A/N: The last chapters are finished with edits via the wonderful and splendiferous TheHelpfulNeighborLady (AO3), and there are just enough to post one every day until Christmas. Merry Christmas, readers. Thanks for sticking with it.

Heads up for a bit of extra violence in this chapter.

The room was quiet. The flames danced silently in their doorways, offering only a slight glimpse of the rooms beyond. Harry sighed, relieved to have only himself to look out for now. Perhaps it had been too much to include Draco in their first year adventure. But what could be made of their relationship if he had done all this not only without him, but with Ron and Hermione instead? Slytherin needed to stick together, as Draco said. Shaking himself, Harry tried clearing his mind in preparation for the tasks ahead. Childhood friend worries could wait.

Harry stepped up to the table. Seven differently-shaped bottles stood in a line. A piece of paper lay next to the bottles, and Harry skimmed it briefly.

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,

One among us seven will let you move ahead,

Another will transport the drinker back instead,

Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line,

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide

You will always find some on nettle wine's right side;

Second, different are those that stand at either end,

But if you would move onwards, neither is your friend;

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

He didn't really need to read it closely, he could still remember very well the exchange between Hermione and himself all those years ago. His heart had pounded, but his trust in her had been absolute.

'You are sure which is which, aren't you?' he had asked.

'Positive,' she had said. And she had been right, hadn't she? He had gone onwards, and she had gone back to help Ron.

Harry took up the smallest bottle.

But another hand grabbed his wrist from behind. Harry whirled.

It was Snape.

He was frowning at the small bottle in Harry's hand.

'Did you actually read it, or are you simply depending on your idiotically unreliable memory?' His voice was quiet, but his contemptuous expression spoke volumes.

'How did you get in here?' Harry asked, turning. The fire was still there. Snape sneered.

'I brewed all of these myself, how do you think? Oh, that's right...' he breathed coldly. 'You don't.'

Harry turned back to the table, feeling stupid and self-conscious. It felt strange to be so close to Snape after having avoided him for a week, after their last encounter. He was finally getting a taste of how Snape truly felt to be in the same room as him, now that they were alone.

'No,' Snape hissed venomously, 'you didn't think at all when you brought your little friends down here.'

Harry whirled, his face flaming instantly in shame. No one had said a word about the danger he and his friends had been in the first time around, but they had all been children in their first year. This time, he was an adult, leading children recklessly into danger.

'It was important!' Harry insisted, but he knew it was weak even as the words left his mouth. Was it really a sound enough excuse for this?

'And would it still be important if they had been strangled by the Devil's Snare?' Snape spat, looming over him. 'If they had been beaten to death by the troll?' His eyes flicked to the table. 'If they were here, now, and had convinced you that the poison was safe?'

'They didn't, and they weren't!' Harry yelled. 'Hermione figured out your stupid poem the first time! Ron won the chess game both times, and they figured out the Devil's Snare, too! This is an obstacle course for first years, for fuck's sake,' Harry snapped, and Snape suddenly paled and took a step back, his face almost retreating into the curtain of his greasy hair.

'I would never have made it, if it hadn't been for them!' Harry continued, advancing on him. To Harry's surprise, Snape took another step back.

'I suspect you could have done it on your own, this time,' Snape said, but there was no heat behind his words now.

'Yeah, well, they deserved the personal growth,' Harry said sarcastically, heading towards the door and uncorking the bottle.

'Feeling like getting drunk? I thought you were past that, Potter.'

Harry flinched. He disliked his occasional dependence on alcohol, and it was a definite sore spot, especially in the inflamed aftermath of an argument. Scowling, Harry veered toward the table and took the paper off the table again. He placed the small bottle back in line, and went through the riddle carefully. He landed this time on the largest bottle.

'You changed it?'

'I had it written before the start of term in September,' Snape said quietly, his eyes glittering in the shimmering light of the magical fires. 'But once I knew about... you...'

Harry sighed to himself. Of course he did. The arse. He shook the large bottle. There was only a couple mouthfuls at the bottom.

'Not very generous,' he quipped, moving to drink it back. But Snape stopped him.

