“…And I suppose it just goes to show that sometimes even when something seems to be ill luck, it can have a good outcome,” Poppy finished. “I don’t know how much longer Quirinus could have managed on his own.”

Snape glowered at the desktop. Hearing that shoving the stuttering fool down the stairs had actually benefitted the man was distinctly annoying. He had certainly not meant to do the idiot a favor – far from it!

“What do you think has made him so ill? Is there any kind of threat to the students, from either a magical or Muggle malady?” Albus asked. The other teachers made noises of concern while Snape rolled his eyes in irritation. However, since this was his usual behavior during staff meetings, no one paid much attention.

Poppy sighed. “I don’t really know. My spells don’t show anything abnormal, but there’s something… fuzzy about them. I’m not sure what’s causing it. Given his rundown condition, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s picked up some kind of Muggle parasite when he was wandering around those forests in Albania. He’s lost a great deal of weight, he’s anemic and weak… but he insists that he doesn’t have any of the flatulence or diarrhea that normally is associated with parasites, although I’m thinking that if I use a Muggle device that allows me to look up his –“

Now the other faculty looked like they regretted having encouraged the medi-witch, and Snape seized his opportunity. “Poppy, kindly restrain yourself from discussing people’s bowel habits. We are not your colleagues from St Mungo’s and we don’t care about Quirrel’s shi-“

“I’m sure we all wish him a speedy recovery,” Albus cut in quickly. “Please tell him so for us and assure him he need not worry about his classes.”

Poppy stopped glaring at Severus long enough to nod. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you an estimate of when he will be well enough to resume his teaching duties, but until I figure out what is draining him of all his energy, I doubt he’ll be a very effective teacher anyway.”

Dumbledore ignored Snape’s snort of derision and merely nodded and smiled. “Then he shall remain in the Infirmary until you have solved the mystery. I am quite enjoying taking his classes – it’s been too long since I had daily interactions with the students.”

Pomfrey looked awkward. “I really do think he should be transferred to St Mungo’s –“

“No.” Dumbledore’s tone was adamant. Snape glared again at the table. He wouldn’t feel safe until Quirrel was gone from the castle and had no further access to Harry, but Dumbledore was insistent upon keeping the man nearby until they had a better sense of his allegiances.

Poppy looked mutinous for a moment, then sighed. “Well, for reasons he refuses to disclose, Quirinus insists upon staying here too. I suppose that since he’s not getting any worse, there’s no harm… And he is a little stronger now that he is able to stay in bed and conserve his strength, but I just wish I knew what was causing his problem. I can’t sustain him forever with potions and other artificial means!”

“I’m sure you’ll find the answer,” Albus said comfortingly, and Poppy managed a smile.

Snape considered. It sounded like Quirrell was in no hurry to leave Poppy’s pampering, and that might give Albus the chance to track down his movements during his time in Albania. Their best theory thus far was that he had fallen in with some Death Eaters on his travels and they, knowing that Harry would be entering Hogwarts this year, had convinced Quirrell to join their cabal. Snape hadn’t thought that many of Voldemort’s followers in Eastern Europe had survived his disappearance, but all it took was one or two of the more dangerous faithful – like Bellatrix – and all hell could break loose anew.

“Any other business?” Albus asked.

The others shook their heads, and the meeting was adjourned. As they exited, Flitwick pulled Snape aside to comment on Harry’s rapid progress in his extra classes. “Most impressive, Severus! I have even begun the boy on some very basic wandless magic exercises, and I’ve been astonished with Harry’s aptitude. He’s really quite a powerful little boy,” Filius finished admiringly.

Snape huffed. Yet another member of the Potter Fan Club – how typical! They all thought the brat was the reincarnation of Merlin, rather than stopping to imagine that he might be coaching the brat through several practice sessions a week. Oh no, it couldn’t be his hard work that was responsible – much better to regard The Brat Who Lived as a prodigy.

