"We need to get the stone!" James insists. Hermione still looks unsure, but Ron is nodding grimly. Potter's already told them what happened in the forest, and neither of them is stupid. If Voldemort could get his hands on the stone, he would be immortal. The wizarding world can't afford to face him again, not so soon, and Harry himself would have little chance of surviving. There's no chance that the man would wait long, either. Already so close to his goal, Voldemort must be moving soon. For a while, Hermione had managed to convince the others that the stone was safe with Dumbledore, but now Dumbledore has been called off by the Ministry for who knows how long. Time is running out.
"Are you sure that we shouldn't tell McGonagall?" Hermione tries one last time. James stubbornly shakes his head.
"You and Ron already tried to warn her about Snape, remember? She didn't believe you. And with Dumbledore gone, it's not like there's anyone else we can turn to, either." For a long moment, Hermione doesn't respond, and James begins to fear that they'll have to leave without her. For once, the entire system is in agreement. This is something that they have to do, with or without backup. Finally, though, Hermione nods her consent, and they all start off for the third floor. The invisibility cloak barely fits all three of them, and James has a tendency to try and walk faster than the other two, but somehow, they get there in one piece and again slip into the chamber that contains Fluffy.
James breathes a sigh of relief when the dog is already asleep. An enchanted harp is playing in the corner, and that seems to be all that was needed. He was afraid that they were going to have to rely on Lily again—not that he doesn't trust Lily, not at all, but it was still a frightening proposal.
"Alright," he whispers once they've gotten the trap door open, "I'll go first." Without waiting for a response, he drops down into the dark. He lands a few moments later, and, discovering that the ground beneath him is soft, calls down to instruct the others to join him.
Of course, it's only once they've all landed that they realize what they've landed on.
"Stay still!" Hermione demands, "Devil's Snare—Devil's Snare, it likes the dark and damp…"
"It's going to choke me!" Ron panics, struggling to free himself from the tendrils reaching his neck. "What are we going to do? It's got our arms!"
Even James is beginning to panic. Unlike Hermione, he finds remaining still to be a struggle, and he doesn't have the faintest idea how to cast a fire without wood.
Like this. And then light is shining throughout the room and the plant quickly retreats. The three quickly scramble up into the ledge beside the pit.
"Way to go Lily!" James cheers.
"She did that without a wand?" Hermione asks in amazement, and Ron rolls his eyes.
"Not the time!"
James voices his agreement and hurries on to the next room, Ron and Hermione running to keep up behind him. He stops abruptly in the doorway, staring at the little winged things fluttering around by the high ceiling.
"Keys," Lily breaths.
"Shouldn't be too hard, then," James grins.
Meanwhile, Hermione has rushed across the room and is trying to open the door. Failing, she calls out, "you need an old key, big and old fashioned, probably silver like the handle."
"Got it!" James mounts the broom and rises into the air, scanning the room around him. The keys fail to react; he had been hoping that maybe the real key would have tried to retreat, or something.
"That one," Lily suddenly says, "the one on the right, flying by the second to last beam, about midway. Someone's touched it recently. Look, its wing is crooked."
"How do you even see these things?" James wonders. Regardless, he doesn't pause before shooting forwards. The key does its best to evade capture, but he's not the youngest Quidditch player in a decade for nothing. He manages to pin it up against a wall, almost breaking its already fragile wings. "Got it!" James hollers again, swooping back down and jumping off the broom. He shoves the key into the lock and turns it. The resulting click makes his grin widen to an almost impossible length.
It falls when he sees the next room. "Chess?"
"I suppose we'll have to play our way across," Ron determines. Reluctantly, James withdraws inside. He's never been good at chess, and he's not fond of the idea of standing there and taking orders on where to move. Lily takes his place and obediently replaces one of the bishops. She does what she's told without hesitation. When Ron willingly sacrifices himself, she doesn't make an effort to stop him, though one could almost see her respect for him grow. Once the game is won, she follows Hermione to the next room in silence. They pass an already knocked out troll and enter a long room with seven bottles displayed on a table. Behind and in front of them, two different fires alight.