'You are just a boy,' he said, sounded slightly choked, his words stilted. 'Were just a boy,' he corrected. 'You should not have had to be the hero.'

'You would rather me be the villain?' Harry said softly. Snape twitched, but said nothing in rebuttal. He did not pull away. 'I'm not just a boy this time, remember? You said so yourself,' Harry said, pulling the bottle away from Snape. The man reached for it again. 'Snape! It's my destiny!'

'Fuck destiny!' Snape snarled. 'Give me the bottle!'

But Harry swigged it back; all but a single mouthful. Snape glared at him murderously, but then gave a sigh.

He pulled out his invisibility cloak and thrust it at Snape. 'Take this.'

'For what?' Snape asked, his eyes narrowing. He made no move to take the cloak.

Harry made an aggravated sound in his throat, grabbed one of Snape's hands, and stuffed the cloak into it.

'Hermione, Ron, and Draco. They're probably hiding in the chess room. Find them, and keep them safe.'

Snape finally accepted the cloak, his expression relaxing into something Harry couldn't quite discern.

'Stop being so arrogant, Potter. It could be different this time,' he cautioned. Harry nodded. Something was different between them.

'I fully intend it to be,' he said.

Snape watched him turn toward the door, and Harry felt his stomach drop. He looked over his shoulder as he walked through the fire, but Snape was already gone.

Severus had watched Potter walk through the flames, his shoulders set confidently, from under the invisibility cloak. But instead of going back, he followed Potter, sliding in the door before it closed. He knew, logically, that Quirrell was Potter's simplest adversary. He had defeated him once before, after all, with only a first year's knowledge of magic and spells. But there was one thing for which Potter wasn't accounting.

Hubris.

Potter was expecting him to go backwards, to help Granger as she struggled with the unconscious bodies of Draco and Weasley. But Severus had already stunned her and checked on the two boys. They were all fine, if a little bruised, and had a far better chance at survival if they were neither seen nor heard, camouflaged in the corner under Severus' spellwork.

Potter was his bigger worry.

He had roped his young friends into this fool's errand, and likely felt compelled to keep their threads in his story as close to the original as possible. But there was an entirely different level of responsibility as an adult leading children. Potter was not as earnestly innocent as they, and needed to be held accountable.

He had mentioned that Granger had figured out his riddle the first time. Yet he had obviously sent her back before going through the doorway. Why? What was different?

He cast a silencing charm on his feet as he followed Potter, planting himself in a corner with a clear view of the Mirror of Erised, standing in the centre of the room. Severus watched as Potter duplicated the mirror first with a Gemino Curse, and then used a series of spells to connect their reflective surfaces so that the copy gave the same reflection as the original. It was brilliant. He then moved the real mirror into the shadows of a far corner and disillusioned it. His spell was so powerful, the mirror melted into the background without even a shimmer.

Potter walked around the room slowly, surveying it carefully, and every so often would tap a brick in the wall with his wand, several inches above his own head. Behind the copied mirror, Severus watched him spell a large area with a slipping spell, and then another spell along its edge. Potter stepped back, hands on his hips, looking extremely satisfied.

Setting traps was something Severus had never considered. These traps seemed fairly innocuous. Annoying, perhaps, or a delay tactic so that Potter could regain the upper hand, if he ever required it.

Severus could not help the comparison to the Dark Lord. He was famously paranoid, and defended anything of even slight importance with traps of a furious violence. A poison Severus had once brewed at his request had been placed inside a cabinet and surrounded by a ward that would corrode flesh to bone in an instant if you did not speak both parts of a two-part password. Severus had been intensely glad when the poison was gone, and he had never been forced to choose between grabbing the potion and his own death.

Quirrell entered at last, his expression intense and his pace quick, but he slowed immediately when his eyes landed on Potter, waiting patiently in front of the mirror.

'You!' Quirrell gasped, quite clearly taken aback. Of course he would be surprised. He likely expected to encounter Albus, Minerva, or even himself, Severus thought. Not a first year student, even if it was Harry Potter.

Potter smiled.

'Me.'