Hmf. Some prodigy. It had taken two scoldings and five chocolate frogs before the little monster would even consent to try wandless magic – and all because he had read that it was something only the most powerful mages could do. Since Harry still had the self-esteem of a flobberworm, he had promptly convinced himself that he could never do it, and Snape had been forced to indulge in a great deal of sentimental gooeyness to persuade the boy otherwise. He had nearly needed a stomach-calming draught after having to spout all that sickening praise, but Slytherin cunning had (as usual) prevailed over Gryffindor obstinacy, and the brat had lapped it up, then promptly – and effortlessly – levitated a feather without his wand.

But would Flitwick appreciate that? No. Of course not. “Then if the boy is so talented, I assume you are quickly advancing him through the material? I would like him to start dueling later this year.”

Flitwick, himself a champion dueller, blinked. “So early? Well, I am sure his magic will be up for it, but…”

“Excellent. If you will start him on the appropriate offensive and defensive spells, I will ensure that he is aware of precisely what will befall him if he uses any of those spells outside of a supervised classroom.”

Flitwick tutted. “Harry seems like a very responsible boy, Severus. I’m certain you don’t have to worry about such things, and I really don’t believe a heavy handed approach is indicated.”

Snape huffed but didn’t answer. If truth be told, it was rather a relief to learn that at least some of the faculty still thought he was strict with the brat. He had feared that Harry’s ingenuous revelations had thoroughly demolished his Evil Bat reputation, but obviously some beliefs die hard. “Not all children respond well to corporal chastisement, Severus,” Filius was continuing carefully, ever-cautious of his younger colleague’s temper, “and from my experience with Harry, even a few sound smacks will likely do him more harm than good. He is very different from his father, you know.”

Snape turned a deadly glare upon the shorter wizard. “Meaning what exactly?” he purred dangerously.

Flitwick was unfazed. “Meaning,” he replied clearly, “that as a boy, James was – for all his charm – overconfident to the point of arrogance and a bit of a bully to boot. A few sharp corrections to his behavior would not have come amiss and might have reined in his excesses well before he finally matured on his own. Harry, on the other hand, is quite shy and uncertain in many situations, and I feel praise and encouragement, rather than threats and thrashings, will best bring out his potential.”

Snape stared at Flitwick in surprise. He had never before realized that the little man had been wise to James’ character flaws and, he had to admit, his assessment of Harry’s character was quite astute as well. Which made it all the more surprising that he was so blind to Severus’ own.

To be honest, it was both annoying and gratifying – annoying that he was so easily perceived by his peers as a cruel git, but gratifying that the brat hadn’t managed to convince everyone in the school that he was a big softy. “I can promise you that the boy receives exactly what he deserves at my hand,” he told Flitwick loftily, then spun away with a swirl of his robes.

It was good to know the boy’s magic hadn’t been stunted or blocked by his time with those despicable Muggles. If that had been the case, he really would have pulled out some of the Darkest spells from his Death Eater days. But if Flitwick were convinced that Harry was powerful, then he was a strong wizard indeed. Filius might be nauseatingly lenient towards the students’ pranks and mischief, but he was brutally accurate when assessing magical talent. He would never overexaggerate in that regard, and that meant that Harry really was doing well and making quick progress. Severus began to mentally catalog all of the spells Harry should learn, from jelly-legs to Sectumsempra to Avada Kedavra. Oh, he wouldn’t get to the lethal ones for quite a while yet, but he had no intention of sending his ward out to face Voldemort armed with nothing more than Expelliaramus.

He had been uneasy about having taught Harry that sticking hex last weekend, but to his relief, he hadn’t found any of the little monster’s classmates Stuck to the Quidditch goalposts, nor had the other professors complained about their possessions being mysteriously affixed to their desks, though a little voice in the back of his head kept insisting that this was just the calm before the storm. On the other hand, if he were seriously proposing to teach the child offensive spells well before his peers, then he needed some proof of the brat’s self-control and judgment. If Harry couldn’t be trusted with a simple Sticking hex, then how on earth was he to teach the boy the spells he needed to defend himself?

##

Harry beamed at Ron and Hermione. “You’ve got it! That’s it!” Now all three were consistently able to produce an effective Sticking hex.

“Ron, it’s really amazing how much quicker you’re picking things up now that you’ve got a new wand,” Hermione complimented him.

Ron reddened at the praise. “Everything just seems a lot easier, you know?”

“I wonder if the hex could be used to hold my hair in place…” Hermione mused, pushing back her bushy hair for what felt like the thousandth time that day.

