"You are indeed a genius, Ted. I will give you one last chance—don't waste my patience!" Voldemort's cold, menacing voice echoed through the chamber.
For someone who had terrorized the wizarding world for decades, second chances weren't exactly his style.
Ted, however, had no intention of surrendering. Besides, what kind of future could he possibly have under a half-formed Dark Lord? And there was always the chance that Dumbledore was watching.
He forced a smirk, trying to mask his exhaustion. "Quite the dramatic offer, Dark Lord. But surely you don't think your plan is flawless, do you?"
Voldemort remained silent, but his slit-like eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Ted pressed on, grinning despite the tension. "You see, I think Professor Quirrell had second thoughts. Maybe he regretted everything after the school year started. Maybe he even reached out to Dumbledore for help—on Halloween."
Voldemort's silence deepened, and Quirrell let out a strangled gasp.
"N-No! I didn't! Master, don't listen to him! I would never betray you! My life is yours—please, master, believe me!" Quirrell wailed, his voice thick with desperation.
He struggled, but Voldemort still had control over most of his body. Only his tear-streaked face remained his own.
He knew his fate was sealed. He could feel his life force being drained away, and it wouldn't be long before he was nothing more than a husk.
Voldemort's expression remained unreadable, but suspicion lingered in his voice. He trusted no one, least of all a weak-willed host.
And when he thought back to Quirrell's behavior—the awkward excuses, the exaggerated performances—it did seem like he had overplayed his hand. Dumbledore knew him well. Had he really thought such a drastic change wouldn't draw attention?
Still, Voldemort had no patience for these thoughts. He had more pressing matters at hand. "Enough nonsense! Tell me your choice—now!"
Ted could tell his attempt to stall had failed. He sighed and shook his head. "Come on, Voldemort. Do you really believe Dumbledore is oblivious? That he hasn't figured things out? Quirrell's odd behavior, the unicorn blood in the Forbidden Forest… you don't think he knows? How much time do you really have?"
Voldemort's expression didn't change, but his tone grew even icier. "So you are rejecting my generous offer, then?"
Ted didn't respond.
Because in that moment—he vanished.
A Disillusionment Charm? No… Voldemort immediately realized this was something different.
"Invisibility magic?! No… this is no ordinary spell! Reveal yourself, boy!" Voldemort snarled, slashing his wand through the air. A pulse of dark magic rippled outward, scanning the chamber for any sign of Ted.
The detection spell surged through the room, briefly distorting the air. Yet—nothing. Ted remained hidden.
Voldemort's frustration grew. "Homenum Revelio! Aparecium! Specialis Revelio!" he barked, firing off a chain of revealing spells.
Nothing.
But Quirrell—his host—was another story.
The fragile professor crumpled to his knees, his body failing under the strain. "M-Master, p-please! I—I c-can't…!" he whimpered, his voice breaking.
Quirrell's face had become gaunt, the flesh sagging like melted wax. His once smooth skin had turned deathly pale—paler than even Voldemort himself. Dark age spots spread across his cheeks and neck, signs of his body rapidly deteriorating.
And all the while, Ted held his breath.
He was still in the room, but now concealed beneath Harley's Invisibility Cloak.
The Disillusionment Charm had failed instantly—Voldemort had cracked it in mere seconds.
But in that brief window of time, Ted had slipped the cloak over himself.
It had been Harley's idea.
When Ted had gone to help Neville break through the enchanted fire, Harley had realized she couldn't fight, but she could help in another way.
So she had pressed the cloak into Ted's hands.
"Take it," she had whispered. "It might save your life."
And it had.
Now, even Voldemort, with all his dark magic, couldn't see him.
None of Voldemort's spells could pierce the magic of the Invisibility Cloak, one of the fabled Deathly Hallows.
If he had his own body, if he were restored to his prime, perhaps even the Cloak wouldn't be enough to keep Ted hidden. After all, Dumbledore had been able to sense Harley under it in the past. Surely Voldemort wouldn't be far behind in that ability.
But Dumbledore had time to prepare. Before returning the Cloak to Harley, he had studied it for over a decade, his obsession with the Hallows fueled by both his past with Grindelwald and the guilt over his sister's tragic fate.
Deep down, he had once wished to undo the past—to bring her back.
Now, however, Voldemort was a mere fragment of himself. He was weak. And in this pitiful state, not even his dark magic could pierce the Cloak's enchantment.
