Thank you to everyone who reviews my story.
I still do not have a beta, so this chapter can probably still use a little polish. I proofread it to the best of my ability, but nothing can replace a second pair of eyes and opinion. If any kind soul reading this is willing to give me the benefit of their time to help make the upcoming chapters better, I would be extremely grateful. PMs are open.
"Provisionally 'I' practically alive mistook signs for signified and so since have often tried to run them off a cliff like Gadarene swine and tied my thought-ropes in anchor bends wondering whether we were someone better then, or maybe just better able to pretend (and what better means to our inevitable end!)" mewithoutYou, Fox's Dream of the Log Flume
"Daphne, would you still be my friend if there was something dark about me?" he asked, having picked his approach.
Daphne raised her eyebrow at this. "Are you going to confess to a murder or something?" she asked, trying to sound glib but not exactly succeeding. She clearly realized this, because she shook her head and replied.
"Honestly, Harry, it's a bit hard to answer a really vague question like that, but short of murder and rape, or, I don't know, casting Unforgiveables, I can't see why…"
Harry was going to let her finish, but Ted cut her off. "It's really nothing of that kind… He's just being dramatic," he said with a sigh, before turning to Harry.
"I'm not saying you're wrong to be careful, but I don't think anyone in Slytherin will really be bothered by it." Harry sighed and nodded. Ted was probably right.
Meanwhile, Daphne had tensed up, though she seemed like she was trying to contain her excitement. It was like she could sense this was the moment when she was going to be fully inducted into Harry's confidence.
"I…" she paused. "I can't say how I'm going to react until you tell me what it is. But I swear," she grabbed her wand and held it up high, pointing at the ceiling, in a solemn gesture, "that I won't tell anyone. Your secret's safe with me." Lowering her wand, she added. "And I really can't imagine anything that'd make me no longer want to be your friend," she added, her eyes meeting Harry's in what he thought was a sincere show of emotion. He made his decision then.
"I'm a parselmouth," he said quickly. To her credit, Daphne didn't flinch. She blinked a couple of times, then replied.
"Are you sure?" she shook her head. "That was a dumb question, wasn't it? Kind of hard to imagine a snake talking to you…" she trailed. Harry and Ted grinned.
"Yeah, but we tested it just the same. It just came up when we were reading about something else, and I realized I had spoken to a snake before." He told her the story of the boa constrictor at the zoo.
"Your cousin had it coming if you ask me," Daphne commented at the end, before turning her attention back to the matter at hand. "So, you tested it to make sure. I guess that's why you got sorted into Slytherin so quickly," she said. "Not that you don't fit in, don't get me wrong, but that probably means you're related to Salazar Slytherin…"
"Well, that's kind of where this whole thing began," Harry starts, before giving Daphne the skinny on his own quest to find more about his origins, the discovery of his descent from the Peverells, and the other Peverell line which led to the Gaunts, proud descendants of Salazar Slytherin, and speakers of Parseltongue.
"But as far as I've been able to work out, I'm not directly related to them at all," he finished. "Although all the information I have is not that recent. I only know that this man, Morfin Gaunt, was alive in the 1930s and was their last descendant. But I don't know if he's still alive, or if he's had any children, or well, anything." He stretched his hands in defeat. "It just feels like the more I find out, the less I actually know."
Daphne was silent, in thought, for a few seconds. "I'd really like to help you with this Harry," she finally replied. "I mean, I'd be really frustrated too if I didn't know anything about my family and had to piece it all together from old books… Family is really important."
"Well, you can help me," Harry began. "Or at least, your father can…" He was a bit pained for having to ask this favour. "I don't know what I can do to repay him… or you," he said. He was about to go on, but Daphne cut him off with a smirk.
"Harry, just coming over and staying with us over the summer is payment enough."
Harry was a bit confused by the notion that staying at someone else's house was doing them a favour. This confusion must have shown on his face, because Daphne began to explain.
"Well, there is something for you to do. But it's not that big of a deal. You just need to be around when he has some other important people over. So he can brag about how his daughter is friends with the Boy-Who-Live…" she gave him a wry grin. "It's high society nonsense, but it'll make him look good… And I get to have my friend stay with me. It's win-win, really."
