Harry felt his heart pounding so hard it might burst from his chest. Gripping his wand tightly, he stepped through the black flames and into the final chamber.
Inside, the Mirror of Erised, which he had stumbled upon before, stood in the center of the room. A figure was standing before it, and hearing the noise, they turned to see Harry break in!
It wasn't Snape. It was Quirrell!
"It's you!" Harry gasped in shock. "It can't be you! Snape was the one who...?"
"Severus?" Hearing Harry's words, Quirrell laughed. The stuttering, timid demeanor he usually wore was completely gone. "Yes, Severus does seem like the type, doesn't he? With him swooping around like an oversized bat, he was quite useful. Who would suspect p-p-poor, st-st-stuttering Professor Quirrell?"
Harry's mind was in chaos. This completely overturned everything he thought he knew.
"But at the Quidditch match, Snape tried to kill me..."
"No, dear boy, I tried to kill you," Quirrell said coldly. "If Snape hadn't been muttering a counter-curse, trying to save you, I would have thrown you off that broom long ago. And that Hufflepuff who only knows how to bang a frying pan around... someone suddenly threw a rock that day, broke my chair, and broke my concentration, or I would have succeeded! I bet it was that batty Hufflepuff who did it!"
As he spoke, Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped tightly around Harry.
"Now, quiet down, Potter. I need to figure out how to use this accursed mirror."
Quirrell walked around to the back of the mirror, then back to the front, staring hungrily at his reflection.
"I see myself presenting the Stone to my master... but where is it? Is it hidden inside the mirror? Or do I have to break the mirror to get it?"
Harry struggled desperately against the ropes, but it was no use.
"Use the boy..." a high, cold voice suddenly spoke, seeming to come from inside Quirrell's own body.
"Yes, Master."
Quirrell turned around and snapped his fingers. The ropes binding Harry fell away instantly.
"Come here, Potter! Stand here."
Harry was forced to walk forward.
"Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."
Harry stood in front of the mirror. At first, he saw only his own pale, terrified face. But soon, his reflection smiled at him. The Harry in the mirror put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone, winked triumphantly, and then put it back in his pocket.
At that exact moment, Harry felt his real pocket become incredibly heavy.
Incredibly, somehow—he had really gotten the Stone!
"What do you see?" Quirrell demanded impatiently.
Harry forced himself to keep looking at Quirrell, trying not to let him notice the bulge in his pocket.
"I see... I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he lied on the spot. "I—I've won the House Cup."
"He lies..." the high, cold voice spoke again.
"Potter! Tell the truth!" Quirrell shouted.
"Let me speak to him... face to face..."
"But, Master, you are not strong enough yet..."
"I have strength enough for this..."
Harry watched in horror as Quirrell began to unwrap his turban. The purple cloth fell away layer by layer. Quirrell turned his back to Harry.
Harry let out a scream.
On the back of Quirrell's head was a face. It was chalk-white, with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.
"Harry Potter..." the face whispered. "See what I have become..."
"Mere shadow and vapor... I have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds..."
"Unicorn blood has strengthened me... once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own..."
The terrifying face stared at Harry, its voice seductive: "Don't be a fool, boy. I know the Stone is in your pocket. Give it to me... or do you want to end up like your dead parents? They begged me for mercy before they died..."
"LIAR!" Harry shouted suddenly.
"Don't lie to me!" Voldemort screamed in fury. "Kill him! Stop talking!"
Quirrell lunged, his hands clamping around Harry's neck.
Harry felt his scar searing with pain as if it were splitting open, but at the same time, he heard Quirrell let out a shrill scream of agony.
"AAARGH! My hands! My hands!"
Quirrell let go, staring in horror at his palms. They looked burned, raw, red, and blistered.
"Seize him! Don't let him get away!" Voldemort screeched.
Quirrell lunged again. Instinctively, Harry reached up and grabbed Quirrell's wrists. Intense pain shot through his head again, but Quirrell rolled on the ground in agony. Yet, unable to defy Voldemort's command, he struggled up, trying to cast a curse on Harry.
Harry's vision began to blur. The blinding pain from his scar was making him faint.
In the last moment before losing consciousness, he thought he heard the rapid beating of wings—the sound of hope...
---
Meanwhile, in the Potion Room.
