Harry was by no means some indestructible divine weapon—if he ran into a wall, the wall wouldn't be the first thing to crack. He would.

But when it came to Quirrell, Harry was the deadliest weapon there was.

To be precise, it was Voldemort, now riding in Quirrell's body, who was getting choked out by Harry.

The protective magic Lily had left in her son had been building up for ten long years with nowhere to go, and today, it finally erupted in full force.

"Fool! Move away—now!"

Even Voldemort panicked. The pain might have been Quirrell's to feel, but the suffering went straight to his soul.

And that ripping, searing agony—Voldemort had endured it countless times before, but he still feared it like death itself.

Worse yet, Harry hadn't come alone.

He was glowing.

Voldemort recognized that glow instantly—it was the same light he'd seen in the Forbidden Forest when Harry had almost punched him into oblivion. That blow had left him barely clinging to his wraith-like life. Even after escaping, it had taken him half a month to recuperate, leeching nearly two-thirds of Quirrell's life force just to stagger back to health.

From that moment, Voldemort knew—this boy had found yet another way to be his bane.

Merlin's beard—Tom Riddle dabbling in such wholesome, righteous magic? Unthinkable.

Quirrell was just as terrified. He scrambled and rolled frantically out of the way of Harry's incoming rocket-headbutt.

But just before Harry's skull could make intimate contact with the floor, he skidded to a sudden stop—

—then spun like a meteor hammer, lashing out with a vicious kick that caught Quirrell right as he was climbing back up.

"AAARGH!" Quirrell screamed, smoke curling from his chest. Tom's fingers twitched in rapid sequence, and Harry moved with them—anyone like Professor Flitwick, seeing this, would instantly recognize it as the exact same method Tom had once used during an exam to make a pear dance across a table.

First came a crushing, upward slam to Quirrell's torso, launching him back. Then a brutal follow-up—"Farewell My Concubine"—as Harry's hand raked mercilessly across Quirrell's face.

The combined torment of the Patronus's power and Lily's protection magic had both Quirrell and Voldemort howling in anguish.

Quirrell barely managed to raise his wand—when an invisible blade sliced clean through his wrist, severing his wand-hand entirely.

His entire body was rotting away now.

Like a ghastly wraith, Voldemort burst out from the back of Quirrell's skull.

"Tom Riddle! I will return!"

The spectral remnant spewed a wave of black smoke, propelling itself toward escape.

Tom flung Harry aside and released a dense cloud of Patronus mist to block him, though he knew full well it likely wouldn't work.

Indeed, Voldemort tore through without slowing—though much of the smoke dissolved away in the attempt—before vanishing into the wall itself.

Quirrell's body collapsed. The man was little more than a husk of rot now, long since dead, his end hideous beyond words.

In the room, only one being was left breathing—and barely at that.

Tom's expression soured in disappointment as he carelessly set the half-conscious Harry down on the floor.

Then something caught his eye—the enormous standing mirror placed in the very center of the chamber.

The Mirror of Erised.

A device that revealed one's most desperate, heartfelt desire.

It was also the final safeguard protecting the Philosopher's Stone. Only those who yearned to possess the Stone purely to protect it could actually obtain it.

By that measure, Tom didn't qualify in the slightest.

He simply wanted to know—what was his greatest desire, deep down?

It was a question he'd asked himself before. Even he had never settled on an answer.

Standing before the glass, hazy shapes began to swim into focus.

Tom's eyelid twitched violently.

The reflection revealed Dumbledore—in the Great Hall, no less—looking nothing like his usual serene, wise self. His face was alight with emotion, his beard trembling.

He was loudly proclaiming:

"Mr. Riddle has saved Hogwarts! I award him fifty thousand points!"

Tom: "…"

Well. That couldn't be right. Had studying fried his brain?

…Yet the more he thought about it, the more it actually made sense.

Fifty thousand House Points meant fifty thousand credits—ten thousand achievement points—the equivalent of two immortal-legend-tier professors in resources.

With that kind of leverage, he'd soon be the strongest wizard alive, utterly free to live as he pleased, with the absolute authority to tell anyone, "No, I don't eat beef."

Damn it. This mirror really understood him.

"What do you see?"

The warm, familiar voice came from behind. Without looking back, Tom replied casually,

"I see you, Professor, awarding me fifty thousand House Points—grateful that I've saved the school. Oh, and in the mirror you're crying from how moved you are."

Dumbledore didn't even know what kind of expression to wear at that.

Fifty thousand points… this boy really dared to dream.

"You truly value your House's honor," Dumbledore said with a dry chuckle, stepping up to stand beside him. "Fifty thousand is excessive—it'd make the hourglass explode. But given your heroics today, Slytherin will certainly earn… a fair number of points."

"The more the better," Tom reminded him, then asked curiously, "Professor, what do you see in the Mirror of Erised?"

As he spoke, Tom opened his mental study-space. Inside, Grindelwald fixed Dumbledore with a piercing stare.

"Wool socks," Dumbledore said lightly. "Many think I love books best, so every winter I'm buried in them as gifts. But the present you gave me, Mr. Riddle—that's the one I've cherished most. I was still wearing them last month."

Tom's face twitched.

He had given Dumbledore a… sweater.

It was May. Hogwarts averaged in the mid-20s Celsius. Who in their right mind wore a sweater in that weather without worrying about heat rash?

"He's lying," Grindelwald said firmly in Tom's mental space. "When Dumbledore lies, his blinking speeds up, and he clasps his hands behind his back while puffing out his chest—to steel his own resolve."

Andros gave Grindelwald a horrified look.

Was it his problem or Grindelwald's that the man knew his mortal enemy's habits this well?

"We've plenty to discuss later," Dumbledore said aloud, "but Harry's in poor condition. We should get him to the hospital wing."

Tom nodded. With a flick of his wand, the unconscious Harry rose into the air.

Logically, if they were in a hurry, Dumbledore could've had Fawkes take them straight to the infirmary. Instead, the Headmaster chose to walk—leading the way back into the Potions chamber.

Tom followed. They passed through the potion room, the troll room, then arrived at the chess and flying chamber. The wreckage made even Dumbledore's eyelids twitch.

The berserker potion's effects had worn off now, and Tom realized… perhaps he'd gone a bit overboard earlier.

"Good thing Minerva's not here," Dumbledore murmured. "She'd be heartbroken—took her the whole summer to set up that board."

Tom felt no shame whatsoever, even controlling the unconscious Ron to float alongside Harry as they continued on.

In the Devil's Snare chamber, blue flames lit the tip of Tom's wand. He glanced at Dumbledore, then at the trapdoor in the ceiling.

Would Dumbledore be able to fly? He might be about to find out—

—But no. Dumbledore lived up to his title as the magical world's master of enchanted devices. With a graceful wave, rubble from the previous two rooms rose into the air, floated along the stone corridor, and assembled into a staircase that stretched all the way from the trapdoor down to their feet.

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T/N:

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