Strawberry Flavour
Voldemort's snake-like voice slithered through the room. "You must hurry and retrieve the Philosopher's Stone from Harry Potter."
Blake, feigning disinterest, took a deliberate step toward the door, acting as though he intended to follow Voldemort's command without question.
"Stop! Blake!" Quirrell's voice rang out suddenly, his body rigid and completely controlled by the Dark Lord. His wand was pointed directly at Blake, though the control Voldemort exerted over him was evident in the slight tremor in his arm. Quirrell, once a timid professor, was now just a shell, a puppet for Voldemort's will.
Blake paused, glancing back with a smirk playing on his lips. He had expected this.
Voldemort, speaking through Quirrell, sneered. "Where do you think you're going with my Philosopher's Stone?"
Feigning ignorance, Blake shrugged. "What are you talking about? Isn't the Philosopher's Stone still in the mirror?"
Voldemort's eyes glinted with malice. "How do you know that the stone is hidden in the mirror? I've seen everything. Stop playing games and take it out."
A slow chuckle escaped Blake's lips. He pulled a small, red, crystal-clear stone from his pocket—the Philosopher's Stone itself. He held it up between his fingers, letting it catch the dim light, then returned it to his pocket, deliberately taunting Voldemort.
"I see you've figured it out," Blake said.
Voldemort said, "As long as you take it out, I can spare you. And you won't be held accountable for this matter!"
"But why should I give it to you? I obtained it by my own abilities?" Blake asked.
Voldemort's anger flashed across Quirrell's face, though he managed to maintain a semblance of control. "Give it to me, and I will be resurrected. Once I am, I will teach you the most powerful black magic. I've always admired your magical talent."
Blake chuckled darkly. "You think I don't know? I've already raided your vaults. I've learned all the black magic you know. What else could you possibly teach me? You've got nothing left."
Voldemort's expression twisted with fury, but he pressed on, desperate now. "You might have no interest in my dark magic, but what about the secret of immortality? Surely that still interests you?"
Blake's hand moved casually to his pocket, patting the spot where the stone rested. "What do you think I just put in my pocket? Is your brain suffocated by that big turban? With the Philosopher's Stone, I can create the Elixir of Life whenever I want. I don't need your secrets for eternal life."
Voldemort's patience snapped. His voice rose in fury. "Blake! You insolent fool! You're trying to defy me?"
Blake's smirk widened, his voice dripping with disdain. "Defy you? In your prime, I might've feared you. But now, you're just a shadow of your former self. A ghost haunting a weak body. Why should I be scared of you?"
That was the final straw. Voldemort, consumed by rage, shouted the words of the Killing Curse. "Avada Kedavra!"
A sickly green light shot from his wand, aimed directly at Blake. But Blake barely moved. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a small silver alchemical shield. The shield hovered in front of him, and the curse slammed into it with a dull 'clang'. Only a small white mark was left on the surface—barely a scratch.
"Is that it, Tom?" Blake said, his tone mocking. "Are you trying to tickle me?"
The mention of his birth name made Voldemort's rage flare. "You dare use that name!" he spat, his voice trembling with fury.
Blake continued to taunt him, unrelenting. "What's wrong, Tom? Can't even scratch me? What happened to the mighty Dark Lord? Maybe if I had been around back then, I'd have stopped you before you even started."
Voldemort's red eyes burned with hatred, his body trembling with suppressed rage. "Avada Kedavra!" he screamed again, but Blake remained unfazed. His shield easily absorbed the impact, the green light fizzling out with no effect.
[Ding! Angry emotions detected!]
[Ding! Congratulations to the host for obtaining a supreme treasure chest!]
Blake was overjoyed. This is one of his goals tonight! Otherwise, why would he piss off Voldemort?
He raised an eyebrow. "Is this all you've got, Tom? You call yourself the Dark Lord, but you can't even land a hit on me. Were you always this weak, or is it because you forgot to eat that little hamburger I gave you earlier?"
The insults only seemed to fuel Voldemort's anger. His attacks became more frantic, more desperate, as he fired curse after curse. Each time, Blake deflected the spells effortlessly, his alchemical shield shimmering in the dim light. He was toying with Voldemort, savouring every moment.
In the corner of the room, Harry sat slumped against the wall, his head spinning as he tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding before him.
Just moments ago, Blake and Voldemort had seemed like allies, yet now they were locked in a vicious battle. And, to Harry's shock, it wasn't even close. Blake, who he had feared just as much as Voldemort, was winning effortlessly. Was this even the same Voldemort he had been told to fear?
Voldemort, meanwhile, was at his wit's end. He had expected this to be an easy victory, but Quirrell's body was weak, and Blake was making a mockery of him. The strain was too much, and Quirrell's health was rapidly deteriorating. If Voldemort didn't finish this soon, he would lose his chance.
With a final, desperate attempt, Voldemort prepared to cast the Fiendfyre Curse, knowing it was his last hope. But before he could utter the incantation, Blake acted.
With a swift motion, Blake opened a dimension door—a spell Voldemort had never seen before—and teleported across the room to Harry's side, dodging one last Killing Curse in the process.
Voldemort stared in disbelief at the strange magic, frozen for a split second. That hesitation cost him. In a flash, Blake delivered a sharp kick to Harry's backside, sending the boy flying toward Voldemort.
"Tom! Watch out for my hidden weapon!" Blake shouted with a grin as Harry collided with Voldemort. In the chaos, Harry's hand landed directly on Quirrell's face.
There was a sickening hiss as Harry's touch burned Quirrell's skin. The professor screamed in agony, his face blistering wherever Harry's skin made contact. Harry's head throbbed in pain, his scar burning like never before, but he didn't let go.
"Nooooo!!!!"
Voldemort roared in fury, but Quirrell's body was failing him. The pain was unbearable, and there was nothing Voldemort could do to stop it.
Just when Harry thought he couldn't hold on any longer, he felt himself being pulled away. Blinking through the pain, he saw Dumbledore standing over him.
"Professor Dumbledore!" Harry gasped, his voice weak. "The Philosopher's Stone... Blake..."
But before Harry could say anything more, he looked over at Blake, and his jaw dropped in disbelief.
Blake, standing casually by, had popped the Philosopher's Stone into his mouth and was chewing on it like candy. "Mmm… strawberry flavour," he muttered with a smirk.
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