It was funny, how you didn't often think about the heart in your chest until it was dying.
It was always there, it kept beating no matter what, and you never noticed it… but the second it even so much as skipped a beat, everything inside of you knew about it. It was an organ that had no sense of touch or feel, it couldn't feel heat or warmth or pain—but damn could it make you feel those things in its stead when it wanted to.
Harry was used to his heart skipping. A sudden drop in the air when playing quidditch, a thrill of excitement at anything new and magical, the shock of a prank going off loudly behind him. For hell's sake, in his first quidditch game ever his broom had almost bucked him loose, and he'd then immediately proceeded to pull a huge diving stunt, jump off the damn broom itself, and almost swallow the freaking snitch to for a Gryffindor win. He'd almost been squished to death by a troll not two months into the school year. He'd provoked a third-year Slytherin fully expecting to get hexed just because he knew it was necessary for his plans to succeed. He'd lied to Vernon Dursley's face countless times knowing one small slip up earn him weeks trapped in a small, confined space near 24/7.
He was used to adrenaline, he thought he understood fear and how to master it so it didn't look like he was afraid. How to lie and pretend his heart wasn't pounding and the flush on his face was from excitement, not terror.
But he had really, really underestimated just how powerful fear really was.
He'd also very stupidly decided to forget about that hooded figure in the Forbidden Forest from months ago, shoving it from his memory so that he could sleep soundly at night and live a happier life without the constant fear that someone or something was out there eating unicorns and thought nothing of eating him too. Like an actual bloody boogeyman he had tried so hard to pretend wasn't real—or that it couldn't touch him if he just didn't go near the forest again. Let Hagrid or Dumbledore or the centaurs handle it, not plain, weak, eleven-year-old him.
I really thought they'd handle it, his mind weakly complained in despair, even his own mental voice breathless in fear as he stood paralyzed by the very familiar hooded figure at the end of the hall. Even not seeing its face, he knew it was looking right at him, and his instincts screamed that it was not here for good, friendly reasons. Instead his breath caught in horror the same way it did when he'd looked up into the eye of a twenty-foot troll suddenly standing next to him.
I'm such a fool. When did I start thinking adults were trustworthy?
But then it hit him like a lightning bolt—McGonagall was still in her office only one short hallway away. He'd just been there to bother her with more questions, and he knew she'd be there for the foreseeable future to grade all the term papers she still had left. And that was one adult he still had faith in.
He inhaled sharply to scream—but then a wand was pointed right at him and he didn't hear what was said but the world blurred out of focus like he was fainting and suddenly he couldn't feel his body.
Give up.
What…?
Give up.
Oh, that seems… nice, I guess…
No need to worry. Everything is fine.
That's good. Everything is… fine…
WAIT.
He jerked out of it, blinking and his heart dropping to his stomach to see the figure suddenly closer, time having passed without him having realized it. What the bloody hell has just happened!?
"Wha-" He gave a strangled gasp but he couldn't even get it out before the wand was up again, and this time he heard it.
"Imperio."
Give up. Everything is fine.
That doesn't seem right… but it's so soft here… so… foggy?
Everything is fine. Relax.
Give up.
I don't want to… do I?
Give up.
Okay… I can…
Relax. Nothing here will hurt.
That's good. I hate fear. And pain.
Wait… what is hate again?
Give up.
Give up…
…wait—NO!
He blinked rapidly, and suddenly he was much farther down the hall than he remembered being. Wait, had he been moving!? Why couldn't he remember!? What the actual bloody hell what happening!?
He heard the scuff of a shoe on the stone floor behind him, and wand pointed at his back or not he panicked and bolted in a flat-out sprint.
"PROFESSOR!" He screamed for all he was worth, trying to get his bearings but he had no idea how far he'd just unknowingly walked from McGonagall's office and in his panic he couldn't recognize the paintings or tapestries on the wall as he ran as fast as he could. "PROFESSOR!" He shrieked again, praying to god that she heard him, that someone heard him—shit he'd even take Snape or bloody Peeves right now just—
"Crucio!" A silky voice hissed behind him, but he couldn't even give a thought to how oddly familiar the voice was before his world absolutely whited out in pain unlike anything he'd ever felt before. He'd really rather face a hundred trolls and have them rip his bones out to use as toothpicks in front of him than bear it even a second longer—
—and then the world went blissfully dark.
000
Harry dreamed of his graveyard.
