Chapter 3: Year One, Part 2

Quirrel's tutoring turned out to be unexpectedly worthwhile. During their first session, Harry was asked to demonstrate every jinx and hex he knew. As first-years weren't taught these Darker magics, his paltry arsenal consisted of spells like the Jelly-Legs Jinx he'd picked up from his housemates. A look of disappointment passed over Quirrel's face when he was done, leaving Harry humbled and determined to improve.

The subsequent lessons had them working on one spell at a time, with Harry being told to practice on his own once his performance was deemed acceptable. After a troll had somehow wandered into the school on Halloween, causing no damage but quite a commotion, he resolved to master the basic Defense skills, and never shirked training.

In addition to spell drills, Quirrel took to lecturing Harry on his subject. When he spoke of the Dark Arts, an odd transformation came over the man: his stuttering all but disappeared, and he talked of arcane magic with passion and intimate knowledge, teaching him of the underlying principles behind curses and their counters rather than textbook theory. It was only when their time was up that Quirrel would wake up from this bizarre trance, his stammer returning with a vengeance. If these lectures hadn't coincided with severe headaches, Harry would've enjoyed them even more.

Harry decided to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, hoping his family would understand. The castle was filled with fragrant fir garlands, floating candles, and singing suits of armor, and he never wanted to leave.

He slept in on the Christmas morning, being the only one in his dorm who stayed for the holiday. When he finally got up at an hour that would've made Aunt Petunia berate him for laziness, he found a pile of presents at the foot of his bed.

He sorted through the bits and bobbles from his friends, pausing at a fat post-stamped envelope. Ripping it open, he discovered a greeting card and a Tarot deck. Harry was oddly moved; he knew it would've taken his aunt and uncle considerable effort to overcome their aversion, even if Tarot had more to do with the Muggles' perception of witches than actual witchcraft.

He munched on some funny-tasting candy as he finished opening up the parcels. The last one held a diaphanous silvery blanket along with a note proclaiming it to be his father's. He fingered the thin material curiously, then gasped when his digits vanished from view.

"This has potential," he said, a smile creasing his cheeks.

On the second day of Christmas, an owl brought him a scribbled invitation from Hagrid to drop by for tea. It was fortuitous, for Harry wanted to thank him for his gift—a carved eagle, made with detail one wouldn't expect knowing the size of Hagrid's hands.

"Don' mention it," Hagrid said gruffly when he brought it up. "Glad yeh liked it, Harry. Yeh must be as smart as yer mother was, gettin' inter Ravenclaw."

"Did you know her, Hagrid?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. Yeh couldn' have found a more brilliant an' kind witch anywhere." Hagrid produced a towel-sized handkerchief from his coat and dabbed at his eyes. "Poor Lily... Righ' shame what happened ter her an' James."

Harry looked away uncomfortably, casting his eyes around the cabin. The wooden building wasn't large but had a high ceiling. Smoked hams and bundles of dried herbs hung from the beams, and various tools lined the walls. A crossbow the size of a small ballista was propped in the corner.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to find newspaper clippings with wizarding photographs tacked to the wall. A headline reporting a robbery at Gringotts attracted his attention.

"31st July? That's the day we went to Diagon Alley!" he exclaimed, squinting at the print.

Hagrid didn't share his enthusiasm. "Guess yeh're right. Nasty business, tha'." He rose and paced to the stove upon which stood a humongous kettle. "Tea, Harry?"

"Hagrid, I don't suppose..." He thought back to that day, trying to figure out what made the man so upset. "That parcel you took, was it from Vault 713?"

Hagrid's hand jerked and he nearly knocked the kettle over. "Couldn' say," he mumbled.

Harry was ready to drop the topic, but something else occurred to him. "Back then, you said it was Hogwarts business..."

Hagrid marched over to the wall, ripped off the offending article, and threw it into the fire. "Yeh shouldn' worry about tha'! The likes o' Dumbledore an' Flamel know what they're doing."

He mentally made a note to ask his older housemates about this 'Flamel' as soon as he returned. "Sure, Hagrid. How about that tea?"

