Harry accelerated his broom, plunging through the black flames. Snape's potion shielded him—broom, clothes, glasses, all intact. Awed by Snape's skill, Harry pressed into the darkness.
The flames abruptly vanished. Before him stood a tall man in a turban, his back turned.
Harry didn't hesitate. Soaring upward, he aimed at the man's wand. "Expelliarmus!"
A red flash struck the man's hand, sending his wand arcing toward Harry.
(I did it! I won!)
Expelliarmus, taught by Sirius, was a basic dueling charm, simple yet disarming. It stripped a wizard of their lifeline—their wand.
(Now, blast him!)
"Bombarda! …Why won't it work!?"
Harry aimed to explode the man, but his wand failed him, refusing to obey.
"What's wrong, Potter? Won't shoot? Or can't?" The man, Quirrell, DADA professor, sneered. No longer the timid, garlic-reeking teacher, he regained composure upon recognizing Harry. "I expected you, but this is… disappointing."
Despite losing his wand, Quirrell showed no fear, dismissing Harry as a child.
"Surrender, Professor! You've lost!" Harry called from his broom.
He hesitated to curse a defenseless man, especially a familiar face. After the troll, the thought of killing someone he knew froze him. His rattled mind couldn't muster casual malice.
Quirrell, mocked by Slytherins for teaching Muggle Studies, wasn't disliked by Harry. His clear explanations made him a proper teacher in Harry's eyes. Realizing it was Quirrell, not Snape, made Harry's stomach churn, recalling Hermione's accusation against Snape.
Harry's plan was simple: disarm and demand surrender. But he underestimated himself. Disarming so cleanly and Quirrell's refusal to yield were unexpected, leaving Harry unable to capitalize on his advantage.
"No chance of winning? You're amusing, Potter!" Quirrell snapped his fingers.
"The Dark Lord granted me wisdom and power!"
Ropes snaked around Harry, binding him, creeping toward his throat. Quirrell gloated, "I once believed in good and evil—foolish notions. The Dark Lord taught me truth: there are only the powerful and the weak!"
He didn't see Harry's move.
"Incendio!" Harry burned the ropes with Quirrell's wand, heat grazing his neck. He was ready to be hurt, even die.
Smoke blurred his vision as he fell from the broom. "You burned my wand!" Quirrell roared, caught off guard. A child shouldn't risk self-harm, yet Harry's defiance turned Quirrell's arrogance against him.
Rolling to douse the flames, Harry aimed. "Diffindo!"
A cutting curse shot toward Quirrell, but it veered back at Harry. He dodged, the flames on his clothes dimming. "Master! Using your power now is dangerous! You're not whole!" Quirrell cried.
(Whose voice?)
A chilling male voice, not Quirrell's, spoke, splitting Harry's head with pain. "For this, it's worth it. Come, Potter," it said, like a teacher to a student.
Harry's broom crackled, useless. (Then I'll use it as a weapon.)
"Wingardium Leviosa!" The broom spun toward Quirrell's head, but he clapped, shattering it into splinters.
"Incendio!" Harry unleashed a massive fireball, engulfing the wood, hurtling at Quirrell. He meant it. Quirrell's demeanor had shifted—no longer arrogant, but fearful, terrifying Harry. He wanted to flee.
"Impressive," the voice said.
Quirrell didn't move, yet the flames veered away. "Morsmordre," the voice intoned. Harry's fire turned black, forming a skull-like emblem, radiating dread.
"Bombarda!" Harry desperately blasted the black flames, pouring all his magic into it. The explosion didn't touch them. The skull-flame loomed closer. Harry's legs, bound by unseen magic, wouldn't move. He shut his eyes, expecting death.
"A fine fight. I'll honor your courage with a lesson: this is the Dark Mark, Potter."
"Where are you!? Show yourself!" Harry yelled, frantic. The voice came from Quirrell, yet no one else was there.
"My apologies for my rudeness," the voice said. Quirrell turned, revealing his unwrapped turban. Harry's scar screamed. A waxy, lifeless face with blood-red eyes and slit-like nostrils—not human, not sacred like a snake, but monstrous.
This was the blight on Slytherin, the murderer of Harry's parents, the century's worst dark wizard: Lord Voldemort, king and god of pure-blood zealots.
"Harry Potter… Slytherin's child…" Voldemort whispered of his fall to a shadow, hiding because of Harry, of his parents' deaths—his father's sacrifice, his mother's needless end.
"But I am generous, especially to talents like Quirrell… or you, Slytherin's child. As I offered your parents redemption, I offer you and your friends the same."
"Don't mock me! You killed them! Give them back!" Harry refused to yield, even if it meant death.
