A/N: Many thanks to BrightWatcher for reviewing the last chapter.

Chapter Seventeen: The Calm Before the Storm

Draco put the last of his homework away, feeling smug that he'd finished it all with plenty of time to spare. He contemplated pulling out his sketchbook, but then he caught sight of the parchment of runes Harry had given him over two weeks ago. He'd managed to identify five or six of the simpler symbols with help from a textbook, but the rest of the runes were still a mystery to him. Granted, he hadn't spent all that much time on it — but now that all his homework was done and the teachers wouldn't be assigning anymore until after the Easter holidays, maybe he could actually make some headway on them. Thoughtfully, he removed the parchment from his bedside table and spread it out on the bed in front of him, quill in hand.

"Hm — 'dark' — 'hide' — 'find' — 'light' — what's this one?" Draco squinted at a simplistic glyph shaped like an up arrow, then reached into his book bag to pull out the copy of A Beginner's Guide to Runes he'd borrowed from the library. He flipped through the pages until he found the rune, and read from the book. "'The Tiwaz rune in the Anglo-Saxon futhorc is literally translated as glory, but when combined with other runes in the appropriate context can also be taken to mean nature or truth'."

Draco frowned. Harry had implied that these runes were evidence of Quirrell's evil intentions, but so far none of the symbols seemed to point to anything particularly malevolent. Of course, he had barely started translating, but Draco seriously doubted, even if he were to identify every one of the symbols on the parchment, that he would be able to string them together for coherent meaning, let alone an accurate translation. He had an interest in runes and runic magic, yes — but it was a complex area of study, and though he was intelligent, he was no child prodigy. He was a first-year student with only the barest knowledge of runes, even if Harry seemed to think otherwise. And Draco had to wonder if translating the parchment was really worth the effort; after all, Severus had been informed, and Severus was taking care of the Quirrell situation. As far as Draco was concerned, his and Harry's parts in the matter were done.

But what was that Pucey — no, Adrian, he corrected himself — had said some weeks ago? "Quirrell taught them a spell that's supposed to reveal any hidden Dark properties of an object." Draco was really curious about that spell, and he wondered if these runes were the basis of it. According to Harry, the parchment had been found with a copy of Dark Spells for the Curious, so it would make sense if Quirrell had been attempting to find counterspells and happened across the one he'd taught to the fifth-years.

Whatever the runes said, there was no way Draco would make sense of them himself. If he really wanted to translate them, he was going to need help.

The night was dark and stormy. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked, but for now, there was no rain, only wind whistling through the thick trees of the Albanian forest. The young man frowned as he contemplated the worsening weather, but decided that it wouldn't rain for a while yet. And even if it did start to pour, he wasn't about to return to his inn empty-handed. He was so close!

He walked briskly through the forest, noting the trees as he passed and counting the steps he took. At length he arrived at a large elm tree. It was tall, but it looked sickly and weak, its greyish brown bark pitted and scarred with deep furrows, its branches brittle and cracking and almost completely bare though it was the height of summer. There was a hole in the middle of its trunk, and despite the dark, deeply malevolent presence that oozed from it, the young man was elated.

At long last, after months of searching, he'd found what remained of Lord Voldemort.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the twins took turns sitting in one corner of the Gryffindor common room and watching the Marauder's Map for the next few hours. However, the dot labelled 'Quirinus Quirrell' stayed mostly in its office or the corridor outside it, even past nightfall, which both puzzled and unsettled the five Gryffindors. As Harry had said, tonight was the best time for Quirrell to go after the Stone, but it was distinctly odd that he had made no move whatsoever towards the third floor corridor.

"Are you sure this map isn't stuck?" Harry asked at half-past six, after almost three hours of surveillance.

"Stuck?" repeated Fred incredulously, putting a hand to his heart as if mortally wounded. "Harry, how could you?"

"The Map doesn't lie, Harry," George chipped in. "Trust us, we've had it for two years. If it says Quirrell's in his office, he is."

"It's almost time for dinner," Hermione noted worriedly. "We can't take this down to the Great Hall with us — how are we going to watch Quirrell?"

