Hermione, having passed through the purple flames, was about to head to Ron's room when she suddenly noticed that the foul smell in the room had disappeared.
She lowered the sleeve covering her nose and mouth, only then realizing there was an extra figure in the room.
"Professor Greengrass?" the young witch said in surprise. "How did you get here…"
"That's my question for you, Miss Granger," Sagres replied with a smile.
"Uh, I'm sorry, Professor. We shouldn't have acted on our own, and I'll tell you everything exactly as it happened—but the situation is very urgent right now, Harry is in danger, we have to go first…"
"Calm down, Miss Granger…" He interrupted her, speaking unhurriedly, "Since I'm standing here now, it means the situation is still under my control."
Hearing this, Hermione recalled Sagres's formidable strength from before and gradually calmed down, regaining her composure.
Sagres nodded at this. He pointed to Ron, who was lying on the ground. "Wake him up. Mr. Weasley would surely resent us if he missed the most exciting part of the truth."
Ignoring Ron, who had just woken up, Sagres instantly enveloped the three of them in an "Invulnerability to Fire and Water" spell, then calmly led the two young wizards through the wall of flames.
…
…
Meanwhile, the moment the potion slid down his throat, Harry felt a strange lightness spread through his body. He stepped toward the black wall of fire, and the flames parted on either side like obedient servants.
The scene before him gradually became clear—the Mirror of Erised stood in the center of the circular stone chamber, its surface glowing with an eerie silver light. Standing before the mirror was not Snape, as he had expected, nor Lord Voldemort.
It was Quirrell!
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who always seemed timid in the staff seating, now stood with his back to him, his posture straight and firm.
When Quirrell turned around, Harry couldn't help but take a step back—that perpetually twitching face was now terrifyingly calm, with a composed smile playing on his lips.
"Potter," Quirrell's voice was low and hoarse, like a venomous snake slithering across the ground, "I was wondering if you would come."
"You… you're not…"
"Not a stutterer?" Quirrell chuckled, a sound that reminded Harry of a frozen lake cracking on a winter night.
"How could this be… why isn't it Snape?" Harry's voice caught in his throat. His scar suddenly throbbed with pain, like a red-hot branding iron pressed against his forehead.
"Snape? Ha. Speaking of him, I really ought to thank him. With him constantly prowling the school…" He paced elegantly, twirling his wand between his fingers, "Who would suspect poor, stuttering Professor Quirrell?"
Harry's mind raced, and fragments of memory suddenly pieced together into a terrifying pattern. "But he was trying to kill me! At the Quidditch match."
"Kill you? Hah, he was saving you!" Quirrell's eyes narrowed dangerously. "If Snape hadn't been muttering the counter-curse, you would've been smashed to pieces. And that damned Greengrass—"
His voice suddenly twisted, and a ferocious look flashed across his face. "He ruined my carefully planned scheme!"
Harry felt a wave of dizziness. Snape had been protecting him? The Potions professor who always picked on him? This realization was even harder to accept than Quirrell's betrayal.
"But it doesn't matter," Quirrell suddenly snapped his fingers, and ropes shot out from the ground like venomous snakes, binding Harry tightly. "Tonight, the Dark Lord will finally get what he wants."
"You cannot live in this world any longer, Potter. I wanted to do this last time in the Forbidden Forest, but that damned half veela almost killed me. If I hadn't run fast enough, I might have been reduced to ashes on the spot. This is all your fault, but it doesn't matter—no one can save you this time, Harry Potter. This time, no one can save you!"
"But before that, Potter, you'll have to wait quietly for a bit, because I need to take a good look at this interesting mirror."
"That figure in the Forbidden Forest last time was you?" Harry's eyes widened. "You were drinking Unicorn blood?"
"Yes, that's right…" Quirrell stared intently at the mirror, speaking without turning his head. "It's hard to believe, but for decades before this, I never knew that the blood of those beasts held such powerful Magic. It's a pity that bastard Greengrass has been frequenting the Forbidden Forest lately—otherwise, my Magic would definitely be far stronger by now…"
"But aren't you afraid of the curse? Drinking Unicorn blood will curse you…" Harry mustered his courage and spoke again.
"Curse?" Quirrell looked back at him indifferently. "What are you talking about, Potter? Are you trying to stop me from studying this mirror with lies?"
With that, he ignored Harry and began circling the mirror, muttering to himself, "I see the Philosopher's Stone. I see myself presenting it to my master and receiving generous rewards. Does this mirror have prophetic powers? Can it show what's about to happen?"
Quirrell muttered impatiently to himself.
"That's the Mirror of Erised!" Harry seized the opportunity, trying to stall for time and distract Quirrell.
Sure enough, his words worked. Quirrell turned his head to look at him.
