#89 - Hogwarts: Card System

With a strange whistling sound, two stone spheres shot through the air, heading straight for Quirrell's head.

Enhanced by a movement spell, these enchanted exercise stones weren't just for show—they were dense, solid, and packed enough force to crack a skull.

Ted had been using them for months to train his magic control, channeling energy into them daily. Now, they weren't just tools for practice; they were weapons.

But Voldemort reacted without even looking. With a single, unnatural motion of Quirrell's free hand, the two stones detonated midair with a sharp "bang!"

Ted clenched his fists. "Damn it, Voldemort! Those took me months to make!"

He didn't let the frustration slow him down. The moment the stones shattered, he was already moving onto his next attack. "Arcane Missile!"

Three glowing purple projectiles shot forward, curving around Voldemort's quickly conjured Shield Charm. The first two were dissolved instantly by the sickly green energy Voldemort released in defense, but the third found its mark, forcing him to lurch sideways and crash to the ground in an awkward sprawl.

That was all the opening Ted needed.

He had been counting on this moment. His wand flicked toward Neville, who was still frozen in place. "Magic Restraint—release!"

Ted wasn't a master of counterspells, but he knew enough to disrupt the lingering effects of the Petrificus Totalus. It worked—Neville's body, stiff as a board just moments ago, suddenly regained movement.

And Neville, realizing he was free, wasted no time. His wand and sword were gone, but he still had his fists.

With every ounce of strength, he swung a punch straight into Quirrell's face.

The impact was jarring. Quirrell's head snapped to the side, and for a second, everything seemed normal—until his skin cracked.

Not just bruised or split like a normal injury—his entire face fractured, like porcelain hit with a hammer. Small shards of dried, dead skin flaked off, revealing something even more grotesque beneath.

Neville staggered back in shock, his twelve-year-old mind struggling to process what he'd just done.

Quirrell, however, had no such hesitation. The moment he realized what was happening, he let out a bloodcurdling scream.

His fingers clawed at his face in panic, only to find that his hands were disintegrating too—fingers chipping away, skin peeling like ash in the wind.

For the first time, Quirrell completely overpowered Voldemort's influence. His sheer terror wrestled control of his body back from the Dark Lord.

"The Stone! Get the Philosopher's Stone! It will save you!" Voldemort's voice was high and desperate, screeching from the back of Quirrell's head. Even the Dark Lord was losing his composure.

And for the first time in his miserable, corrupted life, Quirrell listened to him.

With nothing left to lose, he lunged at Neville, wild eyes locked onto the boy's right trouser pocket.

Neville barely had time to react before Quirrell's skeletal hands ripped at his robes. The fabric tore, and with a sharp jingle, a blood-red gemstone tumbled to the floor.

Time seemed to stop.

Both of them lunged.

But Neville was faster.

Even as shock and horror clouded his mind, his body moved on instinct. He grabbed Quirrell's crumbling wrists, locking them in place before he could snatch the stone.

The two struggled, their strength nearly equal—one a desperate, dying servant of Voldemort, the other an eleven-year-old boy fueled by fear and determination.

For a moment, they were locked in a tug-of-war, limbs shaking with effort.

Then Quirrell's arms started breaking apart.

The decay spread up his wrists, fingers snapping off like dry twigs. He let out another scream, a pitiful, wailing sound as he watched his own body disintegrate before his eyes.

Neville gasped, recoiling in horror. But some part of him, deep inside, knew that stopping now wasn't an option.

With both hands, he reached up and raked his nails across Quirrell's face, digging in with everything he had.

It was like striking brittle glass.

Cracks webbed across Quirrell's skin, and then—like a shattered mask—his entire face began to fall apart.

Ted watched from the shadows, heart pounding. "It's working…"

Ted almost burst into laughter, a mix of relief and exhilaration. 'Quirrell, mate, you still with us, or should I start planning your funeral? Give me a sign!' he thought to himself,

Sure enough, when it came to dealing with Voldemort, you had to be the Boy-Who-Lived.

Quirrell's body was rapidly deteriorating, deep cracks forming across his skin as if he were made of brittle porcelain. Wisps of dark smoke seeped out, swirling into the air before vanishing.

The process accelerated, his form crumbling into ash piece by piece. Within seconds, all that remained was a scattered pile of dust on the cold stone floor.

The sight was downright horrifying.

Neville collapsed onto the ground, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His wide, unblinking eyes stared at his trembling hands. His heart pounded against his ribs.

"My hands… What the hell just happened?"

"Ted! Look out!" Neville suddenly shouted.

