Harry Potter: Wayward Saviour
"Here I come," Harry said and he drained the little bottle in one gulp. It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He put the bottle down and walked forward; he braced himself, saw the black flames licking his body but couldn't feel them – for a moment he could see nothing but dark fire – then he was on the other side, in the last chamber.
There was already someone there – but it wasn't Snape. It wasn't even Voldemort.
It was Quirrell.
Chapter One: The Boy Who Lived
Harry's scar blazed mercilessly the instant his eyes fell on the crouched professor. He cupped his hand to his mouth to stop crying out, though Quirrell was too focused on the mirror in front of him – the Mirror of Erised – and he hadn't noticed Harry's presence … yet.
Harry crept to his right, putting solid stone pillars as thick as tree trunks between himself and the professor. He kept low against the wall, making sure his body wasn't in front of any torches that would cast his shadow into the centre of the room, and alert the professor. He had to be careful – he could feel danger coming from Quirrell like a pulse. He had to be very, very careful.
He had to stop the man Quirrell from getting the Stone – no matter what it took. He wasn't a fool, when it came to magic he was no match for Quirrell. He needed to delay him. To stop him from getting the Stone until Dumbledore got here.
"Turn around!"
Harry leapt behind a stone pillar instantly, breathing hard and fast into the sleeve he'd jammed into his mouth. What was that voice? It sounded like it had come from Quirrell.
That definitely wasn't Quirrell's voice, Harry knew, It had been cold, high … and angry.
"Master?" said Quirrell, alarmed, rising to his feet.
"I feel someone in here, with us," said that horrid voice. Then, cautiously … "Something that shouldn't be here."
Harry gulped. Something could sense Harry. He didn't know any magic that could do that. He looked at the flaming archway he'd entered through. He could still feel the iciness of the potion coursing through his veins. He could still get out without those flames hurting him if he left right then – could he get Quirrell to chase him and leave the Stone?
No, he thought. Hermione could still be making her way to Ron. With Ron hurt she would be slow escaping out, and then it would take time to alert Dumbledore … No – if he left now, he'd endanger them both. He couldn't allow that. He had to face Quirrell.
"Homonum Revelio," Quirrell said.
Harry paled as he recognized the incantation. He felt the powerful charm burst out from the centre of the room, where Quirrell stood. A split second later it bounced off him, emitting a high-pitched ring, an almost imperceptible ring followed shortly after. Both noises came from Harry.
"Come out," said Quirrell. He had to be looking directly at the pillar covering Harry.
"Petrificus Totalus … Locomotor Mortis … Expelliarmus … Incendio," Harry muttered under his breath. He only knew a few spells. But he only needed one of them to hit Quirrell. It was now or never.
"Ignitus."
Harry barely heard the incantation end before the entire pillar he had his back pressed against combusted into a roaring, white hot inferno. He jumped away, hissing in pain as the flames singed his neck and the back of his arms. He saw Quirrell strafe around the pillar and he jumped in the opposite direction just in time to avoid the next curse, which gouged the solid stone wall. He pointed his wand at Quirrell the moment he saw the back of the man's cloak.
"Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted.
The spell struck the professor's side and Quirrell stopped dead in his tracks, but he didn't fall over like Neville had. Harry could have cheered. He'd done it! He stepped out further around the pillar. He wished he knew a sleeping charm or something to cast at Quirrell.
First things first – he had to get Quirrell's wand from his body. He hurried towards the statuesque professor with his heart thumping loud in his chest, in fear but also in excitement. As he got closer he saw Quirrell wasn't holding a wand – in either of his hands. Strange, thought Harry. Maybe he doesn't need one to cast magic … the thought made him feel a little queasy. He really wished he knew the Sleeping Charm now.
He was within arm's reach of Quirrell. He wanted to grab the professor's wand – just to be on the safe side. The professor had been frozen while he was facing to the right where Harry had jumped away from just in time. Harry could see Quirrell's eyes furiously moving towards his direction under his frozen eyelids. Harry thought back to what Ron said when Draco had challenged him to a duel, but he didn't think it was right to beat Quirrell unconscious just because he didn't know the magic that would do it – if he was as strong as Hagrid he'd do it in an instant…
Quirrell's wand was tucked into a holster at his hip. Harry plucked it out and stared at it a moment. Ollivander had told him that no other wizard's wand would work so well as his own – and Quirrell's wand felt uneasy in his hand. He knew he wouldn't be able to cast anything with it so placed the wand in his pocket.
"It seems you've got me, Potter."
Harry jumped back and trained his wand back on Quirrell. It was definitely the professor who spoke then, his words were spoken through his frozen lips and he sounded irritated and … impressed … but amused?
Harry cursed his stupidity as he remembered the other voice he heard before. The one that wasn't Quirrell's.
