Arthur's footsteps echoed across the cold stone floor as he stepped into the final chamber. The air was thick with something unseen, something ancient. The Mirror of Erised stood before him, its massive frame looming over the room like a silent guardian.
Quirrell's voice was sharp as ever. "Now, you're going to help me steal a ruby."
Arthur crossed his arms. "Oh sure, because I just love aiding and abetting evil professors."
Quirrell's patience was thinning. He waved his wand, and Arthur was yanked forward by an invisible force. He stumbled but caught himself just before colliding with the mirror's surface. He had seen this thing before. The last time, it had shown him… nothing. No desires. No dreams. Just a blank reflection staring back at him.
"It doesn't work like that," Arthur muttered, trying to push back against Quirrell's spell. "I can't just—"
Pain seared through his skull as another spell forced him upright, facing the mirror directly.
This time, it was different.
His reflection wasn't normal. It wasn't just him anymore. The other Arthur in the glass had an eerie smirk, a glint in his eye that sent a shiver down his spine. Slowly, deliberately, the reflection pulled out a knife and twirled it between its fingers.
Arthur stiffened.
"What do you see?" Quirrell demanded, his voice laced with impatience.
Arthur didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the mirror, his breath caught in his throat. The reflection tilted its head, as if studying him. Then, without warning, it threw the knife.
Arthur barely had time to think. It's a mirror. It can't—
The knife shattered the glass barrier and struck him in the chest.
He was flung backward, slamming into the wall behind him. His head spun, his entire body flaring with pain. He gasped, reaching instinctively toward the wound… only to find something unexpected.
The knife—now shimmering gold—was embedded in his robes. And beneath it, something solid. Something smooth. Something red.
His fingers curled around it.
The Philosopher's Stone.
Arthur stared, his breathing shallow. The mirror before him was cracked, its once-perfect surface splintered. Whispers began curling through the air, slithering into his ears like venomous snakes.
They were coming from Quirell.
"The stone..." Quirrell's voice trembled with an emotion Arthur couldn't quite place. Awe? Greed? Fear?
"Give it to me."
Arthur's breath came in short gasps, his fingers tightening around the golden blade that had once been a dagger. The stone... it had been with him all along. A sickening realization settled in his gut, but before he could process it further, the whisper came again.
A voice—soft, insidious—hissed through the air, curling around his ears like smoke. But it wasn't coming from Quirrell's lips.
Arthur's blood ran cold. His hair flashed white for a brief second before shifting to a deep, confused orange.
"No, my Lord," Quirrell muttered, shaking his head as if to ward off invisible thoughts. His voice trembled. "It's too dangerous, not yet—"
Arthur took an uneasy step back. "Who... are you talking to?"
Quirrell's eyes flickered toward him, as if suddenly remembering he was still there. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached up to his turban.
Arthur's stomach twisted.
Layer by layer, the fabric unraveled, falling to the stone floor in a loose heap.
And then—Arthur saw it.
The back of Quirrell's bald head was not bald at all. Instead, a face—horrible and unnatural—was embedded into the pale skin. The features were warped, stretched unnaturally thin, as if they had been melted onto the back of Quirrell's skull. Sunken red eyes gleamed from deep sockets, their color a haunting, unnatural shade of blood. A nose barely existed—just two slits carved into the skin. And the mouth... the mouth was twisted into something between a sneer and a grin, lips dark and thin, like a cut on flesh.
Arthur's entire body seized up, his hair shifting from orange to a bright, terrified white.
Then, the face spoke.
"Ah... Arthur."
The voice was like oil, smooth but sickly, crawling into Arthur's ears and settling there, cold as death.
"I have waited a long time... to meet you."
Arthur stared at the grotesque face on the back of Quirrell's head, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. His breath was unsteady, his entire body tense. His hair flashed from white to orange, then settled somewhere in between—confusion with a lingering edge of fear.
Then, in a deadpan voice, he said, "Right. And who are you supposed to be? Some failed experiment?"
The face's twisted expression didn't change, but the red eyes gleamed dangerously.
Quirrell stiffened. "You dare—"
"Silence," the voice commanded.
Quirrell fell still at once.
Arthur watched in morbid fascination as the face shifted slightly, lips curling.
