The Three Brothers - Chapter 19

4th June 1992

“You?!”

Quirinus Quirrell.

Harry had set out tonight, hoping to stop Snape from getting his hands on the Philosopher’s Stone. As they had dealt with each of the challenges and neared closer to this final chamber, Harry had prepared himself for a confrontation with the potions master; ask him why he was working for Voldemort.

But the man standing in front of Harry wasn’t Severus Snape. It was the meek, stuttering, Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor Quirinus Quirrell, wearing his usual purple turban and an unusual sadistic smile on his face.

“Flipendo!”

Harry bȧrėly recognised Mark’s voice shouting the incantation for the Knockback Jinx as his mind tried to make sense of the implications of this discovery. The bluish streak of the spell flew past him towards Quirrell, who sidestepped it in an instant, moving much faster than Harry had ever seen him do. Moments later, he snapped his fingers and ropes sprang out of thin air, wrapping themselves around the five of them. They all tumbled onto the floor like bowling pins, with Neville tripping himself on Hermione and knocking his head on the stone wall beside him.

“Well, well, Potter,” Quirrell began, his face twisted in a sadistic smirk, “you brought along your nosy friends. I was wondering if you might show up tonight, you know. But to bring your friends down here to die —”

A cold trickle ran down Harry’s spine as Quirrell let his sentence hang, but Harry still found himself unable to fathom Quirrell’s presence here. His confusion must have shown on his face because Quirrell looked at him strangely.

“Surprised to see me then?”

“I—I thought—Snape —”

“Severus?” Quirrell asked in a crisp, amused tone with no hint of his usual stutter. “Yes, he does seem the suspicious type, doesn’t he? So useful to have him draw attention away.”

“But—but Snape was jinxing Harry’s broom,” Hermione interjected, and Harry could sense fear in her voice. “Unless—unless it was you,” she finally whispered, all the parts of the puzzle finally fitting together.

“Indeed, Miss Granger,” Quirrell chuckled. “You knocked me over on the way to set fire to Snape’s cloak, who incidentally had been trying to save Potter using the counter-curse,” he paused, his hands clasped behind his back. Looking at Hermione, he gave her a sneer. “It’s a shame really, that a bright witch like you is a Mudblood.”

“Don’t you dare call her that!” Ron snarled, struggling even more against his ropes. Harry found his throat dry, unable to form even a single word as the gravity of the situation settled in like lead.

“Ah, the loyal Weasley. I admit, I wasn’t expecting much from a pathetic little blood traitor like you. But I was impressed with the way you managed to subdue the troll on Halloween. Excellent use of the Levitation Charm, by the way.” He paused before adding mockingly, “Five points to Gryffindor.”

“You let the troll in?” Harry asked, still not fully believing Quirrell.

“Of course. I have a particular gift with trolls. You must have seen the one on your way here. A spell of my own making—a variation of the Imperious curse, designed to act on trolls.” Stopping to look at a pocket watch, Quirrell continued, “I would like nothing more to do than go over my plan with you Potter, but sadly I do not have much time. Now, wait quietly. I need to examine this interesting mirror.”

He turned around and Harry’s gaze followed Quirrell’s, and he realised what was standing at the back of the room.

“The Mirror of Erised,” Hermione muttered in awe.

——————————————

“The mirror is the key to getting the Stone,” Quirrell pondered, talking to himself. “Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this…but he’s in London. I’ll be far away by the time he gets back. I made sure of that.”

Mark watched as the turbaned professor paced in front of the large gold mirror. From the looks of it Harry, Ron, and Hermione were well acquainted with the mirror. The three of them had been onto the mystery from the start; he had not even known about the attempt on Harry’s life.

But they hadn’t suspected Quirrell. The Defence Professor had played his role almost perfectly. The nervous ticks, the almost comical stuttering, and the brilliant misdirection of any suspicions towards Professor Snape; the man had been planning this from the very beginning.

“You were there,” Harry said, his voice trembling. “You were there, in Diagon Alley. On my birthday. You—you robbed the vault at Gringotts.”

“Yes,” Quirrell answered curtly. “I was late, however. Since you know of it, I presume it was that half-breed gamekeeper who took the stone from the vault.”

Mark tried to digest this new information. He knew from Ron that the Stone had been at a vault in Gringotts, and that Hagrid had removed it on behest of Dumbledore when he and Harry had visited Diagon Alley. Realising just how out of depth he was here, Mark looked around and began thinking of an escape plan. It was now glaringly obvious that they should not have come down here so hastily. But what was done was done. Closing his eyes, Mark began thinking of a way to get out of this situation

“I saw you,” he heard Harry speak, and Mark opened his eyes in surprise. “You and Snape in—in the forest that day —” Harry continued haltingly.

