Lorne arrived at the Gryffindor Common Room in the middle of the night and, sure enough, found Neville lying on the floor.
According to the original plot, Harry's trio would raid the third-floor corridor tonight, overcoming one obstacle after another to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone. To keep Gryffindor from losing points, Neville had stepped forward to stop them, only to spend the entire night flat on his back after a single "Petrificus Totalus" from Hermione.
They hadn't even given him a blanket.
Lorne actually didn't know whether the timeline had been affected. He had mainly come to post the holiday notices.
He rescued a Neville while he was at it.
"Sorry, Director," Neville said, sitting on the sofa closest to the fireplace. "I didn't stop them."
"But you stood up to them. That's very Gryffindor of you," Lorne praised him, brewing a pot of tea for Neville and himself.
"Aren't you going to look for them? I don't want them to get caught either, but they could be in danger."
"Danger?" Lorne said, imitating Hagrid. "If Hogwarts is dangerous, there's nowhere safe in the Wizarding World."
Neville: "..."
Why did Director Lorne sound so sarcastic when he said that?
"All right, Neville. Have some hot tea and go back to bed." Lorne stood after finishing his own tea. "They'll come back in one piece. I promise."
At that moment, Harry and the others had already got past Fluffy and burned away the Devil's Snare.
"They had this stuff at that food competition Director Lorne held," Ron said, brushing dust off himself. "I remember it clearly because it was the only cold dish I ate. Neville even told me Devil's Snare was afraid of fire and light. I never thought that would come in handy today."
"I remember now, too," Harry added. "You said, 'What plant isn't afraid of fire?'"
"Stop talking about that. Come and look at this."
Hermione pointed at the small wooden door before them.
Their three shaggy heads huddled together as they cautiously approached and pushed it open.
There was no sound.
But the room beyond wasn't still. Several shafts of light shone down from above, and a flock of winged things drifted leisurely through the air.
"Why don't these birds make any noise when they fly?"
"They're not birds," Harry said, looking up. "They're keys."
The scar on his forehead ached faintly. Harry suddenly felt that all of this was a trial Dumbledore had arranged for him, because in the very center of the room, he saw a broom that had been sitting there for a long time.
Wasn't this tailor-made for him?
Ron suddenly snorted. "Do you reckon Snape or Voldemort would have to ride a broom to catch that key, too? If it really comes down to flying, I don't think Harry's necessarily worse than either of them."
Once that preconception took hold, every obstacle that followed seemed to lend support to Harry's guess.
Flying a broom was his strong suit.
At Wizard's Chess, Ron could even hold his own against adults.
As for logic puzzles, Hermione had taken first place in the Ravenclaw challenge.
Ron and Hermione were left behind, but Harry wasn't worried at all. He even thought Dumbledore would be the one standing behind the final door.
The moment he pushed it open, Dumbledore would look at him kindly and say with a smile, "All of this was a test I set for you. You've made it here, Harry."
But that didn't happen.
It wasn't even Snape or Voldemort.
A familiar figure stood beyond the door, a turban on his head and a solemn expression on his face, as though he had been waiting for Harry for a long time.
It was Professor Quirrell.
Behind him, the Mirror of Erised silently watched everything.
"At last, you're here, Harry."
"Professor Quirrell?" Harry took the initiative. "Where's Headmaster Dumbledore? Isn't he here?"
Quirrell's expression instantly grew uneasy. He looked around, seemingly afraid that Dumbledore would arrive.
"He's bluffing, you idiot!"
A voice that chilled him to the bone rang out. The turban on Quirrell's head unwound itself, loop after loop falling away to reveal a craggy, terrifying face.
"You're still very weak, Master." Quirrell's voice grew quiet again.
"Shut up! If you hadn't bungled things and failed to get me any unicorn blood, I wouldn't be this weak!"
"It was you in the Forbidden Forest that day?" Harry thought carefully. "So the one who let the Troll in and attacked me during the match was you, Voldemort?"
"If I had attacked you, how could you have lived this long? You should be grateful I found myself a useless servant."
The flesh on Voldemort's face twitched. His gaze turned cold and arrogant, and Quirrell's body went limp for an instant. The next moment, Voldemort had taken it over.
Voldemort spread his withered hand, and Harry was pulled before him by a Summoning Charm, just like Neville's Laifu.
Voldemort held his hand loosely around Harry's neck without touching him, but the force was already enough to suffocate him.
Harry was lifted before the Mirror of Erised.
"Tell me, what do you see?"
The Harry in the mirror held a gemstone. Although Harry had never seen it before, he recognized it at a glance as the Philosopher's Stone.
The Harry in the mirror slipped the Philosopher's Stone into his trouser pocket. Just as Harry was about to rejoice that Voldemort couldn't get the stone, he felt a hard object in his own pocket.
In that instant, Harry's mind raced.
He couldn't show the slightest panic or give anything away, and he had to make up a convincing answer.
"I see my parents. I'm holding the Quidditch Cup up to show them..."
"Liar."
Voldemort's voice was filled with temptation and madness.
"It's in your pocket. I saw it. Now, give it to me-we can work together, Harry. Don't you want to see your parents? If I can make the living die, I can make the dead live."
"There is no good or evil in this world. We can stand at the top together and enjoy power and solitude."
Harry took the Philosopher's Stone out of his pocket and, right in front of Voldemort, threw it farther behind him.
He drew his wand.
"I don't want to be some Chosen One," Harry said, his gaze resolute. "I just plain hate a man without a nose."
"You court death!"
Voldemort spread his robes like a giant bat and lunged at Harry from in front of the Mirror of Erised, so fast that Harry didn't even have time to cast Incendio.
Seized by the throat, Harry was forced to stare straight into Voldemort's nauseating face.
There was evil in that face, and viciousness, and a trace of... struggle?
Quirrell's face suddenly appeared on Voldemort's. The timid teacher who only ever repeated the textbook in a quiet voice during class now spoke with astonishing volume.
"Run, Harry!"
Harry still couldn't break free. Unable to pick up his wand, he could only use both hands to pry Voldemort's fingers apart.
A miracle happened.
Where Harry touched him, Voldemort's body crumbled inch by inch as though burning. A wisp of white smoke rose, and he let out an agonized roar, only managing to preserve his body by stumbling back repeatedly.
A mass of black mist poured out of Quirrell's eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth, gradually taking solid form before charging at Harry like the Beast Ball had before.
Harry picked up his wand and was about to defend himself, only to realize he was merely a feint. Voldemort's real target was the Philosopher's Stone he had thrown behind him.
"No-"
Harry shouted, but saw a pair of hands with well-defined knuckles effortlessly pick up the Philosopher's Stone, as though picking up a pebble on the shore of the Black Lake.
Lorne strolled along leisurely. "Attempting to harm a student and stealing school property. The General Affairs Office has intervened."