Ted had kept silent so far, letting Harry do the talking, but despite his own forced exclusion from this, now nodded vigorously. "It'll give her dad a pretty big social boost, if I understand anything about how those things work. So don't be shy about asking for something in return."
"Besides, I'd already asked him to look into your family situation. Haven't heard anything about that yet, by the way," she added in the way of a progress report. "But really, that's not even a major favour. You just want to know about a person. Most Register stuff is public domain, anyway. You just can't get to the Ministry as conveniently as he can."
"Well, that's.. Good." Harry smiled and gripped Daphne's arm. "Thank you, Daphne. I'm lucky to have you as my friend," he said softly, before releasing her and taking a step back. He felt slightly embarrassed at the outburst of emotion.
Ted felt that, and decided to relieve the tension. "So, I found this interesting curse in a book while I was away," he began, whipping his wand out. "It's called the Bone Hurting Curse. The effects are pretty obvious from the name," he added with a grin. The incantation is 'osto ponos,'" he said as he demonstrated the wand movements, making sure to point at the wall as he did so. This produced a yellowish grey spell which left a faint scorch mark on the stones as it hit them.
"Well, that looks like it worked," he said. "Obviously, I didn't have anyone to test this on…."
Both Harry and Daphne took a few attempts to try to cast it at the wall, but it wasn't a particularly hard spell as far as they went, and soon, with a little coaching from Ted, they were producing the same results as he had.
"Why don't we take turns casting it on each other. I assume you can just cancel it afterwards…" Harry suggested, taking the lead.
Ted nodded. "Yeah, just cast finite…" he began, before informing them of the countercurse which would cancel it if you'd been hit by someone else's attempt.
"Cast it on me first to see if it works," he added. Harry nodded. He was slightly ashamed to admit he was a bit concerned to suffer a curse whose effects he hadn't seen yet, even if the idea came from his best friend. He relaxed a bit at this, and meeting Ted's eyes and nodding in acknowledgement, cast the curse as Daphne watched intently.
The sickly coloured spell shot from Harry's wand and hit Ted square in the chest. A fraction of a second later, Ted let out an exclamation of pain as his body twitched, and he struggled to hold on to his wand.
"Oof, ow, my bones hurt," he grimaced as he took a step back. He looked like old Mrs. Figg when she was complaining about her arthritis. "Oof, ow, my bones," he said through gritted teeth, before casting the countercurse on himself.
"Well, glad that worked," he sighed in relief. Harry started to feel slightly uncomfortable with this practice. It didn't seem like there was much of a use for this spell other than causing pain.
Daphne seemed to be feeling somewhat conflicted as well, and as usual, was the first to voice her opinion. "Is this really something we should be learning?" she asked. "I'm cool with learning how to defend myself, but this seems a little… sadistic," she finished after finding the right word.
"Harry wasn't sure he'd've put it like that, but Daphne'd managed to convey most of his concern, so he turned in anticipation to hear Ted's reply.
"I mean, obviously, it can be used that way," he began, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "But the point is more that it's a way to make your opponent lose focus. It's hard to cast properly if your bones are hurting. It's the same reason you'd hit them with a ticking jinx, only... A little more painful," he explained.
Harry nodded slowly at this. "Besides, if we practice being hit by it, we'll be better at handling the pain if someone casts it on us." He nodded with resolve. "Alright, Ted, cast it on me now," he said, not wanting to have to cast it on Daphne. It seems he was altogether too transparent about this.
"Don't get chivalrous with me, Potter," she said with a grin. "You'll hexing me before the day is over," she added, throwing a stinging jinx at him for good measure.
They had a pretty spirited defence practice after that, with any ethical misgivings forgotten, at least for the moment. It was nice to have the trio together again, and all in all, Harry felt very happy at how the day's events had gone.
Soon the end of year exams were upon them. Even though they did eventually revise the theory, with notes and quizzing each other, Harry didn't feel as confident there as he did on his practical work. The snuffbox he'd transfigured a mouse into had certainly won him high verbal praise from McGonagall, even if he did not know his full mark yet. He felt very pleased with himself at managing to impress the stern Gryffindor head of house.
