The room was shrouded in darkness, yet the objects inches from Quirrell's face were unnervingly clear. A cold statue pressed against his nose, its dark wooden surface grazing his pale cheek. Quirrell's pupils shrank to pinpricks, his heart gripped by an invisible fist, blood pounding in his skull like an explosion.
He stumbled back, boots splashing in the shallow water pooling on the floor. Instinct drove him to draw his wand and aim it at the statue, ready to fire a Repelling Charm. But a sharp reminder from the Dark Lord snapped him out of his panic, restoring a shred of clarity.
Magic crackled at the tip of his wand, the primed spell giving him a fleeting sense of security. He studied the statue warily, retreating slowly, prepared to blast it with a powerful Repelling Charm at any moment. What in Merlin's name is this thing? It seemed like a dark magical artifact—active only when out of sight, but not particularly lethal.
As a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirrell's knowledge kicked in. He vaguely recognized it as a dilapidated dark artifact and exhaled, tension easing. His taut calf muscles relaxed, trembling slightly, his knees weak.
Then, a damp, slimy sensation slithered across his leg.
Quirrell glanced down instinctively. A splash echoed in front of him as something surged closer. "Oh no…" Too late. Before he could identify the thing on his leg, he jerked his head up to face the statue again. Unlike its earlier frozen stance, the statue's icy hands now clamped around his throat, its wooden grip as strong as a living person's, pinching his windpipe with precision.
"Guh—!" Quirrell gasped, his spell cut off. The slick, sticky thing—now a coarse hemp rope—coiled around his head, tightening viciously. Breathing, already a struggle, became nearly impossible. His chest heaved uselessly, each shallow breath burning his lungs. The harder it was to breathe, the more desperately he craved air.
"Kh… kh…" Only wheezing, asthmatic sounds escaped his throat, too weak to cast a spell. He clawed at the dark artifact strangling him, his vision darkening, an unprecedented terror gripping his heart.
Oxygen deprivation dulled his senses. His sight blurred, his ears rang, and every shadow in the room seemed to hold prying eyes. Rapid footsteps splashed behind him, as if someone were creeping closer.
Desperate, Quirrell pleaded to the presence within him, "M-Master… urk…"
Not far off, Harry, horrified, heard a voice respond—a voice utterly unlike Quirrell's, yet emanating from his body. "Foolish waste…" it hissed, sharp and grating.
The moment Harry heard it, a searing pain stabbed through his scar, as if a red-hot poker had been plunged into his forehead, twisting wildly in his brain. It was just like that night in the Forbidden Forest. No, I can't pass out here. Clutching the wall to stay upright, Harry stumbled, abandoning his plan to ambush Quirrell. He gritted his teeth against the pain, silently praying the statue and rope would finish the job.
As the strange voice spoke, Quirrell's wand trembled, then paused. A powerful shockwave erupted, hurling the statue backward. It crashed into the wall with a splintering crack of wooden joints, collapsing into the water with a splash. Without the statue's aid, the rope around Quirrell's neck was yanked free, flung far into the darkness.
"Cough, cough…" Quirrell hacked violently, as if trying to expel his lungs. It took several minutes for his spasming throat and chest to settle, letting him breathe the damp air again.
The struggle had been brief but brutal. Tears and snot streamed uncontrollably, some clinging to his drooping turban. Gripping it, Quirrell stammered, "M-Master… I-I didn't expect such a vile trap, worse than those Albanian dark wizards—"
"Silence! Get the Philosopher's Stone!" the voice snapped.
"Yes, Master!" Quirrell, shaken but relieved to be alive, unleashed a flurry of Reductor Curses, obliterating the wooden statue. Still unsatisfied, he scanned the dim room for the rope but found no trace. Spitefully, he pressed forward. "Once I have the Stone, I'll make sure Levent knows what it's like to be choked…"
No further obstacles appeared—Levent's tricks must have run dry. Still, Quirrell stayed on guard, wading through the icy water to a stone platform. There stood a mirror, its golden frame ornate and imposing. Despite the room's dimness, the mirror's reflection was crystal clear when Quirrell stepped before it.
He stared greedily. "I see the Philosopher's Stone! I'm presenting it to you, Master… but where is it hidden?"
The cold, rasping voice returned. "Use the boy…"
Harry froze, heart racing, but before he could react, Quirrell snapped his fingers. Magical ropes shot out of nowhere, binding Harry's wrists and ankles, dragging him to the mirror.
Quirrell's lips curled into a sinister grin. "I wondered if I'd get the chance to meet you before leaving, Potter."
Harry's scar throbbed, but he could move. He glared at the dark wizard. "You thought you were well-hidden, didn't you?" Quirrell sneered, his usual stammer gone. "Planning to strike while I was in danger. Naughty boy! I didn't notice you at first, but you got careless. Your footsteps gave you away."
Harry's mind flashed back. He had been hasty, but Quirrell had been choking, nearly dead—how could he have heard anything? His gaze flicked to the purple turban.
"You're clever," Quirrell said, not answering his unspoken question. He shoved Harry toward the mirror, the ropes biting into his ankles, making him stumble.
In the mirror, Harry saw only himself—no parents, just his own anxious reflection, like any ordinary mirror. But then, his reflection winked, smiled, and pulled a blood-red stone from its pocket before tucking it away.
…Dumbledore really hid the Stone here? Harry's mind raced for a plan, but before he could think, Quirrell let out a shrill scream, stumbling back from the Mirror of Erised.
"What now?" the impatient voice growled from the turban.
"M-Master… the mirror…" Quirrell stammered, reverting to his bumbling professor persona.
