The air in the cold, echoing chamber grew heavy with a potent, insidious magic—the kind that didn't explode or charm, but worked its way into the very seams of one's will.
Voldemort, his hideous, snake-like features contorted into a mask of intense focus, did not waste his breath on petty insults following Sebastian's brazen interruption. Instead, he dropped the pretense of Quirrell's consciousness and spoke directly to the object of his attention.
"Sebastian Swann…" The voice, sharp and high, resonated with an ancient, terrifying whisper, the sound of scales slithering over stone. "I know of you. I have followed your ascendancy through the eyes of this useful, yet painfully weak, body I currently possess. You are a superb wizard of immaculate blood, gifted with a talent I have seen only rarely, even among my inner circle."
The red eyes, like twin rubies in the corpse-like face, glittered with undeniable admiration.
"You understand the core truth of the magical world: pure blood superiority and the absolute dominance of the naturally powerful. There is no fundamental disagreement between us. Why, then, stand against me? Simply hand the child, Potter, over to me. He is merely a tool, a catalyst for the Stone."
The face attempted a charming smile, but the expression was more akin to a predatory snarl.
"Once I use the Elixir of Life to restore my body, I will shed this decaying husk and rise fully formed. I will no longer be this… shadow, sharing a pathetic host. I will rule this world, Sebastian. And when I do, I shall install you as my right-hand man, granting you powers, titles, and influence that Dumbledore could never dream of bestowing upon you."
Voldemort's voice deepened, taking on a seductive, almost hypnotic quality, the sheer magical pressure behind his words pushing against the edges of Sebastian's protective shield. It was a tempting force, aimed not at the body, but at the deep-seated ambition of the listener.
"You perceive the world through the lens of a shrewd operator, a businessman of exceptional foresight. You must see the ledger, Sebastian. On one side, the endless potential of wealth, unlimited power, and eternal renown gained by aligning with the inevitable victor. On the other, the dreary, tiresome path of serving a decaying Ministry and adhering to the hypocritical laws of Muggles."
"Your potential, Swann, is yet to be fully realized. You are capable of so much more than these petty games. These so-called morals and legal restrictions are nothing but excuses—chains forged by the weak to bind those who dare to ascend."
"The strong thrive, the weak perish; that is the immutable law of magic, the eternal truth that the Ministry tries so desperately to suppress. Will you align yourself with the victors of history, or will you cling to the fading morality that seeks only to diminish your greatness?"
Voldemort leaned forward slightly on Quirrell's skull, the movement chillingly insect-like.
"Serve me, and I shall reveal the secret of true immortality. You, too, will stand, as I shall, upon the long river of time, observing the fleeting lives of mere mortals. We will shatter the chains that hold this world captive to mediocrity. We will redefine power. You will be one of the architects of the new world, granted infinite fortune and strength."
The red eyes glittered with an irresistible allure, seeming to whisper directly into Sebastian's soul. This is your true destiny. All your deepest, most ambitious desires are only attainable through me.
"Come, Sebastian," Voldemort urged, his voice dropping to a persuasive, almost familial register. "Bring the boy to the Mirror. Command him to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone for his own survival. Let us finalize this alliance and begin our ascension."
Clap, clap, clap.
The sound of Sebastian's slow, dry, and entirely solitary applause echoed unnervingly in the small, dark chamber. He lowered his hands, the shimmering light of his defensive charm reflecting coldly in his eyes.
"Even after all these pathetic, spectral years, your eloquence remains beautifully manipulative, Lord Dark Lord. I almost found myself moved," Sebastian said, his tone utterly devoid of reverence or fear. He was speaking as one might politely compliment a street performer before tossing a Galleon into a cap.
"Wealth, power, and the dream of immortality—any one of those is a compelling argument. But this is hardly the first time you've delivered this exact speech, is it?"
Sebastian pointed a finger, not at Voldemort's face, but at Quirrell's body, which was beginning to tremble involuntarily.
"And considering the rapidly deteriorating state of Professor Quirrell, your promises carry about as much weight as a dandelion seed in a hurricane. I have observed the violence with which your parasitic presence is draining his life force."
At Sebastian's observation, Quirrell's whole body stiffened under the weight of his Master's skull. A wave of profound, acidic despair washed over him, momentarily silencing the voice of his possessor.
At last. Someone sees.
