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chapter twelve: hogwarts is my home.
word count: 9.3k
uh so hi. longest chapter i ever wrote. has 
like one spencer reid quote, see if you can find it. 
enjoy! last chapter for the rest of the month 
bc i've got midterms coming up </3
warnings: mentions of death, fire, bruises.
very, very vague allure to azalea having a flashback
about r4pe. lmk if i missed anything!
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THE PASSAGE REMINDED THEM OF GRINGOTTS. 

Azalea's heart gave a lurch — she could remember reading that dragons guarded the vaults of Gringotts. And if they were to fight a dragon. . .an actual fully-grown dragon. . .Norbert had been bad enough. . .

She shook her head, smoothened her crumpling Bob Marley t-shirt, and walked ahead. The passageway sloped downwards. There was something akin to an entrance ahead of them, one made roughly and with no precision whatsoever, the stone arch completely crooked. Clinking and the occasional rustling of feathers broke through the silence. 

"Is there a ghost?" Azalea tilted her head, stopping just a few centimeters short of the arch. 

"Yes, because ghosts need wings to fly. Because that sounds like wings to me, Lea." 

"It was a wild guess." Azalea rolled her eyes. Castor hadn't allowed her to have too much of coffee, only half a cup. And that made her grumpy. "Wings? So Dumbledore or Snape or whatever retarded brain walked through here left fucking birds down here to peck our faces off?" 

"Why must all your thoughts be so gory, Azzie?" Hermione raised her eyebrows, half concerned half amused. "Besides, there's light coming from in there." 

"Light coming from a random dark place almost always resembles walking to your death." 

"Then let's walk to our death, dammit." Ron stomped ahead, surprising everyone with his burst of courage. Azalea and Hermione followed, Castor in toll. 

Their attention was caught by the fluttering golden mass in the corner of the ceiling, opposite to where they stood. 

"You think they'll attack us if we run across the room?" Ron frowned. 

"I wouldn't blame them for attacking Cas, I'm tempted too." Azzie shrugged. 

"Hey!" 

"But they might, yeah." 

"They don't look too vicious, but if they all swooped down at once. . ." Castor pretended to shudder. 

"Wanna try it out?" Azalea looked at him. 

"3, 2, 1, go!" 

"Hey it's not a race!" 

"'Course it is, Lea." 

They reached the end of the passage, Azalea blaming Castor's taller stature for his win, clutching at her chest, shallow breaths puffing out of her reddening cheeks. 

Nothing. No random, impromptu attacks by flying objects. Ron and Hermione made their way over to them, walking instead of running like maniacs, as they did, gazing at the fluttering golden trinkets in question. 

Hermione clutched the handle of the door. It was too easy, there was no way it would open just like that, would it?

She was right. She tried again, the knob still stubborn. They tugged and they heaved and they tried charms, but nothing worked. 

Azalea gave up. She was quite good at that, she noticed. Exasperated, she let her gaze wander around the room. 

There is no mystery that has no solution. Mr. Godfrey, the music teacher at her school back in Surrey, had coined it more or less as his tagline. Everytime she got a puzzle wrong, when she was stuck on a math problem and he was looking after her at the Dursleys request, that's what he reminded her. 

Every mystery has a solution. That has to apply in the magical world, too, right? Of course it does. 

She let out a sigh. Maybe Mr. Godfrey's philosophy couldn't be used everywhere—

She spotted a broom. 

A bloody broom, of course! Brooms are used to fly, aren't they? It's not as if Filch comes down here everyday and sweeps the bloody floor. 

But what good is a flying broom in a closed room? 

"The birds! They can't be here just for decoration." Hermione placed her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing as she looked, really looked at the golden 'birds'. The all familiar twinkle in her eye returned, "Of course! They aren't birds, they're keys — flying keys." 

"Okay, fair enough, there's a key up there that leads us out of this room. But there's at least a thousand keys up there, we're going to be looking for a needle in a haystack." Castor leaned against the door, head down such that his chin touched his chest as he thought harder.

"A needle in a stack of needles, actually." Azalea raised a finger. "A needle in a haystack would stick out." 

Her friends raised their eyebrows at her, making her retract her hand and nod, "Yeah, needle. There's a broom right there, by the way, so we're on the right track." 

"We're looking for a big old fashioned one. Probably one that looks like the lock." Ron noticed, hands tracing the corroding metal. 

Azalea squinted, trying to focus on the keys. There were golden keys, brass keys, some silver too. And there, lo and behold, with a broken wing flew the one they needed. 

Clearly Snape hadn't been very kind to that key. 

"I see it." Azalea nodded to herself, gripping the broom in her hands. 

"What's wrong?" the Granger asked, following her gaze to the broom.

"It's too simple." Azalea frowned, shaking her head. Every mystery has a solution, true, but never one so easy. 

"Oh, go on, Azzie!" Ron exclaimed. "If Snape can catch it on that old broomstick, you can!"

"Yeah, you're the youngest Seeker of our century, Lea, you've got this." Castor shrugged.

Azalea licked her lips, then nodded, "If I die, I want Michael Jackson playing on my funeral, okay?" 

"Annie are you okay?" 

"No." she mounted the broom, then took off. 

Bad idea! The keys attacked her at once, as if bloodthirsty hounds pouncing on their prey after starving for days on end. 

