The Search for Love - Chapter 9 - A Fight in the Corridor (Patreon)

Harry and Hermione sprinted through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls as they darted around corners. The cold evening air pressed against their skin, and neither dared slow down. Harry’s breath was sharp in his chest, but he pressed on, Hermione right beside him, her robes billowing as she ran.

“Come on,” Harry urged, glancing over his shoulder. “We have to make sure someone stops this.”

“I know!” Hermione panted, her cheeks flushed. “Just ... keep going!”

The castle was eerily quiet, save for the occasional flicker of torchlight casting long shadows on the walls.

They skidded around the last corner, nearly colliding with a suit of armor. Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm to steady herself, and they shared a glance.

They had finally reached Professor Flitwick’s office.

The small, wooden door was slightly ajar, warm yellow light spilling out from inside. Harry didn’t bother knocking. He pushed the door open, and the two of them tumbled inside, panting and flushed from the exertion.

Professor Flitwick, perched on a stack of books at his desk, looked up in surprise, his eyebrows raising slightly at the sight of their breathless state. “Goodness! Mr. Potter, Miss Granger—what’s all this about? You both look as though you’ve run across half the castle.”

Both Harry and Hermione spoke at once, their words jumbling over each other in a mess of urgency and half-sentences.

“It’s the Stone—"
"Quirrell—he’s planning—"
"It’s happening tonight!”

Flitwick’s bushy eyebrows shot up in confusion. He raised both hands in a calming gesture. “Breathe! One at a time, please! It’ll make it significantly easier for me.”

They stopped abruptly, both red-faced from exertion and frustration. Hermione took a deep breath and motioned for Harry to start explaining things to the charms professor, her hand trembling slightly.

Harry nodded and stepped forward. “We think ... the Philosopher’s Stone is in danger of being stolen tonight.”

Flitwick’s expression shifted from mild curiosity to genuine shock. He blinked several times before asking, “How do you two even know about the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“We’ve been putting things together all year,” Harry explained, words tumbling out quickly. “The three headed dog on the third floor—Nicolas Flammel hiding something at the castle—Professor Quirrel visiting the third floor every night this week. And just now I overheard something earlier— Professor Quirrell was talking to someone. They were planning to steal it tonight, saying it was their opportunity.”

The professor’s eyes grew wide with shock, his chair creaking as he leaned forward. “Quirrell?” Flitwick repeated, incredulous. “But that doesn’t make sense. He’s one of the professors protecting the Stone. If what you say is true ... Why would he help to protect something that he is trying to steal?”

Harry clenched his fists, trying to keep his thoughts steady. “If Professor Quirrell is involved in protecting the Stone, that means he already knows some of the protections and it would give him an advantage to getting it.”

Flitwick looked at him skeptically, as if searching for any sign of deception. But Harry’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “I’m serious, Professor. I heard him talking to someone—someone ... strange. The voice was cold … unsettling. I couldn’t recognize it but Professor Quirrell was calling him ‘Master.’”

Flitwick’s expression darkened slightly and for a long moment, Flitwick said nothing. The only sound was the crackling of the fire and the distant echo of students heading to their common rooms for the night. Then, finally, Flitwick sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly as though the weight of this revelation was settling onto him.

“All right, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger” Flitwick said, his voice grave as he nodded his head. “You don’t seem the type to joke about matters like this. And if this is as serious as you say ..." He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “this could be very serious.”

Relief washed over Harry like a wave, and he glanced at Hermione, who gave him a small nod.

Flitwick slid down from his stack of books, landing lightly on the floor. “I’ll inform the Headmaster immediately, and we’ll take a closer look at the protections on the Stone. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

Without wasting another second, Flitwick grabbed his wand, and began walking briskly toward the door, his robes swishing behind him. He paused as he reached it, turning back to Harry and Hermione. "You two should head back to your common room. Leave the rest to us. The castle is safe."

Harry nodded, but as Flitwick hurried out the door, a creeping doubt began to rise in him. The castle didn’t feel safe.

As soon as Flitwick disappeared down the corridor, Hermione turned to Harry. “Well, I’m glad that’s being taken care of,” she said, exhaling in relief.