It took a moment for Mark to recognise the almost comical eagerness in Harry’s voice, and his mind made the connection instantly.

‘He’s trying to stall him,’ Mark realised. Whatever Dumbledore’s protection was, it was clearly strong enough that a fully qualified and competent wizard like Quirrell was unable to break through. All they would need to do was stall him long enough for Dumbledore—who had hopefully realised the message from London was a distraction—to return to Hogwarts.

“Yes,” Quirrell answered Harry, peering at the detailed engraving on the golden frame of the large mirror. “He was onto me by that time, —”

“Yeah, you’re clearly not as clever as you thought,” Mark said in a loud voice, hoping to provoke a reaction from the Professor. But Quirrell continued, ignoring him completely.

“— He had suspected me all along. Even tried to frighten me, as if he could—when I have the Dark Lord on my side…”

Realising that there was no way to stall the turbaned professor, Mark craned his neck to check on his friends. What he saw didn’t fill him with much confidence. Neville seemed dazed, clearly suffering from a concussion when he knocked his head on the wall. Hermione was white as a sheet—Mark could make out her eyes quivering in fear. Ron, on the other hand, was fully alert; he was thrashing slightly on the ground as he struggled against the ropes binding him. Mark turned back to see Quirrell who was still busy with the mirror.

“I see the stone…I’m presenting it to my Lord…but where is it?” Quirrell was clearly growing impatient.

“I—I don’t understand,” Harry began again, trying to draw Quirrell’s attention away from the mirror. “Snape seems to hate me so much.” He glanced at Mark and gave him a pleading look. Mark nodded in reply. If Quirrell got the stone, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the lot of them. It was a matter of life and death.

A fleeting image of his dad invaded his mind; the two of them seated around the dining table, taking the mickey out of Edwin.

It seemed like an eternity as the realisation hit him like a ton of bricks.

Edwin.

Edwin’s knife. He had completely forgotten about it.

Slowly, Mark bent his legs back and began to reach for his ankle. It took him a few tries, but Mark’s fingers finally brushed the hilt. Grasping it at the edge, he pulled the blade out. Ron must’ve seen him, as he calmed down and began looking at Mark expectedly. Meanwhile, Harry was trying to keep Quirrell distracted

“Oh, he does hate you,” Quirrell said to Harry, “Didn’t you know Snape was at Hogwarts with your father? From what I know of it, they loathed each other.” Realising he was getting nowhere, Quirrell became irritated. As Mark began to saw through the bindings, he heard the desperation growing in Quirrell’s voice.

“I don’t understand. Is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?”

“But I heard you cry,” Harry interrupted him again. Mark gave him a wink and a Harry responded with an almost imperceptible nod. “In the Defence classroom. I—I thought Snape was threatening you,” he continued.

The words seemed to have a sobering effect on the turbaned professor, as he bowed his head and stood a little straighter.

“It is often—difficult for me to follow my master’s instruction,” he said quietly. “The Dark Lord is a great wizard while I —”

“Voldemort was in that classroom?!” Mark exclaimed, momentarily stunned to continue cutting the ropes. This drew Quirrell’s attention, and he looked at Mark with anger and amusement.

“You are brave, boy,” he said hesitantly. “And foolish to take the Dark Lord’s name.” Turning back to the mirror, he continued.

“He is a great wizard. He taught me that there is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to see it. He has tasked me with this job, but I do not understand what I’m supposed to do?”

Mark finished cutting through the ropes around his torso and quickly slashed the ones around his knees. Deciding to stay prone, he crept slowly towards a now expectant Ron and started cutting through his ropes.

“Quickly,” Ron whispered, eager to be free. Mark hushed him and bent to whisper in Ron’s ear.

“When I say, grab everyone and run out of the room. I’ll stab the bastard to slow him down and join you.”

“But the Stone —” Ron tried to argue but Mark cut him off.

“Is obviously safer in the Mirror. Its Dumbledore’s protection, so it should hold,” said Mark. Finished with Ron’s binding, he began to crawl over to Neville when a raspy voice spoke, sending a chill down his spine.

“Use the boy…Use Potter…”

“Yes—Potter. Come here. Dumbledore must surely have instructed you on using the mirror”. Snapping his fingers again, the ropes around Harry disappeared.

“No!” Hermione shrieked, having found her voice again.

