Harry Potter and the Gift of Memories [Harry Potter Fan Fiction]

Chapter XXXXVI: The Philsopher's Stone, Part I

“Of course.”

“But I thought that was Voldemort!”

Harry was shocked. He could have sworn it was Voldemort who confronted him in the Forbidden Forest. The creature, for he refused to call it a man, that he fought had been more monster than human. Certainly it had not moved like a human. And Quirrel was most definitely a human. Had he been wrong this whole time?

No. He was not wrong. Several times after the battle Harry had snuck into the Forbidden Forest and spoke with Firenze, and the Centaur was positive the thing drinking unicorn blood was Voldemort. Harry trusted the Centaur's judgment on this, as they coincided with his own thoughts and opinions.

Was Quirrell covering up for Voldemort then? Trying to throw him off the trail? Their didn't seem to be much reason to, especially if the man planned on killing him anyway.

And aside from that, there was the fact that unicorn's blood cursed those who drank it. Why would Quirrell drink unicorn's blood when he didn't have to. Unless...

“That wasn't you using legillemency on me in your classroom,” Harry's whispered words were surprisingly heard by Quirrell over the spells being fired.

“What was that?”

“Voldemort's here, isn't he?” said Harry, speaking with more volume. “That's why you claimed it was you in the Forbidden Forest. Because he's using your body. And that's why you're wearing that turban. To hide the fact that he is currently residing in your body.”

Quirrell's spell casting stopped. His wand was still pointed at the boy that he now eyed warily. The reaction only made Harry more sure of his assumption.

“Such a clever child...”

Harry stiffened as he heard the voice. It was soft, raspy and weak, but unmistakable. Harry knew that voice. Even if he had not been cursed with eidetic memory, he would never forget the voice of the person who killed his parents.

“Let me speak with the boy... face to face...”

“But Master,” Quirrell's voice wavered, “You are not strong enough yet.”

“I have strength enough for this.”

There was a moment's hesitation before Quirrell began unwrapping the turban. For a moment, Harry thought about using the action to go on the attack. He doubted he would ever get such an advantage like this again, and it would be foolhardy not to take advantage of it.

Yet he did not. Harry's curiosity and desire to face his parent's killer overruled his common sense. He allowed Quirrell to remove the turban unimpeded.

The face was on the back of Quirrell's head. He was pale, his skin a chalky white that made him look like death warmed over. His nose was flat, with only two small slits where his nostrils would normally be. Combine that with his bald head and near lipless mouth made think of a snake.

Yet it was the eyes that held Harry's attention. Those crimson irises that haunted most of his nightmares. The eyes he had seen almost every night for the past ten years within his mind.

“Voldemort,” Harry breathed. Despite the man's weakened state, Harry could not keep his heartbeat from speeding up as he gazed upon the visage of the man who took his parents away from him. The man he despised more than anything else.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort's voice carried across to him. The sound of that man's voice, a sibilant hiss more than anything, caused an intense rage to well up within Harry. He wanted to blast this man into oblivion for what he had done. To take revenge on this monster for taking his parents away.