Hermione and Neville had to latch on to Harry to stop him from plunging himself into the hole after Snape.

“Harry, stop it, please,” Hermione pleaded with him.

“It’s Snape, Harry. He’ll be fine.”

But Harry kept kicking and fighting until he let out a howl and went limp.

Snape didn’t trust him. Snape didn’t think he could help. And it hurt, it hurt more than a lot of things in his life had hurt, it hurt because he trusted Snape. He had gone to him for help. And Snape didn’t trust him.

Snape didn’t like him.

He hung there in Neville and Hermiones arms for a good ten minutes before Neville cleared his throat.

“L-let’s go,” he stuttered, and he walked to the trap door.

“Neville, what are you thinking? We would be disobeying the direct orders of a teacher, we could be expelled—“

“Harry needs to go,” Neville said simply, and Hermione shut her mouth and bit her lip before nodding.

The three plunged into the same darkness with linked hands.

“We’ve fallen down the rabbit hole,” Hermione murmered as they pulled themselves off the floor. It was strewn with ash and plant leaves, and Neville picked up a couple and scrutinised them.

“Devil’s Snare,” he muttered, and they looked at all the ashes before shuddering and moving on.

Harry, who had loved flying in class and was toying with joining the team next year (The current Seeker, Alex Rawdy, was the worst Seeker in the history of the house, and he would be gone) flew up quickly and caught the key before they moved on to the chess set, where they caught up with Snape.

Harry ran ahead to him, and Neville and Hermione waited by the side.

“Potter!” Snape spat.

“Professor, I couldn’t—“

“Yes, you could have, you very well could have if youw weren’t a spoiled, stubborn brat!” Snape was cursing. Of course Potter would leap in after him. He should have body-binded them all, he knew that. But part of him felt warm and comforted, even in the position he was in. Harry had followed him. That meant something, something important that Snape couldn’t quite figure it out at the moment. Instead he merely focused on the game and sneered down at Harry.

“Potter, Longbottom, Granger, go sit there by the door. Try to do it without unnecessary heroics,” Snape snarled, and he continued to play his way across the board.

The White Queen spoke, slowly and very gravelly. “All must play.”

“They don’t even know how to blow their nose, let alone play chess. I will play.”

The Queen stubbornly crossed her arms. “All…must…play.”

Snape growled and surveyed the board. He was four or five moves away from check-mate, he could tell. Perhaps, if he put them in useless positions…

“Granger!” he barked, and the girl was on her feet in a flash. She had been patting Potter’s arm, Snape could see, and the boy looked blank and nervous at the same time. “Take the left side bishop, be quick. Longbottom—“ The boy tripped going up to the board, and Snape sneered. “You take the rook, left side. No, you foolish boy, a castle, the rooks are castles, are you daft? Potter—“ he yelled, and Harry darted over quickly. He was biting his nail and looking at the floor, and his shoulders were shaking.

“I’mverysorrysir,” he mumbled, and Snape grabbed him by the shoulders and jerked his head up.

“We cannot do this now, Potter. We are in the middle of a game, and a course that is meant to incapacitate and kill wizards, and I need all my wits. We will address this later.”

Harry nodded, looking miserable. Snape squeezed his shoulder and propelled him to his place. “Right hand knight. Right there.”

Then Snape started to play again.

He was right, the game was nearly finished in four moves. But then he saw it—

Longbottom was right in the Queens path. Snape cursed himself and started a new plan of action, but it was too late. The Queen was taking her move. Snape had failed to remember that they were children and had let the Queen take that route.

Harry was on the square in front of him, and he saw exactly what Snape saw. “Neville,” he screamed, and he made as if to run from his square, but Snape grabbed his arm.

“We’re still in the game, Potter. We’re still in the game.”

And Harry let out a blast of raw power, unconciously, aimed at the Queen, and she exploded into rubble threww spaces away from Neville.

Harry and Snape were safe, Hermione had a few suts from flying bits of rock, but Neville had been hit in the head.

As soon as Snape collected the sword, he went to check on Neville.

