Offer

"Do you expect me to serve you?" Voldemort's voice cut through the tense air, his eyes locking onto Saruman's with a mix of amusement and contempt.

 He chuckled, his expression a blend of arrogance and confidence. "You have power, Saruman, but to serve? You overestimate your worth."

"No one stands above me! Not Dumbledore, not you, no one!" His voice turned into a hysterical pitch, his gaze piercing as he addressed Artel. 

Artel met Voldemort's intense stare with calm resolve, unmoved by his outburst. He knew Voldemort well – proud, cruel, and dangerously cunning. Dumbledore once praised Voldemort's intelligence as a student, but power had corrupted him, splintering his intellect with each Horcrux he created.

Yet, beneath Voldemort's arrogance lay a deep-seated insecurity, a relentless desire for eternal life. His quest for immortality drove him to unspeakable acts, binding his soul to Horcruxes in a bid to defy death.

"Tom, you fail to grasp..." Artel's voice cut through the tension, his tone measured as he continued, "Do you pity Muggles? Their world is shrouded, shielded from our reality. But can we truly claim to hold the ultimate truth?"

"Muggles are just ants to wizards, as wizards are to me, The same applies for you!

"You think that no one can surpass you, but unfortunately, I am above you, above the entire wizarding world! Above... all beings!"

Artel's voice wasn't theatrical; it held the weight of an undeniable truth, spoken with a calm assurance.

Voldemort remained motionless, his body under the sway of Quirrell's control, preventing any signs of weakness.

"I am Saruman the White, donned in robes that shimmer with the wisdom of ages, a sage traversing realms and delving into the mysteries of existence. I am no mere mortal, but an immortal Maia, born of the divine essence that courses through the fabric of creation. Unlike you, Tom, who seeks immortality, it is a talent bestowed upon me from the moment of my birth."

"The power and dominion you covet are mere trifles in my sight, mere baubles easily manipulated."

Time had lost its significance to him, having lived through epochs beyond measure.

A soft chuckle escaped Artel's lips as he observed the intense suspicion in Voldemort's eyes.

"I understand your skepticism, but the truth will reveal itself in due time. Within the confines of the Ministry of Magic resides a hobbit named Gollum. Delve into his memories, and you shall find validation of my words. It is no falsehood.

"Beneath the Congo Basin in Africa lies a dormant Balrog, an immortal entity. Should you tame it and explore its memories, the true nature of the world will be unveiled to you!"

"You will come to grasp the vastness of the world! Its depths!"

With a flourish, Artel swiped his wand across the Mirror of Erised, and with a crackling resonance, a thick mist emerged from within.

Delving into the mist, Artel's hand emerged, revealing the Philosopher's Stone clasped within his grasp.

In a matter of moments, he effortlessly shattered the spell Dumbledore had cast to safeguard the Philosopher's Stone, rendering it powerless.

In Transfiguration, Artel had soared to unparalleled heights, a summit untouched by any predecessor and unattainable by any successor.

"Philosopher's Stone!" Voldemort's voice echoed with a mix of longing and awe as Artel toyed with the Philosopher's Stone in his palm. Though the stone possessed a peculiar power, Artel found it lacking in allure.

"It's merely a fractured stone... Even without it, I can restore you to your former glory," Artel remarked, his gaze piercing through Voldemort, past Quirrell's figure, and toward the south, where London lay.

Dumbledore... was approaching.

"Remember my words, Tom. If you seek greater power, if you yearn to transcend your lowly status, if true immortality is your desire, then heed my offer," Artel declared, placing the Philosopher's Stone on a nearby table before turning to leave.

Pausing at the doorway, he glanced back and added, "Consider it carefully."

With those words, Artel disapparated, leaving Voldemort to ponder in silence while Quirrell, still reeling from shock and confusion, retrieved the Philosopher's Stone.

"The Philosopher's Stone... Quirrell, brew me an elixir immediately. I must verify the claims of that man," Voldemort instructed, his voice tinged with anticipation. "But regardless of the truth, with this stone in hand, I shall rise again, shaking the very foundations of the world and compelling it to kneel before me! Hohohohohohohoho..."

Amidst Voldemort's ominous laughter, the Philosopher's Stone suddenly flew from Quirrell's grasp.

Standing at the hut's threshold, Dumbledore observed the stone with mild surprise before offering a smile. "Fortunate timing, it seems."

Turning to Quirrell, Dumbledore greeted, "Quirinus, Tom... it's been a while."

Quirrell stared blankly at Dumbledore, while Voldemort snarled within his mind.

"Dumbledore! Blast it all! Return the Philosopher's Stone to me!" Voldemort's rage seethed through Quirrell's words.

"I'm intrigued. How did you manage to undo the seal I placed?" Dumbledore's gaze bore into Quirrell, a hint of curiosity flickering in his eyes.

Unbeknownst to Dumbledore, the seal on the Philosopher's Stone had indeed been broken. Upon leaving the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore had intended to return directly to Hogwarts, only to sense the violent rupture of his seal on the stone.

Without hesitation, Dumbledore Apparated, guided by the magical resonance, until he found himself in Norway...

Seeing Quirrell clutching the Philosopher's Stone, Voldemort erupted into triumphant laughter within Quirrell's mind.

Ironically, Dumbledore effortlessly retrieved the stone and Quirrell.

"Dumbledore!"

Voldemort's cry dripped with venom, but Dumbledore remained composed, wand in hand.

"No, Headmaster Dumbledore! I advise you to reconsider!" Quirrell's expression contorted into a vicious sneer. "I've ensorcelled the Muggles nearby. Should anything happen to me, they'll perish with me! Release me and my master, Dumbledore, or you'll be responsible for the deaths of hundreds!"

Dumbledore hesitated, uncertain of Quirrell's veracity, but fearing Voldemort's wrath, he dared not take the risk.

Surveying the Philosopher's Stone in his grasp, Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Tom, Quirrell... This is the final time I grant you mercy. Commit no further atrocities, for no one will shield you from the consequences."

.....

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