Disclaimer: See chapter 1
The Misplaced Potter
Chapter 17
In which the forbidden corridor is revisited
The deep gong of the school bell sounded signaling the end of the class period. A cheer erupted from the Hufflepuff first formers. Their last examination of their first year was finished. They were to a student confident that they had done well on all of the tests including the defense against the dark arts final that they just completed. With barely contained eagerness, they filed past Professor Quirrell's desk dropping the test scrolls into a pile before him.
"Mister P-P-Porter," the professor stuttered. "May I impose upon you to help me for a few minutes?"
"Sure, sir" Henry answered with a shrug.
"I'll take your backpack to the dorm for you," Maggie said.
The room swiftly emptied. A bright sunny day beckoned as did several days without any classes and a party or two before the Hogwarts Express would carry them home for the summer holidays. The teacher wheeled a flat cart in front of the desk and Henry began to stack the scrolls neatly on it. Henry followed the professor out of the room pushing the trolley.
"How well do you think you did on my examination?" Professor Quirrell asked conversationally as they made their way down the hall.
"At the risk of jinxing it, I think I did very good," Henry answered. "We studied awfully hard for it."
Professor Quirrell laughed. "I-I-I can remember my school days. The Hufflepuffs were always diligently studying. We R-Ravenclaws thought it was comical and admirable at the same time. Of course, we usually had our nose in a book, too."
Henry and the professor entered Quirrell's office. They transferred the test scrolls to the professor's rather cluttered desk. Unstable stacks of thick books with strips of parchment sticking out from the pages hid most of the surface. Something swam in a large jar with dark green water. Several sticks of incense burned in a vase sending tendrils of musky smoke into the close, unmoving air of the office.
"One m-m-more task for you," a smiling Professor Quirrell said as he picked up a small Irish harp. "And then you will be free. Follow me, please."
A sharp pain had suddenly detonated in Henry's forehead. He closed his eyes and rubbed his furrowed brow. He stumbled after the departing teacher who seemed not to have noticed Henry's discomfort.
Through half cracked eyes, Henry dogged his professor's steps. Slowly, the near blinding pain subsided. He took a deep breath and sighed with pleasant relief. It was only then that he took in his surroundings.
"Sir," Henry hesitatively began. "Isn't this the out-of-bounds corridor?"
"It is forbidden for students to be here alone," Quirrell answered straightforwardly. "But you are with a teacher, aren't you?"
"Yeah but there's a giant dog down here, you know," Henry blurted out without thinking.
Professor Quirrell chortled. "So you were the one that sent Severus flying headfirst into that armor, eh? He and Filch wanted to give veriserum to the entire student body to find the culprit. Well then, I salute you. To be able to watch Snape ranting in the staff room with that bump on his head positively made my holidays."
Chagrinned that he had inadvertently given away his secret, Henry kept silent. Professor Quirrell might have ferreted out that it was Henry flying down the corridor on that December night but to confess to the deed did not seem wise. Being made privy to animosities among his professors did not set well with Henry either.
Wishing that he had stayed awake during the start of school feast so that he would have heard Professor Dumbledore's exact words about the third floor corridor instead of getting it second hand the next day from his prefects, Henry kept following Professor Quirrell.
The DADA teacher stopped before the wooden door.
"The Alohomora charm?" Henry asked tentatively as Professor Quirrell pulled his wand from his robe.
"Not yet," Professor Quirrell answered looking past Henry back down the hallway from which they had just come. "Petrificus Totalus!"
A wave of fear and surprise flooded Henry's mind as he felt every muscle and joint in his body lock into instant immobility. He would have fallen straight back if Professor Quirrell had not caught the front of his robe and eased him to the floor.
"I can't afford having you crush your skull again," he said with a snort. He rummaged through Henry's robe and extracted his wand.
"You don't have enough skill to challenge me but you could prove inconvenient at an inopportune time." He told Henry as he slid the boy's wand into his own pocket.
Henry heard Quirrell moving but he was out of his line of sight. Henry strained, willing his eyes to rotate as far down as they could. The irises traveled below his eyelids. After a moment of darkness followed by an opaque red, Henry could see the professor in front of the door.
"I'm looking through my skull," Henry thought in wonder, his fear temporarily forgotten. "Why didn't the healers tell me I could do that?"
"Alohomora," Quirrell said.
Henry heard the heavy latch unbolt. Low, menacing growls immediately emanated from behind the partially opened door.
