Thump, thump, thump—!!
Deep within the room ahead of Quirrell, the massive shadow seemed to suddenly gain weight.
Heavy footsteps echoed as a strange creature slowly emerged from the darkness in the corner.
It was humanoid, with abnormally long arms and legs, its arms nearly brushing the ground.
Its body resembled a moving fortress, almost reaching the seven- or eight-meter-high ceiling.
Thick ice armor covered its greenish-gray skin, a faint blue glow seeping through the cracked patterns.
Twisted ice-crystal horns rose from its head, refracting the dim light, while its blood-red eyes fixed unblinkingly on Quirrell.
The wand in Quirrell's hand began to tremble.
"No… that's impossible…"
He whispered hoarsely, his voice shaking with shock and fear.
An ordinary troll stood at around four meters tall. The one Quirrell had placed at this checkpoint was slightly larger, but still no more than five meters.
The creature before him far exceeded the size of any troll, and even when compared to a stronger, taller purebred giant, it was not inferior in the slightest!!!!!!!
Moreover, trolls were incapable of using magic, relying solely on their abnormal physical strength in combat.
But the strange creature before him was clad in grotesque ice armor, and as it moved, thick frost spread outward across the floor!!
Gulp..
Quirrell couldn't understand where the troll he had prepared had gone and instinctively activated the measures he had set in place beforehand.
Puff!
A faint wisp of green smoke rose from the back of the towering creature's head with a soft sound.
"This…"
Quirrell's pupils shrank. That feedback meant the creature before him was indeed the troll he had placed at the checkpoint.
But why had the curse's power become so weak?
"Someone modified my Dark Arts?"
Though it hadn't suffered serious damage, the attempt seemed to enrage the creature.
It twisted its neck with a series of cracking sounds, then charged forward, its massive feet pounding the ground as it closed the distance to Quirrell in just a few strides.
Ice rapidly condensed around its enormous hand, forming a thick, spiked club in an instant.
Quirrell instinctively tried to retreat.
Bang!
The door behind him slammed shut on its own.
"!"
Quirrell had no choice but to throw himself sideways.
The eerie blue spiked club, carrying a bone-chilling cold, grazed his turban and smashed down heavily.
Boom!
A thunderous crash echoed through the room.
Quirrell was just about to put some distance between himself and the creature and kill it from afar with magic—"Arrgh!!!"
When a sharp pain suddenly shot through his back and the back of his thigh.
From the point where the spiked club struck the ground, a large patch of long ice spikes erupted upward, two of which happened to pierce straight through Quirrell's back and right leg.
"Useless!"
Lord Voldemort's voice, colder than ice itself, rang out in Quirrell's mind.
In the next moment, Quirrell felt his body slip out of his control once more.
His flesh seemed to vanish into thin air, and his frame visibly shrank.
Frenzied, sinister magic surged forth.
"I've given you my superior magic power. Finish it quickly…"
Lord Voldemort's voice gradually faded. He was conserving his strength for the final checkpoint, uncertain what other schemes that cunning old man Dumbledore might have prepared.
…
"Thanks to you, Hermione, for identifying the Devil's Snare in time!"
Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead and said with relief,
"Professor Sprout specifically reviewed it in Herbology class a while ago."
Hermione flicked her wand, extinguishing the flame at its tip.
"All right, let's move on quickly."
When they reached the next room and pushed the door open, they saw countless jewel-like, brightly colored little birds flying freely about.
"Phew, you scared me to death. Hearing that noise, I thought it was a dragon or a ghost. Turns out they're just birds."
Ron patted his chest, sounding annoyed.
"No, those aren't birds!"
"They're keys!"
Harry exclaimed, while simultaneously scanning the rest of the room.
Soon, he spotted several flying brooms.
Ron, meanwhile, examined the lock on the door and guessed,
"The key must be really big, probably silver—maybe shaped like a doorknob?"
The three of them immediately mounted the brooms, and under the lead of Harry, the youngest Seeker of the century, they eventually cornered the large key with sky-blue wings.
"Got it!"
Harry landed directly in front of the large door with the key in his hand, inserted it into the keyhole, and gave it a twist.
Click!
The door swung open.
"It's still not that hard. Let's keep going—we've got this!"
…
Quirrell staggered into the final room.
He had lost his left arm once again, and his right leg was badly torn, making his movements stiff and unsteady.
"Cough, cough, cough…"
"Achoo!"
Coughs and sneezes alternated nonstop from Quirrell's mouth.
"Who on earth tampered with my troll?!"
Quirrell nearly collapsed to the floor, muttering in confusion and resentment.
"Don't dwell on the pain for now. Hope is right in front of you…"
Lord Voldemort's voice carried a trace of surprise and excitement.
"Quickly—go to that mirror…"
Quirrell looked up and saw a mirror standing in the center of the room.
Limping forward, he carefully examined the ornate mirror before him.
It was extremely tall, nearly reaching the ceiling.
The frame was lavishly gilded, supported at the base by claw-shaped feet.
Noticing a line of lettering engraved along the top, Quirrell waved his hand and squinted, forcing his vision to clear slightly.
"Erised, Stra…"
Suddenly, Quirrell noticed changes in his reflection.
His once frail, emaciated body became tall and robust, and the sickly pallor of his skin was replaced by a healthy flush.
The long turban on his head vanished, replaced by thick, flowing black hair.
A dark, misty phantom peeled away from the top of his head and quickly drifted off into the distance.
Then the scene in the mirror shifted again.
The Quirrell within it held a book, standing in a quiet study, softly lit, accompanied only by the gentle rustle of turning pages.
Staring at this sight, Quirrell's gaze grew vacant.
He unconsciously extended his remaining right hand, wanting to touch the mirror's surface.
A mysterious tear slid from the corner of his eye.
"Quirinus, what do you see?"
A cold voice echoed in his mind, making Quirrell shudder as he snapped back to his senses.
Yes, he was still a cripple, with an evil soul residing within his head, and he had yet to obtain freedom or liberation.
"M-my Lord, I—I saw…"
"I saw myself obtaining the Philosopher's Stone and presenting it to you. Under your protection, I—I became Minister for Magic!"
Quirrell did not reveal what he had truly seen. Instead, he described a vision that he knew Lord Voldemort would find pleasing.
"Oh, very good."
"Then where is the Philosopher's Stone?"
Lord Voldemort's indifferent voice pierced Quirrell's nerves.
Cold sweat trickled down Quirrell's forehead. He suppressed his coughing and sneezing, not daring to answer.
Lord Voldemort did not press him, instead turning his thoughts to the nature of this final trial.
The Philosopher's Stone had to be inside that mirror.
But how was it to be taken out?
One could see it, but not touch it…
No one knew how much time passed.
Suddenly, the heavy door to the room was smashed open.
"Your filthy plans are now over, Snape! I'll protect the Philosopher's Stone and stop you—"
Harry burst in, his clothes dust-covered, his expression filled with righteous anger as he looked at the figure before him.
"Eh? Professor Quirrell? Why are you here?"
________
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