Chapter 145: Where Did the Troll Go? What Did You See in the Mirror of Erised?
Thud. Thud. Thud.
In the depths of the room before Quirrell, the shadows seemed suddenly to gain weight.
With heavy footfalls, a grotesque creature emerged from the darkness along the wall.
Vaguely humanoid. Arms and legs impossibly long, hands nearly dragging on the floor.
Its body was a moving fortress, nearly scraping the seven‑ or eight‑metre ceiling.
Grey‑blue skin was encased in thick plates of ice, and through the cracks, a cold blue glow seeped out.
Twisted horns of ice jutted from its skull, catching what little light there was, and a pair of blood‑red eyes fixed on Quirrell.
His wand trembled in his hand.
"No… impossible…"
His voice was a hoarse rasp, shaking with shock and fear.
A normal troll stood about four metres tall. The one Quirrell had left in this chamber was a little larger, but nowhere near five.
This thing towered over any troll. Even compared to a full‑blooded giant, it would not lose.
And trolls could not use magic. They relied on raw, monstrous strength.
But this creature wore vicious ice armour. With every step, frost crept across the floor.
Quirrell did not understand what had happened to his troll. He tried to trigger the curse he had planted in advance.
Pop.
A wisp of greenish smoke rose from the back of the giant creature's skull, a faint hiss.
"This…"
Quirrell's pupils contracted. That response meant the creature in front of him was his troll.
But the curse had barely done anything.
"Someone tampered with my Dark Magic?"
The creature, apparently unharmed but annoyed, cracked its neck with a series of grinding snaps and broke into a thundering charge. In a few long strides, it was on him.
Ice condensed in one huge fist. A thick, spiked club took shape in an instant.
Quirrell moved to retreat on instinct.
Slam!
The door behind him shut by itself.
He threw himself to the side.
The pale blue club, trailing an icy chill, grazed his turban and smashed down with a deafening crash.
Quirrell tried to put distance between them and blast the creature with spells.
Then pain lanced through his back and the back of his thigh.
Where the club had hit the floor, a spray of ice spikes had erupted. Two of them had driven into his back and right leg.
"Useless," Voldemort hissed, colder than the ice.
Then Quirrell felt control of his body slip away.
His flesh seemed to shrink. He looked suddenly gaunt.
A wild, twisted surge of magic burst from him.
"The power is here. Finish it quickly…"
Voldemort's voice faded. He would save his strength for the final trial. There was no telling what Dumbledore, that scheming old fool, had prepared.
…
"Thank goodness you recognised the Devil's Snare, Hermione," Harry said, wiping his brow in relief.
"Professor Sprout went over it in Herbology the other day," Hermione said, shaking out the flame on her wand tip and extinguishing it.
"Come on. Let us keep moving."
They pushed into the next chamber and found it full of glittering, jewel‑like birds flitting about.
"Phew. That noise had me thinking it would be a dragon or a ghost. Just birds," Ron said, patting his chest.
"No, those are not birds," Harry breathed.
"They are keys!"
He looked around and spotted the brooms.
Ron checked the lock. "Big key. Probably silver, maybe shaped like a handle?"
All three took to the air. Under Harry's lead—youngest Seeker of the century—they cornered the large key with the pale blue wings.
"Got it!"
Harry landed at the door, jammed the key into the lock, and twisted.
Click.
The door swung open.
"Not too bad. Keep it up. We can do this."
…
Quirrell staggered into the final chamber.
His left arm was gone again. His right leg was torn open, movement stiff and painful.
"Cough, cough…"
Achoo!
He coughed and sneezed in turns.
"Who tampered with my troll?"
He nearly collapsed, muttering in confusion and rage.
"Do not dwell on present suffering. Hope lies ahead…"
Voldemort's voice carried a note of excitement and joy.
"Quickly. Go to the mirror…"
Quirrell raised his head and saw it in the centre of the room.
He limped toward it, studying the ornate glass as he went.
Tall, nearly reaching the ceiling. The frame was gilded gold, and claw‑shaped feet held it upright.
He noticed an inscription along the top. He squinted, forcing his vision to clear.
"Erised… stra…"
Suddenly, the reflection changed.
His wasted, battered frame became tall and strong. His pallid face flushed with health. The turban vanished, replaced by thick, flowing black hair.
A dark, mist‑wreathed shape rose from his head and flew away.
Then the reflection showed him holding a book. The scene shifted to a quiet study, soft lamplight and the occasional rustle of pages.
Staring at the image, Quirrell's gaze went blank. Without thinking, he reached out with his remaining hand, trying to touch the mirror.
A tear slid from the corner of his eye.
"Quirinus, what do you see?"
The cold voice cut through his thoughts. Quirrell jerked back to himself.
Yes. He was still a cripple, with an evil soul lodged in his head. He was not free.
"Master, I… I see…"
"I see myself with the Stone, presenting it to you. Under your protection, I become… Minister for Magic."
Quirrell did not speak the truth. He told Voldemort what he would want to hear.
"Ah. Very good."
"And where is the Stone?"
Voldemort's cold voice pricked at Quirrell's nerves.
Sweat dripped from his forehead. He fought down a cough and a sneeze. He did not dare answer.
Voldemort did not press. He was thinking.
The Stone had to be inside the mirror.
But how to get it out?
You could see it, but not touch it…
Time passed.
The door burst open.
"I will protect the Stone. I will stop you…"
Harry, his robes dusty at the hem, charged into the room, full of righteous fury, and stared at—
"P‑Professor Quirrell?"
"What are you doing here?"