It was Quirrell who had been awaiting him.
"You!" gasped Harry.
Quirrell smiled, his face showing no signs of twitching.
"Me," he said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter."
"But I thought — Snape—"
"Severus?" Quirrell laughed, and it wasn't his usual quivering treble, but a cold, sharp tone. "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? Quite useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"
Harry couldn't take it in. This couldn't be true, it couldn't.
"But that day, during the Quidditch match, Snape tried to kill me!"
"No, I tried to kill you." Harry eyed him with a mix of disbelief and confusion.
"Your friend, Miss Granger, accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape. And trust me, I would have succeeded, even with Snape muttering his little counter-curse."
"Snape was trying to save me?" Harry's world shattered.
"Of course," Quirrell replied coolly. "Why do you think he wanted to referee your next match? He was attempting to ensure I didn't attempt it again. Ironically, he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do anything with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers believed Snape was trying to prevent Gryffindor from winning. He certainly made himself unpopular... and what a waste of time when, after all that, I'm going to kill you tonight."
Quirrell snapped his fingers, and ropes materialised out of thin air, winding tightly around Harry.
"I knew you were a danger to me right from the start. You're too nosy to live, Potter, especially after Halloween. For all I knew, you'd seen me coming to inspect what was guarding the Stone."
"You let the troll in?"
"Very good, Potter, yes. Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls, - you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, Snape wasn't fooled. While everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me off."
He turned back to the mirror, causing Harry to wince as he felt his scar burning.
"He rarely left me alone after that. But he doesn't understand. I'm never alone, never. Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror."
It was only then that Harry realized Quirrell was standing before a magnificent mirror. It stood tall, with an ornate gold frame and rested on two clawed feet. An inscription was carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
"This mirror holds the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured, running his fingers along the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to create something like this... but he's in London... I'll be far away by the time he returns..."
All Harry could think to do was to keep Quirrell talking, preventing him from becoming too engrossed in the mirror.
"I saw you and Snape in the forest," he blurted out and then paused, the Rider's words from that evening echoing in his mind.
"Yes," said Quirrell idly, strolling around the mirror to examine its back. "By that time, he was onto me, trying to determine how far I had progressed. He had suspicions from the beginning. He attempted to frighten me, as if he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side..."
Quirrell emerged from behind the mirror and gazed greedily into it.
"I see the Stone... I am presenting it to my master... but where is it?"
Harry struggled against the ropes that bound him, but they remained unyielding. He attempted to channel his magic, drawing on what the Rider had taught him about wandless magic, but he needed more time for that. He had to stall for time.
"But Snape always seemed to despise me so much."
"Oh, he does," said Quirrell casually, "indeed, he does. He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn't you know? They detested each other. But he never wished you dead."
"But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought Snape was threatening you..."
For the first time, a flicker of fear passed across Quirrell's face.
"Sometimes," he admitted, "I find it difficult to follow my master's instructions. He is a great wizard - and I am weak-"
"You mean he was there in the classroom with you?" Harry gasped.
"He is with me wherever I go," Quirrell said quietly. "I met him during my travels around the world. I was a foolish young man back then, filled with naïve ideas of good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how mistaken I was. There is no good and evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it... Since then, I have served him faithfully, though I have let him down on numerous occasions. He has to be harsh with me." Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts, he was greatly displeased. He punished me... decided to keep a closer eye on me..."
Quirrell's voice trailed off, and Harry was recollecting his visit to Diagon Alley – how could he have been so stupid? He had seen Quirrell there that very day, even shaking hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron.
Quirrell cursed under his breath.
"I don't understand... is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"
As Harry continued to concentrate on gathering his magic, his mind raced.
I must find the Stone before Quirrell, Harry thought, more than anything else in the world at this moment. Should I attack? I may not have any other choice. Running isn't an option; he will probably chase me.
He attempted to shift to the left, but the ropes around his ankles were too tight, causing him to trip and fall. Quirrell paid him no mind; he was still muttering to himself.
"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"
To Harry's horror, an inhuman voice responded. He looked around, bewildered, trying to discern the source of the voice, only to realise it was emanating from Quirrell himself.
"Use the boy... Use the boy..."
Quirrell suddenly turned towards Harry.
"Yes - Potter - come here."
He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry loosened and fell away. Harry cautiously rose to his feet.
"Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."
Harry walked towards the mirror, his mind racing.
I have to lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that's all.
Quirrell moved in closely behind him. Harry could smell the peculiar odor that seemed to emanate from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror, and then cautiously reopened them.
He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stifle a scream. He attempted to spin around but collided with Quirrell, who caught him. His heart was pounding harder than when his broomstick had nearly thrown him off, for in the mirror, he had not only seen himself but a whole crowd of people standing right behind him.
However, aside from Quirrell, the chamber was empty.
"What is it?" Quirrell inquired, turning Harry back toward the mirror. "What do you see?"
Harry looked panicked at Quirrell, then back at the mirror.
This time, as Harry looked into the mirror, he first saw his reflection, pale and apprehensive. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him, reached into its pocket, and withdrew a blood-red stone. It winked, returning the Stone to its pocket, and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his actual pocket. Incredibly, he had acquired the Stone.