Harry, though, didn’t feel the same sense of closure. "Yeah," he said absently, staring down the corridor where Flitwick had gone.

Hermione noticed his hesitation and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Harry shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling. "I don’t know ... Something just doesn’t feel right." He turned to Hermione. “Do you really think we should go back to the common room?”

Hermione hesitated, her brow furrowing. "As opposed to what?"

Harry raised an eyebrow, and Hermione glanced back down the hall toward where Flitwick had gone. "We could go to the third-floor corridor ... to see who Quirrell’s ‘master’ is."

Hermione stared at him, surprised. "You want to go down there?"

Harry nodded, his expression determined. "I read in Hogwarts: A History that it's incredibly difficult for anyone to sneak into the castle. If someone’s here, working with Quirrell, I want to know how they managed it. And ..." He trailed off, biting his lip. "I have a bad feeling too, Hermione. We can’t just wait."

Hemione considered his words, before finally nodding. "Alright. Let’s go."

They turned and began walking briskly toward the third-floor corridor, their footsteps quick and quiet. Neither of them noticed the pair of piercing blue eyes watching them from the shadows behind one of the suits of armor. The same eyes that had seen them running to Flitwick’s office and intrigued by their frantic expressions had followed them up here. The same eyes that were now following them silently as they headed in the direction of the restricted floor, the place where they knew the entrance to the Stone’s hiding place lay.

As they walked, the torches flickered softly, casting their shadows long against the stone walls. The castle seemed unnervingly silent, as though holding its breath for whatever was to come.

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Harry and Hermione made their way through the silent halls of Hogwarts, their nerves buzzing with adrenaline as they approached the third-floor corridor. Every flicker of torchlight seemed to stretch the shadows further, and the chill in the air made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end.

Harry kept his wand tightly gripped, heart pounding in his chest. He glanced sideways at Hermione, whose face was set with a determined expression, though there was a glimmer of anxiety in her eyes. She hadn’t said much since they’d left Flitwick’s office, but Harry could tell she was on edge, her mind racing just as fast as his. They moved quickly but silently, their footsteps muffled against the stone floors.

At last, they reached the third-floor corridor. The target door stood at the far end of the hall, dimly lit by scattered torches. Harry could still remember the growling barks from behind those doors, back when he had first stumbled upon the monstrous dog that guarded the room.

Without a word, the two friends slipped into a darkened alcove along the side of the hall, just across the corridor and several feet down from the door. They crouched low, the cold stone wall pressing against their backs, and peered through the shadows. From here, they had a clear view of the door, hidden from sight in the shadows but ready to act.

For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic flicker of flames from the torches lining the hall. Harry’s hands were clammy, and he had to wipe them against his robes. The seconds dragged on, and every breath felt too loud in the stillness.

“How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible.

Hermione shook her head slightly. “Not long. But hopefully Professor Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick.”

Harry nodded and shifted to a more comfortable position, though his legs were starting to ache from crouching The hallway was eerily silent, and it felt like hours passed—though he knew it could only have been minutes. His body was tense, his grip tight on his wand. He glanced at Hermione, whose face was set with grim determination.

Then, at last, they heard it: soft, quick footsteps padding down the corridor directly towards them.

Harry tensed, pressing himself further into the shadows. Hermione held her breath beside him. Slowly, Harry leaned out just far enough to get a look at the figure approaching the door.

It was Professor Quirrell.

Harry felt a strange mixture of relief and dread wash over him, as he saw the familiar figure wearing his usually purple robes and turban, striding purposefully toward the door. He had been right—but the fact that he had been right only made things worse. If Quirrell was here, it meant he really was after the Stone. Harry shot a quick glance down the hall, wondering why Professor Flitwick or Professor Dumbledore hadn’t arrived yet. What was taking them so long?

They watched as Quirrell reached the door, looking cautiously over his shoulder to ensure the corridor was empty. Harry ducked deeper into the shadows, holding his breath, but Quirrell’s eyes swept past their hiding place without slowing. Satisfied that he was alone, he turned back to the door and slowly pushed it open. Immediately, a loud, ferocious barking erupted from inside, the sound reverberating through the hall.

