Where the back of Quirrell's head should have been, there was a face.
Harry had never seen anything so hideous, so terrifying. The skin was ghostly pale, the eyes glowed a deep, unnatural red, and beneath them were two narrow, snake-like slits for nostrils.
"Harry Potter."
The voice came from that face — cold, hollow, and full of emotion Harry couldn't name.
It was the owner of that voice — of that name — who had caused him to become what he was now: a wraith trapped in the body of another. A once-great wizard, reduced to this.
Voldemort looked at the boy before him, and for a fleeting instant, a strange, bitter feeling washed over him. Once, he had been feared across the wizarding world. Now he was forced to share a body with a trembling, cowardly man. Sometimes, he thought, if only he had sent another to kill the child — if he had not gone himself — perhaps everything would have been different.
Harry wanted to back away, but his legs wouldn't move.
"Look at me," Voldemort hissed. "See what I have become."
Then, suddenly, that ghastly face turned toward the far wall.
"Mice over there — come out!" he commanded. "Even in this wretched state, do you think you can hide from me?"
Oh no. It was over. They'd been discovered.
Solim's heart sank. He had thought himself well concealed, but he now realized that great wizards were not easily fooled. Voldemort might be half-alive, but he was still far from powerless.
Evans gave a resigned sigh and lifted the Disillusionment Charm cloaking them. The shimmering illusion faded, revealing their small group — Solim, Evans, Neville, and Draco — standing awkwardly in the dim light.
The three young wizards stared, their emotions tumbling from shock to despair to a flicker of hope.
Voldemort's reaction was… strange.
"You…" he began, his crimson eyes narrowing as they fell on Evans. He seemed about to speak, but then he caught sight of the three students beside him. His expression shifted — confusion, calculation, and curiosity flickering across that inhuman face.
Solim realized at once that they had stepped out too soon. Evans looked briefly embarrassed, but he recovered quickly. Voldemort, it seemed, recognized Evans — though likely not the others.
Before Evans could decide whether to strike or speak, Solim steadied his breath and stepped forward. Now that they had been seen, there was no use pretending.
"It seems," Solim said calmly, "that you noticed him — the great Dark Lord — but not the rest of us. Strange, isn't it? Evans here cast the Disillusionment Charm on all of us. How did you see only him? Care to explain that mystery to a curious student?"
Voldemort's scarlet eyes gleamed with irritation. He ignored the question.
Instead, his voice turned low and persuasive, dripping with false promise. "When I am restored," he said to Evans, "I will give you everything you desire — power, wealth, the most ancient magic. Whatever you ask, I shall grant it. Give me the Philosopher's Stone that Potter carries, and I will let these children live. I swear it."
Coercion and temptation — his old, practiced method. Once, those words could sway even the ambitious and the strong. But that was when he had been whole.
Evans, however, was unmoved.
He stood still, his round face unreadable. Solim knew Evans well enough to recognize that he was no ordinary wizard. If the Council of Elders had sent him, it meant he was capable — and well protected. Voldemort could sense that, too.
Solim recalled how Evans had easily outmatched Professor Snape in Transfiguration during a brief duel days earlier. He was not a man to underestimate.
Voldemort, despite his desperation, was still a shrewd judge of power. He knew Quirrell, even with his aid, could not possibly match Evans in battle. It would not be a fight worth risking.
"I don't care what you want with the Stone," Evans said at last, his voice cool but steady. "And I don't care what you plan to do with it."
Voldemort's expression shifted; he thought his words had begun to work. But then Evans continued, voice firming.
"However," he said, "if you intend to take the Philosopher's Stone out of Hogwarts… that, I cannot allow."
Voldemort's fury flared. If he had teeth, they might have cracked under the pressure.
Not take it out of Hogwarts? Did this fool expect him to restore himself here — under Dumbledore's very nose? The Stone was so close. His body, his power, his life — all within reach. How could he fail now?
"Are you not afraid," Voldemort hissed, "that if we fight, these little ones will die?"
Evans raised an eyebrow. "I am not a Hogwarts professor," he said simply. "I serve the Council of Elders."
At that, Voldemort fell silent.
