HP: The Dangerous Azkaban Professor

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Pushing through the flickering purple flames, Hermione was just about to head towards the room where Ron was, when she suddenly noticed that the foul stench lingering in the air had completely vanished.

Lowering the sleeve that she had been using to cover her nose and mouth, she quickly realized there was now someone else in the room.

"Professor Greengrass…?" The young witch's eyes widened in surprise. "What are you doing here…?"

"That's a question I should be asking you, Miss Granger," Sargeras replied with a faint, composed smile.

"Uh… I'm sorry, Professor. We shouldn't have acted on our own, and I'll explain everything to you in detail, I promise. But right now the situation is really urgent, Harry… he's in danger, we need to…"

"Calm down, Miss Granger…" He gently cut the little witch off, speaking in an unhurried, reassuring tone. "Since I am standing here at this very moment, it means everything is still well within my control."

Hearing those words, the young witch couldn't help but recall the immense power Sargeras had displayed before. Bit by bit, the panic in her heart faded away, and her breathing gradually steadied.

Seeing her reaction, Sargeras nodded in quiet approval. He reached out and pointed at Ron, who was lying on the floor nearby. "Wake him up. If Mr. Weasley misses the most exciting part—the truth itself—I have no doubt he'll be sulking about it for days."

Without waiting for Ron to fully regain consciousness, Sargeras raised his wand. In an instant, a shimmering enchantment of "Invulnerability to Fire and Water" enveloped the three of them. With that done, he calmly led the two young wizards straight through the flaming doorway.

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On the other side, the moment the potion slid down his throat, Harry felt a strange, weightless sensation spread throughout his entire body. Taking a steady step forward, he approached the wall of black fire. The roaring flames obediently parted to either side, like well-trained servants making way for their master.

The scene before his eyes gradually came into focus — the Mirror of Erised stood tall at the center of the circular stone chamber, its surface gleaming with an eerie, silvery light. But the person standing before the mirror was not who Harry had expected. It wasn't Snape… nor was it Voldemort.

It was Quirinus Quirrell.

The same Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who always seemed so timid and stammering at the staff table, now stood with his back straight, his posture upright and firm.

When Quirrell finally turned around, Harry couldn't stop himself from instinctively stepping back — the face that was usually twisted with nervous tics was now terrifyingly calm, a composed, unhurried smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.

"Potter…" Quirrell's voice was low and hoarse, carrying a sinister rasp, like the sound of a snake sliding across the floor. "I was wondering if you would come."

"You… you're not…" Harry stammered, disbelief tightening around his throat.

"Not a stuttering fool?" Quirrell chuckled softly, the sound cold and brittle, like the frozen surface of a lake in winter.

"How… why isn't it Snape?" Harry's voice caught, unable to finish the sentence. A searing pain suddenly exploded across his scar, sharp and hot, as though someone had pressed a burning iron against his forehead.

"Snape?" Quirrell let out a low, mocking laugh. "Ah… speaking of which, I really ought to thank him. With him wandering the halls of the school like a shadow…" His steps were graceful and unhurried as he paced across the chamber, his wand twirling idly between his fingers. "Who would ever suspect poor, trembling Professor Quirrell?"

Harry's mind raced, memories from the past months snapping together like jagged pieces of a terrible puzzle. "But… but he tried to kill me… during the Quidditch match."

"Kill you?" Quirrell narrowed his eyes dangerously, a glint of malice flashing within them. "He was saving you!" His voice dropped lower, coiling with venom. "If Snape hadn't been muttering that Counter-curse, you'd have been smashed into the ground and shattered like glass long ago. And that damned Greengrass…"

His voice twisted with sudden fury, the calm mask cracking as a savage expression flashed across his face. "He ruined my carefully laid plans."

Harry felt as though the floor tilted beneath him. Snape… had been protecting him? The Potions Master, who never missed an opportunity to torment him? That thought was somehow even harder to accept than Quirrell's betrayal.

"But it doesn't matter now." Quirrell suddenly snapped his fingers, and in an instant, ropes shot up from the ground like venomous snakes, coiling tightly around Harry and binding him in place. "Tonight, the Dark Lord will finally get what he desires."

