kbinnz - Harry's New Home

Ron let out a horrified squeak as he caught sight of the misshapen heads. "Tha- tha- that's тАУ" 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 тАУ 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 тАУ 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 тАУ 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 тАУ utterly bereft and empty тАУ 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 тАУ the most precious thing in their world. Even now, Snape had made it clear that Harry's welfare тАУ his health and happiness тАУ 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 тАУ all three of them тАУ 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 тАУ 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 тАУ 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 тАУ 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 тАУ 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 тАУ with a technique that would have done David Beckham proudтАУ she stepped forward and kicked Quirrell right between the legs.