Chapter 32

Tuesday, December 10, 1991- St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London, England, Great Britain

Burning.

She was burning.

Her entire body felt like it was on fire. In fact, she saw flames all around her. She couldn't move, couldn't move.

And she was burning.

Somehow, even burning, she was able to wonder who she was. Was she only one she? There were many voices that all seemed to be coming from her. And hissing. The hissing wasn't from the fire. It was old, very old.

Why wasn't she screaming? None of her voices were screaming. Maybe she wasn't on fire? No, she was a witch, and witches burn.

She was a witch. Yes, that was right. She was a witch. She was a witch, her name was Kleio Floros. No, she was a witch, her name was Kalliope Floros. No, no, her name was Pythia Floros. No, no, no! Her name, her name was…

"Patricia," one of her voices said.

Yes! That was right. She was a witch, her name was Patricia Floros.

No, that was wrong. Not Floros, not anymore.

"Patricia," the same voice said again, "it's time to wake up."

A smile. The voice was smiling and…crying? Yes, the voice was smiling at her and crying.

"My darling daughter," the voice whispered.

Patricia opened her eyes. Her first thought was that she had to be in the Hospital Wing, there wasn't anywhere else in the castle with that much white. Then she saw the mediwitch who had walked into the room as soon as she had opened her eyes. That mediwitch, while clearly a mediwitch, was not Madam Pomfrey.

Patricia tried to speak but found that she couldn't make any sound. The mediwitch noticed when her patient's heart rate went up and wasted a few seconds trying to figure out what was wrong before remembering the silencing spell that Healer Smith had placed on the girl when she wouldn't stop screaming. She cancelled the spell with a wave of her wand.

"Where?" Patricia croaked.

"St Mungo's," the mediwitch said kindly. "You've been here for two weeks."

Two weeks? She had been unconscious for two weeks?

That actually wasn't very long considering that most people exposed to as much rune/Blood magic toxin as she had been never woke up at all.

Being stuck in St Mungo's was a lot worse than being stuck in the Hospital Wing. The Healers and mediwitches and mediwizards had learned from the best after all. Every one of them seemed to know Madam Pomfrey personally. It was another week after she woke up before the mini Madam Pomfreys let Patricia have any visitors. The first few days were alright because she was still too tired to do much except sleep and take the potions Healer Smith prescribed. After that, when she wasn't allowed to get out of bed except to use the washroom even though she was plenty strong enough to do so (at least, she thought she was), Patricia was bored, bored, bored.

When Remus, Sirius and Harry were finally allowed to visit the only reason that Patricia didn't jump out of bed and hug all of them was the sticking charm that Healer Smith had put on her pajamas.

"Morning, Pup!" Sirius said with a tense smile. "How are you feeling?"

Patricia smiled. "Been better. Is Ron alright?"

Harry nodded. "Madam Pomfrey mended his arm in about a minute."

"What about the others?" Patricia asked. "Was anyone else hurt?"

"Er…" Harry looked at Sirius and Remus.

"Professor Quirrell is dead," Remus said slowly.

Patricia blinked. "What? How?"

"It's a long story," Harry said.

Patricia scowled at the bed that she was stuck in. "I'm not going anywhere."

Harry sat down and began to tell her what had happened.

Tuesday, November 26, 1991-The Hospital Wing, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Somewhere in Scotland

Dumbledore had all of the students involved in the Philosopher's Stone fake-out fiasco bunking in the Hospital Wing, much to Madam Pomfrey's chagrin. Healers from St Mungo's had come to transport Patricia Stimpson-Black to the hospital and basically having to admit that she could do nothing for one of her patients put the mediwitch in a bad mood.

"You all just get to sleep, you hear me?" she told the interlopers. "It's not healthy for growing children to be up all hours of the night."

Only Ron got any sleep. Fred, George and Lee whispered to each other for the rest of the night, Grace was worried about Patricia, and Harry was worried about everything. Hermione's mind was too busy trying to put together everything that had happened for her to rest.

