Quirrell!
In fact, even before meeting him, Harry had imagined more than once what it would be like to come face-to-face with him.
Strangely enough, he could not picture it at all.
Quirrell was undoubtedly the ultimate target of everything Harry had done today. He had entered this world within a painting to stop him.
To get the Philosopher's Stone before Quirrell did!
He was Quirrell's opponent. They were enemies. It seemed as though that had been destined from the very beginning, yet when he thought about it carefully, it did not feel real at all.
In Harry's impression, Quirrell had always been meek and submissive. It had not even been two days since Harry learned his true identity; there had simply not been enough time to overturn the understanding carved into his heart over the past several months.
He had thought he would be furious, frightened, that he would shout at that man wrapped in a turban.
But when they truly met, Harry found himself very calm. He calmly watched the other man reveal a slick, chilling smile. "Ah—Harry Potter, dear Mr. Savior. Not long ago, I was discussing you with your lackey, Weasley!"
That gloomy expression was utterly unlike the Quirrell he usually saw. There was no stammering, no cowardice—only the cold venom of a serpent.
"Hello, Professor Quirrell!"
Harry could not imagine that he could greet his enemy in such a calm tone.
Yet he said it with a straight face, and even sounded quite polite. "You look terribly unwell. You were the one struck by lightning earlier, weren't you? I heard that happens when you do too many bad things. You really ought to reflect on yourself."
Beside Quirrell, Ron, whose face had flushed at the word "lackey," suddenly puffed out his cheeks as if he