"Fingirus," Quirrell commanded pointing his wand at the harp that he had sat on the floor. The harp instantly began to play as if an invisible musician was plucking its strings. Henry recognized the tune as Turlough O'Carolan's Dark Plaintive Youth, a favorite song of his father. He wondered if Professor Quirrell had picked that song at random or if he had a twisted sense of humor and thought it appropriate for Henry.
Quirrell cautiously pushed the door fully open. Henry saw the giant dog stretched out on the stone floor. Each of its three heads lying on the ground with eyes closed.
"The great drunken oaf told the truth," Professor Quirrell snickered. He moved the still playing harp inside the chamber. With a flick of his wand, he raised Henry off the floor. Henry's eyes rolled further around their sockets so the professor remained in view. He shut his eyelids so Quirrell would not notice his eyes were and guess that Henry could see him at all times. Henry did not know if it would help him, but he thought it was something worth keeping from his teacher.
Professor Quirrell slammed the door shut as soon as he had Henry inside the chamber. He quickly scampered to the trapdoor and threw it open.
"The secret to escaping Devil's Snare is to stay as relaxed as possible," Professor Quirrell said staring down the shaft. "It would be interesting to see what it would do to a body in your condition. Fortunately, for you, I need you alive. Scientific curiosity will have to wait for another day."
Another flick of the professor's wand sent Henry floating down the shaft, feet first. He was surprised to see the professor jump down the shaft after him. He plummeted to the patch of vines and, like Henry had done in December, rolled off the plant immediately upon impact. Henry, however, slowly turned and glided just above the deadly plant.
"This way, if you please," Professor Quirrell said humorously guiding his student down the short corridor. He casually directed Henry's body to the table that the broomsticks had rested against on Henry's previous visit. Dozens of birds burst off the floor. Noisily they went fluttering and darting high into the air of the room.
"Flitwick's contribution to this enterprise," Quirrell sneered. "Rather childish and hardly challenging."
The professor scanned above him as if he were seeking one particular bird among the flock.
"They're not birds," Henry thought to himself as he shifted his focus from Quirrell. "They're keys? Keys with wings?"
Henry took in the rest of the room. The clutter that was there in December was gone. All that he could see was the table upon which he lay and four broomsticks resting in precise order along side the doorway. The room was spotless. Even the cobwebs were gone.
"What is this all about?" Henry asked himself. His initial fear that Quirrell had designs on his body seem to be disproved by the turban wearing teacher's actions but if this was not about violation then what was going on?
A pale violet light leaped from Quirrell's wand suddenly. An old fashion looking silver key dropped from the air. With a clang, it fell at the Professor's feet.
"It was Flitwick's brilliant idea that anyone who wanted to get the key to the door would have to fly around on a broom trying to snatch it out of the air like some quidditch seeker," Quirrell dismissively explained as he retrieved the key from the floor. "He thought that it would be near impossible for anyone to do so with hundreds of different keys flitting about."
The silver key unlocked the door without any difficulty. Quirrell casually tossed it aside and levitated Henry once again. Henry floated through the door as the keys returned to their nest underneath the table.
The room that they entered was a large dimly lit chamber. Unlike the previous room, its ceiling was typical for a single story. Four rows of large statutes dominated the room. Two lines each faced one another as if they were awaiting combat.
"It's a giant chess board, you moron," Henry thought to himself when he realized what he was seeing.
"It's a huge chess set," Quirrell said smugly. "This is McGonagall's contribution to the defense. What do you know about chess?"
"Nil" Henry thought to himself. "Except that they aren't called horses."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot about the spell," Quirrell giggled when Henry did not answer him. "Anyway, a wizard and avid chess master named Claudio Tessitore devised the Tessitore Defense during the sixteenth century. If followed, it guaranteed no worse then a draw against the very best of players. In 1958, Albrecht Schuster finally found the strategy necessary to defeat the Tessitore Defense."
"Why am I boring you worse then Binns with this arcane history lesson, you may ask. Simply put, McGonagall designed this chess set to play the Tessitore Defense and I happen to know Schuster's Strategy."
"King and queen depart," Quirrell shouted.
The black king and queen became animated. They turned and walked off the black and white tiles. They took up positions along the wall as if to watch the match.
"An oddity of the Schuster Strategy is that the king never moves," Quirrell said as he guided Henry to the vacated square of the black king. "Helpful in your present condition, eh?'
Henry wanted to glare at him but his facial muscles would not respond. Henry watched as Quirrell confidently moved and ordered other pieces about. Wizard's chess differed from ordinary chess in that the taking of pieces was rather violent. The attacking piece would beat the captured piece then drag it from the playing surface.
