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So far... Harry is set on making a career as a software programmer developing video games but was forced to attend Hogwarts. A magical ring of protection called Merlin's Halo has bonded him with Hannah Abbott. Read on...
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Chapter 3
Immortalised in Stone
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Through that first week at Hogwarts, Harry stopped turning up for any lessons he'd already experienced as worthless to him. Hannah was not at all upset. She seemed now to have gained an inner strength and independent spirit powered by the certainty of the bond caused by her magical ring. Harry was glad of it. Yes, house points were taken, detentions assigned which he ignored, but no expulsion was forthcoming. Defence Against the Dark Arts was no different. The teacher stuttered nervously at length about avoiding cursed objects but not how to identify them in the first place. Harry resolved never to attend again.
On Friday morning was their first Potions class. Harry was of two minds whether to bother. He could think of no good reason why anyone should learn to make their own medications when as adults they would all be buying them as needed – like any sensible Muggle would. However, he'd already learnt quite a few things about the teacher – who Hannah told him was the Head of Slytherin – being eager to insult, humiliate, and punish so this might be his last real chance to get expelled by attacking him first. He didn't need to; he found he only had to defend himself and Merlin's Halo did the rest...
The professor paused when he reached the name Dursley during roll call, but said nothing. Clearly McGonagall had carried out her promise to inform all the heads of house of Harry's former name. After taking the register he gave a melodramatic speech then, without warning, winced in pain as he said, "Dursley! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to–"
"–Ah! I love Q and A! Tell me, Professor, what would YOU get if one added binary 10011001 to 11100011? ... Too difficult for you? Then let me make it baby simple, what is binary one plus one? Reply in binary please!"
"Silence, Dursley!" Again the man flinched, as though speaking caused him intense discomfort. He'd also noticed Hannah's ring was beginning to glitter warningly, yet he ploughed on, "You will serve detent–"
"–Please describe the Hypertext Transfer Protocol in a few brief sentences. No?" gloated Harry. "Too lazy to study during the summer, dunderhead?"
"How extraordinarily ... like ... your father you are, Dursley," Snape croaked, his eyes glinting with malice as he fought what might be a severe sore throat or headache. "He, too, was ... ex–exceedingly ... arrogant. Strutting round ... place like–"
"–I also heard he regularly thrashed my mother for being a drunken slag bitch," snarled Harry. "Both worthless trash, so I'm lucky they're dead, aren't I? I know nothing more of them, nor do I care."
"OUT!" Snape screamed in anguish. "GET ... OUT!" The man was barking loudly despite it causing him increasing torment – Hannah's ring was blazing now, returning Snape's spiteful attack as physical and emotional suffering. "NEVER ... ENTER ... CLASS ... AGAIN!"
"Gladly."
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The second week simply repeated the same lessons but without Harry. There was one exception: on Thursday afternoon, a flying lesson was begun. Finally something that might provide a means of escaping Hogwarts permanently!
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said their teacher, Madam Hooch.
Harry braced himself, every muscle tightened ready to leap up...
"Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forwards slightly."
Harry gripped his broom tightly, impatient for this new experience...
On my whistle – three – two –"
Harry shot up like a skyrocket on Guy Fawkes Night! "Wahooo!" he yelled. Pretty soon he was performing tight turns, swoops, rollovers, eye-bulging mid-air stops, and a dive that had him skimming the grass before hurtling skyward once more. Only when he glanced around to see how Hannah was doing, did he realise something was amiss. Far below, Madam Hooch was leading an injured boy towards the castle.
As he descended for a closer look, he recognised that it was Neville Longbottom. The main group of students were gesturing up at Harry to come back down. Hannah appeared to be comforting Hermione who looked very upset. He'd better join them.
Something flew past his head and he instinctively grabbed it: a glass orb, and it was beginning to glow red. He hovered for a minute or so while he studied it. He'd seen it somewhere before but couldn't think wh–
"–DURSLEY!" a voice bellowed from the castle entrance. It was Professor Snape.
