"Master, I can't hold him—my hand!—my hand! Let go of me, Potter!"

In the final chamber, when Tom stepped in, he saw Harry and Quirrell locked in a vicious struggle. Quirrell's face and hands were covered in grotesque blisters, and Harry wasn't faring much better—his head felt as though it were about to split in two.

"Tom Riddle?!"

Quirrell's turban had already been torn away, revealing Voldemort's agonized, flat face, just in time to witness Tom emerging from the stone corridor.

The moment Harry heard that furious roar, he instinctively turned toward the doorway—toward Tom.

That single instant of distraction was all Quirrell needed. He wrenched himself free from Harry's grip, yanked out his wand, and aimed it at—well, the gibberish incantation spewed forth, but the murderous intent was clear—a deadly curse meant for Harry.

"Accio Harry!"

Before the curse could strike, Harry's body was yanked through the air to Tom's side as though pulled by an invisible hook. The curse slammed into the ground instead, blasting a gaping hole in the stone.

Harry had been running on pure adrenaline, the brush with death keeping him conscious. But now, momentarily out of danger, the boy promptly collapsed into unconsciousness.

"Tom Riddle!" Quirrell bellowed.

"Shut up, you fool! Let me speak to him!"

Obediently, Quirrell turned his head so that Voldemort's flattened face was once again aimed at Tom.

"Riddle," Voldemort hissed, "I am the Dark Lord—the so-called He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Surely you know me."

Tom nodded lightly. "I know you. The Dark wizard who was killed by Harry Potter when he was a year old. Because of you, he became… different."

Voldemort: "..."

Excellent. As expected from a man who shares my name—he refuses to concede even in a battle of words.

"Shall we talk?"

"Talk about what?" Tom tilted his head.

Voldemort's crimson eyes gleamed faintly. "Have you forgotten our arrangement with Quirrell? We agreed to share the Philosopher's Stone. If you hand me the Stone from Harry's pocket, you'll gain boundless wealth and life everlasting—immortality, like Nicolas Flamel."

"Not only that, but I'll share with you my power and glory. Your talent is extraordinary, yet Dumbledore refuses to teach you advanced magic. Tom, have you ever been to the Restricted Section of the library?"

"I'm certain you haven't. Dumbledore fears you—fears that one day you'll surpass him, just as he once feared me."

"But I have no such reservations. I am the most powerful being alive, and I would share my knowledge freely with you."

Voldemort's words were smooth poison. Tom didn't answer right away, but Quirrell's breathing quickened—how he wished those promises were meant for him.

Yet Voldemort's eyes stayed locked on Tom, waiting for his reply.

Suddenly, Tom laughed.

"Voldemort, you're accusing me first to cover your own treachery. You and Quirrell were the ones who betrayed me—weren't we supposed to take the Stone together? Then why did you sneak back here alone without telling me?"

"But… looks like we think alike."

"If I can keep it for myself, why share it with anyone?"

As he spoke, Tom reached into the unconscious Harry's pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. Voldemort's slit nostrils flared, his crimson pupils blazing with greed.

The Philosopher's Stone.

With it, and the immense power within, he could be reborn—stronger than ever before. Even Dumbledore wouldn't be able to stop him.

Just one more step. Just one final step!

"Tom," Voldemort's voice was now soft, coaxing, "I understand your ambition. We are both Slytherins—exceptional Slytherins. But you are young."

"What good is possessing the Stone if you can't wield it? Do you know alchemy? Can you brew the Elixir of Life?"

"Wealth and treasure aren't what matter most. Do you know what you lack?"

"What?" Tom asked with feigned curiosity.

"A guide," Voldemort whispered, spreading Quirrell's arms wide—though the posture looked strange with his back turned to Tom.

"You need a teacher—one learned, powerful, and wise. Dumbledore feared me once, and never taught me anything truly useful. After graduating, I spent twenty years wandering the world before completing my transformation into the greatest wizard in history."

"Give me the Stone, and I will be your teacher. I will spare you countless detours."

Tom almost laughed aloud.

He lacked money, time, even perhaps a wife—but one thing he was not short of was teachers. He already had two: one light, one dark. And there would surely be more to come. Who was Voldemort to add himself to the list?

With a flourish of his wand, Tom aimed at Voldemort. "Last time in the Forbidden Forest, didn't I already leave you too injured to take care of yourself? You think I'd take a defeated man as my teacher?"

"Besides, you're hardly the forgiving type. If I acknowledged you as my teacher, your first act upon revival would probably be to kill me."

Voldemort's expression iced over. "You knew it was me?"

"In this entire school, who's more suspicious than you? Snape?"

At the mention of Snape, the unconscious Harry's brow furrowed instinctively.

"Very well…" Voldemort's voice was now drenched in fury and murderous intent. "If you will not see reason, then I will simply… kill you here and now!"

Quirrell spun around, raising his wand, and unleashed a curse he had clearly prepared in advance.

Tom sidestepped. He might have the gift of Ironhide Skin now, but he didn't yet know its limits—and wasn't about to test them against a killing curse.

If he were in his usual state, he might have tried to squeeze the last drop of power from Voldemort, just to see what he could gain. But the effects of the Berserker Potion still surged through his veins. Right now, he wanted only one thing: to send his opponent flying.

Smack!

Harry, still under a levitation spell, was yanked into the air—and in Quirrell's horrified gaze, Tom sent him hurtling forward like a rocket-propelled battering ram.

"Take my special move—The Harry Headbutt!"