The first week of exams was rapidly approaching, much to the dismay of nearly every student in the castle.
Everyone, from ickle firstie through to the toughest, meanest seventh year, had united in their sudden case of the jitters. Shuffling could be heard all around the school, students hurrying between classes, and the library had never been so crowded.
Ordinarily, Daphne would've been annoyed, but in this case she was presented with a unique opportunity.
Potter and Granger were busy making up for lost time, no doubt nose-deep in some book on Transfiguration, and the rest of her Slytherin classmates were far too worried about passing the year to keep track of her whereabouts.
"E-Excuse me," asked a third-year Ravenclaw, who looked like she hadn't slept for several days. "Do you mind if I sit next to you?"
Taking pity on the disheveled girl, Daphne shook her head.
"Have the whole desk - I was just about to leave anyway."
"Oh… thanks."
With that, Daphne packed up her books, one of which was a tome too large to fit into any bag. Tucking it underneath her arm, she made her way past the Ravenclaw, through the mass of anxious students and out of the library.
"Say, Daph'," a voice replayed in her mind. "Wanna go back to the forbidden corridor?"
"Are you out of your bloody mind, Potter?" she replied. "Don't you remember what happened last time?"
"Ah, but you see, my dear Glacia, I've figured out the trick to putting that lil' mutt to sleep. Aren't you even the slightest bit curious why there's a three-headed dog in the school?"
She had, of course, insisted that Potter was daft and that she would have no part in his antics. To drive the point home, she'd also made certain the air turned sufficiently chilly to remind the boy of his recent trauma.
"Not a chance," she growled. "And that goes for you as well. If I find out you've gone and died, I'll kill you myself."
"Aw… see, you do care about me! Also, I'm not sure death works that way, Daph'."
And that had been the end of that, at least as far as Potter was concerned. The truth was that she still felt guilty about what had very nearly happened, and didn't want him in the vicinity of that beast ever again.
Her steps faltered, the great tome under her arm growing heavier by the second. Daphne adjusted her grip, and her eyes fell on the title along its spine: 'Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions'.
A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed.
She wouldn't risk any of her friends, but Potter had made an interesting observation.
"Oh, alright," he said, relenting at her furious gaze. "I promise not to look for whatever that dog's guarding."
It made sense - cerberuses were historically kept to protect important things.
Daphne looked over her shoulder, one of the moving staircases leading to the third-floor corridor conveniently swinging her way. There was nobody else around, she noticed, and if she waited even a moment longer her chance might slip away.
Her legs were moving before she'd even finished the thought.
Voldemort snarled, gritting his teeth in impotent rage.
His useless servant had spent the last hour standing before the mirror, all the while mumbling about the Stone and how he could see himself holding it.
"P-Please, Master!" begged Quirrell, whimpering in pain as he made his displeasure known. "The Stone is within reach, I need but a moment longer to-"
"I have granted you more than a moment," hissed the Dark Lord. "Dumbledore will be here any second, by which time I shall be gone, and you…"
Quirrell's fear was palpable, and the pathetic man proceeded to press himself against the mirror, clawing at it as though the Stone would simply pop into existence. It was infuriating, and yet there was nothing Voldemort could do about it.
For the first time in his life he was dependent on someone else, and it only reinforced his belief in the weakness of needing help.
"No, no, no!" Quirrell roared, fists pounding against unbreakably charmed glass.
It seemed as though no progress would be made, and Voldemort considered abandoning his wretch of a host once and for all. His plans were not coming together as he'd envisioned - neither the Stone nor Harry Potter anywhere in sight.
A pity, he mused, the boy would've made a fine host.
Like the rest of the school, he'd been surprised by the supposed savior's sorting into Slytherin house. He was powerful and intelligent, a mirror to the Dark Lord, and they even looked somewhat alike.
But the boy was young and malleable, still far too weak to pose a threat to him. If they shared as many similarities as he thought, Potter would no doubt see the benefit of joining with him.
The sound of roaring fire had Quirrell jerk in fright, the mirror briefly forgotten as he gripped his wand, looking towards the entrance. It wasn't Albus Dumbledore that stepped into the chamber, however, but a young, raven-haired girl - one he'd seen plenty of times in the company of Harry Potter.
Voldemort's lips curled beneath the turban - his plans may be salvaged yet.
"Good evening, Miss Greengrass."
A sinking feeling settled in Daphne's stomach, realizing that she might be in over her head.
She'd expected the cerberus to be the only obstacle standing between her and whatever Dumbledore had hidden away, but past the trapdoor awaited a series of trials instead. It seemed more of a challenge than any real attempt at guarding some precious treasure, but the old man was an eccentric, after all.
