It was Quirrell.

"You!" gasped Harry, his voice barely more than a whisper, choked with shock.

Quirrell's smile widened fractionally, his demeanor eerily composed. "Me," he replied calmly, his voice devoid of the usual tremor. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter."

Harry's mind raced, struggling to reconcile the image before him with his previous understanding. "But I thought—Snape—"

A chilling laugh escaped Quirrell's lips, devoid of its usual nervous quiver, replaced by a cold, cutting edge. "Severus?" he scoffed, the sound slicing through the tense air. "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

Harry's thoughts whirled, unable to grasp the implications of Quirrell's words. "This couldn't be true, it couldn't," he protested weakly, the weight of disbelief pressing upon him.

"But Snape tried to kill me!" Harry insisted, desperation lacing his words.

"No, no, no," Quirrell countered smoothly, his tone chillingly matter-of-fact. "I tried to kill you, stupid boy. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. Another few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom. I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering those frustrating counter-curses, trying to save you."

The realization crashed over Harry like a wave, leaving him reeling in horror at the treachery that had surrounded him, “Snape was trying to save me?"

"Of course," said Quirrell coolly, an ugly look replacing his normally timid features. Shadows danced menacingly across his face as he spoke, his voice dripping with malice. "Why do you think he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn't do it again. Funny, really...he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do anything with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he did make himself unpopular...and what a waste of time, when after all that, I'm going to kill you tonight." Quirrell's words twisted into a sinister promise, his lips curling into a cruel smile as he revealed his wand in a flash of movement. "Incarcerous!" Ropes sprang out of thin air with a vicious snap, wrapping themselves tightly around Harry, cutting into his flesh like vengeful serpents. "You're too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone."

"You let the troll in?"

"Certainly." Quirrell's voice dripped with dark amusement. "I have a special gift with trolls—you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there?" His eyes gleamed with a mad intensity, relishing the memory of his dark prowess. "Unfortunately, while everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me off. Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.”

As Harry's gaze flickered past Quirrell, it caught on the majestic presence of the Mirror of Erised, standing sentinel-like behind the dark figure. Its golden frame seemed to exude an otherworldly glow in the dim light of the chamber, its surface shimmering with a captivating allure that drew the eye like a beacon. Eerie reflections danced across the walls, adding an unsettling layer to the already tense atmosphere.

Quirrell's voice broke through Harry's mesmerized reverie, drawing his attention back to the present. "This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," he murmured, his words echoing softly in the cavernous space. His fingers traced a path along the frame, tapping with a sense of anticipation. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this... but he's in London... I'll be far away by the time he gets back…" With a hungry intensity, Quirrell stepped forward, his eyes locked on the mirror's surface as if seeking answers hidden within its depths. "I see the Stone...I'm presenting it to my master...but where is it?" His voice held a note of frustration, a tinge of desperation as he searched the mirror for the elusive prize he sought.

Harry strained against the coarse ropes binding him, their tight grip refusing to yield to his frantic efforts. The harsh fibers dug into his skin, chafing and burning with each futile struggle. His heart pounded in his chest as he fought to keep Quirrell's attention from fixating entirely on the mesmerizing allure of the mirror.

"But Snape always seemed to hate me so much," Harry interjected, his voice tinged with a mix of confusion and desperation, trying anything to keep Quirrell’s attention away from the mirror.

Quirrell's response was casual, almost nonchalant, as if discussing the weather. "Oh, he does," he affirmed with a slight nod, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn't you know? They absolutely loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead."

Harry's brow furrowed in disbelief, struggling to reconcile Quirrell's words with his own experiences. "But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing—I thought Snape was threatening you..."

A fleeting spasm of fear flickered across Quirrell's features, a momentary crack in his facade of composure. "Sometimes," he admitted reluctantly, his voice betraying a trace of vulnerability, "I find it hard to follow my master's instructions—he is a great wizard and I am weak—"

The revelation sent a chill down Harry's spine, his mind reeling with the implications. "You mean he was there in the classroom with you?" he gasped, disbelief coloring his words.

