"Ahhh!" Two voices shrieked in unison—one from Quirrell, the other from the grotesque face on the back of his head. The sound was high-pitched, sharp, and downright painful to hear.
Professor Quirrell doubled over, his body convulsing. His hands, now claw-like, trembled as he hovered them over his face, too afraid to touch it but unable to ignore the agony spreading across his skin.
And Voldemort? He was in even worse shape—he didn't even have hands to clutch his face! Instead, his sunken, snakelike eyes widened as he let out dry, rasping howls of frustration and pain.
Within seconds, Quirrell's normally pale and round face was covered in large, swollen red sores—blotchy, inflamed, and pulsing as if about to burst.
The effect was… horrifying.
Despite being just a green-tier card, [Neville's Failed Scabies Potion (Green)] had worked far beyond expectations. Even Voldemort wasn't spared!
His noseless, grayish face was now riddled with angry red boils, stretching from his forehead down to his chin, each one throbbing and swollen. Worst of all, a cluster of particularly large sores had formed right where his nonexistent nose should have been.
The Dark Lord now had something resembling… a clown's red nose.
Bucky the Clown, is that you? A man willing to give face to anyone who owns the Face-Fruit?
"ARGHH! DAMN IT!" Voldemort bellowed in fury, his voice echoing through the chamber.
He wasn't even in pain—he could siphon that off Quirrell—but the sheer humiliation of the moment was unbearable. The Dark Lord, once feared across the wizarding world, now reduced to this?
It was too much.
Yes, he had spent years as a wretched spirit, possessing vermin and lurking in the shadows of the Albanian forest. But this? This was different. This was public humiliation.
Enraged beyond reason, Voldemort seized control of Quirrell's body completely, overriding the man's will as he forced magic into his host.
"Avada—"
The words had barely left Voldemort's mouth before a sickly green light burst forth—not from a wand, but directly from his gaping, sore-ridden mouth.
That alone was terrifying.
Ted's eyes widened. The Dark Lord could cast the Killing Curse like that?!
If he had the ability to analyze Voldemort's stats, he'd probably see something absurd—like Killing Curse Level 9 flashing on his interface. One step further, and Voldemort would probably unlock some horrifying new evolution of the spell.
But right now? The image of Voldemort literally spitting out a Killing Curse was more disturbing than impressive.
Thankfully, Ted had been cautious. He hadn't exposed himself once, observing everything through a reflective Ice Mirror while keeping himself hidden behind a sturdy stone pillar.
The green light shot out like a death ray, colliding violently with the pillar. Despite being a solid structure, the magic ripped through it, blasting away a chunk the size of a human head and leaving deep, spreading cracks in the stone.
The entire pillar groaned under the damage, crumbling dangerously.
Quirrell staggered, his already pale face turning ghostly white. Deep wrinkles etched themselves into his skin, his body visibly weakening.
Voldemort might be able to cast spells through Quirrell, but at a terrifying cost—Quirrell's life force was the price.
The failed attack seemed to sober Voldemort slightly. He exhaled sharply, regaining some composure. Avada Kedavra wasn't the best choice here. The brat was too cautious, too well-hidden. A direct attack wouldn't work.
But Voldemort was nothing if not adaptable. And when the Dark Lord decided to kill, he had more than one way to do it.
All pretense of 'recruitment' was gone. Any talk of cherishing talent or sharing glory? Worthless. Ted had humiliated him.
And for that, he would die.
Quirrell's body lurched unnaturally as Voldemort forced him into an awkward, backward-bending stance. His fingers twisted, channeling dark magic as Voldemort snarled:
"Hell Fire!"
A roaring blaze erupted instantly, flooding the underground chamber in an explosion of flame.
The fire wasn't normal—it was dark red, writhing like a living creature, spreading unnaturally fast as it clawed at the walls and floor, creeping forward in jagged, twitching bursts.
This place, the final chamber before the Mirror of Erised, was massive—designed like an amphitheater, with the mirror at its lowest point and a ring of towering stone pillars surrounding it.
Now, those very pillars were being licked by the unnatural flames, their bases cracking under the heat.
The fire moved with intelligence. It spread erratically, shifting and surging in unpredictable patterns, like something alive.
Ted's mind raced.
This wasn't ordinary fire. This was Voldemort's fire.
A modified form of "Hell Fire," twisted through dark magic—a precursor to the Fiendfyre Curse.
Ted gritted his teeth. Fiendfyre itself wasn't actually difficult to learn. Any competent adult wizard could cast it.
But controlling it? That was another story entirely.
Fiendfyre is an extremely dangerous and volatile flame, nearly impossible for ordinary wizards to control once summoned.
It behaves like a living entity, consuming everything in its path to grow stronger. It can shift into fiery beasts, roaming freely until all fuel is exhausted.
In many instances, it can even make stone burn temporarily!
Moreover, conventional counter-spells and water are useless against Fiendfyre; in some cases, water only makes it spread faster.
This is why when Fiendfyre goes out of control, it often results in large-scale destruction. Many careless wizards have burned themselves to death using it.
Grindelwald, at his peak, once nearly reduced Paris to ashes with an advanced form of Fiendfyre.
Due to its extreme difficulty to master, Voldemort—fresh out of Hogwarts—designed an intermediate spell before attempting to wield true Fiendfyre.
This particular spell grants greater control over flames and serves as a stepping stone for mastering the Fiendfyre Curse.
The reason Voldemort didn't unleash full-scale Fiendfyre was simple—Quirrell's frail body wouldn't survive it.
If Quirrell's body failed, Fiendfyre would run rampant, potentially destroying the Philosopher's Stone in the process.
Instead, the Hell Fire was a perfect compromise—deadly, effective, and easier to command.
Thick, molten-orange flames erupted, encircling the underground chamber and sealing the area in a fiery prison. The flames crept inward, slowly shrinking the safe zone.
Fortunately, Ted's enchantments from passing through Snape's enchanted fire hadn't fully dissipated yet, sparing him from being instantly incinerated.
But there was nowhere left to hide—every pillar was now wrapped in flames.
With no other choice, he dove out from behind cover, rolling onto the stone floor, wisps of smoke trailing from his robes.
Ted kept his eyes locked on Voldemort, taking the opportunity to activate his cards: [Restore Energy (Green)] and [Forged Lucky Coin (Green)].
A surge of vitality coursed through his weary body, refilling his drained stamina.
His nearly depleted magic reserves surged back to life, restoring his ability to fight.
Wasting no time, Ted reinforced himself with the Protego Charm and an additional layer of magical protection—Mage Armor.
He remained on high alert, wand raised, sweat trickling down his forehead.
This was the Dark Lord—the most lethal wizard in existence, with unfathomable power.
One mistake could mean instant death.
However, Voldemort didn't immediately strike again. He remained in that unnerving, contorted posture—Quirrell's body arched backward, his face hidden as the grotesque visage of Voldemort spoke from the back of the man's head.
It was an image that could drive a man insane.
"Magic unlike anything I've ever seen before," he murmured, his voice dripping with curiosity.
Voldemort had immediately recognized the difference in Ted's Mage Armor.
His mastery of dark arts and spellcraft rivaled even Dumbledore's, and he could tell—this was something entirely foreign to the current magical system.
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Word count: 1355
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