Chapter 34

“What did you see?” Quirrell asked.

“My parents,” Harry lied instinctively, yet it was also true—he had indeed seen his parents in the Mirror of Erised. “Wait, I need to steady my emotions. Let me look again.”

“You can look as long as you like,” Quirrell sneered. “Dumbledore’s meeting at the Wizengamot won’t end until four.”

Harry’s heart sank—Dumbledore had been deceived by the plot. To save Neville, he had to retrieve the Philosopher’s Stone first and trade it for Quirrell’s temporary restraint.

As he considered this, his reflection in the mirror winked at him, and a red stone slipped into his pocket.

“Now I have some leverage in this game,” Harry thought. “Zhang Qiu might be nearby. I can try to get Neville away first.”

“I can produce it anytime,” Harry said calmly. “But not now.”

Quirrell casually slashed Neville’s hand, then used a small vial to suck up a good deal of blood.

“I can cast the Killing Curse on him at any moment, then escape with a Portkey,” Quirrell said. “Don’t test my patience.”

“Let Neville go first, then I’ll give you the stone,” Harry said. “Neville’s life means nothing to you—but if you can’t guarantee his safety, I won’t give you the stone, not even if you kill me.”

Quirrell stared at him coldly.

“You want the Dark Lord’s reward too, don’t you?” Harry tried to tempt him with words.

Perhaps the Dark Lord’s reward was truly irresistible—Quirrell suddenly loosened the ropes binding Harry, then kicked Neville.

“Look at him,” Quirrell tapped Neville’s abdomen with his toe. “Do you think he can run if I let him go?”

Harry’s eyes darted around the room, searching for anything usable. His PPK pistol lay in the left corner near the door, not far from Neville—but he wasn’t sure he could reach it. On the right, a pile of silvery-white fabric lay on the floor—his Invisibility Cloak.

Harry focused again on the mirror, thinking: How do I escape this predicament?

In the mirror, he saw Zhang Qiu wearing an Invisibility Charm on her forehead, whispering a spell behind him. At the exact moment he reached out to hand over the Philosopher’s Stone, Neville suddenly Apparated behind Quirrell and fired three shots point-blank at his back.

Harry’s mind cleared—Neville had a spell to accelerate his speed. He wasn’t unconscious at all—he was still capable of fighting.

But Harry dared not risk it. He wasn’t sure if the three shots had worked. He could barely hear a whisper, faint as a mosquito’s buzz—he knew Zhang Qiu was chanting behind him. In the Celestial Empire, longer spells were stronger; she needed time.

“Let Neville rest for now,” Harry said. “Why not tell me first—what role did Professor Snape play in this plan?” He chose to stall—whether until Zhang Qiu finished her incantation, until the professor arrived, or until Dumbledore sensed something was wrong—it all favored him.

“Oh, Snape? A coward,” Quirrell spat. “He was once one of us, but now he’s been terrified into submission by Dumbledore.”

“So Snape’s a Death Eater too?” Harry’s opinion of the professor darkened instantly.

“Of course. He longs for the Dark Lord’s return, but he’s too afraid to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. Instead, he kept urging me to take some blood and leave,” Quirrell sneered. “He’s probably cowering in his office now, hiding under his blanket, praying Dumbledore never finds out.”

“Maybe he just enjoys being a professor,” Harry said, playing along as Quirrell seemed in good spirits—but he worried: what if Hannah had found Snape instead?

Snape might not harm her—but then, reinforcements might never come.

“Exactly! How delightful being a professor is—Slytherin gains a point, Gryffindor loses one,” Quirrell mocked. “Does he think winning the House Cup proves pure-blood glory? Seven years of House Cups mean less than the Dark Lord’s little toe!”

“You mentioned pure blood. I’m pure-blood too,” Harry pretended to be eager. “I can join you.”

“No, you’re not,” Quirrell spat. “Your filthy Mudblood mother tainted the pure-blooded Potter lineage. Half-bloods are born inferior—that’s why the Dark Lord trusts me more than Snape.”

“Don’t speak of my shameful mother,” Harry said, his heart bleeding. “The Dark Lord must show some mercy to those willing to swear allegiance.”

“Then bring me the stone,” Quirrell said coldly, “and kill this traitor yourself.”

“I can turn him,” Harry scrambled for words. “Neville’s pure-blood too. Pure-blood wizards are rare—we should recruit them, not eliminate them. Know your friends from your enemies.”

