Chapter 70: Harry Beats Voldemort
Darkness enveloped the room, but nearby objects were exceptionally clear. The cold statue pressed against his nose tip, its black wooden cheek against his pale face. Quirinus Quirrell’s pupils shrank to a pinpoint, his heart gripped by an invisible hand, pumping blood exploding in his brain.
Quirinus Quirrell retreated in panic, his boots splashing on the water surface. A wizard’s instinct drove him to draw his wand and point it at the statue, subconsciously about to cast a Repelling Charm, but fortunately the Dark Lord reminded him in time, allowing him to shake off the fear and regain some reason.
Magic power brewed at the wand tip, the spell poised to launch giving Quirinus Quirrell some sense of security. He eyed the statue while slowly backing away, ready at any moment to hit it with a powerful Repelling Charm.
What the hell is this thing?
It seems to be a Dark Magic item.
It only moves out of sight, without much lethality.
As the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, Quirinus Quirrell’s knowledge gradually took effect. He vaguely recognized it as just a worn-out Dark Magic item, slowly breathed a sigh of relief, his taut nerves relaxing, calf muscles shifting from tense to loose, slightly trembling, knees going weak.
At that moment, a damp, slimy sensation crept up his leg.
Quirinus Quirrell instinctively looked down, hearing splashes in front of him as something approached again.
“Oh no…”
By the time Quirinus Quirrell reacted, it was too late. Too late to see the thing on his leg, he hastily looked up to deal with the approaching statue. Unlike the earlier face-to-face stillness, the statue’s cold hands now gripped his neck, its wooden hands as strong as a living person’s, precisely choking his windpipe.
“Gah—”
“Full power rep—”
His neck gripped again, the spell interrupted. That damp, sticky thing had somehow looped around his head—a coarse rope twisted from hemp—beginning to tighten and constrict forcefully.
His already difficult breathing grew even more labored. His chest heaved futilely, breaths quick and shallow, lungs burning with pain. The harder it was to breathe, the more he craved oxygen.
“Gah gah…”
The statue and rope worked together, his windpipe squeezing out only asthmatic sounds, unable to chant spells. Quirinus Quirrell clawed at the Dark Magic item choking his throat, vision blackening, an unprecedented fear enveloping his heart.
Oxygen deprivation dulled his senses, vision blurring, ears ringing. Every shadow in the room seemed to hold prying eyes, and hurried footsteps echoed from the water behind him, as if someone approached stealthily.
Quirinus Quirrell could only plead with that presence: “Mast—ugh…”
Not far away, Harry heard a voice respond in terror. The voice was utterly unlike Quirinus Quirrell’s, yet came from his body.
“Foolish waste…”
The voice was shrill and grating. The instant Harry heard it, intense pain pierced his forehead scar, like a red-hot iron stabbed in and twisted wildly in his brain.
Just like that night.
No, he couldn’t lose consciousness here.
Harry braced against the wall to stay alert, staggering a few steps. He could only pause his sneak attack plan on Quirinus Quirrell for now, enduring the headache while silently praying those two things would strangle Quirinus Quirrell.
As that strange voice rang out, the wand in Quirinus Quirrell’s hand trembled lightly, paused briefly, then unleashed a powerful shockwave. The statue flew backward, smashing into the wall with a series of cracking wooden joints, finally collapsing limply onto the water, splashing waves.
Without the statue’s aid, the rope around his neck was soon torn off and flung far away by the furious Quirinus Quirrell.
“Cough cough…”
Quirinus Quirrell coughed violently several times, as if about to hack up his lungs. Several minutes passed before his spasming windpipe and chest recovered, allowing him to breathe the room’s slightly damp air freely.
The entire struggle was extremely brief, but Quirinus Quirrell’s tear glands and nasal passages were out of control. Messy fluids stuck to his dangling headscarf. He clutched it in terror:
“Master… I, I didn’t expect him to set such a despicable trap, worse than the Dark Wizards of Albania—”
“Shut up! Get the Philosopher’s Stone!”
“Yes, Master!”
Only now did Quirinus Quirrell show some relief at surviving and resentment. He cast several Shattering Charms, utterly dismembering the wood carving. Still unsatisfied, but the rope’s traces were gone, and the dim environment made searching difficult.