Potter stepped to the side, then, clearing a direct path to the mirror, and presented it with a flourish of his hand.

'After you.'

Severus' stomach tightened. Potter was getting cocky, just as he feared. But then, given the types of classes Quirrell taught, he likely had not witnessed Potter's skill and power firsthand. Potter still had the upper hand.

Quirrell looked suspicious as he marched toward the mirror, looking around several times as if expecting the entire Hogwarts staff to leap out from behind pillars and shadows, challenging him to duel. He stopped in front of the mirror, only a few feet from where Potter stood. His eyes were entirely on Potter.

'How-'

'Ah, ah,' Potter chided, waving a finger. 'Daddy is waiting.'

Quirrell froze in shock. Then he sneered and snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves tightly around Potter. He seemed completely unperturbed. Eyes narrowing at Potter's lack of reaction, Quirrell turned to the mirror.

'That's enough out of you. Now wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.'

Severus held his breath, waiting for something to happen. Quirrell let out a long breath, and stepped closer to the mirror's glass. His eyes scanned the glass feverishly.

'This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,' Quirrell murmured, tapping his way around the frame with his wand. 'Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this... but he's in London... I'll be far away by the time he gets back...'

'You sure will,' Potter quipped. Quirrell glared at him.

'Shut it, you,' he snapped, as he walked around the mirror to look at the back. Severus could see he narrowly avoided the spelled area Potter had created. He then relaxed, slightly. 'I can honestly say I was surprised to see you,' he said conversationally, all traces of stutter gone. Potter's apparent inability to free himself seemed to bolster Quirrell's confidence. 'When it became obvious someone was ahead of me, I had thought that perhaps Severus... He suspected me all along, after all. Tried to frighten me – as though he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side...'

Severus felt a chill go down his spine. To hear the Dark Lord's name spoken so casually from the lips of one of his servants... he must truly be in a weakened state. But where was he? Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and stared hungrily into it.

'I see the Stone... I'm presenting it to my master... but where is it?'

Potter frowned, then. Severus heard the sharp intake of his breath. What was happening? He struggled against his bonds for a moment. Was he in pain?

'I don't understand... is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?'

Quirrell was holding the frame of the mirror, his nose only inches from the glass, eyes searching.

'What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!' Quirrell cried at last, his frustration finally peaking.

A voice answered, a voice that Severus knew all too well. It seemed to originate from Quirrell himself, and with a dawning horror, Severus realized why the man wore the lopsided turban.

'Use the boy... Use the boy...'

Quirrell rounded on Potter, eyes wild.

'Yes – Potter – come here.'

He clapped his hands and the ropes binding Potter fell away. He relaxed, his momentary panic fading quickly. Potter smirked, but either Quirrell didn't see it, or he didn't recognize the danger behind it.

'Come here,' he repeated. 'Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.'

Potter walked towards him, schooling his expression. Quirrell moved in close behind him, and Severus felt a flare of protectiveness. Was it seeing Lily's son so close to the Dark Lord? Or was it simply seeing Potter so close to danger? He willed himself to stay in his corner.

It was totally silent in the chamber as Potter stared into the mirror.

'Well?' Quirrell said, impatiently. 'What do you see?'

'I see myself bringing my dead parents back to life,' Potter said tonelessly. He turned to face Quirrell now, his deadly smirk back in place. 'But... I think this is the wrong stone for that.'

Quirrell gave a strangled yell as he was blasted back from Potter, thrown several feet, landing almost at the foot of the stairs leading down into the chamber. Potter hadn't even drawn his wand yet, and looked obscenely calm as he stepped forward.

But Quirrell was not a servant of the Dark Lord for nothing, and he began firing a barrage of curses and hexes. Potter side stepped most of them, shielding against others. He maintained a mostly defensive stance, which only seemed to frustrate and anger Quirrell further. He was playing with him, proving to Quirrell that he didn't even need to try to best him. After only a few minutes of duelling, Quirrell physically charged him in a rage.

Stepping away from the mirror, Potter ran. Quirrell followed, firing off Dark spells, until he passed by one of Potter's charmed bricks. It shot out from the wall, smacking Quirrell in the side of the face hard, before retracting back into the wall as if nothing had happened. Quirrell was knocked off his feet and fell heavily. Potter stopped running and turned.

