Mary slept poorly, that first night after detention. She woke up many times, breathless and terrified, without any memory of the nightmares. When Hermione asked her about it, she tried to shrug it off. Classes and quidditch practice proceeded as usual, and the days got warmer. The evening they spent in the Astronomy Tower was sweltering, and Mary worried that she wouldn't be able to focus the next time they met there for exams.

Nightmares returned for a second night, and Hermione escorted Mary to Madam Pomfrey. She told the matronly witch about the frequent burning she felt across her scar, and the nightmares she couldn't remember. She was given a sleeping draught that let her fall into dreamless rest. It wasn't a perfect solution, but just like breaking the pain cycle with anesthetics, they hoped that a night or two would resolve the nightmare problem.

Written exams were conducted in one classroom, where they were given special quills with anti-cheating charms. Mary was confident that she did well, even if Snape found ways to deduct points from her final score. He couldn't deny her knowledge on the practical, when her brew evaporated into a calming fog. Glowering, he handed her a passing grade, and she smirked back at him. What could he do, kill her? He had his chance, and she won a quidditch match right under his twitchy nose.

Mary had more fun in her Charms practical than she should have, without getting into trouble. As an homage to their first levitation lesson, she made a feather hover a meter above Professor Flitwick's desk and performed an immolation charm that they'd only read about in a supplemental scroll. She'd forgotten how bad the smell was, and so lost a few points for personal safety. Flitwick thought it was, altogether, a good display.

Transfiguration was frustrating. Students were to change apples into oranges, but Mary couldn't make the orange peel thick enough. Hermione performed the transformation perfectly, while Ron's orange lacked qualitative citrus properties. Neville's attempt produced an apple with a thick, red peel and wedges of an almost-orange texture with an apple flavor. They all passed and, save for the confident Hermione, everyone was relieved when it was over.

"Why would we ever need to do that?" Dean complained. "We have Herbology class for a bloody reason!"

Their Herbology practical had been a weeks-long process, resulting in a beautiful multi-seasonal garden. Mary passed her third self-defense practical while everyone else in her year finished flying lessons. She'd frozen when her sparring partner punched her in the face and knocked her off her feet. The young woman helped her back up, put her through the paces again, and told their instructor to give her full marks.

"But you knocked me down," said Mary.

"How many times have you ever been punched in the face?" she asked.

Mary thought back. Her cousin had thrown stuff that hit her face, but she'd never actually been punched. She shook her head, and the older witch said, "And now you have some idea of how to react when it happens in the future."

Mary caught the woman's certainty that it would happen, at some point. She wasn't sure why she'd be punched in the future, but preparation of any kind couldn't hurt.

Lounging by the lake, that afternoon, she listened to her friends talk about their flying exam and she told them about self-defense. They gasped when she told them about the punch, and Ron asked if it didn't make her headache worse.

"Not anymore," said Mary. "It's just there. It's fading, but nothing really changes it. Madam Pomfrey is looking for an explanation."

"Mary, is that Hedwig?" Neville asked.

They all looked in the direction he pointed and saw the snowy owl carrying a scroll.

"Love letter," said Ron.

"Expulsion," said Mary.

"It's our detention instructions," Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

"That isn't how the game works, Hermione," said Neville.

Hedwig dropped the scroll on the ground in front of Mary and landed in her lap. Their next detention would be that evening in the Charms wing.

"I thought we had detention with Professor Quirrell," said Neville, frowning at the parchment.

"We did, but we've been reassigned to Professor Flitwick, instead." Mary handed the instructions over and stroked Hedwig's back. She stretched her wings and leaned into the caress, eyes half-lidded.

They would be helping Professor Flitwick take inventory and and run supplies to restock his cabinets. Mary thought it was no coincidence that this was the same room as the Mirror of Erised, and ribbed Ron for not shouldering his share of this punishment.

He shrugged. "I can't help it if I'm Dumbledore's favorite."

If given a choice in the future between running supplies for professors or patrolling the Forbidden Forest, Mary would take the forest ten times over. They ran all over the castle, collecting quills, parchment, various liquids and powders, and boxes that weighed anywhere from a few ounces to fifty pounds. As the most athletic of the trio, Mary tried to spare her friends the further trips.

