Harry knew Quirrell would be waiting inside, of course he did. But to see him standing there, to finally face the task of beating him to the Stone, was something else entirely. Not only that, but Quirrell didn't seem his usual, bumbling self. There was a strength and confidence to his stride, a cool sharpness to his voice as he muttered to himself, trying to work out how the Mirror worked.

"Do I break it?" he was saying. "Is the Stone inside the glass? I see myself presenting it to my Master ... but how to get it."

For a few moments, Quirrell didn't realise that Harry was there. That was until he turned to examine the back of the Mirror ... and Harry let out a shriek of horror.

For there, in the back of Quirrell's head, was the most terrifying face Harry had ever seen. Chalk white, with slits for nostrils and angry red eyes, this wasn't the face of Thomas Riddle that Harry had seen in Oxford ... this was the shadowy spectre of whatever it was that Lord Voldemort could pass for a soul.

"Bring the boy!" Voldemort hissed, his voice like icy vapour.

Quirrell snapped around, then immediately snapped his fingers and - in a breathtaking display of wandless magic - Harry found himself bound in tight ropes. Harry had never seen that before, and it brought the reality of the depth of this challenge slamming home to him.

"Potter!" Quirrell cried. "How nice of you to join us. Come here."

Another wave of his hand and Harry had floated across the Chamber, to hover in front of the Mirror.

"Of all the people," Harry spat. "I didn't think it'd be you! I ruled you out. Too weak and stuttery. But it was all an act!"

"I played my role well," Quirrell sneered in that sharp new tone of his. "You suspected Severus, I presume. So useful to have a cartoon villain swooping around the castle like a human bat. Covered my intentions nicely. Apart from with Dumbledore ... that old fool suspected me all along."

"That's because Dumbledore is a great wizard," Harry taunted. He wanted to distract Quirrell, keep his attention away from the Mirror. "I hear he's the only wizard that you are afraid of, Tom Riddle."

Quirrell gasped and clutched at his heart. "Do not dare to use my Master's foul Muggle name! I should kill you for it!"

"Do nothing, faithful Quirrell!" Voldemort ordered from the back of his head. "We need the boy alive ... for now."

"How does this work then?" Harry asked conversationally, waving his head towards the symbiosis facing him. He felt oddly calm. He knew Hermione would be on her way back soon with help, he just had to keep Quirrell talking. "One body, two souls. Must be a little crowded in there."

"Crowded!" Quirrell hooted in derision. "My Master blesses me by sharing my body. I drink unicorn blood to sustain him, and he shares his power with me. I am lucky to be so chosen."

"Megalomaniacs and psychotic dictators don't tend to share power," Harry quirked lightly. "You might want to check the small print on that arrangement, Professor."

"Silence! Foolish child!" Quirrell snapped angrily. "Now, look into this Mirror ... and tell me what you see."

Quirrell snapped his fingers and Harry rotated on the spot to stare into the glass. He was dying to know where Quirrell's wand was, and how he was doing magic without it, but then an image started to rise in the Mirror. It was a shapeless mass of swirly grey clouds to start with, but there was something starting to form in the amorphous silvery mist the longer Harry looked.

"Speak, Potter!"

Lie, Harry, lie!

Hermione's voice echoed in Harry's mind. Or was it Papageno? Harry was struggling to tell them apart just now. Either way, it was sage advice and Harry had to follow it.

"I'm winning the Qudditch Cup, and the House Cup," Harry invented. "And the Weird Sisters are playing my victory march. Is this real? Wow, I cant wait for this to happen!"

"Shut up, Potter!" Quirrell screamed. "What are you really seeing? No more filthy lies, or that little girlfriend of yours will be next to see the green flash of Avada Kedavra."

A mix of anger and disgust rose in Harry's throat at that. Who was this clown to threaten Hermione? Harry wasn't going to stand for that. He looked into the Mirror again.

"I need to find the Stone," he thought desperately. "I need to keep it away from Quirrell and Voldemort. Help me!"

And the Mirror responded.

From the swirling mists reflected in the glass, two figures strode forward to stand on the left edge of the frame. For a moment, Harry thought it was his father he was seeing, but then a startling realisation hit him. It wasn't his father ... but himself. Older, much older, but definitely Harry, not James, Potter. The image annoyed Harry a little, for they were so similar that Harry wondered at his own lack of individuality when it came to his appearance.

But then the second figure came into sharp focus. He knew this face, too, and just like first it was older and more worldly. Harry instantly recognised the warmth of Hermione in her chestnut-brown eyes, in the curve of her mouth and the soft bounce of her curly hair. She smiled at him, then nodded at the third person in the scene.

For Hermione had that baby with her again. It was cuddled into her shoulder this time and Hermione was singing softly to it. Harry couldn't hear, but he knew the melody would be sweet and peaceful. It made his heart pump with wild power as he watched, and he had no idea why.