"I am Lord Voldemort," it said, each word carrying the weight of something ancient, something unnatural.
Arthur blinked.
"Again with the weird name."
The red eyes narrowed.
Voldemort's voice was low, almost mocking. "You do not know my name?"
Arthur shrugged, though his grip on the golden dagger tightened. "Nope. Unless you count the many times Quirrell said your name"
A silence stretched between them.
Then—Voldemort laughed. It was a terrible, rattling sound, like bones scraping together.
"Oh, Arthur," he mused. "You are more interesting than I expected."
Arthur frowned. His hair flickered white again.
Something about the way Voldemort said his name—like he was toying with it, like he was tasting it—made Arthur's stomach churn.
Voldemort's gaze dropped to the stone at Arthur's side.
"The Philosopher's Stone," he said softly, almost reverently. "So this is where it has been hiding."
Arthur instinctively took a step back, pressing the golden blade to his chest as if it could protect him.
Voldemort chuckled again. "Give it to me, Arthur."
Arthur forced a smirk, despite the way his insides twisted. "Yeah, see... I'm gonna go with a hard no on that one."
Arthur's grip on the golden dagger tightened. His body was tense, but his expression had gone eerily blank. The flickering colors of his hair slowed, settling into an almost silver-white—not from fear, but from something deeper, something he didn't yet understand.
"You were in the forest that night," Arthur said suddenly, his voice quieter now, more controlled. His mind was working quickly, putting together pieces he didn't even know he had. "You killed the unicorns. You were feeding off them."
Voldemort's lipless mouth curled into something that might have been amusement. "Very good, Arthur. Even without knowing who I am, you see more than most."
Arthur felt his stomach turn. The memory of that night in the Forbidden Forest flashed through his mind—the silver blood on the leaves, the way the air had been thick with something wrong. And the shadow. The one that had lunged at him, only to be repelled by the blinding light that had burst from him.
He hadn't understood what happened back then. But now, standing here, facing Voldemort, his body humming with something he couldn't name, he had a sinking feeling that he was finally starting to.
"You are fascinating, Arthur. But you are not the one I have been watching all these years, which is what makes this a surprise. No... there is another."
Voldemort's red eyes gleamed. "Tell me, Arthur, do you believe in destiny?"
Arthur frowned, his grip on the golden blade tightening.
Before he could dwell on it, something crashed behind them.
Arthur turned sharply, instinctively raising the dagger—just as Harry Potter stumbled into the chamber, his face flushed with panic.
"Arthur?" Harry's voice was breathless, his eyes widening at the sight of him. "What are you—? Are you okay?"
Arthur didn't answer. He just kept staring. Because Harry wasn't supposed to be here. And yet, here he was, looking just as out of place as Arthur felt.
Then Voldemort spoke, voice slithering through the air. "Speak of the devil. Harry Potter."
Harry snapped his attention to the source of the voice—then immediately recoiled.
"What are-?"
"I am Lord Voldemort."
"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Harry whispered. His voice was laced with disbelief. "You... You were defeated."
Voldemort laughed, that awful sound rattling through the chamber. "So they told you that story, did they?"
Harry's face twisted in confusion. "What—how do you know me?"
"Ah, yes," Voldemort purred, the red eyes gleaming from the back of Quirrell's skull. "Your parents… They were the ones who assisted in my downfall."
Harry paled.
Arthur barely moved, but his grip tightened on the dagger. There was something off about Voldemort's words—something deliberate.
Voldemort chuckled darkly. "Or at least, that is the version of the story they fed you."
Arthur felt his stomach drop.
Harry, however, seemed too focused on something else. His eyes flickered back to Quirrell—specifically, the grotesque face embedded in the back of his head.
"You're on the back of his head?" Harry blurted. His voice cracked slightly.
Arthur almost snorted. Trust Harry to point out the weirdest part first.
Quirrell twitched as if the comment stung his pride. "I—He is a gift," he snapped, though the effect was somewhat ruined by how awkwardly he had to turn to face them, moving backwards in stiff, unnatural motions.
Arthur's jaw clenched. His mind raced. The night. The night he said he was defeated. Everyone knew the story. Why don't I? I don't know how. I don't know why.
Except, apparently, Voldemort did.
And suddenly, Arthur had the sinking realization that he was about to find out why.