He couldn't quite remember what had happened, but his hands were shaking and he felt chilled in the way only a cold sweat could make you, the blood suddenly pumping too hard and leaving your fingers and toes and lips oddly numb.
He was sitting in front of his father's gravestone, back slumped against it as he tried to breath but couldn't quite make the air feel warm and comforting as it entered his lungs too roughly—it still felt stale and stifling. He figured he was here because James Potter's grave was nestled between the one marked Lily, and that oddly unadorned one with Sirius Black etched into the impassive surface, and these three graves were the most important ones right now with his soul quaking in the wake of whatever had just happened. In fact, he realized Sirius' grave had moved to be closer all of a sudden—it used to be farther down the line of tombstones where he'd stuck it because he didn't really know what to do with it but now it was here, and he hadn't consciously done that he didn't think. Then again, this was a dream, not his normal mental exercises.
Come to think of it, he'd never had a dream of his graveyard before, or at least he couldn't remember ever having a dream here before.
"What happened?" He spoke aloud to the empty graves who wouldn't talk back to him, asking the blank stone with his father's name behind it like it would make a difference. His voice wavered, unsteady in the oddly muted, oppressive air.
He didn't expect an answer, but for some reason he suddenly felt he had one.
Not to his question exactly, but an answer all the same.
"I need to build walls." He realized, sitting up and pressing his palms flat to the cold, living ground beneath him as the world came in and out of focus for a nauseating second. "Something's out there, isn't it? I need… I need walls."
He felt unsteady, but this was a dream so as soon and he could focus enough he was able to stand, and suddenly he was by the big iron gate that marked the unofficial entrance to his graveyard. Unofficial because he'd never really considered long on what was outside his imaginary graveyard—this was just his mental escape when he needed to focus on calming down or prioritizing his thoughts, and somewhere he knew he should've started to think about what was outside of this place, but he never had before.
Suddenly it seemed very, very important to get on that right away.
Because as he looked outside of the gate and a nothingness stared back at him that petrified him to his very soul. A blank emptiness that meant nothing—but he knew with absolute certainty that something indescribably horrible was waiting in that blankness. Just… waiting.
He took an automatic step back as fear seemed to lunge at him from outside the gate—and the world he'd imagined disappeared.
000
As Harry opened his eyes, it took him a surprisingly small amount of time to figure things out. Maybe it was because his whole body was still sore as hell from whatever that agonizing spell had been, and the sharp stinging pains still digging into his muscles and behind his eyes were slapping him awake with each throb of his heart and putting everything into focus via large doses of adrenaline. Whatever the reason, fight or flight was burning hot in his veins and flight had already happened—and failed.
He was not sure how fight was going to go, but he somehow found focus he usually only did when he was murderously angry. Maybe Hermione's books had finally started working, because he quickly mentally arranged his mind to give his energy direction instead of just seeing red this time. Also, that odd dream haunted him slightly as he blinked awake, and he knew without a doubt that it was important. His graveyard wasn't safe, and while he didn't understand it, he knew he needed to do something.
Like, right now.
He welded his eyes tight once more before even moving an inch, and promptly buried his graveyard inside a mountain. He'd ready Journey to the Center of the Earth in his elementary school library what felt like lifetimes ago, and so he imagined his picturesque graveyard with it's shining sun and seasonal weather and soft grasses and delicate flowers was exactly as it was—just buried so deep you'd need a novel's worth of adventure and luck to manage to make it down that far. You'd have to get past cave-ins, tornadoes, underground oceans filled with horrific abominations, and dinosaurs to make it to his graveyard—and he couldn't quite remember if there'd been velociraptors specifically in the book along with the other dinosaurs but he definitely included velociraptors because they were probably the best guard dogs he could think of.
Later, he'd think up a much more creative, easily grasped defense to his garden, but for now that seemed good enough.
That being the most urgent of things on his mind, his mental space seemed easier to organize all of a sudden. He shoved his fear down because his heart beating in his throat didn't actually help him much now, and he opened his eyes once more to get his bearings.
Very quickly he managed to determine he was on a stone floor that still felt like Hogwarts although the room specifically was absolutely foreign. Fire burned in a ring around the room, and he saw no clear exits—not that he could get past the fire which burned so heartily it was probably magical and also likely a stupid idea to try and touch. For the contents in the room, most pertinently he sensed the presence of another person behind him almost immediately, but before he moved to give himself away he spared a second or two to observe the only other object in the room in front of him.
