Have you ever had a chapter that absolutely demanded to be written, refused to let the story move forward without it, and then once you started working on it all inspiration just immediately vanished? Yeah, that's what happened here, and it's one of two reasons this chapter has taken so damn long. It's also a bit short, but at this point I just want to post something.

The other reason I've been distracted is that since I didn't have the drive to work on this, I was compelled to start on a different project, one that's not fanfiction for a change, and my brain wouldn't put its shiny new toy down. But that's going on the back burner until I can get at least the next chapter or two of this story up for your reading pleasure.

Chapter 47
Interlude A: Ace of Spades

Filius gazed at the pillar in sorrow and disbelief.

Thirty-six years was a long time. He had forgotten just how long, and what could happen in that time.

The echoes of footsteps reached him from a distance, other goblins carrying on the business of life in the well-worn chambers that made up the majority of the town of Plubbt. He had gotten a number of curious and suspicious glances as he made his way through, but those had turned away once it was clear his route led to the town pit.

The last time he had spoken with his extended family, the night of that horrible argument with his cousin, they lived in Zamor, a village of sorts in the second layer of goblin geography. Maybe seventeen or eighteen years ago, he received a letter that they have moved back to the family's hometown. It was a staggering downgrade in quality of life, moving from the second layer to the Deep Holds, but at the time he had not thought much of it. He had been content at the time ignoring them and everything they were doing. In fact, he had not even remembered they moved until he went looking for Aslaug in Zamor and was reminded.

Asking where his aunt lived now had people pointing him here. The pit, where the lost were remembered.

He reached up to the stone pillar before him, covered ceiling to floor with names stretching back centuries, and laid the tips of his fingers against one in particular. Grishnack tç Krismol, it read. As if merely recording his aunt's name could replace the vigor and determination she had, the life she had lived.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Krismol. I…" He shook his head, unsure what words were even appropriate for this situation. "I'm sorry."

The sound of feet on stone grew louder, resolving over the course of a minute or two into that of a single person walking closer. A guard? Someone just curious who the stranger was? Another visitor here to remember the fallen? Filius sighed and let his head hang.

Honestly? As long as they let him be, let him gather his thoughts back into some semblance of normality, he did not really care who they were.

"Filius?"

...Or it could be someone he was no longer prepared to speak with, not right this moment.

He turned to look at the woman staring at him. The swirling spearhead tattoo under her right eye, taken during a long-ago act of adolescent rebellion. The animated stone of her prosthetic fingers, lost saving his ungrateful butt when as children they had a run-in with a snarling fangweed in some abandoned mineshafts behind the town. The utilitarian tunic and belt were a far cry from what she had worn so long ago, as was the expression on her face, but she was still instantly recognizable.

"Hello, Aslaug."

They just looked at each other silently for a minute before he broke the impromptu staring contest. "I'm sorry. For not coming to the memorial. I didn't know she had passed."

"I don't know how not. We sent a letter to that fancy wizard school of yours." Now, that biting tone was familiar. Aslaug crossed her arms with a scowl. "You were the one who chose not to have anything to do with the family."

"You're right. That's my fault." His admission caught her by surprise, and while she was gaping at him he reached into his pocket and mentally took inventory of what he had on his person. Galleons were right out, actually being mostly nickel with only a coating of gold. His wand would not be of any use here for obvious reasons. The buttons of his cloak were silver. Nothing really useful, and while most people would be able to leave and come back after finding something appropriate, whether he could do the same would depend on whether Aslaug threw him out or not. Or if he could gather the nerve to return even if she did not.

He pulled his hand back out, a rarely worn bracelet clinking on his wrist, and the feeling made him look down at it. A mirthless smile twisted his mouth. The irony was not lost on him.

Slowly, regretfully, he pulled the bracelet off and reached out to offer it to Aslaug. "It's not much, but I'd like to add this to the reliquary."

Aslaug glanced at the gold for the briefest of moments before her features twisted with rage. "How… dare you? My mother gave you that charm."

"I know. Trust me, I know." He looked down at his hands and drank in the face displayed in side profile on the round charm. Eter, a hero of goblin-kind who strangely was not a valiant warrior. No, his path was that of a tactician and a scholar. His brilliance had secured the Iron Nation their victory during the closing days of the Siege of Saramset, the last major conflict between goblins and dwarves in western Europe, and undoubtedly Eter would have had a long and fruitful life were he not murdered a few years later by a romantic rival of all things. Aunt Krismol had thought it appropriate for him, someone else who did not quite fit in and therefore turned to books and knowledge to move forward in the world.