"Well, this complicates things a bit." she could almost imagine Ronald grimacing as he said that. She used one hand to stay atop the broom, the other trying (and failing miserably) to keep the keys from skinning her alive. 

She flew after the key with the broken wing, the others following after her. She grabbed and snatched, but the bewitched keys darted and dived so quickly, it was almost impossible to catch one.

But as Castor said, Azalea was the youngest Seeker of their century. She had a knack for spotting things when others didn't. After weaving for about three minutes and flying away from the deathly keys, she finally, finally spotted the one she needed. 

Quick as a cat, she darted after the golden key. It was slower than others owing to its broken wind, purple plague starting to gather on it. She remembered her chemistry lessons, and knew that gold was one of the least reactive metals. This key must've been here in a pretty bad shape, and for a pretty long time, for it to start decomposing. 

She curled her hand around its body, the texture uneven under her nimble fingers. Without looking, she threw the key to one of her friends, and as soon as the door was unlocked, flew in and darted to the ground. 

"Finally! I can touch the ground!" 

Castor dusted his hands on his plaid pyjamas — he'd been the one to catch the key. He groaned as he pushed himself off the ground, "I was looking forward to your funeral, Lea." 

She kept the broom in the corner, careful with her actions, before narrowing her eyes at him and punching his shoulder. He winced and rubbed his shoulder, "You've got a strong arm, Princess." 

"Azzie, Cas." Hermione walked ahead into the room. The torches, perhaps sensing their presence, flickered on. Soon enough, the room made sense. 

It was a giant chessboard. 

On their side were the black pieces, the opposing side held the white ones. The room was cold, biting into their skin, the dim light daunting. Hermione shivered, running her hand across one of the pillars. 

Castor walked onto the board, "Now, what do we do?" 

"We eat the chess pieces — Merlin, Cas, we play!" Ron held a strange excitement in his sky colored eyes. "We've got to play our way across the room, obviously." 

"But . . ."

Ron held his hand out towards the knight, hesitating only for a moment before gently running his hand across the knight's mane. It sprung to life. 

"We have to be the chess pieces." Ron watched the horse paw at the ground, the knight sitting straighter — majestic in his manner, somehow. "Do we have to . . . join you to get across?" 

Almost robotically, the knight nodded. It's as if it was alive and dead at the same time. 

"Alright, none of you are any good at chess — no offence, of course." Ron rubbed his hands together, the gears turning in his head quicker than ever. This was his strength — Chess was his. "So Castor, you take place of that Bishop, Hermione you next him instead of the Castle, and Azzie . . . you're the only one who knows anything about playing, so I'm going to trust you. . ." he trailed off, looking around. "Azzie, you take place of the Queen."

"What about you?"

"I'm going to be a knight." Ron beamed.

The chessmen seemed to be listening in, because as soon as Ron gave those instructions, a Castle, the Queen, a Knight and a Bishop turned their backs and walked out of the chess board, leaving four vacant spaces for Azalea, Ron, Castor and Hermione.

"White always plays first in chess," Ron remarked. "Yes, look. . . "

A white pawn had moved forward two squares.

Ron started directing the black pieces, and they were silent with their movements, agreeing to whatever Ron said. 

Azalea's heart gave that same lurch again. Ron was good at chess — great, even — but there was a reason why they were replacing the chess pieces, wasn't there? What if one of them was to get hurt? 

The school was important, yes. But was it as important as them? As their safety? Of course it wasn't!

"Castor, move diagonally four squares to the right."

Their first real shock was when the other black Knight was taken. They watched as the white Queen smashed the Knight with her chair before dragging it off the board.

"Had to let that one go. . ." Ron spoke, usually cheerful voice now trembling. "Leaves you free to take that Bishop, Hermione, go on."

Every time one of their chessmen were lost, the white pieces showed no mercy. Soon, there was a huddle of limp black pieces on the edge of the chess board.

Ron was observant and patient, at least in chess. Twice, he had managed to notice just in time that Azalea and Castor were in danger. He himself darted around the board, taking just as many white pieces as they had the black ones.

"We're nearly there," the Weasley muttered suddenly. "We're nearly there— let me think..."

The white Queen's face was blank, her gaze unnerving as it landed on Ron. He thought for another moment, then nodded to himself. 

"Yes. . . " Ron said softly. "Yes, it's the only way— I've got to be taken."

"NO!" 

"That's chess!" the Weasley snapped. Azalea jumped slightly, having never heard Ron lose his temper. "You've got to make sacrifices! I take one step forward and she'll take me— that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Azzie!"

Ron sounded so carefree in his pursuit of winning the game. It's as if he was just another one of the pieces, just another knight the queen could break with her throne. 

Azalea felt a pit growing in her stomach, again. That was never good. 

"But—"

"Do you want to stop Snape or not?"

"Ron—"

"Look, if you don't hurry up, he'll already have the stone!"

"There isn't any alternative, is there?" Azalea asked. Ron shook his head, a small smile gracing his face. In that moment, he was braver than all three of them combined.

Azalea jutted her lower lip out before nodding with Castor and Hermione.

"Ready?" Ron called, his face pale, yet determined. "Here I go now— don't hang around once I'm done."