Submitting to Voldemort was betrayal—of his friends, himself. He understood why Peter was scorned.
(I can't forgive him! I have to kill him!)
Voldemort mocked what Harry cherished most, the vilest kind of person. "Close your path to greatness, Potter? Don't you want to wield magic freely? Kill the Muggles who oppressed you? Avenge yourself against Dumbledore? Be revered in Slytherin?"
His words fueled Harry's rage. (He caused this!)
"Join me, and you'll be great. You have a gift for curses. I can guide you."
"I'd rather die!" Harry's anger drowned out reason. Death was better than joining this monster.
"Touching," Voldemort said. "Quirrell, put him before the mirror."
Quirrell, shoulders tense, forced Harry to face it. "Look, Potter! What do you see? The Stone's there! Don't you want to heal your burns?"
Harry refused to use the Stone or comply. But in the mirror, his reflection smiled, and a weight settled in his pocket—the Philosopher's Stone.
"You've got it, Potter. Give it to me," Voldemort said, seeing through him.
Harry tried to flee, but his legs, heavy as iron, betrayed him. "Wait, Potter!" Quirrell lunged, eyes blazing with hatred. Harry glared back, their mutual loathing palpable.
Harry blinked, disoriented. He'd been facing Quirrell, about to lose the Stone. Now, Quirrell and Dumbledore stood before him. Quirrell looked gentle but worn, not hostile.
"Dumbledore… me, a DADA professor?" Quirrell stammered.
"Only you can do it, Quirinius," Dumbledore said calmly.
Harry saw fear in Quirrell's eyes. "Am I unfit for Muggle Studies? Complaints from parents?"
"No. DADA demands vast knowledge and skill. Your talent makes you perfect for it."
(I'm a skilled wizard! My silent spells, charms, and troll-handling rival any professor! Why me?) Quirrell's thoughts flooded Harry's mind. He was proud Dumbledore recognized him but dreaded DADA's cursed reputation.
"What about Severus? He's always wanted it," Quirrell said.
(If I take it, what will he say? This post is jinxed. Does Dumbledore want me gone?)
DADA professors never lasted a year—hospitalized or disgraced. Quirrell feared Dumbledore's trust was a lie, a demotion to a graveyard post.
"Severus has a tainted past. Many parents wouldn't accept him," Dumbledore replied.
"You could defend him," Quirrell pressed.
"Their wounds aren't healed by my words. It must be you."
(I'm less than Snape, a former Death Eater?)
"I understand," Quirrell said. "But I'm not ready. May I have a year to train and reflect?"
(I'll achieve greatness, prove myself. I have Ravenclaw's wisdom.)
Quirrell hid his turmoil. Harry watched, anxious, as Quirrell left the office, and his vision faded.
(I was naive. I shouldn't have come!)
Harry saw Quirrell strive for goodness. During his sabbatical, he honed his magic, befriending wizards. In a forest, leading four trolls, he sought a weakened Voldemort to defeat him, driven by justice.
But Voldemort was unstoppable. Quirrell's magic and trolls meant nothing. He collapsed, awaiting death.
(I don't want to die… I've done nothing…)
Quirrell's terror seeped into Harry, who pitied him. Alone in the forest, trying to do right…
Harry saw Quirrell pledge loyalty to Voldemort, broken by his own failure.
"Potter!" Quirrell's voice snapped Harry back. "There are only the powerful and the weak! What's wrong with yielding to power!?"
Harry couldn't reconcile this hateful Quirrell with the man who sought justice. His loathing was terrifying.
"Give me the Stone!"
Quirrell grabbed Harry, but his hand blistered instantly. Harry, tears streaming, dragged his leaden legs toward the flaming exit.
(Why did he burn?)
Harry didn't understand, but Quirrell was vulnerable. No spell had worked against Voldemort, yet now Quirrell was hurt.
"I won't let you escape!" Quirrell, with his unburned hand, tripped Harry with a spell. The Stone and charcoal fell from Harry's pocket.
"Elixir of Life!" Quirrell cried. Water poured from the Stone.
Harry crawled to cover it, but Quirrell was faster. "Master, I've done it!"
A miracle happened. The charcoal, doused in the Elixir, sprouted vines—Devil's Snare, revived by the water's power.
"Impossible!" Quirrell screamed. "Master, help me!"
"Burn it, fool!" Voldemort roared.
In the blazing room, Harry, sobbing, saw Quirrell reach for the Stone. "Stop!" Harry tackled him. The stench of burning flesh filled the air as Quirrell fell, Stone untouched.
"Kill him!" Voldemort screamed.
Quirrell's hand, entwined with Snare, reached for Harry. In the smoke, Harry's consciousness faded.
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