Chapter 21

A Traitor in Our Midst

It was the Holy Grail, the treasure at the end of the rainbow, a metallurgist's magnum opus – it was the Philosopher's Stone. A legendary object with extraordinary powers – the stone had the ability to lengthen one's life, transmute base metals into gold and grant its owner enhanced magical knowledge. Whether one desired the immortality of a god, dreamed of immeasurable wealth on par with King Midas or had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, the fabled stone was the key.

The search for the process to create the renowned stone consumed the minds of countless men, driving them mad with desire. History is littered with rumored appearances of such stones – legend claims a Persian holy man created the first one, Genghis Khan was said to have possessed a powerful white stone, Alexander the Great wore a mystical ruby red stone in his chest plate, Marco Polo had large blue stone built into his ship's navigation wheel and even Michelangelo was said to have been very possessive of a small purple crystal stone he wore around his neck.

Among the countless stories, one rang true – Nicholas Flamel had been alive for over six centuries, had more galleons than Gringotts and had an encyclopedia of facts stored in his head.

"It's mine Albus, and I have no interest in sharing my life's work."

"I'm not asking you to share it."

"Give it up then? Is that what you're suggesting?"

"My dear friend, all I asked was what more do you hope to accomplish in this life. And your reply has been a series of paranoid accusations. You believe I'm here to steal what you hold most dear?"

Nicholas Flamel got up from his chair and walked across a wooden deck to pour himself another glass of wine. He was sitting in his opulent sun room talking about life with one of his oldest friends, well, oldest friend in what was his "sixth" lifetime. The sun room was a large deck built into the side of a majestic mountain and afforded its occupants a stunning view of the Mediterranean Sea. It was the kind of a room only a few in this world could afford. Nicholas stared at his goblet, now full with one of the world's rarest vintages. The cost of the wine could feed a family for a lifetime.

"No…of course not."

"What's troubling you my friend?"

Nicholas stared hard at the chalice gripped in his hand, swirling the rich wine within.

"This comes from the very vineyards of the Medici."

"Yes, I know. I'm not a big drinker, but this is absolutely exquisite."

"What's troubling me is that it tastes like sour grapes."

Dumbledore stood, concern creasing his face. "Are you sick?"

"Yes Albus, I am. I'm sick of life as a matter of fact. Both me and Penelope."

"You've lived a long time Nicholas, seen more than most."

"I've seen too much…lost too many loved ones. Drink never slakes my thirst, food now tastes bland. Nothing excites us anymore. I'm tired of moving, of hiding, of being constantly hounded by thieves."

Dumbledore didn't reply, but rather walked to the edge of the room and looked out at the vast sea. It really was a breathtaking view. One could die happy simply gazing at this scenic horizon for a few hours.

"Albus, I called you here for advice. I may be six times your senior, but you are wisest man I know."

"Answer me this Nicholas."

"Yes?"

"Is there anywhere you haven't been? Is there anything you haven't tasted? Anything you haven't experienced?"

"Honestly, nothing comes to mind."

"Well then, your path is rather straightforward from here on out. I am at your service."

"Thank you Albus."

"What exactly happened?!"

Dumbledore was behind the large oak desk in his office, eyes ablaze with hot frustration. Professor McGonagall was standing in a corner, watching silently. All the portraits were also quietly observing the scene. Everyone's attention was drawn to the center of the room, towards a seated Severus Snape.

Snape glanced at McGonagall for some type of sign and she gave a quick, encouraging nod.

"Headmaster I did what I could!"

"Yes, Albus, that's true. Severus was the only person in the entire stadium who realized what was going on."

"Thank you Minerva, but I've already heard your account."

"I was just trying to…"

"Thank you Minerva! It is Severus who is tasked to watch over Harry and it is Severus who I want to hear from."

Silence hung in the office; it was rare for Dumbledore to show his impatience and even rarer for him to be curt with the Deputy Headmistress.

"Severus?"

