Getting Away with Murder
Harry didn’t remember putting on his shoes, and he didn’t remember putting on the sweater he had gotten for Christmas either. He didn’t remember storming out of the Slytherin dorms, the fire in the fireplace sparking a brilliant scarlet from his rage, and he certainly didn’t remember the doorway to the common room all but crumbling open as he approached.
He did, however, remember the exact path to reach the third floor corridor, and didn’t need the sickening reminder that was the thin trail of Draco’s blood that led up to that horrible place.
The door to the hidden room was already ajar, and he walked straight in, barely even noticing the sleeping cerberus next to the trap door, and simply flicking his wrist to open the entrance to whatever hell Quirrell had dragged his friend into.
Without another thought, he jumped straight down into the trap door, falling right smack into something surprisingly soft.
A quick brush with his hand told him that the material beneath him was a plant of some sort, and he sighed. He really didn’t want to have to destroy it, but he could already feel the Devil’s Snare beginning to curl around his ankles, and he didn’t have time to relax his way through it.
Harry pressed both of his hands against the plant’s surface, a singular thought on his mind.
Burn.
And as the thought fully formed, heat began to pool in his palms, catching the plant ablaze almost instantly.
It retracted as quickly as it could, wanting to get away from the firestarter that was Harry’s magic, and he felt himself drop further down, his ankle popping in a painful way when he landed.
But he didn’t have time to worry about that, so he grit his teeth and kept walking, his fists clenched as he did so. In the back of his mind, he was able to register that he had probably broken the bone, but that didn’t matter.
He needed to get Draco.
The sound of rushing water hit his ears, and he kept going, taken aback for only a few moments as he looked up at the fluttering birds- no, keys. Fluttering keys.
His eyes flicked to the door on the other side of the room, and he groaned.
“Are you kidding me?!” Harry snapped, glaring at the door on the other side before he sprinted across, almost crashing into the solid wooden surface before he slammed his palms into it, his teeth grinding as he forced it to burn as well.
Everything that could burn, would.
The smoke ebbing from the smoldering remains of the door made him cough painfully, but he didn’t care, still making his way forward and only stopping when he saw that there were three other students in front of him.
Three all too familiar Gryffindor students.
“Hartford? What the hell are you doing here?” Weasley asked, his eyes wide, while Finnegan’s tone became accusatory.
“Helpin’ your bloody head of house steal the Sorcerer’s Stone, Hartford?” He asked, rolling up his sleeve like he was going to try and punch Harry, but he was stopped by Hermione grabbing his arm.
“Wait- What happened?” She asked him, her eyes wide.
“It’s not Snape, you idiots.” Harry snapped at them, his chest heaving. “It’s Quirrell, and he has Draco. Get out of my way.”
They all stared at him with wide, bug eyes, and he let out a groan.
“What?! What is wrong with you people?”
“Hartford. We have to win the chess game.” Weasley said, gesturing to the space behind them. “We can’t pass otherwise.”
“Oh, yes we bloody can.” Harry spat, shoving past the other two boys and standing at the edge of the board, zeroing in on the White King. He held his hand up, stepping back until he could no longer see the large piece behind his hand, and he spoke a single word aloud.
“Checkmate.”
The White King crumbled, turning to rubble on his way down, and Harry immediately climbed up onto the board, walking across without any issue. He could hear three sets of footsteps behind him, and he whipped around, staring the three Gryffindors down.
“Go. Write to Dumbledore. Tell him the Stone is being stolen and that he needs to get back here. Now.” He said firmly, looking right at Hermione as he spoke. “I can deal with Quirrell on my own.”
“It’s not Quirrell! It has to be Snape!” Weasley protested, managing to go a shade paler when Harry shot a glare at him, before turning his gaze back to the only girl.
“Hermione. Go.”
