Tver's expression changed.
But it was too late to draw his wand now—Quirrell was already too close to Harry.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The green light flashed toward him in an instant.
Frozen in place, Harry could only watch as the spell shattered the first and second layers of his Shield Charm before clanging against the final layer of golden light. Then, it finally dissipated.
(A little tip: Ordinary Shield Charms can't block the three Unforgivable Curses—only the strongest ones can. So don't go trying to block a Killing Curse head-on, alright~)
"Oh?" Quirrell finally noticed the three badges on Harry's chest.
After enduring that attack, one of them had clearly dimmed, while the other two had also faded slightly.
"That Fawley boy does have a few clever ideas. But a few badges won't save you!"
Quirrell sneered, raising his wand again to unleash a second Killing Curse.
Under the shadow of death, Harry trembled violently. It took him two tries to draw his wand, and even then, he could only watch as the Shield Charm shattered around him.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
"Huh?"
Quirrell felt a strange, subtle pressure pressing against him—not strong, but enough to slow every movement, even making his wand arm drag sluggishly.
"Looks like Fawley's taught you more than a few good tricks."
"The professor is ten thousand times better than you!"
A flash of red light burst from Harry's wand, striking Quirrell straight in the eye.
It worked. Quirrell's eyes flared painfully, and he clutched them with a cry of agony.
Unfortunately, it was only a flash of light.
"Confringo!"
The stairs beneath them exploded. The blast threw Harry violently backward just as he had tried to escape.
Dazed and dizzy, he was hurled high into the air. It took several moments before his thoughts cleared.
"Why am I still floating?" he murmured, staring in confusion at the floor several feet below.
Slowly, he drifted toward the doorway—where Professor Fawley stood, wand in hand, smiling calmly at him.
"You did well. Leave the rest to me."
Joy flashed across Harry's face, but before he could say anything, his vision went dark. He drifted gently toward the exit.
Meanwhile, Tver slipped the Philosopher's Stone from Harry's pocket into his own.
Quirrell didn't try to stop him. Instead, he watched Tver stroll toward him, wearing an easy, almost pleasant smile, as if on a leisurely walk.
"Why bother?" Tver said mildly. "Even villains should have a few principles. The Philosopher's Stone was right there in his pocket. You could've just taken it."
"Principles?" Quirrell scoffed. "My only principle is my master's command!"
At that, Tver gave him a slow, meaningful smile, which only deepened Quirrell's confusion.
"All this talk of 'master'... You're really making it sound like there's something strange going on between you two."
Quirrell frowned, trying to figure out what he meant, but came up empty.
"Enough nonsense. Hand over the Philosopher's Stone—or die in that brat's place!"
Tver's smile vanished. He didn't move, yet the air around him grew heavy with pressure, bearing down on Quirrell.
"Are you sure about that?"
"I'm sure!"
The reply didn't come from Quirrell—but from the voice at the back of his head. Voldemort's voice.
"Mas—ah, aaaaaaah—!"
Quirrell's words dissolved into a scream. His face twisted as if melting, contorting in agony as he collapsed to the ground.
The sound made Tver's chest tighten.
Soon, the screams stopped. Quirrell stood once more.
But now, he could no longer be called Quirrell.
Tver studied his face—it looked as if another visage had been pressed over it, layered grotesquely onto the same skull.
"So, you drained so much of Quirrell's life force just to take his body today?"
Quirrell—or rather, Voldemort now—grinned, his hands twitching slightly as he adjusted to his new face and body.
"Quirrell was doomed to die anyway. Isn't it fitting that he gets to sacrifice himself for me?" Voldemort spread his arms, his wand dangling loosely in his right hand.
"The question is, what do you gain from it?" Tver tilted his head, studying Voldemort's current form. It looked horribly unstable—his skin was already starting to peel.
"Kill me and steal the Philosopher's Stone? But Quirrell's body won't last long. Once it collapses, you still won't be able to take the Stone with you."
"No," Voldemort said smugly. "Ever since I realized Dumbledore was watching this place, I knew neither you nor Quirrell could escape with the Philosopher's Stone."
Tver's expression hardened. Dumbledore was the greatest variable in his entire plan.
"I suppose you don't know what Dumbledore's done here?" Voldemort gestured toward the torches surrounding them. "He didn't bother setting up detection spells. He simply used the torches' property of lighting up when someone passes by to keep track of this room."
Realization dawned on Tver. He even let out a helpless chuckle.
Truly Dumbledore. Always able to turn the simplest things others ignored into something ingenious. In a way, he'd achieved a kind of effortless mastery.
"Then why aren't you running? You're just going to wait here to be caught by Dumbledore?"
Voldemort shrugged, smiling faintly—or rather, baring a grin that, on him, looked downright ghastly.