"He is with me wherever I go," Quirrell confessed quietly, his tone tinged with reverence. "I met him some time ago during my travels. I had been searching for the ends of rumors people would be scared to talk of—the fears that he could be alive somewhere out there. Then, when I traveled to Albania—shortly after I met you in the Leaky Cauldron—he had new plans for our working relationship. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it...Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Quirrell shivered suddenly, a tremor coursing through his frame. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me... decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me..."

A heavy silence settled over the chamber as Quirrell's words hung in the air, the weight of their implications pressing down upon Harry like a suffocating blanket. Memories flooded his mind, piecing together the puzzle with a sickening clarity. How could he have been so blind, so naive? The realization struck him like a blow, his thoughts racing back to his trip to Diagon Alley—how could he have been so stupid? He'd seen Quirrell there that very day, shaken hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron.

Quirrell's frustration was palpable, his muttered curses echoing off the stone walls of the chamber like whispers of discontent. "I don't understand... is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?" Quirrell's voice was tinged with a sense of urgency, his brows furrowed in confusion.

Harry's mind raced, a flurry of thoughts swirling within as he grappled with the gravity of the situation. The urgency of the moment weighed heavily upon him, driving him to devise a plan to outmaneuver Quirrell's relentless pursuit.

"What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment," Harry thought, his mind racing with the intensity of his desire, "is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see myself finding it—which means I'll see where it's hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing what I'm up to?”

He attempted to maneuver to the left, attempting to position himself in front of the mirror without drawing Quirrell's attention, but the tight bonds constricting his ankles thwarted his efforts, sending him stumbling to the ground in a graceless heap. Quirrell paid him no mind, his focus consumed by the enigma before him.

"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!" Quirrell's voice pleaded, his desperation echoing through the chamber.

To Harry's horror, a chilling response emanated from Quirrell himself, the voice seeming to materialize from the very depths of his being. "Use the boy... Use the boy…" Quirrell's sudden directive snapped Harry's attention back to the present, a shiver coursing down his spine as he met the dark wizard's gaze. "Yes—Potter—come here," Quirrell commanded, his tone laced with a sinister edge.

He muttered another incantation that Harry couldn’t understand and suddenly the ropes around him fell away, releasing him from their confining grasp. Harry rose to his feet slowly, a sense of foreboding settling over him like a suffocating shroud.

"Come here," Quirrell repeated, his voice a low, commanding whisper that sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

Harry obeyed, his steps hesitant as he approached the mirror. Panic surged within him, urging him to concoct a falsehood, to deceive Quirrell at any cost.

Quirrell hovered close behind him, his presence oppressive, suffused with a strange odor emanating from beneath his turban. Harry wrinkled his nose, swallowing hard against the unsettling scent as he closed his eyes, bracing himself for what he must do. Stepping in front of the mirror, he opened his eyes, confronting his reflection with a mixture of trepidation and resolve.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

At first, his reflection mirrored his own fear, pale and apprehensive. But then, as if by some magic, it smiled—a deceptive grin that sent a chill down Harry's spine. With a deft movement, the reflection produced a blood-red stone from its pocket, winking mischievously before secreting the Stone away. Harry felt a weight settle into his pocket, a tangible reminder of his improbable success.

"Well?" Quirrell's impatient voice broke through the tension, demanding an answer. "What do you see?"

Summoning his courage, Harry forged ahead with his deceit. "I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he fabricated, his words flowing with practiced ease. "I—I've won the house cup for Gryffindor."

Quirrell's frustration boiled over, his curses punctuating the air like venomous hisses. "Get out of the way," he spat, his patience wearing thin. As Harry complied, a surge of adrenaline coursed through him, spurred by the weight of the Philosopher's Stone nestled against his leg. Dare he make a break for it?

But before he could act, a high-pitched voice pierced the air, originating from Quirrell himself yet seeming to transcend his physical form. "He lies... He lies..."

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell's command reverberated through the chamber, his desperation palpable. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

The disembodied voice spoke once more, its demand ringing with a chilling intensity. "Let me speak to him... face-to-face..."

"Master, you are not strong enough!" Quirrell protested, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and reverence.

"I have strength enough...for this..." The response was firm, resolute, sending a shiver down Harry's spine as he stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.

