Quirrell's defiant momentum was now undeniable. Sebastian, through his magical perception, observed the phenomenon as points of intense, fervent red light—the visual manifestation of pure, selfless affection and the will to live—began to bloom across Quirrell's paralyzed body.
Perfect. Sebastian's satisfaction was evident in a subtle, pleased smirk. Quirrell had found the courage to reject his captor, and that act of internal rebellion provided the necessary magical fuel.
The spell Sebastian had crafted was an extremely rare and specialized piece of elemental magic, derived from ancient Norse runes representing deep, familial devotion. It wasn't a curse; it was a counter-enchantment.
Its core function was to violently amplify the power of love and self-respect within a person's heart, transforming that pure emotion into a potent, shimmering shield against any invasive or malicious evil thought. Against the semi-corporeal, wholly malignant wraith of Voldemort, it was a specialized, internal weapon.
As the substance of love intensified, it began to visibly clash with the gray, sickly evil emanating from the back of Quirrell's head, pushing back against the dark, clinging consciousness.
Sebastian recognized the critical moment. His wand, held with precise, surgical steadiness, pointed at the former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
"Scutum Mentis!"
The Shield of the Mind enchantment flooded Quirrell's consciousness, not with external power, but with a torrent of his own cherished, happy memories.
He relived the moment his Hogwarts acceptance letter, pristine and authoritative, first arrived at his home; the feel of his first wand, a rigid nine-inch hazel, purchased from the dusty solitude of Ollivander's; the thrilling chaos of arriving at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and seeing the great, smoking engine of the Hogwarts Express for the very first time.
The most cherished memories came rushing back: his quiet room at home, filled with meticulously pressed and categorized flower specimens gathered from the deepest wilderness; the immense pride when Professor Flitwick, seeing his raw talent, had personally encouraged him to remain at the castle and teach after achieving his stellar graduation scores; the image of his parents, smiling, waiting for him during the school holidays.
The flood of love-imbued memories re-ignited Quirrell's deep, long-dormant desire to live. He desperately longed to travel again, to stand beneath the dizzying expanse of the Northern Lights in Scandinavia; to chase the ethereal beauty of a perfect rainbow after a summer squall; to simply eat breakfast again in the Great Hall, bathed in the morning light.
I want to go back! I need to go back and properly study the specimens in the Forbidden Forest and gift the rarest bloom to Professor Flitwick!
"Quirinus, you have the momentum! Hold fast!"
Professor Flitwick, small but vibrating with controlled energy, clenched his tiny fists and shouted words of fierce encouragement. His belief was a tangible, supportive force.
Harry, who had been watching the harrowing internal struggle, finally understood. Professor Quirrell was not a willing accomplice but a victim, an academic overwhelmed and corrupted by a far greater evil. His prior resentment vanished, replaced by a surge of pure, uncomplicated solidarity.
"Professor Quirrell, don't listen to him! Fight back! Don't let Voldemort win!" Harry yelled, his voice cracking with intensity.
Amidst the collective will of his allies, Quirrell's desire for life forged itself into the courage to rebel. He seized control of his own consciousness, using his sheer will as a battlefield, preventing Voldemort from absorbing another drop of his vitality.
As he fought, Quirrell was astonished. The more he resisted, the less power Voldemort had over him. The drain on his life force stuttered, then ceased completely. A surge of self-recognition, an unprecedented feeling of true power, flooded his being. It was the power of his own, uncompromised self.
It's true. He is nothing now!
He is just a weak, parasitic beast!
I am the master of my own life!
In Sebastian's magical perception, the shield of red love solidified, becoming a perfect, impenetrable barrier that completely encircled Voldemort's dark malignancy. The time for defense was over; the time for the enthusiastic counter-attack had arrived. The viper of Slytherin smiled, knowing that the evil being who lived only through hatred was about to be burned by the purest form of human emotion.
Sebastian extended his wand once more, and with a gentle, almost ceremonial gesture, the solid ice encasing Quirrell shattered instantly, dissolving into vapor.
Quirrell felt the sudden, shocking freedom from the paralyzing cold and the immense psychic pressure. He stumbled forward, gasping, overwhelmed by a tidal wave of righteous, incandescent fury directed entirely at the creature clinging to his skull.
He balled his hands into fists, staggering upright. He drew the deepest, most ragged breath of his life.
