Satisfied that everything was done, John cast another Disillusionment Charm on himself.
His level-four Disillusionment Charm was already on par with those of the Ministry of Magic's Aurors.
He took out a Fire Protection Potion, swallowed it, and stepped into the flames.
As though he had swallowed ice water, the potion immediately spread through his entire body.
Flames licked his body, but he felt no heat at all.
John kept moving through the fire, passing through the purple flames before reaching the black flames.
He could feel the Fire Protection Potion wearing off rapidly. Quickening his pace, he escaped the black flames before its effects vanished.
Before him lay the final room.
Two people were already inside.
When he saw the taller of the two, John's body tensed.
It was Quirrell.
And the person Quirrell was holding captive before the mirror was Harry.
"What is it with this mirror? What does it actually do? Help me, Master!"
"Use the boy... use the boy..."
"Potter, come here!"
Quirrell seemed to be talking to himself, yet also asking someone a question. John stepped out of the flames, keeping his footsteps soft.
He knew this was not the right moment. Voldemort had not appeared yet; he could not strike.
What puzzled John even more was how Quirrell had survived.
He had to admit, the man was as hard to kill as a cockroach.
Quirrell seemed even weaker now, and a powerful stench of decay rose from his body.
It was as though the figure before him was not a living man, but a corpse.
Quirrell forced Harry up to the mirror, and countless thoughts flashed through Harry's mind.
He had never imagined that Snape, whom he had thought was the villain, was actually protecting him, while Quirrell, whom he had considered a victim, was the real villain.
He wanted to protect the Philosopher's Stone, but he had no idea what to do now.
With Quirrell bearing down on him, Harry stood before the mirror.
The Harry in the mirror winked at him and slipped the Philosopher's Stone into his pocket.
Only Harry knew what had happened. No one else knew, not even Quirrell standing right beside him.
Harry began lying through his teeth. "I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore. I... Gryffindor has won the House Cup."
Failing to get what he wanted sent Quirrell into a rage.
"Get out of my way!" Quirrell shoved Harry aside and paced before the mirror, swearing.
Harry retreated to one side. The Philosopher's Stone was in his pocket, and he wanted to seize this chance to escape.
But he had taken fewer than five steps when he heard the voice that had answered Quirrell earlier.
"He is lying!"
Realizing he had been tricked, Quirrell grew even angrier.
He was already weak from failing to drink unicorn blood. If Voldemort had not possessed other ways to prolong his life, he would have died long ago.
For that, he hated Harry to the bone.
Drawing his wand, Quirrell fired a spell at Harry.
Harry flew backward and crashed to the ground. With madness written across his face, Quirrell snarled, "Hand over the Philosopher's Stone!"
Harry clenched his teeth and refused to speak.
"Let me talk to him. You are utterly useless, Quirinus!"
That shrill voice spoke again.
"No! Master, I can do it! I will get you the Philosopher's Stone!"
Now Quirrell panicked completely, stammering as he begged his master for another chance.
But Voldemort no longer trusted his servant and forcibly seized his body.
Weakened to this extent, Quirrell could not possibly fight Voldemort for control.
Under Harry's horrified gaze, Quirrell's body twisted into a grotesque position.
He gripped his head with both hands and forcibly twisted it around, as though it were an oversized rubber ball.
The nauseating stench grew stronger. His scarf-wrapped head turned to face forward, and Quirrell began unwinding the scarf bit by bit.
There was another face growing on the back of his head.
Harry had never seen such a hideous, terrifying face. It was chalk-white, with glowing red eyes and two narrow, snakelike slits for nostrils beneath them.
Quirrell said weakly, in terror, "Master, give me a chance."
Disgust crossed Voldemort's face, and Quirrell stopped breathing.
Now this body was entirely under Voldemort's control.
Looking at the culprit responsible for reducing him to his current state, he spoke as though whispering beside Harry's ear. "Harry Potter..."
Harry wanted to retreat, but his legs felt frozen and would not obey him. Pain pulsed through the wound on his forehead.
"Look at what I have become."
Voldemort's voice seethed with venom. His hatred ran too deep.
The Dark Lord who should have ruled the wizarding world had been reduced to shadow and vapor. He was a wandering spirit, without a body, able only to inhabit feeble animals.
Still, there were people willing to let him enter their bodies. Quirrell had been one of them.
"Once I obtain the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a new body of my own."
Voldemort could already envision the terror he would unleash upon the world once he had a body again. He felt everything was under control.
Dumbledore had been lured away to the Ministry of Magic. No one capable of stopping Voldemort remained.
Holding his wand, he narrowed his eyes dangerously.
"Now, Harry, why don't you give me the Philosopher's Stone in your pocket?"
He was not that idiot Quirrell. At his peak, he had been a wizard who could rival Dumbledore.
A petty trick like this could hardly escape his notice.
He raised his hand and swept his wand through the air. An invisible blade sliced open Harry's pocket.
A bright red stone fell out. Harry tried to retrieve it, but Voldemort bound him with straps he had transfigured.
When Voldemort picked up the object he had coveted for so long, he let out a strange, cackling laugh.
He looked at Harry, that loathsome boy.
A hypocritical fraud who had risen to fame by stepping on the great Dark Lord.
He would torture this child, this being the world called the Chosen One.
"Look at you, boy. Your parents were both very brave. I have always admired courage."
"I killed your father first. He refused to yield, even in the face of death, and fought me bravely. Your mother need not have died, but she insisted on protecting you with her life. How foolish."
The scar on Harry's forehead hurt even more, and memories from his infancy seemed to flash through his mind.
That flash of green light, and that suffocating laughter.
"No, Voldemort! I will defeat you!" he shouted.
Voldemort gave a cold laugh and pressed his wand against Harry's scar.
"Look at this scar. The lie of the Chosen One. Do you truly believe you are the Chosen One?"
The wand moved across his scar, making Harry howl in agony.
Voldemort's smile grew increasingly twisted. At the same time, he felt this body dying rapidly.
Without its original owner's soul, Quirrell's body was turning into a corpse.
Voldemort raised the Philosopher's Stone above his head. Light shone from the bright red stone as he lifted his wand to finish Harry off.
Harry's breathing quickened. His eyes remained fixed on Voldemort. Was he really going to die like this?
"Boy, does the magic your mother left you still remain?"
Before striking, Voldemort recalled what had happened twelve years ago and hesitated.
He reached out and touched Harry's body. Blisters rapidly rose across the frail body he inhabited.
With that magic still in place, Voldemort could not harm Harry.
He bitterly resented it.
Voldemort rather regretted killing Quirrell so soon.
The Philosopher's Stone was in his hands. He knew it was time to leave and take it away before Dumbledore returned.
"Don't go!"
Harry shouted furiously, but it was useless. Right before his eyes, Voldemort walked toward the doorway, one step at a time.
Harry let out a low growl, helplessness welling up inside him.
Just as Voldemort was about to leave, John, who had remained hidden and motionless all this time, struck.
Voldemort was only an arm's length from John.
At this distance, John attacked without hesitation.
The Greatsword swept through the air in a dazzling arc of silver.
He struck from behind!
Before you continue