The man with two faces
Chapter 26: The man with two faces
Blaise’s Pov:
Blaise watches completely helpless, as Harry steps through the fire, even after all of them told him not to.
“Ahhg!” He slams a fist into the wall feeling angry tears well up in his eyes, he ignores his mother's voice ‘Do not cry, it is a demonstration of weakness, and most certainly not something a man is allowed to do’ Why would Harry do that? “Stupid Merlin cursed, bloody idiotic, Harrison Evans Charlus Potter!” He slams his fist into the wall again and again paying no mind to blood welling on his knuckles or the aching pain in his hand. “Why would he do that?” Blaise feels more tears well in his eyes and hides his face in his bloodied hand to shield his eyes from the others. He’s never cried in front of them before. Merlin his mother would kill him if she saw him now.
“Blaise.” Luna’s voice, he registers dimly. He feels her arms wrap around him and he doesn’t try to pull away. “He’ll be okay.”
“You don’t know that.” He mumbles, voice cracking, into Luna’s shoulder.
“I have a feeling. My feelings are usually right.”
Harry cannot die. He’s the first person to ever be Blaise's friend. The first person to understand what it's like to live in a home like his. The first person to see him and be happy with what was there. Blaise will not let him die.
“We have to go after him.” Blaise says pulling away from Luna abruptly, and scrubbing at his eyes furiously. “We can’t leave him in there alone!” He gestures at the door engulfed in black fire.
Hermione shakes her head. “We don’t have more potion. There's no way to get to him. The only thing we can do is go back to find Snape.”
“When he makes it out of there, I'm going to strangle him.” George says gruffly, looking angrier than he has all night, but his eyes betray him, all they show is fear.
“Not before I do.” Hermione scowls darkly. “We shouldn’t waste more time; we need to get snape down here asap. I'll show him my memories if I have to.”
Blaise shudders at the mention of legilemency, and has to force away the memories of his mother using it on him, ripping through his thoughts and feelings, pain, pain, burning...
If the only way to save the idiot wanna be Gryffindor is to let Snape see memories, then that's what they’ll do.
Blaise pushes down the knot of fear that has taken up residence in his chest, and steels his resolve with anger. “Come on then.” He grabs the rounded bottle and takes a measured sip, a strange slippery chill settles over his skin. “Quickly! There’s no time.” He says sharply, and he hates himself for how much like his mother he sounds.
They quickly take sips from the rounded bottle, and step towards the purple flames. Following him through the doorway.
~~~
Anger. It's all he can feel, sickening raging anger. He’s found Fred, in what seems to be the last room in this hellish maze of death traps. Quirrell is standing in front of the mirror Dumbledore compelled Harry to find earlier in the year, speaking to his own reflection, but Harry can’t hear him. Or even pay attention to anything other than Fred.
Fred. His friend who lays half dead on the floor. Ashen faced and unmoving. The only thing that stops Harry from losing all rationality and common sense is the fact that he can see the red heads chest rising and falling. He’s alive.
He forces himself to stay crouched out of Quirrell's (and potentially Voldemort's) line of sight, behind one of the pillars that run from floor to ceiling. It’s a strange room, circular in shape, the floor that spans in the middle is much lower than where Harry stands, he can look down over the stone steps that are set around the lowest part of the floor, leading down to where Quirrell stands in the middle staring at the mirror of Erised, everything is made of stone and the pillars that are placed evenly around the top of the steps have intricate patterns all over. To Harry it looks like an Arena of sorts, a place where spectators would sit on the steps and watch with avid excitement and interest as a fight begins in the middle for their entertainment.
Maybe that's why Dumbledore chose it? The headmaster brought him here to fight, did he not? Harry would laugh if he didn’t think it would get him killed. That’s why all of this is happening, right? Dumbledore has turned a blind eye to the fact that Quirrell is probably possessed by the evilest Wixen since Grindelwald, forced Harry to find out about a mirror that is now coincidently standing at the end of the death maze, hiding whatever it is that Quirrell and Voldemort so desperately want beneath a school of children, behind an open door and a set of trials that a group of twelve-year-olds could get past in less than an hour, instead of just putting it in Gringotts. Then of course Fred being forced down here with compulsions, and Harry knows with almost a hundred percent certainty that Dumbledore was the one behind it.
