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HRA# CHAPTER 93
🕑 Added 2025-04-09 21:22:03 +0000 UTCTruth be told, even if Lily hadn’t spoken so highly of Snape in front of the kids, it wouldn’t have made much difference.
Ron had reached a point where he found Snape’s daily hostility toward Gryffindor almost routine—normal, even. Stranger still, he felt a twinge of pity for the man.
“Look, I’m not saying Snape’s a saint or anything,” Ron said slowly, scratching the back of his head as he searched for the right words. “It’s just… if someone hounded me for seven years straight at Hogwarts—and not just with Fred-and-George-level pranks—I’d lose it. Imagine being strung up in the corridor with everyone gawking at my boxers. No way I’d handle that.”
He paused, his brow furrowing. “And if I went through what Snape did—losing my best mate from childhood to boot—well, I might hate Gryffindor even more than he does, you know?” His face twisted into a grimace, caught somewhere between sympathy and unease.
This time, even Neville stayed quiet. He just nodded, his round face softening with a look of reluctant understanding.
But Ron’s newfound truce with Snape didn’t last long—barely an afternoon, in fact. That evening, Snape docked him ten points, all because Ron’s gaze lingered too long, brimming with that same pity. By the time night fell, Ron was so furious he could hardly sleep, finally drifting off around three in the morning, still fuming.
In the end, the tangled dramas of the older generation were ancient history to this crop of kids. Learning about those old stories didn’t shake up Ron and his friends’ everyday lives much. It just sharpened their perspective a bit, letting them see certain things in a clearer light.
After all, their friend was Harry Potter—not Harry Snape.
What loomed larger for Ron and the others right now was tomorrow night’s detention with Quirrell. Sure, they didn’t know Voldemort was pulling the strings from behind Quirrell’s twitchy facade, but they’d already pegged him as a Death Eater. The thrill of Gryffindor’s crushing win over Hufflepuff the day before had evaporated, replaced by a gnawing worry for Harry’s safety. They feared he’d walk straight into a trap the moment he stepped into Quirrell’s office—ripe for some dark, unspeakable magic.
To plenty of Death Eaters, Harry was the brat who’d toppled their master eleven years ago, wrecking their ambitions and forcing them into the shadows. That kind of grudge didn’t fade easily.
Ron even floated the idea of Harry dodging detention altogether—maybe faking a broken leg. Or, if push came to shove, actually breaking one.
Neville, earnest as ever, pressed his amulet into Harry’s hands. “It’s from some wizard tribe in Africa,” he said solemnly. “Supposed to be really powerful.”
Hermione, naturally, had a more practical plan. “We should all go to Professor McGonagall,” she insisted, her voice firm. “Lay it all out—expose Quirrell for what he is.”
Harry just sighed, a helpless smile tugging at his lips as he watched his friends scramble to shield him. “You lot don’t need to fret so much,” he said. “If it comes to a fight, I’d sooner tear Hogwarts apart brick by brick than let some Death Eater finish me off.”
That bold promise—delivered with Harry’s usual mix of grit and bravado—finally eased their nerves. Hermione and the others relaxed, trusting he’d come back in one piece.
And, as it turned out, things went more or less as Harry predicted. Quirrell didn’t try anything sinister—no curses, no ambushes. When Harry knocked and stepped inside, Quirrell greeted him with an almost absurd enthusiasm, even offering a guided tour of his cluttered office.
Better yet, after Harry settled into a chair, Quirrell bustled over with a cup of coffee. Rounding it up, that was basically Voldemort serving Harry a drink. Harry didn’t plan to touch it, of course, but the thought alone made him stifle a laugh.
“…Something amusing, Harry?” Quirrell asked, settling across the table with his own steaming mug.
“Just mulling over a few things,” Harry replied, his eyes drifting to the left wall. A familiar painting hung there, right in his line of sight. “Didn’t expect to see that here.”
“Oh, this?” Quirrell followed his gaze. “Is it called Saturn Devouring His Son?”
“You like it?” Harry asked, curious.
“I’ll admit,” Quirrell said, his tone leisurely, “even Muggle artists occasionally stumble into something… provocative. Though it’s a clumsy take on wizarding history, if you ask me.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Wizards have detailed records of Greek myths?”
“Not quite,” Quirrell replied, tilting his head. “Most of what’s written is a mess—contradictory, half-baked. Our clear records only stretch back about a thousand years. Before that, it’s scraps at best.”
“Because wizards back then were too busy trying to survive,” Quirrell continued, his voice taking on a reflective edge. “The Four Founders building Hogwarts? That was a turning point. Gave us a legacy to cling to. No more watching magic spark in kids who couldn’t use it, only to see Muggles string them up in trees. No more young witches and wizards crushing their gifts under swords and torches, turning into Obscurials and burning out too soon.”
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Don’t you find it ironic, Harry?” he murmured. “People who scraped by under Muggle persecution, powerless to save their own kids, finally found some peace by hiding with magic. And now, after all those years, it’s the Muggles who need protecting from us. Absurd, isn’t it?”
Harry studied him, unmoved. “Is that your take, Professor?”
Quirrell shook his head, offering no answer. He slumped back in his chair and shut his eyes. When they opened again, the Quirrell from the classroom—the stammering, nervous one—was back.
“Ah, H-Harry… Potter…” he said with exaggeration, like someone shaking off a deep sleep.
“Let’s cut to it, shall we?” Harry tilted his head. “Voldemort?”
“Heh… heh heh,” Quirrell let out a strange, wheezing laugh. “So clever, so bold. Just like that pair who fell to me eleven years ago—your parents, Lily… James…”
As he spoke, Voldemort rose to his feet. He looked steadier now—less unhinged than the frantic figure Harry had glimpsed in the underground corridor. He paced the room slowly, no hint of aggression in his movements.