“I think it would be more fun to stick Malfoy to the third floor boys' loo!” Ron chortled.

“Oi!” Harry frowned at his friend. “Don’t even think of doing that. Or of telling the twins. Pr’fessor Snape would kill us.”

Ron paled and clutched his bum apprehensively. “Okay, okay. Blimey, Harry, I was just joking.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want anyone to know we know this hex. Not until we’ve figured out the Case of the Purple Turban.”

Hermione giggled. “Sorry, Harry, but that sounds like one of those telly detective mysteries.”

Harry laughed, as much at Ron’s expression of bewilderment as Hermione’s words. “Yeah, I know, but that’s how I think of it.”

“Okay, well, now that we all know the spell, now what?” Ron asked.

“We need to get up to the Infirmary and get a sense of where he is.”

“You mean you want to ‘case the joint’?” Hermione’s giggles again threatened to overwhelm her, but Ron’s next words quickly banished her mirth.

“Hermione can do that. She can go up to see Madame Pomfrey and take a look around while she’s there.”

“Why me?” their friend demanded. “Why not Harry?”

“Quirrell always makes my scar hurt,” Harry protested. “There’s something weird about him, and Pr’fessor Snape already told me to stay away from him. Or else.”

“You don’t want to make Harry get into trouble for disobeying his dad – erm, professor, do you?” Ron looked at Hermione accusingly.

She sighed and gave in. She’d heard what Snape had done to the boys over the troll escapade, and she suspected that she’d be paying for her good fortune in escaping the smacking for years to come. “Oh, all right. But what am I supposed to tell Madame Pomfrey?”

Ron turned pink. “Can’t you go for – y’know – girl problems?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Girl problems? That’s the best you can do?”

The redhead was blushing violently, but he stubbornly stuck to his idea. “You asked. C’mon – it’s a perfectly good idea.”

“Fine,” she huffed. Why on earth had she chosen two boys as her best friends?

Harry, who had avoided that exchange like the plague, smiled in relief. “Thanks, ‘Mione. Besides, you know you’re the only one who can get up there without makin’ anyone suspicious. If Ron or me tried to get out of class by asking to go to Madame Pomfrey, they’d just assume we were trying to skive off.”

“I can’t imagine why they’d suspect that,” she retorted sarcastically, but without any real malice. Harry’s point was valid, and she knew it. “How much longer is he going to be in the hospital wing anyway?”

Harry shrugged. “I asked Pr’fessor Snape and he said he wasn’t goin’ to be back for a long while. An’ Professor Dumbledore was talking about what we’d do in DADA class next week, so it sounded like he was plannin’ to keep teaching it for at least that long.”

“Okay, so I’ll go and figure out where he is – then what?”

“Then the next time we think he’s alone up there, we all sneak up,” Ron suggested.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed enthusiastically. “You two can pretend to want to visit him or ask him a DADA question, and I’ll sneak around and hex his turban to the wall or the bed or something.”

“Harry.” As much as Hermione itched to solve a puzzle – any puzzle – she still felt obligated to point something out to her more impulsive friends. “Don’t you think Professor Snape will be cross with you when he learns what we’ve done to Professor Quirrell? I mean, I know he doesn’t like the man, but it’s still a professor that we’re pranking.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “It’s a mystery, and we’re gonna solve it, an’ I bet he’ll be too interested in what we find to be angry.” At his friends’ incredulous looks, he sighed. “Well, okay, so he’ll be angry, but I think he’ll also want to know what we find. An’ it’s not like he ever actually said not to prank Professor Quirrell, so it’s not like I’m disobeying him, and even if Professor Quirrell is really mad when his turban comes off, he’s not allowed to hit me – an’ I don’t have to let him if he tries – so the worst I’ll get is a detention. An’ you guys can just say that you didn’t know what I was doing.”

Ron looked doubtful. “You really imagine anyone will believe that?”

