"ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴄᴇꜱꜱᴀʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴜᴍᴘʜ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴠɪʟ ɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ." — ᴍɪꜱᴀᴛᴛʀɪʙᴜᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴅᴍᴜɴᴅ ʙᴜʀᴋᴇ
Chapter Thirty-Two: A Grave Error
It was the third week in May, and Slytherin had just won their last game against Hufflepuff.
For the most part, it had been an uneventful week, other than the extensive drills that Oliver Wood was forcing the entire team through in preparation for the game against Ravenclaw on Sunday.
"Cheer up, Harry; we've only got an hour left!"
He went into a Sloth Grip Roll, hanging upside down and glaring at Oliver, which, to his chagrin, elicited a laugh from the Quidditch Captain.
Exams were looming over his head now. Harry wasn't worried about the written portion; it was the practical part of the exam that was causing him stress right now.
He could lift a feather, now, but not reliably. Sometimes it would remain stubbornly earth-bound, and sometimes it would rocket uncontrolled towards the ceiling.
Transfiguration was even more of a struggle. It required precision, and precision was Harry's Achilles's heel.
Even McGonagall had given up on him; he hadn't managed to complete the easier transfiguration taught in the class.
Match to needle. Wood to metal. The opening of a single hole.
He could hold the levels in his mind. But the magic refused to obey.
All of it eluded Harry. At best, he ended up overshooting, the result being a misshapen torus that looked more quartz than steel.
So it was good, Harry supposed, that he was good at flying at least. Not that it would help him pass his first year.
Furthermore, after practice was finally over, the letter Hedwig brought alerted him that Quirrell had decided to skip out on their meeting due to 'certain concerns that you should not trouble yourself with,' and so Harry decided to drag himself up seven floors to Gryffindor Tower for a (well-deserved) afternoon nap.
Surely, wizards must have lifts? But Harry supposed that walking up and down the stairs was the only physical activity most of the students got, anyway.
His summer was looking up; he and Ruby had been invited to stay with the Weasleys, and for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to the end of school.
It was then that Fate decided to put Draco Malfoy in his path.
"Oh, look, everyone! It's Saint Potter, with his scar and his broom!"
The group of boys behind him laughed, but Harry was starting to learn that Malfoy had a very limited repertoire of insults.
"Yeah, whatever, Malfoy," said Harry as he went past. "Maybe you'll fall down the stairs and get a scar just like it one of these days."
He heard Malfoy shout something back at him, probably to do with his father hearing about it, but Harry ignored him.
"Have you seen Professor Quirrell, Harry?" asked Hermione as soon as she saw him enter the Gryffindor common room. Harry couldn't help but glance, with a small stab of envy, at the cluster of songbirds she had managed to transfigure out of paperweights.
He shook his head, and she continued:
"Well, I heard from Parvati, who heard from Padma that Defence was cancelled today for the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. I thought maybe he was sick, but why not say so?"
"He said he had certain concerns to deal with," said Harry. To his chagrin, Hermione trailed him upstairs from the common room to the first year boys' dormitory.
"What kind?" she asked as Harry put his Quidditch uniform away. "I wanted to ask him to clarify something on the exam; you see, Trimble says that zombies are endemic to the southernmost part of America only, but Merrythought disagrees; she says that they are also native to Haiti. So I don't know what to write down in my notes... Do you think it would be rude of me to send an owl? It's really bothering me, though. May I borrow Hedwig, please?"
"Go on then," said Harry, who was only interested in getting some sleep. "Couldn't hurt, could it?"
A few hours later, Hermione was gently shaking him awake.
He peeled his eyes open resentfully, glared at the blurry figure that was Hermione, reached for his glasses, and sat up.
"Harry," she said, chewing nervously on the inside of her mouth, "I'm really sorry to disturb you, but I went by Quirrell's office earlier ― I shouldn't've, but I just couldn't help myself. And I think I found something out that I really ought to tell you..."
"And what happened?"
"Well, he's gone."
"Gone?" repeated Harry. "You mean he wasn't in his office?"