Quirrell remembered his journey: his greed in Albania, his desperate belief that the ghost-like Voldemort could teach him the secret of eternal life. He had been so blind, so obsessed with achieving power through knowledge. But the reality was a living nightmare. Since the moment Voldemort latched onto him, there had been no shared path to immortality; there was only a slow, parasitic siphoning of vitality. Every day was a battle against the creeping cold, the endless fatigue, and the sight of his own reflection becoming steadily more corpselike.
He had tried to resist. He had played the fool—the bumbling, terrified Quirrell who was scared of trolls, who bickered about brooms, who allowed the Weasley twins' snowballs to hit the back of his turban, a silent, desperate act of defiance designed to make Voldemort despise him enough to leave.
But every act of supposed foolishness only intensified the Dark Lord's psychic grip and his thirst. Quirrell was trapped, desperate not to die, yet fearing the death that Voldemort promised if he failed.
He had been on the verge of seeking a unicorn to drink its blood—a monstrous, desperate act that would have condemned his soul—when Sebastian had appeared, offering the Aqua Vitae. The water soaked in the Philosopher's Stone was a temporary, priceless lifeline that defied Voldemort's constant drain.
Sebastian saved me from damnation.
Quirrell finally realized the truth: Voldemort had never warned him that touching Potter would mean instant, searing death. It was always Sebastian, the supposed ally of the Dark Arts, who had given him the true, life-saving information.
A wave of overwhelming, silent gratitude, mixed with terror and shame, washed over Quirrell. He was now utterly convinced that Sebastian was the only lifeline left in the world.
Sebastian allowed the silence to hang, letting his words fully sink into the tormented mind of the host. He then turned his full attention back to the grotesque face.
"Lord Dark Lord, I have absolutely no interest in the future you are peddling. To be precise, I possess an almost physical revulsion for the kind of chaotic, violent, and ultimately boring rule you envision."
Voldemort's voice, now utterly flat and calm, spoke a single word. "Boring?"
"Allow me to enlighten you with a Muggle analogy," Sebastian said, slowly advancing, taking a confident step forward from his defensive perimeter. "The Muggles have a complex genre of strategic games—video games. In these games, a player can use a cheat code to instantly acquire maximum resources, invulnerability, and supreme power. The moment they use the cheat, the game is instantly won. The first few clicks are cool, yes, but the player quickly loses interest in the game because the ending is known, the struggle is eradicated, and the challenge is nonexistent."
Sebastian paused, standing directly in front of the immobile, frozen Quirrell.
"The world you wish to create—a world of absolute, unchallenged dominance—is a world where I, and wizards like me, would be given the ultimate cheat code. It would be entirely, irrevocably boring."
"For the safety of the magical world's enduring narrative," Sebastian concluded with cold finality, "you must remain right here, eternally confined to this room."
"Quirinas!" Voldemort shrieked, the calm immediately shattering into furious, uncontrollable rage. "What are you waiting for, fool? KILL HIM!"
"Stop struggling, Lord Dark Lord," Sebastian murmured, his voice now a low, sibilant threat. "Your magical sensitivity is truly degraded. You are so weak, you could not even perceive the spell I cast ten seconds ago."
Spell?
Quirrell's mind, racing with panic, tried to move, tried to turn away, tried to lift his wand to obey the command. He found he could not move at all.
He looked down, and through the murky remains of the darkness powder, he saw the horrific truth: his expensive dragon-hide boots, his legs up to the knee, and the stone floor surrounding them were completely covered in a thick, opaque layer of pure, magically hardened ice.
When? I didn't feel the cold… I didn't hear the incantation!
The thought was his last moment of functional awareness. In the next instant, the thick ice surged upward, covering his torso, his arms, and his entire frame up to the neck. Quirrell's wand, encased in the frozen grip of his right hand, was now an unusable, solid block.
Chilling! The cold was not a temperature; it was a physical, paralyzing agony.
Am I going to die? I can't feel my hand...
Knock… Knock… Knock.
Sebastian's quiet footsteps echoed clearly on the stone, the soft sound of his boots on the floor now magnified by the absolute silence of the magical ice. He stopped directly in front of the frozen Quirrell, his face close to the terrified, exposed human features, ignoring the raging, disembodied face clinging to the back of the skull.
Sebastian, the ice reflecting coldly in his eyes, asked the simple, devastating question.
"Professor Quirrell. Do you truly wish to live?"