Harry glanced at the mirror. The Mirror of Erised showed one's deepest desires only when standing directly in front, but from an angle, it reflected reality. Now, it showed a corpse.
He and Quirrell looked up, following the reflection's angle. A hemp rope dangled from the ceiling, slowly turning, suspending Quirrell's body. Swollen muscles, pallid skin, bulging eyes—it was gruesome. The corpse wore an opal necklace, a gaping wound slashed across its throat. Dark, crimson blood dripped, plinking into the water below.
Plop… The sound Harry had heard wasn't water—it was blood.
Even as a bystander, Harry felt a chill. In this eerie, dim chamber, seeing one's own corpse in the mirror, so vividly dead…
Quirrell's nerves, already frayed from the choking ordeal, had no time to recover. The lingering fear of death now stared him in the face, tangible and real. Despair crept into his terror, as if that corpse were his inevitable fate. The thought rooted itself in his mind, unshakable.
Furious, Quirrell fired spells at the hanging body, making it sway precariously. But instead of falling, it dissolved into dust, scattering and vanishing—a magical construct. Only the opal necklace splashed into the water.
"Damn it! Damn it!" Quirrell trembled with rage.
"Useless!" the voice snapped, laced with anger.
"Master, I—"
"Let me speak to him. Face to face."
"Yes, Master."
Harry watched, horrified, as Quirrell unwrapped his turban and turned. A grotesque, terrifying face emerged—bloodless as the corpse, with scarlet eyes, no nose, just two thin, serpentine slits.
"Harry Potter!" The crimson gaze pinned Harry in place, his legs frozen. "Thanks to you, look at what I've become—a mere wisp of a soul, forced to share a body…"
---
Hidden by a Disillusionment Charm, cloaked in darkness, a dark magical candelabra called the Hand of Glory illuminated the scene for its bearer. The young witch, tears in her eyes, let go of the old Headmaster's arm, clamping a hand over her mouth. A sticky toffee locked her jaw, stifling a scream as Quirrell turned.
Dumbledore's eyes widened, peering at the figure before the mirror. Even without the candelabra's light, he could clearly see that cold, serpentine face. Many guesses were confirmed in that moment: a fragmented soul, neither dead nor alive. His suspicions about the diadem were also settled.
One question remained. Eleven years ago, the Potters' Secret-Keeper had betrayed their location. Voldemort had attacked Godric's Hollow, killing James and Lily with the Killing Curse. But Lily had prepared, sacrificing her life to weave a protective charm over Harry. That charm had rebounded Voldemort's curse, destroying his body, yet its power lingered, astonishingly potent.
Dumbledore hadn't wasted that magic. He'd placed Harry with the Dursleys, letting their blood ties nurture the charm, making it stronger. Now, eleven years later, they'd witness its power again.
Melvin, too, studied Voldemort, having only glimpsed him briefly during the Christmas holidays and in the Forbidden Forest. Now, he could feel the dark soul's leaking magic—utterly evil, utterly warped. Through that magic, Melvin glimpsed a fragment of Voldemort's soul: devoid of human emotion, pure malevolence, born to take life and inflict pain. If a unicorn's blessing let Melvin wield dark magic freely by purging its negative effects, this magic embraced those effects, perfectly aligned with dark magic's nature.
Melvin wondered: was this magic innate to Tom Riddle, or a byproduct of splitting his soul? From what he knew, Riddle, though a brilliant student, had been within the realm of normal wizards. The wizarding world wasn't short on geniuses—Hogwarts had seen plenty. Every few centuries, legends like the Founders, Merlin, or dark wizards like Herpo the Foul emerged. Dumbledore, too, would go down in history.
Magical strength depended on talent and time; dueling skills and mastery grew with age. Yet no wizard had ever risen as swiftly as Voldemort. Holding the withered-arm candelabra, Melvin's gaze swept over the snake-like face, the slit nostrils, the scarlet eyes. Were these serpentine traits a gift from some magical creature? How had Voldemort twisted his very soul with dark magic?
---
"Don't be foolish. Join me, or you'll end up like your parents, begging for mercy in their final moments…"
"Liar!" Harry snapped.
"Fine, your parents were brave," Voldemort conceded. "Your father fought to the end, your mother died protecting you, though she didn't have to. Now, hand over the Philosopher's Stone, or her sacrifice was for nothing."
Harry burned to slash that face with his wand but held back. His hands and feet were still bound, and he needed to buy time, hoping Hermione would bring help. Quirrell advanced, that hideous face grinning wickedly.
Harry edged back cautiously, the ropes cutting into his ankles, threatening to trip him. As Quirrell grabbed his throat, Harry's scar flared again—but Quirrell's scream was far worse. He recoiled, clutching his hand, which swelled and blistered as if burned.
The ropes binding Harry had vanished. Stunned, he watched Quirrell wail, touching the Stone in his pocket. Fleeing was an option, but Quirrell's spell-casting was faster. No running, no hesitating. Last time, hesitation had cost him.
Gritting his teeth, Harry lunged, swinging a fist into that twisted, serpentine face. Pain blackened his vision, his scar Ascendio! But Quirrell was worse off, dropping his wand and clutching his head, screaming.
"Ah! Ah!" Quirrell's cries mingled with Voldemort's roars, like a dissonant duet from Neville and Lavender's singing. Harry, gasping through the pain, swung again, unable to think, only pounding fist after fist into Quirrell's bald head and Voldemort's face.
The pain in his scar grew unbearable, his vision blurring. He lost track of how many punches he threw. Eventually, Quirrell's screams stopped, and his fists hit only air. As his consciousness faded, he faintly heard Hermione's voice calling his name.
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