Sirius leapt out of his chair so quickly that Harry barely saw him move. His wand, which had never left his hand, was pointed squarely at the Defence Professor's heart.

"Um, Sirius, that's an extremely bad idea," Harry said in growing alarm.

"Who are you?" demanded Sirius. He made no movements and spoke no spells, but Harry could see faint ripples, distortions in the air like a heat-haze, as magic layered itself around Sirius.

"He's not wrong, you know," said the Defence Professor idly, leaning against the wall.

"Answer the question," growled Sirius.

Quirrell looked distinctly unimpressed. "Professor Quirinus Quirrell. And put that wand away before you have someone's eye out with it."

"Is he with you, Harry?" Sirius asked in a controlled voice, never taking his eyes off Professor Quirrell, who was inspecting his fingernails.

"He is. And if he meant me any harm, I'd be dead by now."

Sirius hesitated, then sheathed his wand.

"Well. Sirius Black, the great traitor and mass-murderer. How did you manage to escape Azkaban, then?"

"None of your business."

"As truculent as ever, I see."

There was a moment of silence.

"So, what now?" Harry ventured.

"We leave this place at once. We are most fortunate that Dumbledore has not arrived already. Then-"

"Hold on," Sirius interrupted. "Where exactly are you taking Harry?"

"That," Quirrell retorted sharply, "is of no concern to you."

Harry tried and failed to think of something to say to dissipate the rising tension.

Something about Sirius's stance changed in a way that Harry's brain translated to a dog raising its hackles. "I happen to be his godfather."

Paying no notice, Professor Quirrell produced another Portkey from within his robes and tossed it to Harry. Wordlessly, he turned and stalked towards the half-rotten door, beckoning Harry with one hand.

Harry made to follow him.

Sirius reappeared before the door, and his wand was out again. "Where do you think you're going?"

Professor Quirrell closed his eyes briefly. "One perceives that the expression 'like a dog with a bone' is well-founded."

"I make the jokes around here, scaly."

"Professor?" asked Harry. "Why not just bring him with us?"

Sirius nodded firmly.

The Defence Professor gave Sirius an appraising look.

Finally, Professor Quirrell sighed. "Very well. I confess that I am curious about our canine companion's story. Now, must I remind the two of you that we are still in enemy territory?" Quirrell stepped smartly outside the Shack, past the boundary of the wards. He seized Sirius' wrist, and Harry noticed his godfather's hand tighten almost imperceptibly on his wand. Quirrell reached into his robes, nodded to Harry, and vanished.

Harry activated his own Portkey.

The evening air was crisp and clear. The Moon rose above the horizon, and a faint wash of stars was visible already.

Professor Quirrell waved his wand, and a ball of light appeared in midair, revealing a small, deserted farmhouse and a decrepit barn.

"Where are we?" asked Sirius warily.

"A deserted farm in Devon. It should do for our purposes tonight."

Professor Quirrell's voice had grown abruptly weaker, and he led them towards the barn with an irregular gait.

For a moment, it seemed to be an ordinary, empty barn. Then something bent and warped in the air, and it expanded tenfold, revealing a warm, spacious, well-lit room. There were countless shelves bearing potions ingredients, spare wands, odd-looking bits of jewellery, and several strange devices Harry didn't recognise. In the centre of the room, there was a groaning, rumbling noise, and a black altar surrounded by six black pillars arose from the floor.

"Well," said Professor Quirrell, "first things first."

Quirrell pressed his wand to himself, and suddenly he seemed to stand taller. His hairline spread out and forwards, his skin lost its pallor, and new flesh filled out his sickly, thin limbs.

Quirrell reached into his pocket and withdrew the Philosopher's Stone. For a moment, he held still; then he raised it to the light and examined it speculatively. For a moment, Harry thought he might have seen a grid of intricately-arranged points within it, but then the sight was gone.

Sirius seemed to be about to say something. Quirrell turned towards him, and then his hand darted forwards, passing cleanly through Sirius' shields, and touched the Philosopher's Stone to him.

It might have been a trick of the light, but the haunted, hollow look in Sirius's eyes seemed to ease, and he stepped back, blinking. "What just-"

Harry furrowed his brow. How did the Stone even know what Professor Quirrell wanted it to do? And how can a rock know how to fix a human brain?

Quirrell smiled thinly. "Mr. Black, would you mind awfully explaining how you came to be out of Azkaban, and by all appearances not in fact a Death Eater?"

Sirius paused for a moment, nonplussed, then shrugged and began to tell his story. The words seemed to come to him more easily this time.

Quirrell raised his wand and traced a human shape in midair.

A man's body, cloaked in fine and flowing robes, spun into existence before the Defence Professor, held magically upright. The body's eyes were closed, and it did not breathe.

Quirrell tapped it with the Stone, then flicked his wand. From his pockets arose an assortment of objects Harry didn't recognise, which secreted themselves in the conjured body's pockets. The Defence Professor touched the body's limbs with his wand, tracing a line from shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist, hip to knee, knee to foot, murmuring incantations.