"VOLDEMORT!"
His roar, raw and utterly liberated, filled the chamber.
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"
Instinctively, Quirrell projected the full, magnified force of his love-shield, a blinding, mental concussive blast aimed directly at the grotesque, exposed face.
The shield struck the Dark Lord's consciousness like a thousand-degree furnace.
"No! Quirinus, you insolent fool! How DARE you!" Voldemort shrieked, his voice laced with excruciating, genuine pain.
The Dark Lord felt as if he had been plunged into a vat of holy fire. He had never, in his entire existence—even as a desperate wraith—experienced such profound, agonizing discomfort. This overwhelming, magnified emotion of purity and selfless love was utterly intolerable, a psychic solvent dissolving his very being.
In a desperate, instinctive act of self-preservation, the thing that was Voldemort tore itself free. It peeled away from the back of Quirrell's skull, transforming into a chaotic, formless cloud of smoke, steam, and shadow .
It hung trembling in the air for a horrifying moment, an ethereal, vaporous column of pure, concentrated evil.
"Voldemort!"
Harry, seizing the opportunity, overcame his paralysis. His raw, burning hatred for the Dark Lord found its release. He raised his wand, pointing it at the drifting shadow.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The charm shot forward, a jet of light meant to instantly bind and freeze the target. But the vaporous form offered no resistance. Harry's spell passed straight through the smoky cloud without impedance, striking the stone wall behind it with a dull crack.
"Hmph!"
The sound was not a shout, but a single, contemptuous exhalation of pure malice. Voldemort, unable to inflict punishment or even sustain physical existence, gave one last, penetrating look of deadly promise to everyone present. Then, with a sudden, unnerving speed, the cloud condensed, became a gust of cold wind, and shot toward the exit, vanishing through the archway into the lower levels of the castle.
The moment the presence was gone, Quirrell's adrenaline crashed. His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto the stone floor, completely spent.
He looked first at Sebastian, his face a mess of gratitude and relief. Then, he crawled toward Professor Flitwick, wrapping his arms around his former Head of House in a fierce, sobbing embrace.
"You saved me, Professor! I'm free! I survived!" Quirrell cried, tears and snot streaming down his face, the dam of a year's worth of terror and suppression finally broken. He wept out the pain, the loneliness, and the crushing shame.
Flitwick, not showing an ounce of disgust, simply held his student tight, gently stroking his back. "It's all right, Quirinus. You fought bravely. You did wonderfully. I am so incredibly proud of you, my boy."
Sebastian stood silently beside Harry, allowing the raw, poignant reunion to play out. Harry watched, deeply moved, finally understanding the true cost of their journey and the immense weight of the Dark Arts.
When Quirrell's sobbing had finally subsided into shaky, exhausted silence, Sebastian stepped forward. The time for sentiment was over. The harvest season had arrived.
Sebastian gave Quirrell's slumped shoulder a decisive, cold pat.
"Professor Quirrell," Sebastian said, his voice now crisp and entirely professional. "Let us engage in a pragmatic assessment of your current situation."
Quirrell stopped breathing, his face lifted from Flitwick's shoulder.
"You have just launched a successful, physical, and highly personal internal rebellion against the most unforgiving entity in the history of magic. You are now, officially and permanently, number one on his personal Execution List. Should he ever attain full physical form, he will not rest until he has located and personally incinerated you and, regrettably, anyone associated with your sudden disappearance."
The truth, delivered with such clinical, undeniable finality, was more chilling than the ice he had just escaped. Quirrell's tears dried instantly; his entire body went rigid with dread, as if Sebastian's magic had frozen him once more. He looked at Sebastian, his eyes wide with horror and silent accusation: How can you speak such cold words with a face of such gentle concern?
Sebastian merely offered a predatory, pleasant smile to combat the fear.
"I, however, can provide comprehensive, professional, and discreet family safety and lifelong anonymity. I can also offer a position that will ensure you are protected by my burgeoning network, a network that even Voldemort in his prime would struggle to penetrate."
"The prerequisite for this service is simple: you will enter into a binding employment contract to work exclusively for me for the next thirty years."
Sebastian's smile widened, revealing a flash of something sharp and utterly unsentimental.
"Would you care to reconsider your professional allegiance, Professor Quirrell?"