He was least confident of all about the Defence Against the Dark Arts exams, not because he didn't know the material, but because he'd had a splitting headache for the whole session. It had been fortunate in a way that he'd practiced casting even when dealing with cursed bones, because that at least ensured he was still able to do his practical at some level of competence, even if he knew his performance was below his actual standard.
In fact, Harry's headaches began to feel worse and worse throughout the days after their last exam, History of Magic, which Harry really did not have very high expectations for. He tried not to complain too much, but he could tell his friends were worried.
Still, even the headaches did not completely cloud the joy of the last day of exams. What did do that was the prospect of returning to the Dursleys soon, but there was nothing he realistically could do about it, so he just tried to put it off his mind, reminding himself that he'd go stay with Daphne soon afterwards.
Professor Dumbledore wasn't at dinner that night, which was a bit unexpected, but Harry didn't give it much thought. He was working out the summer plans with Daphne and Ted.
"While I'm at the Dursleys, don't use your owls to send me post," he warned his friends. He gave them his muggle postal address before explaining. "They'll go crazy if they see them swoop in. I'll use Hedwig to reply, but it's easier if you use the muggle post to get to me.
Ted looked slightly embarrassed at this suggestion, and Harry quickly realized that he probably didn't know enough about muggles to know how to use the Royal Mail.
"Just owl them to me," Daphne offered. "Dad knows how to do it, so I'll just ask him, and I'll send your letters together with mine."
Relieved that the situation sorted itself out, Harry let his gaze wander along the other house tables. The Ravenclaws still looked very haggard, which made sense as most other years hadn't finished their exams yet. He smiled at Morag when their eyes met, and looked further towards the Gryffindor table.
The Weasley twins were there, still looking somewhat chastised, with their older brother Percy casting occasional watchful glances at them. He spotted Granger and Longbottom, who were engaged in some kind of argument. Eventually, Granger walked up to Professor McGonagall and said something to her. Whatever she'd been hoping for from the Transfiguration teacher, it clearly wasn't forthcoming, because she returned to her seat next to Longbottom looking thoroughly disappointed.
As dinner came to an end and they were leaving the Great Hall, the two Gryffindors passed close enough to Harry's group that Harry could catch some of their whispered conversation, as Granger's whispers were more in the vein of stage whispers than anything conducive to actual secrecy.
"Dumbledore isn't here tonight. It's the perfect opportunity for him to steal the stone. If McGonagall doesn't believe us, we have to stop him ourselves." Curious at this mention of the stone, Harry waved to his friends, letting them know he would be meeting them later, before quickly jumping off his seat, leaving a half-finished dessert behind him. He wasn't sure if he wasn't going on a wild goose chase, and was slightly embarrassed by his impulsive reaction, so chose to keep his friends out of this for the time being.
He followed the two Gryffindors, wishing he had his invisibility cloak with him. This meant he had to keep his distance, and thought he'd lost them more than once. However, since he figured they were heading to the forbidden third floor corridor, he continued in that direction and was always able to catch up to them again.
It was providential that he had kept as far behind as he did, however, because the third floor corridor was, after all, forbidden. In their excitement, the Gryffindors had forgotten all about it, as had Harry, but Filch definitely had not. Harry almost rounded a corner and put himself in full view of the caretaker, who had just caught the two Gryffindors in the act of venturing towards the door beyond which Harry knew Fluffy lay guarding.
Harry quickly took a step back, thankful that the janitor was too busy berating the two Gryffindors to have noticed him. He hid himself behind a conveniently placed suit of armor, and waited until Filch dragged the two Gryffindors away, Granger looking pale and shaken and Longbottom like he was about to crap his pants.
Once Harry was fairly sure that the coast was clear, and again cursing the fact that he didn't have his invisibility cloak with him, he stepped out from behind the suit of armor and looked around. The corridor was deserted, and there was no noise or any other sign of passing students or staff.