Her eyes widened a bit at the use of her name, but she nodded, turning on her heel and rushing off. The two boys with her looked utterly flabbergasted, but with a well placed huff, they both scampered off after her, leaving Harry alone in the chess room.
A small, satisfied smirk pulled at his lips at that, before he turned back towards the next door, heading through it and staring at the disgusting mountain troll that was lying unconscious on the ground.
“Well. Now I know it was Quirrell who let that stupid thing into the school.” He muttered halfheartedly as he kept going forward, past the unconscious troll and into what Harry could only assume was the final room.
Purple flames shot up behind him, black in front of him.
Harry growled a bit, stepping forward and holding his hand out again, staring at the fire with his own burning hatred filling his chest.
Go out. Go out. Go out. Go. Out.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the black flames began to die out, leaving the pathway clear. He snickered a bit, shaking his head as he stepped over where the fire had once been.
He had just brute forced his way through the protective measures that Dumbledore had taken to protect the Stone like they were nothing.
It was a healthy mix of disturbing and hysterical, if he thought about it long enough.
But there was no time to think about it. Draco was just beyond that last door, and as soon as he got his friend away from Quirrell?
He was dead. Completely, and utterly, dead.
And he didn’t even feel any sort of remorse for what was about to come.
—
The room was absolutely massive, and if it wasn’t about to be the site of a violent murder, Harry likely would have stopped to appreciate the architecture of the space, even if it was partially crumbled.
However, the beautiful architecture meant nothing, not while he was staring down Quirrell, who had his hand wrapped around Draco’s throat and his wand pressed up against the side of his head. His friend’s eyes were wide and filled with tears, panic flooding his features as he let out a pained whimper as the professor tightened his grip on him.
“Hartford.” Quirrell growled. “You made it through faster than I was expecting.”
“I had the right motivation.” Harry replied coldly, slowly walking down the steps. His eyes flicked to the side, a grimace forming on his face when he saw what was behind the two wizards.
The Mirror of Erised.
“Give me Draco, and I won’t hurt you.”
“Hurt me? You truly believe that you can hurt me?” The older wizard laughed, his grip tightening on Draco yet again, making him squeak.
Harry could feel magic sparking at his fingertips, the urge to rip Quirrell apart barely contained.
“I suppose you’ve figured everything out, then?” Quirrell snapped.
“That you’re working for Voldemort, you let the troll in on Halloween, and that you’re probably the reason that the bludger tried to kill me that day?” He asked, raising a brow. “Yeah. We figured it out.”
Harry’s eyes flicked to Draco’s, his gaze softening slightly when he saw the fear in his friend’s eyes. There was no time for games, not now.
Not when his life was in danger.
He offered him a small smile, before he turned back to Quirrell, his gaze hardening again.
“...I’ll help you get the Stone as long as Draco remains unharmed.”
“Harry-?!” Draco cried, before his windpipe was pressed against even harder, forcing a weak gag out of his throat.
“How do I know you won’t trick me?” Quirrell snarled. “I have failed my master too many times already. I cannot fail him again-”
“Because if anything happens to Draco I will bring this entire chamber down on top of us.” Harry snapped. “I’ll kill us both.”
Quirrell paused at that, looking at the boy appraisingly. He kept his grip on Draco, but nodded just a bit, turning back to the mirror with a look of frustration on his face, muttering to himself as he dragged the blonde boy around by his neck.
“I don’t understand… Is the Stone inside the mirror? Do I need to break it? Master, please, what do I do?!”
Harry grimaced a bit at the man’s insane ramblings, becoming more and more concerned the longer this went on. If he was so unstable that he was begging for You-Know-Who to help him, despite being dead, then there was no telling what he would do next.
Although, there was no way he could have guessed what was actually about to happen. Out of the silence, from just behind Quirrell, Harry heard a voice.
A horrible, hissing whisper.
“The boy… Use the boy…” The voice said, causing the professor’s head to snap up towards Harry, a sinister grin spreading across his face.