And it was in fact that horribly familiar mirror he hadn't seen in months.
If he could've possibly felt more unnerved and scared, he would've felt it seeing that damn freaking mirror. As it was, he couldn't actually get more freaked out or on edge right now, he was already at the end of his rope and his heart and mind couldn't actually take anymore, so he simply noted the mirror for what it was and decided it wasn't as important as the other person in the room.
He took stock, finding he still has his wand in his sleeve.
Odd.
And… very suspicious.
Whatever the reason, he was unable to keep calm any longer and now that he had all the information he thought he'd get from lying on the ground, he bolted upright and spun on his heel as fast as he could, whipping his wand out to point at the other person in the room and—and…
And Professor Quirrell stared back at him, unbothered by his sudden movement and also unnervingly unworried about the wand being pointed at him. In fact he had on a new expression altogether—the historically nervous man seemed flat and irritated, nothing more.
"P-Professor!?" He eeked out, almost lowering his wand before his instincts kicked in and he firmly held it in place. "What's going on!?"
The Defense professor just gave him an irritated look.
"You're a remarkably troublesome child, Potter." He intoned darkly, without a single stutter in sight which was enough of a shock to get Harry's mouth popping open a bit in shock.
"Wha—you—?"
"Oh yes, who would ever suspect p-poor s-stuttering p-professor Quirrell?" He mocked his own stutter derisively, walking forward towards the mirror behind Harry, and he stumbled out of the way quickly to keep distance between them. Not that the man cared, not even sparing him a look as his eyes fixed on the mirror in a rather creepy way, Harry had to admit.
His mind raced. "Suspect you of what? What did-" His questions bubbling to the surfaced silenced themselves when the professor shot him a dark look over his shoulder and suddenly a trill of fear jolted something in Harry's memory. That, and a stab of pain directly to his forehead that seemed to dunk his body into a cold sweat instantly.
He'd never seen the hooded figure's face, but the ice cold hatred in this professor's eyes and the mysterious pain suddenly seemed very familiar.
He realized, but he still couldn't believe it. It just… it just made no sense.
"You… killed the unicorns? You attacked me."
Twice, his mind provided for him but he didn't voice the thought since Quirrell was clearly fully aware of what he'd done. And lacked any remorse for it at that, given his eye roll.
"Pity I didn't succeed that night. Or… perhaps it was fortunate, as this mirror has provided quite a perplexing challenge." Harry felt cold when he glanced over his shoulder once more, the look in the man's eye anything but warm. "My master believes you may be able to help overcome it."
What? What does that… what is any of this about!?
Harry had no idea what was going on, but he did know this man would be only too happy to kill him. All logic and reasoning and motives aside, whether they made sense or not, Harry just shoved it all aside and kept his guard up. He had to figure out a way out of here, but even standing and free to look around the room, he saw no exit. The door he did see was wreathed in fire, and he instinctively knew not to touch the flame as it was absolutely not normal.
He wants something from me. I need to keep him talking, I need to be useful to him. He'll kill me once he gets what he wants most likely, so I need to continue being useful or bargain for it or… or something.
"What do you want me to do." He got out in as level of a voice as he could, trying to think of whatever it was this full grown wizard could want and how to get out alive depending on what it was.
By his darkly amused expression, he knew exactly what Harry was doing.
"It's such a shame you weren't in Slytherin. You might've been able to see things our way, or at the very least the snakes would've eaten you alive. How entertaining that would've been." He mused, mostly to himself it seemed so Harry kept his mouth shut. He was used to the comments, although from a professor much less an adult who'd previously tried to kill him was a new one. "In any case, you didn't interfere at all this year, surprisingly. And since you're being… cooperative I will explain. Dumbledore has hidden something inside this mirror—something I very much want and in fact came to Hogwarts specifically to get. If you help me get it, my master is willing to… be gracious with his mercy."
By the silky tone he had and the reminder of Hagrid's words that those who drank unicorn blood lived a cursed life, Harry didn't trust a single thing he said. Sure, he figure the wanting something in the mirror was probably true. The mercy though?
Yeah, if he was anywhere close to being in the mental space to be able to laugh at that right now, he would've.
"I've only seen that mirror once and I don't know how it works." He defended, taking a calculated risk in revealing that. He didn't know what Quirrell thought he'd be able to get something out of this mirror, but there had to be a reason, and he was banking on the fact he could bargain on it. "And also if I could get it, you'll kill me the second you have it."