"No, gone, Harry, actually gone. Everything's been packed up, and the office is empty. No books or anything. It's barren. So then I thought, maybe it's that curse on the Defence position, maybe it's true, and he had to leave or else something awful might happen to him."
"Good riddance, that's what I say," said Ron, who was sitting on his bed opposite and sorting through his cache of Chocolate Frog cards.
"Ron!" Hermione scolded. "You can't say that. He's a professor!"
"He's a gormless, cowardly git; that's what he is."
Ron paused, then tossed yet another card onto the Dumbledore pile.
"We won't have an exam for Defence if he's gone off somewhere, will we?"
Hermione looked distinctly upset.
"Oh, I hope we will," she said, shaking her head. "Imagine all that studying wasted."
"You don't think he was kidnapped, do you?" asked Ron.
"Kidnapped?"
Ron shrugged.
"By the Death Eater?"
"The Death Eater wasn't even there in the first place, Ron!"
"Says who?"
Hermione threw her hands up in frustration. "Well, says everyone!"
"Not Anthony," said Ron darkly.
Hermione glared at him, and they started to bicker, which Harry quickly tuned out, and he pretended to go back to sleep.
But the conversation had gotten Harry thinking, as he stared up at the crimson fabric above him; what happened to Quirrell?
Why would he pack up and leave without telling Harry? He knew that Harry still needed him; there was so much he didn't understand about the Obscurus, and without him, he didn't know how he was going to manage.
He felt... lost. Lost and small, in a way he hadn't since... No. He wouldn't think about it. The Obscurus might come, and even with the ring restraining it, Harry needed to keep it a secret.
How could Quirrell betray him like this? Leave him with not so much as a vague note and false promises?
Lying awake past midnight, Harry could stand it no longer. He just had to find out what happened to Professor Quirrell.
Taking care not to disturb Ron, who was a light sleeper, he rummaged around for the Invisibility Cloak, retrieved his wand, and set out towards Quirrell's office, narrowly avoiding Mrs. Norris on his way out of Gryffindor Tower.
By the time he reached the office, it was close to one o'clock in the morning. It was just as barren-looking as Hermione said. The beige wallpaper was the same, but the bookshelves were bare save for a few leftover books, and the cobalt clock was gone from its hook.
There was no sign of a struggle. Harry knew magic didn't always leave physical traces, but something was off about this, although he couldn't put his finger on it.
"Hello?" whispered Harry, half-expecting Quirrell to appear.
However, he seemed to have neglected to clean his desk; it looked like he might have been in a hurry to leave because there were papers strewn everywhere.
You wouldn't just leave papers behind, thought Harry. Not important-looking ones like those, anyway.
He couldn't help but wonder if something terrible had happened to him after all. There was an ashtray on the table; the cigarette resting in it had long gone cold.
Harry had a very, very bad feeling about this.
How is it that a professor could go missing for a whole day, and no one cares?
Quirrell must have been going through his papers and putting everything in order before he disappeared. Some of the locked cabinets in the desk were open. Harry crept closer to the desk and noticed the letter of resignation laying on top of the messy pile.
The ink was still wet and stained his finger when he touched the letter.
Strange. Hermione said that he'd left hours ago. It didn't make sense for the ink to be fresh.
He skimmed past the usual niceties at the beginning. Then, the very bottom of the letter caught his eye. Harry drew the Invisibility Cloak tighter around him and pulled the letter towards him.
𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚍. 𝙽𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚔-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚍.
𝚃𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎.
𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙿𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙰𝚕𝚋𝚞𝚜 𝙳𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎.
𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜,
𝒬𝓊𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝓊𝓈 𝒬𝓊𝒾𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓁
Harry cupped a hand over his face to muffle his gasp.
The Stone... the Philosopher's Stone... had Quirrell been working for Voldemort all along?
Anthony had been right all along.
He hated himself for laughing at him, brushing him off... but Quirrell, how could he?
No. It was his fault for being so stupid, so trusting. For believing that someone genuinely wanted to help him.
Unable to stand, Harry sunk to the floor, his back against the desk for support.
He did not know how long he stayed there, mired in despair, but after a while of sitting quietly and trying and failing to wrap his head around what had just happened, he made his decision.
