Chapter 31: A Clash Once More

Quirrell stepped back from the mirror, staring at it greedily.

"I see the Stone. I'm offering it to my master… but where is it hidden?"

Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but they only tightened further. He had to distract Quirrell, to keep him from focusing entirely on the mirror.

"I don't understand," Quirrell muttered in frustration after several failed attempts. "Is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?" He tapped impatiently on the glass.

"What is this mirror? What's its purpose? Help me, Master!"

Harry's blood ran cold as he heard a voice answer, seemingly emanating from Quirrell himself.

"Use the boy. Use the boy."

Quirrell turned to Harry.

"Well then—Potter—come here."

A flicker of surprise crossed Augustus' usually calm face. That voice—it seemed to belong to the figure they had encountered in the Forbidden Forest. If that were true, the chaotic aura he had sensed around that presence now made sense.

With a clap of Quirrell's hands, the ropes binding Harry released themselves. Harry slowly got to his feet.

"Come here," Quirrell repeated, "and look into the mirror. Tell me what you see."

Harry approached, his mind racing.

I have to lie, he thought desperately. I'll look into the mirror and make something up. That's the only way.

Quirrell loomed behind him, and Harry caught a strange odor, seemingly coming from the turban on his head. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and gazing into the mirror.

He saw his reflection—at first pale and fearful—but then it smiled. Mirror-Harry reached into his pocket, pulled out a glittering red stone, and winked before tucking it away again. Suddenly, Harry felt the weight of something drop into his real pocket. It was astonishing—he now had the Philosopher's Stone.

Augustus's sharp eyes flicked toward Harry's pocket. Through the lens of his detection magic, he saw the powerful artifact now resting there. This was clearly all part of Dumbledore's plan. Even if Augustus hadn't come with the trio, Harry would still have obtained the Stone. It was both an adventure and a test—a perfect trial crafted by Dumbledore. The old wizard had spared no effort for Harry's sake.

"Well?" Quirrell asked impatiently. "What do you see?"

Harry steeled himself.

"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he lied. "I've just won the House Cup for Gryffindor."

"He's lying! He's lying!"

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you see?"

The high-pitched voice interjected again.

"Let me speak to him. Face to face."

"But Master, your strength"

"It's sufficient."

Harry wanted to scream, but no sound escaped his throat. On what should have been the back of Quirrell's head, a face now emerged—a horrifying, pale face with crimson, glowing eyes and nostrils as thin as slits.

"Harry Potter," it hissed.

Augustus's expression flickered with pity. His earlier suspicions were confirmed. The figure before him was Voldemort, reduced to a parasitic existence—feeding on unicorn blood to cling to life. For someone who had once been a legend, this pathetic state was worse than death.

Harry tried to back away, but his legs wouldn't move.

"Look at what I have become!" the face sneered. "A mere shadow… vapor. I can only take form when sharing another's body. But there are always those willing to let me into their minds and hearts. Unicorn blood has given me strength in recent weeks. You saw Quirrell drinking it in the forest. Once I have the Elixir of Life, I will create a body of my own. Now—hand over the Stone in your pocket."

He knew! Harry's legs regained their strength, and he stumbled backward.

"Don't be a fool," the face snarled. "Save yourself. Serve me, and you will live. Refuse, and you will die like your parents. They begged me for mercy before the end."

"You're lying!" Harry shouted.

Quirrell advanced, keeping Voldemort's face toward him. That monstrous visage twisted into a sneer.

"How touching," it rasped. "Your parents were brave, yes. Your father fought valiantly but died swiftly. Your mother didn't need to die—she sacrificed herself for you. Now, hand me the Stone, and don't let her death be in vain."

"Never!" Harry yelled, stumbling toward the black door behind him.

"This ends now." Augustus's calm voice cut through the room as his figure materialized, the spell of invisibility lifting. A wave of energy, both scorching and freezing, swept across the chamber, suffusing the air with a sense of impending chaos.

"You?" Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed in surprise. "A Slytherin, aiding a Gryffindor? How disappointing. Such talent wasted in Dumbledore's service."

Augustus smiled faintly.

"Call it what you will. Following my heart and acting as I choose—these are the stones paving my path to magic's pinnacle. Freedom, spontaneity, and instinct—that is my 'way.'"

"Magnificent!" Voldemort smirked, clapping mockingly. "To find one's path so young—such clarity is rare. You may yet achieve greatness. As your senior in Slytherin, I applaud your potential. May you walk the road to legend."

Augustus's silver eyes gleamed with acknowledgment. For all his malevolence, Voldemort's intellect and poise surpassed most others Augustus had faced.

"Let us begin," Augustus said, drawing his silver wand. The room's currents of hot and cold air suddenly intensified, weaving into violent eddies. Crystals of frost and sparks of flame danced in the air around him, creating an oppressive aura.

A battle of magic loomed, ready to ignite.

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