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Daphne and Hermione, carrying Draco, and Ron, holding his paining left eye, gave a last nod before walking into the purple fire, their bleeding steps dragging over the floor.
Harry looked as his friends disappeared.
He still couldn't believe it.
Not only did Ron accurately measure all the ingredients without using any scale, but he also carried brew the potions six times in a row following the recipes precisely.
It was like seeing a robot brewing a potion, not human, Harry recalled.
I can see numbers, Ron had shrugged. Every action generates another number, which... synchronize, yes that's the word, synchronize with other numbers, letting me know what I want. It's only happening with the left eye, though.
Harry distinctly recalled Ron losing his left eye during the Chessmen Trial.
That left eye was still lying among the debris when they had left the chamber.
Ron's new left eye... even thinking about sent a chill running down Harry's spine.
Harry lifted the vial and gulped down the potion in one swallow. It was like drinking ice.
Waiting no more, he walked up to the black fire.
Harry braced himself and stepped forward.
He saw the black flames licking his body, but couldn't feel them.
For a moment he could see nothing but dark fire. Then he was on the other side, in the last chamber.
There was already someone there — but it wasn't Voldemort.
It wasn't even the Yellow Warlock.
"Professor Quirrell?!"
Harry gasped, his breath giving away.
Quirrell was smiling. His lips donned no twitches. And when he laughed, it wasn't his usual quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp.
Before Harry could say anything, Quirrell snapped his fingers.
Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry.
"You and your friends are too nosy, Potter. You all caused such a ruckus that I barely got the time to check up on the filthy dog."
"You let the werewolves in?!" Harry asked, shocked. "It wasn't — Yellow Warlock..."
Harry didn't voice out the sentence. His eyes had landed on the object standing behind Quirrell.
It was the Mirror of Erised!
Quirrell followed Harry's gaze and went silent as if listening to something and then let out a creepy smile.
"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured, tapping his way around the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something ... but he's in London... I'll be far away by the time he gets back..."
He walked out from behind it and glared at the Mirror hungrily.
"I see the Stone... I'm presenting it to my master... but where is it?"
"Who..." Harry knew the answer before asking the question. "Who's your master?"
And to Harry's horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell himself.
"Use the boy... Use the boy...."
Quirrell rounded on Harry. "You will soon know, Potter. Come here."
Harry walked forward, his mind racing. His gloved fingers clenched, his magical shoes twitched to explode, but he dared not do anything stupid after coming so far.
Harry wanted to buy time for Dumbledore to come back. And, if possible, obtain the Stone before Quirrell could.
He wasn't a match of Professor, Harry knew. Much less needed to be said about Quirrell's master, whose identity...
Harry tried not to think.
He just needed to lie. Yes. That's it.
Harry saw his reflection, pale, bloody, and scared-looking at first.
But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone.
It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket.
Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket.
He couldn't believe it. Somehow, incredibly, he'd gotten the Stone.
Will the potion work if I go through the black flames again? Harry contemplated the most logical sequence of events. It was, of course, to run away with the Stone.
No matter how strong Professor Quirrell was in magic against him, Harry knew he could outpace the Professor using the shoes.
Only if the potion were to work again...
It was a big IF, though.
"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"
"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," Harry lied. "I — I've won the house cup for Gryffindor."
And the same hissing voice again came out from Quirrell.
"He lies... let me speak to him... face to face..."
Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban.
The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.
Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound.
Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen.
It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.
"Harry Potter..." it whispered.
Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move.
"See what I have become?" the face said. "Once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own... Now... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"
The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry's legs. He stumbled backward.
"Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your parents were brave... I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight...
"... but your mother needn't have died... she was trying to protect you... Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."
"Never!" Then, Harry said those words that were dancing at the tip of his tongue. "Brave Heart!!"
"SEIZE HIM!!!" Voldemort screamed.
But, to Harry, it felt like a mumble. It was as if Voldemort was drawling. Harry's heart was pounding like a giant hammer striking a tiny nail, repeatedly.
Quirrell spun around and came at him.
Harry couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was like there were two Quirrells in front of him, one a step ahead of the other.
The one who was ahead looked like a transparent shadow of the original body behind.
Was he... seeing the future?!
Quirrell's hand came for him.
Harry willed to move away, dodging the hand. However, he realized that he couldn't move. He was moving too slowly, just like the hand coming for him.
The shadow-Quirrell's hand passed through his throat, and Harry knew he didn't have even a moment to do anything.
The magical shoes Harry was wearing suddenly lit up.
With a speed greater than any wizard could possess, Harry stepped back diagonally, dodging the hand.
"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged.
But no matter what Quirrell did, or how he came at Harry, he couldn't catch him. The boy had become a ghost, blurring in and out of sight.
"Master, I cannot..."
"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.
Quirrell took out his wand and raised his hand to cast a deadly curse.
Harry knew the moment had come. It was now or never. The Pound-to-Pound Gloves of Awesomeness exploded with brilliant blues and Harry lunged forward like a wraith.
Before Quirrell could do anything, Harry punched with both hands.
But Harry miscalculated the gloves' condition after fighting both the Chessmen and Gytrashes.
Before the punches landed on Quirrell, they split apart, letting Harry's bare knuckles hit the Professor with a booming sound.
There was such a force behind the punches that it sent Quirrell flying.
Harry stumbled back, his hands wringing like wires.
Harry snapped his eyes up and saw Quirrell's chest disintegrating in disbelief.
"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" Voldemort yelled.
Quirrell pushed himself up.
Harry didn't know what overtook him. He rushed toward Quirrell, leaving behind dust. Then, before the Professor could even look at him, he grabbed Quirrell's head.
A searing pain ran through Harry's scar.
Quirrell was shrieking, yelling, and disintegrating...
Harry was losing his senses. The last thing he saw was a ghostly figure lifting off as Quirrell became dust.
And then everything went dark.
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100 Power Stones: +1 Bonus Chapter