Harry couldn't help but show off his invisibility cloak to Tony after the holidays. His friend was unabashedly envious of his new possession, but he became less vocal when Harry told him it was an heirloom from his father.

As the two were contemplating possible uses for the artifact in the common room, a thought occurred to Harry. "Do you think Dumbledore was serious about the forbidden corridor?"

"You mean the painful death and all that?" Tony scratched his head. "I reckon he was. Would certainly fit his reputation."

Harry nodded. "I just thought it odd that no one was all that surprised."

"You're awfully accepting yourself," Tony said. "I went to a Muggle school as well, you know. If someone pulled this kind of stuff there..."

He shrugged. "When in Rome, do as Romans do."

"That's how the Muggleborn should be," a loud voice said. "Adapting to our ways instead of trying to change them."

The boys turned to see Terry, his chin tilted up as if he'd said something profound.

"Get lost, Shoe," Tony said with a sigh.

Harry took to using his cloak every day. He'd slink around the common room, poking people and fighting not to laugh at their befuddled expressions. This lasted until a trigger-happy upper-year fired off a hex, missing Harry's invisible form by inches. He started venturing out into the castle after that, breathless with excitement at the way everybody passed by without seeing him.

It was during one of these strolls that he stumbled upon his least favorite teacher hobbling down the stairs from the forbidden third-floor corridor. Harry wouldn't have given it a second thought were it not for the conspicuous limp in Snape's step.

From then on, he checked up on the place whenever he went out under his cloak—especially on the days he had Potions, which always left him in a foul mood. In his fantasies, he'd be hailed a hero for foiling the break-in, while Snape would be dragged off by magical policemen.

His vigilance paid off when he came across Quirrel and Snape engaged in an argument one late evening. Their voices were low and tense, and Snape was holding the Defense professor by the lapel. Harry held his breath and approached.

"You've figured out how to get past the beast," Snape accused.

Quirrel swallowed. "I d-d-don't know what you're t-talking about, Severus."

"You know full well what I mean—and you're going to tell me!" Snape's wand was out in a flash, pointing straight at Quirrell's neck.

Harry inhaled sharply and scrambled for his own wand, not altogether sure what he was going to do. Snape whirled at the noise, his wand still under Quirrel's chin.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

Harry backtracked as quickly as he dared while Snape's black eyes roved the corridor. He ducked around the corner and stuck his head out.

Snape glared in his direction for a moment, then growled a threat at Quirrel and left. Straightening up, the Defense professor stared at the man's retreating back with an inscrutable expression.

Harry pulled off his cloak and stepped out from the corner, Quirrel's gaze darting to him as he approached.

"Potter!" The look of astonishment on his face was quickly replaced by a nervous smile. "What a r-remarkable cloak. I assume it w-was you who scared Professor Snape away. T-thank you."

"You're welcome, I guess." Harry caught a whiff of garlic and wrinkled his nose. "Why didn't you defend yourself, sir?"

Quirrel appeared terrified at the thought. "Professor Snape and I j-just had a minor m-misunderstanding! There was no n-need to get violent."

The corridor was silent while Harry deliberated on whether to voice his theory or not. His curiosity won out. "Is Snape after the Philosopher's Stone?" he probed, watching Quirrel intently.

The professor narrowed his eyes at him. "How do you know about that?"

Startled by his vehemence, Harry stepped back. "The older Ravenclaws—they've got this huge scroll where they write their guesses of what's inside the forbidden corridor."

"My former house," Quirrel said, "always poking their noses where they don't belong. Everyone knows, then?"

He shook his head. "The Stone's number seventy-eight on the list. I only made the connection when Hagrid let something slip." He winced at his own indiscretion. "Um, Hagrid's not going to get in trouble, is he?"

Quirrel exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "Dear old Hagrid. I'm sure he d-didn't mean any harm. Tell you what, P-Potter—I'll cover for him if you k-keep this a secret. Better not risk students snooping around and g-g-getting hurt, eh?"