At length, Sirius's story came to an end.

"Fal. Tor. Pan."

An echoing thunderclap pierced the air, and Professor Quirrell's body collapsed to the floor.

The conjured body's eyes opened, and they were the same shade as Quirrell's.

David Monroe's new body looked like Quirinus Quirrell's, but with deliberate mistakes. There were the same sharp features, the same icy eyes, but he seemed younger than he had all year, and somehow more clearly and decidedly present. Professor Quirrell stretched slowly, examining his new hands, opening and closing his fingers. "Obliviate," he said to the man on the floor, and his voice had all of its customary dry precision.

"Um," said Sirius, seeming to remember that he was an ostensibly-responsible member of the Order of the Phoenix, "should I be doing something about this?"

The original Quirinus Quirrell stirred feebly. "Free," he gasped.

"Ah, Mr. Quirrell," said the Defence Professor. "My apologies for the theft of your body." A lazy flick of the wand, and a coin purse appeared in Quirinus's hands, which Monroe tapped with the Stone. "Please accept this as my payment." Monroe muttered some kind of diagnostic spell, then nodded, seeming satisfied. Monroe offered his hand. The original Quirinus Quirrell took it and stood, slowly, incredulously, then turned and vanished with a dull pop.

David Monroe - Harry decided that it would be easier to just keep thinking of him as Professor Quirrell - turned back. "The time is come, Mr. Potter. Lay your ring upon the altar, dispel the Transfiguration, and I shall restore life as best I can. Sshe sshall not be harmed in any manner, but resstored to true and lassting life."

Heart hammering in his chest, Harry bent down and untied his shoelaces, ignoring something Sirius was spluttering about something or other being impossible. Carefully, he withdrew the solid-diamond ring and laid it upon the black marble altar.

"Finite incantatem."

Two-thirds of a corpse sprawled across the ebon stone, so cold and pale in death, standing out in sharp relief against the blackness.

Harry glanced away, holding himself together, pushing away all the memories, trying to ignore the image.

Professor Quirrell glided smoothly forwards and waved a hand over the body. Hermione's body straightened and oriented itself, clothed in new Hogwarts robes, unstained by blood or spellfire, and then Professor Quirrell pointed his wand and new flesh streamed forwards, reshaping itself into restored limbs.

Behind Harry, Sirius gave out a choked yell and made to approach the Defence Professor.

"Stay back," said Quirrell, perfectly calmly. "This procedure is exceedingly complex." He pointed his wand at the obelisks, and they began to chant in deep, echoing tones that Harry thought sounded vaguely like Greek.

Hermione's body started to become less pale, less twisted, seeming almost asleep.

"Harry," came Sirius's voice, gently, too gently, "I'm sorry, but she's not coming back. Don't get your hopes up. Whatever your... friend is trying to do, it won't work. The closest he could get is an Inferius, and that's the last thing anyone would-"

"Prediction noted," Harry managed. "She's not- her brain should be OK. I used- I used Muggle knowledge to keep her brain safe after she died, and she's been kept mostly static by the Transfiguration, and we have the Stone..."

Sirius laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'm not going to patronise you, Harry. She's dead. Her soul has moved on. She's never coming back."

"And what if she does?" Harry said suddenly. "Does that mean she won't have a soul? What do you actually expect to see?"

Sirius was silent for a moment. Then he looked intently at Harry. "Well... if she does, and she is who she always was, then a lot of people are very, very wrong."

"Muggles can already bring people back from the dead sometimes. There are people whose hearts have stopped, and Muggle healing can make them start again. Not always, but sometimes."

Sirius looked thoughtful, and said no more.

Hermione's body was surrounded by a pale-blue glow, which Professor Quirrell had said would keep her perfectly static and preserved.

The Defence Professor turned and vanished upon the spot. A few moments later he reappeared, stowing a Time-Turner away under his robes. In his hand were two pebbles, one white and one black.

"What was all that about?"

The Defence Professor was humming a small tune to himself.

"The Philosopher's Stone, as it turns out, Mr. Potter, is very useful. All will become clear."

Quirrell took a piece of oddly bright white chalk from one of his pockets, and began to trace a circle on the floor, adding careful, precise flourishes that glimmered oddly in the magical light.

"There is an old ritual that can sacrifice a magical creature to transfer its magical nature to one within the circle. Transfiguration sickness is a tricky business, and there is no use in taking chances. Besides, I would really rather not go through all this again."

Amid the other questions that were competing for priority, Harry remembered one in particular.

"Professor? May I just ask, when you were in the Mirror with the Headmaster, why didn't you just show him what the Stone can do?"

Professor Quirrell did not look up from where he was drawing the circle on the floor.

