"Professor Quirrell, what are you doing here?" Harry stamred, staring at the man before him. Despite Quirrell's disheveled appearance, Harry recognized him instantly. Wasn't this the harmless, bumbling Professor Quirrell?
Sure, Quirrell stuttered through his lessons, wasn't the best teacher, and always slled faintly of garlic… but setting those flaws aside, Harry had always thought he was a good guy. Quirrell worked hard, showed up on ti, ended classes promptly, and never dragged things out.
Harry's mind flashed to that ti he'd overheard Snape threatening Quirrell. If anyone seed like the bad guy, it was Snape, not Quirrell. So why was Quirrell here?
"You… you're not trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone, are you?" Harry asked, disbelief coloring his voice. He couldn't connect the dots between the nervous, stuttering professor and so mastermind plotting to nab the Stone.
Quirrell didn't bother answering. After glimpsing the visions in the mirror, his mind kept wandering to that "future" he saw. Could it really co true?
"Ha, Severus does look like a villain, doesn't he? Swooping around like a giant bat, drawing all the suspicion…" a sharp, grating voice rang in Harry's ears. But Quirrell's lips hadn't moved.
"No one pays attention to a stamring, cowardly Quirrell," the voice sneered.
Harry's eyes widened. That Quidditch match when Dumbledore was away—soone had tried to kill him. It was Quirrell?
But the voice wasn't coming from Quirrell's mouth. Harry's scar throbbed harder, the pain intensifying.
"Let see him… the Boy Who Lived…" the voice hissed, each word dripping with disdain and hatred, though Harry caught a faint tremor of fear beneath it.
Quirrell turned, following the command. As he faced away from Harry, he slowly unwound his purple turban. His eyes fixed on the Mirror of Erised, where he saw a peaceful scene: himself, healthy and refined, flipping through a book in a cozy study.
Harry's pupils shrank as the turban fell away. Where the back of Quirrell's head should've been was a face—chalk-white, like it had been burned. Its features were blurred, twisted like lted wax, grotesque and unsettling. Bloodshot eyes dominated the face, paired with slits for nostrils, like a snake's.
"Harry Potter…" the voice whispered, slithering into his ears without the turban's barrier. "The last ti we t, you were just a baby. So small… so fragile. Your parents put up a brave but feeble fight."
Harry clutched his forehead, tears streaming down—whether from pain or grief, he couldn't tell.
"V-Voldemort?" he choked out.
"Yes, yes! Praise my great na!" Voldemort's mad, unrestrained laughter echoed, tornting Harry's ears. "Give the Philosopher's Stone!"
"Go, Quirinus, my child. The boy knows where it is," Voldemort ordered.
Quirrell snapped his fingers, and ropes appeared out of nowhere, binding Harry tightly.
With a reluctant glance at the mirror's serene vision, Quirrell sighed softly and turned to Harry. "Resistance is pointless, Harry…"
He started toward him, ready to demand the Stone's location, when—
"Wait!" Voldemort's sharp voice halted him.
Voldemort's crimson eyes locked onto the mirror. He'd seen sothing.
In the reflection, a figure stood with their back to him, wearing a school robe, dark golden hair cascading over their shoulders. They were at a workbench, hands moving deftly—chopping, grinding, and thodically adding potion ingredients to a cauldron. The flas beneath flickered in unusual colors, shifting and blending, wrapping the cauldron's base.
Voldemort didn't recognize the figure, yet sothing about them felt familiar. As he pondered, the figure paused, waved a hand, and the flas turned a normal orange-yellow. In their pale hand appeared a translucent red gem.
Voldemort's pupils contracted, his face trembling. "The Philosopher's Stone!"
He forced Quirrell's body to stumble back, awkwardly craning his face closer to the mirror. His gaze burned with greed, fixated on the gem.
The figure in the mirror casually slipped the Stone into their pocket, as if it were just so ordinary trinket.
As Quirrell crouched in front of the Mirror of Erised in that bizarre pose, Harry struggled against the ropes. They were too tight—he toppled onto the hard floor. Ignoring the pain, he wriggled, determined not to give in to Voldemort. He had to get the Stone first, stop Voldemort's plan, buy ti until Dumbledore arrived, and see Voldemort defeated.
As he squird, Harry glanced at Quirrell and caught a glimpse of the mirror's edge. In it, he saw himself, bound and on the ground. But then the ropes dissolved, and mirror-Harry stood, a smile replacing his panic.
Mirror-Harry reached into his pocket, pulled out a translucent red stone, winked at the real Harry, and tucked it back away.
In that mont, Harry felt sothing heavy in his own pocket. His thigh brushed against it, and realization hit: I've got the Philosopher's Stone!
Steadying his racing heart, Harry pieced it together. He had to hide it. Voldemort didn't know the Stone was in his pocket, so if he could hold out, keep it secret, he could last until Dumbledore's rescue.
Harry subtly shifted, pressing the pocket with the Stone beneath him.
Then, a soft chuckle echoed from the Mirror of Erised, faint, as if from a great distance. Only Voldemort and Quirrell, pressed close to the mirror, heard it.
Voldemort watched as the figure extinguished the cauldron's flas and carefully poured the potion into a crystal vial. "Good evening, Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," the figure said, turning to face him. Erald-green eyes t Voldemort's, a charming smile playing on their lips.
In that instant, Voldemort knew where that familiar feeling ca from.
"Lucien Grafton!"
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