Yes. Another Post.

One chapter and an epilogue after this.

Thanks to all of you that read.

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Chapter 39: A Fateful Encounter.

Harry descended the steps.

The man was – or had been – Quirrell. He turned as Harry approached.

The sight of him made Harry pause.

His ever-present turban was a burned ruin, his face singed and blistered and agonisingly thin. The wand in what remained of his right hand was cracked and trailed a thin stream of smoke from its broken tip.

"Mr P-Potter." He said, taking a lurching, limping step forward. As he spoke, his lip split and blood ran freely down his shirt.

The prickling in his scar had lessened as Quirrell had turned.

"Hello Professor." Harry said. "Welcome back."

Quirrell tried to smile but winced as his lip cracked again. "I half-expected someone to c-come here. I should ha-have known it-it-it would be you."

Harry stopped several metres away from Quirrell: the smell of burned cloth and meat were too strong to bear. "What're you doing here?"

"I-I should think that it-it's pretty obvious by now, Potter."

Harry's fist clenched tighter around his wand. "You killed that centaur?"

Quirrell shrugged. "I have killed dozens. I needed a decoy."

Something clicked into place in Harry's head. "You're the one who has been living in the forest, aren't you? Feeding off the unicorns."

Quirrell nodded, wincing from time to time in pain. "Ever since I… educated my jailors in St. M-Mungos. I took this wand and c-came here. The unicorn blood made me strong."

"You don't look very strong."

Quirrell winced again. "I had to be strong. B-Breaking all those enchantments was… difficult. B-but he will reward me for my service. He will restore me, when he rises."

"He?" Harry asked.

Quirrell nodded. "My master. None have served as I h-have." He paused, resting his good hand on his knees and almost doubling-over in pain.

"Who is?" Harry started, but froze, his limbs locking rigid where he stood. Ahead, Quirrell's smoking wand had flashed out and the incantation had been faster than Harry could imagine possible.

"Yes, my master." Quirrell said, standing again and groaning with pain. "Stand still, Potter. I'll be done here soon."

Harry tried to respond, but his jaw and lips were solid. Quirrell turned back to the mirror and Harry's scar flared back into the fizzing sensation, then progressed into a prickling like pins and needles.

"The mirror. I overheard Dumbledore and Snape discussing this."

"Destroying this is not an option." Came another voice, higher and muffled almost beyond comprehension. "You must discover what the old man did here."

Quirrell nodded, not surprised by the strange, almost alien voice. He walked, taking painful, lurching steps around the mirror.

As he moved from between Harry and the mirror, Harry saw his own reflection in its surface just for a moment before the glass rippled like water, distorting.

It resolved a few seconds later, revealing Harry surrounded by people. He was smiling and so were they, hugging and kissing him, shaking his hand and patting his shoulders. He could see himself reflected in them; that man had his messy hair, that woman his eyes and the old man at the back was almost as Skinny as Harry himself.

Family. Harry thought as a single tear rolled from each of his eyes.

The image changed and Harry saw – just for the smallest of moments – what looked like Hogwarts on fire against a black sky. It changed again, revealing Harry again, this time with a strange red stone in his free hand.

Then there was something in his hand, something sharp and angular, but strangely warm and yielding it seemed to pour warmth into him.

His scar exploded with pain as Quirrell came back around the mirror, his back to Harry.

Something shifted inside him, as if triggered by the pain and he fell, limbs and mouth loose again. He cried out in shock as he hit the floor.

"What?" Shouted Quirrell, turning back to Harry. "Potter?" He shook his head and wiped blood from his mouth and raised his wand again. "I apologise, my master. I must be weakened. Petrificus totalus."

Harry, the pain in his scar lessened again, felt energy wash over him and his libs stiffen momentarily. But the spell didn't take, dissipating through himself. He was somehow cool and calm. He remained where he was, trying to remain as still as possible.

He had fallen with the hand holding the stone beneath him. It felt like a soft, warm light, strangely comforting like the sensation of turning over a pillow in the morning for just another few minutes asleep.

The spell hadn't taken. He had a chance.

"Right," Said Quirrell, turning back to the mirror, "how do I get the stone?"

The stone? Harry thought, squeezing the thing in his hand. Quickly, he tucked it up inside his sleeve, tucking it away and hoping it would stay in place.

He breathed, focussing on his power, trying to remain calm. He had to make Quirrell think that he was paralysed. For as long as possible.

He remained there, as still as he could be, for what felt like hours.

Later, after much cursing and whining in pain, Quirrell's footsteps stopped. "I cannot do it, Master. All I see in the mirror is myself. I am whole and healed, though."

The voice came back then. "It has to be here. Some enchantment in the mirror itself. Get the boy, see if he can unlock it somehow."

"Master, I."

