The Best Revenge

Chapter 37

Susan had been quite badly hurt after the game, it transpired-so badly hurt that Madam Pomfrey had sent a message to her aunt, Amelia Bones. Susan's friends were only allowed to visit two at a time, and thus it was Harry and Hermione who met the Head of Magical Law Enforcement in the Hospital Wing on Sunday morning.

Madam Bones was too concerned about Susan's condition to do more than speak kindly to them, and express how glad she was that Susan had such good friends. It was clear from the part of the conversation the two youngsters overheard as they arrived that she understood that accidents happened all too often at quidditch games.

"But it's generally the players who are hurt-not little girls sitting in the stands! And I understand there was a scare about a troll not too long ago?"

At least Susan was awake and able to speak to them, though she was very groggy from the potions. She admired the cards they brought, and they admired the flowers on her bedside table.

"I'm going to miss the Explorers today," she told them sadly. "Madam Pomfrey won't let me leave."

"I should say not," said the mediwitch, very sternly. "No dancing for you, my girl. You're going to rest that head of yours. Now off with the two of you," she said, waving Hermione and Harry away. "My patient needs quiet."

They left, saying goodbye to Madam Bones, who was soon back in earnest conversation with Madam Pomfrey.

Harry remarked, "It's rotten luck, her being hurt like that."

Hermione shook her head. "It might not just have been luck. I could see Professor Quirrell during the game. I pretended to be reading-well, I was reading during most of the game-but when it was over and we were leaving I could see him quite clearly." She lowered her voice. "He was looking at the Bludger and his lips were moving."

Harry stopped in his tracks. "You think he jinxed it, then?"

Hermione considered, "Well, a lot of people were talking or yelling, but he didn't look frightened or excited. He looked like he was concentrating on something." She added, "I think he's horrible. I've never had a teacher who scared me before. He was just silly until the day he talked about muggles. That day I could see that he was scaring us because he liked it. I hate being in his class, Harry."

"We've got to do something about him," he growled. "I know Professor Snape is working on it, but this can't go on. Yesterday Susan was hurt. How long before something worse happens? I saw him with Professor Burbage the other night. She told him off right smart about Defense class, and then he tried to get her to go with him to his quarters. She might have done, too, but Professor Snape came along and got her away from there."

"They didn't see you?"

Still uneasy about telling anyone about his precious cloak, he just said, "I'm small enough to hide behind things."

"You should be very careful," Hermione lectured him. "Oh! And by the way, I've been trying to look up our Cerberus in the library, but so far nothing. I'm sure there would be something in the Restricted Section, though!"

On Sunday afternoon, the cat-so to speak-was away, and the Heads of Houses could meet behind Albus Dumbledore's back with some hope of secrecy.

They met in McGonagall's private quarters. In her spartan study there were no tattling portraits, thus allowing them to speak freely about the very unsatisfactory state of affairs at Hogwarts.

"I can't help but feel that that wretched Stone is at the heart of all these troubles," Pomona told them, as she sank into an armchair with a sigh.

Flitwick nodded. "Flamel asking Albus to keep the Stone for him-it all sounds so fantastic!" He narrowed his eyes, adding shrewdly, "And making such a fuss over a secret. If he really wanted it to be secret, he would have put it in his desk drawer and said nothing to anyone. But to create such a bizarre, overcomplicated method of protection! And to tell the students their very first night where not to go-he's plotting something, and the Stone is definitely a major piece of the puzzle."

McGonagall served them tea, and they drank in silence, each thinking over what they wanted to say. Pomona spoke up, with her usual forthrightness.

"I hope I'm wrong, but I'm sure that Harry Potter's arrival has something to do with this as well. I don't want to believe that Albus would involve a child in one of his schemes, but-"

Flitwick was watching Snape carefully, and then said, "Severus, you're worried about him, aren't you?"

"Who? Albus? Hardly."

Fllitwick's reproachful look forced him to be frank.

