Quirrell escapes

Quirrell grunted and fell forward. The deflected spell left deep gashes in the wall behind Anthony, and even the half-open door was sliced in two. The metal lock hissed and corroded, eventually falling to the ground with a clang, curling into a strange shape.

The troll lifted its large foot and stomped down, but only caught the corner of Quirrell's robe. Quirrell rolled away in desperation, narrowly avoiding the troll's full weight. He waved his wand frantically, trying to slice off the troll's legs as he had done to its forearm. However, the troll's legs were as thick as ancient tree trunks, and Quirrell only managed to sever part of one foot.

The troll looked down at its half-missing foot, grumbled in confusion, and raised its other foot to try again. Anthony quickly intervened, halting the corpse's actions before it toppled over, realizing it couldn't stand properly with one mutilated foot.

But Quirrell seized the opportunity. Before the troll could regain its balance, Quirrell cast a spell, and a torch from the wall flew out, transforming into a large ring of fire, encircling the troll. However, Quirrell overlooked one crucial detail: the corpse felt no pain.

Although the flames burned the troll's flesh, it continued its relentless pursuit of Quirrell, mindlessly reaching for him as it burned. Quirrell shrieked, narrowly avoiding the troll's fiery arms as they swung through the air.

Amid the chaos, Quirrell conjured distractions for Anthony. The corners of the room quickly filled with debris, venomous snakes slithering from cracks, and patches of quicksand. A swarm of glittering, winged keys flew through the shattered door, pecking at Anthony like a horde of crazed birds. Anthony soon realized that unless he wanted to be buried under rubble or overwhelmed by enchanted creatures, he couldn't simply stand by.

"Ha!" Quirrell laughed maniacally, swirling his wand above his head. "Ha ha!"

With a deafening explosion, the troll's charred corpse burst apart. Ash and debris filled the room, making Quirrell cough, but his face was flushed with the ecstasy of victory.

"Anthony, Anthony," Quirrell said, directing the golden keys to surround him. "I admit I should never have given you that body. That was my mistake, but now it's all over. Thank you for your assistance—it's a shame we won't remain colleagues."

"Is everything really over?" Anthony asked calmly. Silently, he called to his cat in his mind. It couldn't keep sleeping; it had to come.

Quirrell raised his wand, seemingly ready to cast a Killing Curse, but paused just before finishing.

"That's right, the necromancer," he muttered to himself, his voice so low Anthony could barely hear. "The Killing Curse might not work, but..." He suddenly raised his head and sneered, "Are you really so confident in your 'almost forgotten magic,' Anthony? Do you think you're untouchable? But if you were paying attention, you'd know I hold the secret of the soul as well..."

"When no one noticed this thin, pale, easily bullied Ravenclaw, I locked myself in my dormitory, hiding in the darkest corners of the library, gaining strength from ancient scrolls and ink—the power of knowledge. But necromancy is destined to be extinct." Quirrell sliced his wand across his left arm, a wound appearing suddenly. Blood gushed from the cut, mixing with the dried troll bloodstains on his robes.

Even without knowing exactly what Quirrell intended, Anthony knew he had to act fast. There's a simple rule he remembered from the stories and novels he'd read: if your enemy starts acting weird and talking too much, that's the perfect time to strike and disrupt their plan. It's practically common sense.

So, he raised his hand and spread it flat in front of Quirrell.

Quirrell immediately stopped reminiscing about the neglect of his youth and stared warily at his hands.

It was fortunate Quirrell didn't know the common trope in Muggle fiction, because he asked, "How—what?"

Because of this moment of stammering, Anthony almost thought the madman in front of him was the old "Professor Quirrell."

"Please show me your palm," Anthony said. "I want to know the day of my death."

Then, he clenched his fist with a fierce smile at Quirrell's confused and mocking expression. "Oh no, I think I already know."

