I feel sick to my stomach as I watch the last man I'd ever guess to be behind this standing proudly before us both, his face a mix of pride and evil, as if he's just concurred the world himself, and I half expect that if we can't hold him back now before Dumbledore can get to us, then he very well just might.

It's Quirrell.

"You!" Harry gasps loudly, his confusion-laced words bringing a glinting grin to Quirrell's face.

"Me," the other confirms calmly, "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter. You however, Miss Amethyst, I wasn't expecting."

"And whys that?" I ask bitterly.

"After what happened to your mother, I thought you'd stay as far away from all this as possible – yet here you are. What a strange girl. Are you not frightened? Scared that you might meet the same fate?"

I don't answer him, I just let my eyes widen as I take in the information given. How could he know what happened to my mother... unless he had at least some form of connection to any of it.

"But I though – Snape-" Harry stutters out, mind drawing blanks as to how it's even possible for Quirrell to be standing in the place we were so sure we'd find Snape standing.

"Severus?" Quirrell laughs aloud. He hasn't stuttered once during this entire ordeal, which is very unlike the professor we've come to know around Hogwarts. Had he been acting the whole time? But the conflict with Snape, and the genuine fear he held, could he truly have faked it all? "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

Of course! Snape must have been his perfect cover up! But if it wasn't Snape tampering with Harry's broom during Quidditch... then does that mean...?

"But Snape tried to kill Harry!" I shout.

"No, no, no. I tried to kill him. You and your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as you were rushing past to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. You broke my eye contact with him. Another few seconds, Harry, and I'd have got you off that broom. I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a counter-curse, trying to save you."

"To save him?"

"Snape was trying to save me?"

"Of course," Quirrell answers casually. "Why do you think he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn't do it again. Funny, really... he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do anything with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor winning, he did make himself unpopular... and what a waste of time, when after all that, I'm going to kill you tonight."

I gasp as Quirrell snaps his fingers together causing charmed ropes to spring forward and rap themselves around us both. One of which glides around my sore wrist and coaxes a short yet loud yelp to erupt from my throat.

"Hurt yourself trying to help dear little Potter did you, Y/N? Oh, how that must run in your family," he chuckles.

"Don't you dare mention my family!" I scream at him as I withhold tears from my pained hand. "Don't you dare!" He simply chuckles some more, and while he does, I look to Harry to see he's looking very confused as to what Quirrell could mean.

"You're too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school at Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone."

"You let the troll in?" realises Harry.

"Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls – you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me off – and not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that three-headed dog didn't even manage to bite Snape's leg off properly.

"Now wait quietly, Potter, Amethyst. I need to examine this interesting mirror."

It's only now I notice the Mirror of Erised standing at the end of our final chamber just behind Quirrell.

"Are you okay, Harry?" I ask him as he's still looking at the mirror as well. He turns his eyes to me and gives me a quick nod.

"Are you?" he questions back, and I nod as well. "What did you do to your hand?"

"Nothing important. We need to focus on getting out of here..."

"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmurs to himself as he strolls around it. "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..."

With that said, something comes to mind suddenly. It is only a matter of time before Dumbledore will return, which means, with lack of better options, we need to keep Quirrell distracted enough to bide that time. We need to keep him talking, and as it seems he loves to gloat, I think talking about what he's managed will be the best way to do such.

"You sent Dumbledore that letter. You did it to get him out of here long enough for you to complete your little mission, didn't you?"

"Indeed I did," he says as he turns his attention from the mirror and to me. "Would be no good to have him within the castle while I'm down here, after all. Clever man, Dumbledore, couldn't take the chance, so I sent him off to the Ministry as I knew it's the best choice to have him leaving as soon as possible."

Harry looks as though he's caught on to what I'm doing, so he quickly joins me.

"I saw you and Snape in the Forest-" he throws out quickly.

"Yes," he mumbles in return, still wandering around the mirror but not paying it enough mind. "He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I'd got. He suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me – as though he could, when I have Lord Voldemort on my side..."

Quirrell moves from behind the mirror to stand in front of it, gazing into his most prominent desire. I suppose, though, if Dumbledore created this last puzzle, it will likely be impossible for him to simply see himself with it and then suddenly have it. That would be too easy on evil's part. He begins to mumble what he's seeing as he stares in.

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

Harry's struggling against his bindings as best he can, and I'd be doing so too had my wrist not been throbbing so terribly. He look's as though he's struggling with coming up with something to hold Quirrell's attention longer.

"But Snape always seemed to hate me so much," he says after a moment.

"Oh, he does," Quirrell enlightens casually, "heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn't you know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead."

"But we heard you a few days ago, sobbing – we thought Snape was threatening you..." I speak this time. This, finally, seems to evoke an emotion within Quirrell beside casual, calm, and smug. It evokes a flash of fear.