"Of course I'm very concerned for Harry's safety," Snape conceded. "A troll suddenly appears, attacking him in a corridor. A bludger conveniently goes rogue and nearly takes his face off. A teacher's poor judgment causes him to be injured. I was uneasy before school started when Albus told us about the Stone. The events of the past few months, though- Yes, I'm very alarmed at this point, and I feel we need to take steps-steps that Albus is disinclined to take."

"He can't want the boy to be injured, surely," Pomona mused. "I would have thought that Harry Potter was the sort of student that Albus would like!"

"He's not a Gryffindor, of course," muttered Flitwick.

Minerva scowled. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, come, Minerva!" Flitwick replied impatiently. "Albus is not exactly a hands-on Headmaster, but he's always had something of a soft spot for the Lions. Look at what he's let the Weasley boys get away with over the years. And before that there were Harry's father and his friends. I certainly haven't forgotten them!"

"Nor have I," growled Snape. "I have forgiven-for the most part-Albus for his favoritism in those days. However, I have not forgotten it: and because I have not forgotten it I recognise that Albus Dumbledore's judgment is not infallible. Minerva and I have reason to fear that this year he is being unconscionably reckless."

"Minerva, what is this all about?" Pomona pleaded. "Don't you two play games and keep secrets!"

McGonagall set down her cup and blew out a breath. "You're perfectly right to expect honesty from us. We asked you here, in fact, to take you into our confidence about what is going on. I suppose you've noticed that Quirinius Quirrell is acting very oddly?"

Pomona frowned, and Flitwick glanced up sharply.

"Very oddly," he agreed. "Not at all the same person he was before he left."

"As usual, Filius," Minerva declared, "your observations are spot-on. He is not who he seems to be."

"Nor who he claims to be,," Snape amended. "Not entirely, at least."

Sprout and Flitwick listened with horror to the news that the spirit of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had not departed this plane of existence when his power was broken. The spirit had retreated, true, but had been lying in wait and had lodged itself in Hogwarts' current Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.

"I knew that the position was cursed, but usually something happens at the end of the year, not before term has even begun!" Pomona shook her head, and took a chocolate biscuit to steady her nerves.

"The stuttering," Flitwick considered. "the turban, the smell. We've been blind! When did you find this out?"

"I knew that something was seriously wrong with him before school began," Snape admitted. "When I saw him in Diagon Alley, I hardly recognised him." Reluctantly, he added, "but that was not the worst of it."

Slowly he told them the story of Harry's violent reaction at their meeting, and of the continuing headaches thereafter.

"His scar?" Flitwick was fascinated. "The scar reacts in the presence of-o-f"

"Just so."

"I knew the scar was very remarkable. The shape alone-"

"Oh!" agreed Pomona. "I know what you mean! To see the mark of the Sun! Such a powerful sign."

Snape scowled. It seemed that everyone on staff had recognised Harry's runic scar but him. His own fault for not studying runes. Someday he must remedy that gap in his education.

If the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore ever allow me the time!

His musings were cut short by Minerva's quiet voice.

"The scar has other properties as well," she told them. "More sinister ones. Severus has found evidence that it is key to that spirit remaining among us."

Snape gave them a brief, bald explanation of a horcrux and its properties. Then he told them the worst of it.

"Minerva and I believe he was planning on creating a horcrux the night he attacked the Potters. Something went wrong and he was disembodied. The soul fragment was blasted into Harry's scar. Perhaps the boy was injured and the fragment found that a convenient place to lodge. We don't know. We are sure, however, that the fragment exists, that it ties the Dark Lord to our world, and that it is sealed into Harry's scar, which reeks of Dark Magic. At the moment I know of no way to destroy the horcrux short of destroying its vessel. Obviously, I have no intention of killing Harry."

This bombshell, as expected, left their two colleagues speechless for some time. Pomona could only gasp out, "That poor, poor boy!"

Flitwick, however, after a moment's thought, had a great deal to say.

"But that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" he protested, his voice rising to a squeak. "Deliberately splitting one's own soul? That's daft! Yes, yes, Pomona! Don't look at me like that! Of course it's evil-that goes without saying. The point is that it's an idiotic thing to do! It would compromise one's higher brain functions. It would make one almost totally irrational! You couldn't be killed entirely, of course, but it would be a sort of half-life, with nearly everything that creates a personality destroyed."

