73: Chapter 73 The Standoff Before the Mirror of Eris

The corridor came to an end.

Allen did not take the main entrance.

He pressed his palm against the stone tiles of the ceiling, and Spatial Folding expanded along the seams, allowing his body to slide upward into an invisible interlayer.

The stone chamber spread out below him; the torchlight was pushed low, just enough to illuminate the massive mirror in the center.

The mirror of erised.

The frame was carved with ancient English, and the metal corners had oxidized and turned black.

Looking from this angle, the mirror surface only reflected the empty wall opposite and the cracks on the floor.

Harry stood before the mirror, his hand pressed against his right pocket.

Opposite him was Quirrell.

Quirrell was no longer wearing his turban.

Allen adjusted his posture in the interlayer, and the blackthorn wand slid half an inch out of his sleeve.

Inside the Portable Space, the silver pupil of the Void narrowed into a line, its tail tip pressing against the ebony box.

Peter buried his face in his knees, his shoulders trembling.

"Potter, hand over the Philosopher's Stone."

Quirrell's voice was completely different from in class. There was no stuttering, no trembling; every word was crisp and clear.

Harry stepped back half a step. "I don't know what you are talking about."

Quirrell did not pursue. He turned sideways, the back of his head facing the mirror.

Only then did Allen see clearly.

A face was growing on the back of Quirrell's head.

The skin was ghastly pale, the nose was two vertical slits, and red eyes were embedded in the skull, as if they had been forcibly carved into it.

"Let me speak to him." The face spoke.

Quirrell hesitated for a moment. "Master, you are still too weak—"

"Let me speak."

Quirrell turned around, the back of his head facing Harry.

Lord Voldemort's face was directly facing Harry Potter.

Harry's feet were rooted to the ground, the edges of the lightning scar on his forehead turning red. His hand was still pressing against his pocket, his fingers clenched tight.

"Harry Potter." Lord Voldemort said. "We meet again."

Harry gritted his teeth. "You killed my parents."

"Your mother did not have to die." Lord Voldemort's tone was unnaturally flat, like something slithering underwater. "I only wanted you. She insisted on standing in the way. A foolish sacrifice."

Harry's hand was shaking.

Lord Voldemort stared at the direction of his pocket. "Give me the Philosopher's Stone, and I can let you see them again."

Harry did not move.

Lord Voldemort continued. "This mirror shows what you desire most. You saw your parents, didn't you?"

Harry's eyes reddened, but his mouth remained tightly shut.

Allen's hand holding the wand in the interlayer dropped.

He did not look at the mirror for too long. He had already tested it when he passed by earlier—the mirror surface only reflected the empty stone chamber. No shadows, no images, nothing at all.

In terms of the laws of space, this mirror was merely a two-dimensional reflective surface. It could not read things wrapped in an interdimensional interlayer, just as a flashlight could not shine through a lead plate.

However, the outline of Harry's right pocket was very clear.

The Philosopher's Stone.

Red, slightly smaller than an egg, with cut edges. The magic density on the outer layer of the stone was extremely high, completely out of place with the surrounding air.

Peter raised his head in the cage, his lips moving silently a few times.

Allen glanced at him.

Peter mouthed the word "hurry."

Allen ignored him.

Below, Quirrell approached Harry step by step according to Lord Voldemort's instructions. Harry gripped his wand tightly, with nowhere left to retreat, his back nearly pressed against the stone wall.

"Quirrell, grab him." Lord Voldemort said.

Quirrell reached out his hand.

Harry dodged to the side, skirted around the stone pillar, and ran toward the door.

Quirrell snapped his fingers. The iron bolt on the door clicked shut.

Harry turned back and raised his wand. "Expelliarmus!"

The red light hit Quirrell's chest, having no effect. Quirrell's body only swayed slightly.

"A first-year disarming charm." Lord Voldemort laughed from the back of the head. "Your mother was much more promising than you back then."

Harry stepped back two more steps.

Quirrell walked to the mirror and looked at the surface. "Master, I see myself presenting the stone to you, but there is nothing in my pocket."

"That is because the stone is on the boy." Lord Voldemort said. "Use the rules of the mirror—only those who do not want to use it can retrieve it from the mirror. Potter has it. Take it."

Quirrell turned and lunged at Harry.