“Of course. The boy. Hartford, come here.”
Harry hesitated for only a moment, keeping his gaze on Draco as he moved closer. He didn’t want to risk his friend being hurt because of a mistake he made, so he was careful with every movement.
It was then that he realized, in a horrible, dawning moment, that he didn’t have his wand.
He had been doing only wandless magic since he got down the trapdoor.
They were screwed if they ended up in a duel with the professor.
His attention was pulled back towards the mirror when Quirrell snapped again.
“Look in the mirror! Tell me what you see!”
“Fine.” Harry snapped back, stepping forward to look at his reflection, not knowing exactly what he was going to be greeted with at that moment.
To his surprise, however, he saw himself as he was in that moment: wearing his Christmas sweater, covered in soot and ash, and utterly exhausted. Draco was at his side, equally exhausted, but alive and intact.
Then, he looked to the side, and fought back the urge to flinch.
At the bottom of the reflection lay Quirrell’s dead body, a pool of blood steadily forming underneath him, the thick, red liquid almost soaking into Mirror Harry’s shoes and causing him to step to the side, a look of disgust on his face.
Then, he looked out at Real Harry, the disgusted expression turning to one of mischievous delight as he reached down into the pocket of his pajama pants, pulling out a large, red stone that reminded him a bit of a ruby.
It was The Stone.
A soft, surprised laugh bubbled out of Harry's chest at the sight, his eyes wide.
At that moment, his heart's desire was to see Quirrell dead, and The Stone safely away from him.
“What?! What’s so funny!?” The man in question snapped, pressing his wand even harder against the side of Draco’s head, causing the boy to flinch.
“...I see myself and my friends.” Harry lied, a smile on his face. “We’re walking back from a Quidditch game together. Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup, and we’re in the lead for the House Cup as well-”
“He lies-!” The whispering voice cried, obviously angered. The harshness of it made Harry stumble a bit, feeling the slight pressure of the stone against his leg as he moved. He made eye contact with Draco, knowing that his own face was a mirror of the fear he saw on his friend’s. “Let me… Speak to him. Face to face.”
Quirrell looked stricken, his grip on Draco slackening just a bit.
“Master, you are not strong enough!”
“I have enough strength…for this…”
With a small whimper, Quirrell slowly let go of the boy in his arms, allowing him to scramble away from the obviously deranged professor and take cover behind Harry, who held his arms out protectively, acting as a shield between them.
He watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban.
What was going on?
The turban fell away, and Quirrell’s head looked strangely small without it. Then he slowly turned where he stood, the sight on the back of his head grotesque in a way that Harry couldn’t quite explain.
What should have been the back of a man’s head was, somehow, the exact opposite.
Harry was staring at a second face, one that was chalk white and almost corpse-like, slits for nostrils and crimson red eyes that stared at the two boys with an expression of utter hate.
“Harry Potter…” The second face whispered, his mouth pulling up in a sickening grin. “It’s been a long time… Ten long years since the night you and your filthy Mudblood of a mother ruined my plans…”
“See what I have become?” Voldemort 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 and your little friend 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?”
“Fuck you.” Harry spat, pure venom in his voice even as his forehead erupted in pain. He shoved Draco backwards, wanting to get his friend as far away from the strange, literally two-faced man. “You killed Nestor’s mother.”
“Ah, yes… I heard of your bravery when saving the life of that infant unicorn… I must admit, I would not have gone for her if I knew she had been pregnant. It would have given me another unicorn to use, after all.”
He felt magic crackling around his hands again, a low growl pulling out of his throat.
“You’re a monster.”
“A monster? Maybe, but I won’t need to be one much longer…”
Voldemort’s grin somehow became even wider, and Quirrell began walking backwards so his master could still look Harry in the eyes.
