The voice was the first Harry had ever heard, yet it felt familiar, as if he'd heard it somewhere before. He tried to remember, but his scar throbbed dully, blocking the rest from coming back.
Quirrell turned and looked at him. "All right—Potter—come here."
With a sweep of his hands, the ropes binding Harry fell away. Harry hauled himself up from the floor.
"Come here. Look into the mirror and tell me what you see," Quirrell urged again.
Harry pretended his leg was hurt and limped toward the glass, dragging for time. As he went, he thought, I'll look first—then make up a story to fool him.
Quirrell stood right behind him, watching his every move to stop any trickery. Harry's nose was in agony now; he realized the stench filling the room was coming from Quirrell himself. At a distance—and with nerves tight as harp strings—he'd endured it. Up close it was as bad as a troll's reek.
When Harry squeezed his eyes shut, Quirrell barked, "Open your eyes—properly—look at the mirror and tell me everything you see."
Harry forced his eyes open, but tears from the smell blurred his vision and he couldn't make out a thing.
The next instant, his pocket grew heavy, as if something had just been slipped into it.
I… I got the Philosopher's Stone just like that.
He kept his face steady, rubbing at his eyes. "Professor Quirrell, your smell is too strong. It's choking me—I can't open my eyes. I can't see."
The line left Quirrell a little wrong-footed; far away in the Room of Requirement, Loren and Hermione burst out laughing.
Because of Loren's Christmas "gift," Voldemort had been badly injured; later, in the Forbidden Forest, Shiraori blocked him, so he couldn't drink unicorn blood like in the original tale. With no choice, Voldemort used Dark Magic to draw on Quirrell's life force to recover a little—leaving Quirrell's body rotting. If not for Voldemort forcefully sustaining him with black magic, Quirrell would already be dead. His life was strung along, but to cover the ever-thickening stench of decay he'd kept upping the garlic. In the end, he had no choice but to cast a Bubble-Head Charm on Harry, sealing him off from the air.
Clean air flooded in. Harry took a few deep breaths and finally looked at the mirror.
In the glass, he saw himself, pale; Quirrell stood at his back, threatening his life. Then Dumbledore appeared in the reflection, flicked a spell, and blasted Quirrell aside, saving him. More people crowded in, congratulating him on protecting the Stone—even the much-disliked Professor Snape and Loren were cheering.
"Well? What did you see?" Quirrell's impatient voice snapped Harry back. He answered at once.
"I saw myself leading Gryffindor to win the Quidditch Cup—the whole team cheering. Dumbledore handed me the trophy himself."
"Get out of the way," Quirrell snarled.
Harry obediently withdrew to the side. With Quirrell's back turned, Harry slid a hand into his pocket, felt around the Stone, and began edging backward to escape.
He'd barely taken a few steps when a new, hissed voice cut across the room. "He lies. Bring him back."
"Potter, come here! Speak the truth—what did you see?" That voice was Quirrell's—Harry could tell, because he saw Quirrell's mouth move.
"Let me speak to him. Face to face."
"I still have strength enough," Quirrell muttered to himself—answering the other voice. Harry crept another step.
As Quirrell began unwinding his turban, Harry went rigid, as if Petrified. The wrappings fell; Quirrell's head looked oddly small—and he turned around.
On the back of his head was a face—a face Harry had never seen and could hardly bear to look at. The skin was corpse-pale; the eyes glowed scarlet; below them, two thin slits opened where a nose should have been. For some strange reason, Harry thought the thing looked like it needed a lid put over it.
"We meet again, Harry Potter."
Harry tried to back away, but his legs felt like they were filled with lead and wouldn't move.
"See what I have become—mere shadow and vapor! I must share another's body. Luckily, there are still those willing to let me into their hearts and minds." The face seemed starved for speech and poured words out in a rush. "Because of you I am like this. But when I have the Elixir of Life, I will fashion myself a new body. So—why not hand me the Stone in your pocket?"
Harry's heart jolted. He shouldn't have put his hand in his pocket.
When he didn't move, the face went on, cruelly silky. "Don't be a fool. Save your own life. Join me—or die like your parents did, begging me for mercy."
"You're lying!" Harry shouted.
Quirrell began backing toward him, the face on the back fixing Harry with a feral grin. A rasping whisper said, "How touching. I have always respected courage. Your parents were brave. Your father stood and fought, so I killed him. Your mother did not have to die—she died protecting you. Give me the Stone. Don't let your mother's death be in vain."
Harry gave a hoarse yell, found strength from nowhere, and bolted for the door wreathed in black fire.
"Seize him!"
Voldemort shrieked. Quirrell lunged and clamped both hands around Harry's wrists.
Agony split Harry's scar wide open; his head felt like it would crack in two. He screamed and fought.
To his shock, Quirrell snatched his hands away, and the pain in Harry's scar fell sharply. Harry stared—the backs of Quirrell's hands were bubbling with angry blisters.
"Grab him! Hold him!" Voldemort screeched from behind Quirrell's skull.
Quirrell threw himself at Harry again, trying to pin him, but he was too weak. He managed to knock Harry down, but couldn't hold him; they grappled and rolled.
"Fool—finish him!"
The shriek knifed through the room. Harry's scar still burned like fire, but Quirrell was in worse shape—and with the boosts from his gear, Quirrell was no match. As they struggled, blisters boiled up all over Quirrell's skin, as if he were about to catch fire.
Over the Dark Lord's screeching, Harry even pried one hand free and slapped it over Quirrell's mouth. The instant flesh met flesh, pain ripped through Harry's skull—and the world went black.
The blow hurt Voldemort, too. New wounds piled atop the old injuries he'd been suppressing. At last Quirrell's life was drained dry; he collapsed into a withered heap. Voldemort tore free of the body, a wisp of soul drifting in the air. He tried several times to swoop close and take the Stone, but every time he approached Harry his spirit began to burn away. After a few attempts, he abandoned it and fled, a shadow slipping through thick walls.
Voldemort's escape was with Loren's tacit leave; Loren even set a magical mark on him to make Peter's hunt easier.
In the Room of Requirement, Hermione—watching the whole thing—stared at Voldemort's outcome in disbelief. "That's Voldemort? The Dark Lord who terrified Britain?"
Loren only nodded.
"The British wizarding world was thrown into chaos by… that?" Hermione ranted. "When they fought Harry, aside from a burst of brute magic at the start, they were flailing the whole time. They didn't even draw wands! I swear, grab two random blokes off the street and they'd put on a better fight."
Loren half agreed. But he knew this was Tom Riddle's own doing—played by the pure-blood families into carving up his soul. They'd wanted a thug to chase profit for them; the orphaned, gifted Slytherin needed pure-blood backing to gain power. At first they shared interests; over time, to keep Tom controllable, they pushed him into the trap of Horcruxes—splitting himself seven ways until he was a tattered remnant and got defeated.
As Loren was sighing over Tom's fate, Hermione suddenly cried out at the screen, "Loren! Look!"
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