"At least, as a king, I'm in no danger," Henry thought dredging up one of the few things about chess he knew.
Quirrell was in danger but the steadiness with which he made his moves indicated that he knew what he was doing. In a surprisingly short time, the checkmated white king was throwing his crown at Quirrell's feet.
"Come along," Quirrell said nonchalantly as he walked past the white king to a door beyond him. Henry rose from the floor. He remained upright, his trainers drifting just inches above the floor.
"Behind this door is my contribution to the defense," a smiling Professor Quirrell said as Henry landed beside him.
"The defense of what," Henry wondered but when Quirrell opened the door, that question was chased from his mind. Petrified or not, Henry drew in a sharp breath. A mountain troll, almost identical to the one that had nearly killed him last Halloween, came charging at them.
Quirrell cavalierly raised his wand. "Imperio," he said.
Henry watched in amazement as the troll stopped and dropped its club. There was a vacant look in the troll's eyes. Quirrell grunted a few syllables in what Henry assumed were in the troll language. The troll turned and walked to the wall. Once there, it unhesitatingly drove its head into the solid stone with all of its strength. It toppled over into a heap.
"I always had a way with trolls," Quirrell said. He did not spare even the shortest of glances at the troll as he stepped around the unconscious creature. "Come along."
Henry glided close after Quirrell as he strode into the next room. As soon as they had crossed the threshold, a wall of purple flames appeared before the door, which they just entered, as a wall of black flames shot up before the opposite door. A table with seven different bottles and a sheet of parchment occupied the center of the small room. The professor, however, ignored the table and bottles.
"Snape's," Quirrell said simply but coldly. "Rather clever, to give the devil his due. There's a riddle written there that will tell the reader which bottle will allow him to past through the flames safely. So many people get very flustered when faced with a logic puzzle. They could panic and either trap themselves in here or manage to drink the poison even if the riddle is simple enough to decipher. There is, however, only enough solution to allow one person to pass through into the next room. Obliviously I would not have brought all of this way just to leave either of us mere feet short of our objective."
Quirrell pulled a bottle from his robes as he flicked his wand at Henry. Henry, released from both the levitating spell and the binding spell, fell to the floor. His muscles ached as if he had been lifting hay bales all day. Cautiously, he stood and faced the professor.
Quirrell took a long swig from the bottle.
"Drink this," Quirrell said thrusting the bottle at Henry as he regained his feet. "It will allow you to past through the black flames into the next room and before you get any ideas, it will not protect you from the purple flames at the other door."
Henry eyed the bottle suspiciously.
"Drink it," Quirrell commanded again.
"No," Henry shouted. He rushed to the other side of the room putting the table between him and the professor. Quirrell did not chase him though. He merely smiled.
"If that is your answer," Quirrell said. "Then there is only one thing to say. CRUCIO!"
Every nerve ending in Henry's body overloaded as a tidal wave of excruciating pain crashed through them. All conscious thought vanished from his mind as Henry fell to the floor and began to thrash about. His bladder and bowels emptied as a long, agonized wail tore from his throat. An eternity later, Quirrell broke the spell.
The professor sat the bottle on the floor beside Henry as he lay in the fetal position whimpering. Tremors run through the boy's body like the aftershocks of an earthquake as a river of tears formed a puddle on the cold hard stone floor.
"That was all of ten seconds if you are curious," Quirrell said calmly. "Now drink that potion and let us go through the flames."
Henry drew the bottle to his chest like a talisman. Using the table for balance, he shakily pulled himself to his feet. He ran a sleeve across his tear-streaked face. He could not stop his hand from trembling as he unstopped the bottle and hastily drank the potion.
It felt as if his blood had instantly turned to ice.
Without looking at Quirrell, Henry threw himself into the flames. He nearly collided with the door. He quickly opened it and tumbled through.
Henry found himself in a large nearly empty room. Four torches, two each on opposite walls, lit the room, which had, at its center, a full-length freestanding looking glass. He was trying to figure out where the challenge was when Quirrell stepped into the room.
"Wait over there," he told Henry pointing to the wall on his right. Henry, ashamed of his cowardice, quickly obeyed. The stench of his fouled clothes assailing his nose fostered further humiliation.
"The Mirror of Erised," Quirrell said tenderly running a hand around the mirror's dark wooden frame. "It shows the heart's most fervent desire. I can see myself handing the philosopher's stone to my master. Where is the stone? This is Dumbledore's trial so it is the pivotal clue as to its location."