"But I can't claim that I've proven worthy of it," he finally continued. "Better that it go towards a righteous purpose."

Rough-spun cloth shifted, and Filius braced himself for whatever response Aslaug had in mind. Would it be verbal? Physical? He was not sure.

What he did not expect was for elongated fingers, flesh and stone both, to wrap around his own hand and close it over the bracelet.

"What's actually going on, Quick-Ear?" Filius choked at the sound of a nickname he had not heard in nearly four decades. His eyes flicked up to meet Aslaug's, her face swimming in his vision. "What made you come back here? Truly?"

He quickly wiped his eyes dry and tried to steady his voice. "Recently I had an enlightening conversation with a new student. She doesn't let what is commonly accepted as true keep her from looking at a topic with fresh eyes. Very rebellious in her own patient way; you'd like her, I think," he added with a wry half-grin that soon faded. "One of those topics was related to the same things we argued about all those years ago, and in doing so she opened my eyes to lies told to me I never realized were lies in the first place.

"I know it's many years too late, but I was the one in the wrong. Both in our argument as well as for cutting off the rest of the family because of my own stupid pride."

"We all make mistakes," Aslaug replied with a shrug. "The gods know I've made plenty of my own. I like to believe as long as we do our best to learn from them, that's what really matters in the end."

Filius stared at his cousin for several seconds. "Who are you, and what did you do to Aslaug? You've never been good at letting go of grudges."

"And you've never been good at admitting when you were wrong," she shot back with a smile poking through her faux-stern expression. "It's been more than thirty years. I would hope both of us have grown up a little bit in all that time.

"Come on. Let's go to the house and get something warm to drink. We have a lot to catch up on."

"What Master Argus thinks he does?"

The sudden question caused Argus to jump in surprise, sloshing the melted fat onto the fire where it immediately sent the flame high. "Don't do that!" he snapped before taking a deep breath.

His sulfurous glare had no effect on the old elf standing behind him. Botchins snapped his fingers, and the rest of the spilled fat vanished. The stony expression turned Argus's way remained unbent. "This bes the kitchens. Why Master Argus cooking?"

"I'm not making food for myself or other people," he justified after another moment of stewing. It was not as if any of the elves could throw him out, but he felt like he had a decent rapport with his staff, and he wanted to keep it that way. Certainly it was a better rapport than he had with the students or even the teachers. "It's… It's a present."

"Yous present… bes cooking?"

"Hazel." That single name was connected with so many thoughts and feelings nowadays. "Lass gave Mrs. Norris a new bed. I guess she saw how ratty the old one was or something. Feels like I should give her something too, and I thought giving her some treats for her little bird would be appropriate."

He hoped so, at least. Hazel was the first student he had ever given a present to – mostly because she was the first one to give him a gift – so it was not as if he really knew what the proper way to go about it was. Not to mention that he was rusty at this whole Christmas thing in the first place. He had no family since his grandmother passed many, many years ago, and the few friends he had once had who were close enough to exchange presents, well…

People tended to talk about the damage You-Know-Who and his Death Eater caused in terms of the number of wizards they killed, or maybe the number of Muggles if Albus or someone of his ilk was trying to prove a point. Rarely were the Squibs who died in the War mentioned. Despite being the children of wizards, they were generally considered to be worth even less than to society than Muggles who had never heard of magic. Maybe it was because the only people who cared about them were themselves, so the deaths of a dozen or two Squibs did not matter to anyone who mattered.

Regardless, Argus had been alone for a long time now.

Botchins hummed and stood on tiptoes to examine the goop inside the pot. "Bes too thick still. Master Argus adds honey and cooks longer." Advice given, the elderly elf wandered off and started calling out directions to some of the younger elves.

Argus shook his head with a sigh. He had decided not long after taking this post that arguing with the oldest house elf in the castle was a losing battle. Not that he was the only one with that opinion. Justinius McCoy, the previous seneschal whose retirement provided Argus the most secure and best-paying job he had ever been offered, had been of a similar opinion.

