Chapter 7: And whosoever shall lose his life…
Beyond the door was a bare stone chamber, lit by four lamps mounted on wrought iron stands. At the far end was a pillar of roughly shaped stone, about eight feet high. Standing before it, scrutinising it like a world-class art critic, was a little man wearing a large purple turban.
"What?" I said, frozen in the doorway, "Where the hell's Snape?"
The man turned towards me and I recognised Professor Quirrell, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. You will understand my confusion. I had hardly listened to Neville's asinine theories about Snape going after the Stone, so the chances of me picking up the subtle clues that pointed towards Quirrell were up there with Dudley winning a Nobel Prize, or Hagrid buying a razor.
In fact, over the past year, I had barely registered Quirrell's existence at all. I never paid much attention in any of my classes and he was, overall, a rather mundane figure in the otherwise eccentric world of Hogwarts: pale, slight of build, with a strong stammer and never without his oversized turban. The only really noticeable thing about him was his smell: he stank of garlic, which rumour put down to his fear of being attacked by a vampire he had once encountered abroad.
"Snape?" he said, "Ah! So you thought to find him here? He does look the part, doesn't he? Always swooping around the castle like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect this miserable creature: p-p-poor s-s-stuttering P-p-professor Quirrell?"
As he spoke, I noticed something odd about the way Quirrell was standing. He had always been a stooped little man, fiddling nervously with the cuffs of his sleeves. Now his posture was very straight and dignified; regal, almost.
"Who are you?" I said.
"Who am I?" said Quirrell, grinning triumphantly, "I am Lord Voldemort."
If I did not immediately soil myself it was only because I was too shocked to react. My mouth, unprompted by my brain, let out a stream of meaningless syllables. Quirrell, or at least the thing with Quirrell's face, laughed. It was a very cruel sound; cold and sharp, like the blade of a knife.
"B-b-but you're Quirrell!" I bleated.
"No, Potter. Quirrell has been dead for over a year. Observe."
The man I had known as Quirrell reached up and slowly began to unwind his turban. As he did so, dozens of garlic bulbs fell out and scattered across the floor. When he had finished, he turned his head and I saw that the back of it had been caved in. Thick, congealed blood and grey brain matter were mixed together with fragments of bone.
"He found me in Albania," said the man with Quirrell's face, turning back to me, "He sought knowledge of the Dark Arts; to see the things he had read about in books. He found me.
"I was less than a beast then; less than a ghost; mine was the basest existence imaginable. But I could still speak to him, after a fashion. The worm panicked and fled. And, in his haste, he lost his footing and fell down a cliff."
He spoke slowly, relishing the details; savouring the horror that he inspired in me.
"It is a very difficult thing to possess a human soul, Potter. It is much easier to take control of a corpse. And here I had been given a most unexpected boon: the body of a Hogwarts professor.
"Of course, it was not perfect. In this state I can wield only a fraction of my former power. Much of my magic has been spent slowing this body's decay, and even those enchantments grow less effective. See," he said, lifting the hem of his robe and extending a bare leg. It was pale green in colour and riddled with maggot holes. Patches of skin had come away, revealing the putrid grey flesh beneath.
I bent double, vomiting noisily, while Voldemort shrieked with laughter.
"But no longer," he said, "Tonight I will claim the Philosophers' Stone, discard this failing body and rise anew; stronger and more terrible than before. How fitting that you, the boy who brought about my downfall, should be here to witness my resurrection."
I tried to turn away, groping blindly for the door, but Voldemort was too quick. With a flick of his wand he conjured ropes that bound my arms and legs. I struggled, overbalanced and fell painfully on my side. Voldemort left me there, tied up like a Christmas present, while he returned to contemplating the stone pillar. He made passes at it with his wand, recited incantations over it, and finally resorted to screaming threats at the lifeless, formless rock.
Like me, you have probably realised by now that Lord Voldemort was a few Knuts short of a Galleon. My only comfort at that point was that he seemed no closer to acquiring the Philosophers' Stone. I was certain that as soon as he found the Stone he would dispose of me.
For a while Voldemort was silent. He turned and looked down at me like I was an unusual beetle that had wandered across his path.
"Stand," he commanded, dismissing the ropes that bound me. I stood up, which was a feat in itself; my legs were trembling so badly that they only just supported my weight.
"Come here," Voldemort gestured to his side. I obeyed. I could hardly stand, so fleeing was out of the question. Trying to fight did not occur to me.
As I approached, the pillar of stone began to change. I drew closer and the formless rock receded, revealing a life-sized statue beneath. It was a statue of me.
"Evening," said the statue, looking down at me from its pedestal.
"H-hi," I squeaked.
"Spot of bother?" said the statue, smugly.
"Err… yeah," I said, stealing a glance across at Voldemort, who was staring intently at the statue. I wondered if he could see my statue too, or if it appeared to him as a blank pillar. Had Voldemort been talking to a statue of himself before?