Ron walked forward, and the white Queen immediately pounced on the Weasley. She wasted no time in striking him across the head with her chair — Hermione screamed but stayed in her square — and he immediately fell down. She dragged his limp body out of the board. He was unconscious, no doubt. 

"That was terrifying." Azalea glanced at her feet, hugging herself. She shivered as she recalled the Queen's swing. Closing her eyes, she gulped, then moved three steps left diagonally, head high. 

"Checkmate."

The white King took off his crown and kept it at her feet before bowing in front of them with the other white chessmen. They left through the door, and Azalea, Castor and Hermione wasted no time in darting towards Ron.

They kneeled down beside his limp body. His body was warm enough to say he was alive, and his chest was rising and falling, indicating he was breathing.

"He'll be alright, right?" Castor asked no one in particular. The girls nodded. Together, they lugged Ron's body to the wall, helping him in a position where he was sitting up.

Castor shuddered as he noticed Ron's injuries. Nothing too serious — he'd had worse while sparring. But then again, this was Ron, and Ron never got hurt, no matter how clumsy he was. 

"He'll be alright," Castor affirmed, squeezing Hermione and Azalea's shoulder, "We've to go. We'll make sure he's alright, hmm?"

Another fleeting glance — they were halfway across the room. One more glance — they were at the door, this time left unlocked. A final glance — they were out of the room, the door open behind them, and he was still unconscious. 

There was a troll in the room, passed out on the floor. It was slightly larger than the one they had encountered — at least they estimated it to be. There was no way of knowing — for all they knew it was the same one. 

They climbed over its body, noses covered to shield themselves from the smell, turning the knob and walking into another dark room. 

"So." Azalea clapped her hands, back to being herself. She knew someone would get hurt, and even though Ron took responsibility for what happened, she herself felt responsible. She shook her head. "What do you think is next?" 

"Well, we had Sprout's — the Devil's Snare." Hermione rubbed her hands. Why did all the rooms have to be so cold? 

"And Flitwick must've charmed the keys." Castor's hands were in his pockets, nodding as he recalled. 

"And chess had to be Minnie — she transfigured them to become alive. And that troll was probably Quirrell." 

"So that leaves us with Snape." Hermione walked ahead, the torches sensing her presence. 

"And Dumbledore."

The flames illuminated the room, a dread filling the three though there was nothing scary about it. There was a long table in the middle, with seven bottles, all differently shaped. It was—

"Snape's," Azalea and Castor muttered before the latter continued. "What do we have to do?"

They walked into the room, and almost immediately a fire lit up behind them in the doorway. It wasn't an ordinary fire, either, it was purple in color. At the same time, black fires shot up in the doorway in front of them.

They were trapped. How very welcoming.

"Look!" Hermione grasped a roll of paper sitting at the end of the paper. She opened it, and began reading it.

"Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,

One among us seven will let you move ahead,

Another will transport the drinker back instead,

Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.

Choose, unless you wish to stay here for evermore,

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;
Second, different are those who stand at either end,

But if you would move onwards neither is your friend;

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight."

It was a surprise when Hermione smiled. 

Castor raised his eyebrows. Maybe the fumes were getting to her, "What is it, 'Mione?" 

"This isn't magic— it's logic, a puzzle," Hermione grinned. 

"Yay, puzzle!" Azalea took the scroll from Hermione as she continued explaining:

"A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'll be stuck in here forever."

"Like His Highness here?" Azalea looked at Castor, a small smirk on her pale lips. Hermione sighed and shook her head, a small smile on her face.

"Hey!" Castor exclaimed in offence. "I've got logic."

"Then help us solve this puzzle," Azalea muttered, already discussing the puzzle.

"Us?" he repeated, walking over to the girls, peering at their work from over Azalea's shoulder.

"Believe it or not, I did go to school," she murmured. "I was in a grade above my level actually, — "

"This is the potion." Hermione ran her finger on the rim of the smallest of the bottles. 

"This is the potion which will get you through the black fire, to the stone. That one will get you through the purple fire, back to Ron." 

Azalea let her words hang in the air. 

Each bottle had barely had two sips each. Two of them could go back and get Ron to Dumbledore, while one could get to the Stone, to Snape. 

"Here, one swallow for you, the rest for 'Mione." she handed the bottle on the far end to Castor. "You both will go back, get Ron to Madam Pomfrey, then send Hedwig to Dumbledore — I can't hold Snape off forever, I'm just a girl." 

"Yeah, no." Castor scoffed. "You're not going in there alone, Lea." 

"And why is that?" she folded her arms in defiance. "I will go in there alone, and you will get Ron to safety. And 'Mione will send a letter for Dumbledore, and everything will be okay." 

"Azzie—"

"I'm begging you." she darted her gaze between Castor and Hermione. "Please go back. We can't waste time, you know that better than I do." 

Hermione bit her lip, gazing at the purple fire. Castor only looked down at the potion in his hands. 

Suddenly, Azalea was engulfed in a hug, Hermione's wild curls obstructing majority of her vision, "What if. . . if You-Know-Who's there?" 

"Voldemort couldn't kill me when I was a baby, you think he can catch me now?" Azalea's voice was muffled. "I will be okay. I promise." 

"You're a great witch, you know that." Hermione pulled back, hands on Azalea's shoulders. 