“Neville. Weasley,” Harry feigned betrayal of his friends. “They’re noble pure-bloods—just misled by Dumbledore. A little persuasion could win them over…”

“The Dark Lord offered your father a chance,” Quirrell said slowly. “He refused. Traitors aren’t worth saving.”

“You’ve talked enough,” Quirrell leveled his wand at Neville again. “If you truly mean to surrender—where’s the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“I really don’t want to abandon Neville,” Harry said. “Can you restore his strength first?”

“No,” Quirrell replied coldly. “My patience is exhausted.”

“Then open the fire barrier. Let our other allies in,” Harry said. “Have them take Neville away first. Once they’re far enough, I’ll give you the stone. You can leave before the professor arrives.”

Quirrell weighed it, then waved his wand and dispelled the fire barrier Snape had set.

Through the short corridor, Harry was startled to find no one on the other side.

“Looks like your allies are cowards,” Quirrell pointed his wand back at Neville. “I’ll count to ten.”

“I get it—they’ve gone to get the professor.”

“Nine.”

“I want to speak to the Dark Lord. I have something to tell him—about the end of magic.”

“Eight.”

“You’d want to know too—the power strong enough to defeat Death.”

“Seven.”

“I…” Harry fell silent. He stared at Neville lying on the ground—and then he saw it: Neville winked at him.

“Six.”

“I’ll give it to you,” Harry said, taking one step forward.

“Don’t move,” Quirrell’s wand snapped toward him. “Throw it.”

Perfect, Harry thought.

He slowly pulled out the Philosopher’s Stone, preparing to toss it.

“Time Rise!” Neville shouted. In a speed too swift for the eye to follow, he snatched up the pistol in less than a fraction of a second, hurled the Invisibility Cloak toward Harry, then lunged onto Quirrell’s back and fired three shots point-blank.

In an instant, Harry saw the Invisibility Cloak floating in midair. He almost reached for it—but instead, he clamped both hands over the Philosopher’s Stone pressed against his waist and curled into a tight ball.

“Let him go!” Harry cried.

The three shots had worked—Quirrell’s Shield Charm had been shattered and never restored. But residual magic still deflected one bullet; now blood seeped faintly from his abdomen. He had to press his left hand against the wound, face twisted in pain.

Harry’s heart froze. Even in the Muggle world, a penetrating wound like that wasn’t fatal if treated promptly—let alone in the magical world, where countless remedies existed.

Enraged, Quirrell raised his wand to cast a curse on Neville.

“Neville just acted on impulse—let him go!” Harry shouted. “If he doesn’t leave, I’ll die before I give you the Philosopher’s Stone.”

To Harry’s shock, Neville staggered upright, then drifted toward the exit like a ghost, dragging his feet—fast, with no sign of weakness.

That wasn’t Neville’s nature, he thought. Then he noticed: two handprints on Neville’s robes. Amid the rising white mist, Harry faintly made out the silhouettes of a man and a woman beside him.

Ron and Hermione hadn’t fled—they’d used the Disillusionment Charm to save Neville’s life.

“You really think I won’t touch you?” Quirrell nearly exploded. “Crucio!”

Harry had never endured such agony. His bones burned. His scar felt like it would split his skull. His eyeballs spun wildly inside his skull. He wanted to scream—but pain seized him in spasms. All he could do was grip the Philosopher’s Stone, vowing never to surrender it.

“Accio Philosopher’s Stone!” Quirrell shouted.

Harry clutched tighter, as if trying to shove the stone through his navel into his body.

“Crucio!”

Again. But Harry seemed to adapt—he felt a warm sensation in his waist. Was it an illusion?

“Accio Philosopher’s Stone!”

Harry, still recovering from the pain, summoned every ounce of strength to resist the magical force pulling the stone away. Just a little longer, he thought. Just a little longer.

“Won’t you give it?” Quirrell staggered forward, trying to pry open Harry’s fingers and forcibly take the stone.

At last, Quirrell realized something was wrong with the thickening mist around him—he saw now: a transparent human shape hidden behind Harry.

“...Unanalyzable, unjoinable, unspeakable, unthinkable. Only in its wholeness does it become the Dao!”

The mist grew denser, obscuring Harry’s vision completely. Quirrell, the Mirror of Erised—all vanished. The Crucio’s effects still burned through him. Weak and near-unconscious, he curled on the floor, barely clinging to life.