Harry stood frozen, his pulse quickening as Quirrell muttered to himself, staring into the Mirror of Erised like a man possessed. The dim light of the chamber cast eerie shadows on Quirrell's face, amplifying the unsettling tension in the room.

  Quirrell’s reflection shimmered in the mirror, his eyes glinting with greed and desperation.

  “I can see it,” Quirrell said, his voice eerily steady. “I can see myself holding the Stone... presenting it to my master. But... but it’s not here! I don’t understand how to get it!”

  Harry took a cautious step back.

  “Master?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Quirrell turned sharply to look at him. Gone was the nervous, stuttering professor. His eyes were sharp and calcuting, his posture straight and commanding.

  “Yes, my master. The one who will return. The one who deserves this stone far more than anyone else.”

  Harry’s breath caught. Return? Who was he talking about?

  “Who’s your master?” Harry asked, trying to keep his voice steady, even as his mind raced.

  Quirrell ignored the question, instead turning back to the mirror.

  “Tell me how it works, boy!” he barked suddenly, his voice sharp and urgent. “Dumbledore wouldn’t have left this mirror without a trick. What do you see? Look into it!”

  Harry hesitated, his heart pounding. But he had no choice. Slowly, he stepped forward and looked into the mirror.

  Harry stared into the Mirror of Erised, his breath catching as the images shifted before his eyes. Latin words carved elegantly across the top read:

  Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

  His mind quickly transted it—I show not your face but your heart's desire.

  The reflection was both mesmerizing and terrifying. In it, Harry saw himself holding the Philosopher’s Stone, its crimson surface gleaming as though pulsing with life. But what captivated him even more was the scene that followed.

  He saw himself living in luxury, standing confidently in a grand manor far rger than the Weasley home. Yet, despite the riches surrounding him, it wasn’t the gold or jewels that drew his attention—it was the people.

  The Weasleys stood beside him, smiling warmly, dressed in fine robes that spoke of wealth and comfort. Molly was ughing, holding a tray of food, while Arthur inspected some Muggle contraption with fascination. Fred and George were surrounded by fireworks, and Ginny stood beside Harry, holding a bouquet of flowers.

  And then there were the Potters—James, Lily, and even Charlie. They stood in the background, looking on with thinly veiled envy. Their smiles seemed forced, their gazes longing.

  Harry’s heart twisted. He knew exactly what this vision meant. It wasn’t just about wealth or power—it was about belonging. He wanted to protect the people who had taken him in, given him a second chance at life. The riches and influence weren’t for his own gain—they were for the Weasleys, so they would never struggle again.

  A part of him wanted the Potters to see what they had thrown away, to realize what they had lost. But even that desire seemed shallow compared to the overwhelming love and loyalty he felt toward the Weasleys.

  “What do you see?” Quirrell’s sharp voice broke through Harry’s thoughts.

  Harry blinked, stepping back slightly from the mirror, forcing his expression to remain neutral. He turned to face Quirrell, who was staring at him impatiently.

  “I see myself, rich and powerful, living in a manor, surrounded by friends and family.” Harry’s voice was steady, though his heart hammered. “We are happy, and everyone look envious of what I’ve achieved.”

  Quirrell’s eyes gleamed with interest.

  “Yes... yes! That’s what this mirror does. It shows your desires. But how do we get the Stone? Tell me!”

  Harry kept his face bnk, though inside, his mind raced. The Mirror of Erised wasn’t just a trap—it was Dumbledore’s test. It wouldn’t give the Stone to someone who wanted it for greed or power. It would only yield the Stone to someone who wanted to protect it.

  That’s why Quirrell couldn’t get it!

  Harry felt a surge of panic. He had no intention of handing the Stone to anyone, but now he was trapped between Quirrell’s maniputions and his own growing ambition.

  “I can’t see how to take it,” Harry said smoothly, gncing back at the mirror. “It’s just... there, in the reflection, but not in my hands.”

  Quirrell growled in frustration, stepping closer to the mirror, as if willing it to reveal its secrets.

