Harry Potter and the Time He Killed a Man with His Bare Hands at Eleven Years Old
In the years to come, Harry would be very grateful that the Stone had been dealt with before exams. He has no clue how he would have survived them if he had been worrying about it, the only bother was his exam stress headache. Nothing he seemed to do would get rid of it, maybe the heat was making it worse. The first year Gryffindors had chosen to head down to the lake after their exams were done, and they weren’t the only ones. Nearly half the school was outside, enjoying the sun. Harry wasn’t surprised that Percy was part of the group not present, he’d holed himself up somewhere when he wasn’t taking his O.W.L.s. Harry sighed happily, laid back with his eyes closed, and tried to enjoy sunbathing.
Harry was restless. It was well past curfew, well past midnight, and he couldn’t fall asleep. He slipped out of his bed and grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and shoes, not bothering to change out of his pajamas. It was warm out anyway. He wandered the halls under the cloak, dipping in and out of secret passageways as needed. He had been passing the forbidden corridor when his head started to pound. He checked the hall he was in before pulling off the cloak tying it around his waist to keep it on him. He attempted to calm his mind and fix his headache, leaning against a wall and breathing a bit easier now that he didn't have the cloak over his head.
The corridor’s door flew open and was shut just as fast, stopping an angry Fluffy from escaping. Harry jumped up from his place on the wall. Had Snape found out the Stone wasn’t there anymore?
“YOU!” Quirrell (Quirrell?) hissed, “It was you wasn’t you wasn’t it? You must have removed the Philosopher's Stone. Where is it? You will tell me so I can give it to my master!”
Harry was nearly at a loss for words, “But– y-you? What about Snape?”
“HA, Snape didn’t do anything, the broom, the troll, it was all me. ME. All on my masters order–”
“Kill him.”
Quirrell and Harry froze at the voice that came from Quirrell’s turban, “He will not tell us where it is. Kill him, and continue to search.”
Quirrell’s eyes went dark and without warning he lunged at Harry. Harry attempted to scurry out of his reach but the professor was able to wrap his hands around Harry's throat. Harry’s scar burned, and Quirrell’s hand with it. Quirrell reared back, screaming in pain. There were pounding footsteps just within the range of Harry’s hearing. At the voice’s, Voldemort’s, command the man drew his wand to kill Harry, but by some instinct Harry reached up and grabbed his face. The footsteps had stopped for a moment, as Quirrell rolled off him with a scream. Now Harry knew Quirrell could not touch his bare skin, it was his only hope to hold him here till help arrived. Harry now was the one lunging at the other wizard, grabbing any bare skin he could, doing his best not to gag as Quirrell burned alive under his hands.
Quirrell had stopped screaming eventually, faster than he would have had Harry been wearing his robe. Harry would never wear these pajamas again. As he lost consciousness he could just barely feel arms wrapping around his and someone yelling for Madam Pomfrey.
…….
Severus had just watched Harry Potter kill a man.
Harry Potter: James Potter’s son, Lily’s son, a boy he promised to protect, had just killed a man with his bare hands. And Severus hadn’t done anything. He had got there just as Quirrell pulled out his wand and could only watch in horror as Potter burned the man alive in nothing but his sleepwear.
Filch arriving had knocked the potion master out of his stupor enough for him to pull the boy away from Quirrell's charred remains and call for Pomfrey.
…….
Harry woke up in the infirmary, surrounded by gifts from his friends and housemates. According to Headmaster Dumbledore he'd been asleep for three days, the old wizard had also said a lot of nothing about the Stone, thinking he deserved to know why Quirrell attacked him. Harry didn't bother to change his view on the situation.
Harry was still trying to process what Dumbledore had said about his parents by the time Ron and Hermione were done visiting him. He couldn't even be mad about his house's losses to Slytherin and Ravenclaw. The only thing he could do was drift into peaceful sleep.
Harry was pleased to find out that he was given permission to go to the feast once he woke up, much to Madam Pomfrey's chagrin. It definitely helped Harry deal with Hagrid's pity party. On a somewhat related note, Hagrid has once more reinforced his spot as Harry's favorite staff member with a scrapbook of his parents.
Harry was kept a bit by Madam Pomfrey giving him one last checkup, so the great hall was full by the time he got there. There was a sudden hush when he walked in and marched his way to sit between Ron and Hermione and tried to ignore the whispers. Luckily Dumbledore arrived moments later, effectively diverting attention.
“Another year gone!” He said 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! Now I understand the House Cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Ravenclaw, with three hundred and fifty-two; Gryffindor has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two.”
The cheering from the Slytherin table was near deafening, even from the other side of the hall. Harry could see Malfoy banging his goblet on the table Arse.
“Yes, yes. Well done Slytherin,” Dumbledore said in his grandfatherly tone. “However,” the Slytherin’s excitement quieted, “recent events must be taken into account.”
Harry thought he heard a pin drop.
“To Mr. Harry Potter…” Half the room was holding their breaths, Malfoy was seemingly trying to mimic Ron’s hair. “... for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House sixty points.”
Gryffindor now had four hundred and eighty-six points. Fourteen more points than Slytherin. If the Slytherin’s celebration had been loud the Gryffindor’s was ear splitting.
The joy of the end-of-year feast made the final day breeze by. The wardrobes were emptied, their trunks were packed, and the scores were given for their exams. (Every Gryffindor passed of course, Neville’s potion grade sucked though.) They found Neville’s toad and notes reminding students not to use magic over the holidays were passed out. The twins made it a game of rounding up said notes and seeing how many protective charms had been put on them this year, too many to count was the answer. The train ride home went faster than the one there, but was no less fun. And soon they were pulling into King’s Cross station.
Harry crossed through the gateway with the Weasley bunch and Hermione.
“There he is, Mum, there he is, look!” shouted Ron’s little sister, Ginny. “Harry Potter! Look, Mum! I can see–”
“Quiet down dear, it’s rude to point”
Mrs. Weasley smile down at them as they walked up to her, “Busy year?”
“Very,” said Harry. “Thank you for the fudge and the sweater, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Oh, it was nothing dear.”
“Ready, are you?”
It was Uncle Vernon, still purple faced, still mustached, still loathing Harry’s very existence. Aunt Petunia and Dudley were behind him, staring frightfully at the group of magic folk.
“You must be Harry’s family!’ said Mrs. Weasley.
“In a manner of speaking.” said Uncle Vernon, “Hurry up, boy.” He walked away.
Harry hung back for a quick word with his friends.
“I hope you can come stay with us a bit this summer,” Percy said , just load enough for his mother to hear.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Harry said honestly, accepting hugs from Ron and the twins.
“Hope you have, er, a good holiday.” Hermione said clearly in shock from the Dursleys.
“Oh, I will,” Harry said with a dangerous grin, “they don’t know I’m not allowed to use magic.”