“Quiet silly girl,” Quirrell snapped, before drawing his wand and pointing it towards her. “Come now, Potter, you don’t want your friends to get hurt do you.”

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Mark thought, as he began sawing through Neville’s rope. His plan had to change.

——————————————

Harry slowly got up from the floor. He didn’t want to cooperate with Quirrell, but getting Hermione hurt wasn’t an option. He purposefully slowed his movements to delay, his mind still wondering where he’d heard that raspy voice before. Quirrell, however, was getting impatient.

“Hurry up boy,” he said, pointing towards the Mirror of Erised. “Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.”

‘I have to lie,’ Harry realised as he came in front of the mirror, his eyes closed in deliberation. There was no other option. He had to delay Quirrell—give Mark enough time to do whatever he was planning to do. Taking a deep breath—the funny smell coming from Quirrell’s turban was as pronounced as ever—he steeled himself. Opening his eyes, Harry looked in the mirror.

As he had seen before during the Christmas break, Harry expected to see his family. It was the main reason he had decided to lie to Quirrell; there was no way he was sharing something so private to him. However, the sight that was before him wasn’t his family.

Somehow, he’d gotten the Philosopher’s Stone.

“What do you see Potter?” Quirrell asked impatiently, breaking his reverie. Harry realised that he had to lie now; there was no way he could let Quirrell get his hands on the Stone. Remembering what Ron had seen in the mirror, Harry spoke up.

“I—I see myself as Head Boy. I—I’ve won the House Cup for Gryffindor.”

“He lies! … He lies!” came the screeching voice from Quirrell again.

Harry got a sinking feeling. Could he read his mind?

“Potter! Tell me the truth! What did you see —!” Quirrell was interrupted by the high voice again.

“Let me speak to him…face-to-face”

A spike of fear shot through Harry as he saw Quirrell tremble a reply to the voice.

“Master, but you’re not strong enough —”

“I have strength enough for this…”

Harry suddenly realised who the voice belonged to—Quirrell had called it Master…

It was Voldemort.

He watched transfixed as the Defence Professor began unwrapping the turban on his head. Quirrell turned slowly when he was finished, and Harry heard someone gasp behind him.

On the back of Quirrell’s bald head was another face; the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and snake-like slits for nostrils.

“Harry Potter…” it whispered. “See what I’ve become?” the face said. Harry’s legs had turned to lead, and he couldn’t seem to move.

“Mere shadow and vapour…. only able to take form in another’ body. But then, there have always been those faithful like Quirrell here…” It gave a smirk, before continuing.

“Unicorn blood has managed to give me some strength… Indeed, you did see me in the forbidden forest that night. Once I have the Elixir, I will be able to take form again. Now… why don’t you give me the stone in your pocket?”

Harry shook his head, still unable to speak.

“Come on, Potter. Don’t be a fool. Hand over the stone or you friends —” Voldemort said, turning towards the bound children, and Harry followed his gaze.

—will die…?” the words trailed off in a tone of surprise. Harry saw his friends missing; they must have escaped.

Before he could think anything else, however, something came streaking past him and slammed into Quirrell, who gave a loud shriek of pain. It was Mark.

“RUN!!” his friend exclaimed, trying to pry the wand from Quirrell’s hand and Harry found his legs moving of their own accord. He tried to make his way towards the flaming door; he was halfway there when he tripped. His legs were bound once again.

Harry rolled on the floor to look back and was terrified by what he saw. Quirrell—his robes stained with blood—was standing over Mark and kicking him in the gut.

“You broke my wand, boy,” Quirrell snarled as he kicked Mark again. Suddenly, the face on the back of Quirrell’s head disappeared. Instead, his eyes glowed red—just like those of Voldemort.

Turning towards Harry, he approached like a snake hunting his prey. His thɨġh was bleeding from where Mark had stabbed him, but his face showed no recognition for the pain. Harry tried to crawl away as he neared, but he knew it was futile.

“Trying to escape Potter? Just like your parents. They died begging for mercy.”

“LIAR!” Harry shouted.

“How touching.” Voldemort/Quirrell smiled. “I always value bravery…Yes, boy, your parents were brave. I killed your father first … he put up a courageous fight. But your mother … your mother needn’t have died. She died trying to keep you alive. Now, give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain,” he snarled.

Harry’s insides went cold. He had just learnt more about his parents’ death than he had known before. Remembering their image in the mirror, he violently shook his head.

“NEVER!” he spat out.

Voldemort/Quirrell smirked, then snapped his fingers again.

“Crucio!” he said, almost casually.

