirrel, just in time to see him staggering backwards. He was clutching his own hand, screaming at the top of his lungs, his face twisted with agony. The voice of Lord Voldemort continued to hiss and screech at him, but Quirrel was too preoccupied by the sizzling burn of his hand.

“Sieze him!”

“But, Master—!” Quirrel sobbed.

Voldemort repeated himself and Quirrel staggered over to Hari, arms outstretched. This time, when his hands touched Hari, they went straight for his neck. He gripped on tight to Hari’s throat, constricting his airways, the edges of Hari’s vision going in and out of focus. Smoke and steam billowed up as Quirrel gripped onto Hari, his hands slowly disintegrating from the mere touch of Hari’s skin.

Dizzy and breathless, Hari reached up and grabbed Quirrel’s wrists with his hands. He watched as his hands branded Quirrel’s thin, pale wrists, steaming. Quirrel’s grip slackened and he staggered back, sobbing in sheer agony.

Hari blinked, gasping for breath.

The last thing he saw before he passed out was Professor Quirrel, falling to his knees, head thrown back, roaring with agony. And then nothing.

¤¤¤

Hari jolted awake, hours later, in the hospital wing. The first words out of his mouth are, “Quirrel!”

Hari squinted in the afternoon light which streamed in through the windows on the far end of the hospital, the curtains pulled aside to let the sunshine in. He blinked, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the light, looking around for his glasses.

When he puts the glasses on, the first thing he sees with clarity is a whopping pile of gifts on the table by his bed, cards and balloons and sweets of varying shapes and varieties.

The second thing he sees with clarity is Albus Dumbledore.

After the initial shock, Albus calmly explains to Hari about what he missed in the last 24 hours he’s been sleeping through his healing process, assuring him that his friends are all safe and accounted for. He explains that he found Quirrel and Hari only moments after Hari passed out, able to get the stone away from him before Quirrel eventually perished once Lord Voldemort left him behind. Hari listened with confusion and fascination to the story without interrupting, even when Dumbledore mentioned the Stone would be destroyed so that Nicolas Flamel would soon pass away at last.

Hari was most surprised by Dumbledore’s last revelation, however.

“Finally, I believe you ought to know the truth about the Invisibility Cloak,” said Dumbledore, finishing his explanation about death and adventures. “I was the one that sent it.”

“You were? Why? Why didn’t you say?”

“I believe my need for it had already been surpassed,” explained Dumbledore cryptically. “The Cloak itself has been passed on from generation to generation in the Potter family, so it was rightfully yours. Being eleven, I feel you are finally old enough to have access to it, as I’m sure your own father would have believed had he survived.”

Hari chewed on his bottom lip, looking at his lap. “But you didn’t sign it?”

Dumbledore smiled, a mirthful laugh crinkling his eyes behind those famous half-moon spectacles. “That? That was merely half the fun,” explained Dumbledore. “Life, I believe, is always more fun with a bit of mystery, don’t you think?”

After the events of the last year, Hari wasn’t quite so sure. If anything, he was done with mysteries for a lifetime.

Soon, Dumbledore had to leave Hari alone for his own duties and Ron, Hermione and Draco were finally let into the room. They surrounded his bed, talking over each other, stealing Hari’s sweets for themselves. Hari let them, laughing at them arguing over sweets and trying to fill him in on what he missed while he was in the hospital wing.

“Ravenclaw won the house cup, of course,” said Draco, popping a Fizzing Whizbee into his mouth. “You missed the feast. It was good.”

Hari rolled his eyes. He’d seen the Closing Feast 6 times already; he was sure it was just the same as always.

¤¤¤

The next morning, everyone’s trunks packed and animals stuffed into crates and cages, Hari and the rest of the school headed for the Hogwarts Express back home. Hari followed the rest of his classmates downhill to Hogsmeade Station, chatting about the upcoming summer holidays with Ron, Hermione and Draco.

“And you must promise to actually write,” Hermione said as she reached the station and they reached a queue of people going to board.

“Aye, we will, Hermione,” said Hari, batting her shoulder. “Don’t you worry.”

“Yeah, every day, Hermione, every day,” added Draco.

Hermione rolled her eyes, shoving her way through to board the train. She pushed her way through first to reserve them an empty carriage and together, the four Gryffindors clambered onto the train for the long ride back home.

The journey home was long and peaceful, stopping every so often for the few other stops between Hogsmeade and King’s Cross. They played a few rounds of Exploding Snap before Draco ended up throwing the pack of cards out the window in a fit of rage at having lost a 3rd time in a row; Ron forced Hari into a game of wizard’s chess, beating him in less than 6 moves; Draco showed off the bright stone crown he got from their life size game of chess down in the Underground Chambers and Hermione lectured them all about not doing magic over the summer break.

It was the most fun they’d had in weeks. After stressing over Nicolas Flamel and the Philosopher’s Stone and Snape and Quirrel the whole year, it was a relief to finally think about nothing but the summer holidays and the stress free journey home together. Hari hoped the next year would be a bit less stressful, a bit more like a normal school year.

But, as he headed off the train and onto Platform 9 ¾ to Remus Lupin waiting for him, Hari figured that that was simply never going to happen. Not at Hogwarts…