"Nothing seemed amiss at first Headmaster, the match began normally enough. I noticed Potter was having trouble with his broom, however I assumed it was simply first time jitters. But once he started bucking wildly about, I deduced that he was being jinxed. I started a counter spell at once."

"And who had the gall to attack a student on Hogwarts' grounds?"

"I've no idea, I couldn't afford to break eye contact!"

"Minerva?"

"I'm sorry Albus, I saw no one suspicious in the crowd."

"No one making constant eye contact with young Harry as he was bucking about?"

"At that point everyone was staring at him."

Dumbledore began pacing up and down.

"Albus, does this have anything to do with the stone? I feel like its presence here might be putting the students' safety in jeopardy."

Dumbledore stopped pacing and turned to stare at McGonagall. Then, seeming to make up his mind about something, he quickly strode from the room. The Deputy Headmistress was close on his heels – leaving Snape alone, with only the portraits' worried faces to keep him company.

Snape slowly got up and limped towards the door. His leg was still sore and the bloody cold winter wasn't helping matters. As he reached the office door, he glanced to his left and spied a large glass mirror. He expected to see the sorry sight of a hobbled and weary Slytherin, but what he saw shocked him. He tentatively walked up the mirror, it couldn't be! Impossible!

Snape turned around, but there was no one behind him. He spun back to the mirror and there she was, smiling back at him. Beautiful as ever. His red flower. Snape slowly sat back down on the ground and gazed up at the large mirror. Transfixed.

When Dumbledore arrived back to his office a few hours later, that was where he found Snape – sitting quietly in the corner, legs crossed, staring unblinkingly in front of the Mirror of Erised.

A hooded figure strode quickly down the front steps of the castle and headed towards the Forbidden Forest. Severus Snape was in a foul mood for he had spent the day wasting his time on Quidditch – reading up on the rules, running the team captains' pregame meeting and then refereeing the goddamn match. And while the whole school had been at the game, someone had tried to enter the secret passage that held the philosopher's stone.

Snape was now starting to believe the culprit was not an outsider, but truly was a teacher or student. He would catch the traitor. In fact, he was on the way to meet one of his suspects now.

The full moon was shining down through a cloudless sky, casting an unnatural glow on the hard ground. It was late and there was a chill in the air – the Forbidden Forest looked as eerie as ever. Maybe proposing to meet in there had been a mistake? He had wanted Quirrell to be afraid and off balance when he questioned him, but now he had an unsettling feeling.

But rather than slow down, Snape picked up his pace and entered the forest at a dead run. In his haste he didn't notice someone following him from high up above, a small figure on a slender broom.

Snape pushed his way through branches and brambles, collecting scrapes across his face for his effort. He eventually made his way into a shadowy clearing where Quirinus Quirrell nervously stood, shifting around as if on tenterhooks.

"I…d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus…"

"Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape, his voice icy. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Philosopher's Stone, after all."

"W-what are you talking a-about?" Quirrell kept looking all around him, more skittish than ever. "Severus I-I-I don't know where all this a-animosity and s-suspicion is coming…"

Snape interrupted him.

"Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?"

"B-b-but Severus, I —"

"You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step toward him.

"I-I don't know what you —"

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

Snape took a menacing step towards Quirrell.

"I know you've been testing the stone's defenses, prodding to see if there are any weaknesses. I've noticed your fumbling attempts, found evidence of – your little bit of hocus-pocus. I'm waiting."

"B-but I d-d-don't —"

"Very well," Snape cut in. "We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie."

He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing.

It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still as though he was petrified…Harry turned his broom around and drifted back towards the castle, careful to stay out of sight. Should he go to Professor McGonagall? Or maybe Dumbledore? Snape was getting increasingly desperate; he was now openly threatening Quirrell to help him steal the stone!

Snape strode out of the forest, frustration roiling his insides. The weak spirited fool could never hope to pass through the stone's defenses – he was too much of coward to even try. I don't know why he's even on Dumbledore's radar. But Snape did have to admit to himself that he did sense something about Quirrell tonight. There had been a dark aura around him, something Snape had not sensed for a long, long time…

Quirrell stood rooted to the spot where Snape had left him, all alone in the shadowy clearing. He was trembling, perspiration dripping from his brow in open defiance of the chilly night.

