A narrow room was instantly flooded with eerie green light. Quirrell, to his credit, was a man chosen by the Dark Lord himself. He twisted sharply to the side, narrowly dodging the deadly Killing Curse.
But he never expected what came next. The moment the curse struck the floor, it split apart, sending a second streak of green light hurtling straight toward his face.
Caught completely off guard, Quirrell was struck square in the face by the split curse.
He collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud, not even managing a single sound.
Harry stood with his wand raised, pointing it steadily at the lifeless Quirrell, and cautiously stepped forward.
The instant the Killing Curse had split, he had known Voldemort was still clinging to the back of Quirrell's head. He wasn't about to let his guard down.
Reaching Quirrell's side, he didn't hesitate. He raised his wand again.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The Killing Curse struck Quirrell once more. This time, there would be no chance of survival.
This was a hard-earned habit from a century ago. Once, a classmate had let his guard down after defeating a dark wizard, only to be killed by the man playing dead. That painful lesson had been drilled into Harry day after day by Vivi and Cassandra, who used it as teaching material.
He felt no mercy for Quirrell.
No reason—other than a greedy lust for power and status—could justify allying oneself with a parasitic dark wizard like Voldemort, who clung desperately to life.
After making sure the job was finished, Harry turned toward the Mirror of Erised.
What he saw surprised him. This time, the Mirror didn't show the Potter family or his two female classmates. It showed *himself*.
The Harry in the mirror gave the real Harry a sly smile and a wink. In his hand, he appeared to be holding a stone.
Could it be… the Philosopher's Stone?
Harry had seen it before in books from Vivi's collection. The stone in the mirror looked exactly the same.
As he watched curiously, the Harry in the mirror slipped the stone into his pocket.
At the exact same moment, Harry felt a weight settle into his own trouser pocket.
The Philosopher's Stone?!
He could hardly believe it. Had he really obtained the Stone so easily?
He reached into his pocket. The cool, smooth touch of the Stone against his fingers made him feel as if he were dreaming.
"Harry… Potter…"
A hissing voice echoed through the room. Harry's senses snapped to full alert. He quickly stepped back, only to see a face emerge within the Mirror.
The face was grotesque and terrifying—noseless, skull-like, and utterly inhuman.
"Voldemort?" Harry asked uncertainly.
At the same time, he flicked his wand in a sharp motion.
"Revelio!"
A ripple of magic spread outward in a spherical wave from the tip of his wand, but the spell failed to locate the source of the face.
The face in the Mirror smiled eerily. "Don't waste your energy, Harry Potter… I never expected that we would be so alike…"
Even as he spoke, turbulent emotions raged inside him.
*Who the hell is the Dark Lord here?*
This first-year student had opened with a Killing Curse and somehow managed to split it to strike two targets at once. If Quirrell hadn't taken the hit, even he might not have escaped unscathed.
He also couldn't help wondering: *Who exactly is this Harry Potter?*
Could he be someone using Polyjuice Potion in disguise?
By all logic, a first-year shouldn't even know the Killing Curse. Even if they somehow learned it, they shouldn't be able to cast it with any real power—just enough to maybe give an adult wizard a nosebleed. It certainly shouldn't be lethal.
Yet this Potter had struck two targets simultaneously with a curse that required no emotional buildup whatsoever. He had fired it the moment they met.
*Have the students at Hogwarts all become this ruthless?*
Despite his racing thoughts, Voldemort's mouth never stopped.
"I truly wish Dumbledore could see what kind of person his golden boy really is… You were born to be a dark wizard. Come, join me, Potter. Together we can rule the wizarding world—rule the entire world—and seize the power of immortality!"
The face continued in a coaxing tone. "Just lend me the Philosopher's Stone for a moment. I know many profound magics. I can even help you bring your parents back… Don't you want them to be with you as you grow up, my child?"
His true goal was the Stone in Harry's pocket. Whatever was going on with the boy himself was secondary.
"Oh, why should I trust you?" Harry replied mockingly. He still didn't know where the real Voldemort was hiding, so he couldn't attack directly. "I don't think a parasitic worm clinging to the back of someone else's head has that kind of power. You shouldn't be called the Dark Lord. You should be called the Duck Lord, because all you can do is quack uselessly like a pathetic duck."
The face in the Mirror twisted in fury. He had never imagined that this child's tongue could be as vicious as his curses.
Even Severus Snape, once one of his own followers, couldn't match even a fraction of this boy's venom.
He shuddered to think of the mockery he would face if the wizarding world learned the Dark Lord had been turned into the Duck Lord.
"Brat!" Voldemort snarled. "You ill-mannered orphan—"
"Oh, heh." Harry laughed coldly. "My parents left me because *you* murdered them, but they loved me. You, on the other hand… Voldemort, I suspect your mother never loved you at all. Just look at yourself—no nose. She probably thought you were too ugly and abandoned you at an orphanage. You should crawl back into the primordial abyss and see if anyone there wants you!"
"Shut up! Shut up! How dare you! *Avada Kedavra!*" Voldemort screamed hysterically. "How do you know… You—!"
Harry paused. It seemed one of his casual jabs had struck a nerve.
Voldemort was clearly broken. That hit had landed hard.
*Could it actually be true?*
Good heavens. He had learned those insults from Professor Haoying, the Chinese teacher of Care of Magical Creatures from years ago.
Professor Haoying wasn't just an excellent cook; she was a master of vicious insults. Harry had once witnessed her deliver a barrage of elegant, Shakespearean-level curses that still somehow sounded refined.