“He’ll be fine, Potter. His heads thick as the marble that hit it, he’s nothing more than a concussion.”

“We—we can’t just leave him here,” Hermione said. “He’ll be so scared when he wakes up.”

Snape looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Granger—you will stay here with Longbottom. Potter will continue with me. Try and make your way back to the main school when he wakes up—get Professor McGonnagal immediately. You both look frightful enough that she’ll believe you.” Hermione nodded and gasped out a ‘yes, professor,’ before turning and throwing her arms over Harry. He stiffened.

“Oh, Harry, be careful. You’re—you’re a great wizard,” she said, and she hugged him tightly. “Be careful.”

And then the huge doors swung open and Harry and Snape were gone.

00000000000000000000000

Snape led them over a fully grown troll. His head had been bashed in with a rock, and he was clearly dead. Harry shivered and moved closer to Snape, before remembering miserably that the man probably hated him now and taking a step back.

The next room was filled with bottles of potions, all different sizes and shapes and colors, and the door wass blocked by flames, but Snape immediately strode to the smallest one and took a small sip.

“Drink, Potter,” he said, and Harry took another sip and gasped. It was like liquid ice. Snape grabbed him and pulled him in close behind him and they walked through the flames.

They were in the last chamber, a tall, long chamber, but the only thing in it was a mirror and a man.

“Ah, Potter.” Harry suddenly felt ropes twining around him, making him fly back into a pillar. “I was wondering if I would see you here.”

Professor Quirrell, stuttering Professor Quirrell who had once helped him find the Infirmary, who had sat and graded all his tests highly, who Harry and Neville had playfully nicknamed ‘Quirrell the Squirell’, who was a teacher and a professor and odd, it was Professor Quirrell.

“Quirrell,” Snape spat.

“So, Severus, you decided to join our little game. Brought a little present, hmm?” Quirrell said in a distinctly slick voice. Harry started to shiver.

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” Snape snarled. “Untie the boy.”

Harry was tied to a pillar right across from the Mirror, and he tried to avoid looking at it. As scary as this all was, he was even more scared that he was headed home to the Dursleys and Snape—Snape would never love him, so he couldn’t bear to see that in the mirror.

The greed, though, of seeing his parents once again, of pretending that this wasn’t happening and that there was still a chance, with Snape, won out, and Harry looked into the mirror thirstily as Quirrell and Snape argued.

It was the same as before. His mother was holding him, hugging him, but this time she was crying over him. His father leaned over and kissed his forehead. And then something more magical than anything he’d ever seen at Hogwarts happened.

Mirror-Professor Snape had walked over to the couple. His father had shaken the mans hand, his mother kissed his cheek. And Snape leaned over and smiled at him (at Harry!) and placed something in his robe pocket.

His robes suddenly felt heavier.

His parents, in the mirror, were untying him from the pillar, and he suddenly tuned in to reality.

“Our master needs him,” Quirrell was pleading, and Snape snarled.

“I serve no master,” he said, and he pushed Quirrell.

“Oh no, Severus?” came an unearthly, evil voice that permeated everything in the room. Harry started to shiver and noticed that he was no longer tied to the pillar, though the ropes were still held up.

Snape’s face had drained of color, and he was backing away from Quirrell, his wand raised, as Quirrell unwound the purple turban with a deranged smile on his face.

There was a man poking out of the back of his head.

Snape immediately grasped his arm in immense pain and fell to his knees.

“Is that a suitable reminder, Severus, of who you serve?”

Snape grit his teeth and snarled again, a snarl that sounded like an animal.

“My…my lord…” Quirrell stutted out. “May I kill—“

“No.” A bolt of power shot out, and Snape was suddenly unconsious. “Later. The boy, first.”

And Harry was suddenly more scared than he had been in a long time.

The face wasn’t more than a crude rendering of one, chalk white with glowing, tremendous red eyes. His nose was two thin, sharp slits and his mouth a gash, and when he spoke the floor moaned and the ceiling cried and Harry’s forehead burned in a way it never had before.

“Harry Potter,” he whispered, and Harry almost threw up.

