[Third Person Pov]
As Arthur rushed back toward the heart of the battle, his gaze briefly locked with Merlin's. In that single, silent exchange, an entire plan was communicated—no words needed, no hesitation allowed.
Steel rang as Arthur deflected a flurry of swords with his own. When the pressure became too much and gaps began to form in his defense, Merlin was already there. With a sharp flick of her staff, she unleashed a powerful gust of wind that tore through the attackers' formation, disrupting their rhythm and forcing them to break off their chain of attacks.
The knights quickly shifted their focus to Merlin. She retreated several steps, her movements deliberate and measured. To an outside observer, she looked as though she was struggling to keep up with their speed, barely reacting in time to their advances. Yet her eyes told a different story—calm, untroubled, as tranquil as the surface of a still lake.
Glowing magic bullets formed at the tip of her staff, one after another, and she fired them off with effortless flicks of her wrist. The knights were forced into constant motion—dodging, blocking, or cutting the projectiles out of the air. One of them was even clever enough to turn his blade flat and deflect a shot back at her, though Merlin merely tilted her head and let it pass by harmlessly.
As Merlin deliberately drew their attention and aggression, Arthur stood several paces behind her. He tightened his grip around the hilts of his swords and slowly closed his eyes, releasing a steady breath. He guided mana from his magic circuits into both blades, beginning the activation of a Tier Three spell.
Flames crawled up the steel, first as a deep burning red, then steadily intensifying. The heat condensed, the color shifting until the fire burned a brilliant azure blue, the air around the swords warping under the pressure of contained power.
Merlin smirked.
She suddenly dove forward, slipping between the three knights and darting toward Arthur. Using her staff, she planted it into the ground and vaulted cleanly back onto her feet, landing beside him. The knights spun around just in time to face them both.
Merlin theatrically muttered an incantation under her breath and swung her wand downward. In response, thick vines erupted from the earth, snapping tight around the knights' limbs and weapons. The enchanted restraints locked them in place, pinning swords to arms and boots to stone, leaving them utterly helpless.
She casually twirled out of Arthur's immediate range, her cloak fluttering as she moved aside. Arthur was now fully revealed, standing tall with both twin swords raised high above his head, blue fire roaring along their edges.
[Tier Three Magic: Flame Burst — Magic Burst Fire Variant]
Arthur planted his feet firmly into the ground and brought both blades down in a devastating arc. Jets of flame erupted outward as the swords cleaved through the air. The trapped knights were incinerated instantly, their armor bodies melting like wax beneath the overwhelming heat. Even the stone beneath them liquefied, leaving behind a glowing, molten scar etched into the ground, its edges still burning with blue fire.
Where the knights once stood was nothing more than a misshapen mound of melted metal and slag.
Arthur lowered his swords, brought both closer to his face, and blew gently across the blades. Smoke curled upward as the blue flames flickered at the tip before settling.
Merlin scoffed and gave her staff a quick flourish, instantly cooling the scorched area. "Show-off," she teased, though there was clear amusement in her voice.
One of Arthur's swords dissolved into shimmering particles of magic, dispersing into the air. He began sheathing the remaining blade without offering a verbal reply, answering only with a faint smirk.
"Harry!" Hermione and Ron cried out simultaneously, panic flooding their voices.
Arthur and Merlin snapped their heads toward the sound. Quirrell stood several meters away, the back of his wand pressed firmly against the back of Harry's head.
Lance and Gwyneth, already back on their feet, froze mid-motion. Lance's hand went to his sword instantly, Arthur's following suit without hesitation. Even Gwyneth clenched her own weapon tightly in her small hands.
"Ah, I'd be careful if I were you," Quirrell sneered. "One little slip, one unfortunate twitch of my fingers, and the boy's head is gone."
"No, it won't," Arthur said calmly as he slowly drew his blade partway from its sheath. His voice was steady, unshaken. "You need Harry for whatever it is you're planning. You wouldn't dare kill him."
Quirrell stiffened. The certainty in Arthur's tone—and the cold steel in his eyes—made it painfully clear that his bluff had been seen through. He clicked his tongue in irritation before responding, "Perhaps. But that doesn't mean I can't inflict unimaginable pain. I know curses for that. Trust me. As long as he's alive and breathing, it doesn't matter if he's broken by the end of it."