"Sometimes," he begins, "I find it hard to follow my master's instructions – he is a great wizard and I am weak-"

"You mean he was there in the classroom with you?" Harry gasps.

"He is with me wherever I go," informs the turban-clad man. "I met him when I travelled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it... Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." He quivers with this thought. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me... decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me..."

His voice seems to fade away as if he's lost within his own mind and past. He has a far off look about his eyes, and a solemn grimace on his lips. He then breathes in suddenly and he's back to looking around the mirror.

"I don't understand... is the Stone inside the Mirror? Should I break it?" he thinks aloud.

Harry, from where he's tied down, shimmies around to whisper something to me.

"What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the Mirror, I should see myself finding it – which means I'll see where it's hidden. But how can I look without Quirrell realising what I'm up to?"

"You're brilliant, Harry," I whisper back. "But I don't know... I could try and distract him, but he doesn't turn his attention off of it for too long."

He moves a little closer to try and peak into the Mirror, but the ropes around his ankles seemingly tighten and trip him so he's tumbling to the ground. I gasp as he falls, but it doesn't seem to draw Quirrell's attention. I sit myself down as well as I can and ask him if he's all right.

"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

My blood runs cold, and I can see my own irises reflecting off of Harry's glasses as I hear his voice. They're glowing again, a brilliant lilac-lavender, and they're glowing brightly. Harry stiffens in place as well, though his not interested in the state of me, but the voice as well.

"Use the boy... Use the boy..." an almost serpent-like voice seethes from seemingly Quirrell himself. He rounds quickly and his hungry eyes fall on Harry, but they flicker to me once he's seen my eyes glowing.

"Yes," he says after snapping out of it, "Potter – come here."

He snaps his fingers and the ropes holding Harry down fall off of him letting him hesitantly stand. He looks from me to Quirrell and then back to me again for assurance, but I don't know what to say or do, so I simply stare back at him.

"Come here," commands Quirrell. "Look into the Mirror and tell me what you see."

You've to to lie, Harry... You know you do! You can do this! Please, you can. I know you can! I think repeatedly as he gazes trepidatiously into the Mirror of Erised. His hands are shaking ever so slightly at his sides, and I can feel mine doing the same, my heart pumping furiously as though it wants to tear itself from my chest. It's painful, as well, as though it's literally breaking up my ribs.

"Well?" Quirrell asks after a moment. "What do you see?"

"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invents. "I – I've won the House Cup for Gryffindor." I don't know if his lie will be enough, but it's something, and I screw my eyes closed awaiting Quirrell's following remark. Quirrell, however, is not the one to speak.

"He lies... He lies..." the snake voice seethes, and my heart pounds ever more painfully.

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouts to him as he's backing away from the Mirror. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

The other voice speaks again.

"Let me speak to him... face to face..."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough... for this..." they back and forth.

Both Harry and I remain rigid as Quirrell turns around and begins removing the turban from his head, and I let my breathing stop completely as he turns and reveals the face of another he's been hiding under such a head piece for who knows how long. The face is chalk-white, pale beyond all belief, with glaring, gouging, red eyes, and snake-like slits for nostrils.

"Harry Potter..." it whispers. "See what I have become? Mere shadow and vapour... I have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds... Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... You saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the Forest... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own... Now... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

I gasp as I realise that Voldemort, the one that must be sharing Quirrell's body, knows that Harry has the Stone on him, and Harry tries backing away as he recognises such as well. He doesn't get far as he's suddenly stumbling over.

"Don't be a fool," snarls Voldemort. "Better save your own life and join me... or you'll meet the same end as your parents... They died begging me for mercy..."

"LIAR!" Harry screams in retaliation. Quirrell's walking backwards towards him now, bringing Voldemort closer to him, and the revolting face is smiling sadistically.

"How touching..." he hisses. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your parents were very brave... I killed your father first..."

"SHUT UP!" I scream, not wanting Harry to have to hear such things, but he persists.

"And he put up a courageous fight... but your mother needn't have died... she was trying to protect you... And you-" His eyes slide across to me where I'm quivering in both fear and anger against the cement. "You must be an Amethyst... oh but you aren't supposed to be alive, are you? No... Amelia wasn't said to have had children... Tell me, Amethyst, how was your mother baring before she died?"

"You... you didn't-"

"No... not me, but I was the one to send the order... she was too strong... too much like Lilly, too much like your horrible father... I didn't ask them to kill her. I left that part up to her."

"You know? You-" There are tears streaming down my cheeks by now, and Harry looks just as horrified as I.

"Of course I do... Now give me the Stone, Potter, unless you want your mother to have died in vain."

"NEVER!" Harry screams loudly before springing up and jumping towards me trying to help me free. He's fumbling with the binds, but he's unable to free me, and so I shake him off and scream for him to go.

"RUN, HARRY! YOU NEED TO RUN!"