Harry was only sure of one thing. He couldn't sit here and do nothing with the knowledge that Voldemort was this close to resurrection, and the people he trusted, he could not endanger.
Ollivander had said that his wand was one of a person destined for quests, so that was what he must do.
He must go and face Quirrell and prevent him from getting Voldemort the Stone.
Alone.
With the Invisibility Cloak, the trip up to the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor was uneventful.
He took each step with his heart in his mouth, his wand thrust in front of him as he drifted through the passageways.
When he got to the door and tried it, Harry was surprised that it opened easily.
Clearly, Quirrell had been in a bit of a rush.
He shivered.
It's now or never.
You can turn back now. Go back to bed, and pretend you never saw that letter.
But I have, thought Harry, I have seen it, and he pushed down the feeling of trepidation, then stepped into the room.
The door swung shut behind him unexpectedly as if a gust of wind had blown through the room.
He whipped off the Invisibility Cloak, took a deep, shuddery breath, and looked around.
He could not go back, now. The only way was forward.
Harry could not help but feel a little bit frightened, wishing he hadn't come all alone. But it must be this way.
It was dark all around him, and it echoed when he stepped forward.
"Lumos," he whispered, and the tip of his wand shone with a weak, pale light. Harry held it aloft, then peered around the room, but the light was not strong enough to see more than a few paces in front.
Nevertheless, he kept going until his feet hit something soft, furry, and slightly warm. Then, surprised, he stumbled back and lowered his wand to look at what he'd stepped on.
Anthony's dogs.
The great, three-headed dog was dead, its six eyes glassy and lifeless, but he pushed through the shock.
Quirrell must've killed him. But how? There's not a single mark on him, and Hagrid said he was impervious to magic!
Under it, Harry saw the edge of what looked like a trapdoor peeking out. He placed his wand on the floor, steeled himself, and knelt down next to the dog. Then, slowly, putting all his weight behind it, he began to push the enormous, shaggy body off of the trapdoor enough to lift it.
By the time he managed it, he was sweaty and frightened that Quirrell had fled in the time it took him to free the trapdoor, but he had to push through the fear, had to be brave.
With his heartbeat in his fingers, Harry lifted the cover of the trapdoor and walked over to the edge, his legs dangling in the abyss.
Do or die, I guess.
He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped.
Harry let out a gasp of surprise, not because he'd hurt himself, but because his fall had been broken suddenly by what felt like an enormous pile of tentacles and slimy leaves and smelled charred.
Deciding he didn't want to see what the thing was, Harry got to his feet. There was only one path out of the room, so he followed it into a warm, brightly lit chamber full of glittering winged keys of all colours, shapes, and sizes.
After all the darkness, it stung his eyes, and Harry had to shade them from the light while he adjusted to his new surroundings. There was a single locked door at the one side of the chamber. Obviously, he must unlock it and go through it in order to find and face Quirrell; but which of the many keys unlocked the door?
He stepped closer to the door to inspect the lock. It was old-fashioned, heavy, a dull, steel grey, worn, and scratched.
It was reasonable, Harry decided, that the key looked the same. He squinted up at the array of keys fluttering above; indeed, there was one and only one that was a worn brass colour, with drab wings.
It was a good fifty feet above his head, but fortuitously, a few decent-looking brooms were leaning against the wall.
Harry selected the sturdiest-looking one, and in one well-practised movement, kicked off from the ground. There was none of the usual exhilaration in becoming airborne. It was with the most complete solemnity that he ascended; his eyes trained on the dull key high above him. It made an attempt at escape, but not nearly as evasive as the Snitch, the key was soon in Harry's possession, and he was back on solid ground.
His heart in his throat, he put the key in the lock, and the pins gave. The door swung open into utter darkness. He lit his wand once more, but he could just barely see his feet in front of him.
Once he got to the middle of the chamber, he found that there was a small chess set lying on the floor in splinters. Harry couldn't see how that could have been an obstacle to him crossing the room, but he supposed Quirrell must have neutralized it already.
The next room contained an enormous, dead monster. It might have been a giant, perhaps, or a troll. Harry couldn't help but think how eerily similar it was to the dead dog in the first room and how he'd never thought of Quirrell as a merciless killer before.