"Brilliant," Hermione says, smiling brightly as she finishes reading the accompanying roll of paper, "this isn't magic—it's logic—a puzzle. A lot of great wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be stuck in here forever."
"There's only enough in each for one person, though," Lily points out. Hermione nods and smiles grimly.
"This one," she says, lifting the smallest bottle, "will take you through the black fire—to Snape. This," she lifts the round bottle at the end of the line, "will take me back to Ron." She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Har-" she catches herself and verbally stumbles on. "I suppose you have to be the one to face him."
"That's okay—really, it is. I'll let Harry himself handle it. We'll be fine."
Hermione nods and swallows the potion, trembling a bit. "It's like ice… Listen, I'll get Dumbledore. Alright? The broomsticks, Ron and I, we'll get help…"
"Hermione, it might wear off soon. Please go." To Lily's surprise, Hermione pulls her into a hug before rushing off. To Lily's immense relief, Hermione makes it through unharmed. Lily takes a deep breath and disappears inside. A moment later, Harry is left staring at the potion he needs to take. He picks it up and gulps quickly, grimacing. It really does feel like ice is spreading through his veins. It's not pleasant.
Harry enters the final chamber fully expecting to be met by Voldemort himself. Everyone inside is still clamoring close to the front, yearning to watch the possible destruction of their first and greatest enemy but wouldn't they prefer to kill Vernon, if given the chance?, but Harry can feel them fading away. Freakazoid struggles the hardest to stay with him, but Harry discards him, as well. This is his battle. He's so useless in the rest of their life, this victory should be his. He owes it to the others to defeat Voldemort, but really, the grudge is far more personal to him than it could ever be to them. If Voldemort had never killed their parents, Harry would never have needed alters in the first place. He would have been normal. Sane. Not the fucked up mess of a freak that he is now. Oh, he will make the man pay or die trying. Maybe he'll get lucky, and both of their paths will end here.
But it's Quirrell who turns to meet Harry, and the disappointment is so sharp that Harry almost wants to kill him just for not being Voldemort. He nods briskly at the professor, fingers curling up at his sides, imaging a neck between them to wring. Quirrell, though calm at first, looks a bit shocked at the expressions that must be crossing Harry's face. Harry tries to smile, this is a professor, he's here to help, here to protect the Stone from Voldemort, but he might be snarling instead. Oops.
Then he realizes that it doesn't matter. No, Quirrell is here to steal that Stone. That's why he's advancing forward like that. Fucking lovely.
"So it was you, huh?" Harry laughs bitterly. "What next? Snape's spell was to defend me?"
The nasty smirk on Quirrell's face tells him everything that he needs to know. That doesn't stop the professor from talking. "He was at school with your father, didn't you know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead."
"Now, Potter," he says, and with a wave of his wand, ropes have appeared around Harry's body—"I need to examine this interesting mirror."
Harry realizes with a jolt that it's the Mirror of Erised. "You idiot," he laughs, and Quirrell tenses, "that only shows you what you desire most. It's all lies." When Quirrell looks back at him, he elaborates. "Mirror of Erised? Mirror of Desire? God, you're slow."
For a moment, he remembers his own vision from the mirror, and it makes him want to laugh. All of his alters getting along? No, not even that. All of them having their own bodies, their own lives, not trapped, forced to deal with his stupid mistakes and take over his life when he's fucked it up too badly. What a nice dream. Nice delusion. Never going to happen.
"If the mirror is here, it must be the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell insists, though he does look shaken. Harry just spits in his direction. Quirrell ignores him this time, muttering, "I don't understand… is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"
"Go ahead. Break the key to the mirror. Bloody brilliant, you are," Harry snarls. He tries to break the ropes but only manages to lose his balance and fall over. He could scream, if only he didn't want to distract Quirrell from doing something stupid!