Ted had no time to hesitate. He dropped his invisibility without a second thought—it wouldn't help him now anyway.

Quirrell's body was gone, but Voldemort's face still lingered in the air, a grotesque apparition of smoke and shadow. His red eyes gleamed with malice as he launched himself at Neville.

Neville's instincts kicked in. His months of training hadn't been for nothing. With a swift motion, he rolled to the side, narrowly dodging Voldemort's ghostly charge.

As he moved, his fingers closed around a dagger—Ted's conjured weapon from earlier. Without hesitation, he lashed out, plunging it forward.

But Voldemort wasn't bound by physical form anymore. The dagger passed straight through him as if he were nothing more than mist.

Ted's mind raced. He barely had a second to act. The first spell that came to him was "Protection from Evil." He wasn't sure how well it would work, but it was all he had in the moment.

As Voldemort surged toward Neville again, a shimmering barrier of magic flickered to life around him.

The instant the dark spirit made contact, an unearthly shriek filled the chamber.

"SSSHAAAA—!" Voldemort recoiled violently, as though he'd been struck by an invisible force. His smoky form twisted in agony before being forcefully repelled.

Without a physical host, he was nothing more than a wisp of cursed magic. Weak. Desperate.

Voldemort lingered for a moment, seething with frustration.

Then, realizing all was lost, he darted toward the nearest stone wall, a streak of black smoke vanishing into the shadows.

Ted, panting, took a moment to steady himself. Then a sly grin crept onto his face. "Well, since we've already pissed him off this much… might as well make it worth it."

Muttering under his breath, he cast an identification spell, hoping to glean any information about Voldemort's weakened state.

If they were going to be lifelong enemies, he might as well do some research while he had the chance.

After all, they had just fought for their lives for what felt like days. Might as well get something useful out of it.

[Remnant Soul Voldemort, level 0, special status...]

Damn it! No useful information at all!

With Voldemort gone, the underground chamber fell eerily silent. Even the flames that once flickered ominously around the room had extinguished, leaving behind only a thick, suffocating darkness.

The only things remaining were Neville and Ted, both panting and drained, the scattered ashes of what was once Professor Quirrell, and the glistening red Sorcerer's Stone lying on the cold stone floor.

The system's voice suddenly broke the silence with an almost smug tone:

____________________

Ding~ Defeated the dark wizard, Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor: Quirinus Quirrell/Host of Voldemort. Earned 1500 experience points!"

____________________

Ted blinked. 'Wait, taking down Quirrell gives more XP than a red-tier quest reward?'

Then again, considering that Neville did most of the heavy lifting, maybe the system docked his share a little.

Still, a split of Voldemort's XP? Now that was something. Even if he was just one-seventh of his original self, a legendary wizard was still a legendary wizard.

Quirrell had at least left behind two blue-tier loot cards among his scattered remains.

Ted sighed, pretending to wipe a tear as he bent down to collect them, playing up his sorrow for effect.

"Ah, poor Professor Quirrell. He shouldn't have trusted Voldemort's lies," Ted lamented dramatically, even giving his nose a sniff for added effect.

Of course, he didn't believe his own words, but it worked wonders on Neville, who looked absolutely heartbroken.

Neville had always liked Professor Quirrell, seeing him as another shy, awkward soul just like himself.

It hurt him to learn the truth—that the man he sympathized with had been a villain all along, manipulating him and the rest of the students from the shadows.

Neville clenched his fists. 'Quirrell… give me back my kindness!'

Ted wanted to rest, but the system chimed in again:

____________________

Ding~ Quest completed: [Breaking Through the Game (Blue)].

Rewards: 300 experience, random card drop.

____________________

"Ugh," Ted groaned. Compared to the 1500 XP from Quirrell and Voldemort, the 300 felt like pocket change. Hopefully, the card reward would be worth it.

Dragging his exhausted body over to Neville, Ted plopped down beside him on the cold stone floor.

His magic reserves were completely drained, and even though his body was screaming for rest, the emptiness from overusing his magic left him feeling nauseous.

He sighed. Even with all his effort, all his planning, all his strategic plays—he'd still only been able to play support.

He'd distracted Quirrell, weakened his resolve, and kept Voldemort's attention divided, but in the end, he was never truly in control of the fight.

When it came down to it, Voldemort barely used a handful of spells, yet that alone had been enough to push Ted into a corner.

If the Dark Lord had seriously tried to kill him instead of fixating on the Philosopher's Stone, Ted doubted he would have lasted more than a few seconds.

He had even considered using one of his summoning cards, but realistically, what good would a summoned troll or a clay golem be against Voldemort?