The moment he touched down and before he'd even stepped off his broomstick, a hand gripped his shoulder – then immediately released him with a sharp cry. "Dursley! – might have broken your fool neck! – reckless idiot! Come with me, NOW!"
"Why? Where to?"
"Don't ask foolish questions, Dursley!"
Snape strode away but stopped immediately when he realised Harry wasn't following him, but was still standing astride his broom. "Well? What are you waiting for?" growled the professor.
"An explanation? Courtesy? A miracle? Pick one."
"You're our new Seeker. No arguments. Come with–"
"–Uumm, busy – snails to race – grass blades to count – wet paint to supervise. 'Bye."
Harry flew up to investigate the limits of the castle grounds. He soon discovered an invisible barrier prevented him flying over the walls which extended right round to the forest. Beyond that was mountainous terrain to the north which he did not pursue, nor the limits of the forest which disappeared beyond the hazy horizon. Then he considered the dirt track that led from the lake to the train station: barred invisibly. Clearly the magical barrier would only be briefly lifted to allow students in and out as needed, but not now. All in all, it seemed there was no easy way to fly from the castle. Pity. It would have been nice to have a third escape option.
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Albus Dumbledore gazed out of the staff room window with some satisfaction at Harry Potter's futile attempt to escape the Hogwarts grounds on a broomstick. The boy was a naturally skilled flyer – good, that would help lock him into the magical community once he experienced the delights of Quidditch, but more was needed. Hearing the increasing sound of the members of his staff gathering behind him he turned. "Are we all here?"
McGonagall said, "Almost. ... Albus, what is this meeting about?"
"Maintaining discipline. We–"
–Two more teachers hurried in and took their places.
McGonagall was just closing the door when it burst in upon her and Snape appeared, breathlessly mouthing curses, "This cannot continue! The brat is completely out of control! Does as he pleases. Attends no classes at all now! And won't even accept the honour of playing Seeker for–"
–Dumbledore raised a calming hand. "Which is exactly why I called this meeting. Our current system of correction is ineffective against him."
Professor Vector frowned. "If he's as bad as you say then why not expel him?"
"Sorry, who are we talking about?" said Kettleburn.
"John Dursley," said Flitwick. "I had high hopes for the child, but alas, he attended only the first of my lessons, and contributed nothing."
"But doesn't he want to learn to–"
"–The brat has no interest in magic at all," snarled Snape. "In fact he must have been raised to hate it."
"Hate magic? How is that possible?" gasped Vector.
"The boy lives with the worst kind of Muggles," said McGonagall, glaring at Dumbledore as she spoke. "Is it any wonder they would influence him badly?"
"Then he must be taught the wonders of magic!"
"Make him see what he's missing!"
"Show him he's wrong!"
"If I m–might ask a qu–question...?" stuttered Professor Quirrell, appearing reluctant to attract attention even though the purple turban he wore repeatedly caught everyone's eye. "What d–does the boy want if he does not w–want magic? Where lies his interest? Give him wh–whatever he needs but include m–magic in the offer."
"Preposterous!" shouted Snape. "What kind of world would we be living in if everyone had what they need!"
"Professor Quirrell does have a point," said Kettleburn, waving his one arm about excitedly. I once fed a Manticore kitchen vegetables mixed with raw meat to wean it onto a safer diet!"
"Cost you your right foot as I recall," drawled Snape. "There'll be nothing left of you soon."
"Gentlemen, please," chided Dumbledore. "Hogwarts is a school of magic. As I recall, the boy is interested only in electrical calculating devices but within the magic concentrated at Hogwarts, those machines do not work."
"And nor does Dursley," growled Snape.
"Then how d–did he come to b–be here at all?" Quirrell stammered, frowning, but with renewed interest.
Dumbledore sighed. "He is magical at heart. I hope to show him the error of his ways: that there can be no future in merely adding up numbers when–"
"–Arithmancy," said Vector. "If the child loves calculating, then what better? How old is he? How sharp?"
"Dursley is still eleven," said McGonagall, "but he does express himself with powerful reasoning even if we don't like his conclusions."