"I don't suppose you could… assist?" I said, trying to point discreetly at Voldemort.
"Nope," the statue shook its head. I had the impression it was enjoying itself, "I'm just the guardian. Besides, I'm you. And you wouldn't help if you were in my place, would you?"
"Of course I would!" I protested, "Come on, man, you're me! I'd help me if I could. I know I would!"
"Really?" said the statue, with a knowing expression.
"Ask for the Stone," Voldemort ordered me.
"C-can I have the Stone?" I asked the statue, acutely aware of the wand that was being pointed at my chest. The statue reached into its robes and drew out a long silver dagger.
"Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it; and whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it," said the statue. It offered me the dagger, handle first.
"What does that mean?" I said, but the statue merely repeated itself.
"Do you see it? Do you see the dagger?" asked Voldemort, anxiously.
"Y-yes," I said.
"Take it."
"What? No!" I tried to back away but Voldemort raised his wand.
"I said take it, Potter," he snarled, "Imperio."
I was stuck, as surely as if he had turned me to stone. I could feel my arm trying to move; to reach for the dagger. I resisted but it was a terrible struggle, like trying to push against a heavy weight or swim against a strong current. My arm trembled as it moved but I could not hold it back.
I heard a strange noise coming from my right; a 'pitter patter', like droplets of water falling on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Voldemort's free hand. The flesh was sliding from his fingers, off the fingertips and falling in little pink globules to splatter around his feet.
My hand opened, slowly but inevitably, and took the silver dagger.
"Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it; and whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it," repeated the statue.
"Now… strike," said Voldemort. His voice was faint now, and very hoarse. Before I had even realised that it was happening my hand was turning the point of the dagger around, towards my chest. I fought against it, sweat pouring down my forehead. The dagger trembled violently in my hand. I thought for a moment that I might drop it. Voldemort gave a great cry, almost a shriek. His face, Quirrell's face, was becoming thinner by the second; sunken and white, the skin dry like old paper. The lines of the skull beneath grew stronger as the flesh receded. My trembling hand stilled and the dagger resumed its inexorable path towards my heart.
I strained harder against the alien will that had possessed my body. Lights and dark spots sparkled before my eyes. I could feel warm blood dribbling from my nose and onto my lips. If Voldemort's curse had not been holding me upright I think I would have collapsed, but there was no halting that dagger.
"Strike!" Voldemort screamed and my hand obeyed. I plunged the dagger into my own heart.
As you have probably guessed, I did not die.
As the point of the dagger pierced my body, it vanished with a brilliant flash of light. Suddenly released from the curse, I staggered backwards. Looking down, I saw that I was now holding a large blood red stone in the palm of my hand.
"Give it to me!" cried Voldemort. There was a terrible smell of rotting meat coming from him. His free arm, fleshless and skeletal, dangled useless at his side. I stepped back and fell. In sheer panic, I thrust the stone into my pocket.
"Enough!" Voldemort raised his wand high, "Avada Ka-" but before he could finish the incantation one of his legs gave way and he collapsed onto his side. His wand rolled across the chamber. He ignored it; all his attention was fixed on me. I tried to scuttle backwards, away from that hideous visage; more like a skull than a living face.
"No! No! Not again! You shall not thwart me again, Harry Potter!" Voldemort screamed. He stretched his hand towards me and, for a second, his eyes became a brilliant scarlet. Then he crumbled: grey skin flaked away to reveal flesh, which in turn dropped from the bones, which finally became dust, all in a matter of seconds. A wave of dark magic like black smoke, stinking of decay and rottenness, surged from his corpse and washed over me. I fell back, certain that this was the end as I slipped into unconsciousness.
And that, kiddies, is the true story of how I saved the Philosopher's Stone from Lord Voldemort. There was no magic mirror, or 'power of love' schmaltz. I am sure you will understand why I had to bowdlerise it for my book. Not even children are bloodthirsty enough to enjoy a tale like that.
I awoke in the Hospital Wing. In time I would become very familiar with the rows of beds, the whitewashed walls and Madam Pomfrey, who exercised a tyrannical rule over the wards. Grey haired, with a sharp face and a sharper tongue; I never saw a bigger waste of a nurse's uniform.
"Good morning, Harry."
I turned and saw Professor Dumbledore sitting beside my bed, looking like a kind and gentle grandfather. He could play that role very convincingly when it suited him.
"Morning…?" I said, "How long have I been out?"
"Just over two days," said Dumbledore, "You suffered a very serious magical attack. Had Quirrell truly cursed you, you would have been dead long before I arrived."
"Not Quirrell," I said, with a shudder, "Voldemort."
"Ah!" said Dumbledore, as if I had just helped him solve a particularly knotty crossword puzzle, "That would explain it. Professor Snape suspected Quirrell of trying to steal the Stone at Halloween but I was sure that there was more to the matter. I suppose Voldemort had possessed him?"
"His corpse. It was decaying. That's why he smelled of garlic all the time; he was trying to mask the smell of his body."