Feeling himself relax, Harry walked towards the door, his steps light and quiet. He put his ear to the door and heard Fluffy growling on the other side. Everything seemed to be alright. He shook his head.
The exams really must have got to me if I'm chasing some bloody Gryffindors around the castle for this, he thought. Resolving to let Dumbledore handle the stone, he turned around. He didn't hear any footsteps, but was able to catch a shadow out of the corner of his eye, before his vision was filled with a jet of red light, and then nothing.
"Nice of you to join us, Potter," Harry heard as he came to, his head split by the worst headache he had ever had in his life. The pain delayed his recognition, so it was only when he opened his eyes that he realized he was being addressed by Professor Quirrell. Of course, it didn't help that the man seemed to have lost his stuttering, fearful demeanor, and instead stood giving Harry a look of pure malice.
He tried to move, but found he was being held in place by a spell of some sort. So he looked around instead, to find he was in a bare room with only a mirror for furniture. There was some writing on its frame, but it was too far away for Harry to make out even if his head didn't feel like it was in a vice.
Memories started coming back to him. The third floor corridor. A shadow, and a jet of red light. He remembered his theory of Quirrell trying to steal the stone, and the fact that Dumbledore was absent, and it kind of all came together, except…
"Professor Quirrell?" he asked, trying to stall, even if he wasn't sure what he was trying to stall for. It's not like his chances against a fully trained wizard were beyond infinitesimal, even were he not already bound. "Is this about the Philosopher's stone? Is this where it's hidden?" Even if it was, though, that didn't really answer his remaining question. What did any of this have to do with him.
"Oh, you managed to find out about that, did you?" Quirrell asked, a somewhat impressed look showing on his face. "Let me guess, the half-giant oaf?" he laughed. "I can't imagine how Dumbledore thought he'd ever keep anything a secret with him involved."
Harry's personal theory was that it was quite intentional, but he wasn't about to say that. It was possible that there was some kind of alarm system in the room, and Dumbledore might be on the way. That thought gave him added impetus to keep trying to make Quirrell talk.
"Something like that…" he mumbled. "But… what does any of this have to do with me? I mean, I don't really approve of stealing in principle, but I don't really care what you do with the stone…" he began, but this only prompted a cruel laugh from Quirrell, with a chilling undertone that made his scar hurt again.
"I hadn't planned to bring you here, but when I saw you wandering around the third floor, I couldn't pass up the opportunity. It must have been fate that put you in position to witness tonight's events first hand… Witness my master's inevitable victory," he finished triumphantly, turning to Harry.
"You see Harry, I'm not trying to steal the stone for myself. I'm simply not worthy. No, a wizard far greater than me has helped me get here. And because you were such a stumbling block to him, he thought it fitting that you should witness his triumph."
It all began to fit together. Hagrid's words about no one knowing what happened to Voldemort after he'd tried to kill Harry. Of course, who else had Harry been a stumbling block to. Quirrel must be working for the Dark Lord.
"Is that what happened in Albania? Did you meet Voldemort there?" Harry asked, trying to get him to keep talking.
"SILENCE! You dare say my master's name?" Quirrell's face was contorted in anger. "You will pay for that, Potter. But you get to wait until I find the stone. Now let me figure out this mirror." He turned towards it again, studying it intently.
"I see the Stone... I'm presenting it to my master... but where is it?" He growled in frustration. "I don't understand... is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?" Quirrell cursed under his breath, and flinched in pain. "What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"
Was Quirrell in communication with Voldemort, somehow? The truth proved to be far more horrible, as a raspy, decaying voice was heard in reply, sounding like it was coming from Quirrell's ridiculous turban.
"Use the boy... Use the boy…" Harry's eyes widened as Quirrel turned around and pointed his wand at him. As he did, he felt the magical binding which had held him loosen. Harry reasoned Quirrell was using silent casting, even as the Professor moved his wand again and Harry was pulled towards him by magic, stopping a couple feet away from the mirror.
"Look in the mirror, and tell me what you see," Quirrell ordered. Harry was now able to move again, but wasn't under any illusions that an escape attempt would be successful. His nostrils full of a foul smell which seemed to emanate from Quirrell's turban, he raised his head and looked at the mirror.
