Live?
The single word echoed in Quirrell's consciousness, cutting through the icy paralysis and the endless hissing of the parasitic spirit on his skull. Live?
A single, intense spark of pure, desperate hope—a longing he had thought long dead and buried beneath layers of dark ambition and fear—ignited in his exposed, human eyes. He had struggled for months, every action, every clumsy deflection, every lie, rooted in one ultimate, agonizing goal: survival.
But could he? Could a man so thoroughly corrupted and possessed by the most feared Dark Lord in history truly be saved?
His head, the only part of him not encased in the cold, unyielding ice, tilted toward Sebastian. The struggle within him was palpable: the yearning for salvation warring violently with the crippling, soul-deep fear of the shadow on his head.
"I… I desperately want to live, Professor Swann," Quirrell stammered, the words forced past his lips, a plea that shook with shame and hope. "Please… show me how to save myself…"
Voldemort's voice, a cold, mocking serpent, immediately lashed out from the back of Quirrell's skull, attempting to extinguish the fragile light of resistance.
"You are making a spectacle of yourself, Quirrell! A mockery! Are you so blind you cannot see the obvious trap? Your façade of innocence is stripped bare, your betrayal is exposed!" Voldemort hissed. "Do you believe they will save you? No! This entire display—the ice, the conversation—is nothing more than a psychological torture designed to extract information before Dumbledore arrives to finish you off! They never intended to offer salvation!"
Sebastian completely ignored the frantic whisper of the Dark Lord. He fixed his gaze directly on the vulnerable, human face of Quirrell, his expression unwavering.
"I am here for the express purpose of saving you, Quirrell. I am not Dumbledore's tool, nor am I interested in simple information extraction. But I require your complete, unreserved cooperation. And that cooperation begins with a single, essential decision."
Quirrell blinked, the plea in his eyes intensifying. "What must I do? Tell me, I beg you!"
"To survive this," Sebastian stated, his voice firm and steady, "you must cultivate an unwavering belief in victory, and the absolute conviction that you, Quirinus Quirrell, possess the power to defeat Voldemort and expel him."
"Only when you genuinely believe in your own agency can any external force successfully assist you."
The light in Quirrell's eyes flickered, then dimmed painfully. Belief? If mere self-confidence was the solution, he would have been free months ago. He had spent every waking moment trying to convince himself he was strong enough. But the sheer reality of facing a sliver of the Dark Lord's soul was enough to crush any nascent courage. What weapon could a former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher use against such an ancient evil?
Sebastian sighed inwardly. The man was a victim paralyzed by the memory of a power that no longer existed. The true battle was not with the wraith on his head, but with the ghost of fear in his own mind. The parasite had burrowed deep into the host's consciousness, feeding on his terror.
"Quirrell, you have my complete empathy if you fear Voldemort at his zenith," Sebastian continued, his voice softer now, coaxing. "But you must understand this fundamental reality: he is no longer the invincible Dark Lord. He is now so weak, so broken, that he is reduced to a parasite, relying on the dwindling life force of others just to sustain a shade of himself. There is nothing left to fear of the man himself."
"It is not Voldemort you fear, Quirinus. It is the shadow of the past—the memory of his former reign that you cling to. You must face your own heart and discard that fear. You must find the internal courage to resist, to say 'No' to his presence, and believe that you can absolutely overcome this phantom."
Sebastian's words struck deeper than any spell. The confusion and self-doubt in Quirrell's eyes slowly gave way to a fragile, budding resolve, a tiny flame of defiance.
Sebastian pressed the advantage, his voice swelling with encouragement.
"Are you content to remain his mere puppet, a tool to be discarded the moment you are no longer useful? Are you willing to die for the sake of the lies he has told you, lies that have already damned your health and your soul?"
"Will you perish in this cold, damp room, a pathetic husk sharing your final moments with this monstrous, unnatural leech?"
"Think of what you truly love about living! Do you truly not wish to see the sun rise again, to feel the gentle breeze of the Scottish highlands, to smell the freshly turned pages of a rare, ancient text?"