"A personality like the Dark Lord's is not much of a loss," Snape muttered.

Flitwick was silenced-briefly. "It might affect the physical appearance as well," he pointed out. "He'd have to be absolutely desperate to do such a thing."

"It's very odd," Pomona remarked. "I mean-he was so terribly close to winning. Why then?"

"He was obsessed with immortality," Snape replied. "Perhaps that was to be the capstone of his triumph: victory of his enemies and over death all at once."

"Unfortunately," Minerva cut in, steepling her fingers in thought. "It does seem to have worked, after a fashion. He's back, even if he's only a spirit preying on another wizard. We would obviously prefer to destroy the spirit without killing Quirinius."

Flitwick shook his head. "If it was a voluntary possession, his chances of survival are not good."

"Poor Quirinius!" Pomona mourned. "How horrible! He was so excited about travelling abroad-always such a fine scholar. What could have tempted him to allow You-Know-Who to possess him?"

"Of course," Snape said, "the term 'voluntary possession' is very much open to interpretation. In some cases, 'voluntary' could even mean situations in which subterfuge or compulsion charms were used. The degree of consent can be ambiguous. We can try to pry them apart and see what happens."

"But we mustn't tip our hand too soon," Minerva said. "It is terribly important that we find ways for Albus' plan to succeed."

"Do we care if the Stone is destroyed or not?" Flitwick asked. "If we're trying to preserve that as well as Quirinius' life, it all becomes very, very complicated."

Minerva had already made her decision about that. "I think it's essential that the Stone not fall into the wrong hands. Better it be utterly destroyed than for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to have it."

"I agree," said Snape. "And for now it appears to be safely ensconced within an enchanted mirror-the Mirror of Erised. Albus says that someone who wants to use the Stone cannot retrieve it. Let us grant, for the moment, that Albus' charms to that effect are strong enough. It seems that what he is hoping for is that the Dark Lord will be entranced by the visions in the mirror and will be immobilised. Very well. And what then? Does he plan on him staring into the mirror until Quirrell dies of thirst and starvation, returning the Dark Lord to spirit form? What will become of the spirit? Will it drift away to find yet another host?"

"Severus and I were very nearly trapped by the mirror, " Minerva admitted. "Had I been alone, I would have been trapped. The mirror's enchantments show you your deepest desires, and they can be-quite absorbing. Luckily, we bumped elbows and distracted one another long enough to come to our senses."

"But-" Pomona's voice trailed off. "-if Albus is banking on the effect of this mirror on a single person-well-perhaps this sounds a bit silly, but you can't actually say that poor Quirinius, as he is now, really is just one person. I mean, there are two souls there, and they must communicate, and I for one would certainly find it highly distracting if there were someone else in my mind talking to me!"

"Egad! That's true!" Flitwick jumped down from his chair and began walking back and forth. "There must be a constant inner dialogue going on. The mirror's spell may not work properly at all!"

"I have considered the problem," Snape admitted. "There are ways to enhance the mirror's power- ways to compel the observer to remain indefinitely-even ways to trap a spirit if it releases control of a possessed subject-"

"A circle of salt, and the Baphomet Configuration!" Flitwick exclaimed. "Necromancers have used them to control demons. Something of the sort might well work!"

"It might not be possible to destroy the Dark Lord's spirit," Snape cautioned them. "Without destroying the horcrux itself, it remains tied to this earthly plane. The most we can do is confine it."

"Well, that sounds good enough to me," Pomona said pragmatically. "Bodies can be confined in Azkaban, and spirits can be bottled up. Remember how Solomon bottled up the djinns! It can certainly be done. Pop him in a crystal and give it to Albus for a paperweight!"

The absurdity of it all wrung a nervous laugh from Flitwick. He was still thinking rapidly, and then ventured, "You saw this mirror yourselves, you say?"

Snape only grimaced. Minerva answered, "Indeed we did, and a dreadful thing it is."