Quirrell had a good poker face, but Harry sensed the anger in his brief answering silence, and knew he was right.
"Look into the mirror," He deflected, stepping aside and everything inside Harry told him it was a bad idea.
"Ah… I would rather not."
"Come here boy," Instantly angered and hissing venomously, Harry flinched at the sudden explosion of wrath before it melted away and Quirrell quickly regained himself. "…look into the mirror."
Right… he was not in a position to argue, he was going to be killed. Sooner rather than later if he was being difficult.
With those fantastic options in front of him, he slowly stepped in front of the mirror, hyper aware of the man next to him and the seething anger still lingering in the air although he seemed deceptively calm again. He looked into the mirror, prepared now, and he was too consumed by fear and adrenaline to feel anything when his parents and the man he knew was Sirius Black appeared over his shoulders. Unlike last time though, they were all glaring venomously as Quirrell instead of smiling warmly down at him.
Sirius actually seemed to attempt to hit him over the head, although the silent, ghostly reflection had no impact.
"What is it you see?" Quirrell demanded in the same slightly angry, silky tone.
There was no way he was going to tell the truth, because clearly that was what the man wanted. Also, if he couldn't guess that an orphan would see his parents, he was stupid as hell.
Lying just came easy, and he didn't even have to think or hesitate to answer.
"I'm shaking hands with McGonagall… I've won awards for quidditch, best seeker of the century." He described, putting just enough nervousness and hesitancy into his tone to make it seem like he had no idea what sharing this information would do.
Unfortunately, even if Quirrell bought it, it didn't matter.
"He lies," Something hissed from seemingly nowhere, and Harry almost jumped in surprise—as it was he tensed to the point his still-sore body screamed in protest at the motion.
"Tell the truth," the clearly deranged professor suddenly bellowed and Harry flinched, trying to maintain at the least the pretense he wasn't freaking out right now.
"Let me… speak to him," The hoarse, whispery voice spoke again, and Quirrell turned sharply, seeming to address no one.
"Master you're not strong enough," he seemed genuinely concerned, and for some reason it was creepy as hell.
Also, that 'master' was here!?
Harry tried to scan the room discretely again, but he saw nothing. He didn't see where the voice could've come from and it freaked him out even more than this situation already freaked him the fuck out.
"I have strength enough… for this." It spoke again, and Quirrell seemed to relent… turning slowly back around to face him from where he'd drifted forward in his concern, and lifted his hands… to undo his turban.
Uh…what? What is he…
Harry felt ice cold and indescribably horrified as the garlicy purple cloth fell away, and in the reflection of the mirror he saw another face.
An ugly, twisted, morphing face.
Harry almost threw up.
"Harry Potter," it hissed, and he nearly did feel bile in his throat at the disgusting little mouth moved in time with the word. "We meet… again."
WHAT THE HELL!? We've met!? What the—what the—what on--!?
It hit him like a freight train, and suddenly his mouth moved despite his brain being too horrified to even process this information.
"Voldemort…" he breathed, noting Quirrell's expression facing him change but not giving a shit as his eyes fixated on the creepy face in the mirror. Stuck in disgust and terror as it seemed to bare its teeth at being addressed.
"Yes. See what I've become? See what I must do to survive? Live off another, a mere parasite…"
Good for you, why do you need me for this? Harry whimpered internally. This was bad, this was so bad. It wasn't just Quirrell, this was Voldemort. This man… killed his parents. Killed so many people and he…
Harry felt his vision blur a bit in anger, before he took a breath and centered himself quickly, remembering his graveyard. He didn't have a grave for Voldemort, and frankly he didn't want one there, but he knew he'd likely have to make one after this. He needed someplace to dump these emotions so he could focus on the matter at hand, and the word 'parasite' triggered something.
He imagined a large jar full of green liquid, a disgusting, wiggling grey worm twisting venomously inside it—but stuck for now inside it's glass container. It was just a pathetic worm in a jar, no need to be terrified.
It only kind of worked, but it did help calm in down, just a little. And that was all he needed.
He was still terrified, but he still had his wand. He'd initially through Quirrell too arrogant by letting him have it, but now realized he was likely rightfully arrogant. It wasn't just one teacher, it was lord bloody Voldemort and Harry was just a first year who was pretty good at Transfiguration at best. He'd lowered his wand at some point, knowing there wasn't much he could do, and now he pointed it at the ground, searching. He just had to stall and distract them from noticing, even while two sets of eyes (ugh, gross) were fixed on him.
