Yeah, yeah.. I haven't even really gotten into my other two and I'm starting a new one. This one didn't really walk into my head. The inspiration came from Solace in Shadows, a fic by The Fictionist (if you haven't read her stuff already, ignore this fic and go read SiS or Fate's Favourite, they're bleeding incredible). But then come back and read mine xD
Anyhoo. This story has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with SiS and I doubt that they will be similar in any way.. except for the time frame and the characters.. and a couple themes, perhaps. It just... comes from my attempt to explain how I see their relationship working out, were the tale to go this way. How original can a Tom/Harry fic be in 2015? I mean... with over 700k HP stories on , we must have exhausted all options here by now! But I digress... there should be some original goings on in here, and I sincerely hope that it is not hated. As always.. we writers like reviews. Hope you enjoy :)
DISCLAIMER: This will be the only one I will post for the story. I own nothing, no characters, no locations, no nothing. All belongs to JKRowling, Warner Bros. and any other affiliates that I cannot think of right now. All that I own is my original ideas which do not appear in the original series. Also.. some actions and dialogue in this chapter - and forthcoming chapters - do not belong to me.
"Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."
Prologue
"Harry Potter..." the snake-like face jutting out in a grotesque fashion from Quirrell's head spoke, a high, quality to it, even behind the deathly rasp. Horror at what he was seeing caused him to take an involuntary step back, but shock and terror kept him rooted to the spot.
"See what I have become?" the hideous face said, his voice echoing around the hollow room. "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?"
Control of his legs returned to Harry as the Dark Lord's words washed over him, and he registered what was said. Voldemort knew. He knew he Harry had the Stone. He took an unsteady step back.
"Don't be a fool," snarled the face as it twisted into a smile, as if he was amused at Harry's audacity to try to refuse. "Better save your own life and join me... or you'll meet the same end as your parents... They died begging me for mercy…"
"LIAR!" Harry shouted, anger swelling up inside him at the insult to his parents' memory.
"How touching..." the back of the two-headed man hissed, his smile growing wider as Quarrel stepped backwards, towards Harry. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your parents were brave... I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight... but your mother 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!"
Without waiting for a reply, Harry spun and hurtled towards the flaming door, intent on escaping, but Voldemort screamed to his host, "SEIZE HIM!"
The next second, Harry felt Quirrell's hand close tightly around his wrist, and he was flung back, away from his own trajectory. The shock of the force pulling him back was nothing compared to the searing pain that shot through his scar, threatening to rip his head open, and his free hand flew to his forehead… as if attention to the agony might lessen the yelled, struggling against the overwhelming burn on his forehead with all his might to release himself from Quirrell's grip. To his surprise, however, it was his traitorous Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who seemed to almost willingly let go of him.
The pain in his head didn't dissipate entirely, but it lessened enough that Harry's vision was no longer impaired by blinding flashes of white. He looked around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain, looking at his wrists and hands - they were blistering before his eyes.
"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, losing all semblance of control and command in his desperation to rid of the Boy-Who-Lived and claim the Stone for himself. Yet Quirrell lunged, throwing Harry to the ground and landing on top of him, both hands around Harry's neck. Winded, Harry could not find enough breath to fight back. Again, his scar burned as if a fire had been lit beneath his very skin, radiating across his face and nigh on blinding him… yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.
"Master, I cannot hold him - my hands - my hands!" Dimly registering the words that his teacher screamed, Harry's gaze shot to Quirrell's hands, which had now been removed from around his neck and were held above his face. The boy's eyes widened in horror. The skin was red and cracking, as if dried out.
"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort desperately. Quirrell raised his hand, eyes flashing with pain and fury. Instinct told Harry that the next spell aimed at him would kill him. And Instinct told Harry to reach out and grab the traitor's face.
"AAAARGH!" The blood-curdling scream almost had Harry release his grip, but adrenaline caused him to maintain his grip. Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain - his only chance at survival was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from acting.
