Harry and the Pirates, Chapter 16

The Two-Faced Man

by Technomad

Harry stared and stared. He'd been told, of course, about Voldemort; how the evil wizard had killed many people before attempting to kill him, only to somehow have his Killing Curse misfire and destroy the one who'd fired it. Guess he wasn't as destroyed as all that, Harry thought.

"All I am," crooned Voldemort, "is spirit, unless someone like my good little servant, here, provides me with a body. And all thanks to you, Harry Potter."

Harry tamped the fear that was clamoring in his mind down firmly, with an effort, and smiled. "All part of the service. No tips required." He'd heard one of Boss Chang's men, back in Roanapur, saying that after beating the stuffing out of someone who'd tried to short-weight them in a contraband transaction, and the line seemed to fit.

His insolence infuriated Voldemort. "Wretched mudblood! Your fate will be the stuff of legend…written in Books of Pain…" In his rage, Voldemort sputtered, and Quirrell jerked into motion, seeming to lurch backward to grab Harry.

Harry, however, did not like the idea of being grabbed by any adult. That was something that had been inculcated in him from earliest childhood. "Never, never let any adult that you don't know well lay hands on you!" Hugs from Aunt Petunia, or physical contact from Sergeant Boris or one of his men when they were training, were one thing, but there was no way he'd let this fool lay a finger on him!

First, throw your enemy off his balance; do something unexpected! It was as though Sergeant Boris was right there; Harry could all but hear the Russian's voice. Quirrell was still lurching backwards, under Voldemort's control, and Harry instantly saw just how to disrupt that control in a way Voldemort would never think of.

He spat. Accurately. To his delight, he hit his target squarely, as his sputum landed straight in one of Voldemort's red eyes.

The evil wizard screamed in rage. Before he could recover, Harry ducked forward, rolling, and catching Quirrell behind his knees, sending the former teacher sprawling on the floor, his wand flying out of his hand as he frantically tried to protect his "Master." With years of martial-arts training behind him, Harry bounced to his feet, his wand in his hand.

"Blasphemer! Wretch!" shrieked Voldemort.

"Master! What am I to do?" wailed Quirrell, as the two of them fought for control of his body.

"Nyekulturny muzhiki! Duraki!" snarled Harry. Russian was such a satisfying language to swear in, and calling his enemies uncultured peasants and fools felt very good, indeed. "Mudaki!*" He cast the same spell Hermione had used earlier, and Quirrellmort suddenly couldn't get traction or back on his feet no matter how frantically he thrashed.

To Harry's great surprise, Voldemort gave back as good as he got, as Quirrell fought to get back on his feet. "Na kaleni, suka!**" The face on the back of Quirrell's head gave Harry a wicked grin, looking, for a second, like a naughty schoolboy who'd successfully pulled a prank. "Did you honestly think you're the only person in Britain who speaks Russian? Yebanko maloetny!***"

Harry saw that Quirrellmort had managed to figure out how to get back up, and decided to give him some fresh trouble. Hermione had shown him how to make magical fire all but sit up and beg, and he quickly cast a charm to set Quirrell's robes on fire. Sure enough, the hems of Quirrell's robes were afire, and the possessed professor slapped at the fires, forgetting to get up in his fear of the flames.

Time to make like a tree…and leave! Harry figured it was past his bedtime anyway, so he sprinted for the door. Unfortunately, Quirrell saw what he was doing and threw a spell that slammed the door before Harry could get to it. "You're not going anywhere, you little wretch," Quirrell panted.

Harry whirled around, his wand up. Quirrell was back on his feet, and the dispute about who was in charge of the body seemed to be resolved. Slowly and clumsily, the hems of his garments smoldering, he advanced, his hands out to grab Harry. "I have you now, you little swine," he whispered. "You're not going anywhere, and soon…soon my master will have what he wants!"

"Yob tvoyu'mat!****" Harry shouted.

000

Up in his office, Professor Dumbledore was talking with Snape about the details of the upcoming Potions NEWT; Snape had several students who he believed would benefit from advanced training, post-Hogwarts, and they were discussing the best venues to suggest to them. Just then, several alarms went off, and both professors turned to see what the problem was.

"Someone's after the Stone!" Both men tore for the exit, heading down into the school.

000

Harry and Quirrell had come to grips. Quirrell's gloved hands were gripping Harry by his forearms, immobilizing his arms, and Quirrell was leaning close, his garlic-laden breath in Harry's face.

"So that's it!" Harry wheezed.