"Why didn't you just kill me then. You had every opportunity to." He managed to get out, pleasantly surprised that he actually sounded normal. He refrained from actually voicing the fact that he was responsible for this parasite's demise and therefore probably correctly assumed Voldemort wanted him dead. If he was interpreting the mushy emotions on the ugly little face, the dark lord was already very aware of his hatred for the boy in front of him.
"I did try… the troll, the broom, the forest… but this inept fool was unable to actually succeed. Not with Dumbledore watching, not with Snape's irksome interference. He plays his role too well…." And whatever that meant, he sounded so seethingly murderous about it that Harry almost pitied Snape for a split second.
This revelation also really helped it sink in for Harry that Dumbledore had hired Voldemort as their defense professor for an entire year and hadn't noticed. Strongest light wizard there was his ass—there were not words to describe how remarkably done Harry was with that old Headmaster after this, not even considering he'd still yet to properly meet the man. He was absolutely dead to him after this.
"But now…the stone is here, I just can't get it. So you're going to get it for me."
The even tone had Harry's hackles up, and he forced himself to remain composed. The 'or else' to that deal was clearly received despite not being spoken.
"And how the hell am I supposed to do that? What stone? And whatever is this mirror?"
The disfigured face sneered, in what might've been both a glare and a smile at once. "The mirror of Erised… it shows you what your heart most wants in this world. I can see myself holding it…"
He still didn't explain what the stone was and frankly Harry didn't care. His fear had morphed into anger at some point—anger at Dumbledore and anger at this monster who'd taken away his parents. Anger he hadn't felt since Christmas when rage had made his hands shake for days after facing this mirror. Rage that burned hot and ugly in his chest, sparked by the unfairness of it all when he'd seen his parents look at him so lovingly in a way that would never be real, no matter how desperately he wanted it to be.
And his parents were in the mirror over the dark lord's shoulders, their eyes sad and warm as they looked at him.
It made him so angry it was only the barest semblance of control keeping him together.
He snapped.
"Well I don't bloody want it; how am I supposed to get it?"
"You don't crave life? Fame and fortune—and love?" Voldemort sneered back, ire and anger responding in kind to Harry's sharp tone.
He didn't hold back. "I have both fame and fortune thanks to you murdering my parents, asshole. And what the hell would you know about love?"
It was instantaneous, and he didn't even have time to fear the spell when the word crucio left Quirrell's lips—he couldn't see and a couple seconds later he realized he couldn't even hear over his own screams of agony echoing around the stone room. His mind whited out the pain, from the mess of suffering he could only separate the memory of him realizing he was on the ground, the cold stone a balm on his cheek from the fire ripping through his body. There was white mist…
And then he was blinking, on his feet again and in front of the mirror pointedly, and he cursed viciously inside his mind, clammy and shaken from the pain and confused about the change in scenery.
It's that damn 'imperio' spell again, wasn't it? What even is that!?
He wrenched free of the foggy grip it had on his mind and stumbled a couple short steps to the side, trying to get his bearings and knowing there was no way he could actually run, but trying to get some distance the best he could. And also trying to get out from in front of the bloody mirror.
"Stop that! How are you even doing that!?"
"Look," The hissing voice he already hated instinctively commanded him, and some invisible force jerked his body forward to stand in front of the mirror again. As if an invisible hand clamped down on his chin and held it forward, he was forced to look into the glass reflection, and once again saw his parents—friends and family, all of them—smiling at him happily like nothing was wrong.
It pissed him off and he ground his teeth together viciously despite the force holding him still.
"I can bring them back, you know. With the stone I can do unimaginable things, control life and death…"
Harry felt his temper surge mercilessly and despite something holding him still, he jerked violently and managed to free himself just enough to speak despite it feeling like he was going to have bruises on his arms and jaw from breaking the holds on him.
"Don't you dare." His voice was unfortunately raw, angry, and giving away too much of his pain for his liking in front of an enemy, but he just didn't care right then. "Don't you dare defile their deaths, their memories—their sacrifice. They're dead and they should stay that way… this world wouldn't be the way it is without their sacrifices. Without people who live and die for something worth it."