"Then p–perhaps it would b–be wise not to... lose track of such a prodigy," said Quirrell, and for a brief moment there was a strange look in his eyes, as of a dawning realisation – then it was gone.
"I could create a new subsection of my third-year Arithmancy class based on Agrippa's method," said Vector, "under the banner Computing Optimum Outcome Likelihood. That doesn't sound too much like magic predicting the future, and should intrigue the boy. Can he put letters of the alphabet as well as numbers into his Muggle calculating machine?"
"That seems very unlikely," the Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Sikander said rather airily. "I have seen a picture of one of these clunky engines. They are called comptometers and have only digits inscribed onto their surfaces. They compute values and that is all. Rather foolishly they have the same digits repeated many times which must be extraordinarily inefficient."
"Then I will provide him with a conversion chart," said Vector. "It will be the beginning of his fascination with magic and we can build on that. Surely he won't wish to walk away from magic after this!"
"Very well," said the Headmaster, "Thank you everyone, and Septima, let me know the results of your experiment. Will the heads of house remain behind please?"
Once the rest of the faculty had left, Dumbledore said, "Only we five know the real reason why we cannot simply expel the boy: that John Dursley is really Harry Potter. He would be very vulnerable to followers of the dark arts, and must be protected at all costs."
"Then why has he not been given special training from a young age?" said Flitwick. "An early start would not only have placed him well ahead of his peers, but also ensured his interest in magic."
"Exactly!" snapped McGonagall with a glare in Dumbledore's direction. "Isolating the boy with Muggles who despise magic was guaranteed to make the child defenceless and a magic-hater."
Snape gave a loud snort. "Fifty years of hard training would not be enough to prepare anyone to face the Dark Lord, let alone that insufferable, arrogant, lazy–"
"–Are we talking about the same student?" asked Madam Sprout. "What little I've seen of him he has been a quiet child, polite, considerate of others, even innocent."
"Innocent!" blustered Snape.
"Yes, which is why the poor boy must be kept within the total security and safety of Hogwarts," said Dumbledore. "He cannot walk or fly out. Other ways are known to me, but I shall take steps to have them all blocked before he can discover them. Then we must provide an escort from castle to home each summer. Once there he cannot come to any harm."
As the four were departing after many more minutes of heated debate, Dumbledore called Snape back.
"Only you and I know of the prophecy, Severus. Why th–"
"–Part of it," cut in Snape.
"Enough to know the child can and must defeat Lord Voldemort. You promised to protect Lily's child; why then drive him from your classroom?"
"He was hopelessly disrupting my lesson! We could not continue while–"
"–You were the one causing the disruption the way I heard it, Severus! Singling the boy out to ask impossible and humiliating questions of him, insulting his father. Is it any wonder that he would react against you?"
"The boy is unteachable."
"I wish you to apologise to him."
"NEVER!" spat Snape, and he strode away, slamming the door behind him.
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Professor Quirrell cast a powerful locking charm on the door to his quarters then approached the mirror that hung on the wall above the washstand. There he began to tremble and shiver with fear. His lips were clamped tightly together, and yet a high, cold voice began to hiss...
"Do not keep me waiting..."
The man reached up ... and very, very slowly ... began to unwind his purple turban...
"Aah ... breathing not, I still enjoy fresh air upon my face." said the voice.
"Master, what is your wish?"
"Are you not intrigued, Quirinus, that the old fool shows such protective interest in one, unimportant student? Why would he not expel him?"
Quirrell paused for a few moments, then swore under his breath. "You think it is the missing Harry Potter?"
"Opportunities are few ... If Snape had any tact, he could have persuaded the boy to fly for Slytherin – then I might have brought him swiftly to an end without connection to us. What other prospects do we have before Halloween?"
"The feeble runt is rarely seen. His only weakness is he hates magic and is besotted with one girl almost as much as he is obsessed with adding up numbers. How can–"
"–The girl. Use the girl. Her suffering and certain demise will unsettle his mind, will it not? He will beg for both their deaths soon enough, which I shall never grant him."
"What must I do, master?"