"Who else is in here with you?" Harry said as he looked around.
Quirrell chuckled through his teeth harshly. "It is just us, Potter. Though I am never, ever alone. It is I who should be asking … what have you brought in here with you?"
Harry glanced at Quirrell uncertainly, as though he were both dangerous and crazy. He tightened the grip on his wand.
"Petrificus Totalus," he incanted harshly. The spell struck Quirrell dead in the back with a whump but the professor didn't even flinch – he must still be petrified by the first spell. Harry was prepared to recast the spell as long as was necessary.
Now for the other…
Harry turned around on the spot, looking in a big circle. He was slightly comforted by the knowledge that Quirrell wouldn't be able to move for at least a few minutes so he whipped between the other pillars in the room in a flurry, checking the nooks and crannies and throwing out blue flame charms to light up the shadowed corners of the room. He glanced in equal measure at Quirrell, stood stock still, and the Mirror of Erised as he moved.
That had to be where the Stone was hidden, somehow, which had stalled Quirrell enough for Harry to stop him. Harry could about kiss the person responsible for it. He couldn't see anyone else in here. Had they got the Stone already … and left Quirrell as a distraction for him? His stomach dropped at the thought.
"Potter!" cried a voice from the entrance.
Harry whipped around. It was Snape. A profound feeling of relief exploded inside Harry.
"Of all the DUMB, THOUGHTLESS acts I have witnessed …" Professor Snape strode forward, his face a dark, roiling thundercloud. "Longbottom, in a display of common sense never before witnessed, warned of your heroics after he broke through Ms Granger's sadistic spell – hence my presence." Snape was almost spitting he was so angry.
Harry felt a spike of terror as Professor Snape continued to stride towards him, then a flash of pain in his forehead so keen it sent stars across his vision. He looked towards Quirrell – the professor had disappeared!
"Professor" Harry yelled. "It was Quirrell. He was here – just NOW! I petrified him!" He pointed towards the charred pillar he'd last seen Quirrell at. "He's disappeared! But I've got his wand!"
Snape spared a glance at the wand still tucked in Harry's pocket. Harry noticed the man already had his own wand out and he began casting magic silently around the room while Harry turned every which way to catch a glimpse of Quirrell. Each spell Snape cast bounced off the walls and made the dust lift up from the floor.
"There's no-one else-" Snape began, but a spell rocketed towards him from behind and struck him before he could jump away from it.
Harry dropped to the floor, crying out as the burns on his body split open. The spell had hit Snape on the arm and continued through towards Harry. It cracked the metal frame of the Mirror of Erised with a metallic clang and ricocheted to the ceiling.
Somehow, Snape was already on his feet, his left arm hung limp at his side, but his wand-tip was emitting thick, noxious fumes that he then banished into the corner of the room where the spell had been cast from.
Snape took a moment to turn and cast a spell at Harry, which struck him like the kick of a horse. Before Harry could do anything a bubble had grown around his head, forming a tight seal around his neck. Harry saw Snape perform a similar charm on himself. He stared at the fumes through the thickening bubble and backed away fast until the Mirror of Erised was between him and Snape.
But Snape didn't stop there. He manipulated those fumes until they grew into huge bubbling clouds. "Brace yourself," Snape shouted over his shoulder, his voice deeper and tremulous.
Harry held onto the Mirror of Erised and started to squeeze his eyes shut. Between the thin slit of his eyes he saw Snape cast a single, dense ball of inky black magic at the growing clouds. At contact the clouds, barely restrained, EXPLODED outwards to all four corners of the chamber with the force of a small bomb.
Ten … twenty seconds passed and Harry held onto the mirror like a lifeline. There was a yell of pain and rage from elsewhere in the room but he couldn't move his neck to see where it came from. He felt like he was in the eye of a hurricane and being pulled apart by a tornado all at the same time. A roaring noise blast through the chamber like a backfiring cannon, Harry felt his protective bubble would explode apart if it were buffeted even a second longer - the earth seemed to shift. Surely everyone in the school felt that! Snape stood tall and unmoved in the centre of all the sound and the fury, his head encased in a dark sphere, and he was still firing spell after spell. Each burst of magic that came from his wand wrought vast destruction as they broke against the stone walls like arcane tsunamis.
Quirrell had to be dead from this. He just HAD to be. Harry would never, ever again criticise Snape. Quirrell stood no chance against this. Not without the wand Harry still had in his pock- … the wand was missing!
Harry's scar burst open in a wet mess as all the shadows and magic fell back into one corner of the chamber. Both Harry and Snape's eyes flew over their shoulder to their rear. The roiling clouds of gas coalesced at the end of a wand-tip – the person holding it was invisible, and thrumming with magical power so dense it smacked against Harry in manifest waves.
"HARRY, GET DOWN!"
