"Shut up!" Voldemort snapped, furious to the point of humiliation, wishing he could rip Louis's mocking mouth clean off.
He hadn't expected that the trials set up by all of Hogwarts' professors to protect the Philosopher's Stone would turn out to be this brain-dead.
But what else could he do? He had only one chance. If he failed because of ignorance of the trials, he would lose the Stone forever.
"So what exactly are you doing now? Bullying a little kid? Don't tell me you can't even win against a child."
Louis cast a glance at Harry, who was clutching his pocket in panic.
"I cannot touch him. His body is protected by magic. You—help me!" Voldemort demanded.
Louis's lips curled, and then he burst into wild, manic laughter.
"Hahahahaha…"
The unhinged laughter was so chilling it left both Harry and Voldemort stunned, staring blankly at Louis in confusion.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the laughter cut off. Dio Brando's face twisted into a sinister, terrifying snarl.
"And who do you think you are… to order me?"
The wave of killing intent hit like a storm. Voldemort involuntarily stumbled back, and Harry—utterly overwhelmed—collapsed to the floor with his legs giving out.
Seeing Voldemort retreat, Louis's expression turned scornful.
He walked over to Harry and, under the boy's terrified gaze, plucked the Philosopher's Stone right out of his hand.
Holding it up, Louis examined the gem as though in deep study.
"The Philosopher's Stone… I'll hold onto this for now." He smiled faintly at Voldemort.
"Don't even dream of it!" Voldemort roared. "Don't think I truly fear you. Push me too far and I'll use my very soul to curse you!"
Even addled as his mind was, Voldemort's viciousness hadn't dulled. He clearly meant that if Louis refused to hand over the Stone, he would drag this "Dio Brando" down with him.
It sounded rather menacing.
Louis tossed the Stone lightly in his palm. Of course, he knew this Stone was only half—the Yin-aligned portion was missing. Even if Voldemort got it, so what?
And even if he held the complete Philosopher's Stone, what then? Was Voldemort going to brew the Elixir of Life right here on the spot?
"Having the Stone now is useless to you. Without the prepared elixir, brewing it in your condition is nothing but waiting for death."
With a snap of his fingers, Louis summoned forth a weapon hidden within his Stand's body—a sword, gleaming in his hand.
He flung it before Voldemort. The blade sank into the ground with ease, icy frost radiating from its edge, its seamless form leading to a hilt of deep, abyssal black.
It was the Demon Lord's Sword, one of the legendary set of enchanted blades.
"Take it. It can grant you immortality, and its power can cut through anything in this world." Louis said calmly.
Voldemort stared at the suspiciously convenient weapon, hesitating, wary of some trick.
But in that moment, the one they had both nearly forgotten sprang forward—Harry.
He had heard every word. That sword could make Voldemort immortal!
How could he allow that monster to live forever?
He had to seize it before Voldemort did!
Voldemort's hesitation, coupled with Louis's spectator's smirk, gave Harry the opening. He snatched the Demon Lord's Sword.
Immediately, a surge of boundless vitality flooded his body.
"Ahhh!"
Glaring at Voldemort, new hatred piled atop old, Harry roared and swung the sword—far too heavy for him, yet carried with desperate strength—down at his foe.
Sensing the danger, Voldemort's face drained of color. He stumbled back in alarm. But suddenly, the body he had been manipulating with such ease—Quirrell's body—began to stiffen unnaturally…
Quirrell's phantom suddenly tore itself free from his body and bolted toward the exit.
"Quirrell!!??"
Voldemort roared in disbelief and fury. At the most critical moment, the host he thought he controlled best had betrayed him—and now, of all times!
Quirrell's body instantly became a masterless shell. The power of the Sheep Talisman activated, forcing Voldemort's soul to fuse fully into Quirrell's body.
That meant Voldemort had temporarily revived—but it also meant he could be cut by the sword, even slain again.
And every death, even if it didn't destroy him outright, left Voldemort gravely weakened.
Dying here would mean losing his one chance at the Philosopher's Stone.
"No!!!" Voldemort's unwilling scream tore through the chamber. Trapped in Quirrell's frail body, his strength was reduced to less than a fraction of a fraction—he couldn't resist at all.
The sharp blade cleaved through Quirrell's rotting flesh, splitting collarbone, ribcage, driving with certainty toward Voldemort's heart.
Harry's face was twisted with killing intent, exultation of vengeance flashing across his young features.
For someone his age, this Harry Potter was ruthless—swinging directly at the vital point.
Louis, standing right beside them, clicked his tongue in surprise. He had genuinely been caught off guard by Harry's sudden ferocity, and in that instant hadn't managed to intervene.
But he still needed Voldemort alive—he couldn't allow Harry to finish him off.
If Voldemort were killed outright, who knew which Horcrux might shatter from the rebound? That would leave one less Voldemort to join the coming chaos.
And that would make things far less entertaining.
So Louis reached out to stop Harry's strike.
The Demon Lord's Sword, famed for cutting through anything, was no joke—Louis certainly wasn't about to grab it barehanded with his Stand.
Instead, he chose a far flashier method.
Cling!
A sharp metallic note rang out. The sword edge froze in mid-air—unable to advance, unable to retreat.
Harry's look of triumphant fury twisted into stunned disbelief. He raised his eyes to see Louis calmly pinching the blade between just two fingers.
Two fingers! Holding a sword-edge, without the slightest wound!
No matter how sharp the weapon, its spine would never cut flesh. And Louis, armed with the passive skill Swordmaster, knew blades better than anyone. For him, such a feat was easier than drinking water.
"You nearly ruined everything," Louis said coldly, lips curling into a cruel smile. He lashed out with a single kick, sending Harry flying.
He didn't use full force this time—unlike what he'd done to Pettigrew, he didn't leave a crater. But even so, Harry collapsed on the floor, curled up in agony, unable to make a sound.
With casual disdain, Louis drew the Demon Lord's Sword from Voldemort's bleeding chest, sneered at the bloodied man, then tossed the weapon back to him.
"Pathetic," Louis said. "Can't even win against a child in a fight for scraps."
Voldemort's face darkened, but the moment his hand wrapped around the hilt, he felt vitality surge endlessly into him, and color returned to his cheeks.
Raising the blade, he turned toward Harry.
Louis arched a brow. "Well? Your goal is achieved. Aren't you leaving?"
"No. I'll kill Harry Potter first. Once he's dead, my greatest threat will be gone." Voldemort lifted the sword, preparing to strike.
And Louis? He seemed to have no reason—or excuse—to intervene.
Was the Boy Who Lived about to die here?
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