And said merciless killer was waiting for him, in the very last of these rooms.
He walked into some sort of antechamber; Harry knew he was getting close. The bottom of the floor looked scorched, and the scent of ashes was in the air, but nothing obstructed him from entering what he knew was the last room.
Part of him was screaming to go back, but Harry knew he had to go forward. So he set both his resolve and his shoulder to the heavy door and pushed.
This room was bright. Not the heavy, piercing brightness of the chamber of winged keys, but filled with the comforting, warm light of the amber fire flickering in the sconces along the walls.
But this room was familiar to Harry. He had stood here before, whilst the chamber had been choked and blanketed by darkness. The Grey Lady had led him here to meet his parents.
The Mirror of Erised stood before him, and in front of it, sitting on a simple wooden chair, was Professor Quirinus Quirrell.
He sat with his hands folded in his lap, his posture straight yet relaxed. He regarded Harry with his familiar, sheepish smile. The cobalt clock hung on the wall; it might as well have been just another visit to ask Quirrell for advice, but yet, something was different.
The mauve turban was gone; his shiny, bald head was bared to the elements, marred by something horrible and sickly green that fanned around, veinlike around his head like some type of poison... or infection.
"I've been waiting a long time for you, Harry," said Quirrell, startling him.
There was something measured in his voice. Something eerily intelligent in his eyes.
Not daring to take his eyes off Quirrell, Harry raised his wand, training it at the spot between the Defence professor's eyes.
Quirrell's smile turned into something wry and sardonic. When he spoke again, his tone was biting.
"Yes, keep that wand pointed at my head, by all means, if it makes you feel better at all. But do not delude yourself that you are a match for me, Harry Potter."
"You're the imposter!" said Harry, the weight of his anger at Quirrell's betrayal making his voice wobble and wand hand tremble. There was no longer any time for fear. "You're the one trying to kill me! You're one of Lord Voldemort's followers!"
But Quirrell merely continued to smile in the face of Harry's accusations.
Did Dumbledore know?
"It would have been a favourable outcome," Quirrell admitted, standing up and Vanishing the chair with a flick of his left hand. His stutter had vanished. His voice was cool, not chilly, but commanding all the same, and that transient glitter of intelligence in his eyes was brought permanently to the forefront. There was a newfound grace in his movements as he all but glided towards Harry. He stopped a mere two feet in front, and Harry forced himself to hold his back straight, not to shudder in front of this cruel, lying man. "Killing you. But I saw that it was quickly becoming intractable."
"You're working for... for Lord Voldemort?" Harry's voice came out as a pitiful squeak; he couldn't comprehend the betrayal.
"No, foolish boy," said Not-Quirrell. "I am Lord Voldemort. You know it to be true."
He stared into the professor's eyes and gasped as the dull, persistent tingle of his scar became throbbing pain.
"You…"
His limbs felt like jelly, from both the pain and the shock, and Harry stumbled back.
He hadn't imagined this. Not this. Not like this.
Harry was acutely aware of how alone he was, a first-year student who had but a tenuous grasp of controlling his magic, facing off against the great Dark Lord Voldemort.
I don't have a snowball's chance in hell. He'll kill me and take the stone.
But no, he couldn't. Couldn't let fear win out. He had to do what he came here to do.
Harry took a few deep breaths and steadied himself.
I should never have trusted him. Ever.
"Yes, me, Harry Potter. I, Lord Voldemort. I lured you here; I knew you would go sneaking around in my office, and I knew you would come to find me alone. Of course, I do not fault you for it. You are a mere child, and I am poor, stuttering Professor Quirrell. How could you not trust me? How could you not feel so terribly betrayed?"
He was trying to wrap his head around it, to understand.
"You killed Professor Quirrell!"
"No, I only took advantage. Quirinus Quirrell had been killing himself for a long time. The whisper of darkness was in that young man's head years before I laid eyes on him, Potter! When I came upon him, nought was left but the empty shell of ambition and a heart full of hatred and shame. He did not understand, as I do, that the only way to greatness is to make those who stand in your way and doubt you fear and admire you."
