I Swung a Sword at Hogwarts

After finishing everything, John was thoroughly satisfied. He cast another Disillusionment Charm on himself.

His Level 4 Disillusionment Charm was now on par with those cast by Aurors from the Ministry of Magic.

Taking out a bottle of Fire-Resistance Potion, he opened it and drank it down.

It felt like swallowing ice water—the potion spread instantly through his whole body.

The flames licked at his skin, but he felt no heat at all.

John walked steadily through the fire. After passing the purple flames, he reached the black flames.

He could feel the effects of the potion fading fast, so he quickened his pace to pass through the black flames before the magic wore off.

In front of him was the final chamber.

There were already two people inside.

And when John saw the taller figure, his body tensed up.

It was Quirrell.

And being held hostage in front of the mirror was Harry.

"What's with this mirror? What does it actually do? Help me, master!"

"Use the boy… use the boy…"

"Potter, come here!"

Quirrell was muttering to himself, or perhaps speaking to someone. John stepped out from the flames, walking silently.

He knew it wasn't the right moment to act—Voldemort hadn't appeared yet. He couldn't move prematurely.

What surprised John even more was that Quirrell was still alive.

This man's life was tougher than a cockroach.

His aura was even more feeble than before, and he reeked of a pungent rot.

It was as if he weren't even human anymore, but a walking corpse.

Quirrell forced Harry in front of the Mirror of Erised. In that moment, Harry's mind was spinning.

He never imagined that Snape—the man he thought was evil—had actually been protecting him, while Quirrell—the supposed victim—was the true villain.

He wanted to protect the Philosopher's Stone, but didn't know how.

Quirrell pressed him, and Harry stood in front of the mirror.

In the mirror, Harry saw his reflection wink at him and then tuck the Philosopher's Stone into his pocket.

Only Harry knew this had happened. Even Quirrell, who stood right beside him, was unaware.

Harry started lying through his teeth:

"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore… and… Gryffindor winning the House Cup."

Quirrell, having gained nothing, grew furious.

"Get out of my way!" Quirrell shoved Harry aside and paced before the mirror, cursing under his breath.

Harry retreated to the side, the Philosopher's Stone hidden in his pocket. He tried to sneak away.

But just five steps in, the voice from earlier—the eerie one—spoke again:

"He's lying!"

Quirrell realized he'd been fooled, and rage overtook him.

He was already weakened from not having drunk unicorn blood. If Voldemort hadn't had another way to sustain him, he'd be dead by now.

His hatred for Harry boiled over.

He pulled out his wand and fired a spell at Harry.

Harry was blasted backward onto the floor. Quirrell's face twisted in madness as he barked:

"Give me the Stone!"

Harry gritted his teeth, saying nothing.

"Let me handle him. You're useless, Quirinus!"

That piercing voice spoke again.

"No! Master, I can do it! I will get you the Stone!"

But now, Quirrell was truly panicked, stammering as he begged for another chance.

Voldemort no longer trusted him. He forcibly seized control of Quirrell's body.

In his weakened state, Quirrell couldn't resist.

Under Harry's horrified gaze, Quirrell's body twisted in grotesque fashion.

He clutched his head with both hands, twisting it violently, like a large rubber ball.

The stench grew even worse as Quirrell slowly unwrapped his turban.

On the back of his head—there was another face.

Harry had never seen something so horrifying. Like chalk, with glowing red eyes and slitted nostrils like a snake.

Quirrell, terrified and drained, pleaded:

"Master, give me another chance…"

Voldemort's face showed only disgust. Quirrell's life was snuffed out.

His body was now fully controlled by Voldemort.

Looking at the one who had made him this way, Voldemort whispered, almost lovingly:

"Harry Potter…"

Harry tried to back away, but his legs were frozen in place. His scar throbbed in pain.

"Look at what I've become."

Voldemort's voice dripped with venomous hatred.

The Dark Lord who once ruled the wizarding world was now reduced to a shade—no more than mist and shadow, drifting like a ghost, surviving only by possessing the weak.

Some were willing to host him. Quirrell had been one of them.

"Once I get the Elixir of Life, I'll create a new body for myself."

Voldemort could already see the world trembling before his return. Everything felt under control.

Dumbledore had been lured away to the Ministry. No one else could stop him.

He raised his wand, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Now, Harry, why don't you give me the Stone in your pocket?"

He was no fool like Quirrell. In his prime, he was Dumbledore's equal.

A petty trick like that couldn't deceive him.

With a flick of his wand, an invisible blade slashed open Harry's pocket.

A crimson stone fell out. Harry lunged for it, but the warped fabric from Quirrell's body wrapped around him.

Voldemort picked up the stone, laughing in a high-pitched, eerie voice.

He turned to the boy—the one the world hailed as the "Savior."

He would break him.

"Look at you. Your parents were brave—I've always admired courage."

"I killed your father first. He fought bravely. Your mother didn't have to die. But she was foolish—she died for you."

Harry's scar seared with pain. Fragments of memory flashed—green light, suffocating laughter.

"No, Voldemort! I'll defeat you!" Harry shouted.

Voldemort sneered and jabbed his wand into Harry's scar.

"That scar—the Savior's lie. Do you really believe you're the Savior?"

He dragged the wand across the scar, causing Harry to scream in agony.

Voldemort's smile grew more twisted. At the same time, he felt the body he possessed beginning to rot.

Without Quirrell's soul, the body was decaying rapidly.

He raised the Philosopher's Stone overhead, its crimson glow radiating power. He lifted his wand, ready to end Harry.

Harry's breathing grew ragged. He stared at Voldemort. Was this really the end?

"Boy… is the magic your mother left behind still there?"

Before finishing him, Voldemort remembered that night twelve years ago—and hesitated.

He reached out and touched Harry.

Blisters immediately erupted on his hand.

The magic Lily Potter had left behind still protected her son.

Voldemort could not harm him.

He was furious.

He regretted killing Quirrell too soon.

Now that he had the Stone, he had to flee—before Dumbledore returned.

"Don't go!" Harry shouted in vain.

Voldemort stepped toward the exit, unhurried.

Harry roared in frustration, a deep helplessness welling inside him.

And just as Voldemort was about to leave—

John, who had remained hidden this whole time, struck.

Voldemort was within arm's reach.

At that distance, John acted without hesitation.

His greatsword flashed with a dazzling silver light—

He backstabbed.