"Yes," said Dumbledore mildly, "That must have frustrated Voldemort no end."
"Is he… dead? I mean, for good?" I asked.
"Dead? Oh no," Dumbledore shook his head, his long silver beard waggling comically, "The physical shell is gone but the essence of the Dark Lord; whatever survived after he failed to kill you seventeen years ago, that will remain. He has doubtless fled back into obscurity and exile; defeated, but not yet destroyed."
This was not a cheery thought. The idea of Voldemort lurking in some dark hole, nursing the bitterness of a second (unintentional) defeat at my hands, was chilling.
"Do not let it trouble you," said Dumbledore, seeing my expression. "You have saved the Philosopher's Stone, and put the Elixir of Life out of Voldemort's reach for good. The magical community owes you a great debt of gratitude."
"Not at all, Professor," I said modestly, trying to my best to preen while tucked up in a hospital bed.
"I am curious, though," said Dumbledore, fixing me one of those piercing stares that always made me feel like he was looking into the grimiest pit of my soul, "What happened, down in the dungeon?"
"Well…" I began. I was suddenly aware of an unusual weight pressing down on my hip; something large and stone-shaped resting in my pocket.
"Well, Professor," I said, "Voldemort never actually got the Stone. He made me take the dagger…"
"Oh!" Dumbledore snapped his fingers irritably, "A flaw in my plan."
"Your… Then it was your idea?" I said, indignation rising in my voice, "You came up with that statue, with the bloody great dagger and its mumbo jumbo about… about losing your life!"
"Yes," said Dumbledore, looking rather pleased with himself, "That was my idea. You see, Harry, all the defences we had laid on the Stone merely tested a wizard's skill in various branches of magic: charms, transfiguration, knowledge of magical creatures and so on. So, for the final defence, I had to come up with something that not even a wizard as skilled as Lord Voldemort could overcome.
"Anyone who tried to steal the Stone would want it to make the Elixir of Life, or obtain great wealth. Even if they understood the statue's verse, that to gain anything of true value we must give up all that we hold dear, they could never put it into action and sacrifice their own life for the Stone.
"Alas, I never considered that they might have someone with them whom they could coerce into taking the dagger. A regrettable mistake."
You are telling me, I thought. You weren't the one sticking eight inches of razor-sharp silver into your chest, you sanctimonious old fart. But at that moment I was busy trying to combine humility with a suitably heroic demeanour.
"He… he made me take the dagger," I said, wondering if I could raise a manly tear if I bit the inside of my cheek, "But I fought him. We struggled… and then, well… I struck him. He got angry and tried to curse me. And then…" Unable to compel a tear to form I turned my face away from Dumbledore, hoping that this would have the same effect.
"You have done admirably, Harry," he said, "You have overcome challenges that would have daunted anyone, even a fully trained wizard."
"Thank you, Professor," I said, turning back to him. He was smiling at me. There was something a little odd about it. Was it entirely affectionate, or was there a subtle hint of mockery there? I could not be certain.
"You will be glad to know that your friends survived, similarly unscathed," said Dumbledore, "Although Ronald Weasley is likely to remain unconscious for a week or so." He looked across to the bed opposite mine. Pushing myself up onto my elbows I saw Ron there, sleeping peacefully.
"But that it is only to be expected," Dumbledore continued, "when one drinks several pints of the Draught of Living Death."
"The what? I don't remember him drinking any potion," I said, confused.
"The pool you fell into, after you escaped the Fiend Fyre," Dumbledore explained, "Professor Snape's contribution to the defences.
"Miss Granger is also in good health, although she was much exhausted by her efforts to transfigure the sand into a bridge. I understand that Professor McGonagall is very proud; a remarkable achievement, even for so gifted a first year.
"And Master Longbottom will not suffer any long term effects from the Body Binding jinx you placed on him, although he did say that he was most disappointed that you did not take him with you to confront Quirrell."
My poker face is better than most but how I managed to stop my jaw dropping at that titbit of information, I still do not know.
"I shall leave you to your rest," said Dumbledore, standing up, "I do not consider myself a timid man, but even I would not risk incurring the wrath of Poppy Pomfrey.
"What happened between you and Quirrell in the dungeon is a matter of greatest secrecy, which is to say that everyone knows about it. When you return to us, I think you can expect to find yourself in great demand. Goodbye."
Dumbledore gave me a wink and left the ward. I lay back, replaying the conversation in my head. I wondered how much Neville had said about what happened in the common room that night. Had he really covered for me? It was the sort of thing he would do, the noble ass. Or did Dumbledore know more than he had let on? And if that was so, why hadn't my behaviour got out to the other students? Could Dumbledore be playing some unfathomable game of his own? It was then, lying in my hospital bed, that I had my first suspicions about the old headmaster.
After a while I pushed those thoughts aside. Reaching under the sheets I retrieved the Philosopher's Stone from my pocket and held it up to the light. The adventure had not proved a complete loss after all.