"You can't be allowed to live any longer, Potter. I already wanted to finish you off that night in the Forbidden Forest, but that damned woman nearly killed me instead. If I hadn't run fast enough, I would've been burned to ashes right there on the spot. And all of that… was your fault. But it doesn't matter anymore. This time, no one's coming to save you, Harry Potter. No one."

"But before that… Potter, you'll sit tight for a little while longer," Quirrell said, turning his attention back to the mirror. "Because I intend to take a good, long look at this fascinating thing."

"The… the figure in the Forbidden Forest… that was you?" Harry's eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest. "You… you were the one drinking the unicorn's blood?"

"Indeed… that's right…" A strange gleam lit up Quirrell's eyes as he stared fixedly at the mirror, his face twisted with quiet satisfaction. He spoke without even glancing back. "Hard to believe, isn't it? All those years… all my time buried in books, learning magic… and I never imagined the blood of those filthy creatures carried such astonishing power. Such a pity… that half-blood mongrel Greengrass keeps lurking around the forest so often these days. Otherwise… my magic would be far stronger than it is now…"

"Aren't… aren't you afraid of the curse?" Harry forced the words out through clenched teeth, summoning every ounce of courage he could. "Drinking unicorn blood… they say it brings a curse…"

"Curse?" Quirrell finally turned, casting Harry a dismissive glance, his expression tinged with mocking amusement. "What foolish nonsense are you babbling now, Potter? Or are you trying to distract me with lies, hoping I won't unravel the mirror's secrets?"

Without waiting for Harry's response, he turned his attention back to the mirror, circling slowly around it, his lips moving in a low mutter. "I can see it… I see the Philosopher's Stone… I see myself presenting it to my master… and receiving the reward… the power… Could it be… does this mirror have the power to foresee the future? Can it reveal what is about to happen?"

Quirrell's voice grew increasingly agitated, his words tumbling over one another in his growing frustration.

"That's the Mirror of Erised!" Harry seized the chance, blurting it out quickly. He was desperate to buy more time, to keep Quirrell talking, to hold his attention.

And it worked. Quirrell stopped in his tracks, turning his head sharply to look at him.

"You know about this mirror?" His expression was flat, emotionless, but his eyes glittered with cold intensity. "Tell me, Potter. Tell me its secrets."

Harry hesitated for a moment, his face tightening with fear — though much of it was real, for deep down, he truly was afraid. "If I tell you… will you let me go? Professor Quirrell… I don't want to die…"

The young wizard did his best to sound like a frightened child desperate to save his own skin, trying to play the role of someone weak and easily frightened. He was prepared to use every trick he could to stall for time, to outwit his enemy.

"Oh, Potter…" Quirrell let out a soft chuckle, a mocking, almost pitying smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "Are you… begging me for mercy? The great, heroic Boy Who Lived?"

"I never wanted to be anyone's hero!" Harry shouted, his voice cracking under the strain. "I just… I just want to be… a normal person…"

"I understand… I understand, Potter…" Quirrell's expression shifted as he slowly approached him, the false warmth in his smile completely unconvincing. "The master will surely agree with your little request. He may be strict with me… but I'm certain he'll be very merciful… with you. Of course… that depends on whether you tell me… everything you know."

Quirrell deliberately softened his voice, making it sound gentle and coaxing, while Harry's mind spun rapidly, weaving together the best lie he could manage.

"It's… it's the Mirror of Erised…" Harry answered, his voice carrying a trace of hesitation, as though he were struggling with the words. "People… people can see their heart's deepest desire through it… but… but the things it shows… they aren't real…"

"You mean… the Philosopher's Stone isn't here?" The smile on Quirrell's face vanished in an instant, replaced by a dark, gloomy expression.

"Of course it's not," Harry replied, gaining confidence as his lie grew more fluent. In that moment, a string of quick, clever half-truths sprang into his mind, as if they had been rehearsed a hundred times. "Professor Dumbledore always keeps the Stone with him… I've seen it myself… wrapped up in a small cloth pouch."