Harry bobbed his head. "What about Snape?"

"Don't worry," Quirrel said with a glint in his eyes. "I'll watch out for him."

Quirrel's face was sunken and he had bags under his eyes, but his demeanor was unusually relaxed. "This is going to be our last lesson, isn't it?" he asked, twirling his wand idly.

"Yes, sir," Harry said. "Thanks, I've learned loads."

The professor grimaced. "A waste..."

"Sir?" He stopped short of putting his bag down. Something seemed different today.

"I'm saying these lessons were a waste of time, Potter. Do you know what you are? Average. Completely and utterly so."

Wincing at a sudden onset of headache, Harry edged backwards. Quirrel's wand twitched, and the door closed with a bang, making him jump.

"When he was your age, he could command magic through sheer willpower. Cast spells others could only dream of." Quirrel approached with slow, deliberate steps. "We thought there had to be something remarkable about the boy responsible for his downfall, and yet... what a disappointment."

Harry hefted his bag in front of him as if it were a shield. "W-who are you talking about?"

"You'll learn soon enough." Quirrel's wand rose, faster than he could react. "Imperio."

Total contentedness washed over Harry, and he forgot all his worries, the bag slipping from his hands as tension left his body. He didn't even blink when Quirrel bent down to look him in the eye.

Satisfied with the result, the Defense professor unlocked the door and left the room. Harry followed after a beat—it just seemed like a good idea.

They climbed the stairs to the third floor where the professor opened the forbidden door with a sweep of his wand. He produced a harp from his robes and put a monstrous three-headed dog to sleep, then disappeared down a trapdoor. Harry mimicked the action without quailing. Quirrel decelerated his fall with a silent spell, before collapsing the entry behind them.

They passed two rooms, one with keys fluttering in the air like butterflies, and another with a massive set of wizarding chess which the professor blasted apart. Harry's mind made note of everything, but there were no emotions attached to the events.

The third room had an array of bottles on a table, and a doorway blocked by a curtain of black fire. Here, he felt the first hint of unease when he saw Quirrell consult with his turban before he was given one of the potions to drink. Nevertheless, they advanced through the flame barrier without being any worse for the wear.

The pair found themselves in a vast, cold chamber lit by sparsely placed torches. Harry's eyes drifted towards its center, where a tall mirror stood upon a stone dais.

Quirrel was beside it in a blink of an eye, murmuring reverently as he caressed its ornate frame. He read the inscription, then stepped back to look into the mirror itself, staying motionless until a sharp hiss made him flinch and resume his examination. He began rapping the mirror with his wand, his movements becoming more frantic with each passing minute.

"Incompetent fool," said the same disembodied voice Harry had heard in the previous room. "Use the boy."

Quirrel spared him a glance, and Harry's feet carried him forward without conscious volition. The professor relinquished his place in front of the mirror, and Harry found himself staring at his own reflection. Then he blinked, and the image changed.

"Well, Potter? What do you see?" Quirrel asked impatiently.

"I get super rich and build myself a wizard's tower," he answered without thinking, "and I become immortal, and get a harem, and the girls make me delicious food, and..." He covered his face, still peeking through the gaps between his fingers. "Y-you aren't supposed to show this stuff to kids!"

"Tell me what you see!" Quirrel snapped.

"Don't make me say it! It's lewd, too lewd!"

"Your spell is already losing its hold," the voice from the turban said. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

"No! Please, master, give me more time—"

Harry tore his eyes away from the enchanted mirror to see Quirrel clutch his head as his turban unraveled on its own, revealing a disfigured face underneath. It appeared to be melting, burrowing deeper under Quirrel's bald scalp. Harry recoiled in horror.

"Cease your pointless resistance," the face hissed. "You have one last task to perform for Lord Voldemort."

The words shocked Harry into action and he bolted towards the exit, Quirrel's screams spurring him on. He came to a halt in front of the dark flames, steeling himself to jump through as their heat prickled his skin—until he was hauled backwards by an invisible force, landing on his back next to the dais. He reached for his wand, but ropes conjured from thin air wrapped around his body and trapped his arms.