Harry jumped to his feet and reached out to grab Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off. The pain in the boy wizard's head was building again to an unbearable level, but he endured. Survival, living, was all that mattered. He could no longer see, but he could hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks, telling him that whatever protective, unconscious magic that was surging through Harry was still working.
Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" could be heard amidst the terrible screams. Other voices joined the cacophony, though Harry was not sure that these new voices were real. "Harry! Harry!"
He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was lost. Exhaustion seeped through his core… he could not summon up the energy to grasp Quirrell again. This was it. He had failed. Darkness claimed him, and he welcomed it.
Something gold was glinting just above him. The Snitch! He tried to catch it, but his arms were still too heavy, as if refusing to respond to his commands.
He blinked, and his hazy gaze focused ever so slightly. It wasn't the Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. He frowned and blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him… and his frown deepened.
"Good afternoon, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, a sombre tone that the boy had not expected from the normally jovial, twinkly-eyed warlock.
"Sir," was his detached reply, as he lay his head back down against his pillow and stared up at the white ceiling of the hospital wing. Silence reigned, and Harry got the distinct impression that Dumbledore would not leave until he was satisfied with… something. "It was Voldemort," he whispered, "Voldemort was in Quirrell. He wanted the Stone."
"I know, dear boy," said Dumbledore. "Voldemort does not have the Stone."
Harry inclined his head. But there was one far more important. "Quirrell..?"
"Is no longer with us, my dear boy." the Headmaster replied, and Harry thought he detected a sliver of pride entering the old man's voice. He nodded again, trying to ignore the knot that was building in his stomach. He felt sick.
"Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Dumbledore, and Harry finally raised his head slightly to turn his emerald gaze to where the older wizard now stood, surprised at the sudden change in tone. His eyes fell upon a wide selection of colourful candy boxes. He was practically beaming.
"What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it."
He nodded again. Someone was dead. Dead because of him.
"Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved you have come round, they have been extremely worried."
"What happened to the Stone, Sir?" His voice was almost entirely devoid of emotion as he asked the question, still trying to fight against the bubbling nausea. He could not think of his friends, not after what he had just done.
"I see you are not to be distracted," Dumbledore replied, the jovial tone still present. "Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although you were doing very well on your own, I must say."
"I couldn't have kept him off the Stone much longer…"
"Not the Stone, boy, you - the effort involved nearly killed you…" Dumbledore continued to speak, but Harry heard none of it, his stomach clenching again at the reminder that he had killed in order to survive. "…had been destroyed."
"Destroyed?" said Harry blankly, returning to the conversation, and Dumbledore nodded his affirmation, eyes still twinkling. "Flamel will die?"
"Oh, you know about Nicolas?" said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted as he returned to the side of Harry's bed and took the liberty of perching on the edge of it. "You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat, and agreed it's all for the best."
"But Voldemort didn't die." He knew the answer to this, and stated it more as fact than a question. Why was he still talking? All he wanted to do was to sleep. Sleep and forget.
"No, Harry, he did not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share... not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time - and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power."
"Why would he want to kill me when I was a baby?"
Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time. "Alas, this one question I cannot give you the answer to. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day... put it from your mind for now, Harry."
The eleven year old rested his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. He didn't like the answer, and that was probably evident from his facial expression. He deserved more. He deserved an answer, especially after what he'd been though, after what he'd done. But he didn't have the will to argue.
Dumbledore tried to placate him, condescending … as though he were just an old man talking to an ordinary pre-teen child. "When you are older... I know you hate to hear this... when you are ready, you will know-"
"-I'm sorry, Sir, but I think I would like to go back to sleep now…"
Dumbledore didn't even miss a beat, and his answer was just as buoyant as before. "Yes, Harry, rest well… for the end of year feast will not be a celebration that you should want to miss." He stood, bowed, and left Harry with nothing but his own tormenting thoughts for company.
