Thud, thud, thud—
Deep in the shadows of the room ahead of Quirrell, something massive seemed to take on weight all at once.
Heavy footsteps echoed, and a bizarre creature emerged from the darkness in the corner.
It was vaguely humanoid, with freakishly long arms and legs, its hands nearly dragging on the floor.
Its body was like a moving fortress, practically brushing the seven-or-eight-meter-high ceiling.
Grayish-blue skin was coated in thick ice armor, faint blue light glowing through the cracked patterns.
Twisted, crystalline horns glinted faintly on its head, and its blood-red eyes locked onto Quirrell with a death stare.
Quirrell's wand trembled in his grip.
"No… impossible…"
His hoarse whisper shook with shock and fear.
A normal troll's maybe four meters tall, tops. The one Quirrell had set up for this challenge was a bit bigger, sure, but no way it was over five meters.
This thing? Its size blew past any troll, rivaling even the beefiest pure-blood giants.
And trolls don't cast magic—they just swing with raw, brute strength.
But this freakish creature was decked out in jagged ice armor, frost spreading around it with every step.
Quirrell couldn't wrap his head around where his troll had gone. He tried triggering the trap he'd set up beforehand.
Pfft.
A faint wisp of green smoke puffed out from the back of the creature's massive head with a soft pop.
"This…"
Quirrell's pupils shrank. That feedback meant this was the troll he'd planted!
But why was his curse so weak?
"Someone tampered with my Dark Magic?"
The creature didn't seem hurt, but it sure looked pissed.
Crack, crack—it twisted its neck, and its huge feet charged forward, closing the gap to Quirrell in just a few strides.
Ice formed fast in its massive hand, shaping into a crude, spiked club in a blink.
Quirrell instinctively moved to back off.
Boom!
The door behind him slammed shut.
"!"
With no choice, Quirrell dove to the side.
The icy-blue club, radiating bone-chilling cold, grazed his turban and smashed into the ground.
A deafening boom echoed through the room.
Quirrell scrambled to put some distance between them, ready to blast the thing from afar with a spell.
Then a sharp pain stabbed through his back and thigh.
The club's impact with the floor had unleashed a spray of ice spikes, two of which just happened to pierce his back and right leg.
"Useless!"
Voldemort's voice, colder than the ice, rang in Quirrell's mind.
Then Quirrell felt his body slip out of his control.
His flesh seemed to waste away in an instant, leaving him looking gaunt and skeletal.
A surge of wild, sinister magic erupted.
"You've got the power—now deal with it…"
Voldemort's voice trailed off. He was saving his strength for the final challenge, unsure what tricks that cunning old Dumbledore might've cooked up.
…
"Thanks to you, Hermione, spotting that Devil's Snare in time!"
Harry wiped the sweat off his brow, grinning with relief.
"Professor Sprout went over it in Herbology not long ago," Hermione said, flicking her wand to douse the flames at its tip.
"Let's keep moving."
They pushed into the next room, and a swarm of dazzling, gem-like birds fluttered wildly around.
"Phew, scared me half to death. Thought it was a dragon or a ghost with all that noise—turns out it's just birds," Ron said, patting his chest with a huff.
"No, those aren't birds!"
"They're keys!"
Harry's shout cut through as he scanned the room's corners.
He quickly spotted a few broomsticks.
Ron checked the lock on the door and guessed, "The key's gotta be big, maybe silver? Like a door handle or something?"
The trio hopped on the brooms, and with Harry—the youngest Seeker in a century—leading the charge, they chased down the big silver key with sky-blue wings.
"Got it!"
Harry swooped down to the door, jammed the key in, and turned it.
Click!
The door swung open.
"Not too tough! Let's keep it up—we've got this!"
…
Quirrell stumbled into the final room.
His left arm was gone again, his right leg a bloody mess, moving stiff and awkward.
Cough, cough, cough…
Achoo!
Coughs and sneezes kept bursting out of him.
"Who the hell messed with my troll?!"
Quirrell nearly collapsed, muttering in a mix of confusion and resentment.
"Forget your current pain—hope is right in front of you…"
Voldemort's voice carried a spark of excitement.
"Go, get to that mirror…"
Quirrell looked up and saw a mirror in the center of the room.
Limping forward, he studied the ornate thing closely.
It was tall, almost touching the ceiling.
The frame was lavish gold, propped up by clawed feet.
He noticed a line of text at the top. Quirrell waved a shaky hand, squinting to make it out.
"Erised stra…"
Suddenly, the reflection of himself in the mirror shifted.
His frail, broken body stood tall and strong, his pale face flushed with life.
The turban was gone, replaced by thick, flowing black hair.
A dark, misty shadow peeled away from his head, vanishing into the distance.
In the mirror, Quirrell held a book, standing in a quiet study, soft lamplight mingling with the occasional sound of pages turning.
He stared, entranced, and without thinking, reached out his remaining right hand to touch the glass.
A single tear slid down his cheek.
"Quirinus, what do you see?"
Voldemort's icy voice snapped him back, making him flinch.
Right—he was still a wreck, hosting a dark soul in his mind, nowhere near free.
"M-Master, I… I saw…"
"I saw myself getting the Philosopher's Stone, giving it to you, and… and under your protection, I became Minister of Magic!"
Quirrell didn't dare share what he really saw, instead spinning a vision he knew Voldemort would eat up.
"Oh, very good."
"So where's the Stone?"
Voldemort's cold tone jabbed at Quirrell's nerves.
Sweat dripped from his forehead as he fought back coughs and sneezes, too scared to answer.
Voldemort didn't press, instead mulling over the challenge.
The Stone had to be in that mirror.
But how to get it out?
You could see it, but not touch it…
Time dragged on.
Then the door burst open with a bang!
"I'll protect the Stone and stop you—"
Harry, his robes dusted with dirt, charged in, all righteous fire, only to freeze at the sight of…
"P-Professor Quirrell?"
"What are you doing here?"