“How is this possible?”
“My servant failed… once too often. After Gringotts he required… closer supervision. Too long have I remained… weak—thanks to you and your mother. But the Elixir will restore me. Quirinus… use him.”
“Come here, boy!” Quirrell flicked his wand.
Harry was yanked forward and deposited directly in front of the mirror.
“Tell me what you see!” Lie, Harry thought desperately.
A quick upward glance showed the familiar markings of the Mirror of Erised worked into the frame.
How does this help?
I couldn’t take the Stone even if I wanted to.
The thought had barely formed when movement in the glass drew his eyes downward.
His reflection stood unbound, one hand raised.
In that hand a blood-red stone pulsed softly.
Phantom-Harry smiled, slipped the Stone into a pocket, and vanished.
A sudden weight settled against Harry’s leg as the images of his dead family reappeared in the glass.
“Well? What do you see, Potter?”
“I see… my family,” Harry whispered.
“My mum and dad… sisters… grandparents.”
“Too easy. He lies!” Voldemort hissed.
Quirrell spun him around.
“Tell me where the Stone is!”
“Come, Potter,” the cold voice breathed.
“Do not be like your mother. I offered her the chance to stand aside. All I wanted was you. I would have spared her then. I will spare you now. Only tell me—where is the Stone?”
“Bullshit. I’ll never tell you.”
“He has Quirinus!”
Seize him,
Quirrell lunged.
The instant his hands touched Harry’s skin the ropes dissolved.
An acrid stench of burning flesh filled the air; both of them screamed.
Quirrell staggered back, staring in shock at hands already blackened and blistered.
Harry dropped to his knees, wand clattering away, but his own skin remained unmarked.
“Master—I cannot touch him!” Quirrell whimpered.
“Then kill him, you fool, and take the Stone from his corpse!”
“No!” Harry snarled.
There was no time to dive for the wand.
He launched himself forward and locked both hands around Quirrell’s throat.
Agony flared again—Quirrell’s skin boiling beneath his grip, the scar feeling as though it might split his skull—yet he held on.
He held on while the man thrashed.
He held on while Voldemort’s shriek joined the screams.
He held on as the world darkened at the edges.
The last thing he heard as his fingers finally slackened were three voices crying his name.
Harry woke to bright sunlight streaming through a nearby window and the sharp, sterile scent of the hospital wing.
He groaned, shifting on the bed, and registered the stark white surroundings.
After fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table he confirmed where he was—one of the corner beds.
Hermione slept curled in a chair beside him; a small mountain of cards and sweets covered the table.
He smiled down at her, but before he could move Madame Pomfrey bustled out of her office and shook her head at him.
“Good to see you awake, Mr Potter. How are you feeling?”
“Actually… really good. My head’s still a bit sore, but otherwise I feel fine, ma’am. What happened?”
“You’ll have to ask Professor Babbling or the Headmaster that question. All I know is they came bursting in with Miss Granger and Mr Longbottom. You were already unconscious and in rather poor shape.” She fixed him with a stern look.
“I do not enjoy students visiting me in this condition, Mr Potter. I trust we will not have a repeat performance?”
Harry gulped.
“No, ma’am. I have no intention of doing anything like that again.”
“Good.” Pomfrey drew her wand and ran several diagnostic charms over him.
“You appear well enough to leave once the Headmaster has spoken with you. Take this for the headache.” She set a small bottle beside him and returned to her office.
Harry drank the potion with a grimace at the foul taste.
He had just turned to wake Hermione when a soft throat-clearing sounded behind him.
Professor Dumbledore was settling into the chair beside the bed.
“Professor.” “Good morning, Harry. I trust you are feeling refreshed?”
“I’ve been better, sir… but yes.”
“Excellent.” The old man’s eyes twinkled; he offered a grandfatherly smile.
“Professor—what happened? The last thing I remember is burning Quirrell and blacking out.”
“It appears dear Quirinus was unable to tolerate your touch. Your mother’s sacrifice left a lingering protection in your very blood. Her pure love saved you as an infant; the mark upon your forehead is the visible remnant of Voldemort’s curse and the proof of that protection. Her love still watches over you. A man such as Quirrell—whose heart was filled with hatred and envy, and who allowed himself to be possessed—could not withstand contact with you. That is why he was so severely injured.”
Harry frowned.
That explanation was wrong.
His mother’s love might have sparked some greater ritual, but the mark on his forehead was a Protection rune—he had recognised the structure the moment he first studied it.
It was a deliberate focus of whatever she had accomplished that night, not the accidental leftover of a failed Killing Curse.
Dumbledore was more than a century old and supposedly master of many obscure branches of magic; there was no way he had simply missed something so obvious.
Harry pushed the thought aside.
There were more urgent questions.