With a burst of anger he felt heat warm the cool air of the stone room and he managed to wrench free, wand shooting out to point at the purple turban on the ground and transfigure it into a bird that shot at the man behind him. It was very short lived though as a wordless wave of Quirrell's wand turned the bird to dust with an pitiful squawk before Harry could blink.
Neither him nor Voldemort seemed even slightly threatened by the attack either, both just sneering at him derisively.
"A noble sentiment, but ultimately stupid." The parasite scoffed darkly. "Who do you think you are… Potter? Trying to be brave and wise… but you're just a child who needs to comfort themselves with vain ideas of sacrifice to get over the fact you are alone in this world. You lie to yourself… that your parents died for some worthy cause, but in the end they're simply dead… and they left you here."
"And whose fault is it they're dead!?" Harry surged again with a shout, shooting the first spell he could think of—he wasn't even sure what it was but Quirrell batted it away without even blinking. He felt angry, and painful tears at the corners of his eyes but begged them not to fall. He had to keep it together—he couldn't cry in front of this man. He wouldn't.
"Their deaths were for a greater cause. Or would have been if not for you…" Voldemort hissed, venom and hatred dripping off his tone in spades. "You insignificant child… it was you that caused my spell to backfire. You were nothing, you are nothing… so what is it that protected you from a curse that defeated thousands before you? Grown wizards and children alike."
Harry felt sick. The pain of losing his chance at a family was one thing… imagining how many children (infants) this man had killed almost made him puke again.
"This nothing defeated you and I can't even remember a thing about it. Must not have been a very good spell." He hissed, knowing he needed to cool it and think smarter about this, but he was too angry to actually act on it.
Both ex-professor and dark lord looked down on him darkly, mocking him.
"You insolent brat—you don't even know what a killing curse is, do you?"
Killing curse? What… is that what…?
"A curse just for killing? Christ wizards are so excessive—a cutting curse to the neck not good enough for the great and overly dramatic Lord Voldemort, huh? Would've saved you a lot of death and humiliation if you weren't such an egotistical drama queen."
"Crucio!"
At some point while he was screaming on the ground, a clear thought filtered through the agony in his brain and reminded him that he really needed to shut his mouth. This wasn't Blaise, this wasn't Snape, this wasn't any other Slytherin… and he was being very, very stupid.
As the pain abruptly stopped and he panted roughly into the stone beneath him, he realized he was probably incredibly stupid actually. Miraculously he still had his wand in his hand, although his knuckles were white from how hard he'd been gripping it, and he had a thought that he very much regretted having.
But he didn't have a better option, so he gave a sob that was actually not that hard to fake. In fact he wasn't 100% sure it was fake—but either way as he did it, he pointed his wand and roughly pushed himself up, turning to flash the man (men?) above him a glare.
"Hit a n-nerve, did I?"
He screamed as the world whited out into even more pain.
But… hopefully his captor was too pissed off at him to notice what he'd just done. That was the only thought that kept him sane as the agony seemed to stretch this time, waves of it increasing periodically until he was sure he was about to start seizing or his heart was about to just fucking give up on him at any moment.
"Enough," a hiss caused the pain to disappear, and he was jerked sharply to his feet by yet another invisible force and he was too out of it to even care he was looking into the mirror again. "You will retrieve the stone—now."
Oh sure, let me just do that for the guy who murdered my parents…
But… he was surprised as his vision blurred back into focus, and he realized the image in the mirror had changed. He saw himself… but his reflection was moving when he most certainly wasn't. He watched… watched his reflection pull something from his pocket, and held it up pointedly. It was a deep red chunk of glass-like rock, with golden ripples through it that were clearly magical.
His reflection put it back into his pocket slowly, and Harry felt cold realizing he could feel something actually slide into his pocket.
Oh no… oh no, I actually have itnow. Oh no, oh no, oh no… I'm pretty sure it'll be a bad time if he gets it, he can't be using it for something good, and more importantly as soon as he DOES get it, I'm literally dead.
Shit. What---what do I—!?
He blinked, realizing his reflection was moving again. This time it smirked darkly at him as it pulled to stone out, turning on it's heel… and hurling the stone as hard as it could and the magical artifact smacked Quirrell right in his actual forehead hard enough that he fell flat on his back—directly onto Voldemort's crusty parasitic sneer.
It was so absolutely ludicrous it startled a hysterical laugh from his lungs against his will—something he instantly regretted when the invisible grip around him tightened painfully and he got twin glares promising even more pain any second now.