"I won't have you dying just yet," Voldemort's sibilant voice spoke through Quirrel's mouth. One half of the man's face was contorted in pain, while the other held a crooked sneer, a single eye glowing red. Harry winced at the jab of pain in his scar.

The monster turned to the mirror, and the side that was Quirrel's went slack-jawed. Voldemort's half-sneer widened and he moved the professor's wand in a convoluted pattern, not quite touching the glass. At its end, he tapped the mirror once, creating ripples like on the surface of a puddle.

Mouth agape, Harry watched Voldemort plunge his arm inside the mirror, then withdraw it with a triumphant cry, holding a small red stone in his palm. He lifted his prize into the air and laughed.

Harry whimpered. The stereotypical evil laughter turned out to be terrifying when one was lying powerless at the villain's feet.

The left arm of Quirrel's body, lax at his side until now, twitched. Voldemort went quiet and looked down, both eyes burning crimson. Harry's breath caught in his throat.

"Harry Potter. My nemesis." Voldemort stepped off the dais, clutching the Stone in one hand and his wand in another. "It is a shame we don't have time to talk—but I know all about you already, do I not? Silly child, spilling your guts to the harmless, timid Professor Quirrel."

"Dumbledore," Harry gasped, "Dumbledore will stop you."

Voldemort's sneer faltered. "I sent that fool on a wild-goose chase. By the time he returns, I shall be long gone. And you, Potter..." He flicked his wand, sending Harry skidding across the flagstones. "You will serve as the means of my rebirth."

Even knowing it was useless, Harry struggled against the restraints. "What do you mean? You took over Quirrel's body, didn't you?"

"This is but a temporary vessel... one that is about to expire." Voldemort strode up to him and aimed the wand he'd seen in Quirrel's hand so many times downwards.

A scintillating purple ribbon shot from the tip, slicing open Harry's left forearm. Blood splattered on the ropes, the floor, everywhere. He screamed.

The shriek was cut short when Voldemort waved his wand again. "Do not fear the pain," he said, meeting Harry's eyes briefly. "It means you are still alive."

It felt like his arm was on fire. He yelled, wailed, begged, but no sound escaped his throat. Paying him no heed, Voldemort took three steps forward and lowered the Philosopher's Stone to the floor before returning his attention to Harry.

The boy flinched, but no more curses were fired his way. Rather, the blood that had been pooling underneath him flowed upwards into the air, forming a swirling crimson sphere.

"There is poetic justice in using your blood, don't you think?" Voldemort's eyes were aglow, his expression rapturous. "Watch closely. You will have the honor of witnessing my resurrection."

He turned his back to Harry and flourished his wand as though conducting an orchestra. Multiple streams shot out of the sphere and towards the Stone, circling it for a few seconds before splashing on the floor in a pattern that was anything but random.

Lifting his head as high as the ropes allowed, Harry saw an intricate design take shape. Five concentric circles appeared, then occult symbols were painted between their boundaries, glimmering with eerie sanguine light. The sphere gradually shrank to nothing, and the blood spurting out of his mutilated forearm with every heartbeat drained uselessly onto the floor.

For a time, Voldemort contemplated his handiwork in silence. Then he thrust his wand forward and began chanting in a guttural language that evoked images of something savage and primal.

Harry twisted and wriggled, then sank down to the floor panting for breath. His head was heavy; the pain in his arm no longer excruciating, reduced to a dull throb. He wondered if that meant he was about to die.

It was surreal. Even though he'd seen and experienced magic for himself, the wizarding world and its whimsical nature still occasionally felt like an elaborate joke. The thought that his life could end here seemed absurd—yet here he was, being used as fuel for a Dark ritual.

He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his stomach, the accompanying stab of pain clearing the fog in his mind. The magical circle glowed, pulsing in tune with Voldemort's chanting. The Philosopher's Stone floated in the middle, liquefied and shaped into a heart with blood vessels growing outwards. The sight was mesmerizing.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and fought the bindings again. Was it only his imagination, or were they a little looser this time? There was no way Voldemort would make a mistake like that, and yet...

