19 - The Man with Two Faces

The attack was so sudden that I didn't have time to cover my eyes. One moment, the white queen had been standing beside me; the next, all I could see was Ron flying off his horse.

Hermione screamed. Or maybe it was me. It was hard to tell. But it was harder to watch the statue drag Ron like a ragdoll, leaving behind a thin trail of blood that couldn't be ignored, couldn't be real.

Across the board, Harry moved three spaces to his left.

There was a moment of silence – of disbelief – as the king took off its crown and threw it at Harry's feet. Like stone, it should've broken; instead, it bounced once – twice – and stopped just as abruptly. The remaining chess pieces bowed and walked off the board; Hermione and Harry followed swift, running forward to meet me.

"Come on!" said Harry, seizing my hand and dragging me with him –

Only for me to shrug him off.

He turned, confused. Hermione was crying next to him.

"We can't leave him."

Harry frowned. "Ron said –"

"I know what he said," I snapped. "But we can't." I took a deep breath. "I can't."

"Anya –"

"Look, I'm making an effort to not be mean. I'm staying because someone has to, and anyway, Hermione's easily worth two people." I couldn't tell what he was thinking. He was inscrutable as ever. "Harry, just go."

He nodded sharply. He seized Hermione's hand and the two of them ran off.

The moment the door closed, I dropped to Ron's side. I stretched my fingers before rolling him over, wincing at the little moan that escaped him.

It was incredible how serene his face looked. I wouldn't have believed he was hurt at all if I hadn't witnessed it – or if the bump on his head didn't feel as big as my fist. The cut over his forehead was mostly superficial and had stopped bleeding profusely, but I still cut one of his shirt's sleeves off and pressed over it gently.

There was no water near. I tried to not freak about that, but blood was starting to soak through the flimsy material. I used the other piece of cloth I'd cut and applied more pressure.

"But I still need water," I grumbled.

I felt useless. Never before had I been in a situation where I couldn't find a quick solution. All I needed was water and bandages, and Ron would be fine for the moment – but I had nothing. I couldn't even conjure them out of thin air – I didn't know how.

It was useless. I was useless.

So I sat there, feeling pity for myself, until I heard the door creak open, and Hermione ran in. Flustered, she dropped on the other side of Ron.

"How is he?"

I stared. "What are you doing here?"

"Did you apply pressure to the wound? Was he bleeding too much?"

"Why aren't you with Harry?"

"You did, that's good. We need some water to clean the wound –"

I seized her hands, cutting off her rambling.

"Hermione, where's Harry?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "After we went through the door, we found a chamber with a dead troll. After that, we had to solve a puzzle where we had guess which of the potions in the room would allow us to continue or –"

"Go back," I guessed grimly. And Harry had convinced Hermione to come back, the bloody martyr.

I stood. "Do you know how to conjure water?" A groan made us look down. "Never mind, then."

"Ron!" Hermione's face broke into a relieved smile. "Ron, are you all right? Can you hear me?"

"I've got a concussion, Hermione," he snapped, wincing. "I'm not deaf. My head hurts…"

"Be glad you still have a head that hurts," I said, grinning.

Then I scowled and slapped his shoulder. Hard.

"Ow!" Ron cupped his shoulder. "What was that for?"

"What. Were. You. Thinking?" I hit him with each word. "I thought you were dead! The queen hit you so hard I –"

"Anya, stop, stop." Hermione caught my hand just as I was about to land another blow on Ron.

Ron looked around. "Where's Harry?"

Hermione repeated what she told me.

"That bloody idiot," was Ron's response, though his was fonder than mine. "What did he tell you to do?"

"To get out of here using the brooms from the other room. And contact Dumbledore afterwards."

"That's good," I said. I looked at Ron. "Think you can stand up without feeling dizzy?"

He could, though it wasn't without wincing.

"If you thought that was difficult, imagine what flying will be like."

We rushed to the flying keys' room. It was unanimously decided that Hermione would fly with Ron holding onto her when the latter saw three brooms on one side of the room instead of just the one Harry had flung aside the moment he'd captured the key. What remained of his shirt was used to push the two close, and had it been any other time than this, I would've teased them relentlessly.

But it wasn't, so I held the end of the broom by its twigs as Hermione balanced precariously. She pushed forward gently; the broom rose, and their feet hovered half a meter off the floor. They wobbled, but Ron put his arms around Hermione and steadied them. his eyes, I was glad to see, were clearer.