"You will ask Severus for his most powerful calming draught for your nervous tension, then send away for some subtle additives that I will describe."
"A calming potion? Master, I do not understand. How do you wish to modify the draught? What do you want me to produce?"
Several seconds passed. Quirrell wondered if the Dark Lord was savouring the moment. Then...
"Trust's Curse!"
Quirrell gasped "Their magnified screams will drew attention from as far as Hogsmeade!"
"Not if they are entombed in the Sepulchre of Setting Stone."
Quirrell shuddered, glad, for once, that he'd chosen to side with the Dark Lord, and not been too eager to act against him.
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Harry Potter leaned back from his computer keyboard only half-satisfied. He'd progressed his text adventure quite a long way but it lacked realism, was stiff and formal in its presentations, and not always believable with interactions. What to do? The more speech and narrative he put in didn't improve the variety enough, because each one was fixed and too distinctive to be repeated every time the player entered the same location.
A breath of air alerted him to the Room's entrance opening...
"John, I finally Transfigured a perfect needle from a match!" cried Hannah, holding it up like a trophy.
Harry chose not to mention that you could buy needles by the dozen almost anywhere. He stood up to greet her with a kiss. "Progress is good. I'm glad you–"
"–Oh, and also Professor McGonagall gave me a message for you."
"Burn it," said Harry, rather stiffly. "Turn your needle back into a match and set fire to the damned–"
"–a–a–ah! Naughty, naughty! It's about computers or something. Here..."
Harry's eyes widened. What sort of trickery was this? Frowning, he muttered the message aloud as he read it:
"As part of our Arithmancy course, Professor Vector invites you to twice-weekly lessons on Computing Optimum Outcome Likelihood. This course teaches the student to calculate the best choice of predicted possible actions in any circumstance to which it is applied... Doesn't really sound like magic."
"Interested?" said Hannah.
"Are you in this Arithmancy thing?"
"Me, no it's for third-years and up. I suppose they think it would suit you or they wouldn't ask."
Harry powered up his ham radio and set his PC to dial his service provider. As he hung on until the connection was made, he re-read the message again. "Worth looking into I guess."
Hannah leaned over his shoulder to watch green text flowing onto a black screen. Harry typed in Arithmancy and waited again. After a while, a couple of documents were listed so he chose one...
"...predictions based on assigning numerical value to a word or phrase... You know, this might actually be useful, Hannah."
"So you're going?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Whatever you do, John, it's fine by me, you know that?"
He studied Hannah's face for quite a while. Because their libidos were so tightly woven together almost entirely non-physically throughout most of each night, they'd never felt the need to say too much romantically and their vocabulary was too immature anyway. They experienced each others' feelings so regularly there'd been no reason to tell or even show each other during the day. But sometimes...
His arms opened for her at the same moment hers did for him. They stood in this embrace for a long time. He sensed her legs tiring so, still entwined, he guided her to the sofa where she sat on his knee. For another long time. Sometimes they rubbed noses. Occasionally their lips brushed back and forth together. No words had been spoken.
It briefly occurred to him to remind her about homework, or even dinner – but he didn't.
She wondered about a few more search results that had finally flowed onto the screen, but said nothing. Arithmancy could wait...
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Harry's first appearance in Professor Vector's class caused a stir. He sat at the back to minimise his contact with the older students. There he studied the book provided and carried out the tasks set by the teacher. Gradually the methods began to make sense but he had no immediate means of achieving any results. He was aware of Vector instructing the rest of the class and their responses, but he zoned it out. Occasionally she came to him with advice and to see how he was progressing.
After most of an hour the lesson came to an end. Harry couldn't wait to start writing and compiling code to speed up his efforts, and work out how he could apply what he was learning. If he'd thought he might crack it that evening he was greatly mistaken; three weeks passed before he was getting feedback he might be able to actually use in the game he was developing. More work was needed, but he was finally making real headway.
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"The lowest dungeons, Master?" said Quirrell, hesitating at the top of the steps that fell away into darkness before him. "Will we not be detected?"
"Not in Slytherin's corridor." breathed the high voice. "Take the first left corner at the bottom seven times, and it is essential this be done in total darkness."
