aFireFist
A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 15 - Part 3
Hermione stepped forward immediately, eyes already scanning the riddle burned into the surface of the table in elegant, looping script. The letters looked as if they had been seared into the wood rather than carved. Harry stayed close, wand up and ready, listening hard for any sound from the chess chamber behind them. Ron's absence sat heavy between them—an empty space where his voice and his stubborn presence should have been.
She read the riddle aloud under her breath first, lips moving silently, then again more carefully, voice barely above a whisper. Her finger traced the lines without quite touching the wood, following the logic as it unfolded.
"Seven bottles… danger of death… nettle wine… poison… forward… backward…"
Harry shifted from foot to foot, the soft scrape of his shoe loud in the quiet. "Can you solve it?"
"I already have most of it." Hermione's voice was steady, the same precise tone she used when correcting someone in class who had missed an obvious step. "Two are poison. Three are nettle wine. One takes us forward. One sends us back. The clues eliminate the wines and the poisons by process of line and position. Look—this one on the far end can't be the way forward because the riddle says the smallest bottle is the one that will send us back the way we came. And the bottle that will move us onward is sitting directly between two poisons. That leaves only one possibility that fits every line."
She pointed, precise and sure, first at the bottles she had ruled out, then at the single small round bottle that remained.
Harry watched her work. Even now—after the Snare, the keys, the chessboard, after everything—her mind stayed sharp and ordered. The silver choker was hidden under her collar, but he had seen it enough times in the last weeks to know it was there. He pushed the thought away hard. There was no room for it here. Not with Ron lying broken behind them and whatever waited ahead.
Hermione lifted the correct bottle—a small, round one filled with liquid the colour of weak tea. She turned it once in the torchlight, then sniffed it carefully. No scent. She nodded once, decisive.
"This is it. Forward. The other one that looks similar is the one that sends you back. Don't touch it."
Harry took the second bottle she indicated for him. The glass was cool against his palm. They drank at the same time. The liquid was cold and almost tasteless, with only a faint metallic aftertaste that lingered on the tongue. For a second nothing happened. Then the purple fire that blocked the doorway ahead of them died as if someone had pinched the flames out between two fingers. Behind them the black fire roared higher for a moment, heat rolling across their backs, before it settled again into a low, hungry barrier.
They stepped through the now-open archway.
The final chamber was larger than Hermione expected—circular, high-ceilinged, and cold. The air felt thin, as if the space itself were holding its breath. In the centre of the room stood the Mirror of Erised, tall and ornate, its gold frame gleaming dully in the low light. The glass surface was dark and still. And standing in front of it, back partially turned to the doorway, was Professor Quirrell.
His turban was half-unravelled, the purple cloth stained and slipping. The back of his head was fully exposed. Even from the doorway Hermione could see the pale, snake-like face fused to the skin there—red eyes set deep, flat slits for a nose, lipless mouth. Voldemort.
Harry's scar exploded with pain. It was worse than anything he had felt all year—white-hot, driving, as if a thin blade were being pushed straight into his forehead. He staggered, one hand flying up to press against it. Hermione caught his elbow hard and kept him upright.
Quirrell turned slowly. The front of his face still looked like the nervous, stuttering professor they had known all year, but the eyes were wrong—too wide, too bright, and full of a cold hunger that did not belong to him. The skin across his cheekbones seemed stretched too tight.
"Potter," Quirrell said, and the voice was layered, two tones speaking at once—one high and strained, the other soft and cold as silk. "How… convenient. I had wondered if you would be foolish enough to come. I had almost given up waiting."
Harry straightened, forcing the pain down, wand already in his hand and pointed. His voice came out rough but steady. "You're not getting the Stone."
Quirrell laughed, a thin, cracked sound that echoed off the curved walls. "The Stone is mine. The master requires it. You are only a brief interruption. A boy who should have died years ago."
Hermione stepped sideways, trying to angle for a clearer shot, but Quirrell's hand snapped up with surprising speed. A jet of sickly light struck the stone floor near her feet, cracking the flagstone and forcing her back a step. Sparks stung her ankles and the smell of scorched rock rose immediately.
"Stay where you are, girl," Quirrell snarled, the higher voice dominant for a moment. Then the second voice, colder and smoother, slid underneath like oil. "Let me speak to him."
Quirrell's body jerked as if two sets of strings were being pulled at once. He turned fully, and the face on the back of his head was now facing them properly. The red eyes locked on Harry with terrible focus. The pale skin was stretched tight over a flat, noseless face; the mouth was a lipless slit that moved independently of Quirrell's front features.
"Harry Potter," Voldemort said, and the sound of that voice made Hermione's skin crawl. It was soft, almost gentle, and completely wrong. "The Boy Who Lived. How long I have waited to look at you with my own eyes again."
Harry's scar was burning so hard his vision blurred at the edges, but he didn't lower his wand. He forced the words out through clenched teeth. "You're weak. You need a body that isn't even yours. You need the Stone just to stay alive. You're nothing without it."