"What do you mean, you little wretch?" hissed Quirrell.

"We always thought you wore garlic in your turban to keep away vampires, but you just like the stuff!"

The sheer unexpectedness of that statement rocked Quirrell back for a second, and that was all Harry needed. His left foot came lashing up, just as Revy Two-Hands and Sister Eda had shown him once, connecting with Quirrell right where it would do the most good. Quirrell's eyes bugged out and he gave a shrill, satisfying scream. More importantly, his grip on Harry's arms slackened, letting Harry free his arms, and Harry delivered a solid uppercut to Quirrell's chin.

He'd expected results; he'd connected very solidly. However, what he got was more than he could have dared to dream for. Quirrell released him completely, falling back, shrieking. "It burns! It burns! Master, it burns!"

"Let me take over, fool!" That was Voldemort's high-pitched voice, and Quirrell thrashed as he instinctively fought the feeling of having his arms and legs under another's control.

Harry had never expected that sort of reaction to his touch, but he'd been trained for years to react quickly and take advantage of any unexpected event. Instinctively, he gathered himself, leaping on Quirrell and grappling, making sure to maintain maximum skin contact.

000

Dumbledore paused in the room on the third-floor corridor, marveling. "And here I thought nobody could get past Fluffy!" he murmured. He leaned down, looking at the music box, which was still playing Music Box Dancer. "I must say, this is a pretty tune. I wonder if whoever owns this would loan it to me long enough for me to learn it? It'd sound very well arranged for chamber music…"

Just then, a broom rocketed out of the trapdoor, startling both wizards. To their astonishment, it was piloted by Dudley Dursley, with an unconscious Ronald Weasley on board behind him, held in place with magical bindings. "Oh! Hullo, professors! Ron's hurt and I'm taking him to Madam Pomfrey!"

"Not so fast, Mr. Dursley!" Instinctively, Snape whirled, casting a spell to shut the door. "I want some explanations! And don't you know that riding brooms in the corridors is strictly forbidden?"

Dumbledore's wand was out, and he cast a spell. "Madam Pomfrey's been alerted, and she'll be here directly. While we wait…" Suddenly he wasn't a kindly old crackpot any more. Suddenly, he was a powerful wizard, and Dudley, no coward, quailed. "Perhaps you can explain just what's going on, in full detail?"

000

Down far below, the fight raged on. Quirrell screamed and writhed, by now just trying to get away, but Harry hung on to him like grim Death. "You killed my mother, did you? You killed my father? Burn!" he screamed. "Burn burn burn!"

Quirrell suddenly slumped, the life seeming to flee him, as a mist coalesced out of his head. Harry let go, scrambling back and fumbling for his wand, panting, as the mist seemed to try to solidify. A pair of red eyes appeared in it, glaring at Harry as he bounced to his feet, pointing his wand.

"Very well, you little scum," hissed the mist. "I was able to possess this fool when I met him in Albania, where I was hiding out. I have learned much about possessing human beings, and being the master of the Boy Who Lived will be a fitting revenge!" The mist came forward, toward Harry, seeming to reach for him with insubstantial arms.

Harry ducked and rolled, but no spell he cast could seem to affect his ghostly enemy. Inwardly, he cursed Quirrell for being a bad teacher; he was sure that if Quirrell had been the real deal, he'd have at least some idea of how to deal with this menace.

000

Dumbledore and Snape were rushing to the rescue, using Dumbledore's hidden shortcuts past the various puzzles that had been set up to circumvent anybody getting at the treasure hidden in the school. Finally, they made it past the fire, into the room where the Mirror of Erised stood, to stare in horror at what awaited them. Harry Potter was blazing away with every spell in the first years' repertoire, and a few that Snape privately thought he must have learned from the older Slytherins, as a menacing, ghostly figure leaned over him, unimpressed by anything Harry could do. Harry screamed something that sounded very uncomplimentary in Russian, and the ghost replied in the same language, before sensing the professors' arrival and turning to face them.

"Tom Riddle! Begone from this school!" Dumbledore cast a powerful Banishing Hex, and the ghost, or whatever it was, of Tom Riddle recoiled, to fly up and out of one of the high windows. Both teachers rushed to their pupil.

"He doesn't seem to be hurt…" Snape ventured.

"No, sir. I was hurt worse than that sparring with Dudley," Harry answered. "But, sirs, that was Lord Voldemort! He was after whatever was in that mirror, and he possessed Professor Quirrell! Shouldn't you see to him?"

