After about half an hour, Quirrell finally staggered through the Troll-infested room and arrived at the checkpoint Snape had set up. He looked like he'd aged decades—his face pale and drawn, his skin wrinkled, and his entire body reeking of blood. Every step he took seemed agonizing, forcing him to grit his teeth.
Once he entered the room, the extinguished magic flames sprang back to life, encircling him. Quirrell shuffled over to the table with the potions, picked up the parchment, and carefully read Snape's riddle.
"...Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides; Fourth, the second left and the second on the right Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.."
A small, triumphant smile spread across Quirrell's face. Snape, he thought with contempt, actually believed he'd be stumped by this simple logic puzzle? It was laughable. Quirrell was a Ravenclaw alumnus, a top student with eight "O"s on his N.E.W.T.s. Compared to battling keys, playing chess, or fending off Trolls, deduction was his specialty.
He conjured a feather, dipped it in a bloody patch on his robes, and carefully worked through the riddle.
"I've got it!" Quirrell announced gleefully. "The smallest bottle—it'll get me through the black flames to the Philosopher's Stone!"
Without further hesitation, he picked up the unassuming little bottle and tipped it back, taking a quick gulp.
The potion hit his tongue, and he gagged immediately. He'd thought nothing could be worse than facing the swarm of Chomping Cabbages. He was wrong. An intense bitterness overtook him, flooding his mouth like a storm. It felt as though hundreds of Trolls were dancing on his taste buds. Even the compost in the greenhouse tasted sweeter!
"Ugh... Snape!" Quirrell groaned, disgusted, and threw the potion back onto the table after one miserable sip. Covering his mouth and clutching his stomach, he stumbled through the black flames.
"Just you wait, Snape," he muttered darkly, "when I have the Philosopher's Stone and bring back the Dark Lord, neither you nor Sprout will escape my revenge!"
Breathing heavily, he staggered into the final room, only to find it already occupied. And the person waiting was neither Snape nor Dumbledore.
"Harry Potter!" Quirrell gasped, utterly shocked.
"Professor... it's me," replied the figure, turning around with a nervous look.
"I was just wondering if I'd run into you here, and here you are..."
The boy took a step forward, as if to approach. "Wait, Professor Quirrell, you look terribly hurt! Let me take you to the Hospital Wing—"
"Stay where you are!" Quirrell barked, pulling out his wand and pointing it at Harry. "Hand over the Philosopher's Stone. Now!"
Quirrell's mind reeled. Of all the scenarios he'd imagined—facing Snape in a duel, begging for mercy if he encountered Dumbledore—he'd never once pictured this. Harry Potter, waiting for him as if he'd been there all along. How had the boy even survived the Chomping Cabbages?
"Philosopher's Stone? What are you talking about?" said "Harry" with a puzzled expression. "Isn't the final reward here this mirror?"
He gestured to the Mirror of Erised and continued, "Professor, you have to come see this. It's incredible—I saw myself shaking hands with Dumbledore and becoming Minister of Magic. I think it can show the future!"
Quirrell looked skeptically at the mirror. Curiosity tugged at him, and he started to take a few steps forward when a shrill, whispering voice interrupted.
"He's lying... he's lying..."
"Potter, enough games!" Quirrell raised his wand, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Hand over the Philosopher's Stone, or else!"
The voice echoed again, icy and sharp. "Fool! Haven't you realized it yet? That's not Harry Potter."
"Not Harry Potter?" Quirrell peered at the figure in front of him. The messy black hair, the lightning-bolt scar, the round glasses—this was Potter, wasn't it?
"Let me speak to him... face to face," the voice commanded.
"But, Master," Quirrell protested, "you just used up a lot of strength dealing with those Chomping Cabbages! You need to rest!"
"Thanks to your blundering..." the voice sneered, "But I still have strength left."
"Of course, Master," Quirrell stammered obediently, bending down to unwrap the scarf from his head. Slowly, he turned around, revealing the ghastly visage on the back of his head.
The face was chalk-white, with gleaming red eyes and nostrils as thin and slitted as a snake's.
"You don't seem surprised at all," Voldemort rasped, eyes narrowing.
"Quirrell would never have dared to steal the Philosopher's Stone alone." "Harry" responded calmly, "I just didn't expect you to appear quite ... Mr. Voldemort."
"You know me?" Voldemort looked genuinely taken aback.
"Well, it's rather obvious, isn't it?"
"By the way," Kyle added casually, "how did you know I wasn't Harry Potter? I thought my disguise was quite thorough."
"The badge," Voldemort replied, his voice a low hiss. "Harry Potter would never wear the Slytherin crest."
"Ah, a pity. But I couldn't possibly wear that ridiculous lion badge."
With that, Kyle took off the glasses, tossing them aside. As they hit the ground, they transformed back into a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean.
Director Sykes had provided Kyle with plenty of useful supplies, including a large bottle of Polyjuice Potion. Getting a strand of Harry's hair had been no trouble at all. If he'd wanted to, he probably could have tricked Harry into giving him his entire school uniform. But that hadn't been necessary.
"Who are you..." Voldemort murmured with interest, "Malfoy? Nott? Perhaps Selwyn..."
"No need to guess, Mr. Voldemort," Kyle replied with a wave of his hand. "Since I went through the trouble of using Polyjuice Potion, I'm clearly not keen on revealing my real name."
"Bold and clever... remarkably level-headed," Voldemort mused, his tone turning to a silky whisper of temptation. "It seems Slytherin has produced another exceptional young wizard. Join me, help me retrieve the Philosopher's Stone, and I'll grant you unimaginable power and riches beyond your dreams."
"Master..." Quirrell's face crumpled with a mixture of resentment and desperation. "I am your most loyal servant!"
He'd been the one to find the Dark Lord in Albania, to fight through each perilous trap. And yet, here was this stranger, who had done nothing, receiving the Dark Lord's admiration.