Neville found himself in a wide, dimly lit room with blank grey walls and floor. It was quiet and featureless, except for a single large object in the middle of the room. Fixed upright and standing eight feet high, it would focus any eyes in the room. Neville recognised it immediately. It was the Mirror of Erised. Standing in front of it, staring into the glass, was the silent figure of a man. He didn’t seem to have noticed Neville enter.
Neville raised his wand and wondered what spell he knew that he could cast. He took a couple of steps into the room to get a better look at the man and gave a gasp. “You!” he exclaimed before he could stop himself. The man turned and from beneath his turbaned head was a blank and cold expression Neville had never seen on him before. It was Professor Quirrell.
“Neville Longbottom,” said Quirrell without a trace of a stutter. “This is a surprise. Have you come to stop me?” The question was asked with disdain, as if there could be only one possible answer.
“B-but I thought… Snape…” stammered Neville. The scar on his forehead had begun to throb.
“Yes of course you did, you pathetic fool of a boy. You thought what I wanted you to think. Yes, I overheard you that day before the Quidditch match. Snape had already caused me enough trouble, heading me off at the third floor corridor when I let that troll in. Since you already suspected him, it was the simplest thing to throw a little curse at you and blame him for it. You bought it so easily, really it was no challenge for me.”
“It was all you,” gaped Neville. “You let the troll in at Halloween. You tried to kill me. You’re the one working for You-Know-Who. I trusted you. I liked you! Why?”
“Oh grow up, boy. Don’t you listen? I didn’t want to kill you, I could have done that with complete ease if I had. I wanted you alive. I just needed a scapegoat to stop you interfering with my plans, that was all, and Severus Snape did nicely. You are far too interesting and important a boy to kill and my master would not allow it.
“Of course I made sure you trusted me. We were most curious about you. How could you, as an ordinary baby, rob the Dark Lord of his powers at the moment of his success? Perhaps there was powerful dark magic lurking within you, or some hidden gift my master could use to his ends. Sadly, it is all to clear that is not true. You are incompetent and talentless. Believe me, it was a wretch sitting through all those lessons, pretending you weren’t so woefully inept as you were. I am frankly astonished you got through all those obstacles to get here. I expect you had the help of that Granger girl. Is she not here? Pity. She might actually have been some use to me.”
Quirrell’s wand suddenly appeared from out of his robes in his right hand and he pointed it at Neville silently. Neville’s wand sprang out of his hand and Quirrell caught it. “Wouldn’t want you having an accident and hurting someone, would we Longbottom?” he grinned, and turned his back on Neville to examine the mirror once more.
“Where is the Stone?” he said angrily. “I see myself holding it, making the Elixir of Life for my master, but where is it really? I don’t understand.”
Suddenly a strange cold voice echoed in the empty room. Neville couldn’t make out where it came from. “The boy. Use the boy,” it said. Neville turned to run, but Quirrell snapped his fingers and ropes appeared from nowhere, binding Neville and hurling him to the ground. As he struggled, Quirrell came over, hauled him to his feet and dragged him by the ropes over to the mirror.
“Going somewhere, Longbottom?” he said. “Maybe you can be of some help. Stand here. What do you see?” Terrified, Neville did as he was told and looked into the mirror, expecting to see just what he had seen before. To his surprise he didn’t. The reflection in the mirror was empty except for himself. He watched in amazement as an object appeared in the reflection’s left hand. It was a rough-hewn bright red stone. His reflection smiled, nodded in his direction, and slipped the stone into its left pocket.
Neville felt something sharp in his right pocket rub up against his thigh. The Stone was there! He fought desperately against the urge to look down or put his hand in his pocket. Quirrell beside him was becoming impatient. “I said what do you see? Speak, boy.”
“Er, I’m surrounded by friends and family,” he said nervously. “They’re all cheering me.” He couldn’t think of a better lie in the circumstances, so he just said what he’d seen before.
The cold voice rang out again, as if right beside him. “You lie,” it said. “I know you lie.”
Neville looked in all directions, trying to locate the voice that chilled his very bones. “Who are you? Where are you?” he said.
The voice gave a dry, ugly laugh. “I’m right here, boy. Quirrell, perhaps it is time you introduced me to Mr Longbottom.”
“But master…” protested Quirrell.
“Do it. I feel strong now. I would see the boy for myself,” said the voice. Quirrell stepped away from Neville and put his hands to his head. He slowly unwrapped the purple cloth that formed the turban atop his head. Underneath Neville could see no hair protruding, but something was there. At last Quirrell removed the remainder of the turban. Neville gasped for the second time.
From the back of Quirrell’s head a face protruded, as if pressed into the flesh by some hideous process. The face possessed a thin, sharp mouth and a flattened nose, but most shocking were the piercing narrow eyes that shone bright red. The eyes seemed rimmed with fire, but underneath that fire was a darkness, an emptiness like a window onto nothing. The face spoke with the chilling voice that Neville had heard. “So you are Neville Longbottom. We meet again. It has been a long time. Too long.”
Neville staggered back, still bound by the cords. “It’s you,” he said. “Y-You’re V-… V-… You-Know-Who.” He couldn’t bring himself to say the name.
