The air in the chamber grew heavy as Charlie stood frozen, his thoughts racing, trying to process the shocking revetion Voldemort had dropped. He had a brother? A twin? His heart pounded as a wave of emotions—confusion, anger, disbelief—coursed through him. But before he could even begin to piece his thoughts together, Quirrell was upon him.

  Quirrell’s hands closed around Charlie’s throat, his grip like iron. “Give me the Stone!” Quirrell snarled, his red-rimmed eyes gleaming with desperation as Voldemort's voice hissed in encouragement.

  Charlie gasped, cwing at Quirrell’s hands as he struggled to breathe. His wand cttered to the floor, forgotten. Quirrell reached into Charlie’s robes, searching for the Philosopher’s Stone.

  “No!” Charlie choked out, his hands instinctively grabbing Quirrell’s arm. The moment his skin made contact, Quirrell screamed in pain.

  Smoke began to rise from Quirrell’s arm as if it had been plunged into fire. He stumbled back, clutching his hand in agony, his skin blistering and cracking as Charlie watched in stunned horror.

  From the side, Harry’s voice rang out, sharp and desperate. “Charlie! Go for his head! Touch his face!”

  Without thinking, driven by instinct, Charlie lunged at Quirrell, using all his weight to shove the professor to the ground. Quirrell thrashed, trying to free himself, but Charlie pressed his hands against Quirrell’s face, just as Harry instructed.

  The effect was immediate. Smoke poured from Quirrell’s face, and he let out an unearthly scream, his voice echoing off the chamber walls. His skin bckened and cracked under Charlie’s touch, pieces of ash fking away as his body began to disintegrate.

  “No! No!” Voldemort’s voice hissed in rage and fear.

  Quirrell’s body convulsed violently, his screams fading into a gurgle as his head and body crumbled into smoldering ash. Charlie fell back, gasping for air, watching in stunned disbelief as the st remnants of Quirrell disintegrated before his eyes, leaving nothing but a pile of ashes.

  The room fell silent, save for the sound of Harry and Charlie’s ragged breathing. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh, and the faint whisper of Voldemort’s voice echoed one st time before vanishing entirely.

  Charlie sat on the cold stone floor, staring at the ashes, his mind reeling. He gnced at Harry, who was still bound, and scrambled to his feet, his hands shaking as he freed Harry.

  The air grew colder and heavier as Charlie worked to free Harry from his bindings. His hands trembled as he fiddled with the ropes, his mind still spinning from the chaos. Just as he began to loosen the st knot, Harry’s eyes widened in horror.

  “Charlie! Look out!” Harry shouted.

  Charlie turned just in time to see a smoky, translucent figure rising from the ashes of Quirrell’s body. The dark mist coalesced into a humanoid form, its presence filling the room with an unnatural chill. The figure’s red, slitted eyes glowed ominously, and its gaze locked onto Charlie.

  Before Charlie could react, the figure lunged toward him with a terrible speed. It struck Charlie like a violent wind, passing through him entirely, and the force sent Charlie flying across the room. He hit the cold stone floor with a sickening thud and y there motionless.

  “No!” Harry screamed, struggling against his bindings, his voice echoing in the now eerily silent chamber.

  The smoky figure lingered for a moment, its form flickering like a dying fme. Then, with a sound like a harsh whisper, it shot through the air and disappeared into the walls, leaving nothing behind but an icy dread.

  Harry’s heart pounded as he looked toward Charlie, who remained motionless on the ground. “Charlie! Get up! Please, get up!” he called, his voice cracking with desperation. But there was no response.

  Harry’s gaze shifted to the floor near Charlie’s hand, where he saw the gleaming red Philosopher’s Stone lying on the cold stone floor. Bound as he was, Harry inched closer, ignoring the pain in his arms as he dragged himself across the ground. With great effort, he grasped the Stone and tucked it into his pocket.

  Time seemed to stretch endlessly in the silence of the chamber. Harry sat there, bound and helpless, staring at his unconscious brother, the weight of the Stone pressing heavily against his side. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, his thoughts racing with fear and confusion.

  Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, and the rge door swung open with a loud creak. Professor Dumbledore entered, his wand drawn, his expression a mix of urgency and concern. Behind him were Neville Longbottom and Professor McGonagall, their faces pale and tense.

  Dumbledore’s sharp blue eyes scanned the room, taking in the scene—the ashes on the floor, the unconscious Charlie, and the bound Harry. He moved swiftly to Harry’s side, his wand sshing through the bindings in a single, precise motion.

  “Harry, are you hurt? What happened here?” Dumbledore asked, his voice steady but filled with concern.

  “Professor Quirrell... he... he tried to kill us. There was something else—Voldemort. He... he was here,” Harry stammered, his voice shaking as he tried to expin.

  Dumbledore’s face darkened, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention to Charlie, who still y unconscious on the ground. Professor McGonagall knelt beside him, checking for signs of life.

  “He’s alive, but we need to get him to the hospital wing immediately,” she said, her voice tight with worry.

  Neville stepped forward, his face etched with concern. “What can I do to help, Professor?” he asked earnestly.

  Dumbledore nodded at him. “Help Harry to the hospital wing. I’ll take care of Mr. Potter.”

  Harry felt a wave of relief as Neville helped him to his feet, supporting him as they made their way out of the chamber. He gnced back once, seeing Dumbledore lift Charlie with a flick of his wand, his face grave as he followed closely behind.

  The events of the night weighed heavily on Harry’s mind as he made his way to the hospital wing, the Philosopher’s Stone hidden safely in his pocket. He had survived, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the danger was far from over.

  After being settled in the hospital wing and ensuring that Charlie was stable, Harry found himself unable to sleep. The Philosopher’s Stone, hidden deep in his robes, felt like it was burning a hole in his conscience. His dreams of wealth, power, and immortality seemed almost childish now that he had seen what it had attracted—Voldemort.