"One of us could skip dinner?" Harry offered.

"Skip dinner!" Ron exclaimed, looking as though Harry had just suggested they all strip naked and go frolic with the Giant Squid in the Black Lake.

"No need for such drastic measures, Harry," said George. "Quirrell should be at dinner, too — I doubt he'd go after the Stone before everyone's gone to bed, anyway."

Harry agreed this was true, and after Fred wiped the Map with a quick, "Mischief managed", the five friends went down to dinner.

They fully intended to return to their vigil after they'd eaten, but as they were strolling out of the Great Hall, they were stopped by Professor McGonagall, who scowled at Fred and George.

"Misters Weasley, would you like to explain to me why used Dungbombs were found in the corridor outside Professor Quirrell's office?"

The twins' eyes grew wide and innocent.

"It wasn't us, Professor!" Fred protested. "We haven't been anywhere near that part of the castle today."

"No, not today. But perhaps a month ago, when someone managed to get into Professor Quirrell's office and make off with a rather important piece of parchment?"

Harry froze. How did McGonagall know? And why now, when they'd been clear for a month? Shouldn't the Dungbombs have been found a few days after the twins had dropped them, if at all? Why had they only turned up today, of all days? And how in Merlin's name could McGonagall possibly know, a month after the fact, that it had been Fred and George's doing? Something was definitely fishy here.

Fred seemed to have reached the same conclusion. "Professor, I think we're being set up," he said dramatically. "We never snuck into Quirrell's office. And while we have, admittedly, been known to use Dungbombs on occasion —"

"— how could you possibly know that particular incident was our doing?" George finished.

"I have been informed by Professor Quirrell that he glimpsed two red-headed students hastily making an exit when he went to investigate on the day in question. Until the Dungbombs were found, however, we could not prove any mischief on your part." She looked down her glasses sternly at them. "Ordinarily this would not be such an issue, but it so happens that the parchment that is missing from Professor Quirrell's office contained some extremely sensitive and valuable information, and he would like to have it back."

The twins exchanged glances but said nothing. McGonagall sighed.

"Very well. If you would come with me, please, both of you…"

Without so much as a backwards glance, Fred and George morosely followed after her.

"Oh, this is not good — not good, not good," Hermione muttered anxiously.

"It's got Quirrell written all over it," Harry agreed. Somehow the evil teacher had figured out that Fred and George were involved in the invasion of his office — indeed, Harry realised guiltily, it was only because of the twins that he and his friends weren't caught in the act. Fred and George were essentially taking the fall for what had been Harry's idea in the first place. And the twins didn't have the parchment of runes — he'd given that to Draco — would McGonagall punish them if they couldn't produce it? And what about Draco? Harry suddenly thought with a stab of apprehension. If Quirrell found out that Draco had the parchment, would the Slytherin be in trouble too?

"Fred and George had the Map," Ron hissed. "How are we going to watch Quirrell now?"

Harry glanced a his watch. It was eight o'clock. "We'll go back to the common room and wait for the twins to come back," he decided. "McGonagall won't keep them past curfew, I don't think."

So they went. They parked themselves in one of the large armchairs by the fire (Ron sat on the seat while Harry and Hermione each took one of the arms) and waited nervously for the Weasley twins to return.

But as the minutes ticked away, neither Fred nor George clambered through the portrait hole, which worried them all greatly. Harry tried to keep from overreacting, but his thoughts were running a mile a minute and his scar was burning in warning. McGonagall would never harm her students, but what if Quirrell had done something to make sure the twins couldn't talk? He had to know that they suspected him, if he'd gone to such lengths to get them out of the way before he tried to steal the Stone. The alternative, non-Quirrell explanation — that McGonagall had assigned Fred and George detention that night — wasn't much better. If they were sent into the Forbidden Forest like Harry, Ron, and Draco had been, they might meet Voldemort himself!

At ten o'clock, Lee Jordan came over to them with a small frown on his face. "Have you seen Fred or George?"