"I can't die anyway. You're the one who should be worried."
"What do you mean?"
"Everything I've done has been for you, Tver Fawley!" Voldemort stepped closer, his gaze gleaming with an unsettling admiration.
"I've never met a more gifted young wizard. Join me. With your power, I can be reborn easily, crush every last opponent, and create an era that belongs to us alone!"
His voice rose with excitement, though his face remained chalk-white, making the sight eerily grotesque.
Tver felt nothing—no fear, no temptation. If anything, he felt like laughing.
"But now you've wasted my time. How am I supposed to escape when I run into Dumbledore later?"
"With so many students in the school, we can always grab one or two. Then we can run wherever we like," Voldemort said indifferently.
Tver sighed, disappointed. "All these years wandering the world, and you still haven't learned that your methods could stand to be a little more refined?"
Voldemort blinked, momentarily confused. "Why bother making them refined?"
"See? That's the difference between us. I don't stoop to using such cheap tricks—because I'm far smarter than you." Tver shook his head with mock disappointment.
Realizing the mockery, Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Then let this lowly one teach you a lesson!"
"Really? Can't get what you want, so you destroy it instead?" Tver teased.
"That's exactly my plan." Voldemort stepped back to give himself room to cast. "If you won't join me, I'll stall for time and let Dumbledore finish you off."
He even gave a mocking little bow. "Tell me, is that refined enough for you?"
Tver smiled in amusement, returning a flawless bow of his own. "Maybe. But tell me—how long do you think you can actually delay me?"
Before Voldemort could react, he fired a Killing Curse. Tver dodged it easily and responded with three in return.
At the same time, the stone beneath Voldemort's feet melted into a swamp. In an instant, his legs sank into the ground. With a flick of his wand, three black serpents shot out, intercepting the curses.
He waved his wand again, and a massive serpent head of mud rose from the swamp to lift him free—only for it to shatter a second later as Tver blasted it apart, splattering mud all over Voldemort.
"My apologies for making you look so filthy~"
Voldemort glanced down at his mud-splattered robes. It wasn't his own body, but his pride burned all the same.
"I only meant to stall you, but I didn't expect you to—"
"Crack."
He raised his wand, deflecting Tver's next spell.
"Even my students know better than to talk during a duel. Didn't your teacher ever teach you that?"
Even while talking, Tver didn't stop attacking. Spell after spell rained toward Voldemort.
"You bastard!"
Voldemort fired another Killing Curse in fury, a faint flush of color rising to his ghostly pale face, making him look even more unnerving.
Tver blocked it effortlessly. "A little grace, Tom. This is a rare duel—you might even learn something from it."
"How dare you?!"
For the first time, Voldemort hated someone's words more than their magic.
"Don't let emotion cloud your focus in battle. Calm is your sharpest weapon—a little private lesson from Professor Fawley~"
"Die, you bastard!"
Voldemort abandoned all thoughts of buying time. Summoning every bit of his remaining life and magic, he swung his wand. The walls, already fractured by spells, split open completely as shards of stone and dust surged together.
In an instant, an earthen whirlwind took shape, roaring toward Tver with crushing force.
"Boom—"
The tornado slammed into him, sending dust and smoke swirling outward, obscuring everything from Voldemort's sight.
After a moment, the haze began to spiral inward, as if being sucked up by an invisible force.
"Just a reminder," came Tver's calm voice. "Bigger doesn't always mean stronger. In one-on-one combat, it only scatters your magic and weakens the blow~"
As he spoke, Tver emerged from the clearing dust, wand raised toward the earthen storm above him.
"And don't use magic that pollutes the environment—look, the PM2.5 levels here are already off the charts!"
As soon as Tver spoke, the tornado began to move, sweeping toward Voldemort like a slow autumn wind.
But its range was far too wide. In a place where Apparition was impossible, he had nowhere to run. All he could do was watch helplessly as the whirlwind swallowed him whole.
Dust and debris enveloped him in an instant, slicing across every inch of his skin like countless blades, shredding his body into fragments.
Even worse, though it wasn't his own body, Voldemort could still feel the agony deep within his soul.
It was like being torn apart from the inside. In unbearable pain, he abandoned Quirrell's ruined shell and fled as a wisp of black smoke, shooting toward the exit.
Behind him, Tver's calm voice followed—
"Tom, remember this last important lesson—immortality of the soul doesn't mean it can't feel pain. In fact, a soul can experience torment far beyond what the body ever could~"
Watching Voldemort flee in disgrace, Tver sighed and shook his head, unsure whether the "student" had actually learned his lesson.
Still, after only half a year of teaching, he found himself oddly used to this feeling of giving lectures.
He glanced casually at what remained of Quirrell—now nothing but indistinguishable ash and dust.
I really am dedicated to my work.