Quirrell's face grew uglier by the second, his expression twisting with suspicion and frustration. Sensing the moment, Harry rushed to keep the story going, doing his best to sound proud, to appease him. "But… I could try to get it."

Straightening his back a little, Harry forced an air of arrogance into his voice. "Dumbledore trusts me, you know… maybe that's the only perk of being the famous Boy Who Lived."

"Why… why would you do that?" Quirrell's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Consider it the price for sparing my life!" Harry replied quickly, his voice rising with carefully measured desperation.

"I see…" Quirrell nodded slowly, as though finally understanding everything. He bent down slightly, bringing his face closer to the young wizard's, his eyes glinting with cold amusement. "But tell me, Potter… if that's really the case… then why is this mirror here at all?"

The sneer on his face deepened, dripping with mockery, as if he had effortlessly seen through every lie Harry had spun. "Do you honestly think that old fox Dumbledore… would surround a worthless mirror with this many layers of protection?"

"It's a trap!" Harry blurted out the words without missing a beat. His mind raced as he grabbed hold of his own lie and wove it even tighter. "Professor Greengrass… it was his idea! He convinced Dumbledore to do this… they set the whole thing up to mislead anyone chasing the Philosopher's Stone. The mirror… all of it… it's a trap."

For a fleeting moment, Harry couldn't help but feel proud of himself. For someone making this up on the spot, he thought, he was doing a spectacular job. It almost felt like spinning lies came as easily as breathing.

"What… what did you say?" The words had barely left his mouth when Quirrell's eyes widened in shock. His face drained of color as he whipped his head around, scanning the chamber in sudden panic. His voice cracked as he shouted, "Master… Master… we've been tricked… it's a trap…"

Before Harry could make sense of what was happening, a deep, hoarse voice suddenly echoed from within Quirrell's own body, freezing the blood in Harry's veins.

"The boy is lying to you… you fool…"

A chill rushed over Harry, as though he had fallen into a pit of ice water. But that terrifying voice did not stop there.

"The Philosopher's Stone is inside the mirror. If you can't get it… then use the boy. He can take it for you…"

Quirrell turned his head to look at Harry again, and this time, his face was as dark as a storm cloud, so tense it looked as though water could drip from it.

"Come on, Potter…" Quirrell forced down the anger that burned underneath his skin and with a flick of his hand, the ropes binding Harry vanished. "You shouldn't have lied to me… though I suppose… I can't blame you…"

His voice dropped lower, carrying a dangerous undertone as he pointed to the space in front of the mirror. "Now… come here. Look into the mirror… and tell me… exactly what you see."

Harry didn't even know how his legs managed to carry him to the mirror. His mind was still spinning with that voice… that dreadful, chilling voice that had come from Quirrell's own body. For a fleeting moment, he even wondered if it had all been some kind of hallucination, something his terrified mind had made up.

"I still have to lie… no matter what I see… I have to lie…" The thought echoed in his head, over and over, like a desperate mantra clinging to the edges of his fear.

At last, he found himself standing before the mirror. Drawing a shaky breath, he lifted his head and looked into the glass. For a heartbeat, he thought he would see his parents again, just as he had that night in the deserted classroom. But he quickly realised he was wrong.

The reflection staring back at him was pale as a ghost, his scar twisted and raw under the faint, menacing glow of the chamber. And then, all of a sudden… the reflection smiled at him. But it wasn't his usual smile. No… that expression… that sly, secretive smile… it wasn't one he would ever make.

The "Harry" in the mirror reached into his robe pocket and slowly pulled out a deep red gem, shimmering like frozen blood beneath the silver glow. The Philosopher's Stone glowed eerily within the mirror world, its crimson light pulsing softly, almost alive.

The mirror version of himself gave him a playful wink, and as the Stone was slipped back into the pocket in that same instant—

THUMP—!

Harry jolted in place. His own pocket suddenly felt heavy, as if something had fallen into it. Through the fabric, he could feel the warmth, the smooth, solid weight of it.

