This idea sounded good in theory — if Quirrell could seize Harry Potter, he'd have a hostage, and with a hostage he'd hold a bargaining chip to negotiate with Dumbledore. As for Eda, he could just kill her — the life or death of a minor nuisance wouldn't affect the bigger picture.
That's what he thought, and that's what he did. Quirrell charged at Harry Potter, aiming for the weakest person in the room. He didn't even need to touch Harry — as long as he pressed his wand to the so-called savior, his goal would be accomplished.
What was this called? This was "holding the emperor hostage to command the nobles."
But Quirrell never managed to reach Harry as he wished. He'd barely covered half the distance before he fell flat on his face.
A vine had wound around his left ankle.
Everyone knew what happened when you lost your balance mid-run — the vine, which had appeared out of nowhere, coiled tightly around Quirrell's leg while its other end broke through the floor tiles and rooted firmly into the ground.
Quirrell thought he'd taken Eda by surprise, that he was ambushing Harry in a gap between her attacks. But in truth, from the moment he'd even had that thought, he'd already stepped into the trap Eda had laid for him.
From the very start, Eda had clearly understood that the "defenseless" Harry Potter would be the obvious breakthrough point.
If Quirrell took Harry hostage, then unless she was prepared to kill Harry along with him, she'd have no choice but to back off and leave the mess for Dumbledore to handle.
Eda refused to be threatened — but that didn't stop her from using Harry as bait to trap Quirrell. The best outcome would be to defeat Quirrell in one go.
If Quirrell did think of using Harry against her, then he was completely deluded — that was exactly the moment Eda had been waiting for.
Eda was absolutely confident she could easily finish off Quirrell once he was distracted by Harry. There were no real gaps or openings — the ones he thought he saw were nothing but illusions Eda had put on display for him.
The vine that had appeared out of nowhere wasn't satisfied with just binding one of Quirrell's legs. It twisted further up his leg while splitting off to wrap around his other leg as well.
Very soon, both of Quirrell's legs were tightly bound, and the only outcome waiting for him was to be strangled to death by the vine.
Quirrell tried everything he could think of to break free, but nothing worked — the vines gripped him relentlessly.
Unable even to stand, Quirrell was unwilling to accept his defeat. Equally unwilling was Voldemort, still roaring from the back of Quirrell's head, shouting, "Kill her! Kill them both!"
In a desperate final attempt, Quirrell raised his wand and aimed at Harry, who stood not far away. He whispered, "Avada Kedav—"
But the Killing Curse's green light never appeared. Harry stood unharmed just a few steps away. Halfway through the incantation, Quirrell had lost his grip — some unseen force had ripped the wand from his hand.
The wand traced an arc through the air and landed by Eda's feet. She calmly lifted her foot and snapped Quirrell's wand in two.
The crisp snap of the wand echoed as Quirrell's last bit of hope crumbled with it. He hadn't been a match for Eda — that monster — even when armed. Now, without his wand, he couldn't stir up even the slightest resistance.
Lying on the cold stone floor, Quirrell pressed his forehead to the ground. He was unwilling — unwilling to fail like this. He hadn't yet seen the heights of glory.
He hadn't yet tasted the sweetness of triumph.
How could he just fall here, so easily defeated by a fifteen-year-old girl?
Helpless, Quirrell whimpered softly, "Master, what should I do? How can I defeat her? Master, please, I beg you — give me some guidance!"
"Stupefy!" Eda didn't give Quirrell any chance — mercy for the enemy was cruelty to herself. But her wand didn't emit the usual red flash of a Stunner — instead, it shone with a blinding white light — Mercy's Release, an unstoppable stunning curse that could send a person into an endless sleep for life after life.
When Eda and Quirrell had been trading spells earlier, the Voldemort on the back of Quirrell's head had already realized that this idiot Quirrell was no match for this Muggle-born. That was why he had urged Quirrell to grab Harry.
When Quirrell fell, Voldemort knew it was over — he wouldn't be getting the Philosopher's Stone today. This Mudblood had predicted even his predictions.
And when that white light appeared, Voldemort decisively abandoned Quirrell. He could sense the danger of that spell — he had no intention of dying along with Quirrell.
Abandoned first by Voldemort, then struck by Eda's spell, Quirrell lay quietly on the ground. He was no longer breathing. The only thing still moving on him was the vine wrapped tightly around him — his so-called master had deserted him, but the vine remained, loyal to the end.
Voldemort now was just a shred of soul — no longer the all-powerful Dark Lord he once was. He hadn't been able to help Quirrell fight Eda, and now, without Quirrell, he couldn't do anything either.
He could only flee back to the forests of Albania and wait for the next person to find him.
But Voldemort was not resigned. The Philosopher's Stone had been within reach — his chance at resurrection right before his eyes — yet these two had stopped him.
One was the boy who had once rebounded the Killing Curse and could not be touched — Harry Potter. The other was this upstart Mudblood girl from who knows where.
Voldemort wanted nothing more than to kill them both, skin them alive and grind their bones to dust to ease the hatred in his heart.
But as nothing more than a shred of soul, he could no longer do what had once been effortless for him.
Voldemort's fragment of soul hovered in midair, his spirit long since tainted by dark magic, radiating a chilling, pitch-black hue. His form looked like a mass of inky black clouds — or like a drifting wisp of shadowy smoke.
