Quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass, or rats' feet over broken glass
Quirrell. He should have known it was Quirrell.
The man was facing towards Harry, his arms contorted oddly by his sides.
"Harry Potter," his professor greeted him, just like that time in the forest. Behind him stood an opulent, familiar mirror.
From this angle Harry could see the reflection of a grotesque face on the back of Quirrell's head. Unnerving red eyes met his green ones.
At that moment, Harry knew his greatest desire was for him and his friends to be safe in Gryffindor tower, tucked into their respective beds.
"Hello," Harry greeted.
Really? Was that the best he could do?
'Hello, professor, I had liked you until just now finding out that you're hosting a parasite. And hello, Dark Lord, fancy seeing you here. It's a shame you're trying to steal a magical artefact that grants eternal life—please tell me it wasn't also you killing unicorns and drinking their blood?'
Harry swallowed. The fire burned hot behind him. He took a few steps forwards to get away from the heat, wishing it didn't mean getting closer to the monster before him.
"Do you know who I am?" the Dark Lord's face spoke, still watching him through the mirror.
"Yes," Harry whispered. He felt like his knees had turned entirely to jelly; they were shaking at an alarming rate.
"Do you see what has become of me?" the Dark Lord screamed, skin curdling with emotion.
"Yes." Harry thought of prophecies, of Heracles battling monsters, of gods or of men killing their own flesh and blood in futile attempt to save themselves.
Mars had been a lie.
Harry was not, had never been any kind of Gryffindor.
"Come here," the Dark Lord ordered.
Legs shaking, Harry stepped closer. Ropes crawled up his body like snakes, binding his legs so that running would be impossible. This, he realised, was how he would die.
It was, perhaps, a fitting way to go: off on an adventure someone else had chosen for him, in a useless attempt to do the right thing. Like some stupid accident, the only ending more appropriate for his pitiful existence would have been to die while going to the toilet, petrified with his pants still by his ankles.
"Look in the mirror, tell me what you see."
Just the same as before, Harry looked at himself lying in his dorm, sleeping easily. He watched Ratty uncurl, shake herself, and tunnel under his pillow. She reappeared a second later pushing a walnut-sized red stone over to Harry's neck. Then Ratty winked and curled up against him again.
Still standing before the mirror, Harry suddenly felt something falling down the front of his shirt. He let out an ungodly shriek.
Quirrelord had bound him on reflex, but Harry hardly noticed. His attention was riveted on the hot, hard stone pressing against his stomach. Harry had never been so grateful to be wearing a belt.
The stone stopped falling, its solid presence no longer startling now that he understood what it was. The situation must be some strange Dumbledorish affliction, to make the mirror toss the stone at Harry when he neither expected nor even wanted it. He wondered for a second what would have happened if Hermione had been standing in his place instead.
Oh gods, Hermione! Harry looked around, but all that accomplished was that he fell painfully onto his side.
Voldemort and Quirrell had returned their collective attention to the Mirror of Erised, casting some kind of diagnostic. Harry tried and failed, to grasp his wand.
He felt some of the ropes binding him being transfigured into something much softer by his invisible friend. Despite his precarious position, relief flooded him at the knowledge that Hermione, at least, was safe.
"It's gone," the Dark Lord said, his whisper even more potent than Snape's. It echoed against the stones until the sound was swallowed by the lurking flames.
Quirrell turned on Harry and stepped closer. "Where is the stone, Potter," he said.
"I-I-I—" he swallowed. "I don't know?"
It was true; he had a strong suspicion where it might be, but he hadn't confirmed that yet.
"Give it to me," the Dark Lord's voice said.
Harry had made many mistakes in his past, and one of the greatest had been handing that fateful slip of paper to the monster before him, condemning his friends, Harry's own parents, to their deaths.
"I'd rather not?" he squeaked. It was good he was still lying on the floor where his legs had no opportunity to fail him.
Quirrell was looming above him now, arms outstretched. Harry marvelled that he himself wasn't dead yet, realised he had just enough wriggle-room in his bonds to move his hand towards his wand—
Suddenly Harry was experiencing the novel sensation of being seized and lifted by his neck. He couldn't breathe, and it was somehow worse with his own weight pulling him down. He felt small and fragile—there was no room for anything but the fire of his lungs—Quirrell's fingers were digging into him, hanging him like a puppet.