"But..." Quirrell nodded. Even a dog knows enough not to question its owner. He began the descent.
No torches lit his way. Only when – expecting another step – he stumbled, did he know he was at the lower levels of the castle. Obediently he felt his way left, found a turn and took it. Then again. And again. Surely he must be back where he started, and yet the cold was increasing and the air more dank, despite which his brow was damp with the sweat of fear.
"You may cast a light, now Quirinus."
"Lumos," said Quirrell, and was relieved to see again. There were several iron doors along the ancient corridor in which he stood.
"The second on the right."
The rusted hinges screeched as the door slowly yielded to his shoulder. "Empty?"
There were, in fact, stained and twisted shackles on the wall, a grimy, upturned bucket in the corner, and a thick coating of evil dust on the floor – but not what Quirrell had expected of a legendary burial chamber. Despite his misgivings, he braced himself to step inside–
"–Do not enter!" hissed the ever-present voice of the Dark Lord. "I must first call to them."
Quirrell did not ask what they might be. Carefully he unwound his turban, then, needing every ounce of willpower he possessed, he turned his back on whatever horrors lurked in the chamber.
Harsh sounds from the throat. Staccato utterances of Parseltongue steaming briefly in the icy air. "aah ... aah ... aah ..."
Silence. Quirrell resisted the urge to mop his dripping brow with the turban, then a sound he could not describe sensibly other than as slithering, scraping stone... He dared to squint sideways but knew he must not turn his head without permission. Thus restricted, all he could perceive was that the dust had risen like a floating carpet almost to the ceiling. The centre slabs of the floor were engraved with moving lines which was causing them to slowly quiver and sink away.
"Come, Quirinus, take us down..."
Quirrell almost staggered after he turned. The cold stone was flowing, squirming to form steps, and, way down in the darkness, a young figure emerged from the falling tide, shaking and gibbering meaningless sounds. There was something very odd partly obscuring his face, thought Quirrell, and only when he was halfway down did his shaking wand illuminate a large feather apparently embedded in the eye of the youth.
"Your time has come, Montbrough!" cried Voldemort, but it was doubtful that his thin voice even reached the ears of the boy who had sank weakly to his knees before Quirrell could draw near. Nor was it likely the boy could have understood anything sensible, for he was babbling as he slowly died from the intensity of his first sensation in decades.
For almost a minute, Quirrell stared at the quivering flesh as it broke down into a thick, repulsive fluid. "What... how did he come to be here, Master?"
"He borrowed my quill without permission during a Charms class. I told him he could keep it."
"But..."
"All those years ago, the fluid stone rose up, engulfed Montbrough, then set again. I had hoped he would suffer millennia of acute deprivation, but I now have a more fitting guest to set in stone."
Quirrell knew who he must mean. "Snaring Potter will rebound through my best shield because of the protective ring, Master. Surely we–"
"–The ring responds only to hostile intent. You will deceive Wormtail into believing he is helping the girl. She will be easily Confunded into drinking Trust's Curse and Potter will be unable to resist her bringing him directly to us. You know Abbott's weakness, of course?"
"The pathetic girl was clearly upset by being Sorted into Slytherin."
"Offer her seven years of Hufflepuff heaven and she will suffer hell with Potter for a billion. Brew the potion and we have them both. Catch the rat and they will pay. The Sepulchre of Setting Stone will be their living tomb forever."
As they ascended out of the crypt, Quirrell sensed the hungry stone automatically rising behind them. At the threshold he could not resist turning...
The floating layer of human dust was silently being laid to rest once more.
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September turned to October. Harry Potter's fingers ached from typing long hours. His game code had long since filled what space had been left on his huge forty-megabyte hard drive, and he'd needed to labour transferring old sub-listings to floppies. But now he'd obtained a DDS tape drive with over a gigabyte of storage!
The problem was that his COOL code was producing additional programming lines faster than he was! October was halfway through before he finally leaned back, satisfied that his first alpha version was more or less complete and working. Now the serious and often tedious work of testing and refining the game down onto a reasonably small set of floppy disks would begin.