  Sitting alone in the dimly lit hospital wing, Harry turned the Stone over in his hands. It was warm to the touch, pulsing faintly with an inner glow. The possibilities it represented were endless—unimaginable wealth, near-immortality. But the risks were equally staggering. Voldemort was alive, weaker than before but clearly determined to regain his strength, and Harry knew that keeping the Stone for himself would make him Voldemort's next target.

  For a moment, the thought crossed his mind: lie. Tell everyone that Voldemort had taken the Stone, that it was gone, and keep it for himself. But he quickly dismissed the idea. Voldemort was cunning and patient; he would eventually discover the truth. And Harry knew better than to gamble with a Dark Lord who had already survived death once.

  The reality was simple: the Stone was useless to him. He had no idea how to extract its power, how to turn it into gold, or how to create the Elixir of Life. It was nothing more than a glittering, magical artifact in his possession, one that painted a massive target on his back.

  Early the next morning, Harry made his decision.

  When Dumbledore arrived at the hospital wing to check on Charlie, Harry motioned for him to sit. He reached into his robe pocket and pulled out the Stone, holding it out to the Headmaster.

  “Here,” he said, his voice steady. “Take it.”

  Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes twinkled with a mixture of surprise and understanding. “You’ve had this the entire time?”

  Harry nodded. “I thought about keeping it,” he admitted honestly. “But Voldemort is still out there. If I keep it, I’ll be his next target, and... I don’t even know how to use it. It’s better off with you.”

  Dumbledore took the Stone gently, examining it with a quiet reverence. “A wise decision, Harry,” he said. “One that shows great maturity. The Stone is an object of immense power, but power often comes with a cost. You’ve made a choice that many would find difficult.”

  Harry shrugged, unwilling to bask in the praise. “I didn’t do it to be noble. I just don’t want to deal with Voldemort chasing me for it.”

  Dumbledore chuckled softly. “Motivations aside, you’ve done the right thing. The Stone will be destroyed, Harry. Nicos Fmel has agreed that it is time.”

  Harry felt a pang of surprise. “Destroyed? But isn’t it... I mean, doesn’t it make him immortal?”

  “It does,” Dumbledore said, his tone kind. “But Mr. Fmel and his wife have lived a long and full life. They understand, as you will one day, that some things are better left to the natural order.”

  Harry nodded, feeling a strange sense of relief. The Stone, and the chaos it represented, would soon be out of the picture.

  As Dumbledore stood to leave, he looked down at Harry with a proud smile. “You’ve faced many challenges this year, Harry. And you’ve shown great courage and wisdom. Rest now. You’ve earned it.”

  Harry leaned back in his bed, watching as Dumbledore left the hospital wing with the Stone. The weight on his chest lifted slightly, but the events of the past weeks lingered in his mind. He had given up a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but he had also avoided a nightmare that could have ended him. For now, that was enough.

  The atmosphere in the hospital wing was tense when the Potters arrived, rushing through the doors with a sense of urgency. Lily’s face was pale, and James wore a look of grim determination. Charlie was still unconscious, lying motionless on the bed beside Harry, who sat up in his own bed with a mix of exhaustion and unease.

  Seeing Charlie unresponsive, the Potters immediately turned their attention to Harry. Lily was the first to reach his bedside, her eyes wide with worry.

  “Oh, Harry,” she breathed, reaching out to touch his arm. “Are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need anything?”

  Before Harry could respond, James was beside her, examining Harry as if searching for any sign of injury.

  “You were very brave, son,” James said, his voice thick with emotion. “Facing Voldemort... I don’t even know what to say.”

  Harry, however, felt a deep discomfort rise in his chest. Lily’s hand lingered on his shoulder, and her gaze was filled with a tenderness that felt mispced. She looked at him like he was her everything, and Harry couldn’t help but feel like he was betraying his mom—Molly Weasley.

  “I’m fine,” Harry said stiffly, leaning back to create some distance. “Really. I’ve been through worse.”

  Lily’s brow furrowed. “What could possibly be worse than facing Voldemort?”

  Harry hesitated for a moment, then said bluntly, “I had more injuries from the Dursleys than from Voldemort.”

  The words hung in the air like a bombshell. James froze, and Lily’s face crumpled as if he had physically struck her. She stepped back, covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes brimming with tears. James looked away, his jaw tightening.

  Without another word, Lily turned and hurried out of the room, her shoulders shaking as she left. James followed her, muttering something about needing to check on Charlie.

  Harry exhaled, relieved to see them go. The room suddenly felt much lighter.

  Moments ter, the doors opened again, and this time it was Molly and Arthur Weasley who entered. Molly rushed to Harry’s side, her face a mixture of worry and relief.

  “Oh, my dear boy,” Molly said, wrapping Harry in a tight hug. “When we heard what happened, we came as fast as we could. Are you alright?”

  Arthur stood behind her, his expression warm and proud. “You did the right thing, Harry. Giving the Stone to Dumbledore—it was the best decision you could’ve made.”

  Harry nodded, leaning into Molly’s embrace. “I didn’t know what else to do. Keeping it didn’t seem... safe.”

  Molly pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still on his shoulders. “You did more than enough, Harry. We’re so proud of you.”

  Soon, the rest of the Weasley family arrived, one by one, filling the hospital wing with a comforting chaos. Fred and George cracked jokes to lighten the mood, Ron hovered awkwardly near the foot of Harry’s bed, and Ginny clung to Molly, looking at Harry with wide, concerned eyes. Percy even managed to look genuinely impressed.

  For the first time since the ordeal, Harry felt at ease. He was surrounded by his family—his real family—and that was all he needed.