"I'M NOT GOING TO LEAVE YOU HERE!" he answers bravely.

"PLEASE, JUST GO!" I beg of him, but he doesn't stop trying to tear my ropes off. "THE STONE! YOU MUST GET IT OUT OF HERE!"

"SEIZE HIM!" Voldemort commends Quirrell, and the next moment, Quirrell has his hand wrapped tightly around Harry's wrist, tearing him away from me.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" I cry desperately.

The ropes tighten around me, them coming to my throat and restricting my voice, as well as my lungs, and I'm choking on the loss of air and the brute strength of the enchanted binds. My eyes are blurry with tears, but I can still see what's happening between Quirrell and Harry as clear as day.

Quirrell's snatched his hand away from the younger boy, the skin of his palm and fingers sizzling and boiling as if he's being burnt alive without a single flame at his touch. Harry screams as well as he clutches at his scar.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" Voldemort commands again, and so Quirrell lunges again, this time with both hands wrapped firmly around Harry's neck. I cough and splutter as I try and yell for him, but I can't voice a single syllable. The corners of my vision are turning black from the lack of air as well. Quirrell, once again, is howling in agony from seemingly touching Harry's skin. I can very barely stand the pain erupting and pulsing in my chest.

"Master, I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!" he cries as he pins Harry down with his knees and pulls his hands off of him to examine them in horror. They're practically melting away right before us, large boiling blisters forming and sizzling erratically, red and pink flesh bubbling and brewing.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" Voldemort says, and I scream through the pain as I watch Quirrell raise his wand and point it at Harry. He's about to cast something that'd surely kill him before Harry's quicker, and jumps up planting both of his hands on Quirrell's face, the effect immediate.

"AAAARGH!" Quirrell screams in anguish as he rolls off of Harry, his face now blistering and boiling similar to his hands. He's unable to touch Harry's skin! How can that be? There are orbs of dark and light floating through my vision before the ropes suddenly fall slack as if Quirrell can't hold the spell any longer, and I'm dragging in deep, long, and slow breathes, my tears falling rapidly as my throat still constricts with the pain.

I see Harry jump up and clutch onto Quirrell's arm, hanging on tightly with Quirrell screaming bloody murder trying to throw him off, but it's a fruitless endeavour, as Harry's holding on ferociously. On the back of Quirrell's head I can hear Voldemort screaming as well.

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"

"Harry! Harry!" another voice calls, and I turn my gaze weakly to find Dumbledore crashing into the room and rushing over to him quickly. His gaze lands on me for just a moment, but I nod to him and he's off again.

I turn to watch him run to finish off Quirrell and help my friend, but Harry seems to be out cold, and that causes me to cry harder. I can't figure from here if he's just unconscious of dead! I can't tell! I can't tell!

"Calm yourself, Miss Amethyst... Harry is alive," Dumbledore says as he lifts Harry into his arms. I nod and simply roll a little to stare up to the ceiling instead of his lifeless-looking form. "Can you walk?" I nod again and with a little difficulty, stumble up to join Dumbledore. "You did exceptionally well, Miss Amethyst. You did very well indeed."

"I didn't do anything, Sir," I rasp out as we make our way back through the troll room, and into the potions room. "It was Harry. Harry defeated him... he defeated Voldemort again, didn't he Sir?"

Dumbledore merely nods.

"I don't think you quite understand much about how much you gave in there, Y/N, do you?"

"What do you mean, Sir?"

Dumbledore goes into thought for a moment before answering.

"It's something I fear you are not yet supposed to know, something that you aren't even supposed to show. You will find out in due time, my dear, but forgive me for not allowing that time to be now."

"Of course. I understand," I reply tiredly as we continue up and out of the Philosopher's Stone's dungeon.

~~~{...Ӂ...}~~~

I wake from my place in the chair next to Harry's bed where I've been since he was brought in. It's been three day's since he was brought in by Dumbledore, and since then I've only ever left his side for meals, and to sleep during the night. Madam Pomfrey demanded I take care of myself if I so insist on being in here so often.

It's terrible seeing him in here, and I can't deny that it reminds me terrible of my mother during her last weeks, but being away from here makes me feel worse. I feel constantly anxious about it to the point where I've had to stop Mione and Ron bringing him up when they see me as the horrible feeling in my chest comes back and I feel sick.

I told Dumbledore about the feeling, and he told me that it's normal for someone like me, and that the situation will enlighten itself for me one day, but as he's said, now is not the time, and just that has me thinking that perhaps he knows a lot more about my family than even I.

Today, there is light filtering in through the windows gently, and Dumbledore is here again. He comes to visit as often as he can to check up on both Harry and I. I insisted that I was fine after the ordeal, but he and Madam Pomfrey had me accept a sling for my arm, in which, turns out, I had a fracture on my wrist, and bandages around my throat to help with the swelling and to keep the bruising out of sight.