The Dark Lord, trapped in Quirrell's body, lacked even his own five senses.
He relied entirely on his host, sharing his vision, but unable to hear, smell, or feel anything beyond what Quirrell experienced.
Without his own physical form, he had no chance of seeing through the Cloak's magic.
The flames crackled, licking at the ancient stone pillars, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the chamber.
Voldemort's slitted gaze darted across the room, searching, but he saw nothing beyond the firelight and ruined stone. And then there was Quirrell—
"Master, I-I'm dying! I can't— I can't hold on! Please, Master!" Quirrell wailed, his voice breaking with sheer desperation.
His once neatly kept robes now hung loosely off his skeletal frame. His skin, once pale, had gone waxy and thin, sagging like melting candle wax. He lay sprawled on the floor, too weak to even kneel, sobbing and whimpering like a frightened child.
Voldemort seethed. His fury burned hotter than the cursed flames around them—at Ted, at Quirrell's pathetic weakness, and most of all, at his own wretched state.
As Quirrell's body collapsed further, Voldemort's awareness sank with him.
His connection to the physical world was slipping. His vision tilted, his borrowed limbs refusing to support him.
He was on the verge of sinking to the floor, barely holding himself up with trembling hands.
The mighty Dark Lord of legend, reduced to this—a parasite clinging to a host too feeble to survive. He was little more than a shadow, a ghost that couldn't even stand.
He had promised Quirrell power. He had promised him knowledge, a path to greatness.
Now he was discarding him like garbage.
But Voldemort did not let his rage consume him. No, if there was one thing he had mastered in those long, bitter years of exile, it was patience.
This was not the time for wrath. Nor was it the time for despair.
There was still one thing that mattered—the Philosopher's Stone.
With it, none of this would matter. He would have a body again. Strength. Immortality.
All he needed was the Stone. There could be no delay.
Voldemort was growing desperate.
Ted had been right—Dumbledore might already be onto them. Time was slipping away, and every second wasted brought the old wizard closer. There was no choice now. He had to get the Sorcerer's Stone and escape immediately.
"Quirrell, pull yourself together! Grab Longbottom and make him look in the mirror! The Philosopher's Stone is inside it—hurry!" Voldemort's voice was a low, venomous hiss, barely containing his fury.
But Professor Quirrell was barely responsive. His body had deteriorated so much that he looked like a deflated husk, barely able to move, let alone stand.
Voldemort snarled, his patience vanishing. "You useless fool! Move!"
He no longer cared for politeness, nor for Quirrell's well-being. In the Albanian forest, he had played the role of a whispering benefactor, enticing the weak-willed professor into servitude. But now, Quirrell had served his purpose. He was disposable.
Quirrell's will had shattered, and a part of him was ready to surrender—to simply let go and accept his fate. But Voldemort wasn't about to allow that.
A sudden, excruciating pain shot through Quirrell's skull as Voldemort's spectral face twisted violently at the back of his head. The flesh where their forms merged rippled and tore slightly.
"Agh! Master! No! I'll do it! I'll do it!" Quirrell wailed, scrambling to his feet in terror.
Tears streamed down his gaunt face as he staggered forward, his frail hands clutching Neville by the collar and yanking him up.
"Look into the mirror!" Quirrell ordered, though his voice lacked its former authority. It was filled with dread and desperation.
Neville was paralyzed, his body refusing to move. All he could do was stare into the Mirror of Erised before him, his mind racing with frantic thoughts.
No Philosopher's Stone. No Philosopher's Stone. Voldemort can't get it. He can't get it!
He repeated it like a mantra, but the more he feared something, the more likely it was to happen.
In the reflection, Neville didn't see his parents as he had before. Instead, he saw… himself. Smiling. Victorious.
The Neville in the mirror held a shimmering, irregular red stone in his palm. He smirked slightly before slipping it into his right trouser pocket, then patted it once, as if confirming it was there. His mirrored self then locked eyes with him—and winked.
At that moment, Neville's right pocket grew heavier.
His stomach dropped. The Philosopher's Stone was in his pocket.
Voldemort had been right. The stone had been hidden inside the Mirror of Erised, and Dumbledore had placed an enchantment on it—only someone who wanted to protect the stone rather than use it could retrieve it.
It was an ingenious safeguard.
But now… Voldemort had found a way around it.
