*Wooooong!*
A flash of green light erupted from Harry's wand with a resonant hum, shooting forward and reflecting a clear, verdant glow—the same color as Harry's eyes—off every surface.
For a fleeting moment, the color of the light made Harry think of his mother.
It was a perfect match for the color of Lily Potter's eyes in the photographs. It almost felt as if his mother were protecting him through that bolt of light.
"Potter, what—"
And then, the bolt of light struck Quirrell squarely in the back as he stared at the mirror.
Quirrell, who had never imagined the bound Harry would attack, let alone with the Killing Curse, collapsed without even a chance to utter a final cry, his wide eyes fixed on Harry.
After a very brief silence.
*Thud.*
Quirrell's small body, struck by the curse, lifted into the air before crashing to the floor, raising a cloud of dust.
Harry held his pose, his body twisted and his right arm outstretched, wand in hand, from having cast the spell.
One, two, three.
Counting silently in his head, Harry finally let out a breath only after ten seconds had passed and Quirrell's body had not stirred at all.
"Haaah."
He had won.
A wave of relief washed over him, and Harry relaxed his tense muscles, lowering his wand.
His first real battle was certainly different from what he had imagined. As the clear underdog, he had been forced to use every means at his disposal to survive.
And yet, he had defeated a Dark wizard.
Feeling a sense of satisfaction in his achievement, Harry allowed himself a small smile.
At this rate, wouldn't he become a disciple worthy of his master's name?
But just as he smiled, Harry froze, his expression hardening.
Searching for the source of a strange sense of wrongness, he soon realized it was because his scar was throbbing again.
Why? Why did his scar still hurt when Quirrell was defeated?
Just then.
*Crick. Crack.*
A bizarre sound came from Quirrell's body, which should have been dead from a direct hit by the Killing Curse. A dark, ash-colored smoke enveloped Quirrell's body, and then—it began to rise.
Startled, Harry raised his wand again.
No way, he survived the Killing Curse! The only person to have ever survived the Killing Curse was himself, protected by the ancient magic of love, so how?
With no time to ponder the question, Harry tensed his relaxed muscles once more, preparing for battle against the approaching threat.
*Fwoooosh*
The ashen smoke that had surrounded Quirrell's body—or rather, the body that was being propped up—was sucked into it.
Then, without a word, Quirrell raised an arm and began to unravel the turban from his head.
Harry felt he had to do something, but a strange pressure enveloping his body made it impossible to stop Quirrell's actions.
Finally, the last of the bandages covering Quirrell's head was removed and fell to the floor, revealing the form that had been hidden within.
Skin like pale, white glass.
Beneath it, dark veins were clearly visible.
A nose more distorted than a fetus's, and thin, slit-like nostrils.
And eyes, blazing red like the sun, with pupils split vertically like a snake's.
Though no one had introduced him, Harry knew his name.
Barely managing to move his throat, frozen with tension, Harry uttered the name.
"Vol-demort!"
Quirrell's hand caressed the now fully revealed face. No, Quirrell's *body* moved to touch the face.
*Crack, crunch.*
The face, which had sprouted from the back of Quirrell's head, moved his body as if it were the front.
To move in a way that was naturally impossible, the sound of Quirrell's elbow shattering and his shoulder dislocating could be heard.
And yet, as if it couldn't care less about Quirrell's body, the face moved without a single change in expression.
*Sssmile.*
With an expression that could hardly be called a smile, that person, Voldemort, opened his mouth.
"Impressive, Harry Potter... The Boy Who Lived."
He was smiling, but Harry could not interpret the expression as such. It was a grotesque visage, as if someone who had never smiled in their life was forcing themselves to imitate one.
"To think you would so decisively cast the Killing Curse at my servant. Excellent, truly excellent."
*Clap. Clap. Clap.*
Voldemort offered a limp applause with Quirrell's broken arms. Despite his words, an air of genuine satisfaction emanated from him.
"Harry Potter, my fated adversary. I was truly impressed by your decisive action. Indeed, you have the potential. The potential to rival this Dark Lord!"
Looking into Voldemort's blazing red eyes, Harry could read the emotions within. Even without using Legilimency, he could somehow naturally read them.
Anger, contempt, satisfaction, and a sense of kinship.
Why? Why was he feeling a sense of kinship while looking at him?
Voldemort continued to speak with that grotesque smile on his face.
"Harry Potter... you are so much like me. Extraordinary magical talent beyond your years, a brilliant mind, and a ruthless decisiveness. It is truly like looking in a mirror."
"A mirror?"
"Yes, you should be proud, Harry Potter. It means that I, the Dark Lord, acknowledge you."
Hearing Voldemort's words, Harry finally began to understand fragments of his thoughts.
Voldemort was genuinely pleased. He had confirmed that the child who had once defeated him was no ordinary boy.
He was projecting himself onto the child named Harry Potter.
The one who had stopped him, just one step away from achieving his great work, was a fated adversary who was just like him.
Because Harry was extraordinary, because he was brilliant, because he was ruthless. Only now could Voldemort accept the events of that day—his failure to kill a single child—as a trial.
Perhaps Voldemort felt as if he had become the protagonist of an epic saga.
Like a hero in a story who overcomes the trials that block his path.
Realizing this, Harry gritted his teeth.
It was absurd.
His parents had died, and Voldemort had failed to kill a mere baby.
It wasn't to bestow some heroic trial upon Voldemort's epic.