It felt as if Devil's Snare was coiling around him, ensnaring him in its suffocating grip. Petrified, he could only watch as Quirrell reached up, fingers trembling as they began to unwrap the turban concealing his head. What was going on? The fabric fell away, revealing Quirrell's head, strangely diminished without its covering. Slowly, Quirrell turned on the spot, and Harry's breath caught in his throat.

He would have screamed, but terror rendered him mute. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face— the most ghastly visage Harry had ever beheld. Chalk white, with eyes like smoldering coals and slits for nostrils, it resembled that of a serpent, a creature of nightmares made flesh.

"Harry Potter..." it hissed, its voice a chilling whisper that seemed to slither through the air, sending a shiver down Harry's spine.

Desperately, Harry tried to retreat, but his legs refused to obey, rooted to the spot by an unseen force. He felt as though invisible tendrils gripped him, holding him in place against his will.

"See what I have become?" the face taunted, its words dripping with malice like venom from a serpent's fangs. "Mere shadow and vapor... I have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds... Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own... Now... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

So he knew. The realization hit Harry like a thunderbolt, flooding his veins with a surge of adrenaline that brought sensation flooding back into his legs. He stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his chest, the weight of the situation bearing down upon him with crushing force.

"Don't be a fool," snarled the face, its voice dripping with malice. "Better save your own life and join me... or you'll meet the same end as your parents... They died begging me for mercy..."

"LIAR!" Harry's retort was a vehement explosion, bursting forth with raw emotion. His hand instinctively reached for his wand, fingers curling around the familiar wood with determination.

Quirrell advanced, his movements synchronized with Voldemort's desires, ensuring the Dark Lord could witness every moment. The malevolent grin on the face twisted with sadistic delight. “Now, you fool!” Lord Voldemort hissed, and Quirrell spat out, “Levicorpus!” and swiveled his hand in a swirling motion.

Harry’s body was lifted into the air, overturning as if some invisible force had grabbed him by his ankles. He let out a sound of surprise as his glasses slipped from his face, tumbling to the ground below. The world around him blurred, his vision spinning as he dangled helplessly in the air, a mere puppet in Quirrell's grasp.

The figure in front of him laughed, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Harry's spine, but it was soon interrupted by a fit of coughing, a reminder of Quirrell's fragile state.

"How touching..." it hissed, its voice a venomous whisper. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your parents were brave... I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight... but your mother needn't have died... she was trying to protect you... Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."

"NEVER!" Harry's defiance rang out, echoing through the chamber. Despite everything, he felt an immense determination to resist, his resolve unshaken by Voldemort's taunts.

“Master, he is within range, I can end this if you permit it. My power is weakening. I just need to…” Quirrell began, his voice strained with effort as he prepared to unleash another spell.

“Finite!” Harry cried, his grip tightening on his wand as he severed the connection, disrupting Quirrell's control over him. But in that instant, the invisible force holding him aloft dissipated, and he began to fall. Panic surged through him, memories of the trap door rushing back as he plummeted toward the ground below.

"Spongify!" Harry shouted, his wand slashing through the air as he cast the spell. The ground below him softened, cushioning his fall just in time, saving him from a bone-jarring impact.

The bounce had jostled the stone in Harry's pocket, and in a heartbeat that seemed to stretch into eternity, the amber-looking stone flew behind him, propelled by the force of his fall, toward the entrance of the chamber.

In a surge of desperation, Harry lunged toward it, his fingers outstretched, but Voldemort's command cut through the air like a knife, chilling and commanding. "SEIZE HIM!"

The next moment, Quirrell's hand closed around Harry's wrist like a vise, sending a shockwave of agony rippling through Harry's scar. His head throbbed with searing pain, threatening to split apart. With a primal yell, Harry fought against Quirrell's grip, his muscles straining with the effort to break free.

To his astonishment, Quirrell released him, his own fingers blistering before his eyes from the contact with Harry's skin. The pain etched across Quirrell's face was a testament to the agony coursing through him.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" Voldemort's shrill command pierced the air once more, driving Quirrell forward with renewed ferocity. With a violent lunge, Quirrell knocked Harry off his feet, his hands closing around Harry's neck with a vice-like grip. Despite the blinding pain in his scar, Harry could see Quirrell writhing in agony, his features contorted with torment.