"And you," Voldemort replied, the cold voice curling around the circular chamber, "are still a child playing at heroics. Tell me—did you look in the Mirror before you came here? Did you see your parents again? Did they look proud of the mess you are about to become? Or did they look disappointed that their son walked so willingly into my hands?"
Harry's jaw tightened until the muscles ached. He said nothing. The pain in his scar was a continuous white spike, but he kept his eyes on the red ones facing him.
Quirrell—or the thing wearing him—moved closer to the Mirror of Erised. The gold frame gleamed dully. "The Stone is still inside it. I cannot touch it. The Mirror refuses me. But you… you can. The Mirror shows the deepest desire of the heart. You want to find the Stone. You want to keep it from me. That desire is pure enough. So look into it, Potter. Find it for me. Bring it out. And I may let your friends live long enough to watch what I become."
Hermione's grip on her wand tightened until her knuckles went white. "Don't. Harry, don't do it."
Harry glanced at her once—quick, apologetic, determined—then stepped toward the Mirror. He already knew what he would see if he let his mind drift. He had looked into it before, night after night. But this time he forced the desire into a single, narrow shape. Not his parents. Not a living family waiting for him. The Stone. Finding the Stone so Voldemort could never have it. Keeping it safe.
He stared into the glass.
For a moment the Mirror showed him exactly that—himself, a little older, a little harder, dropping a rough red stone into the pocket of his robes and walking away. The image was so clear he almost reached out to touch it. Then his own reflection moved on its own. The Harry in the Mirror winked, reached into his pocket, and held up a blood-red stone the size of a small egg between two fingers. The real Harry felt a sudden, solid weight settle into his own pocket at the same instant.
He turned back to Quirrell, face carefully blank, heart slamming against his ribs.
"Well?" the layered voice demanded. Quirrell's front mouth and the face on the back of his head spoke together. "Do you have it?"
Harry's hand stayed away from his pocket. "No."
Quirrell's face twisted. The Voldemort face on the back of his head snarled, red eyes narrowing. "Liar. I can smell it on you. The Stone has a scent when it is near. Give it to me. Now."
"No."
The fight started without further warning.
Quirrell flung a curse that cracked the stone floor at Harry's feet in a spiderweb of fractures. Harry rolled sideways, came up on one knee, and fired back—Expelliarmus first, which Quirrell slapped aside, then a Stinging Hex that caught the man full in the shoulder. Quirrell staggered but didn't fall. The second face was laughing, high and cold and delighted.
Hermione tried to help. She sent a Leg-Locker Curse toward Quirrell's legs, the spell bright and precise. He batted it aside with a snarl and answered with a jet of sickly green light that forced her to dive behind the nearest pillar. The edge of the curse still clipped her upper arm; pain flared hot and sharp, like a knife drawn across the skin. She hit the floor hard, breathing in short gasps, wand still in her hand but knowing she was badly outmatched. The smell of her own scorched sleeve rose thick and bitter.
Harry was on his own.
They traded spells in a rapid, ugly exchange that filled the circular chamber with light and noise. Quirrell was stronger, fuelled by the thing on the back of his head, his curses heavier and more vicious. But Harry was faster and angrier, moving on pure instinct. A Cutting Curse opened a thin red line across Quirrell's cheek; blood ran down in a dark trickle. A Blasting Curse from Quirrell shattered a chunk of the pillar near Harry's head, raining stone dust and sharp fragments that stung his scalp and shoulders.
Then Quirrell closed the distance in three long strides and grabbed him.
The moment skin met skin, Quirrell screamed.
Harry's hands had locked around the man's wrists on pure instinct, fingers digging in. Smoke rose immediately where they touched—thin, grey, and sharp-smelling. Quirrell's skin blistered and blackened under Harry's grip, the flesh cooking with a sound like meat on a hot pan. The Voldemort face shrieked in fury and pain, red eyes wide.
"Impossible—! What are you?"
Harry didn't understand it, but he didn't let go. He forced Quirrell backward, both of them stumbling and struggling, until they crashed hard into the Mirror of Erised. The gold frame rang like a bell. Quirrell's body convulsed violently. The face on the back of his head was screaming now, a high, inhuman sound that scraped at the ears. Quirrell's hands clawed at Harry's face and throat, trying to push him away, but every fresh point of contact only burned him further. More smoke rose. The smell of burning skin filled the chamber.
Hermione scrambled out from behind the pillar, arm still bleeding, and saw everything—the smoke, the blistering flesh, the way Harry refused to release his grip even as Quirrell thrashed and howled.
"Harry!"
Quirrell's body gave one final, violent spasm. The remains of the turban came fully undone and fell away. For a split second the pale, snake-like face of Voldemort was fully visible, red eyes locked on Harry with pure, undiluted hatred. The lipless mouth opened in a silent scream. Then the body collapsed as if the strings holding it up had been cut. Quirrell hit the stone floor hard and did not move. A thin, dark vapour rose from the back of his head, twisted once in the air, and shot upward, vanishing through the solid stone ceiling with a sound like a long, dying breath.
For the Full 11622 word Version Please check my p.a.t.r.e.o.n: pat.....reon.c.o.m/cw/aFireFist just remove the multiple periods in this link. Thank you for the Support!