  Harry turned his gaze back to the mirror, his mind swirling with conflict. The vision reminded him of what mattered most—family, loyalty, and security. He didn’t just want power; he wanted to protect those he loved.

  But the longer he stayed, the more dangerous the situation became. Quirrell was losing patience, and Harry knew that Voldemort’s presence wasn’t going to tolerate failure for long.

  As Quirrell stared into the mirror, muttering feverishly, Harry’s thoughts hardened.

  I have to outsmart him, he thought. I need time. I need to survive this, and then I’ll figure out how to stop him—for good.

  And just as Harry was about to escape through the door in which they came in, someone else spoke. The voice was low, raspy, and sinister, echoing off the walls of the chamber. Harry froze mid-step, his heart pounding as he tried to make sense of what he just heard. The voice didn’t sound like Professor Quirrell—it was different, colder, and it seemed to come from the same direction Quirrell was standing.

  “The boy is useless. Kill him,” the voice commanded.

  Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he turned back toward Quirrell, whose wand was now aimed directly at him. The professor’s expression had completely changed—gone was the helpful Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. In his pce stood someone who looked focused and dangerous. Harry quickly tried to think of a way out, but before Quirrell could utter a spell, the heavy wooden door behind Harry burst open.

  Charlie Potter stormed into the room, his wand raised and his eyes bzing with determination. “Snape! I won’t let you take the stone!” he shouted, clearly expecting someone else to be there. But instead, his gaze fell on Harry and Professor Quirrell, and confusion fshed across his face.

  “Wait—what?” Charlie hesitated, lowering his wand slightly as he tried to make sense of the situation. His eyes darted between Harry and Quirrell, noticing Quirrell’s threatening stance.

  “Charlie! Get out of here!” Harry shouted, stepping between Charlie and Quirrell instinctively. “It’s not Snape—it’s Quirrell! He’s the one trying to steal the stone!”

  Charlie looked stunned for a moment, but then his face hardened, and he raised his wand again. “Stay away from him!” he warned, stepping forward to stand beside Harry.

  Quirrell’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted his wand toward Charlie. “Foolish boy,” he sneered, his voice losing all traces of the stammering teacher they had once known. “You’re meddling in matters far beyond your understanding.”

  Charlie didn’t flinch. “You don’t scare me, Quirrell,” he snapped. “I won’t let you hurt Harry—or anyone else.”

  Harry felt a strange sense of relief having Charlie there, but he also knew the situation was far from over. Quirrell was dangerous, and there was still the unsettling question of the voice that had spoken earlier. Harry’s mind raced as he tried to come up with a pn.

  “Charlie, we need to be careful,” Harry whispered urgently. “There’s something wrong with him—it’s not just Quirrell. There’s someone else.”

  Before Charlie could respond, the raspy voice spoke again. “Enough! Take the stone, now!”

  Quirrell flinched slightly, as if he were obeying an order he couldn’t refuse. Harry’s eyes darted to the mirror. If Quirrell figured out how to get the stone, they were all in serious trouble.

  Charlie gripped his wand tighter, standing protectively in front of Harry. “We won’t let you win,” he said firmly.

  Harry swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay calm. He knew they had to act fast if they were going to stop Quirrell—and whoever or whatever was controlling him—from getting their hands on the Philosopher’s Stone.

  The fight erupted in an instant, and Harry's adrenaline surged as he locked wands with Professor Quirrell. It was just like their secret training sessions, except this time, it wasn’t a practice duel. Harry drew upon everything he had learned, throwing spells and counterspells at the professor, but something was off—very off.

  Quirrell’s movements were sharper, faster, and far more calcuted than Harry remembered. It wasn’t the same nervous, hesitant man who had been his teacher. This version of Quirrell fought like someone completely different—like someone far more experienced and deadly.

  Harry’s heart pounded as he unleashed the most dangerous spell he could think of, one he’d only read about in the dark arts books the professor had given him. But Quirrell deflected it with a flick of his wand and retaliated with precision and power that left Harry scrambling to defend himself.