Under Quirrell's gaze, a gust of wind seemed to blow from nowhere, and black smoke suddenly gathered from the corner of the wall, swirling past the blood-splattered surface. The smoke condensed into a huge figure on the pitted and damaged ground— the charred corpse of the troll stood in pieces in the center of the room, its head blackened like a burnt quaffle.

"Or a troll?" Quirrell said. "Your efficiency in recycling is impressive, but why do you think it will be of any use?"

This gray-black, troll-shaped creature swatted away the remaining flames as if they were mere flies and turned the jangling keys into a ball of debris. The red curses from Quirrell's wand passed through its palms, hitting the walls behind uselessly. Quirrell's expression finally changed.

He looked at Anthony, opened his mouth as if to say something else, but quickly showed a pained expression, and blood began spreading on the floor.

"I curse you with living flesh…" Quirrell muttered, suddenly uncomfortable as the blood on the ground began to boil.

He continued to chant quickly, "I curse you with bones disturbed by undead magic…" But before he could finish, he was interrupted by the troll throwing a brick, which knocked him to the floor. The troll grabbed Quirrell's robe and threw him against the wall.

"In the presence of—cough—death—"

"—Nothing will happen," Anthony interrupted and shoved the apple into Quirrell's mouth.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, feeling himself expanding uncontrollably. But this time, he allowed the undead magic to guide him into the large, magically maintained body, stretching out comfortably.

He looked around the room, trying to find a handy weapon. He remembered he should have something useful, something to swing that could make the wind blow. But he didn't find anything suitable.

So, while the strange-smelling figure was paralyzed on the ground, Anthony raised his foot and stomped on it without a second thought.

"Kill him!" A voice seemed to say in the sudden explosion. Anthony felt it was absolutely right because that was what he intended to do, and the body he inhabited longed to do just that.

Suddenly, he noticed something had changed. He stomped down hard but found that the figure on the ground was no longer there.

"Under the witness of death!" the figure shouted, trembling, "I will expel you from this land of the living!"

It took Anthony a moment to realize that the strange figure was pointing a small thin wand—oh, he remembered, he should have something similar, but bigger, heavier, and far more ornate—at a… corpse. The body felt familiar to him, as if it truly belonged to him.

He vaguely recalled the feeling of fabric on his body, though it didn't seem right. A proper troll doesn't wear clothes.

When a dark yellow light shot out from the wand, Quirrell laughed. The troll, however, was staring, fascinated by the swaying velvet dressing gown, and from the pocket of that gown, a small, transparent gray figure— the wraith mouse—leaped out nimbly, grabbed the flying spell, and devoured it in one bite.

The troll inside Anthony felt an inexplicable surge of emotion—strange, unfamiliar, and far beyond the usual fury of a troll. There was an urge, deep and primal, to destroy everything in sight, to make the person across from him pay, to make them pay now. 

He stretched himself outward, wrapping around the presence in the body and pulled hard. In his limited but instinctive understanding, it should have slid out easily, like plucking oyster meat from its shell. But instead, the oyster—the thing—screamed.

"No! No!" shrieked the oyster-meat.

He frowned, pulling again. The thing clung to the world, stubbornly sticking like barnacles to a ship's hull, and its scent shifted from merely unappealing to outright revolting.

"Get off me, you fool!" cried a high-pitched voice.

He gripped the thing that refused to be pulled free and examined it carefully. It trembled in fear, its smell turning from unpleasant to stomach-churning. Only now did he notice how strange it was—half of it seemed spoiled, decayed, while the other half remained strangely edible. But the putrid acid leaking from it spoiled his appetite completely.

Then, he heard a soft "squeak."

At his feet, a very small creature, a kind and familiar presence, lovingly embraced a red, apple-shaped object. Its tiny whiskers twitched as its paws carefully brushed away the ashes clinging to it.

"Anthony..." the oyster shell croaked weakly. "Please, please..."

...

