To Voldemort’s ears, however, those words were nothing less than the most venomous mockery.
Lies don’t hurt; it’s the truth that cuts like a blade.
Years ago, his mother, Merope Gaunt, fell deeply in love with Voldemort’s father, a Muggle—Tom Riddle—and used a love potion to ensnare him.
But when the truth came out, not only did Tom cast Merope out like garbage, but even the Gaunt family deemed her a disgrace.
Pregnant and disowned, Merope fled to London, leading a life of utter poverty. She was forced to sell the priceless gold locket of Slytherin for a mere ten Galleons to Borgin and Burkes’ Mr. Burke.
On a dark, snowy night, Merope gave birth to Voldemort at a Muggle orphanage—and abandoned him without a second thought.
Such gut-wrenching memories, mercilessly exposed by Harry, could only inflame Voldemort’s rage.
He glared at Harry furiously, but as his anger reached its peak, it seemed to cool, his mind regaining clarity.
The most pressing matter now was to obtain the Philosopher’s Stone. As long as he got the stone, everything would fall into place!
Hmph, the naturally vile Potter brat!
“I accept your apology,” Voldemort said coldly, a new scheme forming in his mind.
“Your magnanimity could illuminate an entire washroom,” Harry replied with mock politeness, bowing slightly. “A girls’ washroom, at that.”
Voldemort froze, let out a cold snort, and spoke again. “Enough with the wordplay, Potter. You must realize, Dumbledore will not come to save you—just as he ignored Quirrell’s attempt to curse you during that Quidditch match!”
“Quirrell’s attempt?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so it was Quirrell casting that curse—why would he do that?”
“Why?” Voldemort let out a cold laugh. “To catch Dumbledore’s attention, of course. He hoped the great, selfless Dumbledore would notice he was trying to kill the so-called ‘Savior’ and come to his aid, helping him escape my control. But alas, Potter, Dumbledore ignored him. To Dumbledore, everyone is expendable.”
Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Voldemort seemed to be stalling for time—and his words were laced with intent to sow doubt about Dumbledore.
If he were still a first-year child, he might have fallen for it, questioning Dumbledore’s motives.
But he had dealt with enough deceitful dark wizards, who would lie and kill without hesitation to survive and harm others.
So he didn’t believe a word Voldemort said.
He reached into his pocket, his hand brushing against the Philosopher’s Stone.
The stone responded to his touch, its magical energy surging eagerly into his hand.
In the mirror, Voldemort continued his verbal assault. “As for you, Potter, you’re just another pawn in his game. To defeat the great Voldemort, Dumbledore would sacrifice anyone!”
“Think about it—your parents, and even yourself... Don’t you ever wonder why I targeted your family?”
“Because you’re a pathetic wretch unloved by your mother,” Harry retorted mercilessly, his hand still absorbing the Philosopher’s Stone’s energy.
“Potter!” Voldemort roared. “My patience has its limits!”
“Speaking of limits, I’m more curious why your mother abandoned you,” Harry said with a taunting smile. “You’re a deranged murderer; that’s undeniable. You wanted to kill my parents simply because you could. But what I really want to know is why—why your mother would leave you, why even your father didn’t want you. By the way, we’ve been talking for so long, and I still don’t know your last name, Mr. Voldemort. Didn’t your parents teach you it’s polite to introduce yourself?”
“Oh, my apologies!” Harry covered his mouth with mock horror, exaggerating his expression as he looked at Voldemort. “I forgot—your parents abandoned you, didn’t they?”
He had learned that expression from Cassandra.
Harry felt no guilt. After all, the Voldemort before him was the murderer of his parents, a man who had committed countless atrocities in the wizarding world, killing numerous innocent witches and wizards.
Such a person deserved no pity.
What’s more, Harry was in the open, while Voldemort lurked in the shadows. Aggravating him into losing composure and revealing himself was the smarter move.
“Harry... Potter!” Voldemort hissed, his voice like a serpent’s. “I’ve changed my mind. You must die!”
As he spoke, Quirrell’s body suddenly sprang upright.
A flash of green light appeared out of nowhere. Harry, already on guard, flicked his wand, transforming nearby rubble into a massive shield, blocking the unsettlingly vivid green light.
He didn’t stop there. A green light of his own shot back, though it missed “Quirrell.”
“You’ll pay for this!” hissed “Quirrell.”
Harry knew Voldemort had taken over Quirrell’s body.
“Expelliarmus!” Harry cast a Disarming Charm, his other hand still gripping the Philosopher’s Stone, drawing its energy.
The Philosopher’s Stone lived up to its name. Harry felt its power filling his body.
That familiar sensation of strength was returning.
Voldemort deflected the spell with his wand and extended a hand. With a sharp exhale, black flames erupted from thin air.
He laughed—a sound like a demon from the deepest pits of hell. The black flames roared, twisting into the form of a giant serpent with gaping jaws, poised to strike at Harry.
Fiendfyre was an advanced Dark Art, a fire that grew ever stronger, capable of mimicking the shapes of beasts and indiscriminately devouring anything flammable.
Many wizards who attempted it lacked the skill to control or dispel it, often causing unnecessary destruction—and sometimes their own demise. Only powerful wizards could master it.
A dark wizard like Voldemort, of course, had no trouble commanding Fiendfyre.
Harry tightened his grip on the Philosopher’s Stone, drawing on its vast energy reserves.
Philosopher’s Stone! Let me absorb you!
Endless magical energy flowed from the stone into his body. Harry felt a surge of power course through him.
Raising his wand, he slashed it through the air.
With his motion, a ring of brilliant blue flames erupted around him, forming a protective barrier of fire.
you can read more advance chapter & Fast update on my