Quirrell's instincts screamed at him to turn and flee, but the relentless prodding in his mind forced him to stifle the gnawing unease and creep forward on tiptoe. The walls, once alive with the chatter of enchanted portraits, now stood eerily silent, their frames empty, as if someone had unleashed Avada Kedavra on the lot in a fit of madness. Only barren backgrounds remained, stark and lifeless under the shifting moonlight that cast Quirrell's shadow in jagged patterns across the stone floor.
He stole a glance to his side—and froze. A monstrous creature loomed from the wall, fangs bared, claws outstretched, its gaping maw lunging as if to swallow him whole. Its wide, unblinking eyes burned with a fury that seemed to thunder straight into his soul.
Quirrell's heart lurched. He stumbled back, wand snapping up in reflex. "Avada Kedavra!"
A blinding green flash erupted, striking the beast square in the head. The air crackled with the spell's raw power, but the creature's expression didn't shift. A charred hole now marred its grotesque face, yet it remained otherwise untouched. Only then did Quirrell's racing mind catch up—this was no beast. It was… a painting?
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, a chill creeping up his spine. He had a sinking suspicion who was behind this.
"Idiot!" A voice like a whip cracked through his skull, laced with venom and slicing pain. "Are you trying to rouse every professor in Hogwarts?!"
"I-I'm sorry, Master!" Quirrell hunched over, trembling as waves of agony pulsed through him, his voice a pathetic whimper.
"Hurry to the Great Hall! These are mere paintings!" the voice snarled.
"Yes, yes!" Quirrell clutched his wand tighter, a flicker of murderous intent flashing in his eyes. Ethan Vincent… that wretched boy. Once he'd wrung every ounce of use from him, Quirrell would end him himself.
The realization that these were just paintings eased his nerves—slightly. But even blasted by the Killing Curse, the savage figure in the portrait, like some vengeful guardian deity, seemed to glare at him still, its eyes promising to tear him apart if he so much as blinked.
Tap, tap. His footsteps echoed in the desolate corridor. Quirrell's gaze darted left and right, paranoia gnawing at him. In the shadows cast by stone pillars and ancient walls, unseen eyes seemed to lurk, watching his every move. What kind of deranged mind could conjure such horrifying artwork? The paintings on the wall—monsters with gray, rubbery skin—were so vivid, so lifelike, it was as if Ethan had once stood among them. The precision of their gaze, the meticulous detail in their forms, sent shivers through Quirrell, who had faced such horrors in the flesh before.
Hogwarts should investigate whether Ethan Vincent was even human.
The air grew thick with the scent of blood, as if the crimson pigments in the paintings had bled together, weaving a grotesque web of flesh and gore that seemed to ensnare him. Quirrell's breathing grew labored, cold sweat slicking his back, his steps heavy as though his boots were filled with lead. The more he tried to ignore the grotesque artwork, the more his eyes betrayed him, drawn irresistibly to their twisted forms. A hallucinatory buzzing filled his head—click, clack, crunch, crunch—like the sound of bones grinding.
Damn it, Ethan, this is beyond excessive! Quirrell's mind screamed. He couldn't imagine an ordinary student stumbling upon these paintings in the dead of night. They'd be scared witless. That boy belonged in Azkaban, not wreaking havoc in Hogwarts. Quirrell, a dark wizard himself, was practically howling inside.
Ahead, the faint clamor of the Great Hall reached his ears. His eyes lit up, and he quickened his pace, desperation driving him forward. Almost there, almost—
The moonlight shifted, illuminating a stretch of wall previously cloaked in shadow. Quirrell's steps faltered, then stopped dead. His fierce gaze softened, then widened into a manic grin, his expression teetering on ecstasy.
"Idiot! What are you doing?!" Voldemort's voice roared from the back of his skull, the punishing magic lashing at him like a whip.
Quirrell trembled but felt no pain. "The Philosopher's Stone, Master! It's the Philosopher's Stone!" he cried, voice cracking with awe.
Even as the dark magic wracked his body, forcing him to collapse, he crawled forward on hands and knees, eyes wild with greed. There it was—a crimson gem pulsing with unimaginable power, resting quietly on the windowsill, bathed in glorious moonlight. It called to him, promising everything he'd ever craved.
No, wait… this is fake. It can't be… Doubt flickered in his mind. Could a first-year's painting truly manipulate the mind of a servant of the Dark Lord?
But the gem gleamed, its allure overwhelming. His thoughts waged war—logic against desire. Then, a shout shattered the silence.
"Stop!"
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, charged toward him, wand raised.
"Avada Kedavra!" Quirrell's wand slashed through the air, a green bolt striking true. Harry flew backward like a broken kite, crashing to the ground in a lifeless heap.
Quirrell's chest heaved, his pupils dilated. Power surged through him, drowning out his doubts. The world bent to his will.
"No, please, spare me…" Another voice, trembling and weak. Quirrell's gaze snapped downward. There knelt "Ethan," his once-arrogant cobalt eyes now brimming with terror.
A cruel grin twisted Quirrell's lips. "Crucio! Crucio!"
Dark magic poured from his wand, and "Ethan's" screams filled the air as he writhed in agony. This was it—the power Quirrell craved, the power to dominate, to crush. No one would dare scorn him again. Not Malfoy, not Snape—none were as clever, as loyal, as him.
"Ha! Hahahaha!" Quirrell's laughter rang out, wild and unhinged, drowning out Voldemort's furious shouts from within his mind. All that mattered now was the Philosopher's Stone, waiting to be claimed for his Master.
He scrambled toward the gem, its crimson glow enveloping him like a lover's embrace, drawing him closer, closer, like a moth to a flame. His breath hitched, his fingers stretched out, trembling with anticipation. Glory, wealth, supremacy—just one touch away.
And then—whoosh!—he plummeted into an endless abyss.
In the warm, vibrant Great Hall, Ethan Vincent savored his third slice of pumpkin pie. The dessert wasn't overly sweet, bursting with rich pumpkin flavor. Its thin, flaky crust gave way to a generous, velvety filling that spilled over with each bite. The hall buzzed with festive energy: a thousand magical bats flitted overhead, showering candy onto the tables below; carved pumpkins grinned from every corner; even the ghosts, dressed in their spectral finest, mingled eagerly with the students.
Ah, this is what Halloween should be, Ethan thought, eyes half-closed in bliss as he relished the warmth of the food. Propping his chin on one hand, he lazily watched Harry Potter across the table, who was wiping buttered peas from his face after laughing at some quip from the Weasley twins.
Ethan ate quickly, unsure when Quirrell might burst in with news of a troll loose in the castle. His stomach was already stuffed, but he kept going. Business is slow tonight, he mused. Where's that fool Quirrell? The feast's nearly halfway done.
His thoughts drifted to the trap he'd set—no, the delightful little game he'd crafted. A sly smile curved his lips as he glanced at the enchanted ceiling above the Great Hall. He'd rigged the portal's exit to open right there, in the heart of the festivities.
Who'll be the lucky one to make a grand entrance? he wondered, a mischievous glint in his cobalt eyes.
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