Harry dodged to the other side of the stone pillar. Quirrell circled around, and the two went halfway around the mirror.

Allen took all of this in.

His Spatial Perception was doing something else at the same time—scanning the flow of magic toward the Castle.

Something was approaching rapidly.

Starting from the Headmasters Office, passing through the seventh-floor corridor, skipping three flights of stairs, passing the second-floor landing, it was pressing toward this direction along the underground passage.

Dumbledore.

The speed was very fast, at least three minutes earlier than Allen had anticipated. The old man had probably received the news from London and rushed back to Hogwarts, heading straight to the underground upon arrival.

Allen began to calculate the time.

Dumbledore would arrive here in about four to five minutes at his current speed.

How long could Harry hold out?

Harry dodged Quirrell's third lunge, nearly dropping his wand. His physical strength was rapidly declining, and the skin around his scar had turned dark red.

Three minutes. Three minutes at most.

Peter raised his hand in the cage, pointed outside, and then pointed at his own neck.

Allen looked at him.

Peter gestured vigorously: the back of Quirrell's neck, that face, act quickly.

Allen withdrew his gaze to below.

No rush.

What he needed was not to save Harry's life. Harry's life would be saved by Dumbledore.

What he needed was to see clearly—what state Lord Voldemort's remnant soul was in while parasitic on a living person. How the soul fragment was embedded, where the anchor point of the parasitism was, and how much magic was consumed when detaching from the host.

These things were not in books. The pile of old books in the Restricted Section only mentioned Horcruxes for two or three pages, evasively, much like explaining family planning to kindergarteners.

The living specimen before him was more valuable than any literature.

At the back of Quirrell's neck, black blood vessels spread from the edges of that face to both sides, running down the spine, rooting into the host's nervous system like tree roots. Quirrell's eyes occasionally flashed with a red light—that was Lord Voldemort taking over control of the body.

Two souls sharing one physical body. Lord Voldemort's fragment was dominant, but the magic maintaining the operation depended entirely on Quirrell's own.

A parasite.

Allen opened a roll of blank parchment in the space, and his wand wrote down the key points out of thin air.

The Void glanced at the words on the parchment and then looked outside.

Peter's hand had already dropped. He leaned against the corner of the cage, his face gray, his lips moving silently.

Allen couldn't be bothered to guess what he was muttering.

Below.

Harry was cornered by Quirrell. The pain from the lightning scar made his vision blur, and he could barely hold his wand.

"For the last time." Lord Voldemort's voice turned cold. "Give me the Philosopher's Stone."

Harry raised his head, staring at the face behind Quirrell.

"No."

Quirrell raised his hand and grabbed Harry's neck.

Then Quirrell screamed.

His palm emitted white smoke, his skin blistering as if branded by red-hot iron. Quirrell stumbled back two steps, looking down at his hand.

"Master! I cannot touch him!"

Lord Voldemort hissed from the back of the head. "Use your wand!"

Quirrell's right hand was already mostly ruined, so he tremblingly switched to his left hand to draw his wand from his robes. Green light began to gather at the tip of the wand.

It was not the green of an ordinary spell.

It was the color of the Killing Curse.

Harry had nowhere left to retreat, his shoulder blades pressed against the stone wall, his chest heaving violently. His wand was raised, but only a few sparks emerged from the tip.

Quirrell's wand was still gathering energy. A ghastly green light spread from the tip, illuminating half of the wall.

Allen gripped the blackthorn wand tightly.

Dumbledore's magic signal had already passed the giant chessboard. There was less than two minutes left.

Old Honey would make it in time.

If Quirrell's Killing Curse were three seconds slower, Old Honey would be able to arrive. Harry would not have to die, the plot line would not deviate, and everyone would continue on their original tracks.

But Quirrell's hand was accelerating.

The concentration of green light at the tip of the wand had already passed the critical point.

Allen looked down at the wand in his palm.

He then looked down at the black-haired boy cowering in the corner.

The cracked pocket watch jumped inside the ebony box, its blue light flashing for half a second before extinguishing.

The Void suddenly looked up.

Peter widened his eyes in the cage.

Allen spoke, his voice very soft, audible only to the Void and Peter within the space.

"There is not enough time."

He released the edge of the interlayer, and his body plummeted downward.