"You know about this mirror?" Quirrell asked flatly. "Tell me, Potter. Tell me its secret."
Harry looked somewhat fearful—and in truth, he was very scared. "If I tell you, will you let me go this time? Professor Quirrell, I don't want to die…"
The young wizard tried his best to appear like someone terrified of death, prepared to use any method he could to deal with his opponent.
"Oh, Potter…" Quirrell chuckled. "Begging for mercy, are you? The famous boy who lived! The Savior of the wizarding world."
"I don't want to be a Savior at all," Harry shouted. "I just want to be... to be a normal person."
"I understand, I understand, Potter…" Quirrell slowly approached him, a false smile on his face. "My master will certainly agree to your request. Though he is strict with me, he'll surely be merciful to you... Of course, you must tell me everything you know."
Quirrell tried to soften his voice, while Harry frantically wove lies in his mind.
"This is the Mirror of Erised!" Harry said hesitantly. "People can see their heart's desire in it—but what it shows isn't real…"
"You mean... the Philosopher's Stone isn't here?" Quirrell's smile vanished, replaced by a dark and menacing expression.
"Of course not," Harry spoke more and more fluently, several convincing little lies suddenly popping into his head. "Professor Dumbledore always carries the Philosopher's Stone with him. I've seen it—it's in a small cloth bag…"
Quirrell's face grew darker and darker, so Harry quickly tried to appease him.
"But I can try to get it…"
The boy said proudly, "Dumbledore favors me, you know. Maybe that's the only good thing about being the Savior…"
"But why would you do that?"
"Consider it payment for sparing my life!" Harry replied with a touch of excitement.
"I see…" Quirrell nodded slowly. He bent down, bringing his face close to the young wizard. "But Potter... if that's the case, why would this mirror be here?"
A mocking expression appeared on his face, as though he had seen through all of Harry's lies. "Why would Dumbledore, that old fox, surround a worthless mirror with so many layers of protection?"
"It's a trap!" Harry quickly said. "Professor Greengrass made him do it. Their goal is to mislead anyone trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone. The mirror itself is the bait..."
Harry thought to himself that he was really doing well today, fabricating lies on the spot with surprising ease.
"What did you say?" Quirrell's eyes widened. He looked around in alarm and suddenly shouted, "Master! We've been tricked—this is a trap!"
Just as Harry was growing confused, a deep, hoarse voice suddenly echoed from inside Quirrell's body, sending a chill down his spine.
"That boy is lying to you, you fool!"
Harry felt as if he had fallen into an icy pit, but the voice didn't stop.
"The Philosopher's Stone is in the mirror. If you can't retrieve it, use the boy—he can get it for you!!"
Quirrell turned back to Harry, his expression so dark it looked like it could drip water.
"Alright, Potter…" He suppressed his anger and waved his hand, releasing the ropes that had bound Harry. "You shouldn't have lied to me—though I don't blame you. Now, come here."
Quirrell pointed to the spot in front of the mirror. "Come here. Look into the mirror and tell me what you see."
Harry didn't even know how he walked to the mirror. The voice he had just heard still echoed in his mind, and for a moment, he even thought it might have been a hallucination.
I still have to lie—no matter what I see, I must lie! he kept reminding himself over and over.
At last, he stood in front of the mirror, expecting to see his family again—but he quickly realized he was wrong.
His reflection was pale, and the scar on his forehead appeared especially sinister in the dim light. Then, the image in the mirror gave him a mysterious smile—an expression he would never make himself.
The "Harry" in the mirror reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a blood-red gem. The Philosopher's Stone glowed with an eerie light in that illusory mirror world, like a drop of congealed blood.
The mirrored version of Harry gave a mischievous wink, and the moment he tucked the gem back into his pocket—
Thump.
Harry shivered.
His robe pocket suddenly felt heavy, pulling downward—he could feel a warm sensation through the fabric. It was definitely not a hallucination—the Philosopher's Stone had appeared in his pocket out of thin air!
He tried his best not to show any sign of abnormality, because Quirrell was standing right behind him. Harry could even feel the warm breath against the back of his head.
Quirrell seemed to notice something was off and suddenly snapped, "What are you looking at? What did you see?"
His voice was sharp, tinged with unease.
Harry resisted the urge to touch his pocket and forced his expression to stay frightened. His reflection in the mirror had now returned to its original terrified appearance, as if nothing had happened.
But through the wide folds of his wizard's robe, he could clearly feel the subtle warmth radiating from the Philosopher's Stone in his pocket, like holding a tiny, beating heart.
"I saw a large crowd surrounding me," Harry said without hesitation, staring at his pale face in the mirror. "I also became a Gryffindor prefect—oh, more than that, I became the Head boy…"
Quirrell began to grow impatient, but Harry kept going: "I won the House Cup for Gryffindor, and I even joined the national Quidditch team!"
