aFireFist
A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 15 - Part 4
"Impossible—! What are you?"
Harry didn't understand it, but he didn't let go. He forced Quirrell backward, both of them stumbling and struggling, until they crashed hard into the Mirror of Erised. The gold frame rang like a bell. Quirrell's body convulsed violently. The face on the back of his head was screaming now, a high, inhuman sound that scraped at the ears. Quirrell's hands clawed at Harry's face and throat, trying to push him away, but every fresh point of contact only burned him further. More smoke rose. The smell of burning skin filled the chamber.
Hermione scrambled out from behind the pillar, arm still bleeding, and saw everything—the smoke, the blistering flesh, the way Harry refused to release his grip even as Quirrell thrashed and howled.
"Harry!"
Quirrell's body gave one final, violent spasm. The remains of the turban came fully undone and fell away. For a split second the pale, snake-like face of Voldemort was fully visible, red eyes locked on Harry with pure, undiluted hatred. The lipless mouth opened in a silent scream. Then the body collapsed as if the strings holding it up had been cut. Quirrell hit the stone floor hard and did not move. A thin, dark vapour rose from the back of his head, twisted once in the air, and shot upward, vanishing through the solid stone ceiling with a sound like a long, dying breath.
Silence crashed down over the chamber.
Harry staggered back, breathing in ragged, painful gasps. His hands were shaking hard enough that he nearly dropped his wand. The skin of his palms was completely unmarked—no burns, no blisters, not even redness—but the pain in his scar was still a white-hot spike that made his eyes water and his stomach turn. He looked down at Quirrell's still body, then at Hermione.
She was already moving toward him, face pale, one sleeve scorched black and bloodied where the curse had grazed her. The fabric stuck wetly to her arm.
"Is he—?"
"Gone," Harry managed. His voice sounded strange and distant in his own ears, as if it belonged to someone else. "The face… it left. He's just Quirrell now. Or what's left of him."
Hermione stared at the body for a long second. Quirrell's eyes were open and empty. The back of his head was only ruined, blistered skin. She forced herself to look away before the image could settle too deeply. She stepped in close and gripped Harry's shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to ground them both.
"The Stone," she said quietly. "Do you still have it?"
Harry reached into his pocket with a trembling hand. His fingers closed around the rough, warm weight of the Philosopher's Stone. It felt heavier than something so small should. He pulled it out just far enough for her to see the dull red gleam under the low light, then pushed it straight back out of sight.
"We need to get Ron," he said. The words came out flat. "And get out of here before anything else happens. Before that thing decides to come back."
Hermione nodded. Her arm throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Her body still carried the deep, private ache from the morning on the Quidditch pitch, but it felt distant now—almost like it belonged to a different girl in a different life. What mattered was the three of them walking out of this place alive.
They turned back toward the chess chamber together, leaving Quirrell's still form on the cold stone floor behind them. Neither of them looked back.
They found Ron exactly where they had left him.
He was still sprawled across the black queen's square, one leg bent at an ugly, unnatural angle, face paper-white under the torchlight. A thin trickle of blood had dried at the corner of his mouth and down his chin. For a terrible second Hermione thought he wasn't breathing at all. Then his chest rose in a shallow, uneven pull and the tightness in her own chest loosened just enough to let her breathe again.
Harry dropped to his knees beside him, wand clattering to the marble. "Ron. Ron, wake up. Come on."
Ron's eyelids fluttered. He groaned, low and pained, tried to push himself up, and immediately went even whiter. A raw sound tore out of him. "Bloody—my leg—don't—"
"Don't move it," Hermione said quickly. She had her wand out already, running through every diagnostic charm she knew in rapid succession. The spells painted thin lines of light over Ron's leg and head. "The leg is broken—cleanly, at least. But he took a heavy blow to the head as well. There's a concussion. We have to levitate him. Harry, help me. Carefully."
Together they got Ron floating. The Wingardium Leviosa was awkward and slow with his dead weight; every time the spell wavered even slightly Ron made a low, pained sound that made Hermione's stomach twist. Harry's face was set and grim. They retraced their path as carefully as they could.
Through the potion chamber first. The black flames were still burning in the doorway behind them, low and hungry, but the correct bottles still sat where they had left them. They drank again without speaking—cold, metallic liquid—and the purple fire ahead died once more. Past the scattered chess pieces, stepping carefully over broken stone limbs and toppled pawns. Through the key room, where a few remaining keys still fluttered near the ceiling in lazy, directionless circles. And finally back into the Devil's Snare chamber. The vines stayed clear of the bright light they kept burning ahead of them, recoiling in wet, rubbery knots whenever the sunlight charms came too close.
Climbing out of the trapdoor with an unconscious, broken friend was the hardest part of the entire night.