Harry felt Hermione shift beside him, leaning closer to his ear. “He’ll need a way to calm the dog,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin.

Sure enough, Quirrell raised his wand and gave it a flick. A shimmering harp appeared in the air, and with another wave of his wand, it floated through the open door. The soft, lilting notes began to play, filling the corridor with an eerie lullaby.

Harry raised his eyebrows at Hermione.

She gave a small shrug. “It’s probably  a magical way to soothe the animal,” she whispered.

And just like that, the barking inside the room died down, replaced by the deep, rumbling sound of the dog snoring.

Harry turned his gaze back down the corridor, hoping to see Flitwick or Dumbledore arriving. His heart sank when the hall remained empty. He looked back at Hermione, his voice barely more than a breath.

“Where are they?”

A flicker of worry crossed Hermione’s face as she looked at Harry, biting her lip. “You don’t think ... You don’t think Quirrell’s master found Professor Flitwick, do you?” she whispered. “If he did ... maybe that’s why they aren’t here yet. What if his master attacked him—what if he’s hurt?”

Harry felt the blood drain from his face and the thought sent a cold wave of fear through Harry. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the image of Flitwick lying unconscious—or worse—somewhere in the castle sent a chill down his spine. He clenched his jaw, trying to think.

“What should we do?” he asked, his voice tight.

She glanced toward Quirrell, her brow furrowed in thought. “I know a spell that can stop him,” she whispered. “If we can stop him, we can go find Professor Dumbledore ourselves before his ‘master’ gets involved.”

Harry hesitated for only a second before nodding slowly, though fear gnawed at his insides. “Okay. Let’s try it.”

Keeping low in the shadows, Hermione edged to the side of the alcove, her wand already in her hand. Quirrell had just started to move toward the door when Hermione took aim.

“Petrificus Totalus!” she called out fiercely, sending a streak of blue light directly toward Quirrell’s back.

Harry watched with bated breath, a flicker of hope rising within him. But then—

“Behind you!” a cold, unsettling voice called out.

Quirrell whirled around with startling speed, his wand already raised. Just as Hermione’s spell reached him, a shimmering dome of light expanded outward from his wand. The spell bounced off harmlessly, reversing direction in a blink.

Before Hermione could react, the reflected spell struck her squarely in the chest. Her body went rigid, and she toppled backward, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

“Hermione!” Harry called out in alarm, ducking down beside her. He felt for her pulse, relieved to find it steady, though her breathing was shallow. Not knowing how to reverse the spell, Harry clenched his fists in frustration.

His heart hammered in his chest as he looked up to see Quirrell standing in the middle of the corridor, his wand raised and his expression deadly serious. Gone was the nervous professor Harry had known all year. In his place was someone cold and calculating.

“I heard you in there. Come out. Now,” Quirrell said in a low, steady voice, his eyes scanning the shadows.

Harry swallowed hard, knowing he had no choice. Slowly, he stepped out of the alcove, wand clutched in his hand. Quirrell’s eyes widened in surprise, and he took a half-step back.

Quirrell’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Potter?” he said, the nervous stammer returning to his voice as if it were an old habit. “W-what are you doing here? Y-you shouldn’t be in this corridor.”

“I know what you’re up to,” Harry interrupted, his voice steady despite the fear swirling inside him. “You’re trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone for your master. I won’t let you take it.”

For a moment, Quirrell stared at Harry, expression unreadable. Then, from behind him, the same cold, unsettling voice spoke, the sound echoing through the corridor.

“Show him to me, Quirrell.”

Quirrell’s face twitched and he stiffened, as though he were battling some internal struggle. “B-but Master, you’re not strong enough—”

“Now!” the voice snapped, sharper and colder than before. “I’m strong enough for this. Do not make me repeat myself. Turn around. Now.”

Quirrell paled, but he gave a stiff nod.

With a flick of his wand, Harry felt his own wand fly from his hand, landing with a clatter far out of reach. A second flick, and his feet glued to the ground. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move.

Quirrell turned back to Harry, his expression grim. Slowly, with trembling hands, he began to unwrap the turban wound around his head.

Harry’s heart pounded wildly, unsure of what to expect. As the last layer of fabric fell away, Quirrell hesitated one final time.