Thinking of old Justinius brought a faint smile to his face. There were very few wizards he had ever truly respected, but Justinius was one of them without question. The fact that he was the only mentor Argus was willing to give the title probably had something to do with it.

The old wizard had introduced him to Botchins, well aware that the relationship between the caretaker and the head elf was the difference between a castle that ran smoothly and one that fell down around their ears. Even at that time, Botchins was far older than any other elf in the castle, and Justinius had confided in Argus that such was the case when he himself was just starting out. Not that anybody knew just how old Botchins really was. House elves did not keep track of age, mostly being too focused on the here and now to worry about such frivolities, and by the time they started caring about such things and thinking more long-term, so many years had passed that they frankly could not determine their own age.

On the whole, that mindset was probably a good thing. Wizardkind certainly should be happy that elves had never decided they could do a better job running the world, no matter how much Argus thought it would be an overall improvement. Certainly it would be for Squibs like him and Hazel.

Not that… well…

He sighed. He knew Hazel was not really a Squib, not like he and Old Jack and Winifred and Frankie and Clarice and so many others were. She was probably closer to the wizards than she was one of them. But damn him if he just did not want to lump her in with them! She might be some kind of weird 'wandless witch' or whatever, but the way the wizards treated her was near identical to how they treated people like him. And she returned the favor in spades; he had kept his eyes open, and other than that one Muggleborn girl she hung around with, she kept the rest of the school at arm's length. Once bitten twice shy, he supposed, and nobody liked dealing with people who thought you were lesser or worthless because of how you were different.

Maybe he was a terrible person, but if it meant he had even one person who treated him kindly – even if she was just a kid – he almost dreaded her making more friends among the wizards.

Quirinus staggered into the bathroom of his quarters and grabbed onto the sink. Something was wrong; very, very wrong. A glance at his reflection revealed a waxy, pale face that looked more like some dead thing than what he was used to seeing in the mirror. Between that and his limp, sweaty hair, he looked like he was in the grips of some dreadful illness.

He tried to force a smile, only for the attempt to fail as soon as she caught sight of his bloody gums. What in the world was happening to him?!

"Essential discohesion," muttered his Master's silky voice in his head.

"What is… that?"

"The body is a reflection of the state of the soul. Injuries to the latter damage the former. What do you think happens when two disparate souls try to inhabit the same corporeal form?"

His hands shook as those words permeated his thoughts. He has never pretended to be an expert in magical theory, but from what he did understand— "We're dying. Aren't we?"

A hum was his immediate response. "Probably."

Quirinus stared at nothing. His new Master might be You-Know-Who, but how could he, could anyone, be so… so blasé about this?!

As soon as he thought the question, he heard a scoff. "This is the most likely outcome of prolonged possession. If one soul is more powerful than the other, the effects can be subtle enough to be ignored, but such a circumstance is obviously quite rare. I have done my best to contain my presence, but even that was only ever going to be a temporizing measure.

"We are running out of time."

In the depths of his own heart, Quirinus felt a twinge of doubt in the other wizard's sincerity. How 'contained' was his Master when every time they saw the Girl-Who-Lived, he blacked out only to come back to consciousness when the brat was gone? Why would this discohesion thingy not just get worse if they kept switching who controlled his body?

He instinctively cringed away from that thought and the punishment doubting his Master could bring, but either his Master was not listening or had chosen to ignore that moment of weakness.

"Now we have greater need for the Stone than ever before. Not just to restore me to a physical body, but also to heal your own injuries."

To listen to the Dark Lord in his head, one would assume this was a simple errand or something. It was becoming anything but. With a sigh, he walked over to the low table in the middle of his office area and sat on the floor. Several sheets of finely made paper from the East were stacked on one side of the desk, the thin material so different in texture from proper parchment or vellum. Quirinus pulled out one sheet and laid it flat before repeating an incantation in some foreign tongue, then folded the paper and repeated the spell. Again and again he had done this over the last couple of months, getting better at the skill through sheer repetition—

He yelped as something in his fingers tore. Lifting his aching left hand, he could only stare at the way the fingernail on his index finger had been nearly peeled off the digit.

"It's the winter holiday," he said out loud, not sure if he was talking to himself or his Master. "If we go now, we should—"

"We would fail," growled the other voice. "Dumbledore may be a fool, but not even he would leave his defenses unmonitored. We will only get one chance to do this, and it must be flawless. That is only possible if we know exactly what we are getting into before we open that door."

