Summary: The past will come back, the present will change them, now what will the future hold?
Disclaimer: I do not own them, sad but true
A/N: Yes this is an AU fic. Reviews are welcome, flames are shared with friends for amusement.
Chapter 26
Harry mustered up all his courage and opened the last door. When he walked in, he saw a long flight of stairs going down and began his descent. He hoped Hermione came back with some help soon, for he didn't know if he could handle what awaited him, Boy Who Lived or not.
As he got about half way down, he noticed the Mirror of Erisad was there and someone was standing in front of it. As he looked, he saw a familiar turban and the familar pain came back to his scar.
"You? I can't be you."
Professor Quirrell turned around, his usual look of fear gone, replaced by a cool hatred in his eyes. "Yes, dear boy, I tried to kill you, and I would have succeeded if your meddling father had not been muttering the counter curse."
So his father had saved him from falling off his broomstick. Harry made a mental note to thank him, if he ever lived past this. He did not move when he saw Quirrell talking to himself. Harry was trying to figure out where the stone was and how he could get it and get out of there in one piece.
"Come here, Potter!" he heard Quirrell yell, but Harry did not wish to move. His feet, on the other hand, had other plans, as they moved him down each step, getting closer and closer to Quirrell.
"Look into the mirror and tell me what you see."
Harry did look into the mirror. Instead of his parents looking back at him this time, it was he. His pocket seemed to have a nice big bulge in it and when Harry looked the mirror, Harry pulled out the stone. Harry had to hold in a gasp as he reached inside his pocket and saw for a fact that the stone was now there.
"What do you see, Potter?" Quirrell asked, spittle flying from his mouth.
"I see, Dumbledore. I have just won the house cup," Harry said, but he stopped short when he heard another voice rasp out.
"He lies, let me speak to him."
"Master you are not strong enough," Quirrell said, sounding much like the pathetic person Harry knew.
"I am strong enough for this," the voice said. It was as if it were coming from Quirrell, like he was doing a ventriliquist act and throwing his voice. Then, to Harry's horror, Quirrell finished unwrapping his turban, and he was struck with the most foul odor ever. Nothing could surpass it. He wanted to gag, to retch all his breakfast onto the floor, but the pain in his scar was worse. There was a face sticking out of the back of Quirrell's head, and it was as if he could remember it somehow. Then it spoke.
It asked him about the stone and about is parents. It was speaking to him like it knew him. Harry knew deep down this was Voldemort, the man who had killed his parents, robbed him of a childhood, and now it spoke lies.
"You liar!" Harry screamed at the thing, wishing it dead again.
The thing on Quirrell's head laughed, "Bravery, your parents had it too, and they died for it. Join me, Potter, and we can do glorious things."
"Never!" Harry shouted. "You are nothing but a cold-blooded murderer"
Voldemort seemed to sneer for a second before he yelled at Quirrell. "Get him! He has the stone!"
This sent Quirrell charging toward Harry, sending him crashing down hard on the steps. The stone flew from his hand and lay mere inches beyond his grasp.
The feeling of darkness was overtaking him, and Harry knew if he blacked out his life was as good as gone. Desperately he tried to suck in even one gulp of air, but Quirrell's hands were wrapped securely around his throat. Harry scrounged up the last bit of energy he had and tried to pry the hands off his throat. When his hands made contact with the professor's, Quirrell's hands began to sizzle as if on fire and then blister. Quirrell jumped off Harry, and Harry breathed in those wonderful gasps of air he had wanted.
"What magic is this?" Quirrell yelled as he watched his hand disengrate and crumble from his wrist.
"Fool, get him, he has the stone!" Voldemort ordered, and like a good little drone, Quirrell advanced on Harry again. This time Harry was ready for him. Placing a hand on each side of Quirrell's face, he watched in horror as the man who had once been his Professor crumbled into a mound of dust.
Relieved and worse for wear, Harry leaned down and picked up the stone. It was a crimson colour he had never seen before. It shined like fire in his hands. As Harry was about to place it in his pocket and leave the god-forsaken place, he heard a noise. Turning around, he saw a face coming toward him in a puff of smoke, roaring as if wounded, and then it went right through him. Time seemed to stop, the pain was too intense, and Harry's grasp on the waking world was gone. With a thud, he hit the stone steps, and the stone rolled from his hand. Laying there, Harry Potter was motionless and cold to the touch.
A/N: Only 2 chapters left of this fic! I am excited about posting the new fic, which takes place before Harry even starts school.
