Second part of the race to the Stone.

HARRY VII

Harry went through the flames without feeling the fire. He saw it, but he felt nothing on his skin, not even a subtle warmth. When he emerged on the other side, he was at the top of a long flight of stairs going deep into the undergrounds of the castle. Harry felt his scar itching again. Why was it causing him so much pain? There was something wrong. It couldn't be a coincidence that it started hurting so much when the Stone was about to be stolen.

Harry went down the stairs. First, he saw nothing at the end of them. Some kind of fog concealed what was at the bottom. Slowly though, he began to see something shining at the end. Something that grew. It was a rectangular shape, the base shorter than the height. And he saw the outline of another shape, more human, against the glow. The figure had a very big head. A purple big head.

"It' you!" Harry shouted.

Professor Quirinus Quirrell turned to look at him. "I was wondering if I would meet you here, Potter."

Before Harry could do anything, Quirrell pointed his wand at him. Ropes appeared from nowhere and encircled Harry from ankles to the neck. By trying to get rid of them, Harry stumbled and travelled all the way down the rest of the stairs by rolling, hitting his head a few times until he was immobilized at Quirrell's feet. The pain in his forehead became unbearable.

"I knew you would be a problem the moment I saw you in the Great Hall. The events of Halloween only confirmed my suspicions."

"McGonagall said you were an expert on trolls. It's you who got the troll in," Harry said between his teeth. He wished he could rub his forehead, where his scar was. If only it would help.

"Indeed, Potter. I did."

"And it's you who tried to kill me during the Quidditch match. You cursed my broomstick."

"Correct, again. I would have succeeded without Snape and your mother sending counter-curses, or the fire at Snape's cloak which made me lost visual contact with you. A few more seconds and you would be dead."

"So... Snape was really after you. That's why he was refereeing my second match, and why Dumbledore was there. That's why he was threatening you. I surprised one of your conversations in the Forbidden Forest."

"Very good, Potter. You found all this on your own. I might have underestimated you. I knew you could be a nuisance, but to discover so much about me..."

"I know you're working for someone else." The smirk Quirrell displayed since they began talking disappeared in an instant. For a moment, Harry saw again the frightened teacher who was even afraid of his own students. Was he really afraid of Harry? Maybe he could exploit this. Maybe he could somehow get to his wand in his pocket and rip the ropes somehow. "I thought maybe you were in league with Snape, but I heard you in a classroom one day. You were talking to someone. Your true master."

Quirrell looked at him with big eyes. Harry struggled like hell to get his wand. Quirrell must have realized he was just trying to distract him for his smirk returned and he laughed. It wasn't his usual quivering laugh. This one was cold, sharp.

"You don't know who that is. Or else you would have told Dumbledore. I thought again that I underestimated you for a moment, Potter, but again you just proved that I overestimated you instead. You're too curious for your own good. You're more like an insect trying to sting. A big insect, maybe, a very boring and troublesome insect, but an insect nonetheless."

Quirrell turned on his heels. They had been wrong from the beginning. Snape wasn't involved in all this. He was just trying to stop Quirrell. And now Harry was there, powerless as Quirrell was about to get the Stone. He surely didn't have it yet, or else he would already be gone. Harry hung on to this belief, as he was unable to do anything to stop Quirrell. They had both gone through the spells of every professor. There might only be the spell Professor Dumbledore cast that remained, like Hagrid mentioned it. Harry hoped it would be enough to keep the Stone away from Quirrell.

Quirrell approached the shimmering object Harry had been seeing from afar. It was a mirror. There was a strange inscription over it, written in a language he did not recognize nor understand.

"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured, certainly to himself and not for Harry.

"Dumbledore is going to stop you," Harry told him, trying to distract him again.

"Dumbledore is in London," Quirrell said dismissively. "By the time he comes back, I'll be gone, and far away. He will be powerless to do anything against me and my master."

"Your master... He seemed to be threatening you. And you are afraid of him. Why serve him?"

This caught Quirrell's attention. He turned to Harry. He looked afraid once more. "Sometimes, I find it hard to follow my master's instructions. I met him during my travelling of the world. He is a great wizard. He helped me to see the truth. Back then, I was weak. I still am. I had foolish ideas about good and evil. My master helped me to understand that good and evil don't exist. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. I tried to serve him the best I could. I failed him, on countless occasions. At Gringotts, at Halloween, during your Quidditch match, and then after. I waited months before having the courage and sufficient will to try to steal the Stone again. And he punished me for that. He does not forgive easily."

