Quirrell spun around sharply, his face filled with the panic and ferocity of being caught.
The moment he saw Harry, greed and murderous intent erupted in his eyes.
—The master had said this boy was useful!
"Potter!" Quirrell's voice was shrill, utterly unlike his usual stammering manner.
Ron's gaze swept between Quirrell and the miserable-looking Skofot in the corner, and a terrifying thought instantly took shape.
Pointing at Skofot, he roared furiously, "It was you! Leoqi! You really are Voldemort's lackey! You led him here, didn't you?!"
He automatically interpreted Skofot's current "miserable state" as either a ploy to gain sympathy or the aftermath of infighting.
Skofot seemed startled by Ron's roar. He flinched, raised his teary eyes, and looked at them with confusion and grievance.
His lips moved, but no sound came out. He merely hugged his potion bottle tighter, like a child who had been misunderstood and lacked the strength to defend himself.
(Rabbit Rhymer effect remained active.)
Hermione frowned deeply as well, her eyes shifting between Skofot and Quirrell. She felt things were not so simple. Leoqi did not look like he was pretending, but Quirrell was clearly the greater threat at the moment.
"Shut up, Weasley!" Quirrell roared impatiently. He had no time to deal with these brats' accusations. His master needed the Philosopher's Stone! He needed Potter!
However, the presence on the back of his head seemed extremely displeased by the word "lackey," as well as the chaotic situation before it.
"Enough... this tedious farce..." A cold, hoarse voice, like a venomous snake hissing, suddenly came from the direction of the back of Quirrell's head.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared in terror.
Under the horrified gazes of the three, Quirrell reached up with trembling hands and began unwrapping the thick purple turban around his head.
The turban fell away layer by layer, finally revealing an incomparably hideous face on the back of his head, blurred and twisted like melted wax!
That face had no nose, only two narrow slits for nostrils, while a pair of scarlet eyes gleamed with cruel malice.
"Voldemort!" Harry gasped, his heart nearly stopping.
Ron let out a short scream, and Hermione clamped both hands over her mouth.
"Harry Potter..." Voldemort stared at Harry with those red eyes, his voice carrying a sickening intimacy. "We meet again..."
"You... you killed my parents!" Harry's voice trembled with rage and fear.
"Yes..." Voldemort hissed.
"That ancient magic your mother cast before she died... it kept me from touching you... but things are different now... Look at me, clinging to someone else, drinking Unicorn Blood like a parasite just to survive... But I will soon regain my power... as long as you help me take the stone from the mirror..."
"Never!" Harry roared.
"Seize him, Quirrell!" Voldemort commanded.
Quirrell lunged at Harry. Ron tried to rush forward to help, but Quirrell casually flicked his wand.
—Stupefy!—
A red flash struck Ron, and he collapsed to the ground without even a groan.
"Ron!" Hermione screamed. She tried to cast a spell, but Quirrell's wand pointed at her again.
—Incarcerous!—
Ropes appeared out of thin air and bound Hermione tightly. She fell to the floor as well, unable to move.
Only Harry remained to face Quirrell and Voldemort.
"Do not resist, boy..." Voldemort's voice was filled with temptation and threat. "Give me the stone from the mirror..."
Harry backed away step by step, his eyes fixed on the terrible face at the back of Quirrell's head as his mind raced for a way out.
He glanced at Skofot in the corner, who was still "shivering" with tear-filled eyes, his heart full of confusion and uncertainty.
—Was he really Voldemort's man?
If he was, why did he look like this?
If he was not, why was he here?
Meanwhile, Skofot hugged his potion bottle tightly and curled himself into an even smaller ball, as though the sight before him had frightened him senseless.
Only the occasional faint slurping sound from the bottle proved that he was still "struggling" to use the "drink" to soothe his wounded body and mind.
He waited, waiting for that crucial moment of contact between Harry and Voldemort.
That was the moment he was truly interested in.
The air in the room seemed to freeze, leaving only Harry's ragged breathing and Voldemort's unsettling hissed whispers.
Harry retreated step by step, his palm unconsciously brushing against the pocket of his robes.
—An incredibly subtle movement, one almost no one would notice.
But Skofot, lurking in the shadows like a patient cheetah and watching from the corner of his eye, caught it.
The instant Harry's fingertips touched his pocket, they paused briefly in confirmation. Then an almost imperceptible relief passed through his tightly drawn brows.
The Philosopher's Stone! He had it!
It was in Harry's pocket!
Now!
The confusion and vulnerability in Skofot's eyes vanished in an instant, like thin mist scattered by the wind.
His thoughts raced. The [Rabbit Rhymer] card was removed without hesitation, and [Scavenger] was equipped once more.
There was no warning, no buildup.
A vast, suffocating, tangible terror of murderous intent erupted from Skofot like an ancient beast awakening from a ten-thousand-year slumber.
This killing intent was no longer the probing icy needles from before. It was a tsunami-like shockwave carrying the brutal will of mountains of corpses and seas of blood, along with an aura of pure destruction. It instantly engulfed the entire room and pressed precisely upon Quirrell.
—Or rather, upon Voldemort on the back of his head!
Quirrell and Voldemort, who had been focused entirely on forcing Harry, were struck as though by an invisible sledgehammer!
Quirrell's body stiffened violently, his movements completely halted. His face was filled with extreme terror and disbelief.
Even Voldemort's hoarse voice abruptly stopped. For the first time, clear shock appeared in those scarlet eyes, along with... a trace of instinctive wariness toward a being of equal or even greater danger.
This killing intent... far surpassed that of an ordinary wizard, even most of his followers at the height of his power!
What exactly was this brat?!
In the less-than-one-second gap of stiffness caused by the overwhelming impact of that killing intent—
Skofot moved!
He shot up from the corner like a ghost, so fast that only an afterimage remained.
He did not attack Quirrell's body. Instead, with a clear target in mind, he thrust both hands toward Quirrell's back.
—More precisely, toward the spot where Voldemort's face was located on the back of Quirrell's head.
He concentrated all of his terrifying strength into his arms.
"Bang!"
Quirrell staggered from the immense force and, completely out of control, crashed straight toward the nearby Harry Potter!
"You bastard, Leoqi!!"
Harry only had time to let out a curse full of shock and fury.
He had not even seen how Skofot had gotten there.
All he saw was Quirrell's twisted face and Voldemort's scarlet eyes on the back of his head bearing down on him.
"Ah—!!!"
The instant Quirrell's skin, especially the part at the back of his head connected to Voldemort, came into contact with Harry's body,
A dazzling golden-red light, as blazing as the midday sun, suddenly burst forth from Harry.
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