From Quirrell's earlier words, Harry had expected to see himself holding the stone, since if he'd managed to get his hands on it, he certainly wouldn't be giving it to anyone. Indeed, that was part of what he saw, but he wasn't just holding it. He was using it to make some drink, what he imagined the Elixir of Life looked like. Behind him were his parents, mirror images of the newspaper cutting pictures he had seen, and he was wearing the Peverell ring with what he thought to be the Resurrection Stone. A different wand than his own, and his invisibility cloak, lay to either side of him.
Harry wasn't going to say anything about that, though. He kept his answer to the stone alone. "I see myself making the Elixir of Life," he said. "I'm much older, and rich, beyond measure." He didn't think a little embellishment would hurt. His answer drew a sharp groan from Quirrell's turban, before the professor cursed again.
"Let me speak to the boy… face to face," Harry heard the horrible, raspy voice say. So that was Voldemort.
"Master, you are not strong enough!" Quirrell whimpered, but Voldemort was having none of his concern.
"I have strength enough... for this..."
At that, Quirrell, shaking in a way that was now clearly not faked, reached up and began to unravel his turban. Harry watched in horror as it fell away and Quirrell turned. Everything inside him screamed in revulsion when he saw a face where the back of Quirrell's head should have been. The most horrible face he had ever seen, white and lacking a nose, red eyes glowing malevolently at him.
"Harry Potter," it whispered. Quirrell wasn't just in contact with Voldemort. He had been carrying him around for God knows how long. Was that why his head hurt so much when he was in Quirrell's vicinity? That made sense, because his head was certainly screaming in pain now.
"See what I have become?" Voldemort said. "Mere shadow and vapor... Forced to share this wretch's body…" Quirrell flinched at that, but Voldemort continued, unconcerned. "Once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own…" The face was split in a grotesque parody of a grin.
"But perhaps it wasn't by accident that you ended up in my old house after all," his voice rasped. "You can feel it, can't you boy? The allure of the stone.. Immortality… Yes, you feel it too… Maybe you're made of different stuff from your parents… They died begging for mercy…"
Harry didn't know why or how, but he knew instantly this was a lie. This broke his almost hypnotic fascination with the grotesque parody of a face on Quirrel's back. He shifted his feet.
"They died to save my life," Harry spat back, feeling hatred coursing through him. The resentment built up from ten years of neglect, being kept away from his heritage, from anyone who understood or cared about him, bubbled up to the surface now, only to be inflamed further by Voldemort's next words.
"Yes, boy, your parents were brave…" he said. "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 tonight, I'm being very generous, boy. From a Slytherin to another. I'm giving you this chance to join me."
Not only did Harry somehow know, without a doubt, that this too was a lie, but he wouldn't have cared even if it was the truth. No longer thinking clearly, he was being driven by the rage and hatred he felt.
"Join you? You killed my parents! You ruined my life," Harry said, barely noticing that Quirrell was now walking backwards towards him. "I hate you. I HATE YOU!" Quirrell turned and spoke now, his face transfixed by pain and rage too.
"You insolent boy!" he spat, striking Harry in the face. Harry was surprised to feel more pain in his scar than he actually did where he'd been struck. But more interesting was Quirrell's reaction. He'd recoiled back, and was now doubled over on the floor, yowling in pain as he stared at his hand, now covered in boils where it had struck Harry.
Harry didn't know why that happened, and he didn't have time to try to work it out. As it was, he saw an opening. He knew he couldn't possibly face Quirrell in a duel and expect to last more than a few seconds. But whatever was happening to make the professor hurt from his touch… This he could use. So he lunged forward and grabbed at the Professor's face. His scar was burning, the epicentre of an overwhelming pain throughout his body, yet he didn't let go. Not when Quirrell began to howl, obviously hurting a lot more than Harry did.
Quirell was flailing, trying to get him off him, so Harry grabbed at his throat with his other hand, holding tight as the screams began coming from the horrible face on the back of the Professor's head as well. This filled him with renewed energy through the pain. He was getting to Voldemort, making him hurt like he'd hurt Harry. Even if this was hurting Harry in the process. He felt like his head was about to split open, and wasn't sure how long he could keep this up. It was only the knowledge that he was getting to Voldemort, and that if he stopped, he'd probably be killed, that kept him going.