"Tea?" said Hannah. "It's almost eight o'clock and you skipped dinner. You ought to take a break. I've asked Trula to bring you something."
"So close yet so far," he responded. "It promises to be a decent game, but I'm too close. I've only tested fifty locations and I suspect I'm typing in the same commands I always do. I mean, I know how to win this part – at least how I've configured it, but it still keeps surprising me."
"You mean even that part around the churchyard can work out differently?"
"Oh, yeah, dozens, maybe hundreds of ways, I'm not sure. But even I won't know how big the game world is until I get out of there."
"But what's the objective? Is it a quest for treasure?"
"Objective? There's an untold number. The COOL lines predict new possibilities and create them as you play! You're right, maybe I should take a few days off then go in with a fresh mind."
He took a sip of his tea and leaned back.
"Then let me have a go," said Hannah. "I'll make mistakes like an average player and you can fix them before it's released."
"Sure..." He moved aside and Hannah took his seat. "Now you have to–"
"–No, don't tell me! That's the whole point. Now where's the start menu?"
"Not telling you," sniggered Harry.
"Fine!" said Hannah, clicking the mouse.
"No, you've closed the whole– you're back on the Windows desktop!"
"I know. That's the idea. Is that the icon there...? The cutlass?"
"Yeah, well it began as Viking Pirate Treasure but now I suspect it might be more than that."
She clicked the shortcut and a loading screen appeared showing a ruined church.
"Vikings never had cutlasses, John. If you made elementary mistakes like that you'll take months to test it. How much data is there?"
"Uumm..."
"You don't know do you?"
"Well, there were fourteen tapes which is over twenty gigabytes but COOL reduced it to twenty or thirty megabytes but that's still far too many floppies."
"You're joking right?"
"No."
That won't even fit on most people's hard drive. How can you even be playing it?"
"Uuh... well it does load okay but takes ages."
"How can it? How can it all load onto a forty meg drive which is already over half full, I mean?"
"COOL must reduce it as it installs."
"So get it to transfer it back onto less floppies so– ah, here we are: Continue, New Game, Configure, Help... By Merlin's raised eyebrows, John! You can configure all this lot?"
"Erm... that's just Page one."
Hannah squealed. "John, you need to divide it up into manageable categories..."
"Those are categories, Hannah. Each one has scores of adjustments you can make."
Silence.
"How much have you tested?"
"Well, none of that yet. I'm still in the church area where there's a hidden map to where the island is. I have ventured into the nearby town but the clue clearly means the map is near the church. Trouble is, the map can be in different places or none at all if the objective changes to something other than treasure."
"How many places might the map be?"
"Don't know. COOL takes care of all that," he added on seeing Hannah's expression.
She sighed. "I'll just try Random Game and–"
"–NO! That'll probably ... take ... hours?"
"It's done, John. Right, Start"
"Okay, but avoid the graves; I do know that for sure. I always get skeletons grab my ankle and– oh, what's that?"
A loading screen appeared titled DEATH'S GLORY! on what appeared to be moonlit New York streets without any other illumination.
"What is that?" said Harry.
"Random game I guess."
"But... but... where's my game? My church?I don't even–"
"–Shush! Injured, you awaken in a dark alley infested with rats. There is a dumpster, several crates, and filthy litter everywhere..."
"That's not one of my pictures!" cried Harry. "Better than mine actually."
"It's randomised then. Different elements combined in different ways. Go north...
You struggle to climb the metal fence with your sprained ankle. One of the rats sinks its teeth into–
"ON THE CRATE! GET ON THE CRATE!" Hannah shouted at her avatar in the picture and hitting keys rapidly.
Infection is setting in... razor wire is cutting your fingers...
"HELP!" typed Hannah desperately.
Give me your hand, Helen!
Harry's eyes opened wide and the static picture was now of a man pointing at a column of buttons that had appeared.
Tenning helps you over the fence and tends to your wounds. "I came as fast as I could," he says.
"Who are you?" Hannah spoke aloud as she typed.