"P-please. I'm sorry Master. I-I'm doing my best."

"You have not even advanced past the three headed Cerberus," hissed an unseen voice.

"I'm t-trying my Lord!"

"I don't have time for this incompetence!"

Suddenly Quirrell dropped to his knees, writhing in pain. He let loose a guttural scream, spooking even the darkest of creatures lurking about the tall trees. Quirrell rolled over onto his back, dark blood seeping from his eyes.

"Get up. Get up you sniveling rat!"

Quirrell wiped the bloody discharge from his eyes and tried to rise up to a knee.

"I promise I will rip the flesh from your bones tonight if you continue to wither on the ground."

"Of course m-my Lord," Quirrell replied as he rose, swaying on his unsteady feet.

"Remove this disgusting turban, let me breathe."

"Of course m-my Lord."

Quirrell unwrapped the cloth turban that was bound tight around his head – he looked amusingly small without it on. But the real surprise lay at the back of his head. Where there should have been long brown hair, instead was a grim outline of a terrible face. Pure white with burning scarlet eyes and snakelike slits for nostrils. This was the hell Tom Riddle had been banished to, a wisp among the living – a dark shadow that could only take form when part of another's body.

"Turn around…the beast is behind you."

Quirrell slowly rotated on his heels and saw a wounded unicorn limp into the clearing. It was a splendid magical creature – white as pure driven snow, a long silver mane and golden hooves. A bright alabaster horn shone from its forehead, glistening in the moonlight. Unicorns were powerful creatures – it was virtually impossible to catch a glimpse of the animal, let alone catch one. But the Dark Lord had powers unparalleled in the magical world. Quirrell felt a force from within raise his hand and beckon towards the white creature. The unicorn looked as if it wanted to sprint away and began shaking its head. But a few seconds later it began to make its way towards Quirrell.

The beast reached the trembling professor and then gracefully knelt down, exposing its throbbing neck. Unicorn blood was a rare liquid indeed. It was known to have healing powers, not as powerful as phoenix tears, but very efficacious none the less. The problem was that unicorn blood must be found or given freely for its healing properties to manifest. If the blood was taken, it could still extend one's life – but it would be a cursed life, a half-life.

However, Quirrell was willingly to make this sacrifice. He had been chosen and this was a small price to pay to serve a holy cause. Quirrell reached into his robes and withdrew a dragon-fire steel dagger with a pumice handle. He said a silent prayer and then pressed it into the waiting unicorn's throat. The cold steel sliced through the pearl white flesh as though it were hot butter. With a violent jerk, Quirrell ripped the blade across the beast's throat and soiled the ground with silvery blood.

The beautiful unicorn swayed on its slender legs for a moment and then fell, its legs splayed in unnatural angles. Fighting the disgust churning in his belly, Quirrell bent down low and let the squirting blood splash across his face. He then put his lips to the open wound and sucked the liquid down. Unicorn blood willingly given was said to taste like ambrosia, the nectar of the gods. But unicorn blood taken – it tasted like metallic wool dipped in hot acid.

Quirrell's throat burned and burned, but on he drank. After a few minutes, his strength gave out and he collapsed to the ground. Tom's frustration was mounting. Possessing someone so thoroughly, as he had been doing with Quirrell, was a constant drain on his ethereal life force. The more unicorn blood he drank, the less its efficacy became. He needed something more powerful! He needed the stone! Now!

"Wake up! Wake up you useless idiot! Wake up!"

Quirrell's eyes fluttered opened, Riddle's voice ringing in his mind.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Time is now of the essence. No more games. I want you to forge a letter."

"Of course my Lord. From w-who shall it be?"

"Pen is from the desk of the Minister of Magic."

"And t-to who shall it be a-addressed?"

Distant wails and cries could be heard from within the forest for magical blood had been spilt this full moon. Nature was mourning the slaying of an innocent this night.

"Address it to Albus Dumbledore."