Harry looked stubborn. “It’ll be my spell, so they won’t be able to prove anything else. An’ it’s not like Pr’fessor Snape will do anything that bad to me. I mean, he’ll probably just take my broom away an’ maybe make me do an essay or some lines. But he hates Quirrell so much he probably won’t punish me too hard. An’ then when I’m on restriction with him, we’ll be able to talk about whatever it was that Quirrell was hidin’ and then he won’t think I’m some boring little kid any longer.” Harry flushed. He hadn’t meant to actually say that last part, but he’d gotten a bit carried away.

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sure Professor Snape doesn’t think you’re a boring little kid, Harry. I think he probably just wants you to be a good student and behave yourself.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Hermione – you’re dying to know what he’s hiding just as much as we are!”

“I never said I wasn’t, Ronald! But I just don’t want Harry to get in trouble again.”

Harry blushed. “ ‘S ‘not that bad, Hermione. And c’mon. It’ll be a lot of fun to figure out something that even the teachers don’t know. And the rest of the school will think it’s a brilliant prank.”

The girl sighed. “I don’t think Professor Snape really likes pranks, Harry. Didn’t Ron say something about him getting furious at the twins for their pranks?”

“Yeah, but theirs are stupid,” Ron argued. “I mean, they turned his House green an’ stuff like that. We’re doing important stuff like learning what a sneaky professor’s doing and why he’s hiding in the Infirmary an’ what he’s got under his turban. We’re not doin’ it just to make people laugh, yeah?”

Hermione surrendered. Her curiosity was afire, and no one could say she hadn’t tried. “Okay, I’ll go up and see Madame Pomfrey now.”

##

Two days had passed since Hermione had reconnoitered the Infirmary and reported back with the intelligence that Quirrell seemed to spend most of his time behind portable privacy screens, napping and badgering the house elves for food, books, comfy pillows, peculiar kinds of tea, and otherwise being a querulous pest. Hermione was – predictably – outraged on behalf of the house elves and her ire was undiminished by Ron’s assurance that the little creatures loved that sort of thing. Even Madame Pomfrey was looking a little strained, particularly since her diagnostic spells were still coming back negative and the professor’s ceaseless, whiny demands to the elves were getting on her nerves.

Two days is, of course, an eternity to 11 year olds, and the three were getting increasingly fidgety about implementing their plan. Then, in the middle of Charms, Ron happened to be daydreaming out the window instead of practicing his spells, and he saw something that nearly made him leap out of his seat.

“Psssst, Harry!” he managed to get his friend’s attention and gestured out the window.

Harry casually leaned back to see what Ron was trying to show him, and his eyes lit up. “Hermione!” he poked the witch next to him.

“What?” she asked irritably, her wand movement now ruined by his interference.

“Look!”

Hermione glanced out the window and saw Madame Pomfrey’s form crossing the main lawn, heading towards Hagrid’s hut. “Now’s the time! The plan’s a go!” Harry hissed. He felt just like the leader of a commando squad from a movie that he’d managed to listen to from his cupboard. He’d often had reason to appreciate that both Uncle Vernon and Dudley liked to have the telly volume way up.

Hermione hated to admit it, but she felt a little thrill of excitement too. “Roger,” she hissed back, having seen many of the same movies. She tidied her things together and approached Professor Flitwick.

Harry and Ron couldn’t hear what she whispered to the wizard, but the man almost instantly blushed bright red and nodded vigorously. Hermione smiled gratefully and left the room.

“Blimey, she’s getting good at that,” Ron muttered, impressed.

Class was over fifteen minutes later, and Professor Flitwick was pleasantly surprised when Ron and Harry presented themselves and offered to bring Hermione’s books to her in the Infirmary.

“Five points for being helpful Housemates,” he praised them. “I’m sure Miss Granger will appreciate your thoughfulness, and here is a pass in case you are a few minutes late to your next class.”

“Thank you, sir!” they chorused, looking suspiciously angelic, then sprinted to the Infirmary lest Madame Pomfrey return before Operation Turban had been successfully concluded.

Hermione was anxiously waiting for them at the entrance to the Infirmary. “He’s back there, sleeping,” she hissed. “You can hear him snoring. Madame Pomfrey’s still gone. What now?”