"Not as great as you." Azalea shook her head. 

"Me!" Hermione exclaimed in disbelief. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things — like friendship, and bravery. Be careful, Azzie. You still owe me those chocolates you stole while I was away." 

"Yes ma'am." Azalea mocked a salute, and with that, Hermione took the potion from Castor and drank a sip, handing the bottle back to him to do the same. 

"Good luck, Azzie. I believe in you." 

Hermione walked through the fire, Azalea frozen in spot for a second. Then, she looked at Castor who still hadn't had his share. 

"You've got no respect for the concept of time, do you?" 

"Time is a construct, Princess." 

"Please?" Azalea tilted her head. "Why don't we drink our respective potions together?" 

"You're going to be okay." 

"I'm going to be okay." 

"And Dumbledore's gonna make it in time?" 

"And Dumbledore will make it in time." 

Castor tilted his bottle and drank the potion before he could change his mind. His face scrunched up in disgust. 

"What, it's not poison, is it?" Azalea panicked, wondering if she'd just killed her friend. 

Castor shook his head, the amused smirk making an appearance. "But it is cold as ice." 

Azalea frowned and drank her potion, grimacing as the ice cold liquid passed down her throat. 

"Yeah, you're right. Hurry, okay?" 

"Yeah, I will." Castor was already at the edge of the flames. "Be careful, Lea." 

The flames swallowed Castor. And so, with a determination on her face she wished she could actually feel, she walked through the black fire, eyes squeezed shut. 

All she felt was a breeze. 

She opened her eyes. Someone was already in the room, waiting for her. 

It wasn't Voldemort. It wasn't Snape, either. 

It was Quirrell. 

.  .  . 

STUTTERING QUIRRELL. 

Azalea frowned, "You!" 

Quirrell didn't stutter. He didn't whimper or show fear, as he usually does. He smiled with the utmost calm on his face, "Me. I was wondering when I'd meet you here, Potter." 

"B—But I thought Snape—"

"Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he?" Quirrell laughed. Laughed. "So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat—"

"Well, you've got something right—"

"—and next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor s-s-stuttering P-P-Professor Quirrell?"

Azalea shook her head. This couldn't be real, could it? No, it couldn't. 

But it was real. As real as the cold floor beneath her, or the fire behind her, or the fear within her. It was real. 

"Snape tried to kill me, didn't he?" she doubted herself, everything she'd led this. . . investigation on. 

"No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match," he said. "She broke my eye contact with you, Potter. Another few seconds 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."

"Snape was trying to save me?" Azalea tried to digest the new information. Her brain denied her attempts. 

"Of course," said Quirrell coolly. "Now, after all his attempts to stop me, I can finally kill you both."

"Both? Are you blind, there's just me here." 

"That Walker, I could never find him alone." Quirrell shook his head, glancing down at his hands. "Always with you, Potter. Or with that little rat, Weasley. I could've never found a way to kill him with you beside him." 

Azalea's blood ran cold, "He still has Ron and Hermione with him, though. And teachers. He's going to be fine." 

"Not for long. After I'm done with you," he raised his hands and ropes appeared, tightening around her limbs as they tied her to the wall. Her mind went haywire, struggling against the biting jute. Her breathing got heavier. "I will march into the school and torture him, right in front of Dumbledore." 

"You're too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone." Quirrell continued, enjoying her panic attack. "Never thought I'd see you like this, like a squirming little fish." 

Azalea breathed through her mouth. Quirrell would get no pleasure out of torturing her like. . .that. He wouldn't do that, would he? No, all he would do was kill her. That's all. And that's fine. 

"You — you let the troll in?" 

"Ah, she's back. Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls — you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there?" Quirrell answered. "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."

Azalea wanted to slap herself. She'd looked at it all from a wrong perspective. But then again, Snape had always acted like the bad guy — from scaring Neville to death to demeaning her every chance he got. 

She struggled to get the bonds off of her. Fingers tugging at the ropes around her wrists, but the more she tried, the more they tightened, up to the point where they started cutting her skin. 

"Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror." Quirrell spoke, looking at the mirror in the corner of the room. 

Azzie recognized it immediately. 

The Mirror of Erised. The one Castor had convinced her never to touch, never to go back to. The mirror that vanished once she finally gave into her temptations. 

This mirror was the key to solving the puzzle, the final piece that you just can't figure out how or where to use. She racked her brain for a solution, a possible way for her to know what Dumbledore thought when he placed the mirror there. 

"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured. "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. . . "

As petty as Azalea was, she wasn't going to give away the fact that Dumbledore could be here any minute. At least she hoped he would. 

"I saw you and Snape in the library—" Azalea blurted.

"Yes," said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to look at the back. "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 had Lord Voldemort on my side. . . "

He stopped in front of the mirror, staring at it hungrily, as if a lion would to its prey.

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

Azalea tried harder to get out of the ropes, but it didn't work. Instead, the ropes around her throat started to tighten to the point breathing was a difficult task. 

Lord Voldemort at his side. 

"But Snape always seemed to hate us so much," Azzie spoke, trying to prolong his task. Quirrell nodded nonchalantly. 

"Oh, he does," he said casually, "Heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn't you know?"

"Not exactly, I have pigs for a family who don't really tell me anything." 

"They loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead."