All to get Harry to this stupid room at the same time as Quirrell, to fight? To die? Harry doesn’t know.
He guesses it’s cruelly fitting for the last room to be an arena. Leaning back against the pillar he forces himself to take deep calming breaths, pushing away the hatred for Dumbledore and the image of Fred lying unconscious on the stone floor. If he wants to survive this or at the very least get Fred out alive and safe? He needs to be focused. Calm.
The anger will be useful but it will have to stay silent and dangerous rather than loud and mindless.
He feels a calm descend as he rises to a stand, still hidden by the pillar. He has felt like this before back at the Dursleys, when emotions became simply too much for him to cope with, the feeling of detachment from everything, pain, fear, sadness... all that is left behind is a numb sort of emptiness and a pool of anger carefully woven into his bloodstream. He’s glad. It's much easier to take pain when he’s like this.
He decides he should not use wandless magic if he can help it, its best if no one knows. Especially not Voldemort if he’s somewhere here or Dumbledore if he’s watching from the shadows. So, he slips his wand from the leather holster strapped to his wrist, setting his face into something unfeeling and tries to come up with a plan.
The only visible way in and out of the room is still blocked by black fire, he doesn’t have any potion to get back through, so that’s a no go. He shouldn’t engage in a fight unless there is absolutely no other option, because even with his abnormal amount of power he is still no match for fully grown, fully trained Wixen. So, the best he can do is try to get Fred closer and hide until (Hopefully) his friends manage to convince Snape to get down here.
He peaks out from behind the pillar. Quirrell is still distracted by the mirror, if Harry is careful and utterly silent, he might be able to levitate Fred up the steps and into his hiding place. Hopefully whatever is wrong with Fred will be more apparent from close up, then Harry can try to fix it, to heal him with magic, just like he does for himself back at Privet drive.
He checks again that Quirrell is focused on the mirror, he is. So, he points his wand at Fred and wordlessly casts ‘wingardium leviosa’ Harry barely breaths as the red head begins to levitate ever so slowly of the ground. But he only gets a few centimetres closer before Quirrell spins round brown eyes flashing red for a moment as they lock onto Harry. “Mr Potter, we wondered if you would be making an appearance tonight.” There is no trace of a stutter when he speaks.
Harry feels a wave of panic try to break through the detached calm, but he ignores it and decides he’s going to have to go for plan B. He needs to distract Quirrell, stall for time until help arrives or a better option appears. He needs to keep the man away from Fred and talking.
“Evening professor.” He greets in an eerily calm voice as he steps out from his hiding place into the open. “Sorry to disturb your-” he gestures around the room vaguely “-whatever it is you’re doing.”
Quirrell looks confused for a moment, his face drawn in a frown, but he quickly recovers and he plasters a sneer on his face. “Have you come to rescue your little blood traitor friend?”
Stay calm, anger silent and deadly not brash and bold. He tells himself firmly, because he can feel his detachment slipping away. “I did come here to find my friend, yes.” He’s careful to keep his expression blank as he stares at Quirrell without meeting his eye, he knows that Quirrell is a legilemence, direct eye contact would be a stupid idea. “Do you happen to know why he’s in here with you? Did you lure him here?” He asks carefully, moving a few paces so he’s stood on the top step, looking down at Quirrell.
Quirrell lets out a rasp of laughter, eyes once again flashing red. “Oh no, that was all Albus. Although I have to admit I have no idea why, surely, he knew he would be sending his precious boy saviour to inevitable death? Albus was foolish baiting you down here.” Quirrell’s expression turns hungry, gleeful. “My master is so very eager to meet you once more.”
Harry smirks and tilts his head to one side. “Who is your master professor Quirrell? And why are they so eager to meet me?” All semblance of calm has left Harry’s mind, internally it's all going to shit, he realizes he’s completely and utterly done for. Get the grave ready because this is the end of Harry potter. His parents sacrifice completely pointless. Tomorow it will be on the front page of the daily prophet (Breaking news! The boy who lived brutally murdered! Guts ripped out for all to see!) he has no idea how he’s managing to keep it together on the outside when he feels moments away from having a flipping heart attack.
Much to Harry’s horror it is not Quirrell's voice that replies. “Show me to the boy. Let him see what I have become.” A rasping rattling voice echoes through the room from no visible source.