"They're with McGonagall," Ron answered. "She caught them for a prank."

"Oh." All traces of concern vanished from Lee's face. "Must be a late-night detention, then. They haven't had one of those in a while — it was bound to catch up." He grinned, already making his way up the stairs to the boys' dorm. "Goodnight!"

The only other person who spoke to them was Percy, at eleven-thirty. "Go to bed," he said firmly.

"We will, in a bit," said Harry.

Percy frowned at them disapprovingly. "I hope you three aren't plotting another midnight excursion. Gryffindor can't afford to lose anymore points."

"We aren't planning anything," Ron said irritably. "Goodnight."

Percy sniffed and went up, leaving them alone in the common room.

Hermione flicked her eyes to the grandfather clock. "Quarter to midnight. What now?"

Harry exhaled slowly. Quirrell would be heading for the trapdoor soon, if he hadn't already. "There's no help for it,"he said slowly. "We'll have to try and get the Stone first." He saw Ron and Hermione's horrified expressions and he added, "Look, we don't have a choice. Snape and Dumbledore aren't here — we tried telling McGonagall — we used the Marauders' Map as long as we could — and Fred and George got caught. This is our last resort."

"You could be expelled," said Hermione.

"You could be killed," said Ron.

"So what?" Harry challenged, surprising himself by his calmness. "If Quirrell gets the Stone, Voldemort's coming back. Haven't you heard what it was like when he was trying to take over? People dying left, right, and centre; constant attacks without warning; torture and fear and pureblood mania…nowhere would be safe! Voldemort killed my parents, remember?" And if he comes back, he might very well kill my new family too. "I may not be able to stop him from returning, but I have to try."

Hermione bit her lip. "Do you have a plan?"

"Sort of. I'll use my Invisibility Cloak." He looked at his friends. "If you two don't want to come with me, I understand. But I'm going."

Ron snorted. "Oh, come off it, mate, you don't seriously think we'd let you go alone? The Cloak should fit all three of us, yeah?"

Harry grinned. "I don't see why not." Despite the danger, knowing he had his friends' support made him feel lighter. "It fit two of us and a dragon crate, after all."

"You'd better go get it now," Hermione advised. "We have to get going."

"Right." Harry dashed up the stairs to his dorm, passed the sleeping forms of Neville, Seamus, and Dean, and retrieved his Invisibility Cloak and Hagrid's flute from the bottom of his trunk. Only then did he notice the white owl sitting patiently on his bedside table. "Hedwig, what are you doing here?"

She reached out her leg to offer him the small note tied to it. It was from Draco, naturally. Uncharacteristically, the writing was shaky and cramped, as if Draco had been in a massive rush.

Figured out that parchment you gave me. It isn't what you think it is. Need to meet you tomorrow to discuss! — H

Harry blinked. Draco had actually managed to decode the runes?

The next second, he shook his head. Those runes were moot now, weren't they? And he wasn't even sure if he'd still be around tomorrow. That was a sobering thought. It occurred to Harry that Draco should know what he was up to, so he could alert Snape if he didn't come back. He turned the parchment over and quickly scrawled a brief message.

H, I'm going to see Fluffy tonight. Q's trying for the thing. I have to try to stop him. Will do my best to make it out in one piece. — Z

He wanted to say a lot more — after all, there was a chance he would die tonight — but he couldn't risk putting too much detail, even in a note that Hedwig would guard jealously.

"Make sure he gets that, okay?" he said to Hedwig as he attached it to her leg. His owl hooted solemnly; he fondly ruffled her feathers.

Then, without looking back, he marched out of the dorm and back down to the common room. Ron and Hermione were waiting for him, serious and ready.

"Let's go."

"Who dares approach?"

The voice was raspy, ethereal, but it still held a hint of the power that it had once commanded. To the young man, that in itself was remarkable — that a disembodied spirit, barely alive, could still hold on to a semblance of its former glory. Voldemort had been the greatest Dark Lord to ever live — his power had been such that the young man was convinced he had not been completely destroyed that fateful Halloween night. If Voldemort could gain strength and rise again, and if he was the one who helped him accomplish that…he was sure he would be favoured beyond measure.