"WHY WON'T YOU DIE ALREADY," he yelled, bringing a second hand to Quirrell's throat and pressing his fingers against the windpipe as the Professor writhed beneath him. He could feel the man's strength begin to wane as his screams sounded more and more choked. With an unholy whooshing noise, accompanied by screaming so loud and horrific Harry couldn't tell whether it was coming from him, Quirrell, Voldemort, or all in unison, he felt the rush of a malevolent presence leave Quirrell's body, and course through him, making him feel physically sick and knocking him back, forcing him to let go of Quirrell.
For a second, Harry worried the Professor was going to turn back on him, but if that had been Voldemort leaving, he apparently took whatever was left of Quirrell's energy and life force with him, for the Professor shuddered and gave up the ghost. That was the last thing Harry saw before being thrown against the mirror. After that, there was only darkness.
Faint noises began to penetrate through to Harry's mind, bringing him close to wakefulness. He could hear someone breathing over him, and as he fully processed this, the memories of his confrontation with Quirrell and Voldemort came flooding back. He opened his eyes as if jolted by electricity and straightened his torso, almost shouting before quickly realizing he was not in the small room with the mirror where he'd last woken up, but was, in fact, in a bed in the hospital wing.
The sound of breathing he'd heard, Harry now saw, had come from Professor Dumbledore, who was sat next to his bed, regarding him with a sorrowful expression.
"Harry, calm down," he said, and it was as if Harry could hear the weight of the professor's age on his voice.
Realizing he was safe, Harry collapsed back into the bed. "What happened?" he asked, closing his eyes as he shrunk under the covers. He remembered all too well what had happened, at least until getting hit by Voldemort's… ghost? Spirit? But of course, didn't know anything about what happened after he blacked out.
Dumbledore let out a sorrowful sigh. "I'm afraid I must apologize to you, Harry. I failed in my obligation to protect you," he began.
"I was called to London with an owl purporting to be from the Minister of Magic. However, it was obvious as soon as I got there, that I'd been deliberately drawn away from Hogwarts by a hoax. It was very foolish of me."
Harry nodded, trying to focus on the ceiling. Even after putting his glasses back on, his vision didn't feel quite steady. He let Dumbledore continue as he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind.
"I rushed back as quickly as possible, but unfortunately I was not quick enough to prevent you being captured by Professor Quirrell. As I'm sure you discovered, he was being used by Lord Voldemort to try to steal the Philosopher's Stone…"
Harry nodded at this, the gesture filling his head with pain again.
"Yes, he thought it was in this weird mirror. Well, it only looked like a mirror. He thought I could get it out, even though he couldn't, but it'd only showed me making the Elixir of Life…" Harry trailed. He probably shouldn't have said even that. Dumbledore regarded him with sadness.
"Ah Harry, it seems that like many before you, you've fallen prey to the Philosopher's Stone's attractions. It's because of that that Nicholas and I have agreed that it should be destroyed…. But I'm getting ahead of myself." He didn't have time to continue before Harry interrupted him.
"Destroyed? But doesn't that mean… he'll die? And his wife too?" Harry asked, confused.
"They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes, they will die," Dumbledore replied with a slight smile, as Harry's jaw dropped. "I'm sure that to you it seems unbelievable. But to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all-the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them."
Harry hummed noncommittally, not sure he really bought that, but not really wanting to discuss the matter either. He took a deep breath, dreading what he was about to say, but feeling compelled to say it anyway.
"Sir… Professor Quirrell… Is he.. dead?" Harry asked. He knew the answer. He remembered what had happened all too well.
"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore said, once again looking very forlorn. "You must not blame yourself," he added, trying to sound reassuring. "Once Quirrell allowed Voldemort to possess him, and then sustained himself with unicorn blood, it was always going to be a matter of time before he was unable to continue living. Voldemort has always found his followers disposable."