“Turn around, Quirrell,” the voice commanded icily.

Quirrell swallowed hard and slowly obeyed.

Harry’s breath hitched in his throat. As Quirrell turned, the back of his head came into view—a pale, grotesque face, with slitted nostrils and gleaming red eyes.

Harry stared in disbelief, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.

“What in Merlin’s name ...?” Harry whispered, unable to stop himself.

“Ah, Harry Potter,” it hissed, the words sliding over Harry’s skin like ice. “It has been ... a long time.”

Harry blinked, thrown off by the familiarity in the tone. “I—what?” he stammered. “I ... I don’t even know who you are.”

The twisted face let out a soft, high-pitched laugh that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “Of course not. You were only a baby.” His lipless mouth curled into a sneer. “But make no mistake ... you know me. I am the one who killed your parents.”

The words cut through Harry like a knife. His breath hitched as realization began to dawn. He whispered in disbelief, “You ... You’re— Voldemort?”

Voldemort’s laughter echoed down the corridor, thin and mocking. “Lord Voldemort. But, yes. I thought you might recognize me, even as I am.”

Harry’s mind raced. This couldn’t be happening. Voldemort had been dead for over a decade. Everyone said so. He had seen it in the wizarding books and heard it whispered among students. Yet here he was, speaking to him from the back of Professor Quirrell’s head.

“But ... you’re supposed to be dead,” Harry whispered. “You—” He swallowed hard. “You died that night—”

“After I killed your pathetic parents? When my curse rebounded off you?” Voldemort interrupted, sneering. “No. A mere child could not kill Lord Voldemort. I have done more than any wizard before me has ever dreamed of to ensure my immortality. No mere baby was going to steal that from me.”

Harry’s heart pounded wildly as the blood in his veins ran cold. The realization hit him like a blow: Voldemort had survived, all these years.

“So you’re whose after the Philosopher’s Stone,” Harry said slowly, piecing it together, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him. “You need it ... and Quirrell is helping you.”

Voldemort’s face twisted into a pleased smile. “Ah, clever boy. Yes. Quirrell was lucky to stumble upon me … but the Stone is one way to regain my body ... and once I have it, no one—least of all you—will stand in my way.”

Harry clenched his fists, his pulse racing. Voldemort’s eyes gleamed with malice.

“Unfortunately for you,” Voldemort continued, his voice turning sinister, “You will not live to see it. Tonight, you shall die, Harry Potter, as you should have all those years ago.”

Voldemort’s words sent a chill down Harry’s spine, and Harry struggled against the enchantment holding his feet in place, but it was useless. He braced himself, heart pounding, knowing there was no escape.

Quirrell began advancing toward Harry, his wandless hand glowing with a sinister looking light. But before Quirrel could cross the corridor, a sudden crackling sound echoed down the hall.

A jet of red light shot toward Quirrell—Voldemort—forcing him to dive to the ground with surprising agility. Harry’s heart leaped with hope as two more spells zipped through the air, narrowly missing their mark as Quirrell dodged to the side. Harry tried to duck instinctively, an action made difficult with his legs stuck where they were. Another spell followed, then another, but Quirrell evaded each one with surprising agility.

A sixth spell struck true—hitting Quirrell’s hand, sending his wand flying down the corridor, where it skidded to a stop near the feet of a small but fierce-looking figure.

Professor Flitwick.

The Charms professor advanced steadily down the hall, wand raised, his sharp eyes gleaming with fury. “You are unarmed,” Flitwick said in a quiet, dangerous tone. “Give up. Even if you had your wand, you would be no match for me.”

Quirrell—his face pale with fear—did not respond. As he stumbled to his feet, positioning Harry between himself and Flitwick like a human shield. However, it was Voldemort’s voice, low and sneering, the responded calling out from Quirrell’s head.

“Ah ... Professor Flitwick,” he hissed. “Despite the ... unfortunate disadvantage of your heritage, you are even more impressive than I anticipated.”

Flitwick’s eyes narrowed, wand still trained on his opponent. “Surrender. This is your last chance.”