Quirinus Quirrell advanced resentfully: “Once I get the Philosopher’s Stone, Lavent will taste strangulation too…”
No further obstacles followed—likely Lavent’s tricks exhausted. So Quirinus Quirrell thought, but he didn’t relax his vigilance. Treading cold standing water, he slowly reached the stone pedestal.
A mirror stood there, with a golden frame, grand and luxurious.
The room was extremely dim, but standing before the mirror, Quirinus Quirrell found the light didn’t affect its reflection. He stared greedily: “I see the Philosopher’s Stone. I’m handing it to you now, Master… but where is it?”
That cold, rasping voice returned: “Use that boy…”
Harry started behind him, no time to react. He heard Quirinus Quirrell snap his fingers, magical ropes conjuring from thin air to bind his hands and feet, dragging him before the mirror.
Quirinus Quirrell grinned sinisterly: “I wondered on my way here if I’d meet you before leaving school, Potter!”
Harry’s scar still throbbed, but didn’t hinder movement. He stared coldly at the Dark Wizard before him.
“You thought you hid well, planning to sneak attack while I was in danger. Naughty boy!” Quirinus Quirrell’s cold laugh chilled the blood, devoid of his usual stammering. But recalling his earlier wretched state, the face seemed less terrifying, almost comical:
“Yes, I didn’t spot you, but you were too eager. You let your guard down trying to murder me—your footsteps gave you away!”
Harry recalled the earlier scene. He had been hasty then, but Quirinus Quirrell had been choking and near death, surely unaware of surroundings.
His gaze fell on the purple headscarf wrapped around Quirinus Quirrell’s head.
“You’re clever.” Quirinus Quirrell didn’t answer his doubt, but pressed his shoulders, pushing him toward the mirror. The ropes around his ankles were tight, making him stumble.
The mirror showed no parents, only himself—panic-stricken like him, like a normal reflection. But suddenly, his image blinked outward, smiled, pulled a bright red stone from his pocket, then put it back.
“…”
The Headmaster really put the Philosopher’s Stone here!
Harry raced to think of a plan. Before he could, Quirinus Quirrell screamed shrilly, retreating several panicked steps from the Mirror of Erised.
“What now?” An impatient voice emanated from the headscarf.
“Master… I, in the mirror…”
Quirinus Quirrell stammered incoherently, reverting to that comical Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor.
Harry glanced sideways at the mirror’s image. The Mirror of Erised showed one’s deepest desire only straight-on; from other directions, it was normal. Now, it reflected a corpse.
Matching the mirror’s angle, Harry and Quirinus Quirrell looked up slightly, seeing the real scene.
A hemp rope dangled from the ceiling, slowly twisting, hanging Quirinus Quirrell’s corpse—muscles bloated, face pallid, eyeballs bulging from sockets, terrifying. The corpse wore an opal necklace, its neck slashed with a gruesome opening.
Dark crimson blood oozed out, dripping onto the water.
“Plop…”
So the dripping sound he’d heard wasn’t water drops, but blood drops.
Even bystander Harry felt a chill of dread.
In this eerie, dim room, seeing one’s own gruesomely dead body in the mirror…
The oppressive atmosphere since entering this bizarre Chamber of Secrets kept Quirinus Quirrell’s nerves taut. No time to recover after escaping strangulation-death, the fear of death lingered in his body. Now, death appeared real and vivid before him, filling him with profound terror again.
This fear hid despair, as if that was his ultimate fate…
The thought clung to his mind, unshakeable. Furious and humiliated, Quirinus Quirrell blasted spells, making the hanging corpse sway precariously.
But the pale, bloated body didn’t fall—instead disintegrating into scattering sand, quickly vanishing, like some magical product. Only the opal necklace from its chest splashed into the water.
“Damn! Damn!” The fooled Quirinus Quirrell trembled with rage.
“Waste!” The voice rang out again, angry.
“Master, I…”
“Let me talk to him, face to face!”
“Alright, Master.”
Harry watched Quirinus Quirrell unwind his headscarf, slowly turning to reveal a hideous, terrifying face—bloodless white like the corpse, eyes blood-red, no nose, just two slit-like snake nostrils.
“Harry Potter!”
Those crimson eyes pinned Harry in place, legs frozen: “Thanks to you, look what I’ve become—a mere wretched wraith, sharing a body with another…”
……
Cloaked in the Disillusionment Charm, darkness hiding his tracks, the Hand of Glory candlestick lit his view.