  Before Harry could recover, Quirrell struck again, this time with a spell that sent Harry’s wand flying out of his hand. Harry barely had time to process what had happened before Quirrell’s next move—a binding spell.

  “Incarcerous!” Quirrell shouted, and thick ropes materialized out of thin air, wrapping tightly around Harry’s arms and legs. He struggled, but the bindings held firm, and panic set in as he realized he was completely trapped.

  “Harry!” Charlie shouted, raising his wand to help. But Quirrell was faster. With a sharp twist of his wand, Charlie’s wand flew out of his grip and nded several feet away.

  “Don’t move,” Quirrell snapped, his voice dripping with menace as he turned toward Charlie.

  Harry’s mind raced. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He had been stalling, learning everything he could, but now Quirrell had him completely at his mercy. And then it happened again—the voice.

  “Use the boy,” it commanded, echoing through the chamber.

  Quirrell flinched as though pained, but he obeyed immediately. He grabbed Charlie by the arm and dragged him toward the Mirror of Erised.

  “No!” Harry shouted, struggling against the bindings. “Leave him alone!”

  Charlie resisted, trying to break free, but Quirrell was unnaturally strong. He forced Charlie to stand in front of the mirror and pointed his wand at him.

  “Look into the mirror!” Quirrell ordered.

  Charlie gred defiantly but had no choice as Quirrell’s wand pressed against his back. He reluctantly gazed into the mirror.

  “What do you see?” Quirrell demanded, his voice sharp and urgent.

  Charlie hesitated, but then his expression changed. His eyes widened slightly, and he mumbled, “I see myself holding the stone.”

  Quirrell’s eyes gleamed with triumph, and Harry’s heart sank.

  “Give it to me!” Quirrell barked, stepping closer to the mirror.

  “I—I don’t have it,” Charlie stammered, looking confused as he patted his robes.

  Quirrell snarled in frustration, clearly not understanding how the mirror worked.

  Harry gritted his teeth, pulling desperately against the ropes, but they refused to budge. His mind raced for a pn—anything that could stop Quirrell and the sinister voice that was controlling him.

  “Search him!” the voice commanded, growing angrier.

  Before Quirrell could stop him, Charlie broke free from his clutches and sprinted toward Harry, quickly trying to undo the magical bindings that held him in pce.

  Before Charlie could succeed, the raspy voice hissed again, “Let me talk to the boy.”

  Quirrell hesitated, his hands trembling. “You’re not strong enough, Master.”

  “I have enough strength to speak!” the voice insisted sharply.

  With shaking hands, Quirrell reached up and began unwrapping his turban. Charlie and Harry watched in mounting horror as the yers of fabric fell away, revealing something no one could have prepared for—another face was embedded on the back of Quirrell’s head.

  Its skin was pale and stretched tight over sharp bones, and its slit-like eyes burned red with malice.

  “I am Lord Voldemort,” the face decred, its voice echoing coldly through the chamber.

  Charlie staggered back, his face pale. “No... no, you’re dead! My parents told me!”

  The face sneered. “Dead?” Voldemort’s voice dripped with mockery. “Do I look dead to you, boy? I have survived—weak, yes—but alive! And now, you will hand me the Stone.”

  Charlie gripped his wand tighter, his voice shaking but defiant. “No! Never!”

  Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “You would risk everything to defy me? Foolish child. Tell me this—did your brother die that night?”

  Charlie froze, blinking in confusion. “What? My brother? I don’t have a brother!”

  Voldemort’s thin lips curled into a sinister smile. “Oh, but you did.”

  Charlie’s voice broke. “You’re lying! I only have a sister!”

  Voldemort chuckled darkly. “Am I? The Potters had twins—two boys in that crib. I saw them with my own eyes when I came to destroy your family. One survived my curse... and the other I have no idea. Do you even know what happened to him?”

  Charlie’s wand wavered. “No... that’s not true. It can’t be.”

  Voldemort hissed, his words slithering through the air. “You have lived a lie. And now, unless you give me the Stone, your will die here without knowing what happened to your brother."

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