Arthur's knuckles were white on the hilt of the golden blade.
The name still rang hollow in his ears. Voldemort. He'd never heard it before tonight.
The red eyes gleamed from the back of Quirrell's head like coals beneath ash.
"You don't even know, do you?" the voice said, almost thoughtfully. "How... quaint."
Arthur didn't answer. His chest heaved with uneven breaths.
Voldemort chuckled. "They never told you. No one ever told you what really happened to Philip and Jean. It's funny I still remember their name."
Arthur's heart nearly stopped.
His parents.
His body went still.
"You—" Arthur's throat was dry. "You know them?"
"I knew them," Voldemort corrected, his voice coiling like smoke. "Philip was a talented man. Quiet. Dangerous when cornered. And Jean…" His grin widened. "She burned brighter than most. Defiant to the end."
Arthur's mouth opened, but no words came.
"No one ever told you what happened to them?" Voldemort asked, tilting his head. "How very... cruel. Or perhaps strategic."
Arthur's voice finally found him. "They said it was an accident. An ambush."
Voldemort laughed, sharp and cold. "Isn't it always?"
Then the air thickened.
"I killed them, Arthur."
The words hit like stones.
"But not for sport. Not at first." Voldemort's tone was calm, almost conversational. "They were in the way. Good people usually are."
Arthur took a shaky step back, but Voldemort continued, his voice soft and terrible.
"They were protecting something. No, someone."
Arthur froze.
"You."
Silence crashed through the room like thunder.
"You were just a child. Barely a year old. But something about you… I could feel it. Even then."
Arthur's mind reeled. "That's not possible."
"Oh, but it is," Voldemort hissed. "Your mother died with you in her arms. Your father had already fallen. I reached for you. But when I did…" His voice turned bitter. "You burned me."
Arthur's hair flickered silver again.
"The spell rebounded. My body was destroyed. My soul… shattered. Cast out like a shadow." Voldemort's voice grew colder. "All because of you."
Arthur stared at him in horror. "I... I don't remember."
"Of course not. But your magic does."
There was something chilling in how calmly Voldemort said it.
"You survived the impossible. And I lost everything."
Arthur stood in silence, the Philosopher's Stone pressed to his chest, the truth breaking over him like a storm.
And for the first time in his life, he began to understand the weight of who he was.
Harry's POV
Harry had backed into the wall, heart pounding in his throat.
He'd heard every word.
Arthur's eyes were wide, glassy with the kind of shock that came from having your entire life rewritten in a single breath.
"You..." Harry said slowly, staring at Quirrell—no, at Voldemort. "You killed his parents?"
The red eyes turned to him, narrowing. "And yours defied me. Three times to be exact."
Harry stiffened.
"Oh yes, Potter," Voldemort hissed. "James and Lily. Always getting in the way of greatness."
"Yeah, well, they're still alive," Harry shot back, fists clenched. "And they'd die before helping you."
"Such noble stupidity," Voldemort said, almost wistfully. "You and Arthur, both protected by parents who thought they could stop fate."
Arthur finally moved, stepping between Voldemort and Harry, as if shielding him.
"So what do you want now?" Arthur asked, voice low. "The Stone? Revenge? Me?"
Voldemort's smile returned. "Why not all three?"
Then Harry said something quietly. "You said he burned you."
Arthur turned slightly. "What?"
"You said when you tried to touch him as a baby, he burned you," Harry repeated, eyes narrowing. "You didn't say the Killing Curse rebounded. You said he burned you."
A pause.
Voldemort's silence was telling.
Arthur's silver-streaked hair flickered again.
Harry looked at his friend with new eyes. "You weren't just protected by your parents… were you?"
Arthur didn't know what to say. His hands trembled slightly.
Voldemort let out a soft, venomous laugh. "And so the truth starts to unravel…"
Voldemort stepped closer, his voice silk over steel.
"You don't have to fight me," he said, gaze flicking between Arthur and Harry. "Either of you. You don't know what you could become—with me. I can give you power. Purpose. Answers."
Arthur didn't move. His fingers curled slowly at his sides.
Harry scoffed, stepping forward. "We'd never join you."
Voldemort's lips curled. "So brave. So predictable. Just like your parents."
Harry didn't flinch. "Good."
But Voldemort turned his gaze back to Arthur.
"And you," he said softly. "You're not like him. You're clever. Ambitious. You think before you leap."
Arthur's silence pressed like weight against the room.
"You want to understand," Voldemort continued, his voice weaving like smoke. "Why you survived. Why you feel… different. Why your magic doesn't burn, but freezes. I can help you unlock it."
Harry's voice was low, urgent. "Arthur. Don't."
But Arthur remained still. His jaw tight. Something flickering behind his eyes.
"If I joined you," Arthur said slowly, "what would I become?"
Voldemort smiled. "Everything. Beyond your professors. Beyond your parents. Beyond even me."
Harry's breath caught. "Arthur…"
Arthur turned his head, meeting Harry's eyes. What Harry saw chilled him deeper than any frost.
Curiosity. Conflict. Hunger.
Then Arthur looked back at Voldemort.
His voice, when it came, was cold as winter steel.
"You failed. You lost everything. You're a shadow clinging to borrowed life."
He took a step forward.
"Why would I need you," he said, "when I could be more powerful than you?"
Voldemort's eyes gleamed. "Yes… I knew you'd understand."
But then—
The air shifted.
Frost began to creep up the stone walls, snaking like veins.
White light shimmered around Arthur's shoulders—not fire. Not flame.
A blinding, icy brilliance.
Harry shielded his eyes. Voldemort flinched.
Arthur's voice was quiet. Almost sad.
"You think this is yours to offer.
But it's mine.
It always has been."
The light surged—silent, searing, cold enough to burn.
Voldemort screamed.