Harry went first, hauling himself up into Fluffy's chamber on shaking arms. Then the two of them worked Ron upward between them while Hermione kept the levitation charm as steady as she could. Ron's broken leg bumped the edge of the trapdoor once; he made a soft, hurt noise even in unconsciousness. By the time they stumbled fully back into the three-headed dog's chamber, Fluffy was stirring. One massive eyelid cracked open, the dark pupil dilating. Hermione's remaining strength went into a frantic, overpowered Somnus that slammed all three heads back into snoring stillness before the beast could fully wake. The force of the spell left her dizzy.
They staggered into the third-floor corridor like survivors of a shipwreck.
Harry's scar was still burning with every heartbeat. Hermione's arm throbbed where Quirrell's curse had grazed her; the sleeve was stiff with dried blood. Ron floated between them, a dead weight at the end of the spell. The Stone sat heavy in Harry's pocket. None of them spoke. There was nothing useful left to say. The corridor stretched ahead of them, cold and empty and far too long.
They made it as far as the main staircase before the world tilted.
Harry's knees buckled first. He went down hard on one knee, then both, the levitation charm on Ron flickering dangerously. Hermione tried to catch him and nearly went down herself; her injured arm buckled under the extra weight. The last thing she registered was the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs and a familiar, sharp voice cutting through the haze of exhaustion and pain.
"What in Merlin's name—?"
McGonagall.
Then Dumbledore was there as well, blue eyes taking in the entire scene in one rapid, comprehensive glance—Harry half-collapsed on the stairs, Hermione bloodied and shaking, Ron suspended and clearly injured, the faint, lingering scent of dark magic still clinging to their clothes. He did not ask questions. He simply took control.
"Minerva, alert Madam Pomfrey. Instantly. Send for stretchers. Mr Potter, the Stone—if you still have it, give it to me now."
Harry's hand fumbled the rough red stone into Dumbledore's waiting palm. The Headmaster closed his long fingers around it and the object vanished with a soft pop of displaced air. Then strong, careful hands were lifting Harry, and Hermione felt herself steered along the corridors under McGonagall's firm, no-nonsense grip. The world narrowed to the rhythm of her own heartbeat and the persistent, private ache between her legs that had nothing to do with the night's fighting and everything to do with the morning she was still carrying in her body.
Stretchers arrived within minutes. Madam Pomfrey herself came striding down the corridor in a dressing gown with her wand already lit, face set in lines of pure professional fury. She took one look at the three of them and began issuing sharp orders. Ron was lowered onto the first stretcher with extreme care; Harry was half-carried onto the second. Hermione tried to insist she could walk and was ignored. McGonagall's hand stayed on her shoulder the entire way to the hospital wing, steady and silent.
The hospital wing was quiet and bright after the darkness of the chambers. The air smelled of clean linen, antiseptic potions, and the faint sweetness of healing salves. Moonlight came through the high windows in long silver bars that cut across the white beds.
Madam Pomfrey worked with brisk, furious efficiency. She started with Ron because of the obvious break. The diagnostic charms glowed, confirmed the fracture, and she set the leg with a series of precise movements and a charm that made Ron swear colourfully even in half-consciousness.
"Language, Mr Weasley," Pomfrey said automatically, but there was no real heat in it. "You have a clean break and a concussion. You will stay off this leg and you will not argue."
Harry was next. She checked him for curse residue, head trauma, and whatever had happened to his hands. There was nothing visible on the skin—no burns, no marks—but the pain in his scar was treated with a thick cooling paste that made him hiss and then sag with relief. Pomfrey muttered a long, continuous lecture about reckless children, unsupervised night-time adventures, and the exact number of years she had been patching up the same three students.
Hermione's turn was quickest. Pomfrey cleaned the scorched, bloodied sleeve away, examined the long graze on her upper arm, and healed it in under a minute. The skin knitted back together with a sharp, itching heat that left only a faint pink line and a residual tenderness.
"You will stay here the rest of the night," Pomfrey said firmly to all three of them. "No arguments. I will be checking on you every hour."
She finally moved away to write notes at her desk. The ward settled into near silence.
Hermione sat on the edge of an empty bed when the matron's attention left her, staring at her own hands. They were steady. She did not feel steady. The hospital gown Pomfrey had given her was soft and slightly too large; the silver choker sat quietly against her throat underneath the fabric, warm from her skin.
Harry was already drifting, exhaustion finally pulling him under. His face looked younger in sleep, the usual tightness around his eyes smoothed away. Ron was snoring faintly, mouth open, one arm thrown over his eyes, broken leg elevated and splinted. The ward was otherwise empty. The only sounds were the soft tick of a clock and Ron's uneven breathing.
Hermione stayed awake.
The adrenaline was draining out of her in slow waves, leaving everything else behind in its wake. Her body still remembered the morning in precise, physical detail even now—the thick stretch of Roland's cock opening her, the way her full tits had bounced and slapped together when he fucked her in front of that roaring illusion, the wet, shocking force of her own squirt when she finally let go and sprayed for the crowd. The memory sat low in her belly and between her legs, a private heat that had nothing to do with the night's danger. She reached up once and touched the choker through the thin fabric of the gown, feeling the smooth metal, then let her hand fall back to her lap.
They had done it.
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