The moment we stepped through the flame, everything changed.
The icy fire vanished behind us, sealing shut with no sound. There was no transition, no hallway, no moment to catch our breath—just darkness.
Then, faintly, light.
A soft golden glow spread from torches mounted high on stone walls. The flame didn't flicker—it burned steady and unwavering, casting sharp shadows across a long, rectangular chamber.
The air was thick. Not just with dust or age—but with power. Old, layered magic, the kind that settled into stone over centuries. Every step forward felt like walking through memory.
We were alone.
At least, it seemed that way.
I took a few slow steps, my boots clicking softly against the stone floor. The room was lined with pillars, their tops lost in shadow, and between them stood rows of shelves—each one filled with books, strange trinkets, glass jars, and decaying scrolls. The kind of arcane hoarding that spoke of long-forgotten studies and secrets never meant to be unearthed.
And at the far end of the room, lit by the warmest torchlight, stood something… unexpected.
A tall, ancient mirror.
Its surface gleamed like still water, framed in tarnished gold. An inscription curved across the top like a silent riddle, words I already knew by heart:
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
The Mirror of Erised.
There was no Stone on the plinth. No crimson glow. No visible treasure.
Just the mirror.
And the man standing in front of it.
He hadn't noticed us yet—or if he had, he was pretending not to. His gaze was fixed on his reflection, his hands lightly clenched at his sides.
Professor Quirrell.
He looked… wrong. Not just tired or stressed, but wrong. Pale, sunken, like the magic sustaining him came from something parasitic and unnatural. His robes hung off his frame like they belonged to someone stronger. The light caught the sweat gleaming on his brow.
But it was his stillness that unsettled me most.
Because he wasn't staring at himself.
He was listening.
Rose stepped up beside me, her wand already drawn. She whispered, "Is that—?"
"Quirrell," I said softly. "What's left of him."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why is he staring at a mirror?"
I didn't answer.
Because I already knew.
Not just from what little I'd picked up at Hogwarts—but from a memory of another life. From the story I'd read. The story I now lived.
The Stone was here—but it was hidden within the Mirror. A final enchantment. Dumbledore's clever trick.
And Quirrell… or rather, Voldemort… was trying to figure out how to get it.
Quirrell finally moved. Just a slight tilt of his head—like someone had whispered into his ear.
Then he turned toward us.
His stutter was gone. His movements smooth. Controlled.
"Ah," he said softly. "So you've arrived."
Rose raised her wand. "Step away from the mirror."
He didn't flinch. Just gave a small, amused smile.
"So serious. So heroic." His eyes drifted to me. "Especially you."
I kept my expression neutral. But I felt it—a cold pressure sliding into my thoughts. A mental claw, testing my defenses.
Legilimency.
I didn't need to shout or brace. I simply pulled inward, the way I'd practiced—letting fire build behind my eyes. Not uncontrolled. Focused. Bright. My Kavach flared beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
The foreign presence recoiled—sharply.
Quirrell flinched.
His gaze sharpened, and for the first time… he looked unsettled.
"You…" he whispered. "You're not what you seem."
I didn't answer.
Because he was right.
Behind me, Rose shifted her stance, wand steady. We didn't speak. We didn't need to.
Quirrell glanced back at the mirror, then at us again. "The Stone is here," he said simply. "So close I can almost taste it. But it won't come to me. Not yet."
His voice darkened—not with frustration. With something else.
Like someone else was speaking through him.
The torches hissed louder.
The air seemed to pull inward, dense and electric.
Something was watching us. Listening.
And the longer we stood here, the clearer it became:
We hadn't walked into the final challenge.
We had awakened it.
Quirrell's fingers twitched at his sides. His eyes darted back to the mirror—then to me. Then back again.
"The magic in this thing…" he muttered, more to himself than to us. "It's ancient. Subtle. He says it should work. But it doesn't…"
'He.'
There it was. That shift in pronoun. That confirmation we didn't need but heard all the same.
Rose noticed too. Her eyes flicked toward mine—briefly. Her face was calm, but her knuckles had gone white around her wand.
I took a few steps forward.
Slow. Controlled.
"What do you see in the mirror?" I asked.
Quirrell's lips twitched into something that tried to be a smile and failed. "That's the funny part. It keeps changing. At first, I saw myself… receiving the Stone. Holding it in my hand. I saw power. Glory." He licked his lips. "But then I saw nothing. Then… him."
His voice dropped, like he wasn't sure he wanted us to hear the next part.
"Now I just see… eyes. Red ones. Burning. Watching me."
He shivered. "He's getting angry."
The mirror's surface rippled faintly—almost like water reacting to his words. Just for a heartbeat. Then stillness again.
"I think," I said slowly, "that it doesn't show what you want anymore. It shows what he wants."
Quirrell turned toward me fully now. His expression was composed, but strained.
"You speak with confidence," he said. "Far more than a first-year should."
I shrugged. "You tried to get into my head. You know I'm not normal."
He studied me in silence for a moment, and I could feel it—that creeping awareness forming behind his eyes. That suspicion. That edge of something far more dangerous than curiosity.
He didn't know what I was, but he knew enough to be afraid.
Good.
Rose stepped forward. "Whatever you're doing here—it's over. Dumbledore's on his way."
Quirrell's smile returned. This time it was real—and chilling.
"Oh, but he's not," he said softly. "You see… my master was quite thorough. He knew Dumbledore might return. So he arranged… distractions. Urgent ones."
He turned back toward the mirror. "You're quite clever. Too clever. He thought only Potter might interfere. But you—" He pointed at me without looking. "You're something else entirely."
The torches hissed again, louder now, and for a brief second the entire room dimmed—like something had passed overhead, unseen. The air grew colder.
And then—
A voice.
Not from Quirrell's mouth.
Not from the room.
But from behind his head.
Hissing. Soft. Cold. Inhuman.
"Let… me… speak… to him."
Quirrell trembled violently. His knees nearly buckled. His hands clutched at his skull like it physically hurt to hear the words.
"No, Master," he gasped. "Not yet. I—I'm trying, I swear. He resists. His mind—it's—"
"LET ME."
The command shattered the air like ice breaking.
Quirrell screamed.
He dropped to his knees.
And the room went silent.
Rose stepped back toward me. "What's happening?" she whispered.
I didn't answer.
Because I knew.
This was the real final challenge.
Not logic.
Not spells.
Not potions.
Will.
The mirror stood untouched. The Stone, still hidden.
But now, I felt it.
A presence—ancient, cold, and hungry—sliding into the chamber like smoke through a keyhole.
Watching me.
Judging me.
And wanting me.
Because I wasn't just a boy with magic.
I was something new.
Something even Voldemort didn't understand.
And he was about to find out what that meant.
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