Quirrell's face falls, he looks suddenly panicked. Clutching at his head he mutters desperately. “But Master! You are not yet ready. The unicorn blood could only do so much. Wait for the stone.”
The stone? What stone. He files the comment away for later. Snape apparently was correct in thinking Quirrell was the one killing unicorns.
“You DARE tell your master what he should do?! Quirinus, you know nothing of my capabilities! You are a mere fool, a body for me to use and discard as I please, you serve me. You obey when I order! You do not question my word!” The voice sounds enraged, turning shrill and echoing once more so loudly Harry is unable to hear anything else. It sends chills up his spine and sets alarm bells blaring in his mind.
Quirrell has dropped to his knees, hands clasped together as if he’s praying, trembling all over and looking so terrified, it almost makes Harry pity him. “NO! No! M-my apologies Master! It was a f-foolish mistake. I am your servant in all things I will not question you a-again, I swear it!”
“Show me the to the boy!” Is the voices only response, harsh and cruel.
“Yes, master.” Quirrell responds in whisper, and to Harry's utter confusion begins unwrapping his purple turban.
Quirrell stands once more on shaking legs, the material dropping to the floor forgotten, and he turns around slowly. The confusion rapidly dissipates replaced with the violent urge to throw up. The sight that Harry’s eyes are the unfortunate victim off, is sure to give him nightmares if he makes it out of this alive. A face is merged into the back of the professor's head, distorted and deformed beyond recognition, no real features are obvious except for the blood red eyes and cracked thin lips, stained silver with what can only be unicorn blood. It is so far from human, so vile and terrifying Harry is frozen in place, fear and nausea rolling through him in waves.
When they came up with the theory Quirrell is being possessed by Voldemort, none of them had ever expected this. Not for Voldemort to physically merge himself into the professor's skull, Harry was somewhat prepared for the idea that he would run into a shade of Voldemort, a ghost, something separate to Quirrell at the very least. Not this.
“Where is your bravery now?” Voldemort rasps and it's so much worse to hear now that he can see where the voice comes from. The cracked bloody lips moving and the red eyes fixed on Harry’s face. Harry will not meet the monster's gaze. He will not. “You are not the little lion Albus wishes you were, are you? Little snake.”
The last word is a hiss of parcel tongue, but it's wrong. Harry can’t place his finger on it but it sounds wrong, and not because it’s coming from Voldemort's mouth but the words themselves. Hearing it makes his magic want to rise and fight, destroy the source of the somehow false parsel-tongue. He pushes the feeling away and regains some composure, he won’t show that he understands the word.
“I don’t have to kill you.” Voldemort continues and that makes Harry’s confusion return. “You do not have to die, foolishly as your parents did.”
His back stiffens, the rage rises up in full force. Lily and James were not foolish. They were strong. They did everything they could to keep Harry safe, they fought and died for him. His mother is the reason this maniac fell the first time. Clenching his fists he speaks through gritted teeth. “You're going to let me walk away from you unharmed? Me? The boy who survived your killing curse? The child who led to your downfall?”
Voldemort's face twists and contorts into something that might be a smirk. “No.”
Harry lets out a laugh, empty of amusement. “So, what then? What will you do Mr all powerful and mighty face in the back of a professor's head?”
“Join me. Serve me. And you will live and be rewarded.” His expression is cold and there is clear rage on his face. Apparently, Voldemort does not enjoy being insulted. Or maybe his whole face situation is a bit of a sore spot.
“Why would I join the monster who killed my family?” Harry grinds his teeth together glaring at Quirrell's back to avoid staring Voldemort in the eye. The man is in insane if he truly believes Harry would ever join him. There is nothing on earth that would convince him to serve Voldemort.
“We could bring them back. Together we could destroy even death. I could give you power beyond your imagination.”
No. That's not possible. Death is inevitable for everyone and once it happens it can’t be undone. Death can’t be stopped. It is not something that can be, destroyed. You can avoid it for a bit, dodge around it, balance on the edge of life and death on shaking legs but... no one can stop it. “No one can destroy death. And my parents are gone. And I don’t want power, especially not yours.” Harry has more than enough power on his own he wouldn’t taint it with whatever Voldemort could offer, and Harry grips onto the idea of an afterlife... a place where he will be with his parents again. With any luck (or misfortune depending on how you look at it) He’ll find out soon.