"I'd like very much to have a look at it myself," Flitwick told them. "Did you examine it for the various enchantment patterns?"

"Filius-" Minerva said in exasperation, glancing at Snape, "-it was all we could do to escape the room. I was almost immediately caught up in the visions it showed me. No, neither of us examined it. I would not advise seeking it out-and certainly not alone!"

"My dear Minerva, now that I'm warned about it, I can take proper precautions. The mirror may be meant to do more than you think. There are some looking-glass enchantments-well, there are hundreds of them, actually, but I can think of a few-the Dodgson Projection is one of them-that can actually allow infiltration into the dimensional pockets within mirrors."

"Perhaps Albus used that to hide the Stone," Pomona said, rather excited. "But could You-Know-Who use something like that to get in there and steal it?"

"Surely Albus has considered that." Flitwick perched himself back in his own small chair and sat thinking. "There are really all sorts of possibilities. I must think about this. And I must see the mirror for myself!"

The idea of facing that object again made Snape feel rather sick, but of course Minerva was a consummate Gryffindor.

"Then we may as well go before dinner. Follow me."

Snape made them wait only a few minutes, while he went through the fire to his own quarters. If so many were to pass through his own challenge, it behooved him to replenish all the potions. He hoped there was some faster way through Filius' keys than by another mad flight on broomsticks.

So it proved. They moved swiftly through the labyrinth this time, knowing what to expect, and each one of them with a short-cut. There was, of course, no troll to deal with, either. Snape's black flames were much admired.

And it was handy to have a Charms Master with them when they reached the mirror. Both Pomona and Flitwick insisted that they must have a look themselves-"just this once"-but neither Snape nor McGonagall had the least desire to see their visions ever again. Flitwick knew a handy masking charm to protect them, and it was arranged that after five minutes he and Pomona would be pulled away to safety. Afterward, Flitwick was rather shaken and Pomona was sadly wistful.

"It's not so bad," she declared. "Rather interesting, really-but it's all nonsense, of course," she added hurriedly.

Flitwick, careful not to look directly into the mirror again, busied himself with measurements and analysis, jotting notes with his favorite blue quill. "Astounding object, you know," he said under his breath. "Not as old as you might think. Renaissance Revival style, probably from the mid-nineteenth century. I think the original charms are the work of Sheridan Le Fanu-superb work there-with some later accretions-some of them not quite-and that's certainly Albus' work-very distinctive. Aha! There's the Stone! Clever fellow!"

Snape left him to it, only keeping an eye on him from time to time to see he did not become ensorcelled by the mirror itself. Pomona and Minerva were quietly discussing ways to help Quirrell.

Minerva turned to Snape. "I believe you said there was a potion that might loosen the connection somewhat."

"It might help," Snape allowed. "I need fresh molyroot, though, and I don't believe there's any prospect of that for some months."

"Not in the greenhouses," Pomona agreed. "It grows wild in Sicily and Malta, of course, but it doesn't react well to apparition or portkey travel. I could go south and pot some up, but I would have to fly back, and that will take a few days. None of us can get away that long until the Christmas holidays."

"It would be extremely helpful," Snape said, feeling relieved at the prospect of things moving along a little faster. "It might be best to start sneaking him the potion during the holidays, anyway, since it will cause some behavioral changes."

"How to do you plan to slip him the potion?" Minerva asked.

Snape smirked, thinking of Harry's devoted Muffy. "That, Minerva, is the least of our problems."

Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts in time for a pleasant dinner in the Great Hall. A few highly placed individuals in the Ministry were concerned about some odd things they had heard from their children. Amelia Bones, especially, back from seeing her injured niece, had needed a great deal of reassurance.

The situation was indeed very unfortunate-no one knew that better than Albus Dumbledore himself- but it would be foolish and counterproductive to create a panic, which would be all to easy to do if he disclosed the terrible secrets known only to himself. Poor Quirinius must be dealt with, and the sooner the better.

His guest was making himself rather more than a nuisance. Tom had been a brilliant student, but in the real world his impatience had proved his undoing. He was too impulsive for long-term strategy, and inevitably used the Bludger bat when the wand would be slower but more effective.