“What—what did you do to Professor Snape?” Harry asked softly. The face laughed.

“Such touching concern, Potter, for your fathers enemy. He is not dead—are you disappointed?”

Harry could not speak, merely stare and breathe and think ‘he’s not dead, he’s not dead, it’s okay.’

“Go to the mirror,” the face hissed, and Harry turned back to the mirror, the weight in his pocket more pronounced than ever.

“What do you see?” he asked mockingly, and Harry stayed silent. The mans anger flared, and Harry felt pain shoot across his back.

“WHAT DO YOU SEE?”

Harry answered softly. “My, my mum and dad.”

“Ah,” the man mocked, “your pitiful mother and father.

“It is due to them, and you, Potter, that I’m like this. Mere shadow and vapour, only able to take form with those who wish to host me, living life without a life at all. But once I have the Elixer of Life, I will have a body, and power, and you will be very—“ he advanced a step, “very dead. So why don’t you make it less painful for you and just give me—“ another step “—that stone—“ another step, and Harry half-hysterically thought how funny it was that Professor Quirrell was walking backwards “—in your pocket.”

Harry slipped his ties then and made a run for the door, only to see flames and turn, gasping for breath, to Professor Snape. He couldn’t leave him.

He darted to him, then, feeling Quirrell and him, Voldemort, watching as he knelt down and tried to wake up Snape.

“Please, professor, please wake up. Please.”

“It’s no use, Potter. He won’t wake up.”

Harry spun and stared, and Voldemort chuckled. “You’re a brave boy—I have always valued bravery..Your parents were brave, but in the end, that’s all that bravery gets you—death. I killed your father first, did you know that?”

Harry saw his father in the mirror, saw him fall down, sightless.

“Oh, he fought a good fight, but he was no match for me. Your mother, though…”

Harry saw his red-haired lady, his dream mother, the one he pretended had never died and was coming for him, always for him, he watched her fall and he almost screamed.

“Your mother, she needn’t have died. She as protecting you, you know. I offered her it all, if she joined me. Just as I am offering you, Potter.”

Harry suddenly looked the man in the eyes.

“Join me, Potter, and I can bring them back. I can bring them all back, because I have the power to. With the Stone, I will be more powerful than you can imagine, and with you by my side, I will bring them all back.”

And Harry thought of actually feeling his mother hug him, of touching his fathers hand, and he weighed it against the price he would have to pay, and he remembered something important—

They were dead, and he knew they would always be dead. Even if they were brought back, they would still be dead, because the dead don’t come back, not even in magic.

“You’re lying to me,” Harry whispered, and he thought of Snape, the only man who had never lied to him or been false with him, and he firmed up his resolve.

“Give me the Stone, boy!” the being shrieked, and Harry yelled back.

“NEVER!” he yelled, and he pulled out his wand, his friend, and the pillar behind them suddenly turned to rubble.

“SEIZE HIM!” Voldemort yelled, and Quirrell came his way and latched on to his arm, and Harry was blinded with pain and more than that, with the promise of pain, the promise of much worse than this, and Harry screamed and fought and the pain lessened.

Quirrell’s hands, which had been holding Harry, were blistered and burnt, as though he had tried to hold fire.

“Master, my hands—I cannot touch him, he burns me!”

“Then kill him!”

Harry suddenly ran for Quirrell, knocked him down and the wand out of his hand, and even though his scar felt ready to split in two, he planted his hands firmly on Quirrell’s face.

His head was thudding in a wild beat, a beat that said nothing of magic but just pain, in his head Voldemort was yelling ‘KILL HIM! KILL HIM!’ and Harry was so blinded with pain that he thought they meant to kill Snape, and he started to hold on even tighter until he was holding on for his life, and all he could hear was Quirrell crying ‘Master, Master!’ and Voldemort yelling ‘Kill him, kill him!’ and some one else, someone far away and in a mirror, calling ‘Harry! Harry! Harry!’

He felt Quirrell’s arm being pulled away from him and he held on, he held on, but the pain and the noise was too much and he fell backward.

“Professor Snape,” he muttered thickly, and then he passed out.