Tears welled in the little witch’s eyes. As Quirinus Quirrell turned, she released the old Headmaster, clamping a hand over her mouth. The sticky toffee sealed her mouth, preventing a scream.
Dumbledore watched the figure before the mirror, eyes wide. Even disconnected from the candlelight, he clearly saw that cold, serpentine face.
Many prior suspicions were confirmed now: a damaged wraith, neither dead nor alive.
His guess about that diadem was settled too.
Now only one thing remained: eleven years ago, that couple’s Secret-Keeper leaked the address. Voldemort raided Godric’s Hollow at night, James and Lily killed in turn by the Killing Curse. But the mother had prepared her sacrifice, offering her life as a protective charm for Harry. Even as the rebounding Killing Curse destroyed Voldemort’s body that night, the charm retained astonishing magic power.
He hadn’t wasted that power, placing Harry at Dursley’s Home, nurturing it with blood ties to strengthen the charm.
After eleven years, they would witness the charm’s power again.
Melvin eyed Voldemort too. The Christmas Holiday and Forbidden Forest night were mere glimpses; now he could closely sense the wraith’s leaking magic power.
Utterly evil, utterly twisted.
Just through the magic power, he glimpsed a corner of Voldemort’s soul.
Almost devoid of human emotion, pure evil—as if born to deprive life and create pain. If the unicorn’s blessing eliminated negative influences allowing Melvin to unleash Dark Magic freely, this evil power fully embraced Dark Magic’s negatives, perfectly matching its nature.
Melvin remained puzzled: was this power innate to Riddle, or a byproduct of splitting his soul?
From his knowledge of Voldemort, Riddle’s student days were gifted and brilliant, yet within normal wizard bounds. The Wizarding World had no shortage of geniuses, Hogwarts none—every few centuries, legendary wizards emerged.
The four Founders, Merlin the mage, in Dark Magic the vile Herpo… Dumbledore would enter the history books too.
Magic power intensity depended on talent and time; duelling techniques and magical mastery accumulated with age. No wizard matched Voldemort’s growth speed.
Holding the candlestick of withered arm, Melvin’s gaze swept the eerie face, the snake-like nose and eyes.
Snake traits—another magical creature’s gift?
Even his soul’s essence twisted. What Dark Magic transformations had Voldemort wrought on himself?
……
“Don’t be foolish. Join me, or you’ll end like your parents. They begged for mercy before dying…”
“Liar!”
“Fine, child. Your parents were brave. Your father died defiant—pointless struggle. Your mother desperately protected you; she needn’t have died… Now, give me the Philosopher’s Stone from your pocket. Don’t let her die for you in vain.”
“…”
Harry itched to slash that face with his wand, but reason curbed the urge to charge. First, ropes still bound his limbs tightly; second, he wanted to stall, hoping Hermione brought help.
Quirinus Quirrell closed in, grinning uglily on that hideous face.
Harry backed carefully; the ankle ropes were too tight, risking a fall.
As Quirinus Quirrell seized his neck, the scar pained again. Quirinus Quirrell screamed more shrilly, curling and clutching his hand—the spot that touched Harry red, swollen, bubbling like flame-burned.
Harry noticed the ropes binding him had somehow loosened. He watched Quirinus Quirrell wail in shock, felt the Philosopher’s Stone in his pocket, pondered briefly—running was an option, but he couldn’t outpace Quirinus Quirrell’s spells.
“Can’t run, can’t hesitate…”
Last time, hesitation lost the chance.
Harry steeled himself, fist raised, lunging forward.
A punch landed on the twisted snake face. Harry’s vision blackened, scar agony nearly felling him, but Quirinus Quirrell hurt worse—instantly dropping his wand, clutching his head in howls.
“Ah! Ah! Ah—”
Quirinus Quirrell’s screams mixed with Voldemort’s roars, like Neville and Lavent singing in harmony.
Harry gritted teeth for another punch, wincing himself—pain overwhelming thought. He just kept punching Quirinus Quirrell’s bald head and Voldemort’s face.
Headache worsening, vision blurring. Harry lost count of punches, then heard no more screams from Quirinus Quirrell, fists hitting air.
Consciousness fading, before blacking out he vaguely heard Hermione’s call.
