Ron and Hermione burst through the fire, wands at the ready. Their eyes goggled comically as soon as they laid eyes on Quirrell, de-turbaned and wand at the ready. Without speaking, each ran in separate directions, aiming for the nooks in the walls that might offer some semblance of cover. Their youthful bravado, however, was quickly doused by Quirrell's frosty reception.
"Locomotor Mortis" He cast calmly, as a blue-white light shot from his wand to shoot directly into Ron's chest. Ron's legs, halfway through his stride, locked up, and he crashed into the ground, skidding several paces as his wand went flying from his grip.
Hermione was no more fortunate. She made it several steps further than Ron, before being blasted off of her feet by a stupefy. She flew backwards, her head cracking resoundingly on the stone floor.
Harry did not let the distraction go to waste. His wand tracing the requisite path in the air in front of him, Harry tried the first spell that came to mind.
"Stupefy!" He cast triumphantly, a smile already forming on his lips as he waited for Quirrell to fall.. Instead of the normal surge of power he was used to, however, Harry felt only a weak thud, as if he had very gently walked into a brick wall. A weak red light spat from the tip of his wand, neatly hitting Quirrell in his stomach. But he did not fly back, concussed. Instead, he was merely forced a step back, as the spell broke over him like water on a rock.
Harry, dumbfounded, stared at Quirrell for a moment, goggling at the sight. A strange weariness filled his limbs, making him feel leaden and weak. The hours of spellcasting, running, and general death-defying feats had once again taken their toll. He was completely and utterly drained.
But he wasn't going to go down without a fight.
Using the slight advantage he'd gained by putting Quirrell off balance, Harry charged full tilt at the Professor, forcing his exhausted body into a final spurt of energy.
As if in slow motion, Harry saw Quirrell's wand flick towards him, an incantation already on the tip of the man's tongue. Neatly, Harry feinted one way, before stepping the other. His mind registered a red light fly past his head, right where he would have been. Then, suddenly, time regained its lost constancy.
Bodily, Harry slammed into his target, his meagre frame impacting with just enough force to throw them both to the ground. Screams immediately began echoing around the small chamber as Quirrell's flesh began to melt away into wafting plumes of steam, which pooled under the roof of the chamber in eddying waves.
As his head exploded with white-hot pain, Harry desperately clawed at Quirrell's eyes, fighting for any advantage he could glean in this uneven battle. His valiant attempts, however, were all in vain against the strength of his opponent. From his back, Quirrell easily batted away Harry's hands. Then, balling his hand into a fist, he threw it at Harry's face.
Harry felt his nose crunch, and his vision went blurry as his glasses fell away and his eyes filled with tears.
Disoriented, he was no match for the vastly more powerful Quirrell, who kicked off the infuriating child, before scrambling away, his hands already beginning to blister.
"What…what have you DONE!" He screamed furiously, a voice a high pitched whine of pain and anger. His wand, held in his hideously burnt hand, turned to aim at Harry as he searched on his hands and knees for his glasses, which lay beside him.
"Avada Keda-"
"No!" Voldemort thundered, silencing his host. "We need the boy, you fool!"
"But master, it burns!" Quirrell mewled piteously, his wand hand trembling as it followed the movements of the slowly recovering Harry.
"Silence! I care not for your trifling pains. Restore me to my body, and you will be rewarded with riches and power beyond measure."
A slightly faraway look filled Quirrell's eyes for a moment as he considered his master's wise words. "But master, how do I make the boy find the stone? I cannot touch him." He croaked, trying not to cry as the blisters on his hand and waist began to throb painfully.
"No…" Voldemort mused, a cruel smirk on his face. "His friends, however…"
Quirrell's eyes widened, and he straightened, his pain momentarily forgotten.
"Yes master, of course!" He turned from the prone Harry, and walked over to where Ron and Hermione lay. Ron looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes as he placed himself between Hermione's unconscious body and the menacing madman.
"D-don't touch her!" He shouted angrily as he tried fruitlessly to pull himself towards his wand using his hands. "Or I'll-"
Quirrell kicked his wand away. "Or what, Mr. Weasley? You think you can take p-p-poor, stuttering p-p-professor Quirrell?" He mocked. "Oh, it would be a joy to dispose of you, boy. Perhaps it will teach your brothers a lesson.
