"Um? Professor Quirrell, why are you here?"
Harry stared blankly at the man in front of him. Although the other looked rather wretched, Harry still recognized him. Wasn't this Professor Quirrell, who had always seemed harmless?
True, Professor Quirrell stuttered, his lessons were dreadful, and he constantly smelled of garlic… but setting those flaws aside, Quirrell had always seemed like a good person in Harry's eyes.
Even if students didn't like him much, Professor Quirrell always appeared diligent. He started classes on time, ended them on time, and never dragged lessons out.
Harry remembered even seeing Quirrell being threatened by Snape before. Compared to that, Snape had seemed far more like the villain.
If anything, shouldn't Snape have been the one standing here?
"Y-you… are you trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone?"
Harry looked at Quirrell in disbelief, unable to reconcile the stuttering professor he knew with the mastermind behind the theft of the Philosopher's Stone.
Quirrell no longer wanted to answer that question.
After seeing the scene reflected in the mirror, he sometimes found himself unconsciously imagining that "future."
Would it really come true?
"Haha… Severus certainly doesn't look like a good person, flitting around like a great bat. With him drawing all the attention…"
"Who would ever suspect a stuttering, weak Quirrell?"
A sharp, piercing voice rang in Harry's ears, yet he could clearly see that Quirrell's mouth wasn't moving.
"It's a pity. That Quidditch match when Dumbledore wasn't there—I had a chance to kill you. Tsk. But in the end, it was that old man…"
Harry stared at Quirrell in shock. So he really was the culprit.
But Harry was also deeply confused. Quirrell's lips hadn't moved at all, yet the words were clearly entering his ears.
At the same time, the scar on Harry's forehead began to ache more and more.
"Urg.."
As the voice continued, the burning sensation became almost unbearable.
"Let me see him. See this boy-who-lived… who couldn't… die~~"
The words were spoken slowly, one by one, filled with contempt and hatred, yet beneath them lurked a faint trace of fear.
Quirrell obeyed. Turning his back to Harry, he slowly began to untie the purple turban.
As the cloth loosened, he glanced into the mirror once more, seeing again that peaceful, tranquil scene—his healthy, refined self calmly flipping through a book in a quiet study.
Harry's pupils shrank. With each movement Quirrell made, the intense pain from his scar forced Harry to clench his fists.
When the turban finally fell away, where the back of Quirrell's head should have been, there was a face—chalk-white.
That face looked as though it had been burned. Its features were blurred and warped like melted wax, grotesque and repulsive.
The whites of his eyes were almost entirely bloodshot, glowing red, and beneath them were narrow, snake-like nostrils.
"Harry Potter…"
Without the turban blocking it, the whispering voice slid smoothly into Harry's ear.
"The last time we met, you were still a baby."
"Oh, you were so small then… so very small…"
"Your father and mother—hmm, brave, but their resistance was weak."
Harry clutched his forehead with one hand as tears—whether from grief or pain—spilled down his face.
"You are… The Dark Lord? Vo.. Voldemort?!"
"Yes, yes, praise my great name!"
"Hahahahaha!!!"
"Give me the Philosopher's Stone!"
Manic, unrestrained laughter burst from Lord Voldemort's mouth, assaulting Harry's ears.
"Go, my loyal servant, Quirinus. That boy must know where the Philosopher's Stone is."
Quirrell snapped his fingers.
Harry was instantly bound by ropes that appeared out of thin air, tightly restraining him.
Quirrell lingered for a moment, gazing at the scene reflected in the mirror, then let out an almost imperceptible sigh and turned toward Harry.
"Harry, resistance is useless…"
Quirrell was about to step forward, preparing to force Harry to reveal the location of the Philosopher's Stone.
"Wait!"
A sharp cry halted Quirrell's movement. The voice belonged to Lord Voldemort.
Lord Voldemort's crimson eyes widened, fixing intently on the surface of the mirror.
What did he see?
In the mirror stood a figure with his back turned.
The figure wore Hogwarts robes, and dark golden hair fell loosely over his shoulders.
He stood before a workbench, his hands moving deftly as various potion ingredients were chopped and ground, then methodically added to a cauldron.
The color of the flames beneath it was unusual as well, constantly shifting, sometimes appearing in blended hues that licked around the base of the cauldron.
Looking at that back, Lord Voldemort didn't think he had seen it before, yet a faint sense of familiarity stirred within him.
Just as Lord Voldemort began to ponder this, he saw the figure suddenly stop what he was doing.
Then, with a single gesture, the flames instantly reverted to the ordinary orange-yellow of normal fire.
In his clean, pale palm, an additional gem appeared—a translucent red stone.
Lord Voldemort's pupils abruptly contracted, his face twitching violently.
"The Philosopher's Stone!"
Though manipulating Quirrell's body to retreat was awkward, Lord Voldemort forced it closer to the Mirror's surface.
His gaze was filled with greed and longing as he stared fixedly at the gem.
In the mirror, the figure casually slipped the Philosopher's Stone into his pocket, as though it were nothing more than an ordinary trinket.
As Quirrell lay twisted in an awkward posture before the Mirror of Erised, Harry struggled desperately against the ropes binding him.
But they were pulled too tight, and he crashed heavily onto the hard floor.
Ignoring the pain, Harry writhed and twisted, forcing his body to move. He would rather die than submit to Lord Voldemort.
He had to find a way to get hold of the Philosopher's Stone first, to ruin Voldemort's plan.
He had to buy time—to hold out until Headmaster Dumbledore returned and to witness Lord Voldemort's defeat with his own eyes.
As Harry struggled, driven by some strange impulse, he suddenly glanced toward Quirrell and caught sight of a corner of the mirror's surface.
His reflection in the mirror was also lying on the ground, bound from head to toe.
But very quickly, the ropes dissolved on their own, and he rose to his feet.
The expression on his face was no longer panicked or anxious, but instead calm—and smiling.
The Harry in the mirror reached into his pocket and pulled out a translucent red stone.
He winked at the Harry lying on the floor, then slipped the stone back into his pocket.
In the next instant, Harry felt something heavy appear in his own pocket.
The sensation against his thigh, combined with what he had just seen—
A realization flashed through his mind.
He had actually obtained the Philosopher's Stone!
Struggling to steady his emotions, Harry quickly understood the situation.
What he needed to do now was hide.
Lord Voldemort clearly didn't know that the Philosopher's Stone had suddenly appeared in Harry's pocket, so as long as he endured—so long as he kept the Stone hidden—he could hold out until Dumbledore arrived to rescue him.
Harry subtly adjusted his posture, pressing the pocket containing the Philosopher's Stone beneath him.
Just as Harry felt the Philosopher's Stone settle into his pocket—Keh.. keheheh~
A soft chuckle drifted from the Mirror of Erised.
The sound seemed distant, and only Lord Voldemort and Quirrell, who were pressed close to the mirror, heard it.
Lord Voldemort watched as the figure in the mirror extinguished the flames and calmly poured the potion from the cauldron into a small crystal vial.
"Good evening, Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts."
The figure finally turned around. Emerald eyes met Lord Voldemort's gaze, a handsome, composed smile playing at the corners of his lips.
In that instant, Lord Voldemort finally understood the source of that faint sense of familiarity.
"Lucien Grafton!"
________
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