“No matter how little you think of them,” Harry shot back, standing to meet him, “my mother beat you. She ended your reign eleven years ago.”
“It wasn’t her!” Voldemort whirled around, fists clenched, his voice rising to a snarl. “It was the prophecy! About me! And you!”
Then, just as suddenly, he laughed—a sharp, jagged sound. “Oh, right. Maybe you don’t even know it exists. Dumbledore didn’t tell you? Snape didn’t spill it?”
“Oh, Harry,” he crooned, glee dripping from his words. “How careless of me. My loyal servant, my dearest general… Severus Snape. Eleven years ago, he came crawling to me—kneeling at my feet, kissing my robes, reciting the whole prophecy. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“Then I ought to thank him,” Harry said coolly, arching a brow. “If he hadn’t, Britain’s wizards might’ve suffered under you for another eleven years.”
Voldemort’s smirk faltered. Harry’s retort hit hard—too hard. That crushing defeat eleven years ago still gnawed at him, a wound he couldn’t shake.
Every time he recalled those years—skulking through Albania’s forests, possessing rats and worse just to dodge his hunters—his loathing for Dumbledore burned hotter. Hiding in shame, clinging to survival… as long as he endured, there’d be a chance.
Dumbledore was old. He’d die eventually.
“…I don’t hate you, Harry,” Voldemort said, forcing a smile through gritted teeth. “You’ve got rare talent. Seeing you is like glimpsing my younger self. No one around you can match you, can they? No one to debate magic’s depths with you as an equal.”
“They all look up to you, trailing in your shadow,” he went on, his voice resonating through the room. “They adore you, but they’ll never stand beside you. I’m different. I’m a genius too—I get you.”
He sighed, a theatrical note of pity in it. “Dumbledore’s poisoned you with lies about the Dark Arts. Snape watches over you, sure—but how much do you really know about him? He’s steeped in the Dark Arts, drawn to their secrets, yet has it ruined him? Look at him.”
“Forgive me for being blunt,” Harry cut in, his patience thinning, “but you’re stuck in the past, Voldemort. Or maybe you died eleven years ago, and this is just an echo clinging to life.”
He’d expected more from this—some grand revelation, maybe. Instead, Voldemort was pitching a recruitment speech. It was almost laughable.
In Voldemort’s world, it seemed, the murder of Harry’s parents was a footnote—nothing next to the allure of the Dark Arts. Harry hadn’t fully bought Dumbledore’s warnings about losing one’s soul to dark magic before. Now? He was starting to.
It wasn’t just humanity Voldemort had shed. It was reason.
“If I joined you,” Harry said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “what would you offer me? And what would you want in return?”
“Just one thing,” Voldemort replied, his eyes gleaming. “Bring me the Philosopher’s Stone from the fourth-floor chamber. In exchange, I’ll give you power—the deepest secrets of magic, even mastery over death!”
“Like you have now?” Harry asked dryly.
“Exactly like me,” Voldemort said, unflinching.
Harry stared at him, dumbfounded. It was like gawking at a fool too far gone to realize it.
“You really think you’re alive?” he said, incredulous. “You’re dead, Voldemort. What’s left is a shredded soul—a piece of what you used to be.”
Even the dimmest wizard wouldn’t butcher their soul like that. Liches at least kept theirs whole, tucked safely in a phylactery. Voldemort’s arrogance was staggering—he’d mangled his essence and still preened like he’d won.
“What did you say?!” Voldemort’s rage erupted, but Harry wasn’t done.
“Your temptations are pathetic,” he pressed, voice flat with disbelief. “When have you ever beaten me? Every time, you slink off in defeat. What makes you think your ‘power’ tempts me?”
Even Kil’jaeden had played a smarter game, masquerading as Ner’zhul’s dead wife to lure him. Voldemort thought he could sway Harry with empty boasts?
“My power’s not fully restored!” Voldemort bellowed. “Give me the Stone, and you’ll see! You’ll know the Dark Lord’s true strength!”
“Maybe,” Harry said with a sudden, weary sigh. “If you make it through tonight.”
Voldemort froze. “What?”
“I’m tired of Dumbledore toying with you,” Harry said, raising a hand. “Putting kids at risk for a lost, broken soul—it’s enough. He’s got his answers.”
“Avada Kedavra!” Voldemort’s instincts kicked in, and the Killing Curse flew without hesitation.
Bang!
The green light slammed into a chair Harry had flicked into place with a wandless spell, reducing it to splinters. Voldemort didn’t stop.
“Bone-breaking Curse!”
“Flesh-severing Curse!”
“Avada Kedavra!”
Each spell flared with sickening purple or black light, a parade of malice. But for Harry, the fight was already won. As Voldemort’s curses rained down, he’d been murmuring ancient Tauren incantations under his breath. A shimmering blue shield flared up, deflecting every blow.
A purple hex splattered against the barrier, oozing into a bubbling puddle that ate a hole in the floor. Then—
Bang!
The office door exploded inward, wooden shards scattering across the room. A voice rang out: “Harry! Are you in there?!”
Professor McGonagall burst through, her face a mask of shock. Behind her, familiar figures darted past the doorway—too quick to catch.
“Good heavens, what in the world—?!” She faltered, taking in the scene. Blue light bathed the room, and Quirrell—Voldemort—was caged in a glowing barrier, hurling curses that reeked of evil. But what stopped her cold weren’t the spells.
It was the shapes hovering beyond the shield—deep blue, translucent figures trailing wisps of smoke. Not the pearly ghosts of Hogwarts, but something else. McGonagall’s mind raced to a rare magic, one tied to a certain student’s unique gift.
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