“DRACO RUN-” He shouted, his head whipping towards the other boy. Draco didn’t argue, stumbling and nearly falling as he took off towards the exit. Harry tried to follow, but a large hand grabbed hold of his wrist, yanking him back and sending a horrible jolt of pain through his skull, causing him to scream and thrash against Quirrell’s grip.
To his surprise, Quirrell let him go, and Harry crashed against the floor, clutching his head for a moment as he fought to catch his breath. When the pain lessened, he shoved himself back up off the ground, looking around wildly as he tried to find where the man had gone, only to see him hunched in pain and staring at his hands.
Which were blistering like he had pressed his hands flat against a stove.
“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands around Harry’s neck – Harry’s scar was almost blinding him with pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.
“Master, I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!”
And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, let go of his neck and stared, bewildered, at his own palms – Harry could see they looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.
“Then kill him, fool, and be done!” screeched Voldemort.
Quirrell raised his hand to perform some sort of curse, but Harry reached up and grabbed the sides of the man’s face, instinct kicking in as he jammed his thumbs into his eyes as a last resort.
“AAAARGH!”
Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering painfully, and then Harry 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.
He stumbled back up to his feet, his shoulders heaving as he stared at the blinded, whimpering man who was rolling on the floor in agony.
Harry let out a short, almost manic laugh at the sight, the sound bursting out of him so violently that it hurt.
Then, he walked closer to Quirrell, sitting down on his chest and looking down at him.
“...This is what you get for going after my friends.” He murmured, before he grabbed hold of the professor’s head again, feeling his skin blister and burn under his hands as his head felt like it was splitting open.
Quirrell, and Voldemort, let out screams of utter agony as he held on tight, digging his fingers in even harder every time they managed to loosen his grip, even just a bit.
Harry didn’t know how long he held himself there, lost in his own agony as he did everything he could to put Quirrell down, but he did know that when the man eventually stopped screaming, he slowly stood up, staring numbly down at the blistered, bloody body of Professor Quirinus Quirrell.
The man he had just killed.
A weak smile pulled at his lips as he reached into his pocket, pulling the Sorcerer’s Stone out and looking down at its shining red surface.
It was such a horrible object, and didn’t need to exist anymore.
“...Burn.” Harry whispered, watching as the Stone caught fire in his hand, cracking apart like glass before it crumbled, falling apart in his hand and turning to ash.
And he crumbled alongside it, collapsing to the ground with a sickening thud as his head smacked into the stone staircase, sending him into a familiar void of unconsciousness.
—
Harry did not want to wake up yet, thank you very much.
He was tired, his body hurt, and he really, really just wanted to stay in the warm, comfy bed he was currently lying in.
But, at the same time, he could hear people speaking at his bedside, and they sounded… Worried.
“Do you think he’ll be awake soon?” Theo’s quiet voice asked from right next to his head.
“I don’t know.” Blaise replied, his own voice shaking. “Mamma said that he… He exhausted himself severely. Even worse than when he and Daphne found the unicorn.”
A soft hand gently ran through his hair, the person’s nails were slightly long, letting him know that it was Daphne.
“He’ll be fine.” She declared. “Harry’s stronger than that. He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t give up on us like that.”
“You didn’t see it, Daph.” He heard Draco sniff. “H-he looked so… So drained… A-and he did all of it to save me. If I had just been more careful-”
“It could have been any one of us.”
“He almost died to save me! How can I not feel guilty for that? Didn’t you hear what Madam Pomfrey said? If he had exerted even just a little bit more magic, he would have died!”
He almost died?
Certainly felt like it.
“Draco. Shush.” Neville scolded gently. “He’s alive. He’s just resting. He needs it.”
Harry groaned softly, the worry in his friend’s voices finally pushing enough of his consciousness through to the surface that it forced him to wake up. He sat up slowly, making Daphne yank her hand away in surprise, staring at him with wide eyes.
“...I’m fine.” He rasped out. “I just… Feel like crap.”
Silence filled the room as they all stared at him, shock written on all of their faces.
