To continue our story, Hermione cried out in alarm after solving the riddle, "No! How can this be!"
Seeing her expression change, Ron quickly asked, "What is it? Is the riddle too hard? You don't understand it?"
"How could that be? Don't underestimate my intelligence." Hermione shot him a look, then said worriedly, "Among these potions, there is only one bottle that lets you move forward."
Ron was confused. "Then can't we just split it into three parts?"
Just as he spoke, black and purple flames erupted in the doorways, both the one they came from and the one ahead. Even from dozens of meters away, they could feel the scorching heat.
Ron clicked his tongue. "Alright, it seems these flames don't intend to let all of us pass."
Hermione selected a small bottle from the table. "This one is the potion to pass through the flames. But which of us will drink it?"
Harry stepped forward and clasped his hands. "Brother and Big Sister, please go back. This one will go alone to settle the score with that scoundrel Voldemort."
The two knew Harry was obsessed with slaying Voldemort, so they didn't try to persuade him. They offered some words of encouragement and handed him the potion.
"Harry, you must be extremely careful. No one knows how much dark magic You-Know-Who knows."
"We'll go get Professor Dumbledore now." Hermione picked out a round bottle. "This one lets us go back. There's enough for me and Ron."
They bid their farewells, and Ron and Hermione passed back through the fire. Harry took off his robe, removed his inner shirt, and drank an Aging Potion.
In moments, his limbs stretched, and his features matured, transforming him into a man in his prime. Harry clenched his fists. Thinking of Voldemort, the vicious anger in his heart was impossible to extinguish.
He put his robe back on and drank the potion. He instantly felt as if his entire body had been plunged into an ice cave; his breath turned to frost, and his brows felt frozen. It was precisely this bone-chilling draught that could allow one to pass through the purple divine fire.
Harry hesitated no longer. He gripped his saber, raised his wand, and strode into the flames.
As it is said: He swallows a potion to age; he gulps a draught to ward off flame.Thinking of his parents' blood-feud, his heart burns with righteous fire.The orphan grips his demon-slaying wand, his saber raised in hatred for the Dark Lord.
Harry passed through the fire and found himself in a large, empty room. In the very center stood a mirror, and before it, a man with his back to Harry, his head wrapped in a large turban.
Harry could not see the man's face, but he recognized the turban and shouted, "How is it you, scoundrel?"
"That's right, it's me." Quirrell turned around. "I was just wondering if I would meet you here, Potter."
"Ah, you've drunk an Aging Potion again. But this time I won't—"
Before he could finish, Harry, consumed by impatience, roared, "You avian cur, you talk too much! This grandfather has no time to finish you today!"
"Where is that scoundrel Voldemort, who deserves a thousand cuts!"
"You are looking for my master?" Quirrell snorted. "You seem to think a little too highly of yourself, Potter."
Harry, unable to find Voldemort, was nursing a volcano of rage. With this scoundrel Quirrell babbling in his ear, his three corpses spirits leaped in fury.
Just as he was about to raise his saber and chop off this scoundrel's head, a hoarse voice suddenly emerged. It was intermittent, like iron wire scraping a bronze cauldron; it was grating and harsh, like a dull saw cutting wet wood.
"Let me... see him. I wish to speak with him face... to face..."
The strange voice came from an unknown place. Quirrell was terrified. "But Master, your body has not fully recovered."
"I... have... this much strength..."
Harry tightened his grip on his saber and wand, his senses on high alert. He watched Quirrell trembling as he unwrapped his turban, revealing his bald head. He then turned his body, presenting the back of his head to Harry.
"Harry Potter... we meet at last..."
Harry stared at the back of Quirrell's head and sucked in a cold breath. Embedded in the back of the man's skull was a pale, ghostly face!
The face was grotesque. Two slits where a nose should be spewed foul air; rotting lips revealed two rows of jagged, decaying teeth. A pair of serpentine eyes seemed to pierce the soul, chilling one to the bone. It was truly a demon escaped from the depths of hell, an evil fiend soaked in a pool of human blood.
The moment Harry saw that face, his scar burned with pain. Agonized screams echoed in his mind, and green light flashed before his eyes.
Although he had never seen Voldemort's true form, his scar was aching for no other reason. Who else could this be but the blood-enemy who had murdered his parents?
Now, seeing his nemesis, the scarred lad nearly snapped his wand and crushed his saber hilt. His face twisted in a ferocious grimace, his teeth grinding out sparks. Even Zhong Kui, the ghost-catcher himself, would have been terrified by the sight.
"Oh, Potter, are you trembling?" Voldemort cackled. "I thought... you drank that Aging Potion because you wanted to kill me..."
Before he finished speaking, Harry charged, saber and wand in hand, roaring, "This one will surely kill you, scoundrel!"
As Harry lunged, Quirrell, desperate to protect his master, quickly turned his head to point his wand.
Seeing him turn, Harry moved to dodge. But the two-faced man pointed his wand at the mirror and cast a summoning charm, making Harry face it.
This mirror was called the Mirror of Erised, and it possessed a profound magic. What you hid within it was not what was seen. You could hide a thousand galleons or ten thousand sickles, but the mirror would only show a person's reflection.
While hiding things in the mirror was easy, retrieving them was difficult. One look, and it would reveal the deepest desires of your heart. Only one who desired to find the object, but not use it, could retrieve it from the mirror.
The mirror reflected Harry's image, which then changed. It showed Harry carving up Voldemort, while James and Lily cheered him on. It changed again, showing a tall man and a short man with a carrying pole, both laughing. It changed again, showing Harry and his sworn brothers drinking the Elixir of Life made from the Philosopher's Stone.
The mirror's reflection changed several times, but the Stone did not emerge. Voldemort roared, "Damn it! Harry Potter! And you call yourself the Savior?!"
Harry ignored the mirror. He raised his saber, closed the distance, and shouted, "This one cannot save the world! I only want to kill you!"
The killing intent neared. Quirrell raised his wand to cast the Killing Curse. Before he could utter the words, Harry's Expelliarmus shot out.
The spell struck true, sending Quirrell's wand flying and knocking him backward to the ground. He screamed in terror, "Why do you know the Disarming Charm? That's not a spell a first-year should know!"
Harry ignored him. He closed in and swung his saber.
The Voldemort-face on the back of his head knew this was bad. He cast several dark curses, causing Harry's scar to erupt in excruciating pain.
"Fool! Get... your wand! Quick! Kill him!"
Though the scar hurt, it was not as bad as flesh being torn open or a sword piercing the heart. Harry was used to walking the line of life and death; how could he fear mere pain?
He brought his saber down in a horizontal slash, severing Quirrell's right foot.
"Aaaargh! My foot! My foot!"
Quirrell, overcome with pain, fell to the ground, rolling left and right, wailing.
Harry held his frost-white mithril saber in a reverse grip, the tip dragging on the ground with a hiss, sending sparks flying. Quirrell's three souls shrank to the size of mustard seeds, and his seven spirits scattered like dust.
He pushed himself backward, begging for mercy, "Wait! Harry, little Harry, have you forgotten? I taught you Defense Against the Dark Arts!"
Harry's green eyes flashed with menace. "Mercy is easy. Give me back my parents' lives!"
And so it was, passing the trials he found the two-faced man; seeing the dark lord, his killing intent soared. Dark curses pained the scar, the saber's light severed the foot. Harry's heart held ten years of hate; two faces were not enough to stop him. If you wish to know Quirrell's fate, you must listen to the next chapter.
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