Maybe they'd buy a few extra seconds, but that was it.

And if he did summon something that powerful, how would he even explain it?

So far, all his card-based abilities could be disguised as joke shop tricks, small magical accidents, or lucky coincidences.

But if he suddenly pulled a giant monster out of thin air, Dumbledore—or worse, the Ministry—would start asking questions.

Questions Ted wasn't ready to answer.

He had to be careful. He had secrets that needed to stay hidden.

At the very least, Dumbledore must have been monitoring everything from the start. Ted and Neville had done their best—more than anyone could have expected of two first-years.

They had fought, they had survived, and they had protected the Philosopher's Stone.

That was enough.

"Hey," Ted nudged Neville lightly, seeing him looking dazed. "You okay?"

Neville blinked a few times, as if just now processing everything that had happened. "Y-Yeah. I think so. Just… still a little shaken."

Now that the fight was over, now that he had time to process, the fear was catching up to him.

Neville let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the stone steps, trying to calm his racing heart.

There's a saying, Ted recalled: Cowards fear before danger. Fools fear in the middle of it. But the brave? The brave fear only after it's over.

Neville was definitely the latter.

"Don't worry," Ted assured him, patting him on the shoulder.

"It's over. We did it. We stopped Voldemort, protected the Philosopher's Stone, and—most importantly—we survived. We won."

As he spoke, his eyes drifted to the bright red crystal resting on the stone floor. The legendary Philosopher's Stone.

And then, as if on cue, a presence stirred in the darkness.

For the first time since the battle ended, Dumbledore stepped forward from the shadows.

His piercing blue eyes, usually so twinkling and kind, were now studying Ted and Neville with an unreadable expression.

Even when Voldemort had been throwing curses around, the old wizard hadn't looked this serious.

Ted's breath caught in his throat. How long had he been watching? Had he been there the whole time?

A sinking feeling settled in Ted's stomach.

Dumbledore… had been observing them. Evaluating them.

This old man had been here before Voldemort even arrived. He had let them fight, let them struggle, let them think they were on their own—all just to see what they would do.

That old fox!

Now, he had what he wanted: a clear understanding of Voldemort's current state, insights into the nature and character of the Boy Who Lived, and confirmation of the lingering protective magic surrounding Neville.

Dumbledore, hidden in the shadows, observed with quiet satisfaction. The success of the students—Ted and his team—gave him hope for the future.

This generation was showing great promise. However, there was something about Ted that made him wary.

Voldemort had taken notice of him, and anything that drew the Dark Lord's attention warranted extra caution. Dumbledore would have to keep a closer eye on this one.

Meanwhile, Neville watched Ted with a confused expression as his friend rummaged through his bag and pulled out a pair of second-hand dragon leather gloves.

"Ted, what are you doing?" Neville asked, frowning slightly.

Ted slid the gloves on, flexing his fingers. "Being prepared," he said simply.

With careful precision, he picked up the Philosopher's Stone, turning it over in his hands, studying it closely.

He sniffed it, inspected its texture, but stopped short of tasting it. "Probably wouldn't even leave a scratch on this thing," he muttered to himself.

Then, pulling out a small knife, he positioned it against the surface of the stone and began to scrape gently. "Just seeing if I can get a bit of powder off for research," he explained.

A familiar chime echoed in his mind:

____________________

Ding! Task Completed: [Can I Touch Your Philosopher's Stone? (Red)]

Rewards: 1200 experience points, +Lv1 Alchemy, Card [False Philosopher's Stone (Red)]

____________________

Ted grinned, feeling the rush of achievement. He glanced at Neville, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "I'm sure our dear Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn't mind a little scraping for educational purposes, right?"

In the shadows, Dumbledore's lips twitched ever so slightly. 'You go ahead and try,' he thought.

'I'd like to see if you even manage to leave a mark.'

Neville still looked puzzled. "Ted, do you want to make the Elixir of Life or something?"

Ted laughed, shaking his head. "Immortality? Nah, Neville, that's a losing game. Sure, Nicolas Flamel lived a long time thanks to this thing, but in the end, death comes for everyone—no exceptions."

He tossed the stone lightly between his hands before catching it again. "Honestly? I think three hundred years would be plenty."

Neville blinked at him, stunned. Immortality wasn't something he had ever seriously considered, but the casual way Ted dismissed it, as if three centuries were just a comfortable lifespan, was mind-boggling.

"Three hundred years?" Neville repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's a bit much, don't you think?"

Ted just grinned. "Hey, gotta leave room for a good retirement."

Neville sighed. Ted was definitely on a different level.