"Even if the Philosopher's Stone gets burned, it doesn't matter. I'll just feed it to the Fiendfyre. I don't need that thing to stay alive anyway."
Leonard summoned the Fiendfyre three-headed serpent and flashed the Mirror of Erised a thoroughly malicious grin.
After seeing his own ambitions reflected in the mirror, Leonard held the Philosopher's Stone in open disdain. The Elixir of Life it produced could only grant longevity. It couldn't stop aging.
He wasn't Voldemort. He didn't need it to cling to life.
At Leonard's command, the Fiendfyre three-headed serpent lunged forward and wrapped itself around the Mirror of Erised.
It didn't devour the mirror right away. Instead, it wore it down slowly, like a barbed tongue dragging itself across the surface, licking and scraping bit by bit.
As this happened, the hazy barrier surrounding the mirror began to destabilize, rippling violently as if it might collapse at any moment.
Leonard watched the trembling surface in silence.
Then, in the instant the mirror rippled most violently, he reached out and grabbed something from within.
The flames dispersed.
A massive ruby appeared in Leonard's hand.
"Got it," Leonard muttered as he stared at the gemstone. "That was even easier than I expected."
Everything had gone far too smoothly. So smoothly that Leonard almost felt like mocking the Hogwarts professors and the headmaster for their supposedly foolproof defenses around the Philosopher's Stone.
"Forget it. They're elders, after all. Can't go being disrespectful," Leonard muttered as he put the Philosopher's Stone away, clearly having no real understanding of what "disrespectful" meant.
With the stone secured, Leonard quickly erased any traces he might have left behind. He retraced his steps, glanced once at the three-headed dog still snoring under the harp's hypnotic music, and walked away without looking back.
The harp wouldn't last much longer, but even if it was discovered, it wouldn't be anything he couldn't handle.
Avoiding the night patrol Filch, Leonard returned to his dormitory, lay down on his bed, and closed his eyes.
"Everything's done. Time for the scapegoat to take the stage," Leonard murmured.
A faint emerald glow leaked from the narrow slits between his closed eyelids.
…
Whoosh.
An invisible wind swept from Hogwarts Castle toward the Forbidden Forest. Wherever it passed, plants swayed as if infused with awareness.
Leaves brushed against one another, producing soft, whispering sounds, like hushed voices speaking in secret.
In an instant, the forest seemed to awaken, bursting with vitality after a long slumber.
At that moment, the forest opened its eyes.
Its gaze spread across every corner of the woods.
Quirrell, naturally, did not escape its attention.
Deep within the forest, Quirrell, who had been running at full speed, suddenly felt a sharp chill in his chest.
It was the sensation of being watched by something terrifying. Yet the surroundings were eerily silent. Even the Voldemort on the back of his head offered no warning.
Quirrell began to wonder if he was just being overly sensitive.
Although Voldemort was currently dormant, gathering strength, his senses were usually razor-sharp. It didn't make sense for him to miss something like this.
Maybe it was just his body warning him that it was close to its limit.
Quirrell let out a bitter smile and pulled out a vial of Invigoration Draught, pouring it down his throat in one gulp.
The potion couldn't extend his life, but it could at least replenish some of his depleted stamina.
"Almost there… another ten minutes and I'll reach the marsh," Quirrell muttered, forcing himself to ignore the pain as he continued deeper into the Forbidden Forest.
To avoid drawing the attention of other races in the forest, Quirrell had deliberately chosen a route with no obvious territorial markers, minimizing the chance of complications.
"I hope… I really hope the unicorn is near the swamp," Quirrell panted.
Just then, he heard something strange.
The sound of hooves, stamping in place like horses pawing the ground.
This wasn't centaur territory.
The thought struck him instantly, and his eyes lit up.
If those hoofbeats weren't from centaurs, then there was only one possibility.
Unicorns.
Finally.
Quirrell nearly broke down in tears. He'd actually found them. If he hadn't, he was certain he would have died in the Forbidden Forest tonight.
Careful not to startle them, Quirrell slipped into the tall grass and crept toward the source of the sound.
Soon, he saw them.
A group of moonlit spirits.
Beautiful beings with silvery-white coats, their fur shimmering under the moonlight like translucent crystal.
Their pure blue eyes were like clear springs, impossible to forget.
A shame such beautiful creatures were about to become his food.
The malice in Quirrell's eyes wasn't hidden in the slightest.
It immediately put the unicorns on alert.
The leading unicorn let out a sharp neigh and led the herd toward the edge of the marsh.
"Damn it, stop!" Quirrell shouted instinctively.
At the same time, he cried out in his mind.
"Master! Master! I've found unicorns!"
Quirrell no longer had the strength to hunt them himself. Only by letting Voldemort take over, squeezing every last drop of potential from this failing body, could he hope to succeed.
The moment Quirrell called out, the eyes on the back of his head opened.
"Relinquish control of the body. Leave the rest to me," Voldemort rasped.
Give up control?
Quirrell's body began to tremble.
The sensation was like having a blade pressed against his throat, poised to slit it open.
But he didn't dare resist.
The command came from Voldemort, a demon who could take his life at any moment.
He had no right to refuse.
And Voldemort wasn't asking for permission. He was informing him.
"Y-yes… my Lord," Quirrell replied in a pitiful, trembling voice.
Suddenly, his body convulsed violently, as if he had grabbed a live wire.
No.
It was far worse than that.
Amid Quirrell's agonized screams, his limbs twisted grotesquely. His palms, arms, and joints bent backward as if being forcibly reassembled.
His entire body felt remade.
Bones cracked and popped in rapid succession, like firecrackers exploding inside his flesh.
At the same time, his reversed limbs lifted in movements that no longer matched his own will.
It was as if his body had been flipped over.
In truth, that was exactly what had happened.
"Hah… it's been a long time," a hoarse voice sighed from the back of Quirrell's head.
Voldemort's voice.
The hands behind him moved without hesitation, tearing away the cloth wrapped around Quirrell's head and revealing Voldemort's face.
Quirrell's own face was twisted in sheer terror.
He had completely lost control of his body.
Now, the one in command was the face on the back of his head.
Voldemort.