"I—" Harry's voice wavered "—I don't understand."
"Do you see what you have reduced me to? A mere parasite! But no longer — the Stone will give me what I need… a body of my own."
"Well, you're not getting it!" yelled Harry, begging anger to block out fear. "I won't let you hurt anyone else!"
He pointed his wand at Voldemort, but to his horror, only shadows rose, curling at his fingers — not now!
"Let me?" The confident, short laugh made Harry's stomach turn to ice, and he stepped back. "Be careful who you trust, Harry Potter… be very careful."
He had to stall him. Harry couldn't let him get away.
"What are you going to do now?" he blabbed, trying to come up with an enticing enough question to catch Voldemort's attention without inciting his rage. Dumbledore's name was on the letter, maybe he'll come, he'll find me. "Dumbledore will be back any minute!"
"He's onto you!" said Harry. "It's probably a trap — he'll probably be here any minute!"
"Even if I had not sent him away on a wild goose chase, what can he do against I, the greatest sorcerer of all time? I, who have mastered magic that Dumbledore cannot even comprehend! Answer that, Harry Potter!"
Voldemort laughed, and Harry shrieked as green, sickly magic bled out of the Mirror of Erised, wrapping around his limbs and suspending him helpless in the air.
"Dumbledore? You think I am afraid of Dumbledore! I thwarted the old fool even as a boy, barely older than you!"
Harry twisted in his binds, trying hopelessly to get free, but they only tightened around him. If he didn't stop struggling, they would crush his ribcage, so he tried to relax as much as he could.
Ruby had said that Dumbledore looked suspicious of Quirrell. Anthony had even figured it all out. But it was too late, far too late. Quirrell, no, Voldemort, had lied and fooled them all.
"He is hundreds of miles away, Potter! He is being detained as we speak! You are going to die!"
As he said it, Harry felt his eyes get wet, and a second later, he realised that it was true, and it was unfair. He didn't want to die down here, alone with this man that hated him.
Maybe, maybe if he could see his parents just one more time, maybe he could be less afraid, maybe he could be brave enough to do whatever he had to do to stop Voldemort from getting the Stone.
He turned towards the mirror, but as if this was some kind of mockery, to his horror, Harry saw only his reflection, suspended several feet above the ground.
But wait.
Mirror-Harry winked as if they were both in on a secret and slipped something into his pocket. Confused, Harry followed the movement, and his fingers brushed the cool, hard surface of a gemstone. But before he could do anything, Voldemort, all business, tightened his binds, retrieved the Stone from his pocket, then held it up to the light to admire the light reflected off of the brilliant, blood-red stone.
There was something strangely fruit-like about it. It was more like an apple than a ruby; it was a growing, living thing. Throbbing like a heart newly separated from its body.
Harry knew, just from looking at it, that it would work, that it would make Voldemort strong and alive.
And he couldn't let Voldemort take it; he mustn't.
"You're not the greatest sorcerer of all time!" he shouted. "Dumbledore is! Everyone says you're afraid of Dumbledore, and you are! That's why you came here to get the Stone tonight, that's why you waited so long, and that's why you sent him away because you wouldn't dare to take it while he was here!"
Voldemort opened his mouth to answer, but he didn't begin to speak because a sweet yet strange song filled the room, and some ragged bundle of fabric fell into Harry's outstretched, still-bound hands — the Sorting Hat.
Harry could have wept with relief; he wasn't alone. Help was here; Dumbledore might even be here soon.
"Dumbledore's bird," said Voldemort in a matter-of-fact tone, as the bird pecked at him with its long, golden beak and shrieked, its scorching wings trailing fire. "I should have anticipated this — but no matter."
"Avada Kedavra!" he shouted, and Harry saw the same ominous green light of his nightmares rocket towards the phoenix, but Fawkes didn't die — he turned into an inferno, and suddenly, there was an ash-grey chick on the stone floor.
Carelessly, Voldemort kicked Fawkes to the side; the tiny bird let out a helpless, terrified cheep as it skidded across the stone floor, and Harry's heart stung with empathy.
Wondering why Fawkes had brought him the Hat, Harry jammed it over his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and hoped desperately for advice.