"Use the boy," a chilly, croaking, disembodied voice said. "The boy is the key."
"Of course, Master," Quirrell replied submissively. "You. Come here."
Unsure of where the voice came from, Henry timidly walked over to the professor. He stopped before the huge mirror.
"Tell me what you see in the mirror," Quirrell commanded. "How do I get the philosopher's stone?"
"What's the philosopher's stone?" asked Henry.
"Just look in the damn mirror," Quirrell roared.
Henry gazed into the depths of the looking glass. Instead of his reflection, he saw himself wrapped in a protective hug sandwiched between his parents. He was far from Hogwarts back at his old home in Kentucky.
"What do you see?" Quirrell asked stringently.
"I see my parents," Henry stammered. "They are hugging me, protecting me."
"Remove your turban," the voice said. "I wish to see the boy."
"Are you certain, Master?" Quirrell asked.
"Do it!" the cold voice barked.
Quirrell began to unwind his turban. As the ribbon of cloth fell away, Henry noticed that his teacher's head was oddly misshapen. When he was done, Quirrell slowly turned around. Henry gasped for on the back of Quirrell's skull was an evil looking face with glowing red eyes and a malicious smile.
"I am Lord Voldemort, boy,"The face chuckled evilly. "I killed your parents years ago. They can do nothing for you from beyond the grave."
"My parents are alive," Henry shouted. "I got an owl from them just yesterday."
The sharp pain once again detonated in Henry's brow. He dropped to his knees. It felt as if spiders were dancing across his brain.
"Who are you?" the cold voice asked.
"Henry," Henry replied in a labored voice. "Henry Porter."
The pain suddenly ceased. Henry put his hands on the floor and struggled for breath.
Voldemort chuckled mirthlessly. "You believe that to be the truth. Oh, Dumbledore, how like you to make matters more complicated then they need to be. I was certain that you would have woven Potter into the defense of the stone yet you keep your most important weapon ignorant rendering him practically useless to you."
"What do we do now, Master?" Quirrell asked.
"The mirror is the key to the stone it appears and not the boy," Voldemort said. "Kill the boy. We'll take the mirror elsewhere."
"Yes, my lord," Quirrell answered.
Henry looked frantically for an escape there was none save the door, which he had entered, and Quirrell was between him and it. In absolute desperation, Henry leaped upon the DADA teacher as he turned. Henry grabbed Quirrell's wand hand and wrapped his right arm around the professor's head, his hand on Quirrell's face, his legs tightly clamped around his waist.
"Get off you little bastard," Quirrell snapped trying to break Henry's grip. Quirrell suddenly screamed. His hand and face below Henry's hands turned bright red then huge blisters formed like fast growing mushrooms after a rain.
"Master," Quirrell wailed in panic and fear.
Now the professor was frantic. Unfortunately, for Quirrell, even though he was a grown man struggling against an older child, he was weak having shunned any strenuous exercise for years. Henry was strong for his age and adrenaline was flooding his body. Smoke rose from Quirrell's face and hand. Blood poured through Henry's fingers as Quirrell's tissue then bone sizzled beneath the boy's hands.
With a massive effort, Quirrell heaved Henry from him. Henry landed awkwardly on one foot. He heard his ankle snap as he fell backward landing before the mirror. Henry anxiously tried to regain his feet but he toppled back to the floor in pain.
Quirrell took a halting step toward Henry but then fell to his knees. Terror filled eyes stared at Henry from a tburning, disfigured face. With a last moan of pure fear, the professor literally turned to dust before a stunned Henry's eyes.
Red smoke rose from the crumpled robe and drifted toward the ceiling. The smoke slowly coalesced. Voldemort's face, lately of his follower's skull, appeared in the midst of the crimson cloud. Henry stared helplessly up at it.
"You have courage," Voldemort said with a hint of respect in his gravelly voice. "A trait I have always prized. Follow me, young Potter. I can free you from the pretence in whichDumbledore has bound you. I can free you from your muggle upbringing and give you more power then you ever dreamed."
Henry leaned back against the mirror. He was bone weary and ached from his head to his broken ankle. He looked up at the phantom resignedly.
"What is your answer, Potter?" Voldemort demanded.
"My name is Porter," Henry said slowly. "And my answer is fuck you."
With a furious howl, Voldemort dove at Henry like a lightning bolt. Henry twisted his upper body away. The mirror exploded when Voldemort collided with it. Henry's already abused body was flung like rag doll across the room. Mercifully, he fainted before any more pain registered.