Philosopher's Stone

Quirrell scratched his head in frustration before the Mirror of Erised, trying every spell and command he could think of, but the mirror showed no reaction. It merely faithfully reflected his anxious, terrified face.

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

Amid the tense silence, an extremely faint slurping sound, unusually clear in the quiet room, reached Quirrell's ears.

He abruptly lowered his head and looked at the black-haired boy he had thrown to the floor, who should have been writhing in agony.

Skofot had somehow managed to sit up, leaning against the cold wall. He held a dark purple bottle with an unusual texture, a straw of the same color extending from its bottom.

He had the straw between his lips, taking small sips of the thick, sparkling liquid inside. Tear tracks still stained his face, and his eyes were red, but the extreme agony from before seemed to have eased considerably. He even looked somewhat... satisfied?

Quirrell was dumbfounded.

He had just taken a solid hit from Crucio!

Even after the spell stopped, the pain of having one's soul torn apart should have lasted a long time!

How could he still... drink something?!

"What is he doing?" Voldemort's cold voice carried a trace of surprise as it rang through Quirrell's mind. "Take what he's holding!"

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

Skofot seemed startled by his movement, his hand still frozen in the position of holding the bottle.

He lifted his tear-filled eyes and looked at Quirrell blankly, with a hint of grievance, mumbling softly, "...My... drink..."

[You're disgusting.]

Skofot: "..."

"Drink?" Voldemort controlled Quirrell's vocal cords and spoke in a hoarse, questioning voice. "What is this?"

Skofot shrank back, seemingly frightened, and answered softly, "It's... it's a drink that restores the body... It tastes pretty good..."

As he spoke, as though to prove it or perhaps simply because he wanted another drink, he reached into the air and grabbed at nothing. In truth, he took it from the system Backpack, and another potion of the same design, glowing with a soft blue light, appeared in his hand.

He immediately put the straw in his mouth and took another slurping sip, then let out a satisfied little sigh. A faint trace of color seemed to return to his pale face.

Quirrell looked at the dark purple potion he had snatched, then at the new bottle in Skofot's hand and the other boy's undeniably improved condition. His throat bobbed unconsciously.

Casting Dark Magic repeatedly, especially after his body had been forcibly taken over by his master, had placed an enormous burden on both his mind and magic. He felt exceptionally exhausted and weak.

If... if this thing could really restore him quickly...

The thought sprouted in his heart like weeds.

"M-Master?" Quirrell timidly asked in his mind. "This potion... seems... to have some effect? That boy looks much better... I... I'm a little tired. Could I..."

"Idiot!" Voldemort sharply interrupted him, though beneath his fury at Quirrell's incompetence—

there was also a barely perceptible hint of curiosity. "Are you certain there's nothing wrong with it? What if it's poisoned..."

"H-He drank it himself! Two bottles!" Quirrell hurriedly argued, pointing at Skofot. "He looks fine, and he... he seems to be enjoying it..."

Skofot seemed unable to understand what they were discussing. He merely hugged his blue potion bottle and took small sips.

From time to time, he timidly glanced at them with those wet eyes, like a frightened little animal soothing himself with food.

Voldemort fell silent for several seconds.

He could feel Quirrell's weakness, and he had also seen Skofot's condition improve.

The Philosopher's Stone was within reach, yet they could not obtain it. And Quirrell, this useless fool, was running out of strength...

This potion of unknown origin was suspicious, but it might be the only thing capable of quickly restoring Quirrell's condition.

Besides, the boy had drunk it himself, and it did indeed seem harmless...

"Take one small sip," Voldemort finally ordered darkly. "If you feel anything wrong, stop immediately!"

Quirrell felt as though he had been granted a pardon and hurriedly nodded. He impatiently pulled out the stopper of the dark purple bottle. There was no straw, so he could only drink directly from it. Carefully, he brought it to his lips and took a small sip.

The thick liquid slid down his throat, carrying a faintly sweet tea fragrance and a touch of minty coolness.

A gentle warmth spread through his body, driving away some of his fatigue. His spirits seemed to lift a little as well.

There was none of the strange taste he had expected, much less any sign of poisoning.

"Master... it feels... like it really is somewhat useful..." Quirrell reported in delight, unable to stop himself from taking another small sip.

Voldemort did not answer at once, apparently carefully sensing the changes in Quirrell's body.

Several seconds later, he gave a hoarse command:

"Enough! Don't delay the important matter! If you feel better, keep thinking of a way! You must get the Philosopher's Stone out of the mirror!"

His voice contained a trace of irritation and an even deeper desire.

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

Quirrell did not dare drink any more. Reluctantly, he replaced the stopper, tucked the potion bottle into his robes, then took a deep breath and refocused all his attention on that hateful mirror, trying even harder.

Meanwhile, Skofot, leaning in the corner, continued sipping his blue potion. His lowered lashes concealed the cold smile that flashed through his eyes.

The bait had been swallowed.

Next, he only had to wait for a bigger fish to take the hook, or... for the fisherman to arrive.

He adjusted his posture and leaned back more comfortably, like a quiet, harmless observer waiting for the plot to reach its climax.

[Emotion Points +80] (From Quirrell's surprise, attempts, and brief delight at recovering)

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

[Emotion Points: 1970/100]

Just as Quirrell was at his wits' end before the mirror and growing frantic, while Skofot quietly sipped his potion against the wall, hurried footsteps and panting came from the room's entrance.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione rushed in. Along the way, they had been shocked to find that every obstacle seemed to have been forcibly broken through with brute force, making them even more uneasy and wary.

The moment they entered the final room, the sight before them made them freeze—

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

What shocked them even more was Skofot Leoqi, slumped on the floor in the shadows of a corner.

He leaned against the wall, his pale face streaked with undried tears, his eyes and nose red. He held a strange bottle in his hands and was taking small sips of the liquid inside. He looked fragile and pitiful, as though he had just suffered terrible torture.

"Professor Quirrell?" Harry spoke in disbelief, his voice cracking slightly from tension. "And... Leoqi? How did you get here?"