Chapter 25: What Do You See?

The chamber was eerily silent. The only sound was the soft flicker of torchlight reflecting off the stone walls.

Harry stepped forward cautiously, his heart pounding in his ears as he took in the nearly empty room. The only object of interest stood in the center—a massive, ornate mirror. It was old, its gilded frame shimmering in the dim light, and at the top, inscribed in curling golden letters, was a message Harry couldn't quite decipher.

But Harry barely noticed the mirror. His eyes were locked on the man standing before it.

Professor Quirrell.

Harry's stomach twisted in confusion. Not Snape? He had expected Snape to be here too, had been so sure it was him. But no—the defense professor stood there, his posture relaxed, his face devoid of the nervous twitch and stutter that had defined him all year.

"You?" Harry breathed. His mind was struggling to catch up.

Quirrell turned at the sound of his voice, his expression one of mild annoyance. "Surprised, Potter?"

Harry's eyes darted around the room. There was no sign of the Stone. No sign of Voldemort. And yet, something felt wrong. The air was too still, too cold.

"I thought… we thought it was Snape," Harry admitted, watching Quirrell's every move.

Quirrell smirked. "Yes, that seems to be the general assumption, doesn't it? Snape, the brooding, menacing professor. But no, Snape was always getting in my way."

Harry's breath caught. "What?"

Quirrell began to pace, his tone conversational but laced with irritation. "All year, your dear Professor Snape kept an annoyingly close watch on me. He suspected me from the very start, constantly interfering, constantly meddling. Do you have any idea how frustrating that was? Always there, watching, lurking, trying to protect you from me." He let out a soft chuckle. "I suppose he was trying to make up for the past."

Harry was reeling. Snape had been trying to protect him? His mind flashed back to the Quidditch match, to Snape muttering under his breath, to Hermione setting his robes on fire. Had Snape really been the reason he hadn't fallen to his death?

But the pieces still weren't adding up.

"Then… who was cursing me during the match?" Harry asked.

Quirrell turned fully to face him, a slow smile spreading across his pale face. "Why, me, of course."

Harry felt his stomach drop.

"I had to make it seem like an accident," Quirrell continued nonchalantly. "I would have succeeded, too, if not for that insufferable girl knocking me over." His lip curled at the memory of Hermione's interference. "I was forced to break my eye contact, and you survived. How… unfortunate."

Harry clenched his fists. His mind was spinning. The enemy had been right in front of them all along, and they hadn't seen it.

"Why?" he demanded.

A soft whisper cut through the room. Low. Raspy.

"Because I ordered him to."

Harry's breath stilled. He hadn't seen anyone else in the room. But he felt it. A presence, something creeping through the air like a shadow reaching for him.

Quirrell didn't react to the voice, but Harry noticed the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly.

"My master is… impatient," Quirrell said, his voice quieter now, as if speaking to someone unseen. "He is tired of waiting. He believes the Mirror will show me how to find the Stone."

Harry's gaze flicked to the Mirror of Erised.

"Step forward, boy."

Harry's entire body seized at the sound of the voice. It wasn't Quirrell speaking.

It was him.

Voldemort.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The voice wasn't coming from anywhere specific, yet it felt as if it were pressing in from all sides.

Harry swallowed hard. He had no choice. He stepped toward the mirror.

As he stared into its surface, he braced himself, expecting to see his parents—he had heard what the Mirror did, how it showed one's deepest desire.

But what he saw wasn't his parents.

It was himself—older, taller. His features were sharper, his frame more filled out. But it was unmistakably him.

And beside him—Daphne.

She was standing close, her hand resting over his, fingers interlaced. Her head resting on his shoulder, They looked happy. At peace.

They weren't at Hogwarts. They were somewhere else—home.

For the briefest moment, Harry forgot where he was.

Then, in the reflection, his older self reached into his pocket. His fingers curled around something.

Harry gasped as a sudden weight settled into his real pocket.

The Stone.

He had it.

His heart thundered in his chest, but he forced himself to school his expression, to not react.

Quirrell's reflection was frowning, frustrated. He hadn't seen it.

"What do you see?" Quirrell demanded, stepping closer.

Harry forced himself to lie. "Just… myself. Winning the House Cup."

The whispering voice let out a soft hiss.

"He lies."

Quirrell whirled toward him, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me the truth, boy!"

Harry took a step back. "I—I don't know. Just myself, that's all."

"Let me speak to him."

Quirrell hesitated. Then, to Harry's horror, he reached up and began unraveling his turban.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face.

The fabric fell away, revealing something… wrong.

The back of Quirrell's head was not a head at all.

It was a face.

Pale. Snakelike.

And its red eyes burned into Harry with something deeper than hatred.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort rasped. "We meet again."

The pain in Harry's scar was instant.

He stumbled back, clutching his forehead.

Voldemort watched him. "Why do you resist me?" he asked softly. "I could bring them back. Your parents. You could see them again."

Harry's breath was ragged. He squeezed his eyes shut. "You're a liar."

Voldemort's expression twisted. "Seize him!"

Quirrell lunged—his hands grasped Harry's arm—

—and burned.

Quirrell screamed in agony, jerking away, his skin blistering where it had touched Harry.

Harry barely had time to register what had happened before Quirrell lunged again.

Harry grabbed his face—Quirrell shrieked, writhing in pain.

Voldemort howled in fury.

Harry pushed harder.

Quirrell rolled away from Harry, screaming his skin burned and flaking off of him. He looked back at Harry, taking a step before he began to crumble and collapse into dust. As Quirrell disintegrated a black shadow exploded out of his head.

The Shadow turned, and with a ear shattering scream flew through Harry's chest and out of the chamber.

Harrys pain surged, his scar splitting his mind open with agony—

The world blurred—

And then, darkness.