The face laughed. “It is good to see my name has lost none of the force it once carried these last ten years, even though its bearer is reduced to such a state. This is what you reduced me to, Longbottom, a shell, a mere spirit, forced to possess another and drink unicorn blood to survive. It was us you saw in the Forest that night. Quirrell has been my mostly willing host these past few months, since I returned to these shores. I met Quirrell while he was journeying in Albania last year. When he told me the Philosopher’s Stone was coming to Hogwarts this year I knew I had to return. With suitable persuasion he agreed to let me accompany him back.
“He failed to prevent the Stone being removed from Gringotts, so I took a share in his body so that I might join him at Hogwarts. For nine months now I have encouraged him in my own way to reach this point. Now I shall take the Stone and return to a full life and body of my own. So take it from your pocket and give it to me, boy.”
Neville was astonished. He felt sure he hadn’t given himself away. Now his hand went instinctively to his pocket before he could stop it. “That’s it,” said Voldemort. “Quirrell, release him.” Quirrell snapped his fingers once more and the ropes vanished. Neville took the Stone from his pocket and looked at it. It felt heavy in his hand. “Hand it over and I promise no harm with come to you. You have my word.
“Tell me Neville,” he continued “what do you want? Power? It is what all who are truly honest with themselves want. I know you feel you lack it. I have more than enough to spare. Give me the Stone and I can make you powerful, make you strong. Ally yourself with me and be afraid of no one again.”
Neville hesitated. He remembered what he had seen in the Mirror of Erised before Christmas. He did want to be stronger, to be better than he was. But most of all he wanted people to care about him, to care for him. He looked up at Quirrell and the hideous face of Voldemort and he knew without question that Voldemort did not care for anyone but himself. He kept reminding himself who this man was. “W-what do I want? I want my parents,” he stammered, forcing out each word through a mouth that seemed locked in fear and refused to open.
Voldemort laughed again. “No spell returns the dead to life. I hope you’ve been taught that. The dead stay dead and gone, lost forever. Your parents were fools, they stood and died with no thought for themselves, as if they could hope to save you. Your mother especially, she died needlessly as though living on meant nothing to her. Do not make their mistake, boy. Give me the Stone, and live.”
Neville took a step backwards and clutched the Stone more tightly in his hand. For a moment it seemed he was detached from his body, seeing through someone else’s eyes. He heard himself say “No” in a frail voice and felt himself turn to run. He heard Voldemort yell “Stop him!” and Quirrell move. He felt a hand seize him on his shoulder and twist him round.
Now he was back in his body, forced in by the searing pain through his scar. He fought as hard as he could as Quirrell pinned him down and scrabbled at his right hand for the Stone. Quirrell seized his wrist in an attempt to shake the Stone free and suddenly a whole new level of pain shot through him. But Quirrell seemed to feel it more and his hand jerked free from the wrist. Neville thrust up his left palm onto Quirrell’s chin to push him away. Again the pain came, but this time Neville could not remove his hand. Quirrell beat at Neville’s right arm with his fist but he screamed in agony as if he was burning. “What’s happening?” he cried. His skin was beginning to blister and behind him the face of Voldemort was writhing on his skull. Suddenly his other hand came plummeting down on the side of Neville’s head and everything went black.
* * *
Neville awoke in bed and his eyes slowly swam into focus. For a moment he wondered where he was, then slowly the memory of his encounter with Quirrell returned. He shuddered, sat up in bed and looked around. He was in the hospital wing and currently alone. There were bandages on his head and arm. A stack of “Get Well Soon” cards were arranged on the table beside his bed next to an assortment of sweets, chocolates and the obligatory bunch of grapes.
Neville was about to pick up the cards to see who they were from when a head poked round the door of the ward. It belonged to none other than Professor Dumbledore. The Headmaster smiled, entered the room and walked up to Neville’s bed. “Awake at last,” he said breezily. “How are you feeling?”
“A bit groggy,” admitted Neville. “It’s all a bit of a blur. What happened to Professor Quirrell and You-Know-Who?”
“Voldemort, Neville. It is his name now and one should always name things properly. It is not easy, but one day I hope you will understand and speak it.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is my sad duty to inform you that Professor Quirrell is dead. Such a young man. A tragic and terrible loss to us all.”
Neville was puzzled. “But he was evil. He was working for You-Know-Who and tried to get the Stone.”
“Evil is a strong word, Neville, and should be used most carefully. No, I do grieve for the loss of Quirinus Quirrell and what he might have been. Before he evidently encountered Voldemort on his travels he was a good man, if somewhat shy and ineffectual, the sort that never attracted much attention. Not unlike yourself, Neville, if you will excuse me for saying so.”
A cold feeling crept up Neville’s spine. “I nearly gave him the Stone. I nearly did. But in the end I couldn’t.”
“And that is what makes you different from Quirrell.” Dumbledore smiled. “You had the strength, the courage to refuse, even if you don’t know how you did it.”
“But why is he dead? What happened to the Stone?”
