"Perhaps it is because I haven't been entirely truthful with you. Continue, Kane," Voldemort said, leading the way once more.
Voldemort looked at the wall of purple fire—Snape's contribution to the trials—and then glanced back at Kane. "After you."
Kane raised both hands in a mock French surrender. "Heaven have rcy, Professor. Ever since I turned a Boils Cure potion into a frog-leg sandwich in our first lesson, Snape has wanted to stuff into a cauldron. I truly haven't been able to 'modify' this trial. I'm as clueless as you."
Hearing Kane's impassioned complaint, Voldemort pursed his lips awkwardly. It seed reasonable; Kane's abstract incompetence in Potions perfectly countered his brilliance in the Dark Arts, creating a strange, cosmic balance.
For a mont, Voldemort felt that Kane's talent wasn't quite as alluring as before... well, he shouldn't be so absolute. On the whole, the "allure" still outweighed the "revolt."
After studying the riddle for a mont, Voldemort decisively rejected Kane's "insider answer," insisting on calculating it himself. Only after doing the math did he realize the answer was exactly what Kane had pointed out.
Flushed with embarrassnt, he downed the Fire-Protection potion, and they stepped through the flas together.
In the final chamber, a structure that looked like it was cobbled together from landfill scrap—Maxwell's Door—stood in the center of the room.
The Mirror of Erised, which Dumbledore had originally placed there, had been unceremoniously shoved into a corner by Kane, its back turned toward them.
"Honestly, Kane... I didn't even need to ask to know whose 'masterpiece' this door is. Only you would appreciate this 'trash-assembly' aesthetic. It's as revolting as your hats," Voldemort noted reservedly.
"You seed pretty happy wearing that Feathered Fedora I gave you," Kane countered, rolling his eyes.
"That was Quirrell being happy! And as expected, your expression didn't even flicker. You've known it was all along," Voldemort sighed, noting Kane's lack of surprise.
"Anything is better than that turban."
Voldemort nodded. "On that, we agree. Now, Kane, tell : where have you hidden the Philosopher's Stone?"
Kane pointed to the lever on the side of Maxwell's Door. "Behind the door. Just pull the lever."
Voldemort looked at Kane with profound disappointnt. "Kane, I held you in such high regard, yet you treat with the mockery one reserves for the ntally infirm. Is this truly how you wish to play it?"
"So?" Kane raised an eyebrow. He couldn't pull the lever; Voldemort still wanted his talent. Voldemort couldn't pull it either; he was too cowardly to risk a trap.
That left only one logical option.
Sure enough, a series of frantic stumbling sounds echoed from the corridor, and Harry Potter finally ca rolling into the room.
"Why do you look so miserable?" Kane asked instinctively.
"Uh, the last potion... There wasn't enough left. It didn't burn , but it hurt like hell!" Harry stood up, grimacing, and his face shifted to a 'just as I thought' look when he saw Professor Quirrell.
"Professor Quirrell, stop! Dumbledore is right outside!" Harry shouted, deciding to bluff as hard as possible. He couldn't actually expect two first-years to engage in a "Real-Life PK" with a professor.
"Mhm. You, like your friend Kane, enjoy speaking of things that will not happen," Voldemort said. Ignoring them both, he raised his wand and began tracing runes in the air.
Each rune he wrote drifted toward Kane, settling on his skin like chains—or tattoos—flowing through his body.
"Ooh, that feels quite tingly," Kane remarked. He watched as Voldemort, without even looking back or twitching his wand, effortlessly reflected a jinx Harry had fired at his back.
"Harry, you know this is futile." Voldemort didn't care how many spells Harry used to "tickle" him. He simply used one sentence to hard-lock Harry's movents. "If you do not wish to see your dear friend suffer a grueso death... go and pull that lever."
Harry erupted in fury. "Stealing the Stone isn't enough? You'd commit murder too?"
This display of "bravery-tinted wisdom" silenced both Voldemort and Kane for a mont. Finally, Voldemort chose to lower his wand and began unwinding the turban from his head.
Soon, the pale, noseless face was revealed to Harry. Kane, still curious, tilted his head to get a better look at the back of the frozen Quirrell-face.
"Hiss... honestly, I want to see too."
Voldemort obliged. With a sickening crunch, the neck rotated 180 degrees like an owl's, exposing Voldemort's face directly to Kane.
"...I think I preferred Professor Quirrell's face. Seriously, could you switch back?" Kane asked awkwardly.
Voldemort ignored the request and turned his slit-like eyes toward Harry.
"Now, dear Harry... the greatest Dark Lord in history, who has slaughtered over three hundred people, is asking you to pull that lever. Otherwise, I shall kill your friend."
Voldemort pressed his wand against Kane's throat. The tip began to glow with a sickly, shimring green.
"Now. Go!"
Harry swallowed hard. People called him a hero, the Boy Who Lived. But facing the actual Dark Lord? He didn't know what to do. No one should expect an eleven-year-old to duel a terrorist.
"Harry, didn't you hear ?" The wand tip crackled with erald lightning.
Kane looked at the green spark. Even though he had ways to cheat death, no one enjoys the sensation of a Killing Curse. Especially with Death lurking in so corner watching him—it was entirely possible the wand might "misfire" into a fatal blow.