"What do you see?" Quirrell demanded this time, and Harry shot him a defiant look for all he was worth. Well, honesty first after all, since clearly the mass murderer in his skull was some kind of lie detector.
"I see myself with the stone… and I'm chucking it at your head hard enough to knock the annoying ghost right out of you, Professor."
He heard more than saw Quirrell's wand lash out, the swish of his robe sleeve sharp and without hesitation as he cast a wordless spell. Harry braced for it, but felt nothing… until something stung at his cheek more sharply than if he'd gotten slapped, and suddenly that whole side of his face felt hot. He was a bit depressed he immediately recognized the thick scent of copper in the air.
And then he felt the pain, a wet gurgle as blood flooded his mouth escaping his voice, and he couldn't look down to see, almost too belatedly realizing he could look into the mirror still in front of him to see what had happened…
…and instantly regretted it.
"ENOUGH, you welp," Quirrell was pissed, and Harry had already known it but his stomach felt cold and his brief bravado vanished in a puff of smoke as he realized how serious this was.
Harry coughed on the alarming amount of blood invading his mouth and Quirrell stalked away in anger, the invisible force suddenly releasing. He stumbled to suddenly be free, one hand automatically coming up to clap a hand over the cut he now had on his face, instantly regretting it from how much more it stung (it already stung really badly, how did it sting more just by touching it). He knew he shouldn't touch it as that was probably really unsanitary but he needed to hold himself together… he was in shock, he realized, and too dizzy from the abrupt blood loss for this to really sink in.
Because that cut had gone straight to bone, and if he didn't hold his cheek together now from the gaping flesh wound he'd just gotten he would be able to see his own skull in his mirror's reflection, and that thought just did not compute.
"I've almost tired of attempting to use you as my revenge. Perhaps you're right, I should kill you now since I have the opportunity. You're not worth the irritation to keep you alive, no matter how much I despise you." Voldemort's hissing, his calm anger not sounding near so calm anymore, and as he spoke Quirrell's wand moved again—and again once more.
A line of fire spread out from across his stomach, and then another over his thigh. The last one caused him to stumble, just barely managing to stay upright but no longer able to see his reflection to assess the damage. He couldn't focus… he put his free hand on his stomach and it felt too hot, too slick. Not good.
"F-feelings… mutual."
It was only after something hit him with the strength of a troll's club whacking him like he was a golf ball that he realized he'd said that out loud. He wasn't sure he meant to do that or not, and liked to assume if he weren't so lightheaded right now, he wouldn't have done it. He must've lost consciousness for a couple seconds because Quirrell was still in the process of stalking towards him for too much time to have passed and yet he didn't quite remember imbedding himself into the stone wall to the side of the chamber either, the fire flickering over the rubble around him but thankfully not touching him.
That was the only thing to be thankful about, because from how his whole body was numb and too hot, he realized this was probably it. He was already dead—the damage done from the blood loss and that hit were enough to kill him if someone didn't find him soon, because from how his limbs were not responding he'd broken a lot of things and was not going to be able to fight back successfully even if he managed to summon the energy to try. Somehow his mind was cold and clinical as it reminded him how close the troll had come to killing him—this was stunningly worse than that and there were no teachers here this time to stop the bleeding.
He was going to die.
And Quirrell got close—walking backwards so that it was actually Voldemort's disgusting face aimed at him and frankly that was the most disturbing thing Harry had ever witnessed.
"Such a smart mouth." The monster of a man sneered, now above him and leveling a wand directly in his face. Harry could only stare at the offending piece of wood, a wash of helplessness taking over.
He hadn't expected to win… not since waking up in this chamber he didn't really expect to get out of here, not even despite how hard he'd been thinking and plotting and fighting, his cynicism was too hard to ignore. But he hadn't given up the fight or the small hope that he might make it out of here somehow, yet now… that small hope disappeared into a puff of nothingness, like it was never even there.
The dark lord narrowed beady red eyes at him.
"Too bad you lack the power to even scrape the surface of living up to such arrogance. You are nothing, and I will prove it once and for all. It was a fluke that saved your life before, but there will be no such mistake this time… I will see to it."
This was it… he was going to die.
There was that saying, where when you were about to die your entire life flashed before your eyes, but Harry found that to be surprisingly untrue. There were tons of things he probably should've been thinking at that moment as the wand inches from his eyes flickered with magic, the sinking defeat he felt convincing him for one long moment that he was going to die, the sickness from blood and pain that dug fiercely into every part of his being…
But he surprisingly thought of nothing.