Then, Theo pounced on him, climbing up into the bed as he hugged Harry so tightly he could barely breathe.
“You’re the worst friend ever. I hate you so much.” He hissed, although there was no venom in his voice. Harry let out a weak laugh at that, hugging him just as tight.
“I love you too, Theo.”
With the confirmation that their friend was, in fact, alive and okay, four other bodies piled onto them, all of them in varying states of tears.
Harry was completely pinned, but he wasn’t upset about it in the slightest, wiggling as much as he could to get his arms around all of his friends.
“I’m sorry for scaring you.” He said softly. “I didn’t have time to wake anyone after I realized what happened to Draco…”
“You are, so lucky that Granger is so nosy.” Blaise whispered, burying his face into Harry’s hair as he sobbed. “She pounded on Snape’s door so violently it sounded like she was trying to take it off its hinges.”
“I did send her to go get help. I’m glad she did.”
They all pulled away after a moment, trying to contain their tears and sniffling, but Draco remained on the bed, his face pale and stricken.
“Harry, I’m so sorry. You… You put yourself in danger because of me.” He whispered. “I-I didn’t even help you. You fought Quirrell all by yourself, and-”
“I told you to run.” Harry shook his head. “I would have done the same for any of you.”
“Still, you-”
“Draco. You’re my friend. I love you. You don’t need to thank me for saving you. You would have done the same for me.”
“...I don’t think I would have. I… I’m not… I’m not a hero, not like you.”
“Well,” Harry hummed, sitting up and running a hand through his hair, wincing a bit at just how greasy it was. “Hopefully we won’t be in any more life threatening situations. Because that was actually really freaking scary and I never want to do something like that again, and I don’t want you guys to have to either.”
Theo looked at him, then looked at his hair, pulling out his wand and casting a quick Scourgify on it and running his own hand through it. “There. You’re clean again.”
“Thank you… I hate having greasy hair. It’s gross.”
“I think you might be one of the only boys I’ve ever met who cares about stuff like that.” Daphne laughed a bit, shaking her head as she hugged Harry again, resting her head on top of his and squeezing his shoulders a bit.
As they all settled in on and around Harry’s hospital bed, they began to fill him in on everything that had happened during the three days he’d been unconscious.
Hermione had sent a letter to Dumbledore, and another to Madam Bones of the DMLE, who arrived at the school at the exact same time, although the latter was flanked by a group of Aurors who seemed almost disappointed at the fact that the ‘fun’ had been dealt with. Blaise had said that last part with a level of bitterness that made Harry snort with laughter, which in turn set everyone else off.
Quirrell’s body had been found when the Aurors went down the trap door, alongside Harry’s unconscious form. Officially, the professor had been killed by a blast of accidental magic that had knocked him out as well.
The Contessa had been summoned by a letter from Blaise, and had apparently ripped the entire Hogwarts staff to pieces during dinner the day after Quirrell’s death, due to the fact that such a dangerous individual had been given access to impressionable young children, and had nearly killed two students due to his actions.
Neville had opened his mouth to add to the absolute madhouse of events that had occurred in the few days that Harry was unconscious, but was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Madam Pomfrey, who gently ushered out his friends so that she could run the necessary tests on her patient.
After all, Harry had once again suffered from magical exhaustion, and had given himself a nasty concussion when he passed out.
It was only after they left, and Harry got a moment to actually think about what happened to him that the gravity of the situation finally hit him.
A man had been killed on Hogwarts grounds. A man who was possessed by Voldemort, but a man nonetheless.
And he had died by Harry’s hand.
The realization had made him want to vomit, knowing that he had killed someone, even though it was justified due to the danger that he and Draco had been in. He never wanted to hurt anyone, he didn’t want anyone to get hurt, but he had killed someone.
The quiet sobs that pulled out of his throat echoed off the walls of the near empty Hospital Wing the entire night.