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"Professor Quirrell, when are you planning to come back?"
Rock kept his voice steady, the picture of a concerned student.
A low, pained groan answered him, quickly swallowed.
Rock's stomach dropped. Voldemort had taken full control.
"Pathetic," the cold voice rasped, thin with exhaustion. "A few scraps of classroom attention and you think you can fight back…"
"Turn around."
Rock obeyed without a word. When he faced the figure, his breath caught.
Quirrell's once-familiar turban was gone. The man's body was hunched and wasted under the ragged robes. His face had been shoved aside like an afterthought. In its place, on the back of his skull, two narrow, hateful eyes glared out—red-tinged and revolting.
The eyes fixed on Rock. The voice came from behind the ruined head. "Yes. You. The one from the Forbidden Forest that night."
Rock stayed silent. Being recognized wasn't exactly a surprise.
What was surprising was that Dumbledore's pendant stayed cold against his chest. No warning heat at all.
"Tell me how you ruined my Parasitic Stabilizer," Voldemort said. "I'm curious."
Rock kept his face blank, testing the waters. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The narrow eyes flashed. Rock was yanked off his feet and held dangling, forced to meet that gaze.
"Stop wasting my time. Only that old fool could have arranged something like this. And you—Scamander's grandson—are clearly the one he chose."
Rock's fist tightened inside his pocket. He forced his voice calm. "Who are you? Why are you inside Professor Quirrell's body?"
A mad, wheezing laugh echoed down the empty fourth-floor corridor.
"I'll play along and assume you really don't know. Most people call me the Dark Lord… or You-Know-Who."
Rock met the eyes without flinching. "Voldemort."
The tip of a wand pressed hard against his temple.
"Students these days have no manners," Voldemort hissed. "At the very least, address the man whose body I'm using. Call me Professor."
Rock didn't bother answering. He was too busy confirming what he already suspected.
Quirrell's body was a husk. Voldemort had drained every last scrap of life from it. The only thing keeping the man upright was sheer, desperate magic.
Using the contact at his collar and neck, Rock sent a careful thread of perception through the link. Weak. So weak. And still Voldemort had forced his way back into Hogwarts.
"Your little trick left my servant unable to move," Voldemort continued, voice low and venomous. "So you'll do the work instead."
The wand tilted, pointing toward the door on the right side of the corridor.
Rock still hadn't answered when the pendant in his pocket gave a faint pulse of heat.
Dumbledore knew.
Rock lowered his eyes, voice cold. "So. Do I have a choice?"
"Clever little Ravenclaw," Voldemort sneered. "Too clever for your own good."
The grip on Rock's collar vanished. He dropped, staggered, and caught himself.
"Move. If I'm in a generous mood later, I might even tell you a few things no one else knows."
Rock glanced down. Faint light from the pendant still shimmered across his throat. Pretty words. The truth was uglier—Voldemort was too weak to cast an Unforgivable Curse. All he had left were cheap tricks and threats.
As Rock started to lift his head, a shadow flickered at the edge of his vision near the stairs.
He kept his expression blank and walked toward the door on the right.
Voldemort followed slowly, controlling Quirrell's failing body.
At the door, Rock stopped.
"Open it," Voldemort ordered.
"Alohomora."
Rock flicked his wand. The lock clicked open cleanly.
"Neat spellwork. First-years aren't completely useless after all."
A hard shove sent Rock stumbling into the room.
The stench hit him first—wet fur, old meat, and something sour. Fluffy the three-headed dog lay sprawled across the floor, eyes shut, one massive paw twitching.
"Transfigure a harp," Voldemort snapped from behind him.
Rock reached into his bag, pulled out a small metal sphere, and waved his wand in a complex pattern. "Verto in Musicam et Thecam!"
The sphere hit the stone and unfolded into an ornate music box. Delicate gears turned. A bright, tinkling melody filled the chamber.
Fluffy's eyelids fluttered, then slid shut again.
Voldemort made a soft, surprised sound. "Impressive transfiguration for a first-year."
The red glint in those narrow eyes sharpened.
"See the trapdoor? Open it."
Rock crossed to the trapdoor and pulled it up. A wet, rustling sound rose from below.
Voldemort chuckled, low and ugly. "Devil's Snare. What's your solution this time?"
Rock pressed his lips together. This bastard really thought he was teaching class.
"Lumos!"
Blinding white light burst from his wand. The Devil's Snare recoiled violently, vines shrinking back from the trapdoor.
While Rock and Voldemort moved toward the third obstacle, Harry Potter came charging up the stairs two floors below, one hand clamped over his scar.
Ron and Hermione sprinted after him.
"Harry, are you sure someone's already inside the room on the right of the fourth-floor corridor?" Hermione panted.
"I don't know," Harry gasped, never slowing. "But my scar— it's burning like crazy."
The only thought in his head was simple and terrifying.
Someone was going after the Philosopher's Stone.