HP & The Sorcerers' Stone

Harry

Harry, Jéricho, and Adrian had beaten every test with ease, and had been astonished at the simplicity of it. If three third-years could get through without any real effort or difficulties, then just how easy must it be for Voldemort? Either the old man was losing his touch, or...

Harry gasped and whirled around to look at the other two, and watched it hit them the same moment as him.

"That bastard!" the three exclaimed in unison.

It made perfect sense. Why else would Dumbledore, the Wise Headmaster, announce the restriction on the third-floor corridor at the feast, making it sound irresistible to young children to go there to investigate? Why would the Defeater of Grindelwald put such measly defenses on the Sorcerer's Stone? It was absurd, but not really.

Dumbledore wanted someone to come here.

But who, was the question. Voldemort?

"But... that's crazy, even for the Headmaster." Adrian voiced his thoughts. "He may be a manipulative coot, but he isn't evil. Why would he want Voldemort to get the Stone?"

"Unless..." Jéricho breathed, pale and horrified. "Unless this stone isn't the real one."

There was silence as they swallowed this news. They were currently standing in the Potions room, as the Troll had already been defeated. They hadn't played Chess, either, simply not having the time to, and had instead flown brooms to the door and blasted it open with an overpowered bombarda. 

Now, Jéricho had already figured out the riddle, and they were decided who would go throw the door, since it was enough for only one. 

"I'll do it," Harry said. "I can hold him off, distract him, till Jéricho comes after me. The potion will refill itself, anyway. Ace, you need to go call for help or something, 'kay?"

Adrian winced but didn't argue. "Sure. Be careful."

Harry nodded and swallowed the potion which tasted like ice. Then he turned and stepped through the fire, and then he was on the other side, in the last chamber. There was someone else already there - and like they'd suspected, it wasn't Snape...

It was...

"Quirell."

The teacher smiled. His face wasn't twitching at all. "Harry Potter. I'd wondered when I'd be meeting you. You don't seem much surprised to see me, though."

"I suspected you." Harry easily shrugged, stepping forward and coming down the stairs. "You, or Snape. But to be honest, no matter how much I hate the greasy git, he just doesn't seem the type to do something like this."

Quirell raised an eyebrow. "And I do?"

"Well... you stutter too much to be normal, and you didn't earlier when you taught. I even used to like you then. You also started wearing the turban, which you didn't wear before. And you slipped up once, at the match. I caught you out, though your acting skills are nice. Also, you fainted on the wrong side when you announced the troll. It was you who let it in, by the way, right?"

Quirell seemed very impressed. "Yes, it was. You're indeed quite clever, Potter. I dare say you know the reason for my letting it in?"

"Of course. To sneak into the third corridor when everyone was distracted. Why was Snape limping, then, though?"

"Oh, that." Quirell sighed. "He caught me before I reached there. Intercepted my trick. He's a clever one, he is."

"You cursed the broom too, I presume." Harry frowned as Quirell lazily nodded and gestured for him to carry on. "Why Lyra?"

"Black is... too nosy, I'd say." Quirell shrugged. "She, along with her friends, was catching on fast."

"So you tried to murder her in a game to make it look like an accident." Harry finished. "Makes sense. Why not me?"

"You're a very talented player," Quirell said, "And nobody would believe it if your broom went uncontrollable during a match like that, without it being jinxed. But Black... well, it isn't too suspicious for a firstie to lose control due to nerves."

Harry just raised his eyebrows, and Quirell conceded, "It probably wasn't the most thought-out plan, I'd admit." 

That's when the fire flared again and Jéricho stepped out, wand at the ready. When he saw them both relaxed and talking, though, he lowered it a bit. "Hi, Professor. Nice meeting you here."

Harry had to give it to Jéricho to greet Quirell like they were just there for detention. Quirell, too, seemed more amused than anything. "Mr. Black. I wasn't expecting you, to be honest."

"What can I say, Professor?" Jéricho shrugged modestly. "I'm just that loyal; couldn't bare leaving Harry on his own devices."

"May I be expecting the whole cavalry, then?" Quirell smirked.

"No, no," Harry assured him. "They're all just here in spirit."

There was some moment's pause, before Quirell mildly said, "You know, I was expecting Charles Potter to be here, too. Maybe with Lyra Black, too. Seems they're not as brave as I thought them to be... but oh, well."

"You mean foolish, Quirell." Jéricho rebuked.

Quirell smiled pleasantly. "You came here in courage, didn't you?"

Harry snorted. "Who told you that? Richo's here to stop me from getting killed. I came here in a bout of recklessness, not bravery."

Charles

Charles blinked at the sight that greeted him. 