His talents weren't something he was born with to resemble Voldemort; they were shaped and polished by his family.
Harry ground his teeth at Voldemort, but on the surface, he showed no anger. Instead, like his ever-jovial master, he curled one side of his mouth into a smile and retorted, "Ha, then why does such a great wizard look so pathetic?"
That question clearly touched a nerve, as Voldemort's expression contorted.
"Yes. Look upon this wretched state. A terrible form that cannot even maintain itself without sharing another's body. Though thanks to your decisive action, I am moving on my own for the first time in a while."
Harry could finally piece together how things were unfolding.
Voldemort's soul, which had been parasitizing Quirrell's body, had taken it over after the Killing Curse severed the connection between Quirrell's soul and body.
After all, the Killing Curse could only sever one soul's connection to a body!
Voldemort's hissing voice echoed through the chamber like a snake's whisper.
"And for that, Potter, it seems I'll need your help."
*Clap.*
As Quirrell's hands clapped together, black, vine-like tendrils shot out from the floor around Harry, binding his body.
"Ghk...!"
Harry let out a grunt.
Indeed, Voldemort was on a completely different level than Quirrell. Even in a situation where he clearly couldn't use even half of his full power, Voldemort's magic overwhelmed him.
Unlike with Quirrell, Harry had been fully tensed and ready to counter Voldemort's magic at any moment, yet he had been captured effortlessly.
At Voldemort's gesture, the dark tendrils extended, dragging Harry before him.
Harry gritted his teeth, anticipating the pain to come, but surprisingly, Voldemort did not harm him.
He simply stood before the large, old mirror and pulled Harry in front of it.
Voldemort looked at the mirror and asked Harry, "Harry Potter, what do you think this mirror is?"
"Well, I can tell it's not a new piece, at least."
Ignoring Harry's sarcasm, Voldemort continued.
"This mirror is where Dumbledore has hidden the Philosopher's Stone. Harry Potter, you should be able to retrieve the stone from this mirror."
So the Philosopher's Stone was inside that mirror.
Looking into it, Harry saw an astonishing sight.
The Harry in the mirror shook off the black tendrils, fired a Killing Curse at Voldemort, and struck a triumphant pose!
Voldemort seemed to be growing impatient and urged him on.
"Potter, what do you see in the mirror?"
Harry avoided Voldemort's gaze as he spoke. If their eyes met, his thoughts could be read with Legilimency.
"I see... something in my thigh pocket."
At those words, Voldemort's gaze immediately fixed on the pocket of Harry's jeans.
Voldemort approached. Harry swallowed hard.
This situation was different from the one with Quirrell.
The two elements needed to defeat Quirrell were carelessness and an asymmetrical advantage. But he couldn't use either of those against Voldemort.
Voldemort had clearly seen Harry cast the Killing Curse at Quirrell. He might mock Harry's skill, but he would not be careless.
Besides, Harry was already restrained. Even if the Killing Curse was a one-hit kill for anyone, there was no way to land it on Voldemort.
But even so, Harry smiled.
Now that Voldemort had come to him, this was the moment he had been waiting for.
For a weaker wizard to defeat a stronger one, the most useful method of all was a type advantage.
Harry suddenly thrust his hand toward the approaching Voldemort.
"Ha, Potter, what are you trying to... Ugh!"
Voldemort recoiled reflexively.
The spot where Harry's hand had touched had turned red and was blistering.
Harry knew the exact cause of this phenomenon. His master was the foremost expert in Ancient Magic. Though Harry couldn't use it himself, he had received enough teaching to understand some of its principles.
Voldemort could never harm him, protected as he was by the power of love.
Harry gave Voldemort a cruel smile and said, "Voldemort, you can't touch me. You don't understand my mother's 'love,' do you?"
"Gr-graaah! You blasted—!"
Although Voldemort was only a soul without a physical body to act as a receptor for pain, the power of 'love' was immense. Even without a connection to a body, it inflicted a burning pain upon the very soul of Voldemort who had tried to harm Harry.
*Crsssh.* Starting from the point of contact with Harry's hand, Quirrell's body, now occupied by Voldemort's soul, began to crack and crumble like sand.
Screaming as he watched the body turn to dust and scatter, Voldemort's spell had long since lost its power, and Harry was free.
Approaching Voldemort, who had collapsed with his knees bent at a grotesque angle, Harry brought his freed hand to Voldemort's face on the back of Quirrell's head.
"Graaah!! Aaaargh! Harry... Potter!!"
Feeling a burning agony, Voldemort's face contorted into a hideous expression before it too cracked, broke, and turned to sand like the rest of the body.
Even as he writhed in pain, Voldemort looked into Harry's eyes and cursed him.
"Harry Potter, I will return. And when I do, it will be the hour of your ruin, and the ruin of this world!"
Harry sneered back at Voldemort.
"Voldemort, your prime has already passed. From now on, you have nothing but decline ahead of you. You are no longer the most powerful wizard in the world."
"Gaaah, gkh, then surely, Potter, you don't mean to claim that *you* are the most powerful wizard? Don't make me laugh!"
"No, of course not. How could I, a mere child?"
"Then who is this wizard you have such faith in? Do you trust that old man Dumbledore?"
Harry gave a truly genuine smile and said, "Well, I guarantee you'd be better off 'not knowing'."
Before Voldemort could reply, Quirrell's body, which he had been animating, completely disintegrated.
***