Quirrell began examining the Mirror of Erised with the unhurried air of a collector studying a rare antique. His hands stayed clasped behind his back as he paced slowly in front of the glass.
Harry might as well have ceased to exist.
"No doubt about it," Quirrell murmured. "This is the final obstacle the old man set. The Philosopher's Stone is inside."
Harry saw the opening and edged forward, ready to strike while the man's attention was fixed on the mirror.
Quirrell caught the movement without even looking. A soft snap of his fingers, and ropes erupted from the stone floor, coiling tight around Harry's arms, legs, and chest before he could finish the thought.
"Damn it—"
Panic hit hard. Quirrell hadn't spoken a single word of the spell. He hadn't even turned his head. The Stone clearly mattered more than Harry's life.
It was a race against time now—would Harry reach the Stone first, or would Dumbledore return first?
He needed Quirrell's attention. Fast.
"A few days ago I heard you crying. I thought it was Snape."
Quirrell's head turned a fraction. Something flickered deep in his eyes.
"Yes. Sometimes it is difficult to defy his will. He is, after all, the most powerful wizard in the world."
The most powerful wizard—
The words struck Harry like lightning. Unicorns. The Forbidden Forest. Everything slotted into place.
He was already here. Inside the school.
"The one talking to you that day—it was him!"
"Wherever I go, he goes with me," Quirrell said evenly. "I met him while travelling the world. At the time I—"
Harry stopped hearing the rest. A vast, roaring anger flooded his mind, drowning everything else.
Revenge.
Any plan of simply stopping Voldemort from claiming the Stone vanished. Only the fury remained.
"Where is he?"
"Shh."
A quiet, cold voice cut through the noise inside Harry's head.
"Calm down, mate. Let me say a few words."
A third voice filled the underground chamber—deep, steady, the voice of someone who already held every piece on the board.
"So you really did cry?"
"Who's there?!"
Quirrell stumbled back a step, wand half-raised, eyes sweeping the empty air.
"Your fear of him seems genuine enough," the voice continued.
"F-fear is the only correct response," Quirrell stammered. "Who wouldn't feel fear before the Master?"
A soft, almost weary breath of laughter.
"I'll give you one more chance. Would you still call him master? He never treated you as a person. Only as a tool."
A faint, windowless wind began to move through the chamber. Too subtle to notice, yet it slipped into the mind and shifted the weight of every thought.
"To serve the Dark Lord is the highest honour!"
"Do you truly believe that? Then why the tears? Why did your body tremble just now?"
Quirrell's lips pressed white. His eyes reddened and filmed over.
"Enough."
A fourth voice—cold, sharp, enough to raise the hair on the back of the neck—spoke from behind Quirrell's head.
"Silence, Voldemort. It is not yet your turn to speak."
"Very well. Who are you? A Disillusionment Charm? An Invisibility Cloak? What do you hope to gain by hiding here?"
The deep voice did not answer.
Voldemort's colder one continued.
"Perhaps we can discuss terms. I want only the Stone. Name your price. Anything."
A low chuckle.
"Hear that, Quirrell? That is your master. When he controls you, you are nothing. When he cannot control you, he suddenly remembers manners—the same way he is speaking to me now."
"M-Master—" Quirrell's voice shook.
"Silence!" Voldemort snapped.
"Incendio!"
Harry's shout rang out as he forced his wand free enough to cast. Fire roared toward Quirrell.
Quirrell threw up a hasty Protego. The shield came too late; flames licked across his robes and forced him to stagger.
"Where is Voldemort?!" Harry's eyes were blood-red.
"He already told you," the deep voice said, amused. "They are never apart. From the sound of it, I would look under the turban."
Harry swung again. He knew almost nothing beyond the same fire charm, but the Blood Moon essence burning through his veins made every cast hit with the force of a much older student.
Quirrell suddenly tripped—something invisible catching his heel—and went down hard. Harry's next blast of flame caught him full on.
"Fool!" Voldemort snarled.
Black smoke erupted from the burning body, shedding the fire like water, then reformed a short distance away. Quirrell's face split into two halves: one frozen in terror, the other ice-cold.
"Crucio—"
Harry's heart lurched. He threw himself sideways—straight into the path of the curse.
Agony ripped through him, white-hot and endless. His scream tore the air. Quirrell only smiled and turned back toward the Mirror, still speaking to the unseen third presence.
"You are not helping Potter, friend. Curious. Do you mean for us to destroy each other first?
A warning, then: if you please neither side, both will remove you first."
