Thud!
Quirrell landed smoothly atop something soft, showing no surprise whatsoever.
"Lumos Maxima!"
Blinding light erupted as the Devil's Snare released him in agitation, retreating into the potted plants in the corner.
Then Quirrell sensed something amiss. Why was the ground so uneven?
Groping around and peering down with the aid of his Wand-lighting Charm, he realised he wasn't on solid ground at all, but seated upon a withered cabbage. The floor was littered with identical cabbages.
What lunatic would store piles of cabbage here?
"Fool! Run!" Voldemort's roar echoed through his mind. "Those are Chomping Cabbages! Move!"
Quirrell's face turned deathly pale.
Chomping Cabbages—terrifying magical plants nearly as dangerous as Mandrakes. The immature specimens were manageable, their teeth not yet fully hardened. But mature ones...
Quirrell's Herbology was decent; he'd passed his N.E.W.T.s.
He knew perfectly well that cabbages of this hue indicated fully matured specimens.
Three or five, he could handle. But the floor...
Surveying the room carpeted with Chomping Cabbages, Quirrell gulped.
Crash!
The sound of shattering glass materialised from nowhere as dark green liquid splashed across the carnivorous plants.
In an instant, the Cabbages, which had just awakened and were still somewhat sluggish, turned ferocious, baring their iron teeth and charging at Quirrell.
"Rage Potion! Steel Potion!"
"Sprout! Damn you!!!"
Quirrell's screams of agony and curses echoed through the empty room, enough to make any listener weep with pity.
The cabbages had been enhanced with both speed and hardness, far beyond what his delicate skin and flesh could endure.
Quirrell attempted to repel the cabbages with spells, but the sheer numbers made it ineffective. Hastily cast Shield Charms were torn apart in just a few bites.
Blood streamed down his thigh, and his screams rose an octave higher. His flesh was being ripped away!
"Use the spell I taught you!" Voldemort was nearly driven mad. The man he had chosen was about to be torn to shreds by a few plants—how had he failed to see Quirrell's incompetence back then?
Hearing the Dark Lord's roar, Quirrell hesitated for a moment, but another sharp pain in his leg finally steeled his resolve.
BOOM!
Flames shot skyward. At the cost of a finger, he unleashed an extremely powerful Expulso. The scorching heat and overwhelming force blasted dozens of cabbages to smithereens.
Quirrell wasn't much better off. Half his robes were burned away, his body covered in blood, and he gasped for breath in ragged gulps.
"Don't waste time—move!"
The closer they got to the Philosopher's Stone, the thinner Voldemort's patience grew. In his eyes, Quirrell was already living on borrowed time.
Prolonged possession and the last battle had left him like an emptied husk.
Outwardly, he seemed merely weakened, but inside, there was almost nothing left!
After hastily casting a Healing Spell to stop the bleeding, Quirrell limped into the corridor, still cursing Sprout under his breath.
Who would have thought that sweet old lady was all an act! To plant so many cabbages beneath the Devil's Snare—how vicious, utterly vicious!
"Master, don't worry. I know Professor Flitwick well. He was my former Head of House—he wouldn't deceive me."
Hearing the ringing in his ears, Quirrell finally managed to smile again. He knew his old Head of House far too well; there was no way he'd make a mistake like Sprout.
Sure enough, upon entering the room, everything was exactly as Flitwick had described: countless winged keys fluttering about—except for the addition of a few Bludgers.
Quirrell's smile froze.
Bludgers?
Flitwick hadn't mentioned any Bludgers.
Still, it shouldn't be a problem. Spotting a broomstick, Quirrell limped over and soon took flight, searching for the correct key.
The moment he rose into the air, the Bludgers abruptly accelerated, their whooshing tearing through the air.
His scalp prickling, Quirrell leapt off the broom without a second thought.
BANG!
The wall where he'd been struck now bore a deep crater.
There was no time to dwell on it. All ten Bludgers in the room began to accelerate.
Quirrell could only desperately dodge, but a glancing blow made him feel as though seven or eight ribs had shattered.
Staring at the identical keys swirling above, Quirrell lost it.
What in Merlin's name was happening to Hogwarts?
Aside from Hagrid, the only honest one, why was everyone else speaking nothing but lies?
Where did these cannonballs—no, Bludgers—come from, and where exactly was the key hidden?
"Smash those Bludgers; the key must be inside!"
Voldemort issued another reminder, equally stunned by the shamelessness of Hogwarts' teaching staff.
Were all these treacherous traps set up by Snape disguised as others?