It definitely wasn't a hallucination. The Philosopher's Stone… had somehow appeared… right there in his pocket.

Harry did everything he could to keep his face perfectly blank, desperately trying not to react. Quirrell was standing right behind him, so close that Harry could feel his hot breath brushing the back of his head.

But Quirrell seemed to have noticed that something was wrong. His eyes snapped toward the mirror, and his voice cracked with tension as he barked, "What are you looking at? What did you see?"

His harsh, demanding tone carried a sharp edge of unease.

Harry fought back the overwhelming urge to reach for his pocket, forcing every muscle in his face to remain frozen in that same frightened expression. In the mirror's reflection, his counterpart had already returned to its earlier look of wide-eyed fear, as though the strange scene from moments ago had never happened at all.

But through the thick folds of his wizard robes, Harry could still clearly feel the subtle, steady warmth of the Philosopher's Stone nestled inside his pocket, like a tiny, pulsing heart hidden close to his body.

"I… I saw a huge crowd of people surrounding me…" Harry stared at his own pale face in the mirror and spoke without hesitation, his voice trembling with convincing fear. "I… I became Gryffindor's prefect… no, not just that… I was made Head Boy…"

Quirrell's face was already beginning to twist with impatience, but Harry kept going, rattling off nonsense as quickly as he could.

"I… I won the House Cup for Gryffindor… and… and I even joined national Quidditch team…"

"Shut up. Get out of the way…" Quirrell shoved him roughly aside and stepped forward, pressing himself close to the mirror.

"He's lying. That boy… he's still lying…"

The low, hoarse voice rang out once more, but this time, Harry could see clearly that Quirrell's lips hadn't moved at all.

"Potter, get back here!" Quirrell snapped his head around and barked the command, his eyes burning with suppressed fury. "Tell me the truth, what exactly did you see? Don't even think about lying again… all your tricks are useless in front of the Master!"

"Quirinus… let me speak to him. Let me… speak to him face to face…"

That hoarse, chilling voice drifted out again, this time slow and deliberate, carrying a bone-chilling malice beneath its words. "After all… he looks like a boy… who rather enjoys lying."

"But Master… your strength hasn't fully recovered yet…"

There was a faint tremble in Quirrell's voice, the first crack in his otherwise nervous arrogance.

"I still have enough strength… for this…" That voice now carried a dangerous irritation, clearly displeased by the hesitation. "Don't make me say it… a second time… Quirinus."

"Y-yes… Master… yes…"

Quirrell lowered his head in fear, his hands trembling slightly as he reached up to untie the turban wrapped tightly around his head, peeling away the layers of fabric to reveal the smooth, pale scalp beneath.

And then… Harry saw him turn slowly around, his back now facing Harry, the back of his bald head completely exposed.

For one brief, suffocating moment, Harry's mind flashed to the nightmares that had plagued him for so long. He wanted to scream, but no sound came from his throat. He wanted to run, to bolt from this place, but his legs refused to obey him.

Because there, where the back of Quirrell's head should have been… was a face.

A face more hideous, more terrifying than anything Harry had ever seen in his life. The skin was deathly pale, stretched taut over sharp, bony features like bleached bone. The eyes gleamed crimson, blood-red and full of hate. Beneath those eyes, two slitted nostrils curved like those of a snake.

"Harry Potter…"

The face whispered softly, that faint, eerie voice creeping into Harry's ears like poison. "At last… we meet again."

Harry's knees nearly buckled beneath him. He stumbled back, falling hard onto the cold stone steps, struggling to breathe as fear gripped his chest like iron chains.

"Look… what you've reduced me to…"

The face spoke again, its voice low and bitter, dripping with loathing. "I lost… even my own body… forced to drift… like a wraith… through the Forbidden forest… clinging to life only with the help of snakes… and rats…"

Harry couldn't find his voice. He could barely think. His entire body was trembling uncontrollably, yet that face kept speaking, its words slicing into him like cold knives.

"But it doesn't matter… The great… and merciful Lord Voldemort… is willing to give you one last chance… All you have to do… is hand over the Philosopher's Stone in your pocket… and I might… let you live…"

So… Voldemort knew everything.

