Confronting Voldemort and the First Crucio

Skofot didn't look at the mirror. He went directly behind it, where there was a considerable shadow area.

He took out several bottles of [Restoration Potion], sat down cross-legged, and drank them slowly, as if waiting for a good show to begin.

Before long, footsteps could be heard from outside the door, somewhat unsteady and filled with nervousness.

Quirrell walked in alone.

His face was pale, his eyes darted around, and he kept touching the back of his head with his hand, muttering something under his breath as if arguing with someone.

He walked straight to the Mirror of Erised, his face showing greed and urgency. He looked left and right, and fumbled around the mirror.

"I see it..." Quirrell muttered to the mirror, his tone excited, "I'll offer it to you, and you'll give me strength..."

Then, his voice suddenly became hoarse and sinister, completely changing to another person's tone, filled with impatience and ferocity: "Idiot! What are you dawdling for! Get it!"

"But... Master... this mirror... how should I do it?" Quirrell's voice returned, choked with tears and fear.

"Use the boy... he's nearby... I can feel him..." the sinister voice commanded.

Just then, Skofot emerged from behind the Mirror of Erised, still holding a half-empty bottle of amber potion, the straw making a faint "hissing" sound.

Quirrell spun around in fright, pointing his wand at him, his voice shrill: "Who?! Leoqi?! What are you doing here?!"

Skofot took a sip of the potion, swallowed, and then spoke unhurriedly, his tone as calm as if discussing the weather: "Taking a walk, got lost."

Quirrell's face twisted, clearly not believing this nonsense.

The voice at the back of his head spoke again, with a hint of surprise and deeper malice:

"It's him... that kid with the strange aura... kill him! Don't let him ruin things!"

Quirrell raised his wand, his hand trembling.

Skofot didn't even look at his wand, his gaze fixed on the back of Quirrell's head, as if he could see through the thick turban to the being beneath.

"Good evening, Mr. Voldemort," Skofot's voice remained level, "Or, would you prefer I call you... Tom Riddle?"

The words were like a petrifying spell, freezing Quirrell and the voice at the back of his head simultaneously.

Silence, a deathly silence, spread through the room.

Only the faint sound of Skofot sipping his potion was exceptionally clear.

Quirrell's entire body trembled violently, as if he had heard the most terrifying curse in the world. The face at the back of his head

--or rather, Voldemort's consciousness--

let out a silent, extreme roar of rage, the fury almost bursting out of Quirrell's body.

How did he know?! How could he know that name?!

Quirrell's wand shook even harder, the fear on his face almost overflowing, and he stammered:

"You... shut up! Master... he..."

"Interesting..."

A cold, hoarse voice, as if squeezed from the cracks of hell, replaced Quirrell's stammering, emanating directly from the depths of Quirrell's throat, with a chilling, inhuman quality, "A... little bug who can see through disguises..."

It was Voldemort directly taking over the conversation.

Skofot could clearly "see" (Killing Intent Visualization) a thick, almost tangible, dark red aura of killing intent rising from Quirrell, carrying decay, blood, and pure malice. It was entirely different in nature from the cold killing intent emanating from his own [Scavenger] card, but equally dangerous.

Let's test it.

Skofot's mind flickered, and the effect of the [Scavenger] card was deliberately activated. A condensed, cold killing intent carrying the scent of rust and death shot out like an invisible arrow, precisely towards Voldemort's location.

This action was undoubtedly like plucking whiskers from a tiger's mouth!

"Crucio!"

The hoarse voice did not hesitate at all, even carrying a hint of rage at being provoked by an ant, and instantly cast the spell.

The tip of Quirrell's wand erupted with a dazzling red light, and like a green lightning bolt, it struck Skofot fiercely!

"Ugh--!"

Agony! Indescribable agony instantly swept through Skofot's every nerve!

It felt as if countless red-hot blades were churning inside him, tearing at his muscles and bones, even his soul was wailing.

His vision went black, and he collapsed directly onto the ground, his body curling into a ball uncontrollably, twitching violently.

Now!

In the midst of extreme pain, Skofot clung to the last shred of clarity and instantly switched cards!

[Scavenger] removed, [Rabbit Rhymer] equipped!

The cold killing intent vanished without a trace. It was replaced by extreme weakness and a magnified sense of pain (Shattered Buff activated).

His pale face instantly broke out in cold sweat and tears, his dark hair stuck to his forehead. He curled up on the ground, emitting faint, broken whimpers, his body still spasming from the residual pain. He looked as fragile as a candle in the wind, about to shatter at any second.

Quirrell (or rather, Voldemort) paused as he looked at the person on the ground, who had instantly transformed from a dangerous presence into a pathetic, weeping, trembling wretch.

The pain of Crucio was real, but this sudden shift in demeanor was too abrupt.

Voldemort: Is he sick?

Voldemort, controlling Quirrell's body, walked forward and impolitely kicked Skofot with his toe.

Skofot went limp with the force, rolling over to lie on his back. Tears blurred his vision, his eyes unfocused, his lips trembling. He couldn't even speak a complete sentence, only emitting whimpers like a small animal.

He tried to push himself up with his hands, but due to his "weakness" and "pain," he collapsed again, weakly squirming on the ground in vain.

Quirrell looked at his miserable state and sensed that his master didn't intend to kill him immediately. He became flustered and could only bend down, roughly grab Skofot by the collar, and lift him halfway up.

Skofot was like a boneless doll, letting himself be lifted, his head hanging limply, his legs dragging uselessly on the ground. He only sobbed softly.

"Mas... Master?" Quirrell asked uncertainly, addressing the consciousness in his mind.

Voldemort's hoarse voice carried a hint of impatience and scrutiny:

"A... strange, unstable waste. He can't even withstand Crucio. It seems that killing intent earlier was just a bluff, or... something he himself cannot control."

He paused, making his judgment:

"No threat for now. Quirrell, don't waste any more time on him! The Philosopher's Stone! I want the Philosopher's Stone! Find a way to get it out of this mirror!"

In Voldemort's eyes, this young man named Leoqi might be a little special, able to know his name, and his aura was peculiar, but in the face of absolute power (Crucio), he was nothing more than a porcelain doll that would shatter at the slightest touch.

Right now, eternal life and power were the most important things.

Upon hearing this, Quirrell immediately let go of Skofot's collar as if he were discarding trash.

Skofot "thumped" as he collapsed back onto the ground. He curled up, burying his face in his arms, his shoulders trembling slightly as he continued to let out suppressed, heartbreaking sobs.

As if completely immersed in the pain and fear of being tortured, he had lost all reaction to his surroundings.

Quirrell ignored him, turning back to face the Mirror of Erised. Greed and anxiety reappeared on his face as he began to mutter to the mirror, trying various methods to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone that he (or rather, Voldemort) desperately desired.

And in the shadows, unseen by anyone, the corner of Skofot's mouth under his arm twitched almost imperceptibly, before being masked by more "pained" tremors.

[Emotion Points +150] (From Voldemort's rage, the killing intent of having his true name revealed, and his scrutiny of Skofot's peculiar state)

[Emotion Points +50] (From Quirrell's fear and helplessness)

[Emotion Points: 1820/100]

The ruse, successful. The diversion of attention, successful.

Next, all that remained was to wait quietly, waiting for the true "protagonist" to appear, and... for the climax of this play.