"Do as I command!" He voice shrieked. "I will bolster you in this."

"Master, you cannot." Quirrell simpered.

"I have strength enough for this. Show him to me."

Quirrell wielded his wand and cried out a stifled gasp of pain. Harry was lifted from the ground and turned to face the mad former teacher. He wasn't paralysed and had no way of holding his position, so he tried go and remain as limp as possible without losing his grip on his wand.

Quirrell had his back to him and reached up, starting to unwind his blackened, shredded turban. It took every shred of self-control Harry had to not scream at what was revealed when the ruined cloth fell away.

There was a face, an awful, misshapen face, on the back of Quirrell's head. It was smaller than a normal face, chalk white and bony thin with red eyes and slits for nostrils.

And Harry knew it. It was a face he had seen in his darkest nightmares – one surrounded by bright green light and screams.

"Harry Potter…" the face said.

Harry couldn't respond, he was stunned and horrified beyond words.

"You have no greeting for your enemy?" It said, its slit mouth pulling into a sour grin, revealing long, thin, pointed teeth.

"Y-you…" Harry said.

"Yes, me. You cost me everything, boy. I was the greatest, the most feared and powerful wizard in a thousand years."

"Master!" Quirrell cried out.

"Silence, fool!" the face snarled, and Quirrell screamed, falling to his knees.

"You see what I have become, Harry Potter?" the face asked. "I am naught but a shadow, a thing of spirit disembodied and left to scrounge out a meagre existence, feeding off the essences of lesser beings. I have ridden this… thing since I met him far away from here. This is what I am reduced to. Because of you."

The hate in the voice was awful.

"Voldemort." Harry said.

"Lord Voldemort!" The face roared, making Quirrell scream again. "The likes of you may not speak my name! You will open the mirror, do whatever it takes. I will have that stone!"

The memory of the green light, of the fury and the years spent at the Dursleys', a life without his parents and all the lies and mystery suddenly surged inside him. The familiar rage swept through him – hot and cold at the same time.

"You go to hell!" he screamed, flailing against the spell holding him in the air. He swung his wand up, the pushing technique Shacklebolt had taught him leaping into his mind.

Quirrel and Voldemort both screamed, the former in agony and the latter in rage.

"Get him!" Voldemort roared.

Quirrell turned, crying tears of agony and lunged for Harry, pulling him toward him with his wand.

Harry kicked out at Quirrell, connecting with his already bleeding mouth and knocking loose a tooth that flew and skittered across the floor.

Quirrell's drain ravaged face split like an overripe fruit. He screamed and grabbed Harry around the throat.

Somewhere a thousand miles away, someone was screaming his name.

Expecting pain, Harry felt a surging cold, like it was rushing out from his core. What was left behind was a hollow, ringing emptiness.

Quirrell screamed so loud and hard that it hurt Harry's ears. It was the noise of a wounded animal, of a mother that had lost a child, of those trapped in the headlights of an oncoming runaway car. He recoiled and the smell of cooking meat filled the air around them.

Voldemort was saying something, but it was lost under the noise of Quirrell's screams.

The broken man felt to the ground looking at his hands. They were black and split and Harry watched with a horrified fascination as they curled like burning leaves.

Harry! Harry! Came screams from far away.

"Get him you fool!" Voldemort screamed.

Eyes rolling, broken mouth sagging open, Quirrell rose to his feet, pushing himself up on hands that crumbled like wood ash beneath him. He staggered toward Harry again, screaming incoherently.

Harry understood nothing of what was happening. He felt nothing for the ruined man that was running toward him. On instinct, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed Quirrell by the face while stabbing at his belly with his wand.

Quirrell screamed again and Harry felt more of the cold rush out of him, emptying his body and mind.

The spell holding him in the air broke and he fell, feeling a sudden dull snapping somewhere in his body as he hit the floor.

He looked up and saw Quirrell's ruined face falling apart. A shadow, grey and red swirled from him as he disintegrated.

Numb, Harry tried to stand, feeling a distant agony shoot through his whole body.

All that remained of Quirrell was a crumpled mass of robes and shoes. Harry cuffed away a drop of something hot and sticky as it ran into his eye.

The stone lay next to him and Harry reached out with trembling fingers for it. It warmed his hand as he lifted it, glinting strange red light all around it. He tried to lit the stone, to put it in his pocket for safekeeping, but his arm wouldn't move.

"Harry!" Came the voices again, sounding less far away this time. He absently wondered if they belonged to the people he had seen in the mirror.

The feeling of being watched had passed, along with the sensation of being in two places at once. The shadow creature was gone. Voldemort was gone.

The feeling of cold water running down the back of his skull made him shudder and the world became hazy. He fell back on the ground, hearing a loud crack as he fell into darkness.

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