"Tenning Scarp. I'm a meta-character not an NPC. You did ask for help, right? You do realise you set the game on very difficult? You could have died."
"Can I change that?" typed Hannah.
"Sure... there, I've put it on moderate for you," said Tenning, "First game, huh? Click the Quest button and the Map then you'll have a better idea what you're supposed to be doing. Basically you have to infiltrate one of the eight gangs that control the York Wastes, get them to cooperate and eventually merge so you can take over the Atlantic Rafts. With your lack of experience that's about the only way you'll ever get to Mercury Trans for your space leap. Girl, you need weapons and plenty of them!
"How'd you know I'm a girl?" typed Hannah.
"Helen's mostly a girl's name." Tanning smirks and his teeth flash in the gloom.
"It's talking to you!" cried Harry. "Ask it how many games can be played!"
Hannah typed it in.
"Unlimited variations. Listen, those rats will find a way round so we'd better move if you want to chat. Put your good foot in this loop and the rope will hoist you up out of harm's way for now."
"Thanks," typed Hannah.
You have reached the third floor of Cooper Heights. A body lies on the bloody carpet of a small apartment.
Hannah looked at the picture. "Get ... his ... gun. And the ammo."
"Ask Tenning if he's sentient," urged Harry.
You get the gun. It's a ten mil automatic with silencer.
"Tenning, are you consciously aware?"
"I wish! Just an interactive process. Sorry, you're on your own, Helen. What's your real name, by the way?"
"Hannah."
"Sweet name. I bet you're cute."
"He's flirting with you!" cried Harry, as Hannah giggled. "A friggin' interactive process is chatting up my girl! See if there's a config to turn th–"
"–Professor McGonagall be looking for you, Miss Hannah," Trula called from the door. The little elf was carrying a tray of snacks and cold drinks.
"Here we are; it's under indiscretions," said Harry. "I'll fix it while you find out what old face-ache wants. Let's see... playful... cheeky, saucy... lecherous... (see antonyms too.)"
"Back soon, Harry," called Hannah.
"–'kay. Right... let's see how you like that, Scarp!"
There is banging on the door... A voice thunders "Forcement! Open up! You are surrounded!"
"Damn! Now what?" typed Harry, voicing aloud.
"Let's get to the roof!" says Tenning.
Harry frantically bashed at his keyboard: "Out ... window ... climb ... ladder..."
.
"Professor McGonagall!" cried Hannah, spotting a figure up ahead in the sixth floor corridor.
"Where have you been, Miss Abbott? I've been looking everywhere! Come with me."
"Sorry, I was..."
The professor sighed and paused in her stride. "Perhaps it is I who should apologise, Miss Abbott. The Headmaster was suspicious of your Sorting and has now detected a jinx on the Hat."
"Really?" cried Hannah. "So–"
"–Discretion is critical in this highly unorthodox situation. We shall be using a basement area. Follow me..."
They descended several flights of stairs, Hannah deep in thought. "So I'll be in Hufflepuff?"
"There can be no guarantee of course, but I would say that is very likely."
Hannah frowned. There was something very odd about the way McGonagall was walking.
They passed the kitchens, down a flight of stairs and along a gloomy corridor then came to more steps that were even darker.
"Down here?"
"Take my arm, girl. From now on there will be no light and we wouldn't want you to get lost now would we?"
The teacher seemed to be counting turns under her breath. Finally, her wand cast a light, and Hannah was led to an open door on the right of the corridor she now found herself.
More steps led down, and a strong odour of garlic attacked Hannah's nostrils. She gasped. "Is that... is that Professor Quirrell down there?"
"He fixed the curse and will be assisting us. Come along now." The professor took Hannah's arm and guided her rather roughly down into the chamber.
"Curse? I thought you said the Hat was jinxed? Isn't the Headmaster here?" Hannah stared at the goblet that stood on a small table in the middle of the chamber. "Where's the Hat?"
Quirrell stuttered, "You'll n–need to relax your m–mind, M–Miss Abbott, s–so the Sorting won't be... affected. Minerva, a Confundus would help her if you please...?"