It was evident, even now. Tom could not lie low and fool them all until his prize was safe in his hands. He must make a spectacle of himself-tormenting his host-indiscreetly displaying his superior knowledge-menacing the innocent for no other reason than because he could.

Once again, his reach will exceed his grasp.

Dumbledore had often considered how the War could have gone very much the wrong way if Tom had not been so impatient as to do everything at once. If he had focused on gaining power and not been distracted by his quest for immortality-or conversely, if he had achieved immortality and then sought supreme power-well, things might have become very grim indeed. Trying to create a horcrux just as he was on the brink of terrorizing the Ministry into submission-that was a lesson that Dumbledore had taken to heart.

One must be moderate in all things, and one must accept that one's power-and one's life-have limits.

His own plans seemed to him sound enough. It was a miserable business, risking the boy as he felt he must. Dumbledore could only pin his hopes on dear Lily's protections. At the very worst, Tom Riddle would be finished for good and all. At the best, Tom Riddle would still be finished, and Harry Potter would survive his first year at Hogwarts.

Such a good, decent boy. Lively and curious, like his father, and having such a jolly time with the Cloak. He would be out with it tonight, no question. Dumbledore must move the Mirror to a more easily accessible site, and with a little shifting, and a little subtle guidance, Harry would come upon it quite by accident...

After the book in the Restricted Section shrieked out the alarm, Harry made a run for it. He passed Filch in the doorway, slipped under his arm, and streaked off up the corridor.

He hardly knew where he was. It was dark, and it took him a minute to get his bearings. He stepped back beside a suit of armour as he heard approaching voices.

Filch was saying, "You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night. Somebody's been in the library-the Restricted Section."

To his horror, it was Professor Snape who replied. "The Restricted Section? Well, they can't be far. We'll catch them."

Harry shuddered at how angry and disappointed the Professor would be if he discovered Harry wandering the castle after curfew. It would mean detention, a stern talking-to, and goodbye to his wonderful cloak. He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood ajar to his left. It was just wide enough for him to squeeze through without moving it. The two men walked past, and Harry leaned against the wall, listening to their footsteps dying away. Mrs Norris padded back toward him, stretching her neck to sniff the air, and Harry noiselessly shut the door in her face.

Looking around, he saw he was in an unused classroom. High windows let in the moonlight. He could make out the shape of desks and chairs piled along the walls. Propped up against the far wall, facing him, was something that didn't appear to belong there at all: a magnificent mirror, as tall as the ceiling, with a strange inscription at the top.

Wanting to see himself having no reflection again, he stepped in front of it. With a gasp, he whirled around.

The room was empty. Heart pounding, he turned again to the mirror.

Yes! He was there, smiling, looking very happy and confident, dressed in his good green robes with the real gold buttons. Behind him was Professor Snape, with that quietly pleased look that served him for a smile, one hand resting on Harry's shoulder. On his other side was Professor McGonagall, looking very approving.

His friends lounged on the floor around him, comfortable and carefree: Draco and Hermione were playing chess together; Neville was showing his toad to Ernie and Justin; Cedric leaned over them, a laugh on his handsome face; and there were Susan and Hannah and Sally, all beautifully dressed, holding hands as they danced.

Others were there, too: Professor Burbage in pale lilac, smiling at him so kindly, her hand on Professor Snape's arm. There was his Head of House, Professor Sprout, beaming at him, and Professor Flitwick clapping his hands. All the Explorers were there, and some of the older Hufflepuffs. The vision stretched out, and there were Draco's parents, dignified and courteous; and Neville's Gran, who was so proud of Neville now. Everyone seemed so happy, and Harry knew it was because they were safe. There! Very far in the background, Professor Quirrell had been caught and was being led away, and nobody Harry cared about would ever be hurt again.

The reflections did not fade, and he looked and looked, half in joy and half in fear. If only everything could always be like this...

A sudden noise brought him up sharp. It was late, and he couldn't stay here any longer. He tore his eyes away from the mirror, whispered, "I'll come back," and hurried from the room.