Chapter 193: The Reason Why Dumbledore Couldn't Come
Time: 6:00 PM
Location: The final room in the forbidden area of Hogwarts
Quirrell, thin and twitching nervously, was standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, tapping it repeatedly with his wand as if trying to uncover a secret.
Though cautious—his body angled to keep an eye on both the mirror and the entrance—he never saw it coming.
A serene, noble voice rang out, like a hymn.
The phoenix struck fast—and it was invisible.
"Phoenix—Dumbledore?!" Quirrell gasped.
A fiery red bird shimmered into view mid-flight. Before Quirrell could even scream, the phoenix plunged into the back of his head, as though attacking something hidden beneath his turban.
His body convulsed. Veins bulged like dark roots under his pale skin—just like the poor unicorn Harry had seen in the Forbidden Forest.
He stammered incoherently, then collapsed at the foot of the mirror.
Harry staggered through the black flames, unable to hold the Disillusionment Charm any longer. He was wide-eyed—stunned.
The red sparks—just the simple first-year distress signal—had manifested into a phoenix?
Harry had never imagined magic like this.
Quirrell lay unconscious, his limbs twitching from time to time, but Harry didn't relax.
He knew all too well: The real enemy hadn't shown himself yet.
He stood still, breathing shallowly, wand at the ready.
And then came the scream—icy and inhuman.
From the back of Quirrell's head, a cloud of black mist peeled away like skin—morphing slowly into the shape of a face.
Pale. Sunken. Malicious.
Voldemort.
"Harry Potter... well, you're patient," the shadow whispered.
Harry didn't lower his wand. He said nothing.
"It's been nearly eleven years. You were still a baby the last time we met," Voldemort continued.
"What's next? A sob story about your childhood?" Harry replied coldly. "Are you here to beg for sympathy?"
"Repent, Voldemort, before your end," he added, unwavering.
Voldemort let out a soft, cruel laugh. "You can't kill me, Harry."
"I'm a victim too. Look at what I've become—mist and shadow, surviving only by clinging to others. I drank unicorn blood to sustain myself... you saw that in the forest. But with the Philosopher's Stone, I could restore my body—my strength."
He paused, then added, "You must know by now. Quirrell was only a pawn."
"You expect me to believe Quirrell is innocent after murdering unicorns?" Harry's voice was stone. "After you murdered my parents?"
Voldemort's tone shifted.
"It doesn't have to be this way. Help me. Join me. I'll teach you the secret of immortality. We have a common enemy: Dumbledore. He fears gifted wizards like us. When I was young, he destroyed my things—he tried to suppress my magic. He's doing the same to you."
Harry's lips curled in disdain.
"Oh, now you're afraid to call my mum a Mudblood? That's what you people always say. Why not say it now?"
Voldemort's red eyes flickered.
"No, I wouldn't call the witch who birthed someone as powerful as you by that name. I don't believe in blood purity—I'm a half-blood too, Harry. Just like you."
Harry stared at him. "That's disgusting."
He didn't attack—yet. Deep down, a part of him hesitated. Quirrell's body, even if possessed, was still human. He didn't know what attacking it might do.
And where was Dumbledore?
It was past 6 o'clock. Why hadn't he come?
Could Voldemort be telling the truth? Was Dumbledore really just... letting them destroy each other?
Harry remained silent, poker-faced, wand steady.
Meanwhile, Voldemort kept talking—slandering Dumbledore, coaxing, threatening.
And then Harry noticed something.
The mist that made up Voldemort's form was thinning.
Quirrell's body suddenly jerked upright like a marionette on strings. He turned—but only his torso. His back now faced Harry.
With deliberate slowness, he unwrapped his turban.
The scarf dropped to the floor.
Where the back of Quirrell's head should have been, there was a face—grotesque, skeletal, white as chalk.
Eyes glowing red.
Slit-like nostrils.
Voldemort. Fully revealed.
Then, with sickening cracks, Quirrell's limbs reversed direction—Voldemort had seized full control.
He raised Quirrell's wand, pointed it to his own host's chest.
"Harry Potter, I need your cooperation. If not, I'll kill Quirrell right now. I know you're stalling. But trust me—Dumbledore will not come. Not tonight."
Harry tightened his grip on the wand. "What reason could stop Dumbledore from coming?"
Voldemort laughed, a bone-dry rasp. "Ah, yes. Still delaying? Just like your Mudblood mother. You think your spark spell will stop me? If you try it again, I'll simply vanish."
"Grindelwald," Voldemort finally said. "He and I sent a wand to Nurmengard. Dumbledore's been lured away. He believes Grindelwald is more dangerous than me."
Harry's face twisted. "Who's Grindelwald?"
Still delaying, trying to buy time.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. He was done playing.
He pointed the wand at Quirrell's own body—and cast a slicing curse. A deep wound opened, spurting blood, though Voldemort remained unaffected.
"Delay a little more," he sneered, "and we'll see how long Quirrell's body can survive."
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Meanwhile…
At the edge of the black flames behind the chamber, Professor Snape had arrived, panting, having been led by Goyle.
But as he prepared to enter, a voice stopped him.
"Stay back."
It was Dumbledore.
He stood calmly, watching the black flames flicker.
"The Mirror of Erised will record everything," Dumbledore said quietly. "Let us see how it ends."
Inside the mirror, the Philosopher's Stone shimmered softly—watching it all.
(End of Chapter)
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