"The boy is recovering." Voldemort warned, his position on the back of Quirrell's head giving him prime position to see Harry force himself to his feet, his hand clasped to his scar.
Quirrell whipped around, his wand already casting as he turned. "Petrificus Totalus!"
A green light shot from the end of his wand, and hit Harry in the stomach. Immediately, the boy froze up, and fell back to the floor.
"Not so fast, Potter. My master is not finished with you yet." Quirrell leered at the prone student, squatting down so the immobile Harry could see his face. "Potter, I expect you want your friends to live, yes?" Clearly taking Harry's enforced silence as an affirmative, he moved on. "Well then, the choice is simple. Your friend's lives, for the stone." Reaching down, Quirrell grabbed Harry's wand up from the floor, stowing it in his robe. "And if you even make so much of a move towards me, Potter, I'll execute your friends, the redhead first, and make you watch."
Ron let out a small eek from behind them.
Quirrell ignored the noise, and instead brought his wand up. He muttered something Harry couldn't hear, whilst waving his wand in the air. Then, wonderfully, Harry felt the power of movement flood back into his limbs, pushing out the cold pins and needles that had taken hold of him. Cautiously, he stood back up, his eyes trained on Quirrell's wand. Could he rush him, and try to catch him off guard? And could it be done before Quirrell got a spell off at either him or one of his companions? After a moment of consideration, Harry shelved the idea. The odds were not in his favour.
"You do realise, of course, that after I get the Stone for you, you'll have no reason not to kill me?" Harry warned, looking warily at Quirrell.
"Why Potter," The voice in the back of Quirrell's head spoke. "Why ever would I do that?"
"Because you hate me." Harry stated flatly, in no mood to play games. "What do I have to guarantee you'll do as you say?" He reasoned, trying to stall.
"Why, is my word not enough?" The dark lord replied silkily from behind Quirrell.
"Harry, don't give him the Stone!" Ron cried weakly from behind them.
Quirrell turned furiously on the redhead. "Be silent on matters upon which you are of no import, boy." He demanded. "Silencio!"
With Ron safely silenced and out of the way, Quirrell turned back to Harry. "Enough stalling." He spat. "Go to the mirror. Bring me that Stone."
Reluctantly, Harry turned and slowly tread towards the strange mirror, petulantly dragging his steps across the stone. Voldemort and his crony just patiently watched on, ignoring Harry's attempts at timewasting.
"Stare into the mirror." Voldemort commanded. "and tell me what you see."
What you see? Harry thought to himself incredulously. It's a mirror, what do they expect?
As he gazed into the mirror, at first it seemed his scepticism was accurate. He, as one would expect in a mirror, saw himself. Then, slowly, the scene changed. No longer was he bruised and battered, at the mercy of a merciless madman. No, he was…in Hogwarts. He saw his mirror-self unroll a newspaper. Emblazoned on the frontpage was the headline; Voldemort defeated by Boy-Who-Lived! Britain saved!
Real-Harry recoiled at the sight, but couldn't bring himself to look away. What was this mirror? Was this real? Was this a glimpse of the future?
Then, mirror-Harry was joined by another. A teenager, clearly recognisable as Ron Weasley entered the frame. The two shared a smile. The, Hermione was in the frame. Suddenly, there were a dozen people crowding around Harry, all smiling and talking happily. Harry recognised Percy Weasley, Neville, and…his heart sank as he saw Draco Malfoy, his father's cane in one hand, clap mirror-Harry on the back.
What was this sorcery? Why was this image being shown? Then, Harry's mind went blank as he saw a redheaded young woman, perhaps thirty, enter the frame, hand in hand with a man with messy, unruly black hair and glasses.
"The mirror shows us the deepest desire of our hearts." Quirrell explained smugly, as he watched the entranced boy reach out at the mirror. "I wonder what you see, Harry Potter."
Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. It wasn't real. Of course it wasn't. He had been foolish to think…no, they were never coming back.
"I'm sure it must be very heartwarming, Potter, but I'm afraid time is growing short." He pointed his wand at Ron, who just stared back at him defiantly. "You have ten seconds."
"Ten."
Harry tore himself from the mirror, and looked around the room. The stone. It had to be hidden somewhere.
"Nine."
Somewhere a dark wizard would never seek to look.