"Master, I cannot hold him—my hands—my hands!" Quirrell's panicked plea echoed through the chamber, his voice strained with agony, the sound reverberating off the cold stone walls.

Despite pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, Quirrell released his grip on Harry's neck, his hands trembling as he stared down at his own palms in bewilderment. Harry could see the raw, red, and blistered skin, glistening with moisture, evidence of the excruciating pain coursing through Quirrell's hands like molten fire.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort, his command cutting through the chaos like a razor-sharp blade, his voice dripping with malice and impatience.

Quirrell raised his hand, poised to unleash a deadly curse, his fingers curling around his wand with a trembling grip. But Harry, acting on instinct alone, seized the opportunity. With a swift and decisive motion, he reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face—

"AAAARGH!" Quirrell's agonized scream rent the air, the sound piercing and raw, as if torn from the depths of his tortured soul. His features contorted in torment, his skin searing beneath Harry's touch like hot coals.

Rolling away from Harry, Quirrell's face now bore the same blistering wounds, the flesh marred by the cruel branding of Harry's grasp, mirroring the agony etched across his hands. In that moment, Harry understood—Quirrell couldn't bear the touch of his bare skin without enduring unbearable pain. It was his only chance, a fleeting opportunity born of desperation and circumstance.

With a surge of determination, Harry sprang to his feet, his muscles screaming with exertion as he seized Quirrell by the arm, his fingers digging into the fabric of Quirrell's robe with all his might. Quirrell's screams echoed through the chamber, a cacophony of pain and desperation that reverberated off the stone walls.

As Harry clung to him, Quirrell thrashed and struggled with frenzied intensity, his movements wild and erratic as he tried to break free from Harry's grasp. The chamber seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with tension and the scent of burning magic.

The pain in Harry's head intensified, a relentless drumbeat of agony pounding in his skull like a hammer striking an anvil. His vision blurred, the edges of his sight darkening as if shadows were closing in around him. Desperately, he fought to maintain his grip on Quirrell, clinging to consciousness by a fraying thread.

But then, with a sudden and jarring shift, everything went dark. The chamber vanished from view, and Harry felt as though he were plummeting into an abyss of nothingness. Sensation fled him, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, until there was nothing left but the void.

Amidst Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's relentless commands to end Harry's life, other voices echoed, faint and distant—perhaps figments of Harry's own mind, crying out his name in desperation. Among the cacophony, a face appeared before him, indistinct yet carrying a warm presence that enveloped him like a comforting embrace. Try as he might, Harry couldn't place a face or a name to it, but its familiarity offered a fleeting sense of solace amidst the chaos.

But then, like a wave crashing over him, a tremendous surge of despair flooded Harry's senses. The darkness surrounding him seemed to grow denser, suffocating him in its oppressive embrace. If there was a color to describe it, it was one that no human eye had ever beheld, a shade of darkness so profound that it defied comprehension. It consumed everything in its path, swallowing Harry whole and leaving him adrift in a sea of despair.

Then suddenly, above him, as if a lantern in the infinite darkness, was a golden sphere—then two. They hung suspended like celestial orbs, casting a gentle glow that pierced through the oppressive blackness. They appeared almost like a pair of cobalt lights, their hue reminiscent of pale sapphires, gazing down upon him with an otherworldly presence.

Then, a sudden burst of golden light illuminated the space around him. The Snitch! In Harry's mind's eye, he felt the rush of exhilaration as if he were back on his broomstick, soaring through the air with the wind whipping past him. He could almost hear the roar of the crowd cheering him on, their voices echoing in his ears.

With a surge of determination, Harry tried to lean forward, reaching out as if to grasp the elusive Snitch. But his arms felt heavy, weighed down as if by chains of iron. He strained against the invisible bonds, exerting all his strength to raise them up, but they remained stubbornly immobile.

As he finally managed to lift his arms, the shape above him shifted, and Harry's vision cleared. Blinking in the golden glow, he realized with a jolt of surprise that it wasn't the Snitch at all—it was a pair of glasses. How strange. How very...