They sprawled out on the cool stone floor of the classroom for a water break as Professor Flitwick organized the cabinets.

"I hope you three know how much I appreciate your help," he said. "This would have taken me weeks to do on my own."

They spoke at once:

"You're welcome."

"Not a problem."

"Nothing to it."

He smiled down at them, sympathetically, and continued working. When he stopped moving stuff around to scratch some notes down on a parchment, Mary thought she heard something odd. She sat up and cocked her head to one side. Hermione and Neville watched her, and she asked them, "Bathroom break?"

"By all means!" said Flitwick, not looking up from his lists. "If you could bring those boxes to the classroom by the boys' room, that would be wonderful."

They moved the boxes, took their respective breaks, and met half way between the restrooms.

"Okay," said Hermione. "What are we really doing?"

"Did either of you hear music?" Mary asked.

They both said they hadn't, so they returned to the classroom and stopped just outside the door. Mary closed her eyes and held her breath to listen more closely. Sure enough, she could still hear something that sounded like music. She looked to Hermione and Neville, and they nodded. All three peaked into the classroom and snuck away.

"This should only take a minute," said Mary. "It's just…it feels weird, doesn't it?"

As they got closer to the source of the sound, Mary's footsteps felt heavier.

"It's coming from the forbidden corridor, isn't it?" Neville asked.

"That's what it sounds like to me," Mary reluctantly agreed.

They each pressed their ear to the door and listened. Mary heard snoring from three separate noses and tried the doorknob.

"It's locked!" she whispered.

"Why are you whispering?" Neville asked.

"This doesn't feel right," she replied. She tried the doorknob again and stomped her foot in frustration – or she started to, and then set her foot down gently. If someone were on the other side of the door, she didn't want to alert them.

Hermione put her ear to the lock and started whispering levitation charms.

"Shouldn't we get Professor Flitwick?" Neville asked as the lock clicked.

The sound would have alerted someone three doors down, so Mary quickly opened door. She stepped in and saw Fluffy fast asleep, a pan flute whistling a haunting tune overhead, and a cloaked figure cutting into the enormous canine's neck. They heard the racket and tried to work faster, their objective being Fluffy's jugular.

"HEY!" Mary cried. "What are you doing?"

She threw a disarming charm, which threw their hand back, but the intruder maintained their grip on the dagger. They spun to face Mary, face hooded, and she shouted a stunning hex. It barely elicited a flinch, so Mary ran forward, intent on punching this animal abuser in the nose.

"MARY!" Hermione and Neville yelled, but she would not yield. The monster threw open a trapdoor and jumped, and so Mary followed. She fell several meters and landed in a mass of vines that gripped her tightly. After a momentary panic, she relaxed. Why would her quarry jump in here if it meant instant death? She steadied her breathing and the vines relaxed, gently allowing her to sink.

Hermione and Neville continued to shout for her.

"I'm fine!" Mary called back, holding onto a vine as it slowly lowered her to the floor. "Go get help!"

She could hear footsteps still echoing down the stone corridor, and she gave chase.

What made Mary a good Seeker gave her no advantage in a foot race. She was light and fleet of foot, for her size, but she was easily outpaced. She reached the a room, breaking the monotony of the corridor, and she could no longer hear anything other than her own footsteps and heavy breathing. Mary reasoned that this wasn't a real problem. Fluffy was safe, and Neville and Hermione had gone for help, so there was no cause for alarm.

"Oh," Mary breathed, looking around the room. Firelight from sconces showed her what must have been a hundred winged creatures flittering near the ceiling. She watched them as she walked across the chamber, prepared to run if they attacked. They stayed aloft as she reached the door and turned the handle.

"Of course you're locked," she told the old door. She knocked on it, a little harder each time. She hadn't gotten into breaking boards with her head, or whatever she was supposed to demolish in self-defense, but she was sure that this door would be too sturdy for her to knock down, regardless.

"You wouldn't be a match for Hermione," Mary grumbled.