Rove was facing his own "war."
> [Environmental Warning: High-Concentration Toxic Gas]
> [Sanity Decreasing...]
> [Status: Poisoned (Mild), Hallucinating (Moderate)]
He was hiding behind the alchemy table, gripping his frying pan tightly.
"Cough, cough..."
Rove felt his vision warping. The dancing flames no longer looked like fire but like shadows of Orcs baring their fangs and claws.
"You shall not pass!" He swung at the empty air a few times, shouting, "This is the gate of Helm's Deep! I'm not afraid of you..."
> [Hostile Unit Detection: Shadow Demons (Hallucination)]
> [Quantity: Endless]
"Come on!" Rove roared, suddenly standing up and delivering a jumping chop at the empty room. "Eat my Dwarven Iron Pan!"
CLANG!
The frying pan smashed against the stone wall, sending sparks flying.
But in Rove's System filter, he had just smashed an Uruk-hai's helmet.
"Harry is still inside..." He leaned against the wall, gasping for air. "I am the Fellowship's last line of defense... I cannot fall..."
Faint screams and the thud of a heavy body came from the next room.
"That's... Frodo fighting..." Rove wanted to rush in, but the moment he took a step, his legs felt as heavy as lead, and he collapsed to his knees.
The poison gas was affecting him more severely than he had imagined.
> [Warning: HP below 40%]
> [Suggestion: Evacuate Immediately]
"I couldn't evacuate even if I wanted to!" Rove gritted his teeth, propping himself up with the frying pan to keep from falling over completely. "Hermione, I hope you're fast!"
His vision grew blurrier, and the darkness around him seemed to come alive, pressing in on him.
He seemed to see countless red eyes blinking in the flames.
"Sauron... you can't win..." Rove muttered, his consciousness fading.
Just as he was about to sink completely into darkness, he heard rapid footsteps and the sound of beating wings.
"That is..." Rove struggled to open his heavy eyelids.
through his blurred vision, he saw a magnificent gold-and-red bird fly overhead, trailing dazzling light, followed by several blurry figures.
> [Reinforcements Arrived: The Great Eagles]
> [Ally: The White Wizard Gandalf (Dumbledore)]
"Looks like... the cavalry's finally here..."
Rove managed a faint smile before losing consciousness completely, but he remained in a half-kneeling position, guarding the path to the final chamber like a statue.
---
When Hermione rushed into the room with Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall, they saw Rove—the first-year Hufflepuff—kneeling between two walls of deadly magical fire. His face was blackened with soot, but his hand still gripped the dented frying pan tightly, blocking the path like a loyal sentinel.
"Rove!" Hermione screamed and rushed toward him.
Dumbledore strode forward. He looked at Rove kneeling on the ground, approval and a hint of heartache flashing in his blue eyes.
"Minerva, take care of Mr. Baggins."
Dumbledore didn't stop. He raised his wand and slashed it toward the black fire ahead.
BOOM!
The black fire, capable of devouring even light, was instantly torn open by the greatest wizard alive.
Like an angry lion, Dumbledore charged into the final chamber.
Seconds later, a terrible screech echoed from within—the roar of Voldemort's furious and unwilling spirit. This was followed by a violent surge of magic that seemed to shake the entire dungeon.
Then, everything went quiet.
Dumbledore walked out of the flames.
He was carrying the unconscious Harry in his arms. Floating behind him, borne by a silver phoenix Patronus, was the equally unconscious Rove.
"Professor! Harry, is he..." Hermione ran up, tears in her eyes.
"He is alive, Miss Granger." Dumbledore looked at the brave boy in his arms, then glanced back at Rove floating behind him. "They are both alive. Voldemort has fled."
Professor McGonagall looked at the two battered first-years, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, her eyes red. "Albus, they are just children..."
"Yes, just children," Dumbledore sighed softly. "But tonight, they did what even adult wizards would not dare to do."
He looked at Rove's hand, still clutching the frying pan—a persistence he hadn't let go of even in unconsciousness.
"One faced the Dark Lord, and one held 'Helm's Deep'."
Although Dumbledore didn't fully understand the meaning of that term, he could feel the heavy determination behind it.
"Let's go," Dumbledore said softly. "Take them to the Hospital Wing. The battle for tonight is over."