Gasping with pain, he strained mightily until the blood-soaked ropes slackened. He wrenched his unbroken hand free, then braced himself and liberated the injured one. Even this small effort left him dizzy.

He fumbled about for his wand, but it wasn't in his pockets. The ropes around his legs were still tight, and wiggling out of them sapped the last vestiges of his strength. He blinked to clear the tears in his eyes.

Oblivious to the struggle behind him, Voldemort continued his incantations. Perfectly formed lungs now surrounded the heart, like an illustration from a book on human anatomy, and the rest of the internal organs were beginning to develop.

Harry shivered, heart pounding in his ears. Voldemort was about to gain a body using his life as a sacrifice. He was helpless and beaten. He was going to die.

"No," he mouthed, terror clenching his gut, "not like this."

Screaming without a sound, he extended his arms forward and pushed with his legs. Slowly, he began crawling, leaving bloody palm prints on the cool stone. He had to fight for every inch, but his objective wasn't far. Harry didn't know what he was going to do once he reached Voldemort, but reach him he would.

Those few yards was the longest distance he'd surmounted in his life. By the time Voldemort was an arm's length away, black spots were swimming in Harry's vision, and the chanting was building up to a crescendo.

Growling, Harry lifted his trembling hand and grabbed the Dark Lord's ankle.

Voldemort's voice wavered, but he persisted with the spell even as he glared and tried to shake Harry off. Suddenly, the furious expression on his face was replaced with one of agony, and he shrieked and fell, smearing a part of the circle.

Harry gaped at his bloody palm, then at Voldemort who was frantically casting something on his charred leg. Acting on a hunch, he staggered forward and smacked the Dark Lord across the face.

They both screamed, terrible pain erupting in Harry's forehead as he held on. Voldemort tried to push him off, but his palms burned on contact with Harry's skin. He raised his wand, but Harry used his mangled arm to slap it out of his blistered fingers.

Whatever peculiar power Harry's touch held, it was potent and deadly. Quirrel's face shriveled and cracked, and his body went limp. Voldemort's scream continued for several seconds as a pitch-black shade emerged from the smoldering corpse and flew away.

Harry collapsed on his back, gulping down air. The damaged circle next to him pulsed irregularly, the half-formed construct in the middle melting like hot wax. Rather than fading, the symbols on the floor shone brighter and brighter, accompanied by a deep hum which resonated in his bones.

He had to get away, but his consciousness was fading and he couldn't move a muscle. Thus, Harry simply closed his eyes to block out the glow, which was becoming unbearable, and relaxed.

"I'm the... Eternal... Warlock," he wheezed. "I'll... live."

A blinding flash, and he knew no more.

Even though he was safe in his hospital bed, Harry's heart thumped as if he were still in that chamber. It was spine-chilling to think just how close he'd come to death.

"My aunt was right. You lied to me." His words were aimed at McGonagall, but he could see Dumbledore and Flitwick duck their heads as well.

"Mr. Potter... I'm truly sorry." McGonagall's face was pale and drawn. "There were suspicions, whispers—nothing more. We had no reason to believe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wasn't gone for good."

Harry glared at her until she shifted in her chair. "I'm not sure I want to come back next year. I mean, magic is amazing, but..."

McGonagall looked like she was about to object, but the headmaster stalled her with a gesture. "No one is going to force you to attend Hogwarts against your will," he said. "Dropping out is not a decision to be undertaken lightly, however. Your wand would be confiscated by the Ministry and you would be sent back to the Muggle world. Your home has protections that will ensure your safety, but only until you reach your majority."

"Once you're seventeen," Flitwick added, noticing his confusion.

Harry sighed. "I'd be untrained and powerless. Can't escape fate, I guess."

Dumbledore froze. "Fate, Harry?"

