Chapter 112: Voldemort's Bargain
"Master Flamel, your codename is terrible. It completely ruins the theme," Ryan said, turning to the pale, translucent alchemist. "We're all 'The Failed X,' and you're the only exception."
The intruder stared. He had seen Dumbledore, Flitwick, and Ryan at the Ministry with his own eyes. It was a trap, a long and elaborate one. All the information he had gathered had been a performance, a play put on for his benefit. And the traitor... the Polyjuice Potion could only have come from him. Damn him, he thought, letting a witch cloud his mind. I was right not to trust him.
"Ryan Welles!" he snarled. "The damn prophet." It was all the prophet's fault. He had been one step away from success, one step away from regaining his power and spreading his terror across the land. But that final step had been a bottomless chasm, and the shadow of Dumbledore had once again fallen over him.
A wave of rage and despair washed over him. Who are the other two? he wondered, his mind struggling to keep up. And who is this "Master Flamel"?
"You think you've won, just because you've laid an ambush?" he roared. "I have conquered death! I am the greatest Dark Lord of all time!"
"No, no, no, Mr. Tom," Ryan interrupted, holding up a hand. "You've got it all wrong. This isn't an ambush. As the banner clearly states, we are here to welcome Mr. No-Nose Tom Riddle to his official inspection of the Philosopher's Stone's protections." He added, with a look of earnest sincerity, "And to avoid any confusion with the rather common name of 'Tom Riddle,' I made sure to add the 'No-Nose' qualifier. I'm so thoughtful, aren't I?"
The man who did not like to be called Tom felt his non-existent nose begin to twitch with rage. "Silence, you filthy half-breed!" he bellowed.
Ryan nodded sagely. "I agree. So why are you still talking? After all, I'm only the first half of that insult."
They say a maiden's blush is more eloquent than any love song. On a middle-aged man, however, it usually just means he's about to explode. The figure in Quirrell's body was now glowing with a furious, crimson aura.
"Avada Kedavra!" he shrieked, unleashing his signature spell. A jet of green light shot toward Ryan.
"Now, now, let's not resort to violence!" Ryan yelped, and braced himself for Dumbledore's intervention. But the green light was still coming. The four old men were just... watching. You've all learned Dumbledore's bad habits! You're supposed to be protecting the students! Am I not a student?! He could see the curiosity in their eyes from the corner of his own.
With a sigh, he Disapparated, the Killing Curse sizzling through the air where he had just been, and reappeared in the same spot. Though he had dodged it, he was shaken. The curse, though not particularly powerful coming from Quirrell's body, had carried with it the pure, undiluted concept of death. It was as if Voldemort had woven the very essence of mortality into the spell, giving it an instant-kill effect, like the gaze of a basilisk. How did he do that? he wondered.
"There's no need to be so dramatic, young man," one of the unfamiliar old men said, breaking the tense silence. "As your elder—no, you are not worthy." He corrected himself. "As one of your captors, I must correct a few of your misconceptions."
Who is this person? Voldemort thought, his rage momentarily replaced by confusion. My elder? Not worthy? I am the great Dark Lord, the terror of the British Isles!
The old man held up three fingers. "One, Albus is not senile. Two, you are not the greatest Dark Lord. And three, 'conquered death'? Don't make me laugh."
Voldemort felt as if he were about to spontaneously combust. Had his name lost all its power? Why was everyone in this room so unafraid of him? "Dumbledore, you win this round," he said, his mind finally clearing. He knew he had no chance of success. It was time to retreat. But his brief test of the prophet had shown him he couldn't take a hostage. That left only one option: a direct assault. They're all old or young, he thought, calculating the odds. I have a good chance.
"Mr. Tom Riddle," Ryan said with a pleasant smile, "on behalf of the students and staff of Hogwarts, I would like to make a suggestion. Hogwarts is a beautiful place, a rare and precious jewel. A perfect place to spend the rest of your life, don't you think?"
As he spoke, the magic in the room began to hum, the pre-laid enchantments activating.
Voldemort's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape. "Filius Flitwick," he said suddenly, "there is something I believe you have a right to know."
"I don't think we have anything to discuss," Professor Flitwick said, his voice cold.
"Not even about your student, Quirinus Quirrell?" Voldemort asked, a smug, confident look on his face.
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