‘You two stay here,” Harry instructed, his voice low. “When I signal, Ron, you yell, ‘Troll!’ like you did in the library that night. Really loud, okay?” The redhead nodded. “That should make him sit up, and I’ll see what’s under the turban. If he comes out of the screens, Hermione, you start yelling at Ron for trying to prank you. Maybe he won’t even realize his turban is off at first. I’ll be ready to cancel the hex once he’s clear, and he may just think that it fell off, rather than me pulling it off. Okay?”

Ron nodded eagerly. He figured he might get in trouble for trying to prank a friend in the Infirmary, but the odds were good that Quirrell would be so flustered he’d let them all off.

Hermione’s eyes were shining. This was like field research – and it was much more interesting than just reading about what someone else found out. “Okay, Harry! And if Madame Pomfrey shows up, we’ll just say that I got sick in class and you came to help, and you were looking to see if she was with Professor Quirrell.”

Harry beamed and nodded. His conscience tried to point out that they were all telling an awful lot of lies and there were easier ways to have a conversation with his guardian, but in the heat of the moment, it was easy to drown out the little voice.

He slipped off his shoes and moved silently towards the screened area, thankful that a decade with the Dursleys had taught him how to move soundlessly. The privacy screens were nothing more than three separate wheeled panels, so it was easy for Harry to peek between them. He carefully avoided touching the screens, having learned enough about wards to know that if Quirrell had set any – he was a DADA professor after all, and a healthy dose of paranoia was practically a job requirement – the wards would likely be linked to the screens.

Peering through a gap, Harry saw that Quirrell was fast asleep and snoring loudly, the ridiculous turban on his head propped against the pillows and forcing his chin towards his chest at an unnatural angle. Harry stealthily cast three sticking hexes, two to stick the pillows to the bed and one to stick the turban to the pillows. Through it all, Quirrell’s snores continued.

He stepped back and sent a “thumbs up” to his two friends. Hermione checked down the corridor for Madame Pomfrey then, seeing the coast was clear, nodded to Ron. A big grin nearly splitting his face, Ron joyfully sucked in a deep breath and screamed, “TROLL! TROLL!”

The results were everything the trio could have wished. Quirrell gave a convulsive leap off the bed, his wand out and before him in an instant. Even as the force of his Protego sent the privacy screens flying, he was scanning the room for the source of the shouts.

Harry’s plan worked perfectly. The turban had remained behind, Stuck to the pillows, and Quirrell’s naked head was now on complete display. Or should that be… heads?

Harry’s eyes were glued to the dreadful sight before him, all thoughts of undoing his hexes long forgotten. He might be new to the Wizarding world, but he knew instinctively that this Janus-like creature standing before him was something very, very abnormal. Even the magic that was coming off of the form in crackling waves felt corrupted and wrong. The overwhelming aura of evil was only matched by the odor of putrefaction. Now that the covering stink of garlic had been removed, Harry was irresistibly reminded of the smell of spoiled meat. It was disgusting, like the poor dead cat, struck by a car, who had laid in the gutter of Privet Drive until Aunt Petunia complained to the Council.

The rancid stench alone had Harry gulping back bile, but when the glowing red eyes of the face at the back of Quirrell’s head focused on him, he nearly lost his lunch on the spot. “Sssso. The boy seeks to challenge me...”

Ron and Hermione shrank back as the privacy screens tumbled to the ground. Under other circumstances, the sight of their bald-headed professor, wildly brandishing his wand, would have made them laugh, but here and now, there was nothing funny about the sight before them.

Ron was disappointed. Hermione had been right – Quirrell was bald, but he didn’t see anything like a curse scar. Oh, well, hopefully the man wouldn’t be too angry.

Hermione’s sharp eyes instantly noted Quirrell’s lack of hair and she preened inwardly at her correct supposition, but she continued to scan the wizard, looking for any clues as to why he wore the turban. There was something funny about the shape of his skull… She shifted for a better view and froze, just as a sibilant whisper floated through the air. “Sssso…”

Harry swallowed convulsively. “Wh-who are you?”

The distorted face laughed silently, mockingly. “Sstupid boy. Don’t you recognize me?”

Quirrell, having by now reassured himself that there were no trolls in the infirmary, twisted around uncertainly. “Master?”

Ron let out a horrified squeak as he caught sight of the misshapen heads. “Tha- tha- that’s –“ he stuttered, clutching at Hermione’s sleeve.