"I come to volunteer my service, my Lord," said the young man.

There was a pause.

"Come closer," the voice demanded.

Trembling with both excitement and fear, the young man stepped forward until he was almost directly in front of the hole in the tree. From here, he could just make out two glowing red eyes from within the darkness of the hole.

"You are not one of my Death Eaters."

"No, my Lord. I am merely someone who was awed by your power and wished to emulate you."

"Was?" the voice repeated.

"Was, and am," the young man said smoothly. "I could not think that one of your great abilities had truly succumbed to a simple baby. I was determined to find you."

"And how did you find me?"

"It was not easy, my Lord. I had to gather what little information I could — there were so many conflicting reports. I tried to wheedle news out of Dumbledore —"

There was a sharp hiss. "You are close to Albus Dumbledore?"

"I work at Hogwarts, my Lord. But I am not Dumbledore's man," he said firmly. "But my position grants me access to much information that I believe could be of great use to you, my Lord."

Another pause, this time even longer than the first. The young man felt sweat beading on his brow.

"Tell me," the voice said finally, "why do you wish to serve me?"

They met no one on their long trek to the third floor, which Harry was thankful for. Three people huddled under a cloak navigating down four flights of stairs was a challenge in itself — it was just as well that there was no Peeves or Mrs. Norris to startle them and make them lose their footing.

At last they reached the third floor corridor, where the forbidden door was already ajar. Harry's heart sank.

"Oh, no," Hermione said in dismay.

Surprisingly, Ron was the one who urged them forward. "Come on, we still have a chance to stop him — he has to be slowed down by all the booby traps."

Harry paused before pushing the door open all the way. Ron and Hermione had never seen Fluffy, and he didn't want them to panic.

"Fair warning," he told them, "Fluffy is huge. But remember what Hagrid said — any music and he goes right to sleep." He pulled out Hagrid's flute. "Just don't lose your head."

He opened the door.

Three heads swivelled in their direction, three noses sniffed the air. Six eyes roved around, attempting to spot the source of the new smell.

"Blimey…" whispered Ron, while Hermione muffled a squeak.

Harry lifted the flute to his lips and started blowing, trying to remember the rudimentary music lessons Narcissa had started him on before it became apparent that he had no interest in learning to play an instrument. Then, it had seemed like a waste of time, but now he wished he'd paid more attention to music theory, because the notes coming out of the flute now didn't sound like any sort of tune at all.

It was melodious enough for Fluffy, though. The enormous dog's eyelids began to droop, then closed completely, and then its gently swaying legs buckled and it slumped to the floor, fast asleep.

Harry kept playing. Ron cautiously crept to the trap door and pulled it open.

"It's just a dark hole," he reported. "Completely black, I can't see anything — doesn't look like there's anything to climb, either — we'll have to drop." He set his jaw. "If I die, don't follow, all right?"

Before either Harry or Hermione could protest, he'd jumped. A moment later his voice floated out the hole. "It's okay! It's a soft landing! Feels like some sort of plant…"

Harry waved for Hermione to go, and then he followed, playing until he reached the hole and then jumping down the minute he stopped.

"What kind of plant is this?" Harry wondered, studying the creeping vines that spread all over the floor.

"Ron!"

At Hermione's cry, Harry looked up to see Ron being strangled by the same vines Harry had just been observing. More vines crept around Hermione and Harry himself.

"Get…it…off!" Ron was gasping, but the more he struggled, the tighter the plant wrapped around him. Harry reached for the tendrils around his neck and tried to pull them off.

"It's Devil's Snare!" Hermione exclaimed.

"How do we stop it?" Harry demanded, trying to keep the plant from cutting off Ron's air supply altogether while struggling to remain free himself.

"I'm trying to think…it likes the dark and damp…"

"Light a fire, then!"

"But — there's no wood!"

"You don't need wood! Use your wand!" Harry yelled. He would have reached for his own wand, but his hands were now firmly stuck next to Ron's throat.