She walked around, looking for another way out. Maybe she could go back and climb up the vines through the trapdoor? Before she left to give it a try, she saw a broom propped in a corner. She picked it up and looked to the ceiling. Kicking off, she sped back to the trapdoor in no time. She tried to slip through the vines, but they wouldn't grab her. When she pushed, they resisted. It seemed the only way out was forward.

Back in the chamber, she hovered in the middle of the room to be sure the creatures wouldn't dive-bomb her. When they remained uninterested in her, she flew skyward.

These weren't any kind of bird, but enchanted keys! Their wings were all different sizes and colors, and they scrambled whenever she held and released one.

"Which one of you do I need?" Mary asked.

She flew back down to the door for clues, observing the hinges, doorknob, and locking mechanism. She returned to the keys, ruled out most of them, being far too small, or the wrong shape entirely. She carefully scanned large skeleton keys, noticing tattered feathers on a few of them. She tried each and stopped at one with damaged wings. "You've been misused, haven't you, my friend?"

She gently caught the key between her fingers and looked it over. It had more than its share of wear, but it looked functional. Mary took it down to the door and slipped it into the lock. The bolt turned and all the keys fell to the floor. The doorknob and lock changed shape, and all the keys took flight once more. The skeleton key tugged in her hands, so she let it go. Still holding the broom, she past by the heavy door and it slammed shut behind her.

"You and I are not friends," she told the inanimate object.

Listening carefully, Mary sensed no other presence in this space, and then the smell hit her. A troll had been knocked unconscious and lay in the middle of the room. Hopping back onto the broom, in case the troll woke up, she hurried to the next chamber, making a mental note to learn more about trolls. How stupid were they really? Did they get lonely? Is that why this one had found its way into the Halloween feast?

Another bloody corridor, Mary thought.

At least she had a broomstick, this time. It was no Nimbus Two Thousand, but she could push it faster than her legs would carry her. She soon saw a bright light at the end of the hallway and slowed to listen, again. This time, she did hear voices. One sounded assuaging and the other spoke with a wheeze.

In a technique more advanced than she would have learned in Madam Hooch's Flying 101, Mary slowed further and pressed her body into the broom, hovering half a meter above the floor and tracing the wall. If she could keep herself hidden just long enough to see who she'd been chasing, then maybe…

"Welcome, Mary," said a familiar voice, standing in front of the Mirror of Erised.

Mary landed and held the broomstick close. The voice was familiar, but too confident for its owner. Standing in front of the mirror was none other than Professor Quirrell.

"You!" gasped Mary.

"Me," he said with a smile. His face held no twitch, his voice no quiver.

"But I thought —"

What did she think? Of all the powerful mages in the castle, how was Quirrell the criminal mastermind?

"You killed two unicorns," she said.

"I did," he admitted. "It isn't that difficult when they learn to trust you."

Mary felt a stab in her forehead and cried out.

"That must be such a bother," Quirrell tsked. "It won't stop you from assisting me, though. I've been examining this very fascinating mirror. You've seen it before, haven't you? What does it show you?"

"Your reflection," she quipped, standing much too far for the mirror to read her.

He laughed and hit her with a binding charm. The broom fell from Mary's hands and she levitated towards him.

"Only our deepest desires. I see what I want, but it won't give it to me. Do you know how frustrating that is?"

"No," said Mary. "I'm perfectly happy with everything in my life."

Quirrell's mouth twitched in irritation at that. "Do you have no sense of self-preservation? Of course you don't! You have no idea what's down here, and you came running after me because I hurt that ridiculous mutt? I tried to throw you off your broom, and you still wanted to play quidditch, for crying out loud!"

Mary dropped her head and said, "Of course that was you, but why?"

"You're in the way," he seethed. "The greatest wizard of our time, cut down by a mere infant? You are a liability."

Mary snorted. "Are you trying to be the next Voldemort?"

Pain seared across her forehead and Quirrell gaped for a moment. "No, you wouldn't understand why you shouldn't speak his name." He went back to looking in the mirror. "What am I supposed to do, break it?"

"Use the girl," a voice hissed.

"Ah, yes. Come here, Potter." He twitched a finger, and Mary was pulled in front of the mirror. He clapped his hands together and she dropped loosely to the floor. "Now, look into the mirror."

