Chapter 49: The Face of Evil
Shrouded by Disillusionment and Silencing Charms, Solim slipped into the final chamber, the others following close behind. He had been clear: they were observers, nothing more. Despite his instructions, Evans kept his wand at the ready, his knuckles white.
Inside, Harry, Ron, and Hermione lay bound on the cold floor, restrained by ropes conjured by Quirrell. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor stood before the Mirror of Erised, a look of frustrated confusion on his face.
"I thought... it was Snape..." Harry gasped, struggling against his bonds as his worldview shattered. He had been so certain Snape was the thief and Quirrell the protector. He'd heard the threats with his own ears.
"Oh, yes," Quirrell said, turning with a smug, condescending smile. "He does make such a lovely villain, doesn't he? With him skulking about, who would ever suspect... p-p-poor, st-st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?" He laughed, but the sound was no longer a nervous titter; it was a cold, calculated sneer.
"But Snape tried to kill me during the Quidditch match!" Harry insisted, desperate for his old theory to hold.
"No, no, no," Quirrell's expression darkened. "I was the one trying to kill you. Your little friend Miss Granger here accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set Snape's robes on fire. She broke my eye contact. Another few seconds and I'd have blasted you off your broom. Snape was muttering a counter-curse, trying to save you." His tone was vicious now.
Hermione, lying silent, was desperately trying to think of a way out, but the magic binding her was far superior to anything she could break. Snape... was saving us? The thought was more disorienting than seeing Quirrell here.
"I told you, Harry!" Hermione cried out, seizing the moment to create a distraction. "Solim's analysis was right all along! If you had just listened!" She emphasized Solim's name, her eyes darting meaningfully towards Harry's bound hands.
Gryffindor cunning, when it surfaced, was swift. Harry caught on immediately. His mind, addled by the shock, suddenly remembered the ring Solim had given him—the one that could transfigure into a knife.
As Harry began to work his hands, Hermione kept Quirrell talking. "You let the troll in on Halloween too, didn't you?"
Quirrell glanced at her dismissively. "Naturally. A clever diversion. While the other professors were chasing it, Snape, who was already suspicious, rushed straight to the third floor to intercept me. You were lucky, girl. If not for that Selwyn boy, you'd be a stain on the bathroom floor by now."
Hidden in the corner, Solim watched the familiar-yet-alien scene unfold, a strange thrill running through him. It was a pity they couldn't discuss it; the Silencing Charms prevented any sound from passing between them.
"Enough chatter," Quirrell snapped, turning back to the mirror. "I need to understand this infernal device."
It was then that Harry recognized the Mirror of Erised. He knew he had to keep Quirrell distracted. "I saw you in the Forbidden Forest! I heard Snape threatening you!"
"Yes," Quirrell said absently, examining the mirror's frame. "He was trying to intimidate me, to see how much I knew. He was always suspicious. But he could never truly frighten me. Not when I have Lord Voldemort on my side."
"You're not a Death Eater!" Hermione interjected sharply. "They don't dare speak his name!"
Quirrell went very still. He slowly turned his head to look at her. "A perceptive child. You are correct. I am not a Death Eater." A strange, reverent tone entered his voice. "He is with me... always."
Harry, who had almost sawed through his ropes, stared in confusion. "I heard you sobbing in a classroom... I thought Snape was..."
"Indeed," Quirrell said, his face blank. "As I said, he is always with me. I met him on my travels. I was a foolish young man, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me the truth. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it. Since that day, I have served him, though I have failed him too often." A shudder ran through him. "He does not tolerate failure. He was most displeased when I failed to retrieve the Stone from Gringotts. He... punished me. Decided to keep a closer watch..." His voice dropped to a whisper.
He shuddered again, more violently this time. "The Stone! I must have the Stone!" He whirled back to the mirror. "But how? What is the secret? Help me, Master!"
Then, a voice answered. It was high, cold, and feeble, seeming to come from Quirrell himself. "Use the boy... you fool! Use the boy!"
The three on the floor, and the four hidden in the shadows—save for Solim—stared in horrified disbelief.
"Yes... Potter! Come here!" Quirrell snapped his fingers. The ropes binding Harry, now nearly severed, fell away.
Harry scrambled to his feet and slowly approached Quirrell, his mind racing, trying to buy more time.
"Faster!" Quirrell barked.
Finally, Harry stood before the Mirror of Erised. It was the third time he had looked into it, but this time, his parents were not there. He saw only his own reflection, pale and terrified at first, which then smiled. The reflection winked, reached into its pocket, and pulled out a blood-red stone. It flashed Harry a significant look and slipped the Stone back into its pocket—and at that very moment, a heavy weight dropped into Harry's real pocket. He had the Philosopher's Stone.
Evans, watching intently, tightened his grip on his wand. He could feel a powerful magical object suddenly manifest in the room. It could only be the Stone. His mission was clear: ensure it did not leave Hogwarts. But should he intervene now? He decided to wait, his every sense on high alert.
"Well?" Quirrell demanded. "What do you see?"
"I... I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," Harry lied, his heart hammering against the Stone in his pocket. "I've won the House Cup for Gryffindor."
"Lies! He lies!" the high, cold voice shrieked from within Quirrell.
"Get back here, Potter! Tell me the truth!" Quirrell snarled, his eyes flicking menacingly towards Ron and Hermione. "Or your friends will suffer."
"Let me speak to him... let me face him..."
"But, Master, you are not strong enough!"
"I have strength enough for this."
A cold dread, colder than any Devil's Snare, gripped Harry. Quirrell turned his back to him and began to unwind the large turban from his head.
When the last fold of cloth fell away, Harry wanted to scream, but the sound was stolen from his throat. From behind him, Ron and Hermione were not so restrained; their screams tore through the chamber. Neville and Draco, saved only by their Silencing Charms, stood frozen in silent, wide-eyed horror.