Arthur's sword stopped moving. He clicked his tongue in turn.
Though it was all an act, his thoughts raced. 'I could disarm him instantly—Expelliarmus would end this farce—but for the plan to succeed, Harry has to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone himself.'
With visible reluctance, Arthur slowly pushed the blade back into its sheath, lowering his guard as if conceding.
A smug, victorious smile spread across Quirrell's face.
"Your swords," he said sharply, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "All of you. Drop them at your feet. Go on. I don't even understand why children are allowed to carry such things in the first place—how utterly bizarre."
Arthur, Lance, and Gwyneth exchanged brief looks before complying. One by one, their swords clattered against the stone floor, the sound echoing unpleasantly through the chamber.
"Now kick them away," Quirrell commanded, his voice twisting into a snarl.
'Making me kick my holy sword… watch, if I don't—' Arthur growled internally, finishing the rest of the threat deep in his thoughts as he reluctantly nudged his blade away with his foot.
Merlin, already aware of exactly what Arthur was thinking, turned her head slightly and suppressed a snort of amusement.
Taking extra precautions, Quirrell flicked his wand once more. Thick ropes erupted into existence—the same conjured bindings as before, but this time uninterrupted. They shot forward with alarming speed, coiling tightly around everyone they could reach. Arms were pinned, legs bound, and resistance became impossible.
"Now then," Quirrell said, triumph practically radiating off him as he adjusted his grip on Harry. He turned and began walking toward the far end of the room, where an ornate mirror stood silently tall reflecting the light around them.
It was a mirror most of them failed to recognize—except for Harry, Arthur, and Merlin.
The Mirror of Erised.
Harry stared at it in shock. Between Quirrell's revelations and the chaos of the fight with the knights, he hadn't even noticed it was there.
"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured, tracing his fingers along the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to devise something so irritatingly clever… but he's in London now. I'll be long gone before he ever returns."
Harry's heart hammered in his chest. If there was anything he could do, it was keep Quirrell talking—keep him distracted, unfocused.
"I—I saw you and Snape in the forest—" Harry blurted out.
"Yes," Quirrell replied absently, walking around the mirror to inspect its back. "By then, he was already suspicious. Trying to determine how far I'd progressed. He suspected me from the beginning, really. Tried to frighten me."
He gave a small, humorless chuckle. "As if he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side…"
Quirrell continued to examine the mirror, growing increasingly frustrated. No matter how he circled it or prodded it, the answer eluded him. With each question Harry asked—and each idle response Quirrell gave—his agitation deepened.
"What does this mirror do?" Quirrell muttered. "How does it work? Help me, Master… I don't understand. Is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"
Everyone froze.
A fearsome voice echoed through the chamber—one that clearly did not belong to Quirrell.
"Use the boy… Use the boy…"
"Come here," Quirrell snapped, yanking Harry closer and forcing him toward the mirror. "Look into it and tell me what you see."
'I have to lie,' Harry told himself over and over again.
At first, he saw only his reflection—pale, frightened, eyes wide with fear. Then the image changed. His reflection smiled, slipped a hand into its pocket, and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked before placing the Stone back into its pocket.
At that exact moment, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket.
Arthur subtly shifted his gaze toward Merlin. She met his eyes and gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.
"I—I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," Harry said quickly, forcing the lie into existence. "I've… I've won the House Cup for Gryffindor."
Quirrell swore under his breath.
"He lies… He lies…" the voice echoed again—once more emerging from Quirrell, though his lips did not move.
"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted, panic creeping into his voice. "Tell me the truth! What did you really see?"
"Let me speak to him… face-to-face…"
Quirrell stiffened. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached up and began unwrapping his turban. He turned around on the spot.
"WAAAAAAHHHH!" Gwyneth shrieked, scrambling backward on the floor as best she could with her bindings. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THAT?!"
Arthur and Merlin both had to fight with everything they had not to burst out laughing as Gwyneth—and everyone else—finally got a full view of Voldemort's grotesque reveal.
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