Voldemort himself felt a flicker of fear, though he refused to admit that there could truly exist someone in this world whom even Avada Kedavra could not kill.
He couldn't understand why Harry carried such a terrifying, awe-inspiring power.
It was a force utterly alien to him.
But then Voldemort remembered—he had already died once. There was nothing to fear in dying again. At worst, he would spend another two years regaining strength. That thought calmed him.
Yes, I've already died once.
"Let me speak to him… face to face…" he hissed.
"Master, your strength hasn't fully recovered yet!"
"I still have… enough for this much…"
Quirrell raised a trembling hand and loosened the scarf wrapped around his head. The large turban fell away, revealing a small, oddly fragile-looking bald head. Slowly, he turned around on the spot.
Where the back of Quirrell's head should have been, a face had grown—chalk-white skin, glowing red eyes, and beneath them two slit-like nostrils like a snake's.
Harry's lips twisted into a cruel smile.
"You really are hideous, Voldemort. Heh heh heh."
The Sword of Gryffindor burst into flame.
"So… we meet at last, Harry Potter…"
Voldemort's voice was a whisper, chilling and intimate.
Quirrell wanted to retreat, but his legs refused to obey—Voldemort had already seized full control of his body.
"Look at what I've become!" the face hissed. "Nothing but shadow and vapor… I can only gain form when sharing another's body. But there are always those willing to let me into their minds… In the past few weeks, unicorn blood has restored some of my strength…"
Harry spat on the floor with contempt. "Filth crawling in the gutter. If I were you, I'd rather die than live so pitifully."
"You're too naïve, Potter. I have great ambitions. I must live!"
"Great ambitions? You mean being a terrorist who scares schoolchildren for fun?"
"To conquer the British wizarding world—and then all of Europe! Once I obtain the Sorcerer's Stone, I can use its power of immortality to forge myself a new body—to be reborn! Cursed Dumbledore for hiding it away! It seems I can't kill you today after all—Avada Kedavra!"
"I knew it!"
Voldemort had only been talking to find an opening, but Harry was never the type to let his guard down before his nemesis. He dodged the Killing Curse easily—it was far stronger than anything Quirrell could cast, but still not enough to threaten him.
Harry struck back.
Voldemort's weakened reflexes and dulled perception were no match for him. All he saw was a flash of light—then his right arm was gone, severed cleanly from the shoulder.
Hand and wand both clattered to the floor.
"Ahhh—M–Master! My hand!"
"Silence."
Voldemort grimaced inwardly. Well, this is it then. Dead again—but at least not in my own body.
"How disappointing," Harry said coldly. "You're far too weak now."
"That's only because I don't have the Sorcerer's Stone… If I did…"
Harry glanced toward the mirror beside Quirrell—Dumbledore's enchanted Mirror of Erised.
It should have shown his heart's deepest desire, but this time the reflection was different. There were no loved ones, no friends—only himself.
The Harry in the mirror winked, reached into his pocket, and drew out a small, shining red stone. In that moment, Harry felt a new weight inside his own pocket.
That easy, huh?
Then came the familiar chime of the system:
[Royal Authority: Acquisition]
Reward: Philosopher's Stone crafting method.
Bonus: Silver Attribute — Magic 2 → 3.
The Philosopher's Stone: The Universal Cauldron, the Blood of the Lamb, the supreme relic of occultism and the ultimate pursuit of alchemists. It grants the ability to exchange magic for life force and to alter the essence of matter itself. Alchemy is a discipline of equivalent exchange—but the Philosopher's Stone may defy that law.
Every gift of fate carries a secret price.
A Philosopher's Stone exerts its full power only in the hands of its creator.
Each master alchemist's Stone functions differently.
During the act of creation, the host is considered a master alchemist.
The annotations were extensive—even Harry had to admit, excluding the divine artifacts like the Lightbringer, this was probably one of the finest treasures he had ever seen across his reincarnations.