And then, be it instinct or his body's last ditch, desperate effort to live despite his mind already having checked out, he lurched forward. He didn't even think he could feel his arms right then, so it was a surprise to see his own hand snap forward and grab onto the hand holding the wand about to end his life, as if trying to stop it in vain.
All it did was cause the spell to miss, and he felt another line of burning agony cut into his shoulder, that entire arm disappearing from his control immediately.
Cutting curse. That's what these are… probably shouldn't have brought it up, to be honest.
But he blinked, realizing the ringing in his ears wasn't because of blood loss.
Quirrell was screaming.
Why is he screaming? I'm the one dying here…
But his sense of touch came back just in time to realize he was stillholding Quirrell's hand. Only… the man had backed up, screaming a sound of agonizing pain, and as Harry watched… the appendage in his arm crumbled into dust.
Oh… my god.
He let the ash fall through his fingers like the it was some sickening version of sand, numb in horror as black spots threatening his vision. It was all just too much.I'm going to pass out… I'm actually going to pass out that…
And yet as his eyes trailed in dazed horror at the dust now coating him, he realized that damned wand that was about to kill him was now in his lap. Way belatedly he realized he had no idea what happened to his own wand… clearly it hadn't helped him though… and yet…
Levitating cloth, blindly flinging spells. That was stupid, wasn't it? He was just a first year. And this was lord Voldemort.
This was lord Voldemort.
Numb fingers laced around the wand in his lap, and he was so sick in pain and muted horror (grief, rage, injustice, frustration, dripping from his tongue if he could just form a single word to say it) he realized he was going to die, and so the point of following rules suddenly made no sense whatsoever.
Voldemort did not deserve human decency. He had no right to something he didn't even know the meaning of.
There were some lines you didn't cross, but Harry suddenly saw no reason not to.
The answer was simple: Voldemort deserved it.
The torture curses, the blood, his own skull… suddenly it didn't seem like there was a point in being… hesitant.
It really couldn't get worse than this, and for some reason that thought brought him peace.
A calmness he hadn't felt since he'd been back in McGonagall's officer earlier this same night filled him, and he tried not to imagine the disappointment and disgust on her face that she'd undoubtedly have if she ever learned what he'd done.
He lifted the wand, and while the motion was all but impossible with how battered he was, conjuring the magic to him was not. It was simple as breathing—even if breathing itself was actually a bit hard right now, to be honest.
Simple as magic.
Rule number six: don't transfigure gases anywhere near where a living being is breathing.
He followed the rise and fall of magic and suddenly Quirrel was choking—violently. Harry was so far beyond caring though, he felt nothing to see the man suddenly coughing up sand as it made his lungs all but useless. For some reason it didn't seem in impact Voldemort though, who screamed something harshly, the hissing filling the chaoticly echoing room, but Harry didn't waste the effort listening to what it was.
He simply reacted when Quirrell obeyed some command and lurched forward, despite the fact he would not be able to breathe again.
Rule number two: don't ever transfigure the human body.
In a twisted mimicry of what he'd done to Montague only just this afternoon, the arm extended towards him intent on harm turned to solid stone, the hand and the sleeve and the arm all the way up to the shoulder blade. It fell off the body it was attached to in short order, stone crumbling as it hit the ground with a loud crackle and a wet bloody stump spilling blood onto the floor from the violent loss of a limb. Too bad Quirrell was already suffocating, so fortunately there was no scream to accompany it despite Harry assuming it probably hurt quite a bit.
Rule number ten: never attempt to transfigure blood.
Harry had had enough of blood for tonight, and the blood on the floor turned to water. The man above him collapsed bonelessly, writhing in muffled grunting from the sand in his lungs and water pouring from every orifice. Water being thinner than blood, there was very little keeping it in anymore apparently and it seemed as if the body in front of him sweated every drop of liquid inside of it in seconds.
Then he stopped moving, one last twitch on the ground before utter stillness—very much dead.
Harry heard a ghostly wail in the distance as his hand dropped, the wand clattering to the ground, watching an ash-covered something rise from the new corpse in front of him but just having nothing left in him to do anything about it.
He didn't even have time (or energy) to fear what it was before it shot through him—disappearing but not before something shrieked in agony somewhere deep inside his skull. He heard something snap, before it became too much (it was all too much) and he finally lost his fight with consciousness, finally escaping this waking hell.