"But Master, you have heard the opinion of the staff about this whole endeavor as well as I have. We know there is nothing truly threatening inside."

"An obstacle does not need to be threatening in order to slow us down. The fact that nobody except Dumbledore is taking this seriously is why we must get it right the first time. What do you think will happen if we test the defenses but need to retreat? They will then know that Dumbledore was right all along, that someone is after the Stone, and they will escalate accordingly."

A thought crossed his mind, and he swallowed before speaking up. "We could use the girl."

"…Explain."

"Potter, my lord. We take her, and we could use her as a bargaining chip should we be caught on the way out—"

"No." The word sent shockwaves through Quirinus's brain, and he collapsed onto the table. "I have other plans in mind for Potter. She is not to be touched."

"But, my lord… Why? She is useless. She isn't a real witch; she can't even use a wand like a normal person. What value could she possibly have to your plans?"

A thin, high chuckled echoed within his skull. "So would say a hammer," his Master continued with obvious humor, "when coming upon a quill for the first time. Never realizing they are both useful tools, albeit for very different purposes.

"Continue your work."

He stared at the paper and then his shaking hands. Folding the intricate little totems and animating them was a laborious process at the best of times, the smallest error ruining an hour or more of work. With the way he was trembling? "Master, I— I cannot. It is not possible. There is no way I could make the magic work."

"The only way to fix the discohesion in time is with the Philosopher's Stone, and the only path to the Stone requires us to heal the discohesion. Irritating," growled the Dark Lord. A pause, then he turned thoughtful. "Unless."

"Unless what, Master?"

"There are three substances that qualify as panacea," his Master said, taking on a lecturing tone. "The first, and the one we are after, is the Elixir of Life, which only Flamel has ever created successfully. The second is the freely-given tears of a phoenix. Seeking those would be a fool's errand. But the third…

"How desperate are you, Quirinus Quirrell?"

He laughed at the fact the other man was asking at all, and the sound of his laughter was all the more broken at realizing how true the answer was.

"The third is to drink the blood of a unicorn. Freely given, it is no less powerful than the rest, but uniquely it can be taken by force. To do so supposedly lays some form of curse upon the drinker, not that said curse has ever been documented in any way. Likely as not, it is nothing more than a taboo placed on hunting unicorns. And even if it is, well, curses can be broken in time. You need something that will heal you in the shorter term.

"The Forbidden Forest is known to have several unicorns roaming its darkened trails. They will be protected by centaurs, and there are other dangers aside, but!" The voice dipped lower into something not unlike a croon. "The prize is there. The question then becomes simply: Are you strong enough to claim it?"

Sunlight burns bright against her eyelids. She unfurls from where she had curled up and stretches, shaking off the snow that accumulated overnight. Her stomach gurgles with hunger.

The ground is hard beneath her feet, snow crunching as she runs forwards.

Tweeting from above grab her attention, and she glances up. That bird is still following her. She looks back to the ground, ignoring the bird. It is too far away to catch anyhow.

Loud noises come to her from around a bend in the trail. She changes direction, not needing to see what is there to know it is nothing she wants to deal with.

Movement! A rabbit jumps out of a hole in the snow and runs, and she must chase it.

Warm flesh in her mouth. Blood dribbles from between her teeth.

Her run slows and stops as she comes close to a tree. A dog was here. She hates dogs.

That bird is still following her.

The moon above lights up the world like it is day instead of night. She has yet to find somewhere to sleep, and the extra light is welcome.

Barking comes from behind, and she runs now not with joy but with fear. She cannot let the dogs catch her!

She hears water bubbling nearby. A brook? She is thirsty.

She bends down and drinks deep. The brook ignores her.

…Something is wrong.

She looks around, but she sees nothing and hears nothing dangerous. Safe. She drinks again, eyes moving to keep everything in sight.

But something is still wrong.

The bird that has been following her is calm in a tree.

Is there something wrong with her? She looks at herself in the brook.

She looks like herself.

Does she?

She does. She looks like she has always looked. Green eyes. Ears. Red hair. Black nose.

That… isn't what she looks like?

Fear boils in her gut, and she stares at the reflection. Something is wrong. Very, very wrong. She recognizes herself and doesn't recognize herself all at the same time.

That isn't her. It can't be. That's not her face.

That's not her face!