It was just Hermione with a baby ... why would that make his pulse speed at a zillion miles an hour? When his breath returned, maybe he'd be able to ask someone.

But then, quite unexpectedly, something jumped out from within the chest of the reflected Hermione. Harry immediately recognised the bandy legs of Papageno as he padded around the bottom frame of the Mirror. Then he was joined by a second animal, one that stepped gracefully out from inside Harry!

It was a powerful, elegant lioness, her golden fur glistening from a light source Harry couldn't see. She frolicked almost indecently with Papageno a moment, and Harry felt compelled to look away, as though he were watching two lovers in an intimate clinch. He blushed at the sight, and averted his eyes modestly, but then the lioness spoke to him.

"Hello, Harry," she purred. "I am Marici."

"Hello," Harry replied in shock. He was struggling to take this in.

And he had the distinct impression that this conversation was going on inside him, within the confines of his own skull. Quirrell didn't seem to be able to hear it. He hadn't moved, and was still staring at Harry with angry impatience. It was as if time had stopped, too, for Harry felt a floaty sense of serenity settle upon him.

"Are you my ... dæmon?"

Marici nodded and smiled, in a lioness sort of way.

"Wow!" Harry breathed reverently. "My dæmon is a lion! Wait till I tell Hermione!"

"A lioness," Marici corrected. "And Hermione wont be surprised. That was her guess all along."

"Wow!" Harry parroted. "Good guess! Look, Marici, I need your help. I need to find the Stone before Quirrell. Do you know where it is?"

"Of course she does," Papageno suddenly cut in, leaping up to sit on Marici's back. "Because she is it, or ... more precisely ... you are."

"Me?" Harry stuttered in astonishment. "I don't understand."

"The Stone is just a vulgar thing, the goal of the base and vacuous," Marici explained. "The true Philosopher's Stone is not a thing you can taste or touch or smell. It's something you feel."

"It's like being in love," Papageno took over with a wry purr. "No-one can tell you when you are in love, you just know it."

"What does that even mean?" Harry moaned. This really wasn't helping.

"It means, Harry," Marici mewled lowly. "That Voldemort's power is not trapped in some object that can be stolen and manipulated. It is trapped and contained inside a vessel full of such purity and goodness that evil such as his has no chance of escape.

"It is guarded, Harry, by your heart."

Harry gasped aloud. "Voldemort's power is ... inside me?"

"Hidden away, deep down, which is where I stand guard over it," Marici explained fiercely. "Do not fear that it infects you or influences you. We are the controllers of it, not the other way around."

"And as long as your body exists, Voldemort knows he cannot harm you," Papageno added. "To destroy the vessel containing his own power would be to destroy himself. That gives you the advantage, Harry."

"How?"

"By forcing Quirrell to attack you," Marici continued. "He knows that if he fails now, the spirit of Tom Riddle will leave him. And with no unicorn blood to drink, he will die."

"But he cannot physically harm you," Papageno added. "Have you noticed how all his magic is done from a distance? To touch you in a violent way would cause Voldemort's own defensive reactions to inflict physical harm upon him, in order to defend your body."

"But how do I get Quirrell to attack me?" Harry asked.

"By crushing that flimsy Stone in your mouth."

Harry looked perplexed a moment, but then Marici opened her powerful jaws wide, and when she closed them somehow - incredibly - Harry felt the smooth edges of the Stone between his own teeth!

"What is taking so long, Potter!" Quirrell yelled. "Just tell me what you see!"

Harry tried talking, but his words were muffled as his tongue was pressed down by the Stone.

"What? You are mumbling garbage!" Quirrell cried.

"Release him! He has the Stone!"

Voldemort knew, then. That wasn't really a surprise. What surprised Harry more was that he was instantly unbound. He knew that Quirrell would be heading for him ... so he had to act fast.

Harry spat the Stone into his now free hand. He held it aloft for Quirrell to see ... then crushed the brittle jewel into sparkling ash.

"No! Potter! What have you done!"

Quirrell lunged at Harry and tried to grab his throat as if to throttle him. The impact bruised Harry's skinny neck and he fell back, choking and spluttering. But Quirrell didn't follow up his attack, as Harry had expected. He immediately jerked his hands back as if they'd been burned. Indeed, Harry could see the welting skin as Quirrell inspected it.

"What sort of magic is this!" Quirrell screamed, blowing desperately at his fingers to try and stop the now melting flesh.

"The sort you will never understand."

Harry's head shot up and a million volts of electricity zoomed all around him. He was saved.

"Dad!"

James Potter winked down at Harry, then flicked a spell at Quirrell. Harry didn't know what it was, but the impact was clear enough. The shadowy vapour of Voldemort was wrenched clear of Quirrell's head, who screamed with the pain and made one last, desperate lurch towards Harry.