McGonagall's wand was out, but doubt had appeared on her face. Then a malicious grin. "Confundo!"
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"Wear jetpack!" screamed Harry, bashing hard on his keyboard. "Jump from helicopter!"
You leap gracefully out as the helicopter explodes behind you. There is no fuel in the jetpack.
"WHAT!"
You see Tenning Scarp smile as he descends by parachute above you. You hit the ground at terminal velocity. You are dead. Play again? (Y/N)
Harry groaned. He knew he should have taken the 'chute, but would it be ripped next time? Perhaps he should have fought the pilot and taken over the controls? Perhaps he–
–Harry froze. Something had changed. His sense of connection with Hannah had turned fuzzy. Where did she say she was going? McGonagall?
Up he leapt and sprinted to the exit wall, fuming impatiently while the door reappeared. Then he was off and running. But where?
Down! The sense of her direction was still strong. He reached the corridor which led to the Deputy Headmistress's office but it felt wrong. Hannah was definitely below this level.
Harry passed the kitchens and sensed he had to descend even further. He lit his wand and moved cautiously down into a dark area he'd never been before; why had Hannah come here? Pretty soon he found himself going round in a circle and heading back up. That couldn't be right. He cast a more powerful Lumos but couldn't see any doorways he might have missed. Harry turned around and tried again...
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Hannah's ring flared as McGonagall's Confundus spell hit her. Hannah shook her head to try to clear it. What was she doing here? And McGonagall was... shrinking? A small man crouched there with a pointed nose and very small, watery eyes. No, it had always been him. Hadn't it? The man was blundering about, looking as confused as she was. Where exactly was she?
"Wormtail, you fool! Ask her to drink the potion!" cried Quirrell. "It will help her, I promise!"
Hannah heard the command, but Merlin's Halo sensed the wicked intent and its luminescence blazed so brightly each figure was outlined in stark relief: Hannah reaching out, unsure which way to turn; Wormtail, almost mindless, staggering about; and Quirrell, bedazzled by the lovelight, as if it were the only straw his fractured thinking could grasp.
But Hannah had found something more substantial. Since that first night, she'd always sensed John's hand holding hers, and now he was drawing her to him. Following only that one instinct, and without needing to think, she slowly began to ascend the steps out of the sepulchre.
The thin, high-pitched shriek of the Dark Lord vainly urged Quirrell to follow at any cost. Voldemort pierced Quirrell's mind with the most intense pain his enfeebled magic could produce, hoping to either drive him after the girl or to kill him so that his wraith-form might escape. To no avail, for the stone rose behind Hannah, setting like dark concrete round the legs of Wormtail and Quirrell, holding them there.
Voldemort screamed his last futile hope, "DIE THEN, DAMN YOU!" as the stone rose up Quirrell's chest, reached his throat, and the very chin of the Dark Lord's face. The last words uttered by that cold voice before the stone flowed over Quirrell's head were "I CANNOT D–!"
Hannah hesitated. Had someone called? She turned, only to see the dust settle over an empty room as the light died and she was once again in utter darkness. What was she doing here?
But the pull of Harry's presence was unmistakable. In complete darkness, she instinctively retraced the way she'd first come in, turning, turning, turning – light!
"JOHN!" she squealed, running to Harry's arms.
"What happened, Hannah? Did you see McGonagall?"
"I think she was trying to apologise for me being Sorted into Slytherin."
"I was worried. Died ten times while you were gone. Come on – do you know how to fly a helicopter and disarm a time bomb?"
"At the same time?"
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—oOo—
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Author's Notes
I know exactly what you're thinking. You're thinking if Voldemort's face does not breath then how could his 'staccato utterances of Parseltongue steam briefly in the icy air'? That's what you were thinking, right? Well, it's magic, that's how.
When Pettigrew joined Voldemort during the first war, it's likely he would have revealed his Animagus form as of use to the Dark Lord. By possession, possibly Voldemort could look through Quirrell's eyes and recognised Ron's rat.
Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults – I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)
– Hippothestrowl
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