White. Then ash. Then nothing.
∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur's POV
Arthur gasped awake.
His chest lifted as though he'd been drowning in fire and frost all at once. The air in the Hospital Wing was too clean, too still. The white sheets were tucked too tightly. The sunlight slanted through tall windows in perfect lines that hurt his eyes.
He was alive.
He shouldn't be.
Not after what had happened.
Not after that.
Something shifted beside the bed. A book slammed shut.
Hermione.
"You're awake," she whispered, eyes wide, voice trembling like she'd been holding her breath for days.
Arthur didn't answer.
His eyes flicked across the room. Beds. Curtains. Stillness.
One of the beds was occupied—red and gold blanket, familiar black hair tousled on the pillow.
Harry.
Still unconscious.
Arthur looked away.
Madam Pomfrey bustled out from her office the moment Hermione lit her wand. She fussed over him—muttering about burns that wouldn't heal, skin that had frozen and thawed like cracked porcelain, heartbeats that paused and returned hours later. Magic that didn't make sense.
None of it made sense.
Not anymore.
Not since he'd seen what he could become.
Not since he looked into the Dark Lord's eyes and considered it.
He clenched his fist beneath the sheets.
"Arthur?" Hermione's voice again. Hesitant. Gentle. "Do you remember what happened?"
He said nothing.
Just stared at the window. At the glass. At the frost still clinging faintly to the corners, like the room itself hadn't recovered either.
He wasn't the same.
And the truth was, part of him didn't want to be.
He was tired of pretending to be the perfect survivor. The symbol. The boy who lived. The answer.
He wasn't a hero.
He was a Slytherin.
And for once… he felt like it.
The door to the Hospital Wing creaked open.
Dumbledore stepped in.
Arthur didn't turn to look at him. He already knew the weight of the gaze that would be on him, the silent judgment wrapped in that knowing twinkle.
Dumbledore said nothing at first. He simply watched.
Hermione stood, her eyes shifting between Arthur and the headmaster. She knew this moment was coming—had known it would. But that didn't make it easier.
"Madam Pomfrey has done all she can?" Dumbledore asked softly, though his eyes never left Arthur.
Arthur's gaze didn't shift. "I'm alive."
"You are," Dumbledore agreed, his voice heavy with something that was neither relief nor disappointment. Just… truth.
Arthur's lips twisted into something barely resembling a smile. "You know, I thought I was dead."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, his expression a little sharper than usual. "And what makes you think that?"
Arthur finally turned his eyes toward him, cold and steady. "Because after what I saw… I think I might have been."
Dumbledore took a slow step forward. "Tell me what happened, Arthur. I've seen the darkness in you, but I also see the light. You're not like him."
Arthur's fingers tightened into a fist again, his breath coming a little quicker.
"Maybe I don't want to be like you, either," he muttered, his words quieter than he intended.
The silence stretched long between them. Hermione stood back, unsure whether to leave or stay, but the tension was too much to bear. She took a step back, looking uncertainly at Dumbledore.
After a moment, Dumbledore glanced at Hermione and nodded. "Miss Granger, I think it's best if you give us some privacy."
Hermione hesitated but nodded slowly, her eyes lingering on Arthur for a moment longer. "If you need anything, Arthur... you know where to find me."
With one last look at Arthur, Hermione left the room, the door closing softly behind her.
Dumbledore watched Arthur for a long time. His gaze softened, but there was an edge to his voice when he spoke again. "I know you're conflicted. But power isn't the answer. It never is."
Arthur didn't say anything. His thoughts were a whirlwind—he could still see Voldemort's face, the temptation that had nearly shattered him. The cold, brutal promise of strength. The world at his feet.
But he couldn't do it. Not then. Not now.
But he also couldn't shake the feeling that this moment was only the beginning.
"I'm not the hero you want me to be," Arthur said, his voice quieter now. "I'm just trying to survive."
Dumbledore's gaze held his for a long moment, and Arthur wondered, not for the first time, if the headmaster truly understood. Maybe he did. But that didn't make the truth any easier to accept.
"I can help you," Dumbledore said softly. "But you have to make the choice. Don't let the darkness control you."
Arthur didn't respond, turning away to look out the window at the pale light creeping in from the outside. The frost was fading, but the damage lingered, like a wound that wouldn't heal.
Dumbledore's steps began to retreat, soft against the stone floor.
But Arthur's voice stopped him.
"Professor."
Dumbledore turned, surprised by the call. Arthur still hadn't looked at him—his gaze fixed on the pale light outside. But his hand moved.
Slowly, deliberately, Arthur reached beneath the collar of his hospital gown—just beneath his shoulder—fingers closing around something small and impossibly warm.
When he drew it out, his hand shook slightly.
The Stone.
Its glow was dim now, pulsing like a heartbeat buried deep in coals.
He extended it toward Dumbledore without turning.
There was only one word on his lips:
"Why?"
Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. His face, so often unreadable, flickered with something almost like guilt. Or was it weariness?
"I was hoping you'd rest before asking that," he said softly, approaching the bed once more. He took the Stone gently, reverently, like it weighed more than it should.
"I thought it would be safest with you," Dumbledore continued. "No vault. No spell. No barrier would have kept it from him. Not like... your will did."
Arthur finally looked at him, his blue eyes sharp and unreadable. "You used me."
"I trusted you," Dumbledore corrected gently. "And I still do."
Arthur said nothing.
He stared at the Stone in the professor's hand for a long moment. "What will happen to it?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled again—but this time, there was a sadness behind it.
"I suppose... I'll have to ask the Flamels."
And with that, he turned and left, the door closing with a soft click behind him.
Arthur was alone again.
But something had changed.
And he wasn't sure if it was the world—or just himself.
He was left with nothing but the question of who he would choose to become.