There was a click, a bang like a firecracker, and a bullet hit Quirrell square in the temple, killing him dead at Harry's feet. Harry flicked his eyes in wide astonishment to a figure stepping out from behind his father.

"Why do you wizards always insist on playing with your food? It's a failing of your kind."

"Lyra!" Harry cried out, or tried to. His throat was rapidly swelling up from Quirrell's attempted assault, and he was struggling to breathe, let alone speak.

"Harry! Are you alright, son?" James asked anxiously, cradling Harry as he raced over to him.

"Th-throat," Harry squeaked out, pointing at his engorged neck.

"Come on, let's get you to the Hospital Wing," James replied, hoisting his son into his powerful arms. "We'll have you patched up in no time."

"I'll go and keep Hermione occupied," Lyra declared sagely, slipping her gun back into the belt of her jeans. "If Harry has a bad neck, the last thing he needs is my girl throwing her arms around it or something."

Harry couldn't say right now, but he actually thought that might be all the healing he'd ever need.

***

Harry and Hermione's subterranean battle with the Voldemort-possessed Professor Quirrell soon became the stuff of legend. And at Hogwarts, that was actually saying something. Quite how everyone knew the details was rather baffling, as Harry was pretty sure he and Hermione had been alone at the time. But soon enough the other Gryffindor first-years were asking Harry to demonstrate his skill with emerald green fire, for Hermione to beat them all at wizard's chess, and for Harry to slip Hermione just a drop of the opioid poison, just so she could make them all laugh with more drunken antics.

The end-of-year exams came and went, and Harry was reasonably confident that he'd done pretty well. Certainly well enough to cash in on his bet with Sirius, who had promised to upgrade his Nimbus Broomstick to the 2001 version, so long as he performed well enough to force Professor Snape to give him the highest grade available.

In no time at all, it seemed, they were packing up their trunks and boarding the Hogwarts Express, all still marvelling at the fact that last minute points had awarded Gryffindor the House Cup for the first time in seven years. Harry was back to being a hero, back to being in the spotlight, but as he enjoyed a few last hours of anonymity with just Hermione for company, he rather thought there was something to be said for going under the radar.

As the train rolled on towards London, and Harry's thoughts drifted towards his new racing broom and endless sessions at the Big Blue Tent over the coming weeks, his mind fell on Sirius again ... and something he'd almost overlooked.

"Oh, Hermione, I nearly forgot," Harry cried out suddenly. "I got you something."

"You need to stop doing that, Harry," Hermione blushed shyly. "There's really no need."

"Oh this wasn't an expensive thing," Harry reassured her. "But all the events of the last few weeks got me thinking."

"Ah! Progress at last!" Hermione teased with a giggle. "It's only taken a full year, but I've finally gotten you to think! I believe that deserves a reward!"

"Very funny," Harry grinned. "But if it's a reward you want, I hope you will like this one."

Harry reached into his trunk, and handed Hermione a small vanity mirror. She looked up at him curiously.

"I'm not sure what to make of this," Hermione quirked. "Either you think I should pay more attention to my looks, or you want to remind me of that horror under the school. Either way, I'm not sure I like it!"

"Will you let me explain?" Harry begged wearily. "All this business with mirrors - particularly two-way mirrors - gave me an idea. I thought that if the two Erised mirrors could be used to communicate between places, that maybe the idea could be applied to something slightly less nefarious."

Hermione sucked in a surprised breath. "You got two-way mirrors ... for us to communicate over the Summer! Oh, Harry, that's really thoughtful."

"Well, yes, it was," Harry agreed with a little smile. "But then I thought, if I was going to have a two-way mirror created, it would be a bit selfish of me to have the other one. So I've sent my Godfather to the North. He's heading up there as we speak. He's going to find that witch you mentioned, Serafina Pekkala. And when he does, he's going to get her to help him cross back into your world. Once there, he's going to head straight to Oxford, find that little dental practice on the canal and hand the mirror over to the dentists who run it.

"If all goes well, you should be able to speak to your parents - your real ones - in a week or so."

Hermione stared at Harry and her mouth fell open. She looked down at the mirror in her hands, fingering the delicate silver engraving around the edge. The engraving simply read, For Hermione, from Harry. Hermione felt hot tears rise behind her eyes, and her lip quavered, rendering her incapable of speech. She swallowed and took several rapid breaths, blinking those bothersome tears away.

But she didn't say thank you. She didn't need to. Harry knew, and that was more powerful than any words could express. He looked modestly away, so that if Hermione wanted to weep in secret she could. Harry scratched Papageno behind his ears, listening to him purr and feeling the pinch of his claws in his lap, as Hermione's surging emotion spilled into her dæmon, too.

And Harry looked out of the window as the landscape rushed past, smiling as his own dæmon rose and roared in his chest. She approved of what he'd done, and if the two great cats were in agreement, then Harry knew everything would be alright.

End of Volume Two.