Hogwarts: I Am Such a Model Wizard

Chapter 225: The Destroyed Philosopher’s Stone?

Voldemort seemed eager for Kyle to be caught by Dumbledore while researching Horcruxes—or perhaps he simply believed it inevitable that anyone foolish enough to pursue this dark magic at Hogwarts would be discovered.

“You don’t need to worry about that, Professor,” Kyle replied smoothly, carefully tucking the parchment away.

Of course, Kyle knew better than to trust Voldemort’s words completely. The information might be accurate, but there was no guarantee. Until he could obtain Secrets of the Darkest Art, Voldemort’s notes would remain nothing more than a guideline.

“Did you just call me… Professor?” Voldemort’s face twisted slightly in surprise.

“Well, you did teach me something, after all,” Kyle said with a casual shrug. “It seems only fitting.”

“Don’t play games with me…” Voldemort sneered, his voice laced with contempt. “Do you really think I’ll let you walk away that easily, you insolent fool? Enjoy every day you have left, because I will return.”

He narrowed his eyes. “No matter how many Horcruxes you make, I’ll dig them out, one by one. You… won’t escape.”

“Well then, happy hunting, my dear Professor,” Kyle said with a laugh.

At that moment, the black flames around the entrance sprang to life once more. Someone else had entered the room.

“Perfect timing.”

Kyle pulled another potion bottle from his pocket, keeping it ready in his hand, and then unfurled his Invisibility Cloak.

“Tell me… how did you manage it…” Voldemort’s voice was barely a whisper now, his tone tinged with faint disbelief. “Knowing it was me on Quirrell… and waiting here in advance…”

“It wasn’t difficult to figure out, Professor,” Kyle replied quietly, slipping on the Cloak. “Horcruxes, Unicorn blood, the Elixir of Life… add them up, and the answer’s pretty clear.”

“As for why I was here before you…” Kyle gave a brief, amused smile. “That’s thanks to Bella—er, I mean, Mr. Potter.”

...

Just then, the black flames wavered, and a figure slowly emerged. Harry had expected Snape, or maybe even Voldemort—but what he saw was something far stranger.

In the middle of the room was a man crawling on the ground. Beside him lay a familiar scarf—the same scarf Professor Quirrell always wore.

”Professor?” Harry called, moving closer cautiously. But as he approached, horror seized him. There, on the back of Quirrell’s head, was a grotesque face—pale, with snake-like slits for nostrils and eyes shut tight.

A chill ran down Harry’s spine, and he instinctively backed away, his first instinct to flee back to the warmth of the castle. But the thought of Voldemort getting the Philosopher’s Stone kept him rooted in place.

Quirrell seemed unconscious, and the face on the back of his head—though its lips moved slightly as if mumbling—made no sound. Harry’s curiosity tugged at him, but he dared not get any closer.

Skirting around Quirrell, Harry’s eyes fell on something he hadn’t noticed before: the Mirror of Erised. “So Dumbledore hid it here…” he whispered to himself.

Unable to resist, he approached the mirror again. “If the Philosopher’s Stone is hidden anywhere, it has to be in here,” he thought as he looked into the glass.

At first, he saw his reflection staring back at him, pale and wide-eyed with fear. But then, slowly, his mirrored self broke into a smile. Harry’s reflection reached into his pocket, pulled something out, winked, and put it back.

Confused, Harry frowned. Was his reflection… showing him where to find the Stone? Just then, a glint of red caught his eye—a bright red stone had fallen to the floor behind the mirror.

“The Philosopher’s Stone!” he exclaimed, stooping to pick it up.

But the moment he said it, Quirrell’s eyes snapped open, and he slowly rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily.

“The Philosopher’s Stone… the Philosopher’s Stone…” Quirrell muttered, head bowed, a wild look of triumph in his eyes.

Harry, startled, took a step back and hid the Stone behind his back. “Don’t even think about it! I won’t give it to you!”

Quirrell laughed darkly, lifting his hand with a crazed look. “Die… you’ll die here with me!”

Sparks erupted from his hand, bursting into flames that coalesced into a massive, fiery eagle, wings spread and flames licking outward. The temperature in the room spiked, and Harry knew that if this continued, the fire would soon engulf them both.

“Stop it!” Harry shouted, grabbing Quirrell’s arm to try to break his focus.

Blisters formed on Quirrell’s skin where Harry touched him, but he barely seemed to notice. Instead, he tightened his grip on Harry, trying to drag him closer to the flames.

“It’s all because of you… die here with me!” he hissed, his voice laced with venom.

Harry’s scar seared in pain, so intense it felt as though his head would split open. His vision darkened, and he could barely make out Quirrell’s voice—mixed with other voices, distant but calling his name. “Potter! Potter!”

His grip on the Philosopher’s Stone loosened, and it fell to the floor, swallowed up by the flames.

“No…” Harry murmured weakly as he tried to pull free.

Just then, he felt Quirrell’s grip slacken, and the pain in his scar receded. He staggered back, trying to make sense of what had happened, only to feel a hand clamp onto his shoulder.

“Harry, don’t. This is Fiendfyre—you’ll die if you go in there!”

“Ky—Kyle?” Harry looked up in shock, recognizing his friend through the haze. “What are you doing here?”

“No time to explain,” Kyle replied, eyes narrowing as he took in the situation. He mentally kicked himself for not acting sooner. He’d seen Quirrell stirring but had thought the professor’s only goal was one last attempt to take down Harry, not that he’d be able to conjure Fiendfyre without a wand.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kyle said, gripping Harry’s arm as his wand began to glow with an orange light, preparing to counter the flames.

But just as he was about to act, the Fiendfyre suddenly extinguished, leaving the room silent and still.

“Looks like I arrived just in time,” came a calm voice from the doorway.

Dumbledore stood there, his blue eyes twinkling even in the fading glow of the dissipated flames. With a mere flick of his fingers, he’d dispelled the deadly Fiendfyre.

“Professor Dumbledore… Quirrell… the Philosopher’s Stone…” Harry tried to explain, still shaken.

Dumbledore shook his head gently. “We’ll discuss this later, Harry. You need rest.”

But as he spoke, his gaze lingered on Kyle, a look of faint surprise and curiosity flickering in his eyes.