Harry Potter : Bloodraven-Chapter 110: Twilight of the Parasite (VI) (CH - 130)

"I have wanted to meet you properly for a long time, Harry Potter," Quirrell said with a sneer watching Harry's face fall as if he had just been hit with a crushing dose of reality.

"That's right, Potter. It was me... not Severus Snape." Quirrell's lips curled into a slow, twisted grin. "I am the one who let the monsters in on Halloween... and I was the one who cursed your broom during the Quidditch match."

His twisted expression darkened even further. "You wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for that old fool who always likes to interfere..." His gaze turned cold. "He thinks I don't notice, but I do. I know it was him who attacked me during the Quidditch match."

Harry furrowed his brows, thinking. He still haven't understood why this DADA professor of his was showing such malice toward him, but when he heard the words "Quidditch" and "curse," a memory came to his mind—the feeling of helplessness during the first round of the inter-school Quidditch match.

He had always thought it was a fault with his broom, but now it seemed he had been wrong.

"So it was you... messing with my broom... and it was not a fault with my broom..." he asked, seeking clarification.

Quirrell let out a sharp, almost maniacal laugh. "Yes! And if it weren't for that meddling fool, you would have been nothing but a smear on the pitch!"

His face changed again, this time contorting with fury. His nostrils flared, his body tightened, and one of his hands moved unconsciously toward his lower back, remembering the painful memory.

---

Meanwhile, hidden within the invisible barrier, Dumbledore cast a sideways glance at Maverick, raising an eyebrow—as if expecting an explanation. Obviously, the headmaster had no idea what Quirrell was talking about—but he had a feeling that the person who did was standing right beside him.

And Maverick noticed the look Dumbledore was giving him, but there was no way he would admit it. After all, the so-called "attack" on Quirrell didn't fit very well with his image.

Absolutely not! He had no part in it.

So, he cleared his throat, gave a light cough, and acted as if he hadn't noticed a thing.

---

Back with Harry, his grip on his wand tightened as he watched Quirrell's fanatical expression twist even further.

But then, just as suddenly as the rage had appeared, it vanished, as if it had never been there in the first place. Harry watched, perplexed, as Quirrell's head tilted slightly, as though he were listening to something—or someone.

A moment later, Quirrell turned toward the golden-framed mirror. His eyes darted across the glass, scanning his own reflection, frustration settling deeper onto his face with each passing second.

"Yes, Master," Quirrell was then seen muttering something under his breath. "I understand."

Harry couldn't make sense of Quirrell's actions. One moment, he was lashing out at him, then at Dumbledore, and now he seemed to be talking to himself.

The mad professor whirled back to face him again, and then narrowed his eyes dangerously.

Harry flinched.

"Come here, boy," Quirrell demanded impatiently.

Harry didn't move. His legs felt rooted to the spot, every instinct screaming at him not to obey.

But Quirrell doesn't seem to care. Under Harry's horrified gaze Quirrell flicked his wand at him, "Carpe Retractum!"

Harry had no time to react when a shimmering rope of magical energy came and coiled tightly around his torso. He yelped, because the next moment his body got yanked forward, dragged unwillingly, until he stood right beside the terrifying professor.

"Look," Quirrell ordered pointing at the large mirror. "Tell me what you see."

Harry hesitated. His breathing was unsteady, but under Quirrell's piercing gaze, he had no choice but to obey. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to the glass.

At first, he saw only his own reflection, staring back at him with wide, frightened eyes. Then, the image changed. His reflection reached into its pocket and pulled out a deep red stone, gleaming like a polished ruby. The mirror-Harry looked at him directly, then gave him a small nod before slipping the stone back into his pocket.

Harry's breath caught. He had never seen the Sorcerer's Stone before, but somehow, he knew that was it. And at the same moment, he felt a strange weight in his real pocket. His hand twitched, then glanced down—there, under his robes, was a bulge that hadn't been there before.

Quirrell's voice snapped him back to reality. "What do you see?"

Harry's mind raced. The Gryffindor in him seemed to calm his frantic heart, as if a bravery buff had been applied. He made up his mind—he couldn't let Quirrell know the truth. He had to think of something fast. Summoning all the courage he could muster, he forced himself to smile.

"I see myself," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "holding the Inter-School Quidditch Cup. My team's around me, and everyone's cheering."

But his attempt at lying was pitiful at best, easily seen through by Quirrell, not to mention the creature latched to the back of his head.

"Liar." Quirrell spat.

Harry swallowed hard, thinking this was it. He was scared—brave, but scared.

But once again, Quirrell seemed to have lost his focus. His eyes were glazing over slightly as if listening to something only he could hear.

"Yes, Master," Quirrell muttered reluctantly before turning back to the mirror. And as he did, Harry took a cautious step backward. Then another.

Voldemort's voice hissed in Quirrell's mind. "Let me speak to the boy."