"But Cas and Ron heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought Snape was threatening you. . . " Azalea muttered.

It was true. Castor and Ron had been passing Quirrell's classroom a few days before the exams, and they heard him sobbing. They hid behind a wall, not wanting to be caught— they were wandering around after curfew. A few minutes later, they saw him come out with his face red, and he was hurriedly tying up his turban.

For the first time during their entire chat, a fear flickered on Quirrell's face. 

"Sometimes," he said meekly, fearfully, "I find it hard to follow my master's instructions — he is a great wizard and I am weak —"

"You mean he was in the classroom with you?"

"He is with me wherever I go," said Quirrell quietly. "I met him when I traveled 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. . ." 

Quirrell shivered suddenly. "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. . ."

"Well thanks for the story I never asked for." 

Azalea was unheard. 

"I don't understand," he shook his head. "Is the stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"

Azalea's mind was racing.

What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, she thought, 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 realizing what I'm up to?

"What does this mirror do? How does it work?" Quirrell moaned to himself. "Help me, Master!"

To Azalea's horror and shock, a thin voice answered; and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell himself.

"Use the girl. . . use the girl. . ."

"Yes — Potter — come here."

Quirrell clapped once, and the ropes that were around Azalea fell off. She tripped, making her fall down and scratch her knees. She cursed under her breath, rubbing her wrists as she walked over to him. She tried to ignore the blood on her hands passing from her wrists. 

I have to lie, she thought desperately, I have got to lie.

"Come here," Quirrell repeated, a desperation on his face Azalea could recognize. The need to prove himself worthy. She could pity him, but then she'd have to pity herself. "Look into the mirror and tell me what you see."

She tried to ignore the funny smell coming from Quirrell's turban as he stood close to her. It was uncomfortable, but she tried and she succeeded. She closed her eyes, the opened them a few seconds later, resisting the urge to show her shock at the reflection.

She saw her reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at her. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket — and as it did so, Azalea felt something heavy drop into her real pocket. Somehow — incredibly— she'd gotten the Stone.

"Well?" Quirrell questioned impatiently. "What do you see?" 

"I— I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," she invented a lie, praying that it was convincing enough. "I— I've won the house cup for Gryffindor."

It was enough to convince Quirrell. He cursed again and pushed Azalea out of the way before standing in front of the mirror. As Azalea hurried back to the steps and to the fire, back to escape, she felt the Stone against her thigh. 

Just as she stepped on the first step up, the voice spoke again. 

"She lies. . .she lies!"

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell bellowed. Azalea hid her shock and continued up the stairs, a foolish hope that Quirrell would be too stupid to hurt her now providing her the confidence and comfort to do so. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

The voice spoke again.

"Let me talk to her face-to-face."

"Master, you aren't strong enough!"

"I have enough strength. . . for this. . . " 

The hope vanished as soon as she felt herself glued to the floor. She didn't bother cursing quietly this time. 

Quirrell unwrapped his turban.

Without the cloth covering his head, Quirrell's head looked strange and small. She didn't have time to ponder on that, though, because as soon as Quirrell unwrapped his turban, he turned around, showing her the most terrible face they had ever seen. And she had Dudley and his friends.

The face was chalk white with glaring red eyes. Instead of nostrils, it had slits — like a snake. The face somehow looked familiar to her. The sort of familiarity you could never point a finger to, because it existed in the back of your head for evermore, no captions, no extra information as to why you remember this specific line, specific event, specific person. 

"Azalea Potter. . ." it hissed. 

She tried to take a step back, but her feet couldn't move, as if she was rooted there by the Devil's Snare.

"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor. . .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," it paused. "Now. . . why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket, Potter?"

So he knew, Azalea thought. The feeling suddenly surged back in her legs and she stumbled back. Inertia was a bitch. 

She tried to hurry back up the steps, putting the pieces together — this was Voldemort, of course it was. 

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

"LIAR!" she shouted, watching Quirrell walk backwards toward her so Voldemort could talk to them. The evil face was now smiling, eyeing their joint hands.

"How touching," he muttered before looking back up at them. "I always value bravery. Yes, girl, your parents were brave. . .I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight. . .but your mother needn't have died. . . she was trying to protect you. Now, give me the stone, unless you want them to have died in vain."

"Never!"

Azalea dashed towards the flaming door, right as Voldemort yelled "SEIZE HER!"

The next second, she could feel Quirrell's hands around their wrists, yanking them back. At once she could feel a sharp pain searing across her scar. 

"Ah, motherf—" she resisted the urge to cry as the same pain she felt that morning returned, united with the pain in her wrists, her knees, her throat. 

She wanted to give up, to let it be. Dumbledore would find her, right? And he'd find the stone, too — he had the order of Merlin (whatever that was) for a reason, didn't he? 

But then she felt Quirrell's grip on her wrists loosening. And then she heard a thud and she turned around, watching as Quirrell's right hand disintegrated. 

"Master? Master!" he howled in pain. "My hand —"

"Kill her, you fool!" Voldemort yelled as Azalea was pinned down by Quirrell's knees. "Kill her and be done!" 

Quirrell whimpered in pain and reached for her throat, attempting to strangle her to death. 

Hermione was right, there were many dumb wizards. 