'My, that worked rather well, don't you think?' His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent to it. A dark edge.

Quirrell raised his head, the side of his face already swelling.

'Flipendo!' he barked. Potter was not able to dodge, stuck as he was between a pillar and his own floor trap. He was knocked back, into the slippery zone he had created behind the mirror. Quirrell was fast. He pushed himself up as Potter struggled to right himself.

'God...dammit!' Potter yelled as he slapped his hand on the floor. He pulled, but it was stuck. He had surrounded the Glissando with a sticking charm. A brilliant idea if he hadn't succumbed to it himself. Adrenaline surged through Severus' system. Potter had run out of traps and was trapped himself. He needed help. Still, Severus had to choose the right moment.

Quirrell was on him, then.

'Crucio!' he shouted at Potter, spittle and blood flying out of his mouth, his face reddened by rage wherever it wasn't swelling from the strike.

Potter screamed and his body convulsed, wrenching against the arm that was stuck to the floor by his hand. Quirrell stood over him, just out of reach of the spell trap, breathing heavily. He swiped at his face, his hand coming away bloodied. He leaned into the spell, glaring at Potter's twisting form. He let off the spell for only a moment.

'Think you can best me, boy!?' he shrieked at Potter, who immediately started kicking against the slippery floor, slowly inching his body towards the sticky area. His wand spun away across the floor. 'You think you can best Lord Voldemort!? Crucio!'

It was horrendous, watching Potter – in a child's body – be tortured. There was a loud snap of some body part giving in to the strain, and Severus felt something snap inside himself, too. He pulled the cloak off himself and strode towards them.

'Quirrell!' he exploded. The man jumped, the spell broken. Potter sagged against the floor, his eyes glassy and half-open. His wand was a foot away from him, in the middle of the slippery spot, and his entire torso seemed to be stuck to the floor.

'S-S-Severus!' Quirrell stammered, looking around wildly. 'P-P-Potter has been possessed by the D-D-Dark Lord!'

Severus paused. It was a good act, if he hadn't seen the entire lead up. The transformation was instantaneous. The stutter, the rolled shoulders, the deference. The screaming and Potter's strange appearance on the floor could easily be explained by magical possession and the attempt to rid him of a foreign presence. After all, who could claim to know – exactly – what that even looked like, but a professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts?

But he had called him the Dark Lord. Only his servants did that.

Nonetheless, Severus decided to go along with it.

'What?' he asked, feigning disbelief. He could see Potter going for his wand, trying to get traction on the charmed floor as he reached. The torture had likely rendered him incapable of freeing himself without his wand.

'I s-s-suspected him from the f-f-first,' Quirrell explained. His face was brutally bruised, puffed, and blood was drying in the corner of his mouth and one of his nostrils. His speech had a strange sound to it. Were his teeth broken? Not quite the innocuous trap, after all.

'Of course,' Severus said slowly. 'It all makes sense now.'

Potter had his wand clenched triumphantly in his fist.

'Impressive that you stopped him,' Severus said, putting a touch of admiration in his words. There was a glint in Quirrell's eye. His wand twitched in his hand.

But Potter was faster. Severus saw the wand movement, saw the harsh syllables form on his lips. He heard nothing beyond Quirrell's scream as he fell.

There was blood everywhere. Quirrell was on his hands and knees, a pool of blood forming around his ankles; tendons, muscle, and skin split wide open. Potter was getting up, having managed to free himself. He was holding his right arm, grimacing as he limped over to Quirrell.

Then Severus was pushed back. He tried to resist and tried to move forward, but was held at bay by an invisible force. No doubt one of Potter's blasted wards.

Kicking Quirrell down viciously, Potter mounted him, grabbing his jaw with his good hand, and moved his face to look him in the eyes. At first, Severus thought Quirrell screamed because of his facial injuries, but then he saw the marks left on Quirrell's skin when Potter moved his hand. Raw and red, with shiny blisters blossoming on his skin like flowers.