"It—it's nothing, sir." Confessing that he sometimes imagined himself to be the protagonist of a story wouldn't lead to anything good. "I just hope none of the professors have Voldemort growing out of their head next year."

McGonagall pursed her lips. "This is hardly an appropriate subject for a joke."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Now, now, Minerva. I am afraid the fault lies squarely with me. I never expected Voldemort"—the other professors shuddered—"to take over one of our teachers. The enemy has played us all like a fiddle... except for you, Harry. You have thwarted his plans magnificently."

"Is that what you call it? Thwarted?" Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. "I followed his orders like a puppet. He could've told me to stop breathing, and I'd have done it without a second thought."

Flitwick spoke up. "You're only eleven, Harry. There's no way you could have resisted the most powerful Dark wizard of our time."

He gritted his teeth. "It wasn't a question of resisting—it was like I wanted to follow him! How can you even fight something like that?"

Flitwick raised his hands in a placating gesture and shot Dumbledore a look. The older man nodded.

"There is an obscure discipline called Occlumency used to protect one's mind against external influences," the headmaster began. "While originally devised as a counterpart to Legilimency—the magic of thought-reading, if you will—it has a welcome side effect of helping defend against spells such as the Imperius you were exposed to."

"Teach me," Harry demanded. "I don't want to be controlled like that ever again."

Dumbledore sighed. "Therein lies the rub. True Occlumency can only be taught by practical means—namely, repeated Legilimency attacks which you are much too young to handle."

"Too young?" Harry's voice cracked. "But not too young to get cursed by a teacher you hired!"

"Do calm yourself, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said sternly. Harry's ire rose, but Dumbledore spoke before he could say something he'd regret.

"Subjecting a developing mind to such a brutal process is out of the question," he said with a note of finality. "There are nevertheless some basic mental exercises that are prerequisite to Occlumency. These are similar to Muggle meditation, and few children ever have the patience—"

"I'll do it," Harry said, vowing to practice religiously. Not being in control of his own body, his own mind, had been even scarier than bleeding half to death.

"I'll be happy to prepare the materials for you," Professor Flitwick said. "I was a bit of a duelist back in my youth, and Occlumency was a useful technique to know."

"Good," he murmured, slumping on his pillow. Arguing with three professors had been exhausting.

Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder. "You should rest, Harry. I shall come by tomorrow."

True to his word, the headmaster visited him the next day, shortly after breakfast which was delivered to Harry's bed. He was already itching to leave as there was nothing physically wrong with him, but Madam Pomfrey kept him 'for observation'.

Despite his restlessness, they ended up talking for nearly an hour. Dumbledore expounded his not-so-successful idea of hiding Flamel's Stone in the Mirror of Erised so it could only be withdrawn by someone with the purest intentions. Harry couldn't resist expressing his disbelief that a person who wouldn't want the riches and immortality even existed—not that it mattered anymore, with the Stone consumed in the explosion that followed the failed ritual.

The conversation then turned to his parents. By the time Dumbledore finished explaining why Harry's touch affected Voldemort the way that it did, the boy's vision was blurry with tears.

"The power of love... that's pretty lame," he said, sniffling.

Dumbledore smiled and scrutinized the package of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans on the bedside cabinet, giving him the opportunity to wipe his eyes with a sleeve. It was only after he'd bid him goodbye that Harry discovered that all the yellow beans had mysteriously vanished from the bag.

Madam Pomfrey came by after the headmaster's departure and performed one last check-up. Harry tamped down his impatience, figuring he owed the nurse his life.

"Thanks for patching me up," he said after she pronounced him fit to leave. "I don't know what happened after I passed out, but it must've been bad."

"I only cleaned you up, but you're welcome all the same," she replied kindly.

He frowned. "What about the cut? And the explosion?"

"I beg your pardon?" Madam Pomfrey looked a little miffed when Harry began rolling up his left sleeve. "You didn't have a single injury, Mr. Potter—it was the first thing I checked for. The blood, as I understand, belonged to poor Quirinus."

Harry examined his forearm, finding nothing but healthy, unblemished skin. "Huh... fancy that."