"Help me, Master!" Quirrell cries out in despair. To Harry's horror, a voice answers, and it seems to be coming from Quirrell himself, though the man's lips aren't moving.
"Use the boy… Use the boy…"
Quirrell turns on Harry. "Yes—Potter—come here." He claps his hands, and Harry is free. He considers ignoring the command but figures that he'll be forced into this no matter what he tries. Sullen, he joins Quirrell by the mirror.
His jaw drops. His reflection is smiling at him. It pulls a blood red stone out of its pocket, winks, and returns it. Harry feels his own pocket grow suddenly heavier. Did he…? Does he have the Stone?
"Well?" Quirrell says impatiently. "What do you see?"
Harry pauses, reaches for his courage, and decides to fuck it all. "I see my uncle dead." He blinks innocently up at Quirrell, who seems more than a bit shocked by this new development. The man's face is screwing up in anger, but he seems just the slightest bit nervous. Harry openly laughs, walking away. Screw Quirrell. Stuttering or not, the man is a fool.
But he doesn't get far.
"He lies… he lies…" The voice is high pitched and nasally. Harry winces as it continues. "Let me speak to him… face-to-face…"
Despite Quirrell's protests, the man begins to unravel his turban. Harry stands rooted to the spot, filled with almost as much morbid fascination as terror. But then Quirrell is turning, and all Harry wants to do is throw up. Staring out at him is another face, a chalk white face with red eyes and slit nostrils. "Harry Potter…" it whispers.
"Voldemort," Harry says, and suddenly he's shaking. As desperately as some part of his mind is screaming to run, to get away, and though he must be almost frozen in terror, all Harry can think about is the white hot fury over taking him. When the thing begins speaking again, Harry finds himself laughing. "Don't bother," he smiles viciously, only distantly aware of the hysterical edge to his voice, "if you're going to try to convince me to give you the stone, don't even fucking bother. You murdered my parents. I'd rather die a thousand times over than help you. You drank unicorn blood to live a cursed life? Oh, that's nothing to what I'll do to you…"
Voldemort's face turns dark and cruel. "Kill him," he says, and something deep and dark and ugly responds to the waves of shock and terror running through Harry's body. Suddenly, Harry's falling forwards, but while the body catches itself mid-fall, he doesn't.
And then something is staring out from behind the body's eyes. Magic swirls through the body, almost burning the skin with its intensity…
Hateful manages to grab hold of front. For a moment, the world freezes. He can read the terror on Quill's face; the man had walked closer, expecting to pin Harry down and murder him, but now that the magic is surrounding him, it seems that he's as cowardly as ever. Hateful doesn't know how Voldemort feels, but he hopes that this will be painful.
And then the magic is released and the air is pierced with an inhuman scream. Hateful laughs, delighted by the sensation, and the thing behind him would be grinning if it had a body. He can't see; the world around him is fading. The flash of light stole his vision, and the deafening screech stole his hearing, but he doesn't care. His muscles are liquid. He falls to the ground beside their wand, useless. It's probably good that Harry's wand has never been compatible with him; the burst of magic would have shattered it, he's sure.
As he fades, he hears the thing laughing.
XXXXX
A/N: Just one more chapter and then the second year starts! I'm so excited, you have no idea! That one's where the clear distinction from cannon begins, and things start falling apart a little bit. Should be fun!
Also, I feel the need to note that James was out a lot this chapter. Sometimes, that just happens with DID; a certain alter will stay in front for long periods of time, even if someone else is switching in or co-con with them.
In regards to Harry himself, remember that whether he remembers the abuse or not, he is a trauma survivor, and he can be very, very bitter at times.
As always, thanks to all who commented, faved, and followed.
Taylor1991: Thanks for the lovely review! As for the number of alters that Harry has, at the moment, it's 20, but that's including fragments (lesser developed alters who only hold one job or memory and have a limited emotional range). Not all of them will receive the same amount of attention because some of them only occasionally front.