As if just realising it himself, he raised his hand, attempting to perform a deadly curse. Azalea, however, reached for his throat, watching as his skin sizzled red, burning angrily wherever her hands touched. 

Quirrell rolled off of her as his face and neck burnt and blistered. Azalea knew that he couldn't touch her with his bare hands, not without suffering from terrible pain. She knew that she could keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing the curse.

She jumped up and held onto each one of his arms, hanging on as tight as a malnourished thirteen year old girl could. Quirrell tried to throw her off, but for now, she had the upper hand. The pain in her scar burnt — she couldn't see anything — she could only hear Quirrell's cries of pain and Voldemort's shouts of, "KILL THEM! KILL THEM!"

Suddenly, she felt Quirrell's hands being wrenched out of her grasp.

She succumbed to the darkness, the overwhelming urge to sleep. And she slept, slept and slept, away in a world with no pain. 

. . . 

SHE COULD SEE A SNAKE. 

A snake, and a fire. But everything was a haze. As if it was a time where she didn't exist, a timeline she was intruding upon. 

She walked through the ruins, looking anywhere but at the dead bodies at her feet. Though a blazing flame engulfed everything around her, she shivered. She looked down at her hands — they were no longer bruised. 

She was in a theatre of sorts. Something like the Colosseum, only battered and torn down by . . . battle? War? She didn't know. 

A sudden bang startled her. 

She looked up, and at the topmost steps, — only three steps above her — were a man and a woman, dueling. 

The man seemed fine, clean and full of energy. The woman seemed battered and bruised, as if she was the sole survivor of the fire that wanted to consume all of them. 

Maybe she was. 

"It's over, Gina!" 

"Don't call me that. Don't you dare call me that." it was as if the fire burning around had started burning within her, a new rage, new energy in the lady's body with the new curse she aimed and he barely dodged. 

"Oh but that's your name, isn't it! Or is Madame Minister too sophisticated for her family, now?" 

"You are not family." 'Gina' advanced towards him, having used a spell of sorts to root him to the ground. It wasn't going to last for long, not with how his fingers could curl already. "You've slaughtered innocents in name of the greater good. You will never be family to me, ever again." 

He grinned a nasty grin, "Then kill me, why don't you? I'll tell you why — you've got no courage. You still think of me as your brother, of us as family. You won't kill me, not without killing your conscience." 

She stilled. A deadly look in her eyes, she placed her hands on his face — above his forehead and below his chin. His hand could move already. Before he could mutter a curse, she snapped his neck — efficiency of someone who's done this before, multiple times. 

The snake hissed. It curled itself around her arm, nudging his head against her cheek as if to console her. 

She felt remorse, Azalea was sure she did. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. 

And then, the woman looked back. She looked at Azalea with remorse, with fear. 

"He can never become the person I have become, do you understand? This can never repeat, history cannot repeat itself, do you understand?" the woman was desperate, she was angry, she was grieving. Azalea's eyes widened but she nodded frantically, as if hypnotised. "History can not repeat itself, and that is in your hands, Azalea Potter."

.  .  .

AZALEA WOKE UP WITH A START. 

She gasped for air, cough racking her lungs as she sat up. Someone handed her a glass of water and helped her sit up — it was Madam Pomfrey. Azalea gulped the cool water down greedily.

She looked around her, thanking Madam Pomfrey. Her voice was hoarse. 

She felt around her feet and her wrists for bruises. They were still there, slowly but surely disappearing. The one around her neck didn't sting anymore. 

She took three deep breaths, then looked around, this time less panicked. And then, she noticed Albus Dumbledore, standing by the edge of her bed. 

"Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's got the Stone! Sir—"

"Calm yourself, dear girl, you are a little behind times," Dumbledore chuckled fondly. "Quirrell does not have the Stone."

"Then who does? And Hermione, and Ron, and Castor—"

"Azalea, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out."

Pouting, she folded her arms across her chest as she sat up. What caught her eye was the table next to her, overflowing with candy, chocolates, and cards. 

"What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat," he chuckled when he saw Azalea perk up at the mention of the Weasley twins' souvenir. "No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it."

"But that would've been funny," Azalea folded her arms, frowning. Dumbledore let out a short laugh, seeing her father in her.

"How long have I been here, though?" she continued in a more serious voice.

"Three days," Dumbledore replied. "Your friends— Mister Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger and of course, His Highness will be most relieved you have come about. As for your friends in Slytherin, they were ready to go for war if Quirrell were still alive."

Azalea grinned. Picking at her nail beds, she came back to the topic gnawing at her brain, "But sir, the Stone—"

"I see you are not one to get distracted, Miss Potter," Dumbledore remarked. Sighing, he provided an explanation. "Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although you were doing very well on your own, I must say."

"You got there? You got Hermione's owl?"

"We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I reached London than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you."

"It was you."

"I feared I might be too late." 

"Well, thank Merlin you weren't. I couldn't have kept the Stone off him for any longer—"

"Not the stone, dear girl." Dumbledore shook his head. For the first time, she saw his face contort into one of fear, even if it was for mere seconds. "The effort involved nearly killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed."

"Destroyed?" Azalea repeated blankly. "But your friend — Nicolas Flamel —"

"Oh, you know about Nicolas?" said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted. "You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat, and agreed it's all for the best."