Harry trembled, looking at his hands. "But he.. He couldn't touch me." Harry remembered the struggle in the room under the trap door. Remembered the pain coursing through him. "It hurt me… But it hurt him a lot more… Do you know why that was, Professor?" Harry asked, trying to delay the inevitable… The question he really wanted to ask.
"When Voldemort came to kill you that night, your mother sacrificed herself to save you, out of her love for you. That's something Voldemort cannot understand, because he never felt love for anyone in his life. That sacrifice, caused by such powerful love, gave you some protection, Harry.. It is in your very skin. And because Quirrell had let Voldemort into his own body, it was agony to touch you."
It hadn't just been agony, though. Harry remembered the boils on Quirrell's skin. His screams as Harry kept touching him. Harry knew that he wanted to hear him scream. Hear Voldemort scream. He'd wanted them both dead.
"Sir… Did…" Harry swallowed a sob. He didn't want to cry in front of Dumbledore. "Did I kill Professor Quirrell?" He asked, looking at his hands again, reliving how it felt to feel them squeeze against Quirrell's throat, hearing his screams become weaker, and not letting go…. These were the hands of a killer, Harry knew, even before Dumbledore's reply, sadder than anything he'd said so far.
"It's hard to say… I can imagine you don't remember much of what happened, Harry," Dumbledore paused, trying to find the right words. Harry remembered exactly what happened, but didn't contradict the man as he went on. "It's likely the struggle with you weakened him so much that Voldemort found it better to just leave, rather than risk being caught by me. Quirrell was always going to die when that happened, regardless of what Voldemort may have told him. I don't think you should blame yourself, my boy. You were acting on instinct to protect yourself. I'm really sorry you had to be put in this position, Harry."
Harry wasn't sure if even Dumbledore believed his own words, but Harry definitely didn't. However, there was no point mentioning that. Dumbledore, sighing again, must have sensed Harry's discomfort, because he quickly changed the subject.
"You've had quite a few attempts at visitation. Mr. Nott and Miss Greengrass seemed particularly keen on making sure of your welfare. I understand they were quite worried when you didn't return to your common room. Professor Snape might have attempted to rescue you himself if I hadn't arrived in time."
Harry had his doubts about that. Snape had struggled to acknowledge Harry's existence at all throughout the year. But again, there was no point in arguing. He wanted to be alone.
"Can you please, let them know I'm alright… But to give me a little time alone?" Harry asked, almost in a whisper. Dumbledore nodded.
"Of course Harry, it's understandable that you'd want some time to gather your thoughts in a situation like this. Shall I tell them to come by after lunch?" he asked, and Harry nodded slowly at that.
As Dumbledore took his leave, Harry laid his head back on the pillow, his face contorted in a grimace. He felt tired, but that wasn't the reason. He could feel the pangs of hunger, which was only natural if he'd been laying there for days. But it was the knowledge of what he had done that haunted him.
Regardless of what Dumbledore had told him, Harry knew it was his fault. He knew he'd killed Quirrell, and what's more, had wanted to do it. He wanted to kill Voldemort too, even if he hadn't quite succeeded at that. How dare he suggest that he could ever want to join him, to work together with the man-if he could even be called that anymore-who'd murdered his parents and made his life the hell it was. Yet now… now that the moment had passed, he couldn't help but feel his parents would have been very disappointed in him. He felt disappointed in himself. He was a killer. Not exactly a murderer, but a killer nonetheless. Did he regret it?
Harry regretted the fact that he didn't regret it. He wondered what was happening to him. Was he actually turning into a dark wizard? Was it his fate to become like Voldemort? Was that why he had been sorted into Slytherin?
Harry was really glad that he'd asked for some alone time. Friends or not, he didn't want Ted and Daphne to see him like this, tears burning their way down his face as the events with Quirrell kept flashing through his mind.
Once again, any volunteers for being my beta reader would be really appreciated. Next chapter will be the last one for year one, but I will not be posting a separate story for book two-updates will continue here.
I welcome all kinds of reviews, but especially for this chapter, due to the lack of a beta, I know criticism will be warranted at several points, so please let me know where I can improve.