"Oh, right!" Hermione just managed to pull out her wand before her arms were pinned, and she conjured her bluebell flames. The Devil's Snare shrank back from the warmth and light and crawled away. Ron gratefully gasped in large mouthfuls of air as he massaged his neck.

"'There's no wood'?" he said incredulously to Hermione. "Seriously?"

"Shut up," said Hermione.

"Come on, this way." Harry pointed down a stone passageway, and they proceeded.

"I believe in your cause, my Lord," the young man said fervently. "You fight for those who are maligned and oppressed by a system which gives increasingly more rights to those who have no business in our world. You see the rot which has set in, and you wish to ensure that wizards and witches are secure in a new world order that will be safe from all Muggle threats."

"Very eloquently put, young one," rasped the voice. "Why do you believe in my cause?"

The young man's eyes glinted. "The Ministry of Magic are bumbling fools. Cornelius Fudge is Minister, and I've heard news that the Ministry intends to launch a series of initiatives designed to be 'more inclusive' for Muggleborns and their relatives." He did absolutely nothing to mask the utter disgust he felt at the idea. "They will receive greater rights, more social status, more political power and influence — merely because they are 'the underprivileged minority'. Meanwhile, everything that makes us special — our history, our heritage, our long association with magic — will count for nothing."

The disembodied voice hissed in anger. "This kind of flawed thinking is exactly what I strove against."

"Precisely, my Lord. You can understand why I wished to seek you out. It took me years, but once I had narrowed your location to Albania, I applied for a sabbatical to find you."

"You are dedicated indeed. You are willing to do what I cannot yet do for myself?"

"And more, my Lord. If you accept my service, I vow to help you regain your strength and power. I will help you rise again."

"And what do you hope for in return? I do not think you offer this out of pure altruism."

"My Lord's favour and goodwill is enough for me," the young man said humbly. "I know my Lord is generous to those who serve him faithfully and succeed in the tasks they are set."

"Ah, I see," the voice noted astutely. "You wish for a place of honour in my inner circle."

"My Lord is wise."

The silence that followed seemed endlessly long to the young man, punctuated by streaks of lightning and the loudest claps of thunder yet. The slightest drizzle started to fall.

"Yes…" the voice said at last, contemplatively. "Yes, I believe…this could be beneficial…for both of us."

After passing through a room of charmed, flying keys — one of which unlocked the door they had to get through — and tiptoeing past a sleeping troll, the three young adventurers came to a giant chessboard. Behind the chessboard was another door.

"I reckon we'll have to play to get through," Ron observed.

"How?" Hermione asked, nervously eyeing the blank faces of the huge chess pieces.

"I think we'll have to become chessmen." Ron tentatively placed a hand on one of the black knights. At his touch, it came to life. The horse clipped its hooves on the board while the helmeted knight turned to look at Ron. "Er — do we have to join you to get across?"

The knight nodded impassively.

"Right…this needs thinking about…" Ron's brow creased in thought as he studied the board. Harry and Hermione stayed silent, recognising the face Ron made whenever he was contemplating a game of wizard's chess."Now, don't get offended or anything, but neither of you are really good at chess —"

"We're not offended," Harry said quickly. Ron had trounced both of them and many others in Gryffindor Tower often enough for him to realise that the redhead was a gifted strategist. If anyone had a chance of playing a successful game against these intimidating chessmen, it was Ron. "Just tell us what to do."

"Okay, Harry, you take the place of that bishop over there, and Hermione, you become the castle next to him. I'll take this knight."

As he spoke, the three pieces he'd named walked off the board. Following Ron's lead, Harry and Hermione took their places on the vacant squares.

"White starts first," said Ron. On cue, one of the white pawns moved forward. "Okay, let's do this."

What followed was the tensest game of chess Harry had ever participated in. He had total faith in Ron's tactical ability, but it was still a shock whenever any of their black pieces were taken off the board. The white pieces were brutally efficient, swinging heavy blows that broke the stone they were made of. Harry wondered why none of the pieces had had so much as a crack initially, if Quirrell had already passed through.