From his hiding place beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Ted silently chugged a potion. His magic reserves had been running low—this was his last blue potion, painstakingly brewed with ingredients "borrowed" from Snape's private stores. Hermione had been the only reason he had succeeded in making even three bottles.
He was going to need every drop of it.
Meanwhile, Quirrell's grip tightened on Neville's collar as he shook him violently. "Tell me! Where is the Philosopher's Stone?!"
"There is no stone!" Neville gasped, still trying to stall for time.
"Liar! Tell me the truth!" Quirrell was losing what little composure he had left. His body was withering away, and the realization of his impending death had completely shattered his mind.
"I didn't see it!" Neville lied, voice shaking. "I—I just saw myself winning the House Cup for Gryffindor!"
Voldemort let out a low, amused hiss. "He's lying. Turn me to face him."
Quirrell had no choice but to obey.
As he turned, Neville finally saw Voldemort's ghastly visage up close. The sight made his blood turn to ice.
A pale, snake-like face was grotesquely fused to the back of Quirrell's skull, devoid of a nose, its crimson eyes burning with hatred and malice.
This was the monster who had murdered his parents.
Neville clenched his fists and tried to glare defiantly at him.
But it was useless. Voldemort was inside his head now, his mind slicing through Neville's thoughts like a dagger through parchment.
Neville had nowhere to hide.
During the brief moment Neville recoiled from Voldemort's grotesque face, the Dark Lord saw what he needed.
"Oh… I've found it," Voldemort hissed, excitement creeping into his voice. "It's in his right trouser pocket! The Philosopher's Stone is in his pocket!"
Neville's eyes widened in horror. "No! No!" he shouted, but his body remained frozen, stiff under the magic holding him in place.
Quirrell, under Voldemort's control, reached forward, his trembling hand moving toward Neville's pocket.
Hidden in the shadows beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Ted's heart pounded. If Voldemort got the stone, he'd be one step closer to full resurrection. Where the hell was Dumbledore?!
But the headmaster wasn't here. There was no sign of help coming.
Ted had to act now.
"Hey! Professor Quirrell! Stop!" Ted's voice rang out from the darkness, sharp and clear. "Are you really going to help him? Can't you see he's going to kill you? He doesn't care about you!"
Quirrell's reaching hand froze midair. His entire body shuddered.
Ted pressed on, pouring urgency into his words. "You still have a chance! Dumbledore can save you, but only if you stop now!"
"Think!" he added, pointing two of his index finger in his head,
Voldemort's fury was palpable. "Fool! Ignore him! Don't resist me! Get the stone!"
Ted smirked under his cloak. "Look at that. Even now, he doesn't care about you—only the stone. You're just a tool to him, a disposable tool."
Sweat dripped down Quirrell's forehead. His breathing became ragged. His mind was spinning, trying to process the impossible choice before him.
Voldemort's tone shifted, suddenly smooth, persuasive. "Quirrell… once I have the Philosopher's Stone, I will be reborn. And you—" His voice slithered like a serpent. "You will be my most powerful servant. You will not die."
But Voldemort was panicking. Ted could feel it. He had struck a nerve. Quirrell was hesitating.
"When he forced you to drink unicorn blood, did he care if you survived?" Ted shouted, fanning the flames of doubt. "You're just a means to an end! The only one who can save you now is Dumbledore! This is your last chance!"
Rage erupted from Voldemort.
'Damn it! Damn this boy!'
He could feel Quirrell's hesitation. He didn't have time for this!
Voldemort dug his spectral claws into Quirrell's mind, overriding his weak resistance and forcing his body to move.
A violent surge of dark magic crackled through Quirrell's form as Voldemort seized full control. His outstretched hand lunged for Neville's pocket.
And then—
"AAAAAHHHHHH!"
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the chamber.
Quirrell's entire body convulsed violently. His hand twisted unnaturally, fingers curling and spasming as if burned. His flesh sizzled upon contact with Neville's robe, his whole body trembling like a marionette with cut strings.
His face contorted into an agonized grimace, eyes rolling back, saliva dripping from his gaping mouth. It was as if Voldemort's own possession was breaking him apart from the inside.
Ted knew this was it.
He couldn't just talk his way out now.
With a sharp movement, he pulled two small orbs from his pocket.
Still hidden in the shadows, he hurled them into the chaos.
_______________________________
Word count: 2356
Comment below on what you think so far.
Also, if you're interested in reading some advanced chapters, you can support me on my patreon.
patreon.com/Rai_jin
Thanks for reading guys.