"The Dark Lord planned," he began, "that Voldemort should lose. He was mindful of the mistakes of the Dark Evangel, who tried to introduce herself as the 'Walking Catastrophe' and 'Apostle of Darkness', but panicked and called herself the 'Apostrophe of Darkness'. And so when his walking joke of a Dark Lord was seen as a serious threat, he lost any respect for Dumbledore, and to a certain degree I suppose that influenced me."

"Why were you influenced by Voldemort in the first place?" Sirius interjected. "And how do you know-"

"I am partly Voldemort, Mr. Black."

There was silence for a moment, then Sirius shook his head. "You know what? Fine. Of course you are."

"The Dark Lord used incredibly dark magic to copy his mind onto mine. No, I am not as evil as he. If you would like to hear the details, please feel free to never ask about it again."

Quirrell still didn't look up from his inscription.

"As I was saying, you discovered for yourself, Mr. Potter, that it is a personal flaw of Riddle's that he consistently underestimates other people. Well, 'underestimate' is not quite accurate: he does not consider other people to be players of the game in any respect. Your failure in your first battle against Sunshine was, in part, your heritage from Riddle. And so it did not occur to me at the time to try to reason with Dumbledore."

Professor Quirrell stood up, and turned to regard Hermione. He raised his wand and the circle flared brightly. A thought seemed to strike the Defence Professor, and he tapped the line of the circle with the Stone. "Finite," he then said to the circle.

The circle of brightness remained, and Quirrell made a pleased sound. "That proves that. The Stone makes magic a fixture in such a way that it is as though there is no magic at all. This circle is magical, and yet it cannot be dispelled because there is nothing to dispel. "

From his hand fell the two pebbles, and they landed in the circle and swelled into the shapes of a unicorn and a mountain troll.

Before Harry could even begin to process this, Quirrell pointed his wand at the two creatures and muttered, "Thuo tei dunamei," then slashed it towards Hermione.

The two creatures crumbled to dust, and then that too faded from sight.

"Transfiguration sickness is nothing before a troll's healing, and a unicorn's blood will preserve life even at the brink of death. Miss Granger will suffer no ill effects, but live as though she always had that power. No lesser force or magic shall slay her."

"Thank you," whispered Harry. The Defence Professor was clearly in a very good mood.

Professor Quirrell nodded, and Harry didn't quite catch the odd look in his eyes.

"Now, the first problem: this is the enchanted body of a dead Muggle. The brain could be awakened rather easily, perhaps, but I do not know if her own magic would return."

"I did some research," said Harry's lips automatically, "and I think magic is probably just passed on by a marker gene. Coming back to life shouldn't change that."

"Perhaps. I am not convinced... There may be a better solution." Professor Quirrell glanced towards Sirius. "Sacrificing a wizard to this ritual is a possibility-" Professor Quirrell caught Harry's sharp look, and rolled his eyes. "Very well. There exists another ritual that would solve the matter, but finding her enemy's blood, father's bone and servant's flesh would take time."

"Let me try something," Harry said, struck by a sudden thought. He stepped forwards and raised his wand to point at Hermione.

Harry pushed down the joy that was slowly mounting. It wasn't enough, wasn't good enough. There were still people dying even as Harry tried to save this one. Dozens, hundreds, thousands, millions, billions who had already been lost. Billions more, who would have done whatever it took, torn reality apart to bring that someone back.

They had failed, or never dared to try, or hope. Most of the world, even the magical world, had come to the conclusion that death was inevitable. The prospect of resurrection had barely even crossed their minds.

"Professor," said Harry, "this might work better if I can see the stars."

Quirrell gave a single nod, and spoke the spell of the Silent Night.

Harry stood in the depths of the sky, lit by the unwavering light of countless stars.

It hadn't quite struck him before. Here, tonight, beneath the starlight, he would begin. He had already resolved to end death, but that wasn't enough, nowhere near enough. Death should not be, he thought, and never should have been. There was hope, here, in this world of Time-Turners and Philosopher's Stones and phoenixes.

Harry would not stop with saving the living. He would not stop with saving Hermione.

Harry would not stop until he had saved every single one, wizard or witch or Muggle or house-elf or goblin or centaur or anything else he couldn't imagine, rescued everyone who had ever fallen into Death's hands.

Harry would not stop until he realised that dream, until he could watch the Sun go out alongside every single person the human species - and any other thinking species - had ever lost.

We don't have to put up with it. Nobody, ever, will have to spare a moment to think about the ones who died before they could be helped. I refuse to lose, or to have lost.

"Expecto, PATRONUM!"

And there was light.

Hermione Granger took her first breath for the second time.

Hermione's body was bathed in silver fire, even as Harry staggered. Some of the life and magic he'd just lost would never return to him, he knew. It wasn't much, barely even noticeable, but what he had lost would never return. That sacrifice was permanent.

Professor Quirrell touched Hermione's forehead with the Stone, and though Harry's Patronus faded away, some of that silver fire yet remained about her.

The sphere of stars slowly faded away.

And then two unfamiliar voices spoke, "Avada Kedavra."

Harry Potter and David Monroe collapsed to the floor, dead.