"Harry, not there!" Ron's urgent shout broke through his reverie, making him jump.

"What? Didn't you say —"

"Two squares front left, Harry, not back left. Back left would put you right in front of their castle."

Harry saw the white rook standing ominously straight across from where he'd been about to step. "Oh." Suppressing a shiver, he moved to the correct square.

"We're nearly there," muttered Ron. "Let me think, let me think…" He scanned the remaining pieces on the board. The white queen turned to face him. "Yes…" he murmured. "It's the only way…"

"Ron?" Hermione asked anxiously.

"I've got to let her take me."

"What?!"exclaimed Harry. "No!"

"That's chess!" Ron shot at him. "You've got to make sacrifices! I take one step forward and she'll take me — that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!"

"But —"

"You have to stop Quirrell — we can't let You-Know-Who win!"

Harry bit his lip. Ron was right. They'd already spent quite a while playing this game — if Quirrell had found a way to cross the room without playing, as Harry suspected, he had extended his head start.

"Ron — don't die," he said seriously.

Ron grinned weakly. "I'll do my best. Ready?" He was pale, but he straightened his shoulders bravely. "Now, don't hang around once you've won, all right?"

Shaking only a little, he boldly strode into the white queen's path. Hermione screamed as the queen whacked him across the head with her stone arm and dragged his limp form to one side.

"Don't!" Harry warned as Hermione made to move towards Ron. "We're still playing!" He took three steps and stood right in front of the white king, who had not moved throughout the game. "Checkmate!"

The white king took off his crown and threw it down; it landed around a cringing Harry. As one, the remaining chessmen bowed, and then walked off the board, leaving the way to the door clear.

"We should check on Ron —" Hermione began hesitantly.

"No time!" Harry's scar was searing itself into his forehead by now; it was all he could do not to yell out in pain. "Come on!"

He tugged Hermione with him through the door and up the passageway. Just as they reached a row of bottles on a table, purple flames sprang up behind them, blocking the way back. At the same time, black fire sprouted behind the table, preventing them from moving forward.

"We're trapped!" Harry exclaimed.

Hermione spied the roll of parchment in front of the bottles and grabbed it.

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, which ever you would find,
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker back instead,
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,
Three of us are killers, waiting bidden in line.
Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;
Second, different are those who stand at either end,
But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;
Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

"It's a riddle," said Hermione with a smile.

"Is that a good thing?"

"Yes. Give me a minute." She paced back and forth along the row of bottles, referring frequently to the riddle and pointing at different ones. At last she snapped her fingers.

"Got it. That one will take you forward, through the black fire." She pointed at the smallest bottle. Harry picked it up and shook it critically.

"I don't think that's enough for both of us." The tiny bottle, though full, held barely one swallow; once again, it was clear that Quirrell had not participated in the task in order to move forward. Harry was seriously beginning to think he was missing something vital here — how had Quirrell bypassed these traps?

"It's not." Hermione was holding another, slightly larger bottle. "This one will get us back through the purple fire."

"You drink that," Harry said at once. "Listen — go back, get Ron — use the brooms from the flying key room to get back up to the trapdoor and past Fluffy — then go get McGonagall or Flitwick — hell, even Snape might be back by now — and tell them I'm here. I'll go forward and do my best to hold back Quirrell, but I don't think I can stall him for long."

Hermione looked at him with wide, terrified eyes. "Harry, what if You-Know-Who's with him?"

The thought had crossed Harry's mind, and he wasn't keen on facing Voldemort at all — but he was determined to see this through. "Well…I got lucky once, didn't I?" He pointed at his scar and smiled humourlessly. "Maybe I'll get lucky again."

Hermione's lip quivered, and she flung her arms around him. "Oh, Harry, be careful!"

Harry — who, like any eleven-year-old boy, had absolutely no idea what to do when a female suddenly hugged him — floundered his arms. "Er…ah…sure, Hermione, I'll be careful." He heaved a sigh of relief when Hermione let go. "Now drink the potion and go," he said urgently.

