A/N: So, this is it. In several moments, I'll be uploading the Epilogue, as well. Reviews are greatly appreciated - if you haven't left a note letting me know what you think, feel free to do so!

Chapter 17: The End

Harry raced through the corridors, taking the corridors blindly. He flattened down his fringe - somewhere in the castle, Uncle Re was a werewolf. There was a troll somewhere else, being tracked down by Papa and the other professors. The students were in the Great Hall, and if the way his friends and the Slytherins reacted were any sort of representation of the student body, he'd want to stay as far from the hall as possible.

So, where to go? He turned and started to backtrack. Though the Slytherins would probably be coming after him, if they managed to overcome Hermione and Ron, the safest place in the school would be the dungeons. Papa's office.

The stairs were just right, as though someone had set them to send him straight to the dungeons. However, as he stepped out onto the first flight, he heard a crash coming from below, followed by a shout.

Harry peeked over the stair-rail. At the bottom of the staircases, he caught sight of a large shadow on the stone floor. Words echoed from below: "Filius, take the left!" "Severus, watch your back!"

Then a howl of pain, followed by what was undeniably Papa's voice: "Damnit, Flora, watch your hexes!"

It had to be the troll. There wasn't another way down to Papa's office, not while the stairs were frozen in place.

Harry backed up into the hallway, still staring out into the stairwell. Where else could he go? Uncle Re was probably in his well-warded office, wiling away the moonlight hours. He didn't know Granpa's password; he could easily spend hours naming obscure candies for the gargoyles without guessing it. If he took these stairs at all, the professors down in the dungeons would probably hear him. And, he was wandless - no dampening spell and no chameleon charm could mask his direction.

There was only once choice, then. He'd have to return to the third floor to ask for help. If Hermione and Ron were overpowered, it would be a terrible mistake - Papa made it very clear what side the Malfoys had been on in the war. However, what other choice did he have?

A suit of armor stood to one side of the hall. Harry crept up to it and peered at his reflection in the dim light of the corridor. He looked the same as always: his eyes were round and so startlingly green that he stood out in Greece. His hair hung limply past the tops of his ears, always ignoring anything he tried to make it do, and his nose looked too big for his face. But there, peeking out from under the untidy fringe, was the scar.

No wonder Hermione looked so shocked: the scar was deep and black, and the skin around it was inflamed. Worse was the dried blood crusting around it. It was hideous, and even his hair couldn't hide it.

Would he ever get used to seeing it in the mirror? He was Harry Potter, he was the Boy Who Lived. James Potter died to save him, even though Mater lied to him. And Mater died, too, without telling Papa anything. He'd been left with the relatives he could barely remember until, for some reason, Papa came and took him away.

It wasn't all a lie. Papa probably hadn't lied to him at all - he just withheld the truth. Could Harry really blame him? After all, how would it have been, to grow up in England when everyone knew his name and knew he was a bastard? What would it have been like to go to school here, and have everyone expecting wonders, when he was just a boy?

He sniffled and fought back a flood of tears. "I am Harry Potter," he whispered to his reflection. It said nothing back.

However, in the suit of armor, he caught a flash of something. Before he could turn around, a hand clamped onto the neck of his robe and yanked him back. "You are, indeed," a voice hissed, "and you're my ticket out of here."

Harry tried to jerk away, but the other person was taller and stronger than the eleven-year-old. Finally, he settled for looking over his shoulder - straight into the face of Professor Quirrell. "P-professor?" Harry stammered, looking for an escape, "What are you doing here?"

"Little boys shouldn't be roaming when there are trolls about," Quirrell murmured. Without the stammer, his voice was low and silkly. Deadly. "Aren't we lucky that you decided to break the rules?"

"Papa's only a few floors away. If I scream, he'll hear me," Harry said.

Quirrell smirked. "Oh, yes, dear Papa. How is it, then, that James Potter's only son… really isn't James Potter's son? How is it that a Death Eater's son caused the fall of the most powerful wizard on earth?"

"Granpa's more powerful than Voldemort could ever be," Harry snapped. He jerked back, and his robes tore from Quirrell's hand. The escape wasn't as useful as it could've been - now, Harry was trapped in the corner between the suit of armor and the wall.

"He wasn't smart enough to know it was me, was he?" Quirrell said. "Maybe he's getting a bit senile, in his old age. He left the castle… left your Dark Wizard of a father in charge… how smart could the man possibly be? He left me you."