"Shut up. Get out of my way…" Quirrell shoved Harry aside and leaned in toward the mirror himself.
"Lying! That boy, he's still lying!"
The hoarse, low voice came again, but this time, Harry clearly saw—Quirrell's mouth hadn't moved at all.
"Potter, get back here!" Quirrell immediately shouted. "Tell me the truth—what did you see? Don't try to lie again. In front of the Master, all your lies are futile!"
"Quirinus, let me talk to him. Let me talk to him—face to face…" the voice said, "After all, he seems to be… a child who enjoys lying…"
"But Master, your power hasn't recovered yet…"
"I still have enough strength for this…" The voice now sounded irritated by Quirrell's hesitation. "Don't make me repeat myself, Quirinus."
"Yes—Master—yes." Quirrell quickly bowed his head in fear. He reached up and began unwrapping the turban from around his head, revealing a bald scalp underneath.
Then, Harry watched as Quirrell slowly turned around—presenting the back of his head.
For a brief moment, Harry remembered the nightmares that had haunted him. He wanted to scream but no sound came out. He wanted to run, but his feet wouldn't move.
Because where the back of Quirrell's head should have been… there was a face.
A human face—more terrifying than any Harry had ever seen. The skin was deathly pale, the eyes blood-red, and beneath them were two thin, slit-like nostrils.
(Img)
"Harry Potter…" the face whispered. "We finally meet again."
Harry felt himself sway and stumbled backward, collapsing onto the stone steps.
"Look at what you've done to me…" the face hissed softly. "I even lost my body… forced to wander the Forbidden Forest like a ghost… surviving only by feeding on snakes and rats…"
Harry couldn't speak. He was frozen—yet the face kept talking.
"But it doesn't matter. I, the great and benevolent Lord Voldemort can give you a chance—as long as you're willing to hand over the Philosopher's Stone in your pocket, then of course, I can spare your life…"
So Lord Voldemort knew everything. Harry's heart churned with a storm of emotions. He hadn't realized the other could use Legilimency; he had assumed Voldemort could genuinely tell lies apart.
What was there to fear, then?
Harry suddenly felt a strange sense of calm. Hadn't he already prepared for this moment before stepping into the room? Or rather, he was supposed to have died at this person's hands eleven years ago.
Thinking this, Harry forced his trembling legs to support him as he stood.
"Don't be foolish, child… Don't be like your parents, thinking you can resist me," Lord Voldemort said venomously. "Didn't you just say it? You said you were willing to steal the Philosopher's Stone from Dumbledore for me, in exchange for mercy—for your life. Now I'm giving you that chance. Just give me the Philosopher's Stone—"
"You wish!"
Harry suddenly shouted, his voice firm, and at the same time, he turned and sprinted toward the wooden door wreathed in black fire.
"You cannot escape!"
Quirrell stepped back and moved to intercept him, while Lord Voldemort's face twisted into a sinister grin, eyes locked on Harry.
But Harry's legs were suddenly bound by ropes that shot out from the ground, and he crashed heavily to the floor.
Lord Voldemort's voice slithered through the room, as cold and sharp as a serpent on bone: "Courage… what a fascinating quality…"
His decaying face twisted grotesquely on the back of Quirrell's head. "Just like your father… rather die than yield…"
Harry felt the ropes biting into his skin, but the greater pain came from the sudden tearing of memories—memories he had never known, now being recounted by the enemy himself.
"Do you know? Your father didn't even have his wand at the time… such brave resistance—Foolishness!" Lord Voldemort hissed, his voice thick with morbid delight.
"My Avada Kedavra blasted him from one end of the room to the other… but he still blocked the stairs with his last breath, trying to buy time for your mother…"
A scene Harry had never witnessed before suddenly flashed before his eyes: a black-haired man in glasses, struck by a green light, hurled through the corridor like a broken puppet.
"And your mother…" Lord Voldemort paused. "She could have lived… I gave her a choice… but she insisted on shielding your crib with her body…"
The snake-like face contorted. "What a foolish choice… Avada Kedavra!"
Harry's heart lurched—but no green light flashed before his eyes, only Voldemort's mocking smile.
Lord Voldemort stepped closer, speaking nonstop: "Ah… I should have done this eleven years ago, Potter… I did try then… and it left me like this… Eleven whole years… Tell me, do you really think you can escape again, like last time?"
Harry gasped, forcing down the sorrow in his chest. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the Philosopher's Stone, and with all his strength, hurled it into the flames.
"How dare you!"
Lord Voldemort's face instantly twisted with rage. He thrust out his hand and cast Accio at the airborne Philosopher's Stone—but before it could reach him, a raven swooped in and snatched the red gem from midair.
"Huh?"
_____
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