'Potter! Stop!' Severus shouted. 'You imbecile!' He was going too far. Quirrell would die at this rate. But Potter paid him no attention. He appeared to be speaking to Quirrell as he repeatedly touched his face, his neck, and his hands – burning hand prints into Quirrell's flesh. But Severus could not hear his words over Quirrell's shrieks of pain. Another voice joined Quirrell's, swelling in volume.

The Dark Lord was screaming, too.

Potter let up at last, scrambling to get off of Quirrell as a small, misty figure rose up out of Quirrell's turban. A face, drawn in a spectre of ghostly pain. The resistance Severus felt disappeared, but his urge to move towards Potter had vanished along with the ward.

'Harry Potter!' the spectre of the Dark Lord hissed. Potter snarled, and pointed his wand.

'Expecto Patronum!'

A large, brilliant white stag burst out of Potter's wand – his father, Severus recognized heatedly – and charged the apparition. What remained of the Dark Lord fled, chased by Potter's stag, around the chamber and disappearing through a wall.

Quirrell moaned quietly and then his body crumpled, rapidly turning to ash at Potter's feet. Severus went to Potter at last, loathe to touch him, in case whatever burning curse he used on Quirrell was still in effect.

Potter turned to him, but did not meet his eyes. He was staring at the ash and blood at his feet.

'I won't hurt you. It's because... because he was hosting Voldemort.' His voice was quiet and hoarse. Was he shaking?

'It was not a spell?' Severus asked. He could not tear his eyes away from Potter's state: bloodied robes, injured arm – likely broken, and there. He saw it again. A tremor.

Potter stared at the palm of his good hand, pale and unmarked.

'More like a state of being. My mother's sacrifice protects me for now. Voldemort cannot physically touch me without suffering great pain. That includes his proxies.' For now.

Severus caught the caveat, but did not comment. He was not sure he wanted to know how, exactly, the Dark Lord would overcome Lily's protective magic.

Potter sighed, his hand clutching his arm tightened, and he swayed dangerously.

'Potter!' Severus warned, but he was already falling. He caught him as gently as he could, but there was no avoiding the broken arm. The body in his arms trembled, even unconscious.

A column of flame appeared near the mirror, out of which Albus materialized, holding onto his phoenix.

'Severus!' he said in alarm, surveying the scene. He hurried to his side, his hand reaching for Potter in a desperate clutch, but stopped short of seizing him.

'Oh, Merlin,' he breathed, his bright blue eyes taking in Potter's unconscious form; the cradled arm at an odd angle, the tremor that still shook his small body. He took in the pile of ash, the blood, and the mirror.

Severus felt his arms tighten around Potter protectively as Albus focused his penetrating stare on him. This was a set up. It was a massive experiment, meant entirely to draw the Dark Lord out of the shadows to Hogwarts, and guide Potter down the treacherous path of independence and power to meet him.

'I... tried to do as you asked,' Severus said tightly. 'To not intervene.'

Albus looked at him sharply.

'You were here the whole time?'

'Yes.'

'What did you see?'

'Potter is skilled,' he admitted slowly. Truthfully. 'But he is overconfident in his skill. Quirrell took advantage.'

It was a vague explanation, so Albus would likely search for specifics from Potter himself, later. But for now, it would be enough. But Severus, for some inexplicable reason, found himself unable to keep his mouth shut.

'He almost died, Albus.'

Albus' eyes went to the pool of blood on the floor. Severus did not correct him.

'You intervened.'

Severus bristled, pulling himself up to his full height, despite the fatigue of holding Potter's dead weight.

'I saved his life!' he hissed. 'The Cruciatus, Albus. You tell me how long an eleven-year-old can hold out.'

Potter needed medical attention and rest. It was preposterous that they were even still standing there, so Severus turned to leave. He was fuming.

'Severus... the Stone?'

'Blast the Stone!' Severus snapped. 'Ask him when he wakes up,' he said as he made for the door. 'If he wakes up,' he added, a sinister twist of the knife. Albus didn't have to know that Potter would almost surely be fine. But then, the tremor running through the body in his arms had not let up.