"Petrificus Totalus—"
Quirrell waved his wand, deflecting the spell directly.
"Child's play. Without Dumbledore, you are nothing."
"It seems after Dumbledore and Mr. Jones left, you finally got a little backbone, at least you can speak normally!" Harry said unhurriedly.
The more he drew out and slowed his tone, the more Quirrell couldn't maintain his arrogant and smug demeanor from before.
He gritted his teeth and said, "What do you know!! That was just my disguise, after all, who would care about a weak, stammering… Quir… Quirrell."
Harry observed his surroundings, pacing slightly, trying to approach Quirrell, his hands behind his back.
At the same time, he nodded, pretending to agree, "If 'disguise' as an excuse makes you feel better, then fine, I believe you are disguised!"
"Enough! Sharp-tongued!!" Instantly, Quirrell's robe transformed into strips of bandages, like suddenly attacking vipers, striking directly at Harry.
He was agitated.
Harry didn't hesitate, jumping aside directly, not even trying to dodge, because the speed was too fast.
"Incendio—"
At the same time, he cast a spell in mid-air, then fell heavily to the ground!
Quirrell's hand suddenly twitched, directly batting away Harry's spell, and at the same time, an angry roar echoed from his body again: "Enough!"
That wasn't Quirrell's voice; he didn't even move his mouth.
"Easily provoked by a first-year… How foolish are you?!" The voice roared.
"Master, no, forgive me, it's just that he's too…"
"Shut up!" The voice directly interrupted him. "Let me speak to him personally."
"Master, you are still too weak. You can use my body."
"I still have that much strength!" The voice said.
Harry was puzzled; he slowly stood up, raising his wand, only to see Quirrell gripping his wand, watching him warily with one hand, and beginning to unravel the turban on his head with the other.
Before long, as Quirrell's bald head was exposed, he slowly turned around.
Harry's pupils flickered, and his throat involuntarily bobbed.
Behind Quirrell's head, there was another face, an extremely ugly, noseless face.
"Finally, we finally meet." He said, his voice the same hoarse, uncomfortable sound as if it had rotted in a gutter.
"Lord Voldemort, ha, I only knew you had some connection with Quirrell. But I didn't expect your connection to him to be so close." Harry's eyes burned with anger, and the needle-like pain on his forehead constantly pricked his nerves.
"Yes, thanks to you, I became a lone spirit, a shadow." A cold smile appeared on his face: "However, I don't mind."
Harry raised his eyebrows, but Lord Voldemort said, "We both know that had nothing to do with you; after all, you were too young back then.
Oh, by the way, how are your days in Slytherin? I heard you caused quite a stir."
"When you're dead, don't concern yourself with the affairs of the living." Harry said.
"Dead?!" Lord Voldemort laughed: "You are still too young; you don't understand."
As he spoke, his voice became increasingly seductive: "The Philosopher's Stone can grant immortality. The Resurrection Stone can bring back our deceased loved ones.
The relationship between Wizards and death is always so ambiguous.
And I, I have conquered death!"
Saying this, Quirrell's hand strangely twisted backward, and he waved his wand, raising the large mirror.
"So, I think we can cooperate, for your parents, I can resurrect them.
I think past enmities were never that great.
Furthermore, I can see your excellence; you are an excellent Slytherin, and you should have a brighter future—with me!"
Harry nodded in agreement, "I never dwell on the past; I look to the future."
Lord Voldemort's smile deepened, and he twisted Quirrell's hand back, making cracking sounds: "Clever child, come here, yes, you have made the right choice."
Harry walked over, and Quirrell's twisted hand rested on his shoulder.
"This mirror is called…"
The next moment, Harry's right hand grabbed his left shoulder, firmly gripping Quirrell's twisted hand that rested on his shoulder.
At the same time, his left hand reached into the cloth pouch at his waist.
Clang—
The moment the longsword was drawn, it was immediately enchanted with the Sharpness Charm; blood splattered, Lord Voldemort's words were interrupted, and Quirrell's wail rang out.
Harry followed closely, wanting to deliver the finishing blow, but the scar on his forehead suddenly stung, and Lord Voldemort once again turned into black mist, escaping his restraint, retreating several meters before solidifying again.
The anger on his face was inexpressible, seemingly turning into substance; he waved his hand at his waist, and the wound, which could reveal his internal organs, was forcibly closed.
"You made a wrong choice." After he finished speaking, he raised both hands, and his cloth robe flew up, as if possessing the power to blot out the sky, attacking Harry.
"Not killing me… is it because the Philosopher's Stone hasn't been acquired yet? Is it related to that mirror?!"
He thought while rapidly retreating, flames appearing on his longsword, which he wielded to block Lord Voldemort's binding spell.
From the sky-blotting cloth robe, two spells suddenly flashed, and the next moment, Harry's hands involuntarily loosened, and both his longsword and wand flew towards Lord Voldemort.
Under this momentary stiffness, the cloth robe, like a Troll's fist, struck him heavily, sending him flying directly into the wall, making him feel as if all his internal organs had shifted out of place.
Lord Voldemort caught Harry's wand and snapped it. Then he kicked away the longsword.
"Wielding a longsword, utterly foolish!" Lord Voldemort mocked, looking at Harry sliding on the ground.
"Is that all you've got?" Harry's voice reappeared, and with a bang, the sound of a glass bottle shattering echoed in the empty room.
What followed was a sensation as if all his blood rushed to his head, and his vision seemed to be covered in a layer of crimson.
An inexplicable anger flared, an indelible rage exploding in his mind.
Lord Voldemort looked at Harry in shock; that last blow would have been enough to half-kill any other child.
"I spared your life only hoping you would recognize reality! Here, my word is the rule." Lord Voldemort said, opening his hand and aiming at Harry, those binding strips once again sweeping towards him.
"Anyone can say that!" Harry's voice was low, like an animal's growl.
Lord Voldemort didn't want to waste any more words; after using him to get the Philosopher's Stone, he would give Harry a difficult death.
"If you are the rule—"
Harry waved his palm, and to Lord Voldemort's surprise, another wand appeared.
This was his true wand!
At this moment, he was completely red, his eyes bloodshot with rage.
"Then I am destiny!"
Burning flames appeared from his wand.
"Incendio!!"
The next moment, Harry aimed his wand at the ground and swept it down; the intensely burning flames immediately spread out, and the so-called snake-like binding strips seemed so vulnerable.
The flames turned into a wall of fire, and Lord Voldemort's expression changed dramatically, "How could it have such power… No! What did he drink just now?!"
However, no one would answer him; the wall of fire rushed towards him. Lord Voldemort waved his wand: "Finite Incantatem—"
"You are indeed weak enough; even for this level, you need to chant and use a wand!"
"Stupefy—Petrificus Totalus—"
Along with these sounds, from the wall of fire dispelled by the counter-spell, two spells and a figure suddenly shot out.
Harry's eyes were bloodshot at this moment; he held his longsword, following closely behind the two spells.
The longsword was raised high!
He never had just one sword.
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