Introduction

Cold Flooded his body as Harry swallowed. For a moment he stood completely still, evaluating the sensation for potential harm, before stepping quickly into the flames and then just as quickly out the other side. The cold was already fading - thank god - it was an unpleasant sensation, not because it hurt, although it did a little, but because it was rather invasive.

Harry relaxed as he, for good measure, put another step between himself and the black fire. He hadn't really noticed how tense he was until he left Hermione behind. It wasn't her fault, she wasn't a bad person, he'd just never really been comfortable around other people, a life time of not being touched unless you were being hit could do that to a person. Between the feeling of the tension and the potion leaving his body, it took Harry a moment to look around the room.

Immediately he felt the tension return. There was someone in the room – and it wasn't Snape. It wasn't even Voldemort.

It was Quirrell.

He was standing with his back to Harry, and although he was staring into a mirror, he didn't appear to be seeing Harry in it. Although with this particular mirror, that probably wasn't surprising.

Harry didn't move. Although Ron and Hermione had seemed to feel that stopping Snape from stealing the stone was obviously and intuitively the thing to do, they'd declined to share how this was supposed to work up close and personal.

Despite what Hermione seemed to think, Harry knew he wasn't a "great wizard", what he was was a child, and not even a particularly studious one at that, who had just barely one year's worth of magical education to his name. Honestly, he'd never have thought for a moment this would actually work, surely someone like Dumbledore, if even half of what people had said about him was true, cold produce protections that were more well, child proof. He'd imagined them getting held down by a Cerberus, or trapped in an enchantment, or something; losing a great deal of house points, getting one hell of a slap on the wrist and being sent home. Somehow, he hadn't imagined them getting expelled. Dumbledore hadn't made any particular effort to hide what was going on and had even gone so far as to turn warning them away from the third-floor corridor into a joke.

Yet, to his growing consternation, Hermione had managed to think her way through most of the "protections" and the others had been so blindingly obvious as to constitute little more than a magical obstacle course.

Which was all well and good, but that still left Harry in a room with an adult wizard who seemed to be in the middle of a heist. Experimentally, Harry took a step backwards, but was immediately met with a scorching heat that strongly encouraged him to revise his plan to simple walk back through the flames.

Great, so he couldn't get out.

It was at this point that a small part of Harry's mind that had been politely trying to get his attention since his shoddy eyes first focused on the purple turban in front of him made itself more forcibly know with the suggestion that this would be an opportune moment to panic.

Walking as quietly as he could, Harry crossed to the nearest pillar and stepped behind it.

He couldn't get out – deep (quiet) breath – but that wasn't to say Quirrell couldn't. All he had to do was remain undetected until Quirrell left and then he could revert back the being-found-wrist-slapping-home plan and tell the others whatever heroic Boy-Who-Livedesque story would keep them from turning on him.

Harry had been the unpopular kid before. He wasn't going to let it happen again.

"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell's voice broke the silence, causing Harry's entire body to freeze instinctively.

"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," Harry frowned as the monologue continued, on the one hand, Quirrell wasn't stuttering, which added a kind of competence to his image that Harry wouldn't have previously attributed to him, on the other, he was talking out loud…to himself.

"I see the Stone…I'm presenting it to my master…but where is it?"

It was at this point that the penny dropped for Harry. That was actually quite cleaver. Where or however the stone was hidden, only someone who wanted nothing more than to find it would see its location in the mirror. Although actually, what person would ever fulfil that criteria? People wanted things like love and security and gratification. Sure, the stone could be a means to that end but from the sound of it that wouldn't cut it.

Yet…surely there were spells and potions that could…modify a person's desires. Somehow this idea didn't really sit right with Harry, as though he was missing a step in a math problem, but now was not the time to be chasing stray neurons that may or may not actually have something to offer.

"We are not alone," a voice, a terribly familiar voice suddenly broke the silence left in the wake of Quirrell's muttering.