Quirrell flinched. "Master... in your current state, you are not strong enough—"

"Enough!" Voldemort's voice thundered through inside his head. "I am still stronger than a mere child!"

Quirrell hesitated, then slowly raised his hands. With careful, deliberate movements, he unwrapped the purple turban coiled around his head. Layer by layer, the fabric unraveled, revealing the pale skin beneath.

Harry had stopped moving. He was frozen in place, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and horror.

The last strip of fabric fell away, and Quirrell turned to face him.

Harry's stomach twisted.

There, on the reflection of Quirrell's bald head in the mirror, Harry saw a face.

It was pale, almost ghostly white, stretched thin over the skull. The eyes were blood-red, narrow and gleaming with a terrible light. Slitted nostrils flared as if testing the air. A thin-lipped mouth curled into a cruel sneer.

Harry couldn't breathe.

"Harry Potter... we meet at last."

The voice did not come from Quirrell's mouth. It came from the hideous face behind him.

Harry took a shaky breath. "W-what are you?"

"I am... the one you claimed to have destroyed eleven years ago," the voice hissed. "The reason why people call you the Boy Who Lived."

It took Harry a moment to process what was being said before his pupils dilated in realization.

"Y-you... you..." Harry stammered, his voice faltering as the truth finally hit him. "Are you Voldemort?"

The voice that replied was low and hissing, filled with malice, but Harry only saw the reflection of the face in the mirror.

"Yes," Voldemort hissed filled with malice. "You see what I have become. What I must do to survive because of what happened that night."

Harry's heart skipped a beat as he realized which night Voldemort was referring to. But then, his grip on his wand tightened, and a surge of emotions flooded his chest.

"You... killed my parents!" Harry practically shouted, pointing his wand at Quirrell.

Voldemort's sinister chuckle filled the air, cold and mocking.

"Ah, yes. I recognize that look. Bravery... it seems to run in your family," Voldemort hissed, a dark sneer curling on his lips. "But what is bravery against absolute power? It didn't save your parents. It only brought them to me. And now, here you are, Harry Potter... where has it led you? Back to me."

"Why aren't you dead?" Harry asked, ignoring Voldemort's cryptic sarcasm.

Voldemort's laugh echoed through the room. It sounded cruel and hollow.

"Death cannot take my life," he hissed. "I have overcome it."

Harry didn't know where he got the courage in his current situation. Without thinking, he retorted almost immediately.

"You look more like a ghost than alive..."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, and a tense silence filled the room before the eerie smile returned to the dark lord's face.

"Not for long," he replied darkly. "There is something in this very room that can grant me a body of my own."

Harry's heart pounded. The Sorcerer's Stone. The thing Voldemort needed.

As Quirrell stretched out his hand toward Harry, Voldemort's voice echoed in his mind.

"Give me the stone, boy."

Harry didn't know what came over him. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, and in an instant, he turned on his heel and sprinted toward the entrance.

"Foolish," Voldemort hissed, and Quirrell immediately raised his wand and swung it.

A burst of orange flame erupted across the entrance, blocking Harry's path just as he was about to reach it.

His heart raced. The entrance was completely blocked. There was no other choice now. He had to face this demon. His grip on his wand tightened as he turned back once again, pointing it directly at Quirrell.

Voldemort's cruel, mocking laugh echoed through the room. To him, whether this little freshman had a wand or not meant nothing.

Quirrell also pointed his wand at Harry, and one might have thought they were about to start a duel.

"Kill him," Voldemort hissed maniacally, giving the order telepathically to his slave. It was indeed an amusing sight, seeing the little boy point his wand at him. But he had no time for games. "Get me the stone, now!"

Quirrell obeyed without hesitation. His lips curled into a creepy smirk, and the tip of his wand began to glow an eerie shade of green.

As for Harry, though his wand was raised and ready, he struggled to think clearly. Nearly a year had passed since he first started learning magic, and he had indeed picked up a few spells. But the overwhelming tension of the situation clouded his mind, making it difficult to focus.

"Farewell, Harry Potter," Quirrell's eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "The Boy Who Died."

Avada Kedavra!

The ominous chant rang through the air, and Harry still couldn't think of a single spell out of the few he knew that would work. In the end, all he could do was stand frozen, perhaps close his eyes.

But just as the thought crossed his mind, he brushed it off and hardened his expression. His mother and father had died bravely trying to protect him, so why would he cower and close his eyes now?

And two figures, hidden behind an invisible barrier, watched the scene unfold and couldn't help but feel impressed. This eleven-year-old boy stared right at the killing curse in defiance, until the very last moment.

Just before Harry lost consciousness, he heard a familiar voice.

"Well done, kid..."

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Author's Note:

I'm not dragging this out for no reason. I have big plans for Harry, even after the events of Harry Potter.

So please chill and let me cook. 😎

🔥 Power Stones = Fuel for the Story Machine! ⚡ Keep it running! 🔥

🔥 Drop those Stones! 🔥

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