No, it wasn't just possible. It was likely. Inevitable!
Kane suddenly lunged backward. A roar echoed as a jet of green light struck the floor where he had been standing, erupting into green flas.
Everyone in the room was stunned. Voldemort recovered first, naturally assuming it was an instability in Quirrell's wand. He used the accident to maintain the threat. "See, Harry? If you don't—"
Thwip!
Mid-sentence, Voldemort felt sothing cold slide into his chest. He looked down. Kane had sohow closed the distance and driven his dagger-shaped wand deep into the gap between his ribs.
The crystal on the wand began to glow fiercely.
BANG!
With a surge of magical vibration, Voldemort blasted Kane and his wand away to prevent any internal magical explosion.
"Kane... I admit, I underestimated you," Voldemort panted after blasting both boys to the far corners of the room. "You are far more decisive than I imagined. My eleven-year-old self did not have the resolve to kill. I was wrong about your relationship with Dumbledore, but I was right about one thing: you are a natural-born villain."
As he spoke, the wound in his chest closed instantly, leaving not even a scar.
"How was that, Kane?" Voldemort spread his arms, displaying his restored body, seemingly unafraid of another assault.
Kane, however, was already moving.
The marble floor abruptly turned into a grey-black swamp. Purple tentacles erupted from the mire, lashing against Voldemort's Shield Charm.
Unfortunately, pure physical damage did little against the barrier. Harry watched in despair, but Voldemort felt a twisted sense of triumph.
"Is this it, Kane? These soft, weak tricks? I shall have to downgrade my evaluation of you," Voldemort said elegantly.
He might have stayed elegant, too. Until a Shadow Blade whistled through the air.
Voldemort, assuming it was another "play-pretend" spell, didn't even dodge. He took it head-on, just like the tentacles.
BOOM.
Voldemort's Shield Charm was masterful; it didn't shatter. But the sheer force of the Shadow Blade sent him flying backward, embedding him deep into the stone wall.
Harry's mouth fell open into a giant 'O'. He looked at Kane in shock. I knew you were good, but this is getting ridiculous.
Voldemort felt the sa. This wasn't the power level of a first-year.
His eyes widened as a second Shadow Blade arrived. With a sharp crack, his Shield Charm began to spiderweb.
Then ca the third. The shield shattered completely, leaving his physical form exposed as Kane closed the distance.
Kane raised his wand. This ti, it wasn't a projectile. The wand itself began to warp; abstract shadows gathered in his grip, forming a pitch-black blade. Just as he was about to bring it down on Voldemort's neck—
"STOP!"
If Voldemort had just shouted it, the blade would have fallen. But Voldemort had a hostage. He had used a Summoning Charm to pull Harry toward him. If he wished, the Killing Curse would fly.
"Kane... you are too exceptional. I never imagined three spells could bring to this." Voldemort smiled manically. "Perhaps I shouldn't be such a perfectionist. I cannot have both the Stone and your talent. I shall settle for the Stone. Now, Kane... pull the lever."
Kane's lips thinned into a hard line. "Fine."
He pocketed his wand and walked toward Maxwell's Door, pulling the lever without a mont's hesitation.
With a low hum, the door activated. Within the scrap-tal fra, a swirling vortex—like a child's scribble—appeared. Shadowy hands reached out from the void, lunging for Voldemort.
"Bye-bye, Voldemort. Go play house with the pigs in the Constant," Kane said. He summoned a Hutch (the toad), whose tongue lashed out to snag Harry back from Voldemort's grip. Kane gave a wave.
"Bye."
Kane pulled out a hamr, waiting for Voldemort to be fully exiled so he could smash the door to pieces.
But sothing went wrong.
With a piercing shriek from Voldemort, his body—or rather, Quirrell's body—exploded!
"Max? What the hell happened?" Kane shouted to the void.
"His soul has 'anchors' in this world. I cannot pull him through," Maxwell's voice echoed briefly in explanation.
"Anchors? Then is he still in the real world?" Kane asked quickly.
"Evidently."
"What about Quirrell?"
"Dead. Utterly. Because this... Voldemort's soul and Quirrell's body had achieved a high state of fusion, the tug-of-war between the Constant and his anchors was too much. Quirrell's vessel was the middle-man. It exploded under the strain."
"...Got it. Quirrell's dead, Tom's gone god-knows-where, and the door is useless." Kane stepped forward with his hamr.
"Wait. I prepared a gift for you," Maxwell interrupted.
A bone with an eye on it ca flying out of the portal, bonking Kane on the head. As soon as he picked it up, a four-legged pumpkin hopped out of the door and tackled him.
BOOM!
The door erupted in black flas and detonated.
Kane was fine; his Night Armor absorbed the shock. Harry, however, was blasted against the wall for the second ti that night.
"Ah... everything has finally settled, Kane." Dumbledore appeared from the shadows behind him, using Fiendfyre to burn every remaining scrap of Maxwell's Door into ash.
"Is it over?" Kane frowned, rembering Maxwell's ntion of the "anchors."
"For now. Co, Kane. We need to talk." Dumbledore scooped up the unconscious Harry, placed him over his shoulder, and reached out a hand to Kane. With a roar of space-warping magic, the three of them vanished.
Chester (the four-legged pumpkin): "???"
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