“Voldemort,” she breathed, staring in terror. “He’s alive.”

“I declare, Quirinus, you owe me a favor for dragging this thing all the way up here. I told Hagrid that grapes were the traditional gift for the sick, but he insisted I bring you one of his pumpki – What in Merlin’s name is THAT?” Madame Pomfrey made her entrance, pushing through the Infirmary’s double doors with an enormous pumpkin clutched to her chest. Her happy chatter broke off with a gasp as Quirrell snapped his head around, keeping his body partially turned so that both faces could see the intruder.

“Duro!” Before the medi-witch could move, Voldemort spat a spell and Quirrell’s body flung his wand hand out, shooting a black beam towards Poppy.

The beam struck the pumpkin and splashed, its power diffusing before it reached the unprotected witch. The force of the spell was so strong, however, that it threw Poppy backwards, through two chairs, to slam against the wall. She was unconscious before she hit the ground. Meanwhile, the spell had turned the enormous pumpkin into solid stone and it fell heavily to the ground, cracking the stone floor beneath it.

Terrified, Hermione and Ron stared from the crumpled body of the witch to the softly laughing professor at the far end of the room. “Poppy, you tiresome cow, I’ve been wanting to do that for days,” Quirrell sneered, his stutter completely absent.

“You – you tried to kill her,” Hermione stammered, incredulous.

“Is that really the best you can do, little know-it-all?” Quirrell snickered, lazily waving his wand at them. “Such a stupid little girl.”

Voldemort’s eyes were still locked on Harry. “Don’t you know me, boy? I have cursed your name every day for these past ten years. Have you not done the same? Do you not know who I am?”

Harry struggled to keep his voice steady, even as he felt as if his insides had turned to ice. “I know you. You’re Lord Volauvent.”

“Yes! I am the one who killed your parents. I am He Who – Wait. What did you call me?” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

Taking advantage of the Dark Lord’s momentary distraction, Ron whipped out his new wand. “Get help!” he ordered Hermione, stepping in front of her and raising his wand.

Quirrell casually flicked his wand, and Ron was thrown upwards to smash against the ceiling, then dropped heavily to the ground. He moaned in pain, blood streaming from his head.

“Don’t move,” Quirrell said to a petrified Hermione, then cast his eyes respectfully to the ground. “What shall I do with the brats, Master? May I kill them?”

Harry could dimly hear the conversation going on in front of him, but those horrible red eyes had filled his vision, his mind, and his soul. All light and hope and courage had fled. He was a useless freak, an unwanted monstrosity. Despair dragged him down, and he choked on a sob. He stood alone – utterly bereft and empty – before the Dark Lord. Voldemort had risen again, and this time, he was going to die.

“In a minute,” Voldemort said absently, his eyes still boring into Harry’s. “First, I will finish what I started ten years ago. Tell your parents hello for me, Potter. Sectumsempra!”

The mention of his parents accomplished what nothing else could. The mere word made Harrry’s mind flash first to Severus, then an instant later to images of his parents. For the first time, thanks to the photographs that Snape had compiled from the rest of the Hogwarts faculty, he had seen his parents and known the Dursleys’ lies for what they were. His parents had been brave, loving, strong wizards who had loved him more than life itself. He was no freak. He was a treasure – the most precious thing in their world. Even now, Snape had made it clear that Harry’s welfare – his health and happiness – was more important to him than anything else.

Harry thought of Snape, how he had looked when he was cleaning Harry’s face or giving him his broom. He thought of the picture that Minerva had had of James and Lily snuggling a baby Harry. Snape had placed it in a frame on Harry’s nightstand (though he had subsequently claimed it had been a house elf, Harry had actually seen him do it), and that reminder of his parents’ love was the first thing Harry looked at every morning and the last thing his eyes saw at night.

Those images rose up and blotted out the red eyes of the figure before him. Love, not only the love that was apparent in how his parents had cuddled his infant self, but also the love his professor had shown in going to all the trouble of tracking down the photos for him, filled up the empty void inside him with a warm, safe feeling.

The thought of his parents – all three of them – broke Voldemort’s hold on Harry, and the boy’s wand flew into his hand from its wrist holster. “PROTEGO!” Harry screamed.