That was why their year had graduated with exceptionally lethal verbal skills.
He felt his own words still lacked punch—Professor Haoying could go all the way back eighteen generations.
"Oh, I must apologize, Mr. Voldemort," Harry said with genuine sincerity. "I'm truly sorry. I didn't know your mother and father abandoned you when you were very young—"
To Voldemort, the words were like the cruelest knife.
Lies don't hurt. The truth cuts deepest.
His mother, Merope Gaunt, had fallen desperately in love with a Muggle—Voldemort's father, Tom Riddle. She had used a Love Potion to ensnare him. When the truth came out, Tom cast her out, and the Gaunt family treated her as a disgrace.
Pregnant and disowned, Merope had lived in poverty in London, eventually selling the priceless Slytherin locket for a mere ten Galleons to Borgin of Borgin and Burkes.
On a dark, snowy night, she gave birth to Voldemort in a Muggle orphanage and abandoned him.
Having this raw, painful memory ripped open by Harry was more than Voldemort could bear.
He glared viciously at the boy, but in his extreme rage, a strange calm began to settle over him.
The priority was obtaining the Philosopher's Stone. Once he had it, everything would fall into place.
*What a naturally evil little Potter brat!*
"I accept your apology," Voldemort said coldly. A new plan was already forming in his mind.
"Your generosity is enough to light up a bathroom," Harry replied with a polite bow. "A girls' bathroom, specifically."
Voldemort choked for a moment, then snorted. "Enough with the wordplay, Potter. You should know that Dumbledore will not come to save you. Just as Quirrell acted on his own during that Quidditch match, trying to kill you with a curse!"
"Acted on his own?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so it *was* Quirrell casting the spell. Why would he do that?"
"Why?" Voldemort sneered. "To draw Dumbledore's attention, of course. To make the great, selfless Dumbledore notice that he was trying to murder the Boy Who Lived, so he could gain Dumbledore's help and escape my control. Unfortunately, Potter, Dumbledore ignored him. In his eyes, everyone is expendable—"
Harry sensed something off. It looked like Voldemort was stalling for time—and his words were clearly meant to sow distrust toward Dumbledore…
If Harry were truly just a first-year, he might have fallen for it.
But he had heard far too many lies from dark wizards desperate to survive or hurt others.
He didn't believe a single word.
He slipped his hand into his pocket and touched the Philosopher's Stone. It responded immediately, its magic surging eagerly into his palm.
The face in the Mirror continued its verbal assault. "As for you, Potter, you are merely another piece in his game of sacrifice. As long as it helps him defeat the great Voldemort, anyone can be thrown away!"
"Think about it. Your parents… and you. Don't you ever wonder why I targeted your family?"
"Because you're a pitiful wretch whose mother never loved him, so you're jealous of me," Harry shot back mercilessly, still steadily drawing power from the Stone.
"Potter!" Voldemort roared. "My patience is running out!"
"On the contrary, I'm far more curious why *your* mother didn't want you," Harry replied with an infuriating grin. "You're a murderous maniac, that much is obvious. You wanted to kill my parents simply because you felt like it. But I really want to know why your mother abandoned you—and why your father didn't want you either. By the way, after chatting this long, I still don't know your real name, Mr. Voldemort. Didn't your parents teach you any manners?"
"Oh, sorry!" Harry dramatically covered his mouth with his free hand, making an exaggerated expression of realization. "I forgot—your parents didn't want you!"
He had learned that particular expression from Cassandra.
Harry felt zero guilt. The creature before him had murdered his parents and slaughtered countless innocent witches and wizards. Such a monster deserved no mercy.
Besides, he was in the open while Voldemort remained hidden. Taunting him into losing control and revealing himself was the smart move.
"Harry… Potter!" Voldemort hissed furiously. "I've changed my mind. You *must* die!"
The moment the words left his mouth, Quirrell's body suddenly jerked upright.
A flash of green light appeared out of nowhere. Harry was ready. He flicked his wand, transfiguring nearby bricks into a massive shield that blocked the curse.
His other hand never stopped absorbing power from the Stone as he fired another Killing Curse. This time, it missed the possessed Quirrell.
"I will make you pay!" the figure that had been Quirrell hissed.
Harry understood—Voldemort had taken full control of the body.
"*Expelliarmus!*" Harry cast a Disarming Charm while continuing to draw energy from the Stone.
The Philosopher's Stone lived up to its name. Harry felt power flooding his body, the familiar sensation of strength returning.
Voldemort deflected the spell with a flick of his wand, then raised a hand and blew across it. Black flames roared into existence.
With a deranged laugh that sounded like it came from the deepest pits of hell, the black fire twisted into the shape of a gigantic serpent, jaws wide open as it lunged at Harry.
It was Fiendfyre.
Fiendfyre was an advanced and extremely dangerous dark magic—a cursed fire that grew stronger and stronger, capable of taking monstrous forms. It pursued and consumed nearly anything that could burn, without distinguishing between friend and foe.
Wizards without sufficient power often lost control of it and ended up destroying themselves. Only the most powerful could command it precisely.
For a dark wizard of Voldemort's caliber, controlling Fiendfyre was effortless.
Harry gripped the Philosopher's Stone tightly, absorbing its boundless energy.
Stone! Give me everything!
A steady stream of magical power poured into him from the point of contact. He felt completely invigorated.
He raised his wand and swept it in a wide arc.
A blazing curtain of brilliant blue fire erupted around him, forming a protective flaming barrier.
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