"Ready?" I asked.

Ron's gaze flickered to me. I was nowhere close to a broom. Nothing to indicate I would accompany them.

And yet, he bit his lip.

"Ready," said he and Hermione, the latter staring forward.

Hermione's hair looked terrible. Ron's blue eyes were watery. But they were okay – they would be safe in a moment – and I let go of the broom.

I turned on my heel and ran back to the chess room.

"Anya! Anya!"

Hermione's and Ron's voices cut off as I closed the door. I sprinted past the broken chess pieces – avoiding the white queen – and rushed into the next room.

It smelled horrible. Not even covering my nose blocked the putrid scent of death permeating the air, and it was worse when I had to step over the troll (dead like any animal). Worse, it filtered to the next room, where only a table full of bottles of all sizes was. The potions had been arranged in groups – Hermione's job, no doubt. At the end, there were two bottles, one of them empty. I stepped forward.

Heat rushed behind me, and I stumbled, surprised at the purple flames. Likewise, black fire sprang on the other side of the room.

I allowed myself a moment of weakness, and hovered close to the fire. It felt hot, but it wasn't the kind of hot that made one flinch. Still, I moved closer to the table; I wasn't going to test whether the fire was real or not.

In other words, I was trapped.

"Even out of the dungeons, that overgrown bat still gets to make my life difficult," I muttered.

The black flames taunted me. They danced in ways that shouldn't be possible, making it harder to tell if it was an illusion. My eyes began to ache and I looked away.

It was dead silent. There was a narrow passageway across the black fire, one that was impossibly dark. God knew if Harry was there or not.

I covered my mouth, thinking. Spells didn't work against magical fire unless they were designed for that fire. Water obviously wouldn't work, and it was the sweat, the pacing, and the shaking of my hands that it hit me –

I was running on a fever?

"What?"

I ran a hand over my forehead. I was sweating abnormally. I glanced at the fire and saw, to my horror, that it was too close, too hot.

I backed into the table, accidentally sweeping the bottles. I winced as glass cut my skin, cursing. I cradled my hand to my chest.

It was a good trap. One intended to maim. Dumbledore had known what he was doing when he chose Snape as the last barrier.

I turned around. My gaze flickered over all the bottles, the broken ones and the –

The tiny flask with a splash of color.

I leaned closer. I wasn't imagining things: there was a blue drop of potion in there. A very small one.

So small there was no guarantee it would work.

I gripped the bottle and gave a silent prayer. I threw my head back and placed the opening of the flask on my lips. There was nothing, of course, as the drop was sliding very slowly down the glass. But then I felt my throat turning cold.

I spun and ran directly at the black fire, closing my eyes and covering my head.

For a moment, I burned. I felt the fire seep into my clothes, touching my skin with scorching scratches, leaving it raw and hurting.

The sensation was gone in an instant. One thorough check-over after, I took off my jacket, stomped on it, and put it on. Just in case.

The passageway ahead was dark and cold. I hurried to the sliver of light at the end, but slowed as voices reflected off the walls. Then I was standing at the top of some stairs that led to an open chamber.

Of all things, I hadn't expected the Mirror of Erised in this room. Nor did I predict Professor Quirrell standing before it with Harry.

I took advantage of them giving me their backs to rush down and hide behind one of the pillars

"Well?" Quirrell was saying impatiently. "What do you see?"

I frowned. Then I glanced at the mirror.

Harry's wide eyes stared back at me. But this version of him wasn't as stiff. In fact, he was holding a pretty-looking red stone in the air.

His shock morphed to a cheeky grin, and winking, he put the stone inside his pocket.

The Harry outside the mirror hadn't moved, but there was a distinctive weight in one of his pockets, pulling his trousers down slightly.

"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," said Harry. "I — I've won the house cup for Gryffindor."

"Get out of the way!" Quirrell snarled, shoving Harry aside. The professor squinted at the mirror; Harry, on the other hand, tried to amble in my way.

"He lies…" spoke a disembodied voice suddenly. "He lies…"

I jumped back as Quirrell wheeled abruptly. "Potter, come back here! Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

"Let me speak to him… face-to-face…"

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough… for this…"

Quirrell bowed his head and reached for his turban. I gestured wildly at Harry, who lingered; his head kept swiveling back to Quirrell, who had pulled at one end of the fabric and unwrapped it.

He turned and I hid again.

The voice from before was stronger as it spoke again.