He studied the Mirror and understood at once.
"Only those who do not desire the Stone will see it within the glass. How clever—hah—Dumbledore, you never change—"
He raised a hand. Harry's body lifted from the floor and flew toward him. Quirrell's fingers closed around the boy's throat—
—and then pure fire erupted across his palm where it touched Harry's skin. Blisters swelled and burst in an instant.
"What curse is this?!" Quirrell tried to let go.
"Hold him!" the third voice ordered.
Impossible. A first-year under the full force of the Cruciatus Curse should have been finished. Quirrell's mind sneered—
—until two strong hands clamped onto his arms and refused to release.
Harry Potter's face was a mask of pain and pure, murderous rage. He held on.
"Softening Charm—"
The floor beneath Quirrell's feet turned to sucking mud. The moment his boots sank, the charm vanished, locking him in place.
Autumn Wind swept through the chamber without mercy.
It poured into Quirrell and dragged up every humiliation, every forced swallow of unicorn blood, every moment of being nothing but a vessel.
It poured into Harry and dragged up every lonely night, every memory of parents he had never known—and under the Blood Moon essence those memories became endless fuel for rage.
Voldemort tried to force Quirrell's body into black smoke again.
A single sharp snap. An advanced Impediment Jinx locked onto him. The transformation slowed to a crawl.
"Quirrell, you still have a choice. Right now. You can choose to be a man. Harry Potter is not the only one who can kill Voldemort today. You can join him."
"You dare!" Voldemort's roar shook the air.
"Serving the Dark Lord is an honour. Standing with us and ending him here—why is that any less?"
"You—"
"Break free of Potter, you idiot!"
"You will never command me again!"
Quirrell seized control of his own body. Both hands clamped onto Harry's face.
The searing agony that followed was worse than anything before—yet Voldemort suffered more. His high, thin scream filled the chamber.
A hideous face pushed against the skin of Quirrell's neck, trying to tear free.
"Quirrell, traitor, I will—"
"You are going nowhere!"
In Voldemort's senses Quirrell's body became a prison. Chains of pure will erupted from the man's heart and bound him fast. Harry's unknown curse still burned. The external Impediment Jinx held the rest.
Seconds stretched. Voldemort's screams grew weaker.
"Tell me—your name—why do you stand against me?"
"Confectioner," the deep voice answered. "I came to settle accounts for two friends. One unicorn. One painting."
"What—?!"
Even dying, the shock was clear.
Yes. That is enough. You were never more than a disposable life. The voice carried no emotion at all.
"Very well. I will remember you."
Voldemort's final strength flared. His voice coiled through the chamber like a dying serpent.
When I return from hell, your death begins.
Charlie's answer rang out just as clear, just as unafraid.
Then come. I will send you back again.
A shockwave exploded from Quirrell's body, flinging stone and dust and throwing Harry clear.
When the air settled, Quirrell remained frozen in the same grasping posture, then collapsed onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
"Confectioner—"
Let me see you.
Silence.
Then:
"Wingardium Leviosa."
Harry's unconscious body rose, drifted across the floor, and settled beside Quirrell. One hand rested against the man's burned face.
No new pain. No fresh blisters.
Voldemort was gone.
Quirrell managed a thin, broken laugh.
"Cautious… If you ever attended Hogwarts you must have been Ravenclaw… or Slytherin…"
Space stirred beside him. The Invisibility Cloak fell away. A figure roughly Harry's height stood in the open.
Quirrell's face locked.
"I did not expect you to choose, in the end, to turn against him. To step into the light.
I will fetch Madam Pomfrey at once. Do not—"
"No need." Quirrell's voice was almost gone. "You are wrong."
He forced his blistered left hand upward.
"Kneel down."
Charlie frowned, but crouched. His right hand stayed closed around his wand.
Quirrell's trembling fingers found Charlie's and pulled him closer.
"I know… you used me."
"You are wrong. I never intended… to step into any light."
"I am not a good man. Still less a hero."
Every word cost him everything he had left.
"I only… wanted to be… a proper human being."
"Wonka… tell me. Am I… a real person?"
Charlie met the bloodshot eyes that refused to look away.
"Yes. Even facing Voldemort, you did not bow."
Quirrell's grip tightened one last time.
"You are a proper human being, Professor Quirrell."
"Good… that is good…"
"Pity… I understood too late. Serving Voldemort… is no way to remain human."
"Thank… you…"
The final whisper faded. The hand in Charlie's went slack and fell.