A storm of panic howled through Harry's mind. He hadn't even considered that Voldemort might be able to read thoughts, to use Legilimency and pluck the truth from his head as easily as turning a page. The idea of lying… was meaningless now.

But then… what was there to be afraid of?

Suddenly, Harry understood. A quiet, fierce clarity surged through him. Hadn't he already prepared for this the moment he stepped into this room? Or rather… hadn't he been prepared for it ever since that night eleven years ago, when he should have died by Voldemort's hand?

With that thought anchoring him, Harry forced his trembling legs to straighten. Gritting his teeth, he summoned every last ounce of strength and pushed himself to his feet.

"Don't be foolish, boy… Don't make the same mistake your parents did… thinking you could defy me…"

Voldemort's voice turned sharp and cruel, his red eyes narrowing dangerously. "Didn't you say so yourself? That you were willing to steal the Philosopher's Stone from Dumbledore for me… in exchange for my mercy… in exchange for your life? I'm giving you that chance now… all you have to do… is hand the stone over…"

"You wish!"

Harry shouted suddenly, his voice clear and fierce, the words leaving his mouth almost without thought. At the same moment, he spun around and dashed straight for the wooden door, the one still blazing with black flames.

"You can't escape!"

Quirrell rushed after him, stepping backward but still closing the distance between them, while Voldemort's crimson eyes fixed on Harry like a predator stalking its prey, that twisted, cruel smile curling across his monstrous face.

But before Harry could reach the door, ropes burst into existence out of thin air, coiling around his legs like living snakes. He immediately lost his balance and crashed heavily to the ground.

Voldemort's voice slithered through the air like a snake crawling across dead bones, every word carrying a bone-chilling cold that seeped into Harry's marrow.

"Courage… what a charming quality…"

The decaying face on the back of Quirrell's head contorted into a wicked sneer. "Just like your father… stubborn to the end…"

The ropes cut deep into Harry's skin, but the sharper pain was the way Voldemort's words ripped open wounds Harry hadn't even known were there… painful truths he had never imagined hearing, spoken so casually by the enemy.

"Did you know?"

Voldemort's voice lowered to a sickening, hissing whisper, dripping with twisted satisfaction. "Your father… didn't even have his wand when I came for him… Such… heroic resistance…"

A gleeful malice crept into his tone. "My Avada Kedavra (Killing Curse) blasted him from one end of the room to the other… Yet he still… blocked the staircase with his body… trying to buy your mother time…"

Suddenly, an unfamiliar image flashed vividly across Harry's mind: a man with messy black hair and glasses… struck by a flash of green light… his body tossed through the air like a broken puppet… crumpling at the foot of the stairs…

"And your mother…"

Voldemort paused, his red eyes narrowing slightly. "She… could have lived… I gave her a choice… But she… insisted on standing between you… and your cradle…"

The snake-like face contorted with cruel mockery.

"Such a foolish choice… Avada Kedavra!"

Harry's heart skipped a beat, but this time there was no flash of green light, only the cold, sneering grin on Voldemort's face, dripping with contempt.

Voldemort drifted closer, his words never stopping, each one tightening around Harry like a noose.

"Ah… I should have done that eleven years ago… Potter… And I did… in every way that mattered… Yet you still… managed to ruin me like this…"

His voice darkened, full of venom.

"And now… eleven years have passed… Eleven long years… Do you really think… you can escape me again… as you did before?"

Harry's breathing grew heavy, but he fought down the wave of sorrow crashing through him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move despite the ropes biting into his legs. His hand dove into his pocket, clutching the Philosopher's Stone.

With all his remaining strength, he hurled it towards the flames.

"How dare you!"

Voldemort's face instantly contorted with fury, his eyes wide with rage. He thrust out his hand, casting a Summoning Charm towards the crimson Stone that arced through the air.

But before the spell could reach its mark… a raven appeared out of nowhere, its wings beating sharply through the smoke as it snatched the glowing red Stone cleanly in its beak and soared away.

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[Chapter End's]

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