"Harry Potter… See what I've become? Mere shadow and vapor… I have form only when I can share another's body…" I covered my mouth with both hands. "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…"

Impossible. Absolutely impossible. It couldn't be. It just couldn't.

"Now… why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket? Or shall I ask Anya Barton to do it in your stead?"

My stomach knotted. I took a deep breath and stepped into the light.

Except my feet froze at the grotesque sight that faced me.

It was the ugliest, hideous thing I ever saw. The stuff of nightmares.

I hadn't quite worked out how Voldemort being with Quirrell was, though now I was wishing it wasn't this. A face so pale and so, so reptile-looking on the back of the teacher's head; red eyes stared at me and only at me, for I was now his prey and my skin crawled as I drew back in horror –

"Harry, get away from that."

I stretched out my arm, fingers beckoning him. He didn't argue. When he joined me, he grasped my hand tightly and pulled me back.

The thing – for it was a thing and nothing else, not even Voldemort – chuckled.

"Touching. But don't be foolish, children. Join me and save your lives – or you'll meet the same end as your parents… The Potters and Cassie Barton died begging for mercy…"

Harry made to move forward, but I pulled him back.

"What was that?" I said sharply. I focused on the face. "Did you say Cassie Barton died with the Potters?"

"Anya, don't listen to him," Harry hissed. "He's a liar!"

"I do not lie, Harry Potter," said Voldemort, stepping forward – backward? – and smiling. "Cassie Barton, wife of Alec Barton, rushed to warn her friends rather than stay with her family. She begged for James and Lily Potter and was the first to die. Yes, Anya Barton," it nodded, "it was I who killed your mother. And then I killed James Potter; both put up a courageous fight… but Lily Potter needn't have died… she was trying to protect her son… Now give me the Stone, Harry Potter, unless you want your friend die in vain as well."

I squeezed Harry's hand. He squeezed back.

"NEVER!"

We let each other go and ran toward the stairs.

"SEIZE HIM!"

A snap of fingers – then fire sprung around us, blocking our only entrance. I shouted, leaning back – Harry screamed, and I spun; horror washed over me when I saw him being held back by Quirrell. Through the panic, I was able to spot Harry's face, his forehead –

His bleeding scar.

I shoved my arms into the fire; the sleeves were quick to catch the flames and I ran back, throwing myself at Quirrell. I punched the man once – twice – and the fire caught onto him as well. It spread over his robes, up his neck; he howled, surprised, and let Harry go.

"Barton!" he snarled. He went for my wrists, and while I kicked and screamed, he had the upper hand on me. He was strong – unnaturally strong. Even when the fire appeared to have engulfed him, it was as if he couldn't feel it at all.

Harry's frightened yell brought me back. With a sudden force I didn't know I had, I grabbed Quirrell's upper arms and shoved. Gritting my teeth, I pushed further, and he stumbled back onto the mirror. It fell, shattering.

I turned around, jogging up to Harry.

"RUN!" I shouted.

My fingers had just reached his when an invisible force pushed me aside. I was knocked first head against the wall.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to move. I wanted to cry.

But the darkness pulled at me and I allowed it.

"ANYA!" Harry's voice was shaking. There were fast steps going on my way but there was a loud BANG, and I heard something slam on the ground.

I wanted to call his name. I couldn't.

"Did you think you could defeat me, Anya Barton?" said the voice – Voldemort. "Did you think you could save Harry Potter? You are truly a disappointment – I had expected more of you. And now, your friend will die."

He grew closer and closer, further away from Harry, and it was such a relief that I finally let myself vanish.

I was floating. But this was no paradise, for if it had been, my body wouldn't be hurting this much and my head wouldn't feel this heavy.

I'd been dreaming before. I dreamt of a man with two faces. It said I was a disappointment; I hoped the truth ate away his soul.

My face felt warm at the moment, but it wasn't because of the fire that had long ago vanished. It was like I was outside I the castle, lying on the grass and soaking up the sun's warmth.

Where am I, I wanted to ask the void. But I feared it would take me back.

I wished to never wake up.

White. White sky. White canvas.

White ceiling.

Where I am?

I silently checked I was still in one piece. My bones ached, but otherwise, I felt fine. Except for the goddamned cramp in my arms.

I wanted…

I didn't know what I wanted.

Everything didn't come back to me on a rush. I'd dreamed the thing on the void so many times I was pretty sure there wouldn't be a detail I couldn't recall.