And it wasn't just a single item—he had learned the technique to make one. That alone was far more valuable than owning an unknown stone with uncertain properties.
"Ah, of course," Voldemort said bitterly. "Dumbledore's favoritism… he trusts you that much, does he?"
He could feel the surge of power from the Stone in Harry's pocket.
"Damn Dumbledore… damn Harry Potter…" Voldemort snarled. "Finish me, then. But keep your little life safe—for I will return. I will come back… and when I do, you'll share your parents' fate. They begged me for mercy before the end…"
His words dripped with venom, but his current form lacked the power to curse Harry in any meaningful way.
"Pathetic whining of a beaten dog," Harry sneered, cutting off Quirrell's other hand. "I still remember that night. I see it often in dreams—my parents always there, protecting me."
The flaming sword cauterized the wound instantly. Quirrell let out a weak, broken scream.
"M–Master… Master…"
Voldemort didn't care—it wasn't his body. His gaze stayed fixed on Harry, and now that twisted face broke into a grin.
"How touching…" he rasped. "I've always admired courage. Yes, Potter—your parents were brave indeed. I killed your father first; he died fighting me, refusing to flee. And your mother… she didn't have to die. She chose to die—for you."
Harry's brow furrowed. He struck again—cutting off Quirrell's left leg, then his right. The man collapsed, twitching weakly on the floor. His own will was gone; only Voldemort's malice remained.
"Are you not afraid of death, Voldemort?"
"Death?" Voldemort's grin widened. "I have conquered death! Do you desire that power too, Potter? I could teach you!"
A lie, of course. Voldemort had no intention of teaching him anything.
"Wretched scum."
Harry swung his sword one last time, decapitating Quirrell—and Voldemort along with him.
[Royal Authority: Combat]
Reward: Bronze Attribute Point ×1.
Voldemort screamed as the flaming blade seared his very soul. Yet his essence was scattered, not destroyed. His howl of agony echoed, and then he vanished into shadow.
"Harry… Harry Potter… I'll remember you!"
The disembodied voice roared in fury. "I am immortal!"
"Oh? Maybe I should hand you this Stone," Harry said mockingly, holding up the Philosopher's Stone, "and see if I can kill you after you resurrect."
"So that's your plan—to provoke me?"
He saw through Voldemort's trick instantly. If Voldemort truly stood on Dumbledore's level, then once he returned in full, Harry wouldn't be able to kill him so easily again.
Besides, Harry didn't yet understand the true source of Voldemort's immortality. Clearly, it wasn't tied to his physical body. If it were, then the holy fire of the Lightbringer might have burned it away.
Perhaps his immortality came from some ritual—some number of resurrections allowed. Maybe killing him multiple times could end it. But seeing how confident he was, Harry knew it wouldn't be that simple.
"Enough, Harry. Don't give him the Stone."
Harry had already sensed the old man spying from the sidelines.
"Dumbledore."
Voldemort shrieked and immediately fled.
"Dumbledore! Stop him!"
Harry swung at the air, but his sword only sliced through emptiness. His magic, his strength—even the Lightbringer—could only wound Voldemort, not burn him.
Most people would have thought they were simply using the wrong method. But Harry believed it was because his divine power was still too weak.
If he were strong enough, a single stroke could cut Voldemort's fate, his existence—perhaps even slay a world itself. But his power wasn't yet there.
Dumbledore tried several spells, but none could stop Voldemort's spectral form.
"How can that be? You didn't even try, did you, Professor Dumbledore?"
The old wizard smiled faintly. "How did you know?"
Harry glared at him.
"I can't truly kill him," Dumbledore admitted. "So I saw no reason to waste my strength. Still, I hadn't expected you to harm him so badly. Was that love's magic again? It worked even when he wasn't threatening you?"
Harry smirked darkly. "Seems there are things you don't understand either, Professor."
"Then tell me, what power was that?"
"That's a secret," Harry said flatly. "You're too young for that, Professor Dumbledore."
He turned away, his expression dark as shadow.