Pain. Harry felt like his entire body was being stabbed by a thousand white-hot knives. It was pure, uninhibited pain. Harry screamed in agony, and tears flowed from his eyes.

Voldemort, however, just gave a cackling laugh—a laugh which Harry recognised from one of his dreams.

“I haven’t had such fun in years! Nevertheless, time is running short, so I’ll be taking the Stone.”

He moved towards Harry’s pocket, intending to grab the Stone. Harry, still trembling from the aftershock of the pain, tried to grab his arm to stop him. In the brief struggle, the Stone in Harry’s pocket slipped out on the floor beside him. And then, to his surprise, it was Quirrell who cried out in pain.

“It burns! Master, I cannot hold him—my hand burns!” Quirrell’s eyes showed fear before Voldemort took control again. Harry noticed the stone silently sliding across the floor towards a now conscious Mark.

“Looks like your mudblood mother is still protecting you,” Voldemort spat as he examined his burnt hands. He didn’t seem to have noticed the Stone’s movement. “No worries, I’ll just finish the job I started ten years ago.” He raised his hand, towards Harry’s ċhėst, and Harry knew what was coming.

“Avada —”

“HEY SNAKE FACE!” Mark shouted from across the room, and both Harry and Voldemort turned to look at him. “Looking for this?” He held the red stone in his hand before starting to run towards the flame door.

Realising the Stone was getting out of his hand, Voldemort began to move towards Mark. Instinctively, Harry grabbed onto his foot, trying to touch bȧrė skin.

Voldemort howled in pain, and conjured ropes around Mark again, who tripped. Kicking Harry’s hand away, he hissed in anger.

“You’ll both die for this.”

Harry saw Voldemort raise his hand to curse Mark. His fellow teammate, however, drew his hand back and threw something towards the flame door. Harry’s trained eye followed the red streak of the Stone as it hit the flames with the accuracy of a well-thrown Quaffle.

——————————————

“NOOOO!” Voldemort screamed helplessly as the room shook with the force from the explosion.

Mark grinned. His aim had been true. On seeing Voldemort’s face, however, the smile was replaced by a primal fear.

He had never seen fury like this before. A chill went down his spine as he realised just why Voldemort had been feared by all wizards. The red eyes glistened with anger, and something happened that Mark had not expected—he felt a strong push on his mind.

Voldemort was attacking him with legilimency, most likely to inflict pain beyond measure.

‘Well, that was a mistake,’ Mark thought, grinning inwardly. He pulled Voldemort’s mind into his own, much to the surprise of his attacker, and imagined it being suċkėd into a black hole.

“Impossible!” Voldemort whispered to himself before the mental defences of the Dark Lord were rammed into by a mere child. The attacks started going back and forth, the two legilimens battling in their minds.

It bȧrėly lasted a minute, but in that time, Mark was now on the verge of exhaustion. He didn’t know if he could hold off Voldemort any longer. Thankfully, he didn’t have to.

Mark saw Harry physically launch himself at Voldemort, knocking him down.

“Aaaaarghhh,” Mark heard Voldemort cry out in pain as Harry grabbed on to his face. Within moments, the cries tapered off into one of fear, and Mark recognised that the voice now belonged to Quirrell.

Suddenly the screams stopped as Harry was thrown backwards. A black mist emerged from the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor and lingered above the now limp body. Mark had never seen it before, but was sure of what it was; Voldemort.

“You have great potential, boy. You’ve thwarted my plans, and you will pay for it with your body.”

The mist then approached Mark, who was rooted in shock at this declaration. It hovered above him, about to enter when Mark saw it recoil off of an invisible barrier.

“You shall not hurt one of my students, Tom.”

The words were calm; the voice cold and powerful.

Albus Dumbledore had arrived.

“Dumbledore,” Voldemort said in a frustrated voice. “You’ve finally arrived.”

Dumbledore waved his wand around, and a large shimmering ball of light seemed to enclose the black mist. Voldemort, however, passed right through.

“You think you can contain me? I, Lord Voldemort, the greatest sorcerer who ever lived?!” Voldemort scoffed before passing through one of the stone walls. “Until we meet again, Dumbledore.”

Mark heard a loud pounding somewhere; after a moment, he realised it was the sound of his own heart thumping in fear. Once the coast was clear, Mark saw Dumbledore relax. The old wizard dropped his hand to his side before rushing towards Harry, who was still twitching slightly.

“Harry, are you alright?” Dumbledore asked in a kind voice. Harry sat up slowly, still trembling.

“I’m fine sir,” he answered. “But—But the Stone. The Stone was destroyed, sir.”

——————————————

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