I moved. Pain shot up to my head. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I moaned, leaning back on the pillows.

Pillows. Bed. The sterile smell of hospital. I was in the hospital wing.

"I wouldn't recommend moving without assistance, Miss Barton," said a pleasant voice.

Dumbledore. I looked to my left, meeting a familiar pair of blue twinkling eyes.

I tried to smile, but I knew it was neither a pretty thing nor the closest to it. I settled on grimacing.

I also tried talking, but my voice got caught in my throat.

"'Arry?" I rasped.

The Headmaster moved. And there, on the bed next to mine, Harry Potter slept peacefully. He didn't look hurt; his hands were bandaged, but only them, and his scar had again scarred.

"'ow lon'?"

"It has been four days since your stint with Professor Quirrell," said Dumbledore. "Harry woke up the day before; he's merely taking a short nap."

I nodded, slowly. My head felt heavy, and when I tried to touch my hairline, I saw why my arms were heavier. They were bandaged. Extremely.

But my fingers were free and they looked horribly red.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, amused. "Poppy was in a fit when she realized not only were you suffering the effects of Severus' trap, but also had a concussion and second degree burns. It was clever of you to realize a potion works, no matter the quantity ingested."

"Is that why 'm I talking too slow?" I slurred.

"It's like you were asking for brain damage!" a woman's voice snapped. Madam Pomfrey walked in, carrying a tray with bottles of different colors. I cringed when she placed it with a loud thud on the table between Harry's and my bed. "It's a miracle you woke up today. I expected you to still be cold by the end of the month."

"I ken still fall asleep, yeh know…"

"Don't you dare," she threatened. "If you do, there is no saying when will you wake up next. Here, take this."

I had to gulp down some horrendous yellow thing. It was strong will that kept me from barfing.

"What about Quirrell and the stone, sir?" I questioned quietly, slowly, after Madam Pomfrey finally left us (and Harry) alone. "What happened?"

"Quirrell, as well as the Philosopher's stone, are long gone."

"Really?"

He hesitated. "Yes, they are gone. But not Voldemort; he disappeared, and his whereabouts are unknown."

"I don't… understand… What happened… down there? Everything… is big blur right now…"

"What is the last thing you remember?" the Headmaster asked kindly.

Everything. "He threatened us. And then we tried to escape. He got Harry and I burned my sleeves so I could scare him away… he shoved me and Harry, I think."

"And that is where you fell unconscious," Dumbledore nodded. "I will take it from there, then. After Harry saw you fall, he was able to touch Quirrell's face and arm. Harry's touch apparently caused some damage to him, and when I arrived, they both seemed to be screaming. Had I not been on time, I believe Harry would have perished."

I swallowed, looking down at the boy in question.

"Lucky, then," I mumbled.

"People like you and Mr. Potter always get through, Miss Barton," said Professor Dumbledore. "While risky, it was gallant of you to jump between Harry and Voldemort in such circumstances. I commend you."

I shrugged one shoulder, looking down at the white sheets.

"Ron and Hermione would have done the same," I mumbled.

"But they didn't. That's what makes you a very special girl."

My lips twitched.

"Sir… what do you mean when you said Harry did some damage to Quirrell?"

"Well, Anya, Quirrell couldn't touch Harry. And when he did, his hands were burned… he slowly disintegrated into dust."

"But why?" I pressed.

Dumbledore sighed.

"You must understand, Anya, that Quirrell wasn't a man anymore. Touched by greed, he was left vulnerable for Voldemort to take advantage of him."

"Yeah." I remembered the disfigured face on my teacher's head. "I… saw."

Dumbledore raised a hand. "Please, let me finish. I have a theory for Harry's survival that night. You see, I believe it was because of his mother. Lily Potter gave up her life for her son, and those kinds of act always leave a mark behind. Voldemort wouldn't understand, of course; he never believed in sacrifice or in love."

"I don't… understand either, sir," I admitted wryly. Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head.

"You're too young, Anya. I'm sure, in the future, you will understand perfectly."

"Something else bothers me," I muttered sleepily. My eyes were starting to close by their own accord. "Quirrell –Voldemort – he told me my mum died that night… with the Potters…" My eyes were closing.

"Yes, Anya. She did what only the brave can, and made a stand against Voldemort to save her friends."

"He said I was a disappointment…"

I must've been really tired, because the last thing I heard him say didn't make any sense.

"No, Anya Barton. You aren't. He was wrong… and so was I."