Harry cringed – in mind and body – as a powerful scythe of Dark Magic cleaved through the chamber like a blistering, train-sized sword. It missed him by inches, but the ill-feeling magic cut through the stone pillars and the Mirror of Erised like they weren't even there. Shards of the mirror rained down on Harry, he held his arms protectively above his head but felt cuts mar his forearms and scalp.
Snape was on his knees, wand outstretched towards Quirrell with his head bowed down. A shield so thickly magical it was almost solid encased him and had protected him from the powerfully charged spell. Harry spotted cracks along the length of the shield, and it seemed to have taken all of Snape's remaining strength to cast it. He was unmoving behind the shield's trembling opacity.
The invisibility cloaking Quirrell dropped and he stepped forwards into the centre of the room. Harry's mouth fell open. Professor Quirrell looked ghastly; the skin of his face was bubbled and coloured a decaying grey, one of his eyes was missing – the rest of his body, chest, arms, and the back of his head was transformed into living silver which mirrored the destruction wrought during the fight in it's twisted, shining contours.
Harry felt a bone-deep chill as he watched Quirrell step up to Snape. Quirrell was definitely hurt badly but he gave off such an aura of malevolence and lethality that Harry knew instinctively that the fight was over. Quirrell had won.
Professor Snape still hadn't moved and Harry felt terror in his veins at what he'd just experienced. That magic was terrifying – he could still feel echoes of it screaming through the room.
"I can't fight that … I can't fight that at all," Harry whispered to himself. Quirrell had played him, earlier on. The professor had toyed with Harry when he could have overpowered him far more easily than he'd overpowered Snape, who knew heaps more about magic than Harry.
Quirrell stood directly above Snape. Harry could barely see through the shield to look at Snape – it was so strong.
Harry watched on, dismayed, as Quirrell swatted away the shield as though it were no more than a cobweb, the magic encasing Snape fell apart and twitched in the air as though the magic itself were experiencing its final death throes. Snape fell backwards, looking up at Quirrell.
Then – to Harry's shock – Quirrell turned his back to Snape, who stared at the back of his head with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"GIVE … ME … THE STONE!"
A terrible expression – of real terror – displayed on Snape's face for a moment, a split second. This, more than anything else, sent rifling sensations of despair through Harry. Snape suddenly went slack and dropped sideways. Blood fell from his nose and the insides of his eyes.
Harry curled into a foetal position with a whimper behind the twisted metal of the Mirror of Erised. He was next. His eyes caught a flash of red in a shard of glass the size of his hand…
…strands of hair –
What? Harry peered into the shard, what he saw stole his breath from him. His mother and father were there. They were mouthing something. Shouting at him – for him.
"Help me," Harry whispered to them, hating himself for doing it – they could do nothing. "Please. Help."
They knelt within the enchanted glass as though to pull him out towards them – his mother held out a hand until her palm seemed pressed inches away from his own. He pressed his hand against hers … pulled his hand away and – she'd disappeared. The glass had turned dull and ordinary. His hand curled into a fist and he whimpered in pain – something had cut deeply into his hand.
… His fingers were wrapped around something small and razor-sharp.
He opened his hand where he lay on the floor. There, impossibly – impossibly – … he held the Stone.
His first was, strangely, surprise at how small it was – was it bigger that day with Hagrid?
"Harry … Potter …"
"No … no … no!" Harry whispered tremulously. That voice – Voldemort. He couldn't be found now – not with the Stone in hand. He was so close to saving it – to stopping Voldemort from getting it! If Voldemort had the Stone … he could get his old powers back! He had to get rid of it quickly – immediately.
But where? He looked around frantically while untold pain wracked his body. There was no where he could put it that he couldn't be certain Quirrell – Voldemort – wouldn't find it.
"The Boy … Who Lived…"
Quirrell was walking towards him from behind. Harry crawled on his elbows and knees away from the broken remains of the mirror, hearing Quirrell's stumbling, broken, unstoppable gait crushing the glass underfoot. Petrified with fear that he was certainly about to be killed, as surely as Snape had been, he pushed himself across the glass, ignoring the pains and the blood pooling in his right hand, where he clenched the Stone in a fist.
He couldn't destroy the Stone, could he?
Quirrell was only seconds away from killing him …
There was nothing for it … he couldn't destroy the Stone … he couldn't hide it in time.
Harry screwed his eyes tightly. Knowing how stupid he was about to be. How mental even conceiving the thought was. Knowing he was everything – foolish, heroic, and Gryffindorish – that Snape said he was. But he had nothing else …
He looked at the Stone, held in front of his eyes with by his finger -tips. It was so small … was everything – everything that had happened – really about this? Really worth this?
He put the Stone in his mouth with shaking hands, the edges of the Stone scratched open the skin on his insides. He whimpered as it rolled over his tongue.
… Then he swallowed.