Reminded of their colleague's existence, Dumbledore and Snape both rushed to his side, kneeling and casting diagnostic spells. "He's alive!" Snape announced.

"But in a bad way!" Dumbledore cast a spell. "Madam Pomfrey won't be able to get here! We'll have to get him out of here ourselves!" They conjured a stretcher, lifting Quirrell onto it gently and raising it into the air. As they turned to rush Quirrell out to the hospital wing, Snape turned to Harry, who was trying unsuccessfully to be inconspicuous, and snapped: "You come along too, Mr. Potter. I want to know just what's been going on tonight!"

000

Madam Pomfrey was a very self-possessed woman. She'd been a Healer for years before winning the coveted position as school matron at Hogwarts. She'd seen all sorts of accidents and mishaps, from Polyjuice experiments gone severely wrong to splinching, and she was not one to startle easily. Even so, she had a moment's shock when, after tucking Mr. Ronald Weasley up in bed and making sure he wouldn't wake for a while, she was confronted by her employer and her main potions supplier, with a stretcher on which rested another teacher.

She cast her specialized diagnostic spells, finding that Quirrell was severely burned, anemic, and showing the effects of long-term malnutrition, dehydration and shock. She shook her head. "It's St. Mungo's for him, sir. My facilities here are not up to dealing with this. They've specialists on tap there who can deal with this. I'd say he was possessed." She gave Dumbledore a shrewd look. "Was he?"

"It appears so, Madam Pomfrey. The possessing spirit is gone now, and we have our Mr. Potter to thank. Please stabilise Professor Quirrell, and then look these children over." Dumbledore indicated Miss Hermione Granger, Mr. Harry Pottter and Mr. Dudley Dursley, who were sitting side-by-side on a bench in the waiting room, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Once they'd been checked out and pronounced viable, Dumbledore and Snape sat down in front of the three Slytherins. Snape, as their Head of House, fixed them with a gimlet eye. "I trust that the explanation I am about to receive for this night's events is particularly memorable?"

"Oh, it is, sir," Harry answered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a red stone. "Here's that thing that you were looking for, sir. We figured out how to get at it and thought it would make a nice surprise for you, sir." Snape accepted the stone, an unreadable expression on his face.

"But how-?"

"The dog was easy, once we knew what we were dealing with, sir," Hermione took up the tale. "Ron, bless him, had a music box at his house that would play for a long time, and we set it up and started playing it. Sent him right off."

"Then we ran into some Devil's Snare," Dudley continued. "Luckily, I'd brought along some Muggle flares. Those things burn bright and hot, and the Snare backed right on off."

"The room with the keys was a bit difficult, but we were able to figure out which one was the right one," Harry said. "Ron caught the right flying key. And then we found ourselves playing chess, as chess pieces. Luckily, Ron's a crackerjack player. I'd love to see how he did in regular tournament play."

"Perhaps the opportunity can be arranged," Snape murmured thoughtfully. "Or we could have a tournament here at Hogwarts? Many of the staff play, and I'm sure we have other students who would like such an activity."

Harry took up his tale again: "Once through there, Hermione…she's brilliant, she really is…was able to suss out a way to deal with the troll. If it can't reach you, it can't hurt you, so we just slicked up the floor where it was so it couldn't get on its feet, and surrounded it with illusions to keep it occupied while we went on past."

"And the potions weren't that hard to figure out," Hermione said, with a proud smile. "Except that someone here hogged all the potion so he could go on ahead alone. Someone I thought was my friend!" She gave Harry an angry glare, and he quailed.

"I looked in the mirror, and then the stone was in my pocket," Harry explained, "and then the next thing I knew, I had Quirrell covering me. And who knew but that his turban was covering another face?" He went on to describe the fight, and by the time he was done, everybody was very quiet.

"Well," Dumbledore finally said, "I think it's time you were all off in bed. I shall write you out a hall pass so that you don't get into trouble; it's far past your usual bedtimes. Professor Snape and I shall remain here and discuss this." Relieved that they didn't seem to be in worse trouble, Harry, Dudley and Hermione hurried off to the Slytherin dormitories and their own comfortable beds.

Once they were alone, Snape and Dumbledore looked at each other.

"Traps that were thought out to stop the most cunning wizards," Snape finally drawled. "Puzzles that we thought nobody without the crib could solve. The perfect trap for the Dark Lord…and a bunch of first-years breezed right on through!"

Dumbledore had the grace to blush.

Russian to English translations:

*Bastards!

** On your knees, bitch!

*** Adolescent punk!

**** Rape your mother!