Harry had thought he'd imagined all the many ways he might die, but he'd forgotten about strangulation. It was terrifying, desperate, and deliberate. He could see only Quirrel's face, everything else seeming very far away.
He watched himself dying from a great distance, except for the burning presence of his crushed lungs. And then he was falling.
Around them, the world shattered with the sound of breaking glass.
Quirrell was on top of him, heavy but bulky enough to have protected Harry from the shards. Harry kicked the man off and rolled to the side. The ropes that had bound him fell away. He could feel slivers slicing through his hands, stinging fiercely.
"Stupefy," Harry cast. Quirrell didn't move.
"Oh God," Hermione was saying, her hands reaching out towards him only to flutter about, as if she was afraid to hurt him.
Harry examined the cuts in his arms and on his ankles. There was heat dripping off his face, but he couldn't tell if it was blood or tears.
The warmth of the room had become unbearable. The air seemed entirely too thin, and Harry couldn't get enough of it.
"I'm s-so s-sorry," Hermione stammered.
Harry's responding smile didn't seem to reassure her at all. He caught sight of himself in a fraction of mirror and understood why; he looked monstrous.
Turning, he examined the perverted amalgamation of Dark Lord and defense professor lying prone on the floor. Still on his knees, he scrabbled for Quirrell's wand before casting an incarcerous, just in case.
The man's skin was ashen and felt cold to the touch.
Hermione watched him worriedly, refusing to take Quirrell's wand when Harry tried to hand it to her. "He's a teacher," she said.
Harry could still feel phantom fingers wrapped around his neck, preventing him from breathing. "Not anymore." He coughed, his throat terribly rough. Finally, he extricated himself from the mess of what had once been the Mirror of Erised and followed Hermione to the far wall opposite the fire.
Their combined cooling charms, a few cleaning charms, and a handful of skin-knitting spells improved the situation greatly.
"What now?" said Hermione.
Harry wished people would stop coming to him as if he had all the answers. He let himself sag to the floor, his body aching and his magic sorely depleted. "I dunno, Hermione. You tell me."
"We wait," she decided.
As if they had any other choice.
Harry flicked another stunner at Quirrell for good measure. For a second it had looked as though the man's cloak was writhing like black fog, multiplied in the reflections scattered around him. But it was likely just a figment of his imagination, brought on by exhaustion and heat.
All in all, Harry ranked this attempt at proactive behaviour a solid two out of ten.
Hermione was shaking with tears, and perhaps shock. Harry listened helplessly, not knowing what to say or do. He sat beside her and bore witness to her pain even as he felt the dull throb of his own.
In his hand, the blood-red geode gleamed in the flickering light. Harry tried to stop himself from bleeding too much onto Flamel's legendary artifact.
They had saved the stone, if it had even been in danger to begin with. But the cost had been too high.
Back spots swum before his eyes. There was something moving ahead of him, but he couldn't make it out.
Harry, he thought he heard someone cry.
Take me instead, he wanted to cry back, a pounding echo in his head.
He felt like anything but a Gryffindor.
... xoxox ...
Coming up: Dursleys, Depression, and Dobby.
"You've grown," Aunt Petunia greeted him.
Harry thought about it for a moment. His hair was longer and his robes were shorter on him. "Yes," he answered. Objectively, he'd grown.
Returning to Privet Drive felt like stepping out of one dream and falling into another. He had grown, Harry realised, because space had allowed it. And now the familiar green door felt alien, the bathroom sink hung too low, his room was too quiet.
It was all exactly the same as it had been when he'd left ten months ago. The time frame it took to bring a being into this world...Harry felt as if he'd been birthed like an idea, going from his magic-saturated castle to this cold, plastic world. His wand had already been confiscated by Aunt Petunia, leaving Harry naked.
He slept on top of his covers, unwilling to let this wrong world grab hold of him again. He was a foreigner here, and he always had been. The sense of wrongness was so strong that it gripped his chest like a vice.
It was almost pleasant, feeling that emotion holding him together.