"Who is your master?" Harry asked. He could keep Quirrell occupied, but also try to get information out of him. If someone else was involved, even if he couldn't stop Quirrell from getting the Stone, maybe he would survive and could tell what he learned to Dumbledore. Or to anyone else who would want to hear what he had to say.

"A very powerful wizard. The most powerful of all time. And he is with me, always."

Who could that be? His mother once told him that Albus Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in the world. Harry believed her. And there were so many people who believed it as well. Who could be that master of Quirrell? It couldn't be Dumbledore. Harry gritted his teeth as another wave of pain went through his forehead.

"Now, shut up, Potter." Quirrell returned his attention to the mirror. "This mirror must be the key to finding the Stone. Dumbledore must have done something about that. I can see what my heart desires. The Stone is between my hands, and I give it to my master."

Harry looked at the mirror. Was Quirrell talking to himself again? Was he really seeing something in the mirror? Harry blinked and tried to better see in the glass, but all he could see was himself, wrapped in ropes and lying on the stone floor, and Quirrell, staring in the mirror, a frustrated look upon his face.

Then something strange happened. Harry saw himself getting free of his bonds and standing up. Then his reflection winked at him and pulled a blood-red stone out of his pocket. Harry thought he was hallucinating. But then his reflection placed the blood stone back into his pocket, and Harry felt something fall within his real pocket. He managed to move his right hand just enough to feel something hard and rocky. That was impossible. He had the Stone.

"He has the Stone."

The voice Harry heard sent chills along his spine. It wasn't Quirrell's voice. It was the voice of no one. It was high, cold, sharp, and it seemed like it came from Quirrell, but it wasn't Quirrell's voice. Harry was sure of that. And he felt he heard this voice before, though he couldn't recognize it. Quirrell turned to Harry, a dangerous expression on his face.

"It is in his right pocket," the voice said. So he knew.

Before Harry could think further, before he could try anything, no matter what little he might have been able to do, Quirrell had pointed his wand on him again. Harry felt the control of his body leave him. He was immobilized, unable to move, a prisoner of his own body as Quirrell removed the ropes around him and recovered the Philosopher's Stone from his pocket, a huge and greedy smile on his face, as if he just found a treasure he had been searching for years. This was probably the case. Harry tried desperately to move, without success.

"Give him back the control of his body," the voice said. "I want him to be able to move as he looks at me. Put back the ropes." Quirrell did so. Harry was again capable of struggling, but he was prisoner of ropes now instead of being prisoner of his own body. "Now, let me speak to him face to face."

Quirrell looked worried. "Master, you're not strong enough! We should first drink the Elixir of Life..."

"I have strength enough for this! Let him see me before I get my power back."

Then Quirrell started to unwrap his turban. The pain in Harry's scar increased to unknown levels. He hissed in pain and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the whole turban was almost off. The last trips went down. And Harry saw it. In the reflection of the mirror, he saw what was behind the head of Quirrell. Instead of the back of his head, there was another face. It was worse than anything Harry had ever seen. The face was whiter than snow, and it had red eyes that fixed him. It had no nose. There were only nostrils similar to that of a snake.

"Harry Potter. Finally, we meet again."

The face laughed. And all of a sudden, Harry remembered where he had heard this voice. In his dreams. He had dreamed about a green flash of light since he was a little kid. As far as he could remember, he had made this dream from time to time. And there was this cold, sharp laugh in each one of them.

"Voldemort," he whispered. For the first time in his life, Harry was looking at the man who murdered his father. The man who tried to kill him. The man who his mother barely survived. The man who gave him the scar on his front.

"See what I have become, Harry," Voldemort said. "I am but mere shadow and vapour. I can only have form when I share someone else's body. But it is about to change. With the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own. And when I do have my own body, I will finish what I started ten years ago. I will kill you."

Harry was struggling like a demon. He had to get free of his bonds. He had to do something. Quirrell had the Stone in his hand.

"Quirrell, drink!"

Quirinus Quirrell slowly brought the Stone to his mouth. Harry moved in all senses in the hope to get free. He had to stop this. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let the man who killed his father come back to life. The searing pain in his forehead would not stop. The Stone was getting dangerously close to Quirrell's mouth.

"Accio Stone!"

Just when the rock was about to touch Quirrell's lips, it flew away in the direction from which Harry had just come. He turned his head and realized with horror that he wasn't wrong about who the voice that just took away the Stone from Quirrell belonged to.

See you tomorrow for the end of the confrontation for the Stone.

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Next chapter : surprise POV