Please help me, please help me stop him, please!
But the Sorting Hat was silent.
"Maybe you'll die today," said Voldemort as he stalked closer, deeply amused. Harry, with the Hat firmly over his head, could see nothing. "Die like your parents did, begging me for mercy. Perhaps it will end right here; so ends the tragic tale of Harry Potter, whose dear Mudblood mother bought him nearly eleven years of extra time. But don't worry Harry; if you do die, you'll see your blood-traitor father and Mudblood mother soon, and I'll send your interloping, murdering sister soon after you. Imagine that! A reunion ten years in the making; the Potters, all dead and rotting together in their graves. Isn't that nice, Harry?"
He intended to respond with equal vitriol, but something hard and heavy hit him over the head, and Harry yelped, yanking it off of his head.
The Hat felt strangely heavy, and when Harry reached a hand inside of it, his fingers wrapped around cold metal.
He dragged it out — and it was a heavy, gleaming sword, the blade silver and bright, and the handle studded with rubies.
Harry barely thought about what he was doing as he flung the sword towards the mirror — it shattered with a loud crash, and Harry dropped to the floor, wrenching the sword out of the cracked glass. The weight of it nearly dragged his arms out of their sockets, but still, he stumbled forward, keeping the blade upright and glaring at Voldemort.
One swing could send the hand holding the Stone sliding across the floor. He knew it.
Harry lunged, putting all his weight behind the swing, but the blade hit stone rather than flesh and bone, and the momentum nearly knocked him off his feet.
Voldemort had dodged him as if he'd known exactly what Harry had intended to do.
He raised the sword again, drawing it back in preparation.
"I had hoped you would be a worthy opponent," said Voldemort, still looking infuriatingly amused. "Very good, Harry. I hope that when we meet later, you will be just as impressive. You know, Harry… magic always takes the path of least resistance."
The corners of his lips twitched, and he made a macabre little bow.
"Until we meet again... Not today, Harry Potter. The time is not quite right. But one day, I will kill you. I promise."
Voldemort's face had a horrible, cruel look. Harry leapt forward with the sword once more, intending to knock the Stone out of his hand, but Voldemort flicked Quirrell's wand, and Harry was flung back against the floor.
Another, seemingly careless flick of Voldemort's hand and the ring slid off his finger and tumbled to the floor.
Whatever emotions the ring had been holding back bubbled up to the surface. The despair and betrayal tasted like tar, and Harry realised with cold detachment something like tar was actually spewing out of his mouth. He tried to hold it back without understanding why or what was going on, and Voldemort looked into his eyes and smiled with a sort of wild, childish glee.
The sword became too heavy for Harry to hold, even with two hands, and it clattered to the floor, lying beside the ring.
"What... did you... do to me?"
"A parting gift for Dumbledore."
Every breath was a herculean effort, and Voldemort had no mercy. Unable to support him any longer, his legs gave in under him, and Harry tumbled to the floor.
"You're... you're doing this to me!"
Voldemort merely shrugged. The Mirror of Erised behind him glowed, the shattered glass illuminated with dim, wavy green light.
It was making Harry sick. It was making him like this, bringing up awful memories and making the Obscurus choke his throat in its struggle to erupt. His scar burned so hot that he was sure his brain must be melting.
He wanted to lay there. He wanted to give up.
Voldemort laughed once more, mocking and cold.
He didn't have the strength to walk, so he dragged himself forward on his stomach, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth stone floor, towards the glint of the sword lying just a few manageable feet away from him.
Harry reached out, and his fingers brushed the hilt of the sword, every atom of his being straining towards it. But Voldemort kicked it further away, laughing at his vain efforts, and finally, Harry understood.
This was Voldemort's domain. The Mirror, broken or not, was imbued with his magic. There was nothing Harry could do.
And then he was no longer himself.
Harry was everywhere in the storm, ripping through the air and stone with equal abandon. He was tiny needles of black wind and enormous grey tornados at the same time.
"QUIRRELL!" bellowed the storm that was Harry, and yet, not quite Harry.
Every single-minded wisp of shadow spun and dove towards the wizard and howled in excitement as they hit their mark.