John, satisfied with his preparations, cast a Level 4 Disillusionment Charm on himself, a spell not even inferior to those used by the Ministry of Magic's Aurors. He then uncorked a vial of Fireproof Potion and drank it down. The potion worked instantly, spreading through his body like a refreshing gulp of ice water. As he stepped into the flames, they licked at his skin without causing any harm. John moved forward, passing through the purple flame and then the black flame, feeling the potion's effects waning. He hastened his steps and emerged from the black flame just as the potion wore off.
Before him lay the final room, already occupied by two figures. John's muscles tensed at the sight of the tall man—it was Quirrell, and he had Harry Potter held hostage in front of a mirror.
"What is this mirror? What does it do? Help me, master!" Quirrell pleaded, his voice a mix of desperation and confusion.
"Use the boy...use the boy..." came a chilling response.
"Potter, come here!" Quirrell commanded, his tone fluctuating between asking and demanding. John, emerging from the flames, moved with light, deliberate steps. He knew it wasn't the right moment to intervene; Voldemort had yet to reveal himself.
John was intrigued by Quirrell's survival. The man seemed to have the resilience of a cockroach, yet his presence was more akin to that of a walking corpse, exuding a strong, rancid odor.
Harry, coerced by Quirrell, stood before the mirror, his mind racing. He had been mistaken about Snape, who he thought was the antagonist, while Quirrell, the perceived victim, was the true enemy. Harry wanted to protect the Philosopher's Stone but was at a loss for what to do next.
In the mirror, Harry saw his reflection wink and slip the Philosopher's Stone into his pocket—a secret known only to him. Attempting to mislead Quirrell, Harry blurted out, "I saw myself shaking hands with Dumbledore, winning the House Cup for Fendor."
Quirrell, frustrated by his failure to obtain the Stone, shoved Harry aside and paced angrily in front of the mirror. Harry, seizing the moment, pocketed the Stone and tried to escape. However, he had barely taken five steps when Quirrell, talking to himself, exclaimed, "He's lying!"
Realizing he had been deceived, Quirrell's anger intensified. Weakened from not consuming unicorn blood and facing death without Voldemort's aid, he despised Harry even more. Drawing his wand, Quirrell cast a spell that sent Harry flying to the ground.
"Hand over the Philosopher's Stone!" Quirrell demanded, his face twisted in madness.
Harry, defiant, remained silent.
"Let me talk to him. You are useless, Quirinus!" a shrill voice commanded.
"No! Master, please, I can retrieve the Stone for you!" Quirrell pleaded, panic-stricken, begging for another chance.
Voldemort, losing faith in his servant, took control of Quirrell's body. Quirrell, powerless against Voldemort's will, contorted in a grotesque manner, clutching his head and twisting it as if it were made of rubber. The foul stench intensified as Quirrell slowly unwrapped the turban from his head, revealing a horrifying face on the back of his skull. Harry had never seen anything so terrifying: a chalk-white face with glowing red eyes and slits for nostrils.
"Master, please, give me another chance," Quirrell begged weakly, his voice filled with fear and desperation, but the disgust on Voldemort's face was unmistakable. Voldemort's visage was a mere shadow, his presence chilling the air as he controlled Quirrell's body completely. Facing Harry Potter, the architect of his current form, Voldemort's voice was a sinister whisper, "Harry Potter..." Harry, paralyzed with fear, could not retreat; his legs refused to move, and the scar on his forehead throbbed with pain.
"Behold what I have been reduced to," Voldemort said, his voice dripping with malice. The Dark Lord, once destined to rule the magical world, was now nothing more than a specter, a soul condemned to wander, seeking refuge in the bodies of the weak. Yet, there were those like Quirrell, willing vessels for his dark possession. "Once I obtain the Elixir, I shall forge a new body for myself," Voldemort mused, envisioning the chaos his resurgence would bring, confident in his impending victory. With Dumbledore dispatched to the Ministry of Magic, no one stood in his way.
Holding his wand with a menacing glare, Voldemort demanded, "Now, Harry, hand over the Philosopher's Stone you've concealed in your pocket." His keen eyes had not missed the bulge in Harry's clothing; after all, in his prime, Voldemort's prowess rivaled that of Dumbledore himself. With a flick of his wand, he sliced open Harry's pocket, and the bright red stone tumbled out. As Harry lunged for it, Voldemort's twisted magic ensnared him, leaving him helpless.
Securing the Philosopher's Stone, Voldemort's twisted grin widened. He loathed Harry, the boy hailed as the savior, the one who dared to stand against him. "Your parents displayed commendable bravery," he taunted. "Your father perished fighting, while your mother sacrificed herself foolishly for you." The pain in Harry's scar intensified, triggering flashes of a haunting green light and eerie laughter from his past.
"No, Voldemort, I will defeat you!" Harry shouted defiantly.
Voldemort sneered, tracing Harry's scar with his wand, mocking, "This scar, the so-called symbol of the savior, do you truly believe you are one?" The pain was excruciating, but as Voldemort prepared to deliver the final blow, his host body, bereft of its own soul, began to decay rapidly.
Holding the Philosopher's Stone aloft, Voldemort hesitated, reminded of the night twelve years ago when he failed to kill Harry. Attempting to touch Harry, he found his magic repelled by the protective enchantments left by Harry's mother. Frustrated and realizing the futility of his efforts, Voldemort decided to flee with the Stone before Dumbledore's return.
"Don't go!" Harry's shout was in vain as Voldemort moved towards the exit. Just then, John, who had been concealed all along, sprang into action. With Voldemort within reach, John seized the moment, his sword gleaming with a silver light as he struck, a bold move against the Dark Lord.
_________
If you are tired of reading I also have this converted to an audio novel on my youtube
https://www.youtube.com/@NovelAudioForge/featured
Direct Link to playlist
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_Hg-qsW4rM&list=PLKskshYG-OcPTR4-Nw7IWFEBZm07D8pBV&ab_channel=NovelAudioForge