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
A kaleidoscope of spells flew wildly across the room, knocking down swathes of keys, but the Bludgers were too fast—the spells couldn't land a hit.
Using his own body as bait to lure the Bludgers into crashing into him, Quirrell finally managed to deal with a few.
But there was nothing inside them.
Quirrell was utterly despairing—ten whole Bludgers! He'd be beaten to death at this rate.
...
Meanwhile, Harry, convinced he'd figured everything out, hurried to find Ron and shared his discovery with his best mate.
"We should tell Dumbledore—we can't let Snape succeed!"
Ron said excitedly, and Harry wholeheartedly agreed. The two slipped out of the common room and ran into Hermione, who was still awake.
After explaining the situation to her, Hermione frowned disapprovingly.
"Dumbledore already said Snape isn't a bad person. He wouldn't steal the Philosopher's Stone."
"Fine, even if you're right," Harry said urgently, not having time to argue further about Snape's flaws.
He reasoned, "It's obvious now—someone got the method to get past Fluffy from Hagrid. You can't deny that, can you?"
Hermione stayed silent, so Harry pressed on, "We have to tell the Headmaster. The Philosopher's Stone is in danger now."
Finally, the young witch was persuaded and followed them out of the common room.
The trio ran into Professor McGonagall, only to receive devastating news—Dumbledore had already left the school.
This left Harry deeply unsettled, so he decided to keep watch over the Philosopher's Stone until Dumbledore returned.
The three quietly made their way to the fourth-floor corridor. Pushing open the door, their faces paled at the sight of Fluffy, fast asleep in the corner.
"Someone's already gone through. We have to hurry," Harry said, summoning a surge of courage.
A single Phoenix feather materialised unnoticed in Hermione's hand. She stared at it in confusion as the feather's ashes rearranged into words:
Consider this a trial. Don't drink the potion in the final challenge—wait for me to take you out.
Hermione broke into a smile.
...
[Quest: 'Fallen Professor' progress increased. Reward level upgraded.]
[Quest: 'Fallen Professor' progress increased. Reward level upgraded.]
In front of the Mirror of Erised, Wayne lounged lazily on the steps, the system notifications incessantly chiming in his mind.
Just from the frequency of the alerts, he could already imagine how badly Quirrell was faring.
A sudden worry struck him—what if Quirrell got himself killed in the earlier challenges?
If that happened, all the hardships Dumbledore had prepared for Harry would go to waste.
'Hang in there, Quirrell—you're the man who's meant to last till the end.'
Wayne silently prayed for him.
As for Hermione tagging along, he wasn't too concerned.
All the challenges reset to their original state once someone passed through, and his arrangements would vanish without a trace.
The normal difficulty of the trials posed no real challenge for Hermione. Though she'd better not drink that potion—it was downright vile.
Using Phoenix feathers to deliver messages was something he had learned from old Dumbledore, though he wasn't extravagant enough to use Ho-Oh's feathers for letters—he plucked them all from Fawkes instead.
'Blame your master if you must. Who else gave me the idea?'
The room was empty. Wayne found a random corner, cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, and began to zone out.
He did not attempt to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone.
Dumbledore's condition for obtaining the Stone was an urgent desire to possess it without intending to use it.
Only then would the Stone fall from the mirror.
Wayne met neither requirement.
He had no interest in the Philosopher's Stone—wealth and longevity were already within his grasp.
...
Half an hour later.
Quirrell staggered through the Troll room he had personally set up, limping into the obstacle Snape had prepared.
At this point, 'walking corpse' was the only way to describe Quirrell's state. His left hand had only one finger remaining, and his right hand just three.
His right leg was twisted at a horrifying angle, dragging behind him as he moved. His face was gaunt, his body drenched in blood, leaving deep crimson footprints with every step.
"Sprout, Flitwick, McGonagall… I'll kill you all," he wheezed, tears of frustration streaking down his cheeks. He felt it was a miracle he'd survived this long.
At Flitwick's obstacle, he'd blown off another finger just to shatter all the Bludgers—otherwise, they would have pounded him to death.
When he reached Professor McGonagall's room and saw the unchanged Wizard's Chess set-up, he exhaled in relief.
But then his piece charged forward, swung its sword, and failed to leave so much as a scratch on the white pieces.
A single slap from a white pawn shattered his piece to dust.
In the end, he had to break the rules, enduring attacks from every piece as he blasted the white side to smithereens before barely scraping through.
Voldemort was speechless.
He'd never felt the Hogwarts professors were so… unfamiliar. They were more ruthless than his Death Eaters.
"Test of logic..."
Quirrell's mind was foggy. He picked up the parchment but couldn't focus.