"Well?" Quirrell demanded impatiently. "What do you see?"
Harry steeled himself and held onto his magic, which he somehow didn't lose hold on during his scare, determined not to reveal that he received the Stone.
Harry was so close to the mirror that his nose was nearly touching his reflection.
"Mom?" he whispered. "Dad?"
Quirrell cursed once more.
"Get out of the way," he ordered, shoving Harry aside. He could feel the Stone against his leg. Should he make a run for it?
Instead of fleeing, Harry swiftly retrieved his wand.
"Flipendo!" he incanted, directing the spell at Quirrell.
Quirrell tumbled to the ground, the mirror shattering into pieces upon impact.
Harry tried to sprint away, but Quirrell caught up with him in just a few paces.
He seized Harry by the collar and whirled him around.
"That was foolish," he snarled. "You shouldn't have done that."
Harry let out a desperate yelp and clamped his eyes shut.
"Tell me the truth! What did you see?!" Quirrell shouted angrily as he began to shake Harry.
A high, eerie voice chimed in.
"Let me speak to him... face-to-face..."
"Master," gasped Quirrell in shock, "you are not strong enough!" He released Harry, quickly backing away.
"I have strength enough... for this..."
Harry felt as though Devil's Snare had ensnared him, immobilising his every muscle. He watched, petrified, as Quirrell reached up and began to unwind his turban. What was happening? The turban dropped to the ground, and Quirrell's head appeared strangely small without it. Then he began to turn slowly on the spot.
Harry wanted to scream, but no sound would come out. His magic, once firmly in his grasp, had escaped him.
Where the back of Quirrell's head should have been, there was a face—the most horrifying face Harry had ever seen. It was pallid, with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, resembling a snake.
"Harry Potter...," it whispered.
Harry attempted to take a step backward, but his legs remained frozen. The Rider's words about "tainted magic" were echoing in his head, now making dreadful sense.
"We meet again."
Recognising the identity of the face, Harry whispered, "Voldemort."
"Yes. See what I have become?" the face said. "See what I must do to survive? Live off another, a mere parasite. Mere shadow and vapor... I have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds... Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest... He would have killed you... but that thing showed up. And the centaurs... stupid beasts... they had magic arrows... preventing me from getting more.
But once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own... find out who gave them that..."
Suddenly, a feeling surged back into Harry's legs, and he turned and sprinted up the stairs.
Quirrell snapped his fingers, conjuring fire walls that blocked all the exits, trapping Harry in the room.
"Don't be a fool," the face snarled. "It's better to save your own life and join me... or you'll meet the same end as your parents... They died begging me for mercy..."
"LIAR!" Harry shouted suddenly.
Quirrell began walking backward toward him, ensuring that Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now smiling.
Harry leaped toward the flames and dodged to the side just as a yellowish spell splashed against the wall. He wasn't able to dodge the next spell, though, and he tumbled painfully to the ground, once again ensnared in ropes.
He could swear he heard familiar bubbling and growling sounds coming from behind the blazing walls.
The terrifying face loomed over him, staring down. Harry was too terrified to react.
"Now... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"
So he knew. Harry shook his head frantically.
"How touching..." it hissed. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your parents were brave... I killed your father first, and he put up a courageous fight... but your mother needn't have died... she was trying to protect you... Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."
Then it gave another horrendous smile. It leaned down awkwardly on one knee, looming over Harry with one hand on the floor as it bent backward, its face the only thing Harry could focus on.
Desperate, Harry gathered all his willpower and focused on the magic he had lost control of. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths to calm himself and steady his nerves.
A surge of determination coursed through Harry's veins as he channelled his fledgling magical energy. He imagined a flicker of light, a tiny spark of power within himself. To his surprise, a faint warmth radiated from his fingertips, and a soft glow enveloped his palm.
Quirrell reached for the Stone in his pocket.
"Finally, now—"
The ropes binding him began to loosen, just enough for him to wriggle free.
Quirrell's eyes widened in astonishment as Harry broke free from his bonds. Sensing an opportunity, Harry summoned all his bravery and faced Quirrell, his voice quivering but determined. "I won't let you win," he declared.
Quirrell, momentarily taken aback, lunged at Harry, his hands reaching out to grab him. But Harry, driven by a surge of adrenaline and a fierce desire to protect himself, instinctively dodged the grasp, narrowly avoiding Quirrell's clutches.
In that fleeting moment, Harry's touch brushed against Quirrell's arm. A jolt of pain surged through Harry's hand, his young and inexperienced magic unintentionally reacting to the dark presence within Quirrell.
Startled by the sudden burning sensation, Quirrell recoiled, his face contorting in agony. The pain, however brief, bought Harry a precious moment to gather his thoughts.
But the strain of his actions and the overwhelming odds weighed heavily on Harry's fragile frame. Exhaustion washed over him, and his vision blurred as he fought to maintain consciousness.
It was a fight he lost, but not before he could swear he heard a crash and screeching coming from the fire walls. Stepping through them dramatically, menacingly, like a demon from nightmares or hell, was an imposing figure in dark, glistening armour. It wore a frightening, animalistic, lizard-like helmet and visor, hiding its face.
And behind it, another shape emerged, this one of a dragon.