Quirrell was the one who had tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone, not Snape. The third years had told them that Quirrell had also been the one hexing Harry's broom, not Snape. Why did Quirrell want Harry dead?

Really, when you think about it the answer is obvious, but as she had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight we'll give Hermione a pass for not figuring this one out at the time.

Sometime just before sunrise, Professor Dumbledore entered the Hospital Wing with Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. Flitwick, along with all the other professors who had created obstacles for the forbidden corridor, had been woken up and told about the entire fiasco. Snape had, predictably, grumbled and muttered something unflattering about Harry Potter and his idiot friends (his words, not ours) but hadn't seriously protested when Dumbledore told him to stand guard over Quirrell.

Every student who was up immediately pretended to be asleep.

"I'm surprised the children are getting any rest," McGonagall said. "Bathsheda needed three doses of Calming Draught."

"I need Calming Draught, and I wasn't even there," Flitwick muttered. "Why is it always the Defense professor?"

That was the question that no one had the answer to. A curse on the position had been suggested in the past, but that was quickly dismissed as pure nonsense. After all, who would want to curse the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?

Go ahead and roll your eyes. We'll wait.

"It has been my experience that children are quite resilient," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Of course they are," McGonagall said dryly.

I don't know what would have happened next—perhaps Dumbledore would start dancing the Macarena—but at that moment the doors of the Hospital Wing burst open. The professors immediately turned around with their wands raised and came face-to-face with Quirrell. They didn't have any time to process their shock before curses came flying at them. The students immediately stopped pretending to be asleep, or woke up in Ron's case, and took out their own wands, though the first years didn't actually know any spells that would be useful.

Quirrell looked quite the worse for wear. His turban was falling off, his robes were ripped, and his lips were black. His eyes darted wildly around the room until they settled on one student.

Harry Potter.

"Kill the boy," a voice hissed. "KILL THE BOY!"

Quirrell dove towards Harry. His turban fell behind him like a banner, revealing a grey, ugly face with red eyes. Grace squeaked and her severing charm glanced off of Quirrell's arm, leaving a tiny cut behind. Her spell came closer than Lee's, which missed Quirrell completely and went out a window. Fred and George both hit Quirrell with the Jelly-Legs Jinx, making him fall over just as he reached Harry's bed and causing the professors' spells to pulverise his turban rather than his head.

"Finite incantatem," Quirrell growled.

Harry fell out of the bed and scuttled away from Quirrell on his hands and feet. He had his wand clutched in one hand but he couldn't remember any spells except for the one that Hermione had used to unlock Fluffy's door. That wasn't going to help him here.

Quirrell took another leap and just missed getting hit by a spell from Dumbledore. That one bounced off a window and nearly hit Hermione. The three professors flinched. How were they going to handle this without injuring their students?

That question was answered for them when Quirrell, seemingly having forgotten about the wand that he had stolen from Snape, caught up to Harry and wrapped his hands around his neck. A second later he reeled back, his hands smoking.

"Use your wand, you fool!" the face in the back of Quirrell's head shouted.

A wand was pointed at Harry's face. His Seeker reflexes kicked in and he grabbed Quirrell's wrist to try to wrestle the wand away from him. Smoke began spewing from where his fingers touched Quirrell's skin and Quirrell screamed.

The wand fell to the ground, followed by Quirrell's hand. Harry watched with wide eyes as the wizard stumbled back, hunching over his stump and cursing.

"Kill him!" the face hissed.

"Master..." Quirrell whimpered.

"KILL HIM!"

Before Quirrell could move, two things happened. Harry jumped up and pushed him as hard as he could, and Dumbledore sent another curse at him.

Black veins spread across Quirrell's face. Smoke rose from the burns that Harry had left on his chest and arm. The face in the back of his head screamed. The windows rattled in their frames.

Then everything was still. Absolutely still.