"But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?" 

"They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes, they will die."

Dumbledore smiled at the gleam of amazement in Azalea's eyes.

"To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure," he said. "You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them."

It was silent for a moment as Azalea digested this piece of knowledge. Dumbledore hummed, staring at the ceiling.

"Sir?" called the little girl. "I've been thinking. . .sir — even if the Stone's gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who —"

"Call him Voldemort, Azalea. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

"Yes, sir." she nodded with a sigh. "Well, Voldemort's going to try and find other way of coming back won't he? I mean, he isn't dead, right?"

"No, Azalea, he is not. He is still out there, somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share. . .not being truly alive, he can not be killed. He left Quirrell to die, he shows just as little mercy to his followers as to his enemies," Dumbledore paused. "Nevertheless, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time— and if he is delayed again. . . and again— why, he may never return to power."

Azalea nodded then stopped as if only made her head hurt.

"Sir. . ." Castor began. "There are a few thing I'd like to know, if you can tell me. . .the things I want to know the truth about."

"The truth," Dumbledore sighed out. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall, of course not, lie."

"Well. . .Voldemort said he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me," Castor began. "But why would he want to kill me in the first place? Why would he want to kill Cas?"

Dumbledore sighed heavily.

"Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot answer. Not now, not today. But you will know, one day. . .put it from your mind for now, Azalea. When you are older— I know you hate hearing this— but when you are ready, you will know."

She knew it was no good to argue.

"But why couldn't Quirrell touch me?" Azalea questioned.

"Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort doesn't understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mothers' for you leaves its own mark," Dumbledore said, chuckling softly when she grazed her fingers over her scar. "Not a scar, no visible sign . . .to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection. . .forever. Quirrell— full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so pure."

Dumbledore looked deeply interested in the birds outside the window, which gave Azalea time to blink their tears away.

Once the Potter finally found her voice back, she asked: "And the Invisibility Cloak— do you know who sent it to me?"

"Ah, your father happened to leave it in my possession—I thought you would like it," Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Useful things. . .your father mainly used it for sneaking off to the kitchens to steal food when he was here."

"And there's something else. . ." she continued.

"Fire away."

"Quirrell said Snape —"

"Professor Snape, Azalea."

"Yeah, sure whatever — he said Professor Snape hates me because he hated my father. Is that true?"

"Well they did rather detest each other — not unlike you and Mister Terrence. And then, your father, Azalea, did something Snape could never forgive."

"What?"

"He saved his life."

"What?"

"Yes . . ." Dumbledore trailed off. "Funny the way people's minds work, isn't it? Professor Snape couldn't bear being in your father's debt. . .I believe he worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt that it would him and your father even. Then he could go back to hating your father's memory in peace."

Azalea tried to comprehend this, but all it did was make her head pound.

"And sir there's one more thing. . ."

"Just the one?"

"For now, yes. How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?"

"Ah, now, I'm glad you asked that," Dumbledore smiled. "It was one of my brilliant ideas, and between us two, that's saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone— find it, but not use it — would be able to get it. Otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking the Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes. . ."

A few moments of silence passed before Dumbledore spoke up again.

"Now! Enough questions— I suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit flavour once, and since then, I'm afraid I've lost my liking for them — but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?"

Azalea nodded while Dumbledore picked a golden-brown bean and popped it in his mouth. He then choked on it and said, "Alas! Earwax."

With that, he strolled out of the Hospital Wing, humming a song under his breath. 

.  .  .

AZALEA WAS DISCHARGED THAT EVENING. 

It was just after the classes for that day — paper viewing, anyway — were dismissed. As soon as she started climbing the staircase leading to the Great Hall, Ron and Hermione and Castor were on the top of the staircase, grinning at the sight of her standing — alive and well. 

"Alright, Azzie?" 

"Trying to be. You, Ron?" 

"Yeah. C'mon, we've got a feast tonight!" 

Ron trailed ahead, Hermione and Castor following, though the latter stopped when he noticed Azalea hesitating behind. 

"What is it, Lea?" 

"I—I'm not hungry. I think I'll just go to bed." 

"Not hungry?" Castor laughed. All she'd had was food Pomfrey allowed her to have, while in the hospital wing. How could she not be starving? "C'mon, you're a horrible liar."

She gnawed at her lower lip, then sighed, reached for her neck below the collar of her shirt, "I can't wear my tie, because of this and so I. . . I can't hide this bruise of mine." 

Castor tilted his head. She wouldn't even look at him, choosing to pick at her nail beds. He held her hands when she did so, with a gentle, "Don't do that, Princess." 

He then remembered the sweater he'd been lugging around all day — he felt cold that morning, but then the sun came back out and he felt warm. He unzipped his bag and helped her wear the sweater — the turtleneck covered her bruises. 

"Thanks, Cas." 

"Anytime. Now come one, I'm so hungry I could eat a tree." 

"I think the saying is 'I could eat a horse'." she giggled. 

"But I would never eat a horse. I'm not cruel to animals, Princess." 

"That's pretty much why it's called a hyperbole. And I'm proud of you, for that." 

. . . 

AZALEA LOOKED DOWN AT HER MARKSHEET — SHE HAD DONE PRETTY WELL IN ALL HER EXAMS, ESPECIALLY IN TRANSFIGURATION AND POTIONS, TO HER SURPRISE.

