Pressing Flowers [ Harry Potter AU ]

Chapter 4 - What the Fu-

(sorry this chapter kinda sucks ass, i'm not good at writing any sort of action type shit really, i'm much better at fluff, but yeah i tried (kinda not really)) 

Luckily, neither of them died. 

There wasn't even any sign that they had just stepped through flames other than a slight tingly feeling in their bones. Honestly though, that might have just been the fact that their hands were still tightly grasped together. 

After the weird feeling went away (mostly), the two boys really started to take in their surroundings. The flames behind them had disappeared, so they were free to turn back if they wanted to. It was a very bright and well-lit room, with torches hung on every wall. The floor was made of yellowed, cracked stone tile. The walls were similar, except they were made of brick instead of tile. 

It was a pretty plain and boring room, if it wasn't for the mirror in the middle. But what was even weirder was the person standing in front of it. It wasn't Snape, as they had expected. No, it wasn't the greasy-haired professor that Harry had grown to hate and Draco had grown to admire. Instead, it was a different man. A man with dark maroon robes, and a purple turban with as strange of a smell as ever coming from it. 

Quirrell. 

"Wha-" Draco started, only for Harry to slap his hand over his mouth. But it was too late, the damage had been done. The man whipped around, alerted of their presence. His focused stare turned into a confused one, then a dangerous glare, then a surprised blink, and finally he settled on a bewildered gaze as he looked at their clasped hands. 

"What the fu-" he started, only to be seemingly slapped by some invisible force. "Apologies," he muttered to no one. 

Harry followed the man's eyes down to their hands, and quickly pulled away as a blush spread across his face, and a much more noticeable pink tint made its way across Draco's cheeks, too. But then he "straightened" himself, and got back to what he came here for. 

"What are you doing here?" 

After a moment of recovery, Quirrell spat, "And why should I tell you that, boy?"

Harry drew a blank. 

Luckily, Slytherins were good in situations like these.

"Because we could help. We may be young, but we got down here, didn't we?" Draco proposed, making things up on the spot. "I don't know what you want, but if you tell us, we might be able to contribute. Slytherins are creative and talented, Gryffindors are courageous, and Ravenclaws are intelligent. Between the three of us, I'm sure we could do whatever it is you're down here for." 

Quirrell chuckled. "Your father raised you well, I see." Then he mulled it over for a few moments. "Very well. I require the Philospher's Stone. But I don't know how to get it. It's right here, in the mirror. But how to get it, how to get it..."

"Why do you want the stone, sir?" Draco wondered.

"Why do you want the stone, sir?" Harry questioned.

The man turned his nose up at the question. "Stop asking so many questions, you nosy children. Let me think. You're giving us a headache." 

"Us...?" Harry asked, extremely confused. 

"I said shut up, child!" Quirrell snapped. He massaged his temples, mentally reminding himself to never have children. He stared into the mirror, and suddenly a whispering voice echoed through the chamber.

The boy. Get the boy. He knows. 

Quirrell turned around and opened his mouth to speak, but then paused. "Which one?"