Chapter 50: A Desperate Lord
Where the back of Quirrell's head should have been, there was a face. It was chalk-white, with features that seemed both flattened and sharp, possessing the unsettling, slitted nostrils of a serpent. But the most horrifying features were its eyes—two pinpricks of burning, malevolent red light.
"Harry Potter." The face spoke the name with a strange, sibilant mixture of hatred and awe. This was the child who had reduced him, the great Lord Voldemort, to this parasitic existence. A flicker of bitter irony crossed his mind—if only he hadn't gone to Godric's Hollow himself that night, but had sent his followers instead...
Harry instinctively tried to retreat, but his legs were frozen, rooted to the stone floor by sheer terror.
"Look what has become of me," the face hissed. Then, its glowing red eyes shifted, scanning the empty air of the chamber. "Vermin. Come out. Do not think your childish charms can hide you from my sight, even in this state."
Damn it, Solim thought, his mouth going dry despite the popcorn he'd consumed. I knew it. You can't hide from a wizard like him. His earlier thrill evaporated, replaced by a cold knot of fear. This is what you get for wanting a front-row seat.
With a resigned sigh, Evans dropped the Disillusionment Charms. The scene that was revealed was, if possible, even more surreal.
The emotions of Harry, Ron, and Hermione cycled from despair to a flicker of hope at the sight of reinforcements. But Voldemort's reaction was the most telling. His grotesque face, already contorted, registered a flicker of genuine surprise.
"You—" he began, his gaze fixed on Evans, but then he saw the three other students materialize. His expression shifted to one of pure confusion. What is this?
Solim, observing the subtle play of features on the face, realized their mistake. Voldemort had detected Evans, the adult wizard, but not the three students. They had revealed themselves prematurely.
Before Evans could decide on a course of action, Solim decided to seize the initiative. They were already exposed; they might as well try to control the narrative.
"It seems you only detected him, my Lord," Solim said, his voice steadier than he felt, gesturing towards Evans. "But the Disillusionment Charms on all of us were cast by him. It doesn't make sense that you'd find only the caster and not the subjects. As a curious student, I'd appreciate an explanation."
Voldemort's mood, already foul, darkened further. This entire endeavor to secure the Stone had been one complication after another. He assessed the situation swiftly. Quirrell, even with his own guidance, was likely no match for the portly, confident wizard who had just revealed himself. Direct confrontation was unwise. Coercion and temptation, however, were tools he had mastered.
Ignoring Solim's impertinent question, Voldemort fixed his crimson gaze on Evans. "Serve me," he hissed, the promise dripping with false honey. "When I am restored, I will grant you anything you desire. Power. Wealth. Forbidden knowledge. Name your price. All I require is the Stone from the Potter boy. Do this, and I will allow these children to live." It was the old combination: a lure wrapped in a threat.
But the trick had lost its potency. The speaker was a disembodied face on the back of a coward's head, not a Dark Lord in his prime.
Evans was unmoved. He was no ordinary wizard; his posting at Hogwarts proved his capability. His brief display of Transfiguration against Snape had shown he was a formidable duelist in his own right. More importantly, his allegiance was to the Council of Elders. Harming one of their agents would bring a world of trouble Voldemort could not afford, especially now.
On one side was a fragmented, desperate shade of a wizard. On the other, the most powerful political entity in the magical world. The choice was simple.
"What you do with the Stone is not my concern," Evans stated, his tone flat and bureaucratic. "Whether you use it or destroy it is irrelevant to my duties." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "However, if you attempt to remove the Philosopher's Stone from the confines of Hogwarts, then I am compelled to intervene."
His mission was clear: the Stone must not leave the castle. Its ultimate fate was someone else's problem.
Voldemort's spectral face contorted in fury. Not leave Hogwarts? How was he supposed to resurrect himself under Dumbledore's very nose? The Stone was within his grasp! The frustration was maddening.
"Fight me, and these children will die!" Voldemort shrieked, his voice losing its calculated coolness.
"I am not a Hogwarts professor," Evans replied, his voice chillingly calm. "I am an agent of the Council of Elders."
The title, "Council of Elders," landed with the force of a physical blow. A heavy silence fell. Voldemort knew. Even at the height of his power, he had carefully avoided tangling with the Council. They were an entity he could not challenge. To do so now, in his current state, was suicide.
Yet, the thought of retreating empty-handed after eleven years of torment, of shadowy existence, was unbearable. The Philosopher's Stone represented a body, a return to power, to life. He had to try.
"Potter!" Voldemort snarled, whipping his gaze back to Harry, all pretense of negotiation gone. "The Stone! Give it to me now, or I will kill your friends where they lie!"
Harry, feeling returning to his legs, instinctively clutched his pocket and stumbled backward.
"Don't be a fool! Hand it over, and I may yet let you live! Do not make your mother's sacrifice be for nothing!" Voldemort's patience had evaporated. "Seize him, Quirrell!"
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