While Hermione rushed to fetch the teachers, Harry was left alone with the unconscious Ron. Holding his breath, he listened intently to the booming and flashing magic echoing from the mirror room. Although he knew Viktor was strong and unusual, he still worried for him, as he was fighting a professor, an adult Dark Wizard. When Harry realized the sounds of the fight had gradually subsided, he slowly stood up, trembling all over, praying that Viktor would be the one to emerge.
But when Professor Quirrell suddenly appeared before him, Harry felt his legs begin to shake and his heart sink. The professor's face was distorted, showing features of Voldemort, and his eyes burned with malicious red fire. The Dark Lord didn't wait for Viktor to catch up; without losing a second, he quickly approached Harry, his voice filled with impatient greed.
— Give me the Stone! — He abruptly grabbed Harry's robe, his fingers digging into the fabric.
Harry, gripped by panic but also desperate resolve, grabbed Quirrell's hand, trying to tear it away. When their skin touched, the professor's hand began to hiss, like red-hot metal doused in water. From the unbearable, searing pain, Quirrell sharply recoiled, his eyes widening, and for a moment, a spark of clarity flashed in them—he had momentarily awakened from Voldemort's control.
— Take the Philosopher's Stone from him! — Voldemort commanded him, mentally but imperiously.
Quirrell, despite the savage pain in his hand, grabbed Harry again, his face contorted in a grimace of suffering and fury.
— GIVE IT TO ME! — he screamed, shaking Harry, but his voice was already weak, a mix of pain and despair.
Harry, realizing that his touch was fatal to the professor, seized Quirrell's face without a second thought.
— AAAAAAAAAH! — Quirrell began to scream in unbearable agony. His body, as if engulfed by an internal fire, slowly began to crumble into ash, as if incinerating from the inside. He smoked and dissolved before Harry's eyes until he completely turned into a pile of dust that settled on the stone floor.
Harry, regaining his senses, released the spot where the professor's face had just been with trembling hands and tried to catch his breath, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Suddenly, a black, shapeless shadow shot out of Quirrell's ashes and began to spin rapidly, taking the outline of a malevolent, ghostly face.
— This is not the end, Harry Potter! I shall return! — Voldemort hissed, his voice filled with hatred and a promise of future retribution. Then the shadow passed through Harry at tremendous speed, causing him to lose consciousness and collapse onto the floor, and flew away, dissolving into the darkness.
Almost a minute after Voldemort vanished, measured footsteps were heard from the corridor, accompanied by quiet but very recognizable singing. Viktor, ascending the stairs, was humming:
I need a hero to save me now!
I need a hero! Save me now!
I need a hero to save my life!
A hero will save me! Just in time!
When Viktor finally entered the hall, singing enthusiastically and playing his wand like an improvised guitar, he noticed Harry lying unconscious next to a pile of ash.
— Oh, Harry! — he exclaimed, then shifted his gaze to the dust on the floor. — Oh, Quirrell! Well, what's left of him. — He looked at the unconscious Harry and Ron, thought for a moment, and shook his head.
— No, they can't just be left like this. — He took a ballpoint pen from his pocket. Approaching Harry, he meticulously drew him new glasses in place of the ones that had apparently fallen off during the fight, and a lush, curled mustache, à la Salvador Dalí. Then he moved on to Ron, who received a massive black eye, the same dashing mustache, and, the cherry on top, a neat fringe almost covering half his forehead, like a certain well-known historical figure from Germany.
— Well, that's much better! — He stood back a couple of steps to admire his artwork and nodded contentedly.
— So, what do I do now? Wait for the teachers? — He pondered, but then his stomach betrayed him with a loud rumble, sharply breaking the silence of the hall. — No, I think they can figure it out without me. I've done my part.
Leaving Harry and Ron to await Hermione and reinforcements, Viktor walked toward the exit, continuing to sing.
Passing through the ruined chessboard and the room with the flying keys, Viktor entered the cavern with the Devil's Snare. He looked up, examining the twisting green tendrils hanging from the ceiling, then looked around carefully and froze.
— Okay, how did they get out of here? Well, I can obviously manage, but how did Hermione get out, that's the question, — he muttered.
