"Professor Quirrell!"
Harry blurted the name, then immediately clapped a hand over his nose and mouth—the room reeked.
Quirrell smiled. He was brimming with confidence now, nothing like the timid, shrinking figure he usually affected. "I was just wondering whether I'd meet you here, Potter," he said coolly.
"I thought it would be Professor Snape." Harry struggled to accept what he was seeing; the shock briefly made him forget the stench as he questioned Quirrell.
Quirrell suddenly laughed. It wasn't the thin, tremulous squeak he'd used in class, but a cold laugh that sent a shiver through Harry. "Yes, Snape doesn't look like a good man. He broods over Hogwarts like a monstrous bat—that was very helpful to us. With him looming at the front, who would suspect poor, stammering Professor Quirrell?"
Hearing it put that way made Harry's ears burn. He shook his head, muttering, "But I saw Professor Snape threatening you…"
"No, no. He was warning me to lay off you. During that Quidditch match, if he hadn't been standing there counter-jinxing me, I'd have knocked you off your broom long before."
"Professor Snape… saved me?" Harry asked, incredulous.
"Of course. Why do you think he insisted on refereeing your second match? To be sure I couldn't hurt you." Quirrell's smile flattened. "But that's all in the past. Whatever the reasons, tonight I'm going to finish you."
He snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang from the air and bound Harry tight.
"Potter, you poke your nose into everything. On the very first day of term you stumbled on me while I was checking the third-floor corridor; afterward you dogged me again and again. I can't let you keep living—what a pity."
Harry's heart lurched. He'd been lost on that first day and run into Filch—it was Quirrell who had smoothed things over; he'd been grateful. Afterward he'd "watched" Quirrell only because he thought Snape was threatening him.
Quirrell kept talking. "I even thought that brat Loren would turn up with you. I wanted to take care of him along the way."
At the mention of Loren, Quirrell's calm cracked. "Damn Loren—this is all because of him. He sniffed something out from the start. He egged the students on to oppose me, blocked me at every turn, made it impossible for me to move openly around the school."
He ground his teeth. "To get back at him, I let a pack of trolls in on Halloween."
"The trolls—that was you!" Harry cut in.
"Of course it was me. I have my own special way with trolls. You've already seen the big fellow in the other room, haven't you? I even set a lot of them along the routes to the Gryffindor common room, planning to give Loren a lesson."
His excitement soured to anger. "Who'd have thought Loren was that strong? Those brainless trolls didn't trouble him at all—he wiped them out in no time. My plan to probe the third-floor corridor amid the chaos came to nothing."
Harry saw his stalling was working—and he genuinely wanted to know what role Loren had played—so he pressed on. "So he wasn't targeting me? But later he went even harder against you. At Christmas, under the pretense of a gift exchange, he left you badly injured."
Quirrell flinched, as if remembering something unpleasant. "I had to recuperate for ages. I went into the Forbidden Forest to get some unicorn blood, and that oaf blocked me. When I finally dealt with him, a white spider showed up, and my plan to take the Stone nearly collapsed."
In the Room of Requirement, Loren's eyes narrowed at the mention of a "white spider." "So Shiraori was involved after all."
"I think I heard Shiraori mention it," Hermione said, catching Loren's look. "For a while, some very foul magic kept prowling the Forest and frightening the creatures. Shiraori confronted him a few times, but he escaped each time. Many creatures felt the Forest wasn't safe and followed Shiraori into your small world."
Quirrell—oblivious to their commentary—seemed to receive some unspoken command. He stopped railing about Loren and turned toward the Mirror of Erised. "This mirror is the key to finding the Philosopher's Stone. Only Dumbledore could make something like this, but he's in London at the moment. When he returns…"
Muttering, he tapped along the frame as if hunting for a likely point to pry it apart.
Harry watched, helpless and anxious. The only thing he could do was keep Quirrell talking. "I saw Professor Snape threatening you—"
"Yes," Quirrell said lazily, still circling the mirror, "he had his eye on me from the start, trying to find out how far I'd got. He always suspected me, tried to scare me… but he never frightened me."
Harry drew a sharp breath. "Was it Voldemort who sent you to steal the Philosopher's Stone?"
Quirrell ignored the question. He planted himself before the mirror, staring. "I see the Stone," he murmured. "I'm presenting it to my master… but where is it hidden?"
When the questions no longer worked, Harry fought the ropes, writhing hard. He stumbled, crashed to the floor, and the noise made Quirrell glance over.
Seizing the moment, Harry asked, "Why does Professor Snape hate me so much?"
"Of course he hates you. He and your father were at Hogwarts together—you didn't know?" Quirrell's tone was careless. "They despised each other. Bitter enemies."
"Then the other day—were you crying? I thought Professor Snape was threatening you." Harry pressed.
"Sometimes my own weakness fails to carry out his orders," Quirrell said, and for the first time a flicker of fear crossed his face. "He is such a great wizard, and I am so small…"
"At that time…?" Harry ventured.
"Wherever I go, my master is with me." At the name Voldemort, Quirrell's expression turned calm, his voice level, as if recounting someone else's story. "It was my great master who showed me the truth. There isn't so much good and evil in the world—only power, and those too weak to seek it. From then on, I served him faithfully. I disappointed him many times; he was always severe with me."
Quirrell's body trembled, remembering. "When I failed to take the Stone from Gringotts, my master was displeased. He punished me and decided to watch me more closely."
Harry's mind raced—how had he not realized? He'd seen Quirrell that day; he'd even shaken his hand.
"I don't understand," Quirrell snarled. "Is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"
Harry tried a few more questions, but Quirrell no longer answered, hurling his full attention into "studying" the mirror.
Recalling what the Mirror of Erised did, a thought surfaced in Harry's mind: If I looked into it, I'd see myself finding the Stone—that would mean I'd know where it's hidden.
Bound on the floor, he wriggled inch by inch, trying to find a spot from which Quirrell wouldn't notice him looking.
Quirrell muttered, "What is this mirror? What does it do? Help me, master."
Harry's heart jolted at the voice that answered—a voice that seemed to come from within Quirrell's own body.
"The boy… the boy…"
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