His shield flared to life just as Voldemort’s curse flew at him. The powerful shield deflected the Dark spell harmlessly into the bed.

“How – how did you learn that?” Quirrell gasped. “I never showed you that!”

“You’re dead, Volauvent,” Harry snarled, dropping into a defensive crouch.

“It’s VOLDEMORT!” the Dark Lord howled in fury. “I am Lord Voldemort! You will cower before me!”

“You’re just a stupid ghost,” Harry snapped back. “Too dumb to know you’re dead!”

Maddened at the boy’s newfound courage, Voldemort ordered, “Seize him! We will bring him to the Chamber, and I will take great pleasure in removing his tongue and other body parts at my leisure.”

“As you wish, Master,” Quirrell replied obediently, and grabbed for Harry.

Harry tried to hold him off with a Furnunculus which Draco had showed him, but Quirrell effortlessly blocked the spell and seized Harry’s wrist. A second later, he screamed in agony and dropped Harry as if he were scalded.

“Master! It burns, it burns! When I touch him, I burn!” Quirrell protested, cradling his blistered hand.

“It is his blasted mother’s doing. Very well – we shall just have to kill him here and now,” Voldemort said dismissively. “Avada the lot of them.”

Harry stared at his wrist. It wasn’t burned like Quirrell’s, but when the other man had touched him, it had been painful – as if something was dragging the very life force out of him. Every instinct told him to get as far away from Quirrell as he could, but his mind had already processed that Quirrell was wounded. That merely touching his skin for an instant had caused a livid burn to form on the man’s hand.

Harry was never afterwards sure whether he had actually made a decision to act, or whether the instant the thought occurred to him, he had acted upon it, but in that measureless moment between Voldemort’s ordering his death and Quirrell raising his wand, the question popped into his head: “If my touch can do that to Quirrell’s hand, what can it do to his face?” And no sooner had he thought it than he had darted forward and grabbed Quirrell’s head – one hand over the professor’s face and the other planted firmly between Voldemort’s blood-red eyes.

The resulting shriek jolted Hermione loose from her paralysis, and she rushed forward, determined to help her friend. Harry was hanging onto the wizard like grim death, his head down and shoulders hunched to try to protect his own face from the other’s flailing hands.

Quirrell grabbed hold, screamed again and let go, then tried again to beat Harry away without actually touching him. Meanwhile, Voldemort was shouting orders and howling in pain, while Harry’s fingers gouged into his eye sockets in an effort to hang onto the thrashing, bucking man.

Quirrell fell to one knee, dragged down by Harry’s weight, his skin already blackening and disintegrating where Harry touched him. In doing so, he presented Hermione with an irresistable target. Her father had always made sure that his little girl knew how to protect herself and – with a technique that would have done David Beckham proud– she stepped forward and kicked Quirrell right between the legs.

Even those possessed by Dark Lords find certain pain pathways impossible to ignore. Quirrell’s shriek reached a pitch usually exclusive to banshees, and dropping his wand, he clutched himself and fell over onto his side.

The movement tore him away from Harry’s grip, and Harry paused for a second, sucking in a breath to try to steady the world that kept whirling around him. Hermione took one look at him and felt her breath catch. Harry looked exhausted – that horrible creature was somehow draining his very soul – yet she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was going to latch back onto the man in order to try to defeat Voldemort yet again.

“Ron!” she screamed, looking over her shoulder. “Do something! We have to help Harry!”

Ron managed to stagger to his feet, propping himself on the wreckage of one of the chairs splintered by Pomfrey’s body. His eye, frantically scanning for some weapon, landed on the pumpkin boulder and with a sweep of his wand – which he had somehow managed to keep hold of – he levitated it. He wasn’t sure what to do with it, but he recalled Harry’s use of the pikestaff against the troll and thought he might have a similar notion. “Harry!” he shouted.

Harry glanced up and saw the enormous vegetable hovering in the air, and he instantly thought of a recent team practice when he’d nearly been decapitated by a Bludger. “Send it to me!” he cried.