Quirrell, now frantic, darted from corridor to corridor, room to room. Even after Anthony had waved him off, he remained bewildered, paralyzed by fear of the terrifying mouse and unable to shake off his master's commands.

"Master, I can't—I can't get up—" Quirrell cried from the grip of the devil's snare. "Help me, Master."

"Pathetic!" the sharp voice snarled in his ear.

With the guidance of his still-recovering master, Quirrell finally noticed the broomstick and keys that had scattered earlier. Panicked, he raced back, grabbed the broom, and flew out of the trap door. The harp's music had long stopped, and the three-headed dog was back to barking and snapping, its ferocious growls echoing through the castle. Quirrell was certain that the noise would wake the entire school.

"Are we—are we leaving, Master?" Quirrell stammered as they escaped into the open air.

"Leaving?" Voldemort hissed in anger. "Do you want to be clawed to pieces by that wretched cat again, you fool? Flee!"

"But—Anthony—the Philosopher's Stone—"

"The Stone was merely one option, not the only option," Voldemort said coldly. "Now, fly!"

Quirrell let out a scream, nearly falling off the broom.

"For defying me and for your failures, you deserve punishment," Voldemort snarled cruelly. "If you disappoint me again, Quirinus, you won't live to regret it."

"Yes, Master," Quirrell whimpered, his face as pale as the moon above.

Blood from both his own wounds and the troll's stained his robes as he flew into the evening sky. Below, the giant squid rippled the black lake, lazily tossing stones onto its head as it splashed against the shore.

...

"You're alright, aren't you?" Anthony reached out and gently stroked the mouse that seemed so concerned with the now imperfect apple. He was both puzzled and relieved. "Why are you okay?"

The mouse finally stopped fussing over the apple, clung to Anthony's finger, and squeaked softly, "Squeak."

Anthony suddenly realized he could sense the mouse's emotions again—no longer the panicked alarm, but quiet joy.

Shaking his head in confusion, Anthony realized something had shifted, but he didn't have the energy to dwell on it now. He was tired. He missed his cat.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a wave of warm, comforting emotion washed over him through the mouse. Then, through the door, in walked a ginger figure—a familiar, ginger dead thing.

The cat flattened its ears, its tail flicking as it surveyed the bloodstained, dusty scene with evident distaste. It clearly had no desire for its pristine fur or clean paws to touch such filth.

"You know, ever since you've gotten fur, you've become more pretentious," Anthony said to the cat.

The cat flicked its tail in annoyance, leaped from the door to Anthony's lap, carefully avoiding the rubble and corpses, and dug its claws into his dressing gown, which was desperately in need of a wash. The added claw marks certainly didn't help. Anthony touched the cat, and as usual, it was as cold as moonlight on a winter's night.

"I don't understand," Anthony muttered, hugging both the mouse and the cat close. Despite everything, he still couldn't quite fathom what the cat was thinking.

With the two creatures nestled in his arms, Anthony stood up and looked at the two doors. The broken one led back—Quirrell had probably escaped through there. The intact door, the one he leaned against, supposedly concealed the secret to eternal life.

He glanced down at the two pairs of glowing eyes staring back at him: "I admit I'm a bit curious, but…"

"But wasn't this noise a little excessive?" came a smooth, unmistakable voice from the shadows. Anthony raised his head to see Snape striding into the room, followed by Professor McGonagall, still wearing a hairnet.

"Henry, you..." Professor McGonagall surveyed the room, her expression hovering between disbelief and disapproval, clearly still half-awake. "I believe we need to go to the Headmaster's office. Albus is expecting us."

"And if I may ask," Snape interjected, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "how exactly do you intend to explain all of this, Professor Anthony? Innocent and harmless as you claim to be?"

Anthony helped the mouse retrieve the apple and said, "I suppose I could say I was just chasing a rabbit down a hole. After all, Alice didn't do much wrong, did she? She just didn't take her nap."