Harry, Jéricho, and Quirell standing there, chatting away merrily as if they were friends rather than enemies.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Harry hissed dangerously as he glared at his younger brother.

Charles defensively folded his arms across his chest. "Here to help, obviously."

Jéricho face-palmed as Quirell let out a laugh. Harry flinched slightly. "See, I told you he'd come. Like his brother, quite reckless."

"No, at least I had backup." Harry scowled. "He was foolish enough to come alone."

"I had Hermione and Ron with me!" Charles protested.

"It doesn't matter," Quirell commented off-handedly. "Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror."

It was only then that Charles realized what was standing behind Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised.

Quirell suddenly clapped his hands and ropes bound Harry and Jéricho, but not Charles, as if Quirell knew just how helpless Charles was to not even need to be restained. 

"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured, tapping his way around the frame. "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...."

All Charles could think of doing was to keep Quirrell talking and stop him from concentrating on the mirror. "I saw you and Snape in the forest-" he blurted out.

"Yes," said Quirrell 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 - as though he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side...."

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?"

"But Snape hates me."

"Oh, he does," said Quirrell casually, "heavens, yes. You, your brother, and the Blacks. He loathes you all, but he never wanted you dead. I'd suspect due to your mother."

"But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing - I thought Snape was threatening you..."

For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell's face. "Sometimes, I find it hard to follow my master's instructions - he is a great wizard and I am weak -"

Harry gasped. "You mean he was there in the classroom with you?"

"He is with me wherever I go," said Quirrell quietly. "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.... Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me... decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me...."

Quirrell's voice trailed away. He cursed under his breath.

"I don't understand... is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"

Charles' mind was racing.

What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see myself finding it -- which means I'll see where it's hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing what I'm up to?

He caught Harry's eyes and started discreetly pointing at the mirror and started signing something for him to understand his theory. Quirrell ignored them. He was still talking to himself. "What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

And to their horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell himself.

"Use the boy... the youngest Potter..."

Quirrell rounded on Charles. "Yes - Potter - come here."

Charles met Harry's terrified gaze and nodded slowly.

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

So Charles walked toward him. I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that's all. But he'd always been shit at lying, unlike Harry...

Quirrell moved close behind him. Charles breathed in the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror, and opened them again.

He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket - and as it did so, Charles felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow - incredibly - he'd gotten the Stone.

"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"

Charles screwed up his courage. "I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I -- I've won the house cup for Gryffindor."

Quirrell cursed again. "Get out of the way, maybe I'll use the elder Potter..."

He clapped his hands to free Harry, and as Charles moved aside, he felt the Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it? But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell wasn't moving his lips.

"He lies... He lies..."

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

The high voice spoke again. "Let me speak to him... face-to-face..."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough... for this...."

Charles felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.

Charles would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Harry gasped in disgust and Jéricho choked. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Charles Potter..." it whispered. Charles tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move.

"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor ... 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... you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest... 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. The feeling suddenly surged back into Chales' legs. He stumbled backward.

"Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "Better save your own life and join me... there's no good or evil.... only power... or you'll meet the same end as your Aunt... She died begging me for mercy..."

"LIAR!" Jéricho shouted suddenly. He'd been freed from his ropes by Harry.

Quirrell was walking backward, so that Voldemort could still see them. The evil face was now smiling cruelly at Jéricho.

"How touching..." it hissed. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your mother was brave... She didn't beg, true. Stood looking me in the eye till the end... I would have killed you both too... Sirius Black put up a courageous fight... but his wife needn't have died... she was trying to protect you... Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."

"NEVER!"

Charles sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort screamed "SEIZE HIM!" and the next second, Charles 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; he yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his surprise, Quirrell let go of him.

The pain in his head lessened -- he looked around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone and saw him being tackled by Harry from behind, screaming obscenities, while Jéricho worked on trying to bind him without hitting Harry. 

"Seize him! KILL HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet, and landing on top of him, both hands around Harry's neck - Harry was screaming now, but not in anger or defiance... it was unbearable pain. He was wheezing.

Charles saw red as he tried to wrestle with Quirell and caught his hands, and the miraculous thing was that Quirrell howled in agony, releasing Harry and trying to get away from Charles. "Master, I cannot hold him - my hands - my hands!"

And Quirrell stared, bewildered, at his own palms - Charles could see they looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Charles, by instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face --

"AAAARGH!"

Quirrell rolled away, his face blistering, too, and then Charles knew: Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain -- his only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing a curse.

Charles jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw him off - the pain in Charles' head was building - he couldn't see - he could only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" and Harry yelling his name and then his and Jéricho's combined voices as they cast a spell.

He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was lost, and fell into blackness, down... down... down...