The quartet were now sitting in the Great Hall, which was filled by students chattering and eating. Green and silver flags fluttered above their heads, already indicating the winning house of the year.

A sudden 'clink' broke their chatter. Everyone turned their heads towards the High Table, where McGonagall held a glass in her hand.

"Your attention, please." she spoke. At once there was a hush in the Great Hall, everyone eager to hear what the announcement was.

Dumbledore stood up and spoke, his voice somehow magically magnified.

"Another year, gone! And now, as I understand it, the house cup needs awarded and the points stand thus. In fourth place: Gryffindor, with 312 points!" there was a small applause from the crowd. "In third place: Hufflepuff, with 352 points!" the applause was slightly louder this time. "Second: Ravenclaw, with 426 points!" there was another applause with slight cheer from some students. "And in first place, with 472 points: Slytherin house!"

Chaos.

A loud roar broke out from the Slytherin table as the students stood up and clapped for themselves. Hermione scowled while leaning her head on her palm, which made Azalea laugh.

"Yes, well done Slytherin, well done Slytherin. However, recent events must be taken into account and I have a few last minute points to award," Dumbledore announced, and a few heads at the Gryffindor table rose hopefully. "To Miss Hermione Granger, for the cool use of intellect while others were in grave peril: fifty points!"

Hermione widened her eyes in surprise whilst the people around her smiled and applauded her.

"Good job, 'Mione." Azalea grinned. Hermione smiled back before glancing at the High Table, where Hagrid and McGonagall were smiling.

"Second, to Mr. Ronald Weasley, for the best played game of chess that Hogwarts has seen these many years: fifty points!"

Ron's face flushed red. He looked even more surprised than Hermione when the students around him cheered. He grinned when Castor gave him a pat on the back.

"Third, to Miss Azalea Potter, 50 points for pure love and outstanding courage!"

Azalea's jaw went slack and her eyes widened in surprise. She blushed when the students around her applauded and cheered.

"We're tied with Slytherin!" Hermione whispered across the table. A lot more looked hopeful considering Dumbledore hadn't stopped talking.

"Fourth, to Mister Castor Walker, for his loyalty towards his friends, 50 points to Gryffindor!"

Dumbledore held a hand up, and everyone held their excitement in.

"Lastly, it takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends. I award ten points to Neville Longbottom! Assuming that my calculations are correct, I believe that a change of decoration is in order!"

As Dumbledore clapped his hands, the green and silver banners turned to red and gold ones.

"Gryffindor wins the House Cup!"

The Great Hall exploded with applause, not only from the Gryffindors, but also from the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs, because they were glad that, for the first time in seven years, someone other than Slytherin had won the House Cup. Hagrid couldn't help himself to also cheer, and all students except the Slytherins threw their hats in the air, while Malfoy angrily threw his on the table in defeat. The Gryffindors around Azalea were all congratulating her, Hermione, Ron and Castor, and Azalea smiled at Hagrid, who smiled back.

. . .

IT WAS TIME TO GO. 

 They were at the station where most had already boarded the train, whilst some lingered back with their friends.

"Come on now, hurry up. You'll be late," Hagrid said. "Train's leaving. Go on. Go on. Come on. Hurry up."

Hermione waved at Hagrid with a smile, who waved back. She got in the train while Azalea handed her owl to one of the men on the train who were responsible for placing the children's baggage around. She looked at Hagrid and thought about something for a second, before jumping off of the train and walking towards their friend.

"Azzie, come on!"

"I'll be back in a minute!"

"Thought yeh were leaving without saying good-bye, didja?" Hagrid chuckled when he saw the Potter approach him. He smiled and took out two identical albums from under his huge coat.

"These," he took the albums and handed them to Azalea, "are for you."

Azalea flipped the album open and saw an animated picture of herself in a crib with another baby. It seemed as if the picture was quite old, and that it was taken before she turned one. She flipped to the next page and saw an animated picture of two children and two couples, one of them him and his parents.

"Yeh and Castor's parents were friends from way back," Hagrid smiled. "That's you two."

Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Huh?" Azalea muttered.

"Yeah! This is yeh and Castor when you both were 6 months old," he pointed at the picture in Azalea's album.

"Wow. Thanks Hagrid." Azalea smiled. She hesitated for a moment before pulling her friend in a tight hug. He chuckled and patted her back, trying not to cry. She'd be safe. She'd be back in a couple of months. It will be okay. 

"Azzie, listen, if that dolt of a cousin of yours, Dudley, gives you any grief, you could always, um, threaten him with a nice pair of ears to go with that tail of his." Hagrid stage-whispered. Azalea laughed, then paused.

"Hagrid, we're not allowed to do magic away from Hogwarts," she frowned and tilted her head. "You know that."

"I do. But your cousin don't, do he? Eh?" Hagrid laughed. A man called out a last call for everyone to board the train, and Azalea was quickly ushered back by Hagrid.

"Feels strange to be going home, doesn't it?" Hermione asked when they walked into the compartment. Azalea gave her a small smile.

"I'm not going home," she said. "Not really."

She waved goodbye — to Hagrid, to memories, to the first year of seven. 

Hogwarts. Hogwarts is home.