Skofot did not look at the mirror. He went straight around to the back of it, where there was a fairly large patch of shadow.
He took out several bottles of [Restoration Potion], sat cross-legged, and slowly drank them as if waiting for a good show to begin.
Before long, footsteps sounded outside the door—unsteady and tense.
Quirrell entered alone.
His face was pale, his eyes shifty. Every so often, he touched the back of his head and muttered under his breath, as though arguing with someone.
He walked straight toward the Mirror of Erised, greed and urgency on his face as he looked it over and felt around it.
"I see it..." Quirrell muttered to the mirror excitedly. "If I offer it to you, you'll give me power..."
Then his voice suddenly became hoarse and cold, completely changing into someone else's tone, filled with impatience and brutality. "Idiot! What are you dawdling for?! Get it!"
"But... Master... this mirror... what am I supposed to do?" Quirrell's voice returned, trembling with tears and fear.
"Use that boy... he's nearby... I can feel him..." the cold voice ordered.
Just then, Skofot stepped out from behind the magic mirror, still holding a half-finished bottle of amber potion. His straw made a faint hissing sound.
Quirrell spun around in fright, pointing his wand at him. His voice turned shrill. "Who?! Leoqi?! How are you here?!"
Skofot took a sip of potion and swallowed before speaking unhurriedly. His tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Taking a walk. Got lost."
Quirrell's face twisted. He clearly did not believe that nonsense.
The voice from the back of his head sounded again, carrying a trace of surprise and even deeper malice:
"It's him... that brat with the strange aura... Kill him! He can't be allowed to ruin this!"
Quirrell raised his wand, his hand trembling.
But Skofot did not even glance at the wand. His gaze fell on the back of Quirrell's head, as though it could pierce through the thick turban and stare directly at the presence beneath it.
"Good evening, Mr. Voldemort." Skofot's voice remained flat. "Or would you prefer that I call you... Tom Riddle?"
The words were like a Full Body-Bind Curse, freezing both Quirrell and the voice at the back of his head.
Silence—deathly silence—spread through the room.
Only the faint sound of Skofot sipping his potion was especially clear.
Quirrell's whole body began to shake violently, as though he had heard the most terrifying curse in the world. The face on the back of his head
—or rather, Voldemort's consciousness—
let out a soundless roar of utter fury. The rage nearly burst out through Quirrell's body.
How did he know?! How could he know that name?!
Quirrell's wand shook even harder, terror nearly overflowing from his face as he stammered,
"Y-you shut up! Master... he..."
"Interesting..."
A cold, hoarse voice, as though squeezed from the cracks of hell, replaced Quirrell's stammering,
emerging directly from the depths of Quirrell's throat with an inhuman quality that made one's scalp tingle.
"A little bug... that can see through disguises..."
Voldemort had taken over the conversation himself.
Skofot could clearly "see" through Killing Intent Visualization as a dense, almost tangible dark-red killing intent rose from Quirrell's body,
carrying decay, blood, and pure malice. It was completely different in nature from the cold killing intent emitted by his own [Scavenger] card, yet no less dangerous.
Test him.
With a slight thought, Skofot deliberately activated the effect of the [Scavenger] card. A condensed, icy killing intent carrying the scent of rust and death shot like an invisible arrow precisely toward Voldemort's location.
That was no different from plucking a tiger's whiskers!
"Crucio!"
The hoarse voice showed no hesitation, even carrying the rage of an ant daring to provoke it, as it instantly cast the spell.
A blinding red light burst from the tip of Quirrell's wand, striking Skofot viciously like a bolt of green lightning!
"Argh—!"
Pain! Indescribable pain instantly swept through every nerve in Skofot's body!
It was as though countless red-hot blades were churning inside him, tearing apart his muscles and bones until even his soul screamed.
His vision went black, and he collapsed straight to the floor. His body curled into a ball uncontrollably as violent spasms racked him.
Now!
In the midst of that extreme agony, Skofot forced himself to retain his last shred of clarity and switched cards in an instant!
[Scavenger] off, [Rabbit Rhymer] on!
That cold killing intent vanished without a trace. In its place came extreme weakness and pain magnified several times over (Brokenness Buff activated).
Cold sweat and tears instantly covered his pale face. Black strands of hair stuck to his temples as he curled up on the floor, letting out faint, broken whimpers. His body twitched slightly from the lingering agony, and he looked as fragile as a candle flame in the wind, as if he would shatter the next second.
Quirrell—or rather, Voldemort—also froze for a moment as he watched the figure on the floor instantly transform from something radiating danger into a pathetic wretch who could only cry and tremble.
The pain of Crucio was real enough, but the change in aura had been far too abrupt.
Voldemort: Is he sick?
Voldemort controlled Quirrell's body, walked over, and rather rudely nudged Skofot with the tip of his shoe.
Skofot rolled over limply with the force, lying on his back on the floor. His eyes were blurred with tears, his gaze unfocused, his lips trembling. He could not even form a complete sentence, only letting out animal-like whines.
He tried to push himself up with his hands, but collapsed again due to "weakness" and "pain," uselessly rubbing against the floor.
Seeing his miserable state and sensing that his master did not intend to kill him immediately, Quirrell was at a loss. He could only bend down, roughly grab Skofot by the collar, and half lift him up.
Skofot hung from his grip as though he had no bones. His head drooped weakly, his legs dragged limply across the floor, and he merely sobbed quietly.
"M-Master?" Quirrell asked uncertainly of the consciousness in his mind.
Voldemort's hoarse voice carried a hint of impatience and scrutiny:
"A... strange, unstable piece of trash. He can't even withstand Crucio. That bit of killing intent just now was probably a bluff, or... something he himself cannot control."
He paused before making his judgment:
"No threat for now. Quirrell, don't waste 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 boy called Leoqi might be somewhat unusual. He knew Voldemort's name, and his aura was strange, but before absolute power—Crucio—he was nothing more than a porcelain doll that shattered at a touch.
Right now, immortality and power were what mattered most.
Hearing this, Quirrell immediately let go of Skofot's collar as though throwing away trash.
With a thud, Skofot collapsed limply onto the floor again. He curled up, burying his face in the crook of his arm. His shoulders shook faintly as he continued to let out suppressed, heartbreaking sobs.
He seemed completely immersed in the pain and fear of being tortured, having lost all ability to react to anything around him.
Quirrell no longer paid him any attention. He turned back to face the Mirror of Erised, greed and urgency once again appearing on his face. He began muttering at the mirror, trying every possible method to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone that he—or rather, Voldemort—had dreamed of.
And in the shadows where no one could see, the corner of Skofot's mouth beneath his arm curled upward ever so slightly before being concealed once more by a more "painful" spasm.
[Emotion Points +150] (from Voldemort's fury, his killing intent at having his true name exposed, and his scrutiny of Skofot's strange state) [Emotion Points +50] (from Quirrell's fear and helplessness) [Emotion Points: 1820/100]
The self-inflicted ruse, successful. The distraction, successful.
Next, he only needed to wait quietly for the true "protagonist" to appear, and for... the climax of this performance.
Before you continue