Eda watched as this black mist lunged toward her, a resentful howl echoing from within it. There was no way she'd let such a thing get close — she swung her wand again and again, the silver light flaring around her keeping the black mist at bay.
Within that malevolent cloud, Eda thought she glimpsed a face — the same face that had once occupied the back of Quirrell's head.
Unable to get near her, the black mist suddenly veered and shot toward Harry instead. Harry, who had mostly stood by helplessly all this time, couldn't stop it — the black mist passed straight through his chest and then rapidly dissipated, leaving only lingering echoes of that furious howl reverberating through the chamber.
It all happened so quickly that Eda hadn't even had time to reach out to Harry before the black mist had already pierced through him and vanished into the depths of the underground room. All she could do was watch as the "frail and helpless" Harry crumpled softly to the floor.
Eda first checked Quirrell — and the back of his head. He was gone for good — no breath left in him, no light in those eyes that still stared blankly ahead. The back of his head was smooth and bare now; the face that belonged to Voldemort had vanished along with the Dark Lord's retreat.
Then Eda moved to Harry's side. He was still breathing — he must have just fainted. As for whether there were any other problems, Eda really didn't know. After all, she, Esmeralda Twist, was a fighter— not a healer.
Glancing at Harry's bulging pocket, Eda tapped it with her wand — it had to be the Philosopher's Stone. So Harry really had passed the test of the Mirror and gotten the Stone.
With a flick of her wand, the Stone flew from Harry's pocket straight into Eda's hand.
This Philosopher's Stone — the very thing Voldemort had dreamed of — now lay in Eda's hand. Just over a month ago, Eda had still been thinking about using the Stone to turn things into gold. But now, she no longer had any such ideas.
She no longer wished for immortality, nor did she crave endless wealth. At this point, the Philosopher's Stone was nothing more than an ordinary red stone to her — at most, just a slightly prettier one.
She held it up for a moment, studying it, but quickly grew bored. Sitting down beside Harry, she began tossing the Stone into the air and catching it lazily, over and over. If Nicolas Flamel could see her treating the world's only Philosopher's Stone with such disregard, who knew what the six-hundred-year-old would think.
But one thing was certain — Nicolas Flamel definitely wouldn't shuffle over on his tiny old legs just to kill Eda for it.
While Eda was still tossing the Stone around, Dumbledore finally arrived in the underground chamber — a bit late. Eda figured the old bee had probably been hiding somewhere in the shadows, secretly watching everything unfold.
If she'd failed to deal with Quirrell, the esteemed Headmaster would have made his heroic entrance at just the right moment.
But now that she'd taken care of Quirrell herself, there was no need for Dumbledore to rush in dramatically. Showing up now, he was probably just worried she'd accidentally smash the Stone and he'd have to pay for it.
And as for why she wouldn't be the one paying for it? Sorry — no money, only a life to give.
Dumbledore knelt down to check on Harry's condition. Unlike Eda, who was just a half-baked amateur in such matters, the learned Headmaster quickly figured out Harry's state: he was fine — but it was best not to force him awake.
Letting him rest a bit longer would do him more good.
"How's Quirrell?" Dumbledore asked.
"Dead," Eda replied, tossing the Philosopher's Stone back to Dumbledore. "I didn't kill him — Voldemort moved faster than I did. He was abandoned, and the moment Voldemort left his body, he must have died."
After thinking for a moment, Eda asked, "I saw a cloud of black mist — I think that was Voldemort's fragment of a soul. If Quirrell died the moment it left, could it be because Voldemort took something with him when he fled?"
Dumbledore stepped over to Quirrell's body. The writhing vines had bound Quirrell up like a dumpling.
Dumbledore gently brushed his hand over the vines, and at his touch, they all vanished without a trace. As he examined Quirrell's corpse, Dumbledore said, "The soul has always been a mystery — even more mysterious than the origins of magic itself.
What the ghosts tell us can't give wizards a clear understanding of the soul, because from the moment they become ghosts, their perception of everything changes. Their descriptions of the soul can't truly be trusted."
"And researching souls probably isn't easy either, right? You'd need living beings as test subjects, wouldn't you?" Eda asked.
"Your guess is about right. Dark magic involves a lot of research on souls. Also, the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic surely studies this too — but I have no way of knowing how far their research has gone, or how exactly they conduct it," Dumbledore said. "There are too many mysteries in this world — mysteries that even if humans spent their entire lives chasing, they might never find the answers to."
Eda nodded, then stood up, stretched lazily, and got ready to leave.
Dumbledore suddenly asked, "Leaving already? I thought you'd at least ask me why I only cared about Harry and the dead Quirrell, and didn't care about you."
Eda turned back and looked at Dumbledore with the same look she used when looking at an idiot — a look she'd learned from Grindelwald. She said, "I was sitting right there perfectly fine. Anyone can see at a glance I'm fine — why would I need to ask?"
"Uh…" Dumbledore was left speechless and could only watch as Eda walked out of the underground chamber.
Of course, Dumbledore could see immediately whether Eda was injured or not, but he'd expected to at least say something to show concern. He'd waited for Eda to ask, "Why don't you care about me?"
But not only did Eda not ask — she treated his deliberate disregard as completely normal.
Dumbledore felt that the rift between him and Eda hadn't narrowed at all; if anything, it seemed to be widening. He felt a twinge of regret for taking Eda to meet Grindelwald.
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