Even with a mild concussion, Ron’s body retained its knowledge of Quidditch moves. He seized hold of one of the chair legs and, using it as a bat, knocked the Bludger-like pumpkin spinning towards Harrry

Hermione, somehow guessing what they were thinking, quickly cast a sticking hex, pulling the still groaning Quirrell flat on his back on the floor. “Stinking little mudblood.” Voldemort’s head snapped around to glare at her. “I will purify the world of abominations like you!”

“Not today you won’t,” she spat back, just as Harry used his wand to first capture the onrushing stone, then cancel the levitation spell.

Quirrell, his head perforce turned towards Harry while Voldemort snarled at Hermione, caught the movement with his eye and looked up. “MASTER!” His screech of terror was abruptly truncated by a loud, wet noise after gravity reasserted its hold on the huge rock.

The three children stared at the sight before them. For all intents and purposes, the professor’s body now ended at the neck. Where his head (and Voldemort’s) had been was now the stone pumpkin, while a spreading pool of red seeped out from underneath it.

“That is the worst sound I’ve ever heard,” Ron said sickly, his green face contrasting nicely with his red hair.

Hermione was swallowing convulsively. “I once saw a show on the telly where this man was hitting watermelons with a sledge hammer. That - that was the same as the noise they made.”

Harry’s countenance was utterly grim, without the slightest trace of nausea. “Guess he wasn’t so hard to kill after all.”

And then two things happened at once.

The Infirmary doors burst open, and what seemed like the entire faculty of Hogwarts burst through it, wands out. The Headmaster was – amazingly – sprinting in the lead, but Snape was right behind him, with McGonagall and a crossbow-wielding Hagrid right behind him. Tiny Flitwick – for once without his trademark smile – was actually flying over the rest of them, his outstretched wand glowing with a half-cast Protego.

Even as the children spun to stare at this incredible sight, a horrible red haze coalesced above Quirrell’s mortal remains. “Potter!” An eerie, eldritch voice shrieked, the ghostly cloud coalescing into Voldemort’s snake-like visage. “I will return, Potter – and you and your friends will learn the meaning of pain.”

Harry chucked the first thing he could lay his hands on at the ectoplasmic mass. It happened to be a bedpan, which summed up his opinion nicely. “******!” he shouted back.

“Tom Riddle!” Dumbledore bellowed, his voice terrible in its power. “BEGONE!” The faculty shot a kaleidoscope of variably colored spells at the specter, but most passed straight through without effect.

Voldemort’s image twisted in hatred and rage, but it fled, moving between the children and faculty and out the nearest window. A golden bolt from Dumbledore’s wand pursued it, but the shade seemed vanish into thin air.

There was a moment of utter silence, then “Erm… so… is he gone then?” Ron asked tentatively.

Dumbledore and Flitwick had been muttering spells, but at the question, both exchanged a look then sighed and nodded. “Yes. He’s gone. For now,” the headmaster said tiredly.

Snape, one hand clasped to his left forearm, advanced on the children. “Are you all right?” he demanded, looking at Harry.

Harry dragged his eyes up to meet his professor’s. For a long moment, his frozen expression didn’t change, then his features slowly relaxed into a relieved smile. “Pr’fessor. You came,” he said softly.

And then he fainted.

The ensuing chaos took quite some time to sort out. Healers had to be floo’d in from St Mungo’s once Poppy’s still-unconscious body was found, and Aurors from the Ministry were summoned when Quirrell’s corpse was, eventually, noticed.

Ron, suffering from a concussion, was tucked into bed, and Hermione was as well, despite her protests that she was unharmed. Snape refused to let anyone but himself and the head of St Mungo’s pediatric injury team touch Harry, then insisted upon staying with the boy even after the Healer assured him that it was nothing more than a slight case of magical exhaustion, coupled with a severe emotional shock. In the end, the Healer forced a draught of dreamless sleep down Snape’s throat as well, commenting aggrievedly to the Headmaster that he had never met such an impossible parent.

Finally, the Headmaster insisted that, under the circumstances, nothing would be discussed until the following day. It was enough to know that Voldemort had – again – been routed and the immediate threat was gone. His magical power and political influence, both at Hogwarts and in the Wizengamot, trumped all opposition, and soon the Infirmary was left in peace, with St Mungo’s healers watching over the slumbering patients.