"Eight."
Harry's eyes returned to the mirror. It had to be the key. It had to!
"Seven."
Harry, consciously avoiding looking at the glass, reached for the sides of the mirror.
"Six."
Harry ran his fingers up and down the side of the mirror, looking for any hidden compartments of clues.
"Five."
Nothing. Changing tack, Harry looked at the glass.
"Four."
The image came into clarity again. But this time, it wasn't him in a chair. It was just..him. In a normal mirror. The chamber behind him, Quirrell with his wand pointed at Ron in the background. Surely there had to be something the picture. Something, anything! He had to save his friends. There had to be something he could do. He couldn't have just dragged them all this way just to send them to their deaths. He just couldn't have.
"Three."
"DO SOMETHING!" Harry screamed at the obstinate mirror. But it refused to budge. In fact, his reflection didn't even move.
"Two."
Then, the mirror-Harry smiled. Slowly, it reached his hand into his pocket. Then, a wide grin plastered on his face, he pulled out a blood-red stone.
The Philosopher's Stone.
"One."
He felt a weight in his pocket. He didn't know how, and at this point, he didn't care.
"I'VE GOT IT!" Harry roared in delight, whipping it out of his pocket just as Quirrell began to wave his wand at Ron.
Quirrell froze. "Master?" He asked, still looking at Ron.
Voldemort's red eyes bored into Harry's for a moment, as the face savoured the power he held over life and death. There was a deadly silence for a moment, and Harry held his breath.
"Well, I am a man of my word." Voldemort relented.
Quirrell turned towards Harry, his hand outstretched. "The Stone, Potter. Throw it to me."
"I'm not throwing a bloody priceless relic that my friend's lives depend on." Harry retorted as he took a step towards Quirrell.
"Don't!" Quirrell shouted fearfully, reflexively taking a step backwards as the all-too-fresh memories of his irreparably burnt skin surfaced.
"I'm just giving you the stone as you asked, Professor." Harry claimed reasonably, taking another step forward.
"Stop it Potter! I'm warning you!" Quirrell yelled, taking another step back.
"What are you doing, fool?!" Voldemort demanded.
"He's afraid to grab the Stone." Harry explained calmly, continuing his advance.
Quirrell took another step back, his wand still pointed at Harry as Voldemort let loose an apoplectic string of curses at his host.
Ron and Harry's eyes met. Ron nodded deliberately, before gesturing at Quirrell.
Harry stepped forward once again. But this time, he didn't talk. Instead, his arm drew back, winding up for a throw. Then, he released the stone, putting all his muscle behind it. Quirrell, still stepping backward, was caught off guard. Reflexively dropping his wand, the wizard put up both hands to catch the stone, which was flying directly at his head.
To his credit, the moderately athletic man caught the stone in both hands. Unfortunately, the impact of a hard, edged magical stone upon a horribly blistered hand was not a good combination.
Quirrell screamed in pain as the blisters on his hands burst, sending him stumbling backwards as he instinctively cradled his hands to his chest, the hard, sharp surface of the stone still cutting against his skin.
His stumble brought him within arm's length of one Ron Weasley.
Ron, from his prone position, threw his arms around Quirrell's legs, sending the man tumbling to the floor.
Harry wasted no time in enacting the improvised plan. Pushing his body to the edge of total exhaustion, he covered the dozen metres between him and the scrabbling pair of Quirrell and Ron in seconds.
Just as Quirrell shoved Ron off of him, Harry dove on top of the hapless professor, almost hugging him as he tried to make as much skin contact as possible. His head exploded with pain, and within a few moments there were only two things in the world; him and Quirrell, and only one thing that mattered; winning.
Despite spirited resistance, Harry clung on, his head pounding incessantly with waves of needle hot pain, digging into his skull. His vision began to dim, his glasses lost long ago. He was vaguely aware of a cacophony of noise around him, but his mind, battered by waves of pain, could make no sense of it. After what seemed like an eternity, Quirrell's resistance began to slacken. The pain lessened for a second.
"Get him away from it!" He heard a deep, old voice shout. Then, he felt himself being tugged away from Quirrell.
"No…I need to stop him….he'll kill them" Harry heard himself shout.. But it was no use. All he could feel was the burning pain in his scar, as his world went black.