After examining the walls covered with slippery roots a little longer, he shrugged, Transfigured into red smoke, and instantly flew out of the room through the same opening he had fallen through.
Reaching the third floor, he barely had time to materialize before Fluffy immediately pounced on him, starting to lick him happily. He felt the hot tongues on his face.
— Oh, puppy, you're still here? — he began to pet his huge, wet muzzles. — You're so sweet! Alright, big boy, I have to go.
Fluffy immediately lowered his heads, and a sad, guttural whimper came from all three mouths as he looked at Viktor with pleading eyes.
— Now, don't look at me like that, — Viktor gently scratched one of his muzzles. — Hagrid will be here for you soon.
Finally, getting out of Fluffy's room, he started descending the stairs. There, near a life-sized painting of some wizard, he noticed Hermione, who was with Professor McGonagall and Snape. When the painting began to slide aside, Viktor approached them and peered in.
— Oh, so there was another passage? — he asked, bewildered, pointing to the opening. Hermione, hearing his voice behind her, spun around and rushed into his arms, hugging him tightly.
— Are you alright? Are you hurt? — she asked anxiously, beginning to inspect him, her eyes darting over his body.
McGonagall, followed by Snape, looked grimly at Viktor.
— Viktor, where is Professor Quirrell? What happened to Weasley and Potter? — McGonagall demanded, her voice stern, but with a hint of hidden relief.
— Quirrell dissolved, and Harry and Ron are unconscious down there, — he answered calmly, shrugging.
— Dissolved, meaning disappeared? — McGonagall clarified, trying to understand his phrasing.
— No, he burned up, — Viktor spread his hands, — like, completely. Poof and ashes. Like he was set on fire from the inside.
McGonagall and Snape started looking at him strangely. Viktor realized they hadn't understood anything, but he couldn't explain, as he didn't understand how it worked either. He sighed.
— I don't know what happened myself, but in short, his ashes are down there, near Harry and Ron. And the Philosopher's Stone is probably there too.
McGonagall didn't ask anything more, just shook her head, clearly stunned.
— Go to your common room, — she strictly ordered. — The Headmaster will return tomorrow, and we will sort everything out. — Then she and Snape entered the open passageway.
— By the way, Quirrell broke the Mirror of Erised! Honestly! — he shouted after them before the passageway completely closed.
Hermione watched as the painting slid back into place, closing the passage, then turned to Viktor, her face serious.
— Did you burn him? — she asked quietly, almost a whisper.
— Who? Oh, you mean Quirrell? No, he ran away, and when I found him, he was already dead.
Hermione looked intently at him, trying to discern the truth, but in the end, decided to believe him. His carefree appearance convinced her that he wasn't lying.
— What are we going to do next? — she asked.
— You're going to bed, and I have things to do, — Viktor replied, rubbing his stomach.
— What things at night? — Hermione raised an eyebrow.
— I'm hungry, I'm going to eat.
— Where?
— I know a place, — Viktor smiled mysteriously.
She looked at him and nodded.
— Well, enjoy your meal, I guess.
— Thank you, and good night to you, — Viktor replied.
Hermione nodded, turned, and began walking away toward the Gryffindor Tower.
Viktor watched her go until she disappeared around the corner of the corridor. Then he turned his gaze to the painting that guarded the passageway; it depicted a full, majestic portrait of a bearded wizard in dark robes, with a serious but benevolent expression.
— Could you tell Professor Dumbledore that I'm coming to see him, and I'm terribly hungry?
The wizard in the painting, previously motionless, slowly blinked.
— The Headmaster is not at school, young wizard, — the portrait replied calmly, his voice low and slightly creaky. — He has left on business.
Viktor narrowed his eyes.
— Yeah, right. Just tell him I want a steak. Medium-rare, with blood, please. And some fresh salad. And make it a large portion, because after adventures like that, I have a wolf's appetite. — His tone was as if he were placing an order at an elite restaurant.
As he turned and began to walk away, the man in the painting, who hadn't managed to say anything, merely blinked helplessly. Then he vanished from the canvas, leaving only an empty, faded background.