For a moment, she considered running, but he'd just bind her up again, so she stood and looked up at her parents. It was just the two of them, this time.

"Do you know what the Philosopher's Stone is, Potter?"

Mary met his eyes in the mirror, and her parents glared at him. Mary decided to smile and tell the truth. "I know you tried to steal it from Gringotts, and you were too late."

Quirrell rolled his eyes. "That was in the Daily Prophet. Do you know what untold magic you could perform? You already have enemies; they would be no match for you. Most of your family have been wiped out of existence. Have you considered that you might be able to bring them back?"

The pain in her parents' eyes reflected her own. Could she really bring them back? What kind of magic could a half-pint witch perform, even with a Philosopher's Stone? She closed her eyes.

"You see them, don't you?" Quirrell crooned. "Standing right behind you, their hands on your shoulders." They each put a hand on her reflection. "What if you could make that a reality?"

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" Mary asked. "So what difference does it make?"

Her parents suddenly vanished, and she saw her friends. She was surrounded by them, and they were safe. She was strong enough to keep them all safe, and was she standing a little taller than Ron? Well, a girl could dream.

"Let me speak to her," that sickly voice hissed, again.

"Master, you're not strong enough, yet!"

"I have strength enough," the voice wheezed, "for this."

Quirrell hesitated, and then began to unwrap his turban. Mary could have laughed at how small his head looked without it, but then he turned and showed Mary a revolting sight. Where the back of his head should have been, there was a face. It had red eyes, two small slits for a nose, and the thinnest mouth.

"Mary Potter," it said. "We meet at last."

Some part of Mary's brain wanted to believe that, if she only looked at this reflection, none of what she saw outside the mirror was real.

"Look at what I have become," it labored to tell her. " I have no form of my own, and must share the body of another. Once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own. You do not need to use the stone, yourself. I will forgive what you have done to me…" It looked more terrible with that avaricious smile. "See what you did to me as a mere infant? Once I am restored, I could make you great beyond your wildest imaginings."

Quirrell walked backwards until he stood a pace from Mary, that awful face too weak to breathe down her neck. "Don't make the same mistake your parents did. Join me and become powerful."

Mary looked back at the scene before her in the Mirror of Erised.

What was power? At one time, Voldemort had held as much as anyone could wield, and he was taken down by an infant. One decade later, he was alone and begging her for allegiance. She didn't need him or his misplaced power. Mary wasn't alone, anymore, and that made her feel more powerful than any great mage, past or present. She'd love to hold the Philosopher's Stone and show him how she didn't need it–

Oh, shoot.

Something dropped into Mary's pocket, and everyone in her reflection soundlessly cried out. The disgraced old wizard caught the startled look in her eyes.

"See how easy that was?" Voldemort simpered. "Now hand it over, and I will show you true power."

Mary spun to face him and spat, "Do I look like I need your power?"

This time, she did try to run away.

"Get her!" he squealed, and Quirrell caught the back of her robes. She spun and broke his grip, but he had his wand out and he planted her feet to the ground. Her hands were still free, so she reached for her wand. Quirrell pointed his wand at her head and she stopped, but she did not raise her hands. She kept them by her sides, hoping he would not guess where the stone was.

"Empty your left pocket," Quirrell ordered.

"No," she said, balling her fists. Maybe she could still punch him in the nose.

"Take it from her!"

Quirrell lunged for her, grabbing her neck with one and reaching for her pocket with the other. As his fingers closed around her throat, she grabbed his wrist and and felt heat sear skin, similar when she caught Norbert's hatching egg. She bit back a cry, and tripped as her feet detached from the floor. Quirrell pulled his hand from her grip with a wail and Mary saw welts boiling up across his skin.

"Master, I cannot touch her!"

"Then kill her!"

Quirrell fumbled for his wand as Mary instinctively lunged for his neck with both hands, squeezing her fingers into his flesh despite the agonizing pain. Quirrell screamed and Mary roared through the fire melting her skin. She would not let go. She could not let this horrible creature hurt anyone else. She was blacking out. She fought to maintain consciousness until her body'd had enough, and she collapsed.