Quirrell’s body stiffened as Voldemort spoke again, his voice dripping with venom. “You misjudged your situation, I do not need a wand to deal with you. Nor do I need it to finish what I came here to do.”

Before Flitwick could fire another spell, Quirrell closed the distance between Harry and himself, and placed his glowing hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry gasped as a flicker of pain ran through him—but it vanished almost instantly. What Harry saw next shocked him beyond reason.

Quirrell let out a piercing, blood-curdling scream.

Quirrell jerked back with a scream. His hand sizzled, as if burned by invisible fire. He staggered away from Harry, clutching his injured hand in agony. Harry felt a sharp flicker of pain where Quirrell had touched him, but it vanished almost immediately.

Quirrell fell to his knees, screaming in anguish as his body convulsed.

“What—what is this?” Voldemort’s voice shrieked, filled with rage and disbelief, but barely heard over the sound of Quirrel’s screams.

Harry stumbled, realizing that the spell binding his feet had been broken. He collapsed to the ground but quickly scrambled to his feet, turning just in time to see Flitwick send another spell flying toward Quirrell.

The spell hit Quirrell squarely, freezing him in place. His agonized scream was cut off mid-cry as his body went rigid. For a second, everything seemed still—unnaturally still.

Then, with a dreadful hiss, something dark and ghostly began to detach itself from Quirrell’s frozen form. A black, shadow-like wisp—more a presence than a thing—rose from Quirrell’s body, twisting and writhing in the air like smoke.

Flitwick fired another spell at the apparition, but it passed harmlessly through the dark mist.

The black shape—Voldemort—Harry suspected, surged forward, straight toward Harry. Before Harry could react, the ghostly figure plunged through him, filling his body with unimaginable cold.

Harry screamed in agony as pain unlike anything Harry had ever known exploded in his chest. It was as if ice and fire had collided inside him, burning and freezing his very soul. Voldemort’s voice echoed inside his mind, cold and triumphant.

“You shall not live, Potter. I will find a way to kill you myself—no matter how long it takes.”

The darkness seemed to twist and coil within him for a moment longer, and then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone.

The searing pain faded, leaving Harry gasping for breath. He could feel his consciousness slipping away, his body too weak to hold on.

Through the haze, he saw Flitwick rush toward him, his small form radiating urgency. Harry struggled to stay conscious, blinking against the darkness creeping into his vision. “Harry!” the professor called urgently.

Harry coughed weakly, struggling to stay awake. His thoughts turned to Hermione. “Hermione ...” he croaked, lifting a trembling hand to point toward the shadows where she had fallen.

Flitwick’s head snapped toward where Hermione lay, and his expression shifted immediately to alarm. Without hesitation, the professor sprinted toward Hermione, wand at the ready.

Harry tried to keep his eyes open, but his strength was slipping away fast. His vision blurred, the world fading in and out of focus. He lay on the cold stone floor, struggling to stay conscious.

And then, just as his vision began to fade completely, he saw another figure leaning over him—this one, with long, blonde hair that framed her face.

A pair of clear, blue eyes stared down at him, wide with concern. The girl’s face swam in and out of focus.

Harry’s mind struggled to make the connection through the haze of exhaustion. Those eyes ... He knew them.

“Daphne ...?” he whispered hoarsely, the name barely escaping his lips before the darkness finally claimed him. And with that the world dissolved into darkness, and Harry knew no more.

Kind Regards,

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Story Note 1 – Quirrel managed to get Dumbledore out of the castle earlier than in the original source material. As such he chose to make his move tonight rather than wait till the end of the year. As such there will still be a part of the year to finish before Harry gets to the end of the year. Always thought that it was oddly coincidental that Voldemort/whatever big bad Harry was facing just so happened to wait until the last possible minute before attacking or causing Harry difficulty. I guess this story will have less considerate antagonists.

Story Note 2 – Well hello Daphne. Looks like she might have seen that fight. From here on and certainly into the next years Daphne will play a bigger part of Harry’s story.

A large thanks to those of you out there who enjoy my stories, I promise to keep updating the stories as long as you all are enjoying them, and a special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to leave feedback or have reached out to me directly.

Disclaimer – It has come to my attention recently that I unfortunately do not own Harry Potter. Who knew.