Somehow Voldemort manages to make himself look even more terrifying, even less human. “You defy me? You will see what happens to those that stand against me!” The red eyes narrow and Harry is helpless to stop it as his body is ripped through the air to land painfully on the stone floor in front of the mirror. “Use the boy! Albus will have shown him how to get the stone!”
Harry groans and rolls over on to his side, something in his arm is definitely broken and there’s blood dripping from his head and soaking the collar of his pyjamas. He forces his eyes open realizing suddenly that Fred is only a few metres away. He looks worse than he did a few minutes ago. If he was half dead before he’s more than three quarters there now. “What did you do to Fred!” He can’t stop himself from shouting the question, the fear is sickening.
There are no visible injuries on his friend, no blood no scrapes, nothing. Harry thought he simply couldn’t see what's wrong from far away but clearly that's not true and it only makes the fear rise higher in his chest. Maybe it’s an internal injury or something to do with his heart? Oh Merlin. He hopes the others Hurry up and send Snape to help them. Fred needs to go to the hospital wing. Now.
Quirrell approaches, trembling less now Voldemort stopped speaking, sneering down at Harry. “Energy curse.” He smiles, coldly. “It siphons the life force of an individual to be used for a worthier purpose.”
Oh. They are draining the life out of him.
Harry feels himself be dragged to face the mirror. “Tell me what you see. I know the stone is in there!”
Harry stares mindlessly at the reflection. He can’t think of anything other than Fred whose life is dropping away every second that Harry does not do something. The reflection in the mirror is simply that. His own reflection, battered and bruised in bloodied pyjama’s. It’s nothing like what he saw when Dumbledore compulsed him to the room. Suddenly the reflection moves even though Harry is still frozen in place mind spinning with the image of Fred almost dead. It reaches a hand out, opens its palm to show a red stone and then slips it into its pyjama pocket. At the same time, he feels a weight drop into his own pocket.
He has no idea what this stone is or why Quirrell wants it but he finds he cannot care because his friend is almost dead and Harry doesn’t know how to stop it.
“Tell me boy!” Quirrell snaps gripping Harry’s collar and shaking him harshly. “What do you see!”
“You're killing Fred.” He says voice empty. “Stop.”
“Do not defy my master! Tell us what you see, boy!” God Harry hates that name, boy. It's all he’s ever been at the Dursleys, never good enough to be referred to by his real name. He hates it. Boy. He wishes he could burn it from every mind and all the dictionaries. “Tell me BOY!”
And that's all it takes. For Harry to snap. Fred dying on the stone floor. Blood dripping down his neck. Quirrell gripping his collar. Fred almost dead. And the people who did it standing right behind him. And that stupid nickname.
Before Harry can stop and think about what he’s doing, or find some semblance of self-control, he finds his hands wrapping around Quirrell's throat. If the caster is dead the spell will stop, right? He’s barely able to think, to see, to breath, the anger is so powerful.
There’s pain too. A searing pain like a hot poker pressed to his scar. But the anger drowns it out, pushing it to the background. It's easy to manage, Harry is used to pain.
Quirrell starts to scream, Harry is squeezing his throat but Quirrell does not choke... he dissolves. Slowly, his skin begins to turn to ash. The screams increase until... there is no mouth or throat for him to scream from.
Harry flinches away from the man who is now more ash than skin, staring down at his hands. How did he do that? Oh, Merlin what...? He crawls away, away, from the crumbling body. Towards Fred. Fred who is not dead yet but will be soon.
Harry watches until Quirrell is no more than a pile of dust. Is Voldemort dead too? Is he reduced to dust? Harry finds himself hoping through the anger and horror... that was his mistake.
A shadowy figure rises from the ash. Distorted voice screaming echoing in Harry’s very soul. “YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!” A piercing hiss rattles through the room, once again the parsel-tongue sounds wrong.
Harry barely has time to brace himself let alone stop the figure. As it dives through the air, charging towards Harry and passing right through him.
Harry falls, back onto Fred's cold body with a gasp. His vision goes black and he slips into nothingness. Death. He thinks. Finally.