Harry's breath hitched. He knew that voice. He knew that voice. So powerful was the sense of familiarity that Harry was temporarily distracted, thus when he returned to himself it was to the sense that an indefinite portion of time has passed, and the frail, frigid silence of the hunter.

"Incarcerous!" Ropes burst out of thin air and bound Harry arms to his torso. It wasn't until he attempted to take a step and found he couldn't move his legs that he noticed the cords binding those too.

Harry's head actually bounced when he hit the stone floor and his last though before losing consciousness was that that couldn't be good.

When Harry awoke, he was lying face up on the floor watching Quirrell attempt some form of magic too advanced for Harry to even identify on the still stoically resisting mirror. His only clue as to how much time had passed was Quirrell's increasingly frazzled appearance.

"The boy is awake."

That voice. It was him. The same instinct that let him feel his way through the air on his Nimbus was telling him that that voice was him! Quirrell however speared him only a glance before going back to his magic, and Harry wisely elected not to draw further attention to himself.

"Master, Dumbledore will be returning soon…" the suggestion was obvious and unwelcome to Harry's ears.

"If you cannot find it kill the boy and retreat," the voice replied after a moment.

Quirrell turned to Harry and it was at this moment that Harry realised he was going to die tonight. No matter how this ended it didn't involve him living to get his exam results back. The realisation filled him with an odd sense of disappointment. Harry had always been reasonably comfortable with the idea of his own death, frequent experiences with starvation and broken bones had forced him to accustom himself to the idea that one day, Harry Potter's luck would run out, but…he'd only just….and he'd wanted to….

"Why'd you come to my house that night?" he asked. It wasn't really so important, it was just another of the stray neurons that had let him know almost a year ago while sitting eating soup in the Leaky Caldron, that something didn't make sense. Why him? Why in person? What was so special about him?

"Dumbledore didn't tell you?" the voice replied, and Harry could hear the mocking in it.

"No," he answered a moment later.

"Then why should I?" the voice replied. The tone was curious, as though he was genuinely interested in what reasons Harry would come up with?

"Because I'm going to die tonight anyway," Harry answered, with as little inflection as he could manage, "and because I know how the mirror works…and because it costs you nothing to tell me…"

He trailed off, playing the pity card was probably a bit weak. His chances of getting any pity here were pretty low.

"There was a prophecy about us…." The voice said, almost distractedly, and Harry had the same odd sense of being x-rayed that Snape often gave him. The feeling lasted only a moment before Quirrell blinked and raised his wand. Harry saw his lips move but never heard the incantation.

Harry lowered his arm and stared at the fist sized red gem in Quirrell's hand. He'd just…he'd looked into the mirror and the stone had fallen into his pocket…Quirrell had unbound him…he remembered all of this, but it was all…it was like…

"Imperious Curse," Quirrell supplied helpfully, smirking down at him. Harry had never heard of it, but the context gave him a good idea of what it did.

Quirrell was still standing there, looking at him, an odd, almost regretful look in his eyes. Oh, right. Time to die. Harry took a deep breath and raised his chin just a little.

"Master, I don't know the curse…" Quirrell murmured, colouring slightly.

"Then strangle him," the voice replied, sounding disgusted.

Quirrell's hands shot out and grasped Harry's neck, his own rising to them instinctively in an attempt to free himself. But then wouldn't work.

The force with which Quirrell grabbed him knocked them both to the ground and Harry felt his head collide with the stone for the second time that night. Fighting to relax, Harry closed his eyes, ignoring the splitting pain radiating through his skull and grasped Quirrell's forearms tightly, determined to die with at least a little dignity.

Suddenly a scream rang through the room and Quirrell pulled away, Harry's death grip on his arms pulling the boy up with him. Harry opened his eyes to see Quirrell staring at his blistered palms before throwing Harry bodily from him.

"Master my h-"

CRASH!

Harry collided with the mirror, which bounced against the wall behind it before falling forwards. Harry had just enough time to knowledge how idiotic the situation was before both Harry and his unfortunate professor were crushed beneath it.