The Devil's Snare was easy to deal with, and the flying keys were pacified with the Immobulus charm - she'd have to thank Snape for his constant encouragement they study ahead.
It was when she found an oversized, broken chess set that things truly began to feel amiss. Someone was here, or had recently been here, and Daphne quickly grew wary. The large pieces were clearly meant to be played, carrying one across the room from end to end.
They hadn't been played - they'd been completely obliterated - much like the poor, dead troll she came across moments later.
The final trial would've seen her amused, hadn't she become so apprehensive. The riddle was the ultimate trap for most modern wizards, thinking with their wands instead of their brains, and she just knew Snape had been behind it.
Uncorking the smallest bottle, Daphne took a swig of the potion and strode through the ominous, black flames, projecting far more confidence than she really felt.
"Good evening, Miss Greengrass."
"You."
Every instinct in her body screamed at her to turn tail and run, that she'd made a grave mistake in coming here and that the man standing before her was not the Professor Quirrell she knew.
The professor stood straight, lips set in a firm line, and when he spoke it was without a hint of a stutter.
"Me," the man confirmed. "I must admit, however, that you were not the person I expected to be seeing here tonight."
"And who were you expecting, Professor?" asked Daphne, still rooted in place.
Quirrell smiled, and it wasn't a pretty sight.
"Dumbledore, perhaps. Or someone I believe you're far more intimately familiar with… Harry Potter."
The chamber suddenly felt exceedingly small, the distance between herself and the professor lessening with each second.
Only belatedly did Daphne realize he'd been walking towards her, never letting up that cruel grin of his, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't move a muscle. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt before, a primal fear gripping her heart and squeezing so tightly that she thought she would faint.
"Wh-What do you want with Harry?" she bit out, pushing past her fear.
"Oh, Harry is it?" taunted Quirrell, bending over until he was able to look her in the face. He suddenly appeared much taller and larger than before, a stark contrast to the cowering professor that had taught her for almost a year.
When a hand grabbed her lower arm, Daphne screamed. Her wand clattered uselessly against the stone floor, forgotten as she struggled to get free.
"Be silent, girl!"
That was all the warning she received before a violent shove sent her stumbling through the chamber.
"Tell me," the professor demanded, his cold hand closing around the scruff of her neck and forcing her to look ahead. "What do you see?"
A violent sob racked her body, and Daphne realized she was crying, tears pooling up in her eyes.
"Speak!" Quirrell snapped.
Something shimmered, and she blinked away the tears.
A large mirror stood in front of her, with Daphne wondering how she'd missed it before.
"I- I see-"
"Yes, yes, what do you see?"
"I see m-myself, and you, a-and…"
Her eyes went wide as the reflection changed, shifting as several other people entered into view.
"My parents… A-Astoria…"
There was something different about them, however.
They all looked so happy and carefree, like a heavy burden had been lifted from their shoulders. Her sister, in particular, looked like she'd never seen trouble or hardship, like she'd never spent a day sick in her life - like she'd never been afflicted with that damned malediction.
"Ah, the sacred House Greengrass," whispered Quirrell, sounding almost reminiscent. "I had such high hopes for them… Alas, it wasn't meant to be."
The reflection shifted once more, even as the professor kept on talking, caught up in whatever memory that had crossed his mind.
"Yes, your family certainly held promise. If only your father had not insisted on that vaunted neutrality of his," he spat, the last few words tinged with bitterness. "Why, I could've even lifted the curse that plagues your bloodline."
"Wh-What?"
Daphne had gone still, her mirror-self betraying the shock she felt.
Quirrell made a surprised sound, though it came across more as mocking.
"He never told you, Daphne? I must confess myself disappointed - I took Cyrus Greengrass for many things, but not a coward."
"My father is not a coward!"
Cold, hair-raising laughter was all she received in response, and she felt horrible for the seed of doubt that planted itself in her mind. Had her father truly passed on a chance to free their family of the curse?
"No? What else would you call a man who willingly leaves his family to wither and die, all because he is too afraid to pick a side?"
"A s-side? I don't- it's not true, there's more to it, there has to be!"
Quirrell's laughter seemed to go on forever; a hollow, depraved cackle utterly devoid of kindness.
"There is not, I assure you."
The most sickening sound she'd ever heard then reached her ears, crunching and squelching as the professor's head was twisted around by his own hands. She jumped at a particularly loud snap, his neck now entirely broken and bent the wrong way.
It took all of Daphne's effort not to retch, yet her eyes remained glued to the mirror, watching in morbid fascination as Quirrell began undoing his turban.
A horrible, grotesque face smiled at her, and she knew immediately who it belonged to. There was only one man said to have scarlet eyes and slits for nostrils, looking like a cross between man and serpent.
"I was there, after all," said Lord Voldemort.