He waited until Hermione had disappeared through the purple flames before he gazed at the bottle in his own hand. Steeling himself, he uncorked it and gulped down its contents; it tasted horribly bitter.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered.

Then he walked through the black flames.

The young man found a suitable receptacle and placed it in the tree hole. When the spirit of the Dark Lord was safely contained, he reverently removed the now-Dark object and hid it under his travelling cloak, where it brushed against his skin. The sudden surge of Dark magic through his body sent a thrill up his spine like he'd never felt before, and he revelled in the feel of it. Just the proximity to mere essence of the Dark Lord made him feel stronger, more powerful. He couldn't wait to know how it would feel to have a fully-risen Lord Voldemort standing next to him.

With the spirit of Voldemort, the young man travelled back to England, where he placed the receptacle in a hollow tree in the Forbidden Forest. While his presence was often required at the Hogwarts castle during late summer as the teachers prepared for the new school year, he visited his new Lord frequently, and together, they made plans for his return.

Then the young man heard that the Philosopher's Stone was going to be brought to Hogwarts. He was excluded from the staff meeting in which this was discussed — Dumbledore had selected only certain professors to reveal the secret to — but he still found out about it, from the weakest of the teachers involved. A simple Memory Charm later, and the victim never even realised that he'd betrayed Dumbledore's trust.

The young man wasted no time in relaying the news to his Lord, and on Voldemort's orders, he made an unsuccessful attempt to snatch the treasure from Gringotts before it was taken to Hogwarts. The Dark Lord was not pleased, but he admitted he had not truly expected that the gamble would pay off. They would have to find a way to remove the Stone from Hogwarts and the protections it would no doubt be surrounded by.

A new plan was concocted. The Philosopher's Stone would accelerate Voldemort's return; it was a golden opportunity, not to be missed. But in order for their plan to work, a closer association was required. When the Dark Lord informed him that he would have to possess him in order to ensure that the delicate details were successfully implemented, the young man hesitated for only a second before willingly offering his body.

They performed the ritual at midnight during the last full moon before the school term began. The process was painful, but when it was over, the young man found that the feeling of Dark power he experienced whenever he was near his Lord had intensified tenfold now that he was carrying Voldemort's spirit in his body. Moreover, he now shared his mind with his Lord — they could read each other's thoughts, and thus he was aware that the Dark Lord considered his devoted service to be exemplary and worthy of favour.

It was glorious. It was exciting beyond words.

It was also miserable.

Now that they were inhabiting the same body, the young man discovered that any negative feelings Voldemort had adversely affected him too. He received his first taste of this when Harry Potter showed up; the Dark Lord in his mind raged at the sight of the child who had defeated him, and the pain in the young man's head had been unendurable. It was all he could do to keep from exploding at Potter every time he was in his class until Voldemort learned to temper his instinctual response. It was not yet time to make their move, but Harry Potter had to go.

The first time he failed to kill Potter was the first time he failed his Lord. Voldemort exacted punishment, and the young man learned that his new master was cruel and unforgiving. Yet, his suffering only strengthened his determination to kill the Potter brat — but the infuriating Snape was blocking his every move, practically unknowingly. It frustrated both the young man and the Dark Lord, but their plan for the Philosopher's Stone proceeded with only the barest impediments.

And then, finally, when the time was ripe, they struck.

Harry approached the next chamber with a mix of dread, anxiety, determination, and as much courage as he had. His scar and his gut were telling him this was the last room; his head was pounding, his heart was hammering against his ribs, and his hands were clammy. With a final dash, he rounded the corner…and stopped dead in his tracks.

The scene in front of him simultaneously fulfilled and defied anything he'd ever expected to find at the end of this crazy journey. Quirrell was there, and he was not alone — but the other person in the room wasn't Voldemort. Harry didn't have the faintest idea what Voldemort looked like, but he knew for a fact that he wasn't the dark-skinned, solemn-looking, angular-faced man with the familiar wizard's hat.

For, standing opposite Quirrell with his wand drawn, was none other than Hogwarts' Astronomy Professor: Auric Sinistra.