The Philosopher's Stone

Quirrell scratched his head in front of the Mirror of Erised, trying all sorts of spells and commands, but the mirror remained unresponsive, faithfully reflecting his anxious and frightened face.

Voldemort's increasingly impatient roars and reprimands echoed in his mind, pushing Quirrell's sanity to the brink.

Amidst this intense anxiety, an extremely faint "slurp" sound, which seemed exceptionally clear in the quiet environment, reached Quirrell's ears.

He suddenly looked down at the black-haired boy he had thrown on the ground, who should have been in agony.

Skofot, somehow, had managed to sit up, leaning against the cold wall. In his hand, he held a peculiar, deep purple bottle with a matching colored straw extending from the bottom.

He was holding the straw in his mouth, taking small sips of the thick, shimmering liquid inside. Tears still streaked his face, his eyes were red, but the extreme pain from before seemed to have subsided considerably. In fact, there was a hint of... satisfaction?

Quirrell was stunned.

He had just hit the boy with a solid Crucio curse!

Even if the spell stopped, the soul-tearing pain should have lasted for a long time!

How could he still... be drinking something?!

"What is he doing?" Voldemort's sinister voice, tinged with surprise, sounded in Quirrell's mind. "Get that thing from his hand!"

Quirrell jolted and immediately stepped forward, roughly snatching the potion bottle from Skofot's grasp.

Skofot seemed startled by his action, his hand still held in the position of holding the bottle.

He looked up at Quirrell with teary, bewildered eyes, a hint of grievance in his gaze, and mumbled softly, "...My... drink..."

[You're disgusting]

Skofot: "..."

"Drink?" Voldemort, controlling Quirrell's vocal cords, questioned hoarsely. "What is this?"

Skofot flinched, appearing frightened, and whispered, "It's just... a drink to recover the body... It tastes pretty good..."

As he spoke, as if to prove it, or perhaps just because he wanted to drink more, he reached out his hand (actually retrieving it from his System inventory). Another potion bottle of the same design, emitting a soft blue light, appeared in his hand.

He immediately put the straw in his mouth and took another "slurp," sighing contentedly. A faint trace of color seemed to return to his pale face.

Quirrell looked at the deep purple potion he had snatched, then at the new bottle in Skofot's hand, and at the boy's improved condition, which didn't seem faked. His throat involuntarily bobbed.

Continuously casting dark magic, especially having his body forcibly taken over by his master just now, was a huge burden on his mind and Magic Power. He felt extremely tired and weak at the moment.

What if... what if this thing really could restore him quickly...

The thought sprouted in his mind like wild grass.

"Mas... Master?" Quirrell timidly asked in his mind, "This potion... seems to... have some effect? That kid looks much better... I... I'm a bit tired, could I..."

"Idiot!" Voldemort interrupted him sharply, but his tone, besides his disappointment, held a trace of imperceptible curiosity. "Are you sure this thing is okay? What if it's poisoned..."

"He... he drank it himself! Both bottles!" Quirrell hastily defended, pointing at Skofot. "He seems fine, and... and he's enjoying it..."

Skofot seemed not to understand their discussion, simply holding his blue potion bottle and sipping it, occasionally glancing at them with those wet, timid eyes, like a small animal seeking comfort by eating after being frightened.

Voldemort was silent for a few seconds.

He could feel Quirrell's weakness and saw Skofot's improved condition.

The Philosopher's Stone was within reach but unobtainable, and Quirrell, this useless body, was exhausted...

This mysterious potion, though suspicious, might be the only thing that could quickly restore Quirrell's condition.

Moreover, the boy had drunk it himself and seemed genuinely unharmed...

"Take a small sip," Voldemort finally commanded grimly. "If you feel anything is wrong, stop immediately!"

Quirrell, as if granted amnesty, nodded quickly. He eagerly removed the stopper from the deep purple bottle (without a straw, he had to drink directly), carefully brought it to his lips, and took a small sip.

The thick liquid slid down his throat, carrying a slightly sweet tea aroma and a hint of minty coolness.

A gentle warmth spread through him, dispelling some of his fatigue and slightly invigorating his spirit.

There was no strange taste as he had expected, nor any sign of poisoning.

"Master... I feel... it seems to have some effect..." Quirrell reported with surprise, unable to resist taking another small sip.

Voldemort did not respond immediately, seemingly carefully sensing the changes in Quirrell's body.

A few seconds later, he commanded hoarsely:

"Enough! Don't waste time! If you feel better, keep trying! You must get the Philosopher's Stone out of the mirror!"

His tone carried a hint of irritation and a deeper longing.

The potion seemed effective, which was good, but the Philosopher's Stone was the ultimate goal!

Quirrell dared not drink more. Reluctantly, he replaced the stopper and tucked the potion bottle into his robes. Then, taking a deep breath, he refocused all his attention on the detestable mirror and tried even harder.

Meanwhile, Skofot, leaning against the wall, continued to sip his blue potion, the lowered eyelashes concealing a fleeting cold smile in his eyes.

The bait had been swallowed.

Now, all that remained was to wait for a bigger fish to bite, or... for the fisherman to arrive.

He adjusted his posture, making himself more comfortable, like a quiet, harmless bystander waiting for the plot to reach its climax.

[Emotion Points +80] (From Quirrell's surprise, attempt, and brief returning joy)

[Emotion Points +70] (From Voldemort's scrutiny, consideration, and confirmation of the potion's effects)

[Emotion Points: 1970/100]

Just as Quirrell was at a loss for what to do with the Mirror of Erised, growing increasingly anxious, and Skofot leaned against the wall "quietly" sipping a potion, hurried footsteps and gasps came from the entrance of the room.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione rushed in. As they descended, they were astonished to find that each checkpoint seemed to have been forcibly broken through with violence, making them even more uneasy and wary.

Upon entering the final room, the scene before them froze them instantly—

Professor Quirrell stood with his back to them, in front of the Mirror of Erised, his body trembling slightly.

What shocked them even more was that in the shadows of the room's corner, Skofot Leoqi slumped on the floor, leaning against the wall, his pale face streaked with tear stains, his eyes and the tip of his nose red. He still held a strange bottle in his hands, taking small sips of the liquid inside, looking fragile and pitiful, as if he had just suffered immense torment.

"Professor Quirrell?" Harry spoke in disbelief, his voice wavering slightly with tension, "And... Leoqi? What are you doing here?"