The name carried weight — ancient, heavy, and dangerous. Even in his prime, Voldemort had been careful not to cross the Council. They were neutral, powerful, and entirely uninterested in politics — unless their interests were threatened.
In his weakened state, he dared not provoke them.
He knew the truth well: the Council of Elders did not meddle in wizarding affairs unless someone interfered with their designs. Dumbledore and Voldemort — neither of them belonged to the Council. Let them fight, the Elders would say; it mattered little to them who won.
No one, not even Voldemort, truly knew how many "great wizards" sat among their ranks. But all understood this — to fight one was to risk everything. And even if a great wizard could strike down another, none could kill what was already split by Horcruxes. Voldemort's immortality made him more nuisance than threat in their eyes.
And so, for years, they had simply ignored each other.
But now, standing in front of Evans — a Council envoy with unknown power — Voldemort hesitated. He could not win this fight. Not yet.
Still… the Philosopher's Stone was within reach.
Eleven years of half-life had driven him past reason. Eleven years of clinging to shadows, surviving on the lifeblood of creatures unworthy to speak his name. Eleven years of humiliation.
He could not, would not, be denied now.
The Stone gleamed in his mind like a promise — the end of this wretched existence, the beginning of his new reign.
He must have it.
"Potter!" Voldemort roared suddenly, turning on Harry. "Give me the Philosopher's Stone, or they die!"
Harry's heart pounded wildly. He could feel the weight of the Stone in his pocket. His hand flew instinctively to cover it as he stepped backward.
"Don't be a fool!" Voldemort spat, his voice echoing horribly in the chamber. "Give it to me, and I will spare your life! Don't let your mother's sacrifice be for nothing!"
Harry's breath caught in his throat.
"Catch him!" Voldemort screamed, and Quirrell's body lurched forward, his trembling hands reaching out toward Harry.
Evans shifted, wand flashing up in warning, but Voldemort's fury drove Quirrell onward. The room erupted with tension — the air thick with magic, the scent of burning stone.
Harry stumbled backward, his hand clutching his pocket, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He could feel Voldemort's hatred — cold, sharp, and desperate — pressing against him like a physical force.
Evans moved to intercept, his wand blazing with light. Solim stepped closer beside him, Neville and Draco frozen in terror.
The chamber seemed to shrink around them, filled with the sound of Voldemort's voice, the crackle of magic, and the faint, eerie hum of the Stone's power.
"Do you think you can stop me?" Voldemort hissed, his voice twisting through the air like smoke. "Do you think Dumbledore will save you? He is not here, and you are nothing before me!"
Evans said nothing. He raised his wand, his expression unreadable, and a flicker of golden light formed at its tip.
For a heartbeat, everything was still — Harry, frozen mid-step; Quirrell, trembling and possessed; the others, caught between courage and terror.
Then, the air exploded in a clash of magic and force.
The ground shook beneath them as spells collided — light against shadow, heat against chill. Voldemort screamed, a terrible, high-pitched sound that scraped against the air.
Harry fell to his knees, clutching his head, pain searing through his scar. The Stone burned like fire in his pocket.
He heard Evans shout something — a word he couldn't make out — and then a blinding flash filled the room.
When Harry looked up, Quirrell was writhing on the floor, his face twisted in agony. Voldemort's voice howled from within him, echoing like a storm, then tore free — a shadowy mist bursting from Quirrell's body, shrieking as it fled into the darkness.
The room fell silent.
Harry could still feel the echo of that scream in his chest. He saw Quirrell's lifeless body collapse, saw Evans lower his wand slowly.
The red light had vanished. The terror with it.
Evans turned toward Harry. "Are you hurt?"
Harry shook his head, though his heart was still racing.
"Good," Evans said softly, tucking his wand away. "Keep that Stone safe until Dumbledore returns."
Solim exhaled shakily. "That was close."
Evans glanced toward the door, his face unreadable. "It's not over yet," he said quietly. "Not for him."
Harry looked down at his trembling hands. The Stone felt impossibly heavy now — not just a relic, but a burden he could scarcely understand.
Somewhere beyond the chamber walls, dawn was breaking over Hogwarts. But in that underground room, surrounded by silence and the faint smell of burnt stone, Harry knew that what he had seen — that pale face, those red eyes — would never leave him.
Not ever
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