At these words, Quirrell's mouth twitched, his face twisting with a wave of intense, unexpected emotion. The gentle breeze… the smell of parchment… He remembered himself—the brilliant Ravenclaw student, the eager academic, the man full of passion and genuine curiosity, driven to explore the world's forgotten truths. He did not want to die consumed by this shadow. He did not want to perish in despair's abyss.
No. I don't want to die like this.
His jaw tightened. A single, silent tear, born of regret and a sudden, fierce will to survive, carved a track down his frozen cheek.
Sebastian, observing the profound shift in his mental landscape, saw the window of opportunity open. He reached into his coat and produced a folded piece of parchment, placing it directly onto the ice just below Quirrell's chin. The familiar, ornate handwriting, the dense magical theory and the unmistakable passion of the subject matter—it was a reprint of an ancient N.E.W.T. level exam paper that Quirrell had always admired.
"You already knew the solution, didn't you, Professor Quirrell?" Sebastian murmured. "The answer to defeating him, the final, supreme counter-force."
Quirrell's eyes widened, focusing on the text. The subject matter was complex, obscure, but instantly recognizable.
Content related to the Magic of Pure, Selfless Love.
A frantic, desperate flicker of hope, brighter than anything before, flared in his heart. Yes! It is true! This is the only magic, the only defense, that can banish the Dark Lord!
But I… I have never mastered that magic. I am not capable of casting it. The hope began to crumble immediately, leading to a new wave of despair.
Before Quirrell could spiral back into self-pity, Sebastian abruptly wheeled around, his wand extended, and pointed it not at the Mirror or Quirrell, but toward the recently opened doorway of the chamber.
"Ah, good timing, Professor Flitwick," Sebastian said coolly.
Quirrell's gaze snapped to the entrance, where the small, immaculately dressed figure of Professor Filius Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw House, stood silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor.
"Professor Flitwick…" Quirrell mumbled, his head bowing low in overwhelming shame. He couldn't face his former mentor, the man whose House he had disgraced, whose principles of wisdom and courage he had so thoroughly betrayed.
Flitwick didn't hesitate. He marched straight through the doorway, his tiny stature radiating an immense, focused determination. He stopped directly beside Sebastian, his attention fixed entirely on the frozen form of his disgraced student.
"Quirinus," Flitwick said, his voice ringing with a blend of professional command and deep, personal affection. "Look at me."
Quirrell slowly raised his head, meeting the kind, resolute gaze of his professor.
"You are, and you will always remain, one of my most treasured students. You were the pride of Ravenclaw, Quirinus. Do not let this monster reduce you to a whimpering child."
Quirrell was stunned into silence, the words of forgiveness and recognition hitting him like a physical blow. He had expected contempt, fury, or a cold academic dismissal. Not this genuine, heartfelt support.
"Quirinus," Flitwick continued, leaning in, his voice dropping to a powerful whisper, "We Ravenclaws value wisdom, yes, but we never, ever lack the courage to fight against a terrible fate. That courage is fueled by knowledge—the knowledge of who you truly are, and the knowledge that the thing on your head is a powerless lie."
"Gather your courage, my student. And loudly, boldly, say 'No' to this monstrosity!"
Flitwick's words were the final, necessary catalyst. They carried a power that surpassed mere magical skill—the power of unconditional faith and affirmation.
He is right.
I am not alone.
I have not been completely abandoned.
Quirrell felt a wave of conviction surge through his soul, a burning tide of fierce pride and self-determination that melted away the last vestiges of paralyzing fear. Death was inevitable, perhaps, but failure was not. Even if he failed now, he would die fighting, not submitting.
Ravenclaw students never lack the courage to fight against fate!
"Now, Quirinus," Sebastian said, seeing the fierce light ignite in the professor's eyes. "Focus. Don't look at the face of evil. Look at the face of goodness. Look at the man who believes in you. And remember everything you love about life, about knowledge, about yourself."
"Prepare yourself to be overwhelmed by the Magic of Love!"