Harry gulped and tried his best to burrow between the armor and the wall. "You don't want me," he said. "You want the stone. You need the stone to cure Voldemort. Papa and the other professors will take down the Troll - you're wasting your time on me."

"Wasting time? I hardly think so. After all, you are the reason he fell, all those years ago. You'll be the first to fall before him now."

Suddenly, another voice filled the hallway, serpentine and dripping with darkness. "Let me see him, Quirrell," it said.

Harry shuddered - it was the same voice Quirrell had been arguing with, the night he'd been hiding in the corridors. Quirrell looked up and to the side, as if communicating with something far above them both. "But, Master - you are not ready - you are not strong enough-"

"Silence! I command you, let me look on the face of the boy who bested me!"

Quirrell took half a step back - not enough for Harry to escape. He reached up and began to unravel the turban on his head. The smell of rot filled the hall, coupled with the stench of garlic. Harry thought back to the dreams he'd been having, of walking backward down halls wearing a blindfold, and had a terrible feeling about what would happen next.

He was right. The last of the purple fabric fell to the ground and Quirrell turned around, slowly. There, on the back of his head, was a second face. It was hideously ugly, protruding like some malignant growth. "Harry Potter," it hissed, "our very own celebrity."

Harry had only one chance. Though Voldemort had his unnatural gaze on him, Quirrell's back was turned. If he could get past now, he might make it to the stairs, in order to call for help. Without wasting another moment on thought, Harry ducked past Quirrell's shoulder and started to run.

"Grab him!" Voldemort commanded. "Hold him! He must not escape!"

He was only a few steps from the stairwell when Quirrell caught his robe again. Quirrell threw him down to the floor and kept him there, one boot settled firmly on Harry's chest. "Don't try that again," Quirrell said, menacingly. "Not that you'll have a chance, anyway… please, Master, let me kill him! Let me destroy the one who would destroy you again!"

"Not yet," Voldemort hissed. "First, the Philosopher's Stone. We should take him with us. If the Traitor Snape comes after us, we shall use him as a shield. The traitor will not harm his own."

"My friends are up there!" Harry blurted. "They all know you're coming! You won't get past them!"

"Students," Voldemort replied, and Harry could hear the sneer in his voice. "You think mere students can overpower Lord Voldemort?"

Harry snarled and fought to push Quirrell's heel away. It didn't help. "Why not students?" he taunted. "A baby destroyed you, last time."

Voldemort roared, and Quirrell tossed his head back. The Dark Lord's sudden anger gave Harry another chance. While Quirrell was occupied, Harry punched his kneecap. Quirrell howled and crumpled to the side, allowing Harry to roll out of the way.

"Nooo! Don't let him escape!"

He was crawling toward the stairwell - he pulled himself toward it, one handed - and then, Quirrell's heaver body collapsed onto him. Quirrell grabbed his shoulders and flipped him onto his back, leaving his head and shoulders hanging over the stairs. "Please, Master," Quirrell begged.

"Kill him," Voldemort said. "Kill him with our hands. There will be no mistakes, this time."

Harry tried to scream, but it was cut off as Quirrell wrapped his hands around Harry's throat. It wasn't Harry's sound that rang out, however - it was Quirrell, who jerked his hands back in shock. "Master! It burns!"

"Destroy him! NOW!"

Quirrell seemed to be forced into it. He wrapped his hands around Harry's neck again, even as Harry tried to scoot back. Half his body was hanging over the stairs, now - only Quirrell's greater weight kept him from falling down them.

His air was cut off, and Quirrell was screaming. Harry reached out, instinctively, to try and shove Quirrell off. His hands met the flesh of the professor's face, and the screams grew louder. Harry could feel something happening - he could feel the flesh melting, turning to ash under his fingers.

Quirrell's screaming became a chorus. The man finally let go and staggered back. Harry caught a glimpse of him, form melting toward the floor. It was only a single glance, though - as Quirrell removed his weight, Harry lost his balance on the top of the stairs. He slid down, his shoulder lodged against a step, and the rest of his body went into a tumble.

Gravity was against him. He couldn't stop himself - he was screaming now, too, and the landing was coming ever nearer. He thought he heard Papa's voice, calling his name, and then he hit. Headfirst, into the stone; pain flashed through his body, something snapped, and blackness erupted.