Voldemort forced himself to concentrate, guiding Quirrell to the answer.
"Take the smallest bottle—yes, that one!"
Quirrell numbly grabbed it and took a swig.
"Gah—!"
His face turned from white to green, his eyes bulging.
Quirrell had thought nothing could faze him anymore—not after surviving so many horrors.
But Snape's cruelty exceeded his imagination.
The potion tasted like Troll saliva fermented for three days and nights, then brewed with every fertiliser from the greenhouse.
This wasn't a test of logic.
It was a test of his gag reflex!
"Don't you dare vomit!" Voldemort barked. "Spit it out, and the potion's useless! Get through the flames now!"
"Damn you, Snape…"
He forced the vile liquid back down his throat. Physical pain was nothing now. He sprinted through the flames, collapsing into the final room to retch violently.
Voldemort ignored him. His eyes locked onto the Mirror of Erised—the Philosopher's Stone was inside.
"…Stand before the mirror."
Quirrell crawled forward.
"What do you see?" Voldemort demanded.
Quirrell's expression grew rapturous. "I see myself as Minister for Magic, my Lord. With your guidance… we've won."
Voldemort: "…"
He had already understood Dumbledore's sinister intentions. If he couldn't even see the Philosopher's Stone, how could he possibly obtain it?
Quirrell remained sprawled before the mirror as Voldemort pondered how to bypass Dumbledore's defences.
An immeasurable amount of time passed.
Whoosh!
The previously extinguished flames reignited, and Quirrell whipped his head around.
"Snape! Your schemes won't succeed—urk—!"
Harry burst in, his first act being to double over and vomit violently. He finally understood why Hermione had let him drink the potion. Bloody hell, it was foul!
After emptying his stomach, Harry straightened up and saw the figure hunched before the mirror.
"P-Professor Quirrell?"
Harry gaped at him, breathless with shock. How could it be Quirrell?
He'd witnessed Snape threatening Quirrell multiple times, reducing him to near tears. He'd always believed Quirrell was the one loyally protecting the Philosopher's Stone—that Dumbledore's judgement had faltered.
Harry had always liked Quirrell. Though timid in class, the professor had taught him plenty of useful knowledge and even a few spells.
But… it was truly Quirrell standing here now.
Quirrell, equally stunned, demanded, "How did you get past the defences?"
Harry reflexively replied, "Was it hard? I got the key, Ron won the chess game, Hermione figured out the potions—wasn't that enough?"
Quirrell studied Harry, who was merely covered in dust, and questioned his own life choices.
Had this young wizard been playing dumb all along? No…
From his observations, Harry was genuinely dim.
Yet after so many professors' deceptions, he no longer trusted anyone in this castle.
"Quirrell, why are you stealing the Philosopher's Stone? I thought it was Snape, he—"
"Oh yes." Quirrell sneered, snapping his fingers. Ropes materialised from thin air, binding Harry tightly. Only then did he relax, slipping into the classic villain's monologue.
"Snape made himself so thoroughly disliked."
"With him around, who'd suspect p-poor, st-stuttering Professor Quirrell?"
Gritting through pain, Quirrell stood upright.
"Place him… place him before the mirror."
Harry froze in horror at the second voice emerging from Quirrell's body.
Obediently, Quirrell unwound his turban, revealing Voldemort's grotesque face—chalk-white and monstrous.
Meeting those crimson eyes, Harry cried out as his scar seared with pain. "V-Voldemort!"
"Indeed," Voldemort whispered. "Harry Potter… the Boy Who Lived."
"Our last proper meeting was ten years ago. You were but a baby."
"How fate toys with us. You ended my reign then… and now you'll witness my return."
Quirrell dragged Harry roughly before the mirror.
Harry looked up. His reflection smiled, reached into its pocket, and produced a blood-red stone before replacing it.
Instantly, Harry's pocket grew heavy.
"I know Dumbledore too well." Voldemort's face contorted violently.
Quirrell shuddered—this time, the Dark Lord's voice issued from his own mouth.
"You can surely break his little tricks, can't you, Harry?
"Hand over the Philosopher's Stone to me, and I might grant you a quick death."
"Placing hope in a first-year student is truly laughable."
The cold tip of a wand pressed against the back of Harry's head. The pain in his scar and the bone-chilling killing intent behind him made it nearly impossible for Harry to hold on.
Just then, a spell shot out from the corner, striking the unsuspecting Voldemort squarely and sending him flying.
"Well... I'm technically a first-year student, too. Fancy a round with me instead?"
Wayne emerged from the shadows, watching with amusement as Voldemort scrambled to his feet.