“One question at a time, my inquisitive young friend. Firstly Quirrell is dead because Voldemort killed him. The pain Quirrell felt from touching you was too much for Voldemort to bear and he abandoned his host’s body.” At this Neville made to speak again but Dumbledore raised a gentle hand to silence him. “The severing of Voldemort left Quirrell too weak to survive and he died shortly after I arrived. When I had arrived at the Ministry and discovered I was not expected I hurried back here at once. I encountered Mr Potter, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger on their way up from the dungeons as I descended, who by the way, before you interrupt my story further, are all fine and well, and learned you had gone on to retrieve the Stone. I found you just after you had lost consciousness and could do nothing but watch poor Quirinus die.
“I brought you and the Stone back here where Madam Pomfrey has tended you most excellently for the past three days. In truth, you probably could have been woken after one, but I thought you needed the rest. To answer your second question, the Stone has now been destroyed. I visited my old friend Nicolas the day before yesterday and we have agreed it was the right thing to do. I have left him enough Elixir to set his affairs in order, before he joins the next great adventure.
“Now I see that those two answers have only served to generate yet more questions. I feel as if I am on a little of a roll at the moment so you will forgive me if I answer your questions before you ask them. No, Voldemort is not dead. His spirit endures as it did before. He has suffered a great setback, though. You were able to retrieve the Stone whilst Quirrell could not because I laid a charm on the mirror so that only one who did not want to use the Stone could recover it. Sometimes my cleverness surprises even me.” Dumbledore finally took a breath and winked, before continuing.
“The reason Professor Quirrell was burned when he touched you is most interesting though. Do you remember me telling you in December that you are far more loved than you think? That is what saved you. When your mother died protecting you, that protection, bound by love, endured within you, within your very skin, your very blood. It is her love for you that lives on, that Voldemort and by extension Quirrell could not bear to encounter. That desire of yours the Mirror of Erised showed you is not so far away as you fear.
“So now, here we all are now, safe and well. If I may mention as well, your reputation has certainly grown among your fellow students these past few days. I have long since given up trying to keep any of the comings and goings in this school secret. You have had a number of concerned callers, notably Miss Granger who has been here most regularly. Messrs Potter and Weasley also. They may even have exchanged one or two cordial words with Miss Granger but whether the rapprochement will last, I can’t say. Do you have any further questions, Neville?”
Neville thought. “What happens now?” he asked.
Dumbledore grinned. “Life goes on, Neville. Enjoy it.” With that, he bowed politely, and left.
* * *
Just a few hours later Neville was discharged from the hospital wing and made his way up alone to Gryffindor Tower. He slunk in past the Fat Lady’s portrait, expecting to quietly head up to his room. But as he entered the common room, he found it packed with people. They all turned to watch him walk in. Then someone began to clap. Slowly at first, then with swelling enthusiasm, the rest joined in the applause. The Weasley twins came forward and hoisted Neville on their shoulders and cheered him through the room.
He quickly found Hermione, who gave him a hug and a simple “Well done.” She didn’t even seem to mind when he turned to talk to Harry and Ron, who were more over the top in their praise. After a while, as Neville felt tired, the three of them went up to their room chatting about their experience as if they had known each other for years.
That evening was the official end-of-year feast. The atmosphere was a little subdued on Neville’s table as Gryffindor had missed out on the House Cup, finishing third, barely above Hufflepuff. To make matters worse, Slytherin had taken the title yet again. Harry was blaming himself, the last Quidditch match of the season had taken place while Neville was unconscious and Harry said he’d been “distracted” and failed to catch the Snitch, his first failure.
After the feast Dumbledore stood up to announce the House Cup results, but paused before he did so. “Before I award the Cup, there are some last minute points to allocate. To Mr Harry Potter and Mr Ronald Weasley, for loyalty, skill and courageous self-sacrifice, thirty points each to Gryffindor.” Harry and Ron almost leapt into the air and Dumbledore gave them a stern look to sit down before he continued. “To Miss Hermione Granger, for wisdom, a cool head and bold persistence, forty points.” Hermione looked embarrassed, Ron and Harry tried not to look too disappointed she had outscored them.
Those points had brought them into second place, only a dozen or so behind Slytherin. “Finally,” said Dumbledore, “to Mr Neville Longbottom, for courage and bravery exemplary of his House, sixty points.” The Gryffindor table erupted and Neville was buried in the celebrations. The cheering went on for a very long time.
Neville settled down that night contented, as if all his hopes had come true. Then he remembered his original vision in the Mirror of Erised and checked his scar, but it was still there. “None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for this scar,” he thought. That worried him, could he never escape the scar?
When the year ended, as they boarded the Hogwarts Express to go home, Hermione found him in a compartment. “Write to me over the summer,” she said. “I’ll do the same.” They swapped addresses. “It’ll be strange going back to normal for the summer,” she added.
“I don’t think things will ever be normal for me,” said Neville miserably.
“Who wants to be normal?” said Hermione. Neville smiled and watched as Hogsmeade Station behind faded out of view like the end of a dream.
Neville Longbottom and the Philosopher's Stone by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which Neville discovers the true servant of Voldemort and recovers the Stone.