Quirrell-mort

The two of us burst through the fire, each of us prepared for what we'll face. Or rather, one of us is.

Upon seeing Quirrell instead of Professor Snape, Harry becomes gobsmacked, while I turn to him with a victorious expression. "Hah! I win the bet! Half of our family's fortune is mine!"

Harry just gives a tired sigh, forgetting about the evil wizard in front of us for a moment. "This really isn't the time for that, Misha! You getting half… the… fortune…" I take great pleasure in watching the realization spread across his face, somehow this shock being greater than Quirrell being the bad guy.

"Wait a minute, that bet was pointless! We would have been splitting the money in half anyways!!"

I chuckle. "Took you long enough. Honestly this was mainly a lesson in making assumptions based on circumstantial scenarios. Exhibit A?" I gesture to Quirrell, who doesn't seem to know how to react to being so blatantly ignored. Though it does seem like he's leaning towards rage. Which is fair considering he's been waiting down here for who knows how long to make a dramatic reveal.

Luckily my blatant redirection seems to put Harry back on track. "But why is Quirrell, of all people, trying to steal the stone!? What about Snape!"

That earns a scoff from the villain in question. "Severus?" 'Wow. His voice really changes when he's not acting like an idiot.' "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? Always swooping around like an overgrown bat."

"But he tried to kill me!"

Quirrell snorts. "No, no, no. I tried to kill you while he attempted to counter my curse. Your friend Miss Granger accidently knocked me over in her rush to light Severus on fire." I nod approvingly as I remember the event. I even told her that it might have been Quirrell trying to kill Harry.

'She's going to be so shocked when I tell her I was right~.'

While I'm lost in the memory and wondering what kind of expression Hermione will make when she finds out how off the mark she was, Quirrell's monologuing has gotten to the troll. And now it's time for his baleful eyes to turn to me.

A shiver goes down my spine as an odd sensation washes over me. I don't know why, but it feels familiar. But… also not? It's hard to describe. "I'm still unsure of how you defeated the troll, but it is of no consequence to me. Both of you will die here tonight."

He snaps his fingers, causing ropes to spring out of the air and wrap tightly around the two of us. "But for now the both of you can wait quietly. I need to examine this interesting mirror."

He turns to the Mirror of Erised, which apparently Harry has just barely noticed if the way he jerks in surprise is any indication. While Quirrell mutters to himself, I wiggle so that I'm facing Harry. "So…" I start. "Is there something you're going to say to Professor Snape when we get out of here?"

He glares at me. "Again, not the time." Then he snorts. "Besides, Snape hates me!"

"Quite true," Quirrell pipes up, not looking away from the mirror. "He and your father absolutely loathed each other while they were at Hogwarts. But he never wanted you dead."

He turns his glare to Quirrell. "What about when I saw the two of you arguing in the forest?"

"That?" Quirrell says idly while examining the back of the mirror. "He was onto me by that point, trying to see how far I'd gotten past the protections. Tried to frighten me - as though he could when I have Lord Voldemort on my side…"

"But I heard you in the classroom a few days ago, sobbing. I thought Snape was threatening you!"

For the first time, a spasm of fear flits across Quirrell's face. "Sometimes," he drawls slowly, "I find it difficult to follow my master's instructions. He is a great wizard and I am weak-"

"You mean he was there in the classroom with you!?" Harry gasps while I raise a curious eyebrow.

"He is with me wherever I go," he says quietly. "I met him when I traveled the world, a foolish young man full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me that neither really exists, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it… Since then I've served him faithfully, though I have let him down many times."

He shivers, eyes going briefly distant. "He does not forgive mistakes easily, and 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…"

"I remember that," I pipe up, the two of them blinking as if they'd forgotten I was here. Which is rather rude, but has worked to let me sneakily grab hold of my wand. "You flinched when he stuck out his hand and scampered away."

He glares at me, not deigning to respond. I click my tongue in disappointment. How am I supposed to blow up the mirror if he's so focused on it!

Why do I think I should blow up the mirror? Honestly, it's mainly that I don't like it. But also, he's convinced that he needs the mirror to get the Stone. So if it's destroyed, then we win! But the magic floating around him is tinged the same way it is around me, though not to the same degree. Which means that, along with being more magically sensitive-

At least part of his casting uses natural magic to augment his structured spells.

"So," I say conversationally, while enjoying the sight of his mounting frustration with the mirror. "How exactly does a dead not-ghost talk to and accompany you? Possession or something?"

He stops, his eyes trained on me. I shudder. There's something… not right about him. More than just the obvious evil-ness. And again, it's a familiar feeling. Almost… like…

"Yes…" He mutters, breaking my train of thought. "Yes, I am far too weak to get past whatever protections Dumbledore has put in place." He reaches up, starting to unwrap his turban. "It's the height of arrogance to think that I am on the same level as my master. Though Dumbledore cannot match him, he can come close. For one so far below my master, Dumbledore is as yet out of reach."

He lets the length of cloth fall to the floor, and a quick flash of my eye magic reveals that it's absolutely LAYERED in enchantments.

"I'm sorry, Master, but I am too weak to see the Stone into your possession. I need your help!"

He's still facing us, but the voice that echoes throughout the room is unmistakable. It's raspy, weak, but is yet filled with such unyielding pride that our bodies become stiff as stone, unable to move.

"Use…them… Use them…"

He nods. "Yes, Master." He claps his hands once, and the ropes binding us fall to the floor, surprising us. "Come," Quirrell demands, "look into the mirror and tell me what you see."

He turns and gestures to the mirror, but neither of us move. We can't. Because now we can see the back of his head. The reason he wears the turban. The reason it's covered in so many enchantments.

Taking up the back of Quirrell's bald head, is a face. Or rather, the impression of one. It has no structure, no parts protruding from it. Just a mouth, two slits where the nose should be, and glaring red eyes.

The Dark Lord Voldemort is possessing the back of Quirrell's head.