At this moment, Harry had already retrieved the Philosopher's Stone from the Mirror of Erised.
Voldemort realized this and demanded to speak with him directly.
Quirrell removed his turban—
revealing the grotesque truth.
Where the back of his head should have been,
there was another face.
Pale as chalk.
Red eyes glowing.
Thin, snake-like slits for nostrils.
Lewis couldn't help but think of Janus, the Roman god of doors and beginnings—
sometimes called Janus Quirinus.
A god with two faces, looking both forward and backward.
In this world, names weren't just names.
They carried weight.
Meaning.
Power.
And sometimes—
they shaped destiny itself.
Voldemort began his usual psychological assault,
trying to break Harry with words.
But it failed.
So he resorted to force.
Harry tried to run—
toward the flames.
But Quirrell grabbed his wrist.
They both fell.
Pain exploded in Harry's scar—
sharp, unbearable.
But Quirrell screamed as well.
Touching Harry burned him—
as if he had seized a piece of molten iron.
Just as he tried to let go—
a figure stepped out from behind the stone wall.
Without a moment of silence for Harry's capture—
enter: the masked Gryffindor.
"Adhesion."
A flick of the wand—
and Quirrell's hands fused to Harry's wrist.
What kind of cursed nonsense is this?!
Quirrell raged internally.
He looked up—
a student in Gryffindor robes, face wrapped in a scarf, only eyes visible.
Despicable sneak attack.
Right now, though—
pain was all that mattered.
He struggled violently, trying to pull away.
But no matter how he twisted, yanked, or dragged Harry across the floor—
he couldn't break free.
They were bound together like doomed lovers.
Even heaven and earth couldn't separate them.
Their screams echoed in unison—
Harry in agony,
Quirrell in pure torment,
Voldemort roaring in fury.
The whole chamber sounded like a funeral hall.
Watching from the side—
Lewis was almost moved to tears.
If he hadn't been the one who caused it.
Quirrell desperately wished for his wand.
With even one free hand, he had countless ways to escape.
But both hands were stuck.
A fatal mistake.
Regret came too late.
Because soon—
there would be nothing left to regret.
Harry suffered only from the scar's pain.
But Quirrell—
was being destroyed.
His skin blistered.
His body smoked.
Then—
he began to melt.
Before his head fully dissolved,
a wisp of black smoke escaped—
and fled the chamber.
Voldemort.
Gone.
Quirrell collapsed—
nothing more than a dissolving corpse.
"Such a simple spell… yet it changes everything."
Lewis removed his disguise, returning to his Ravenclaw uniform,
and helped Harry up.
"You look terrible. Want something for the pain?"
He rummaged through his bag.
"Potion… or aspirin. Take your pick."
Harry didn't bother choosing—
he grabbed both and swallowed them.
"…Let's hope that works."
It did.
The pain eased slightly.
"You… what kind of awful spell was that…" Harry groaned.
"My head is killing me."
"But you're alive," Lewis said calmly.
"Good magic is effective magic."
He gestured casually.
"Quirrell's dead. Voldemort fled. The Boy Who Lived defeated him again—technically with his wrist."
"Everything worked out."
"Except my head!" Harry snapped, then managed a weak smile.
"…We actually did it."
"Yes," Lewis said lightly.
"The hero overcomes hardship and defeats the villain…"
"…though this was only phase one."
Harry blinked.
"…What?"
Lewis ignored that and changed the subject.
"By the way… I've heard a lot about the Philosopher's Stone."
He looked at Harry.
"Mind if I take a look?"
This wasn't a random request.
Lewis had thought it through.
If Dumbledore truly knew everything—
then he was likely watching right now.
Observing.
Judging.
Evaluating.
In that case—
there was no risk in simply looking.
After all—
he wasn't trying to steal it.
Just… study it.
And maybe—
gain insight.
Harry hesitated only briefly.
Lewis was his friend.
And had just saved his life.
So he handed it over.
Lewis took the stone.
A red, translucent polyhedron.
Like a large ruby.
But infinitely more valuable.
The moment he touched it—
something changed.
Knowledge flooded in.
Alchemy.
Its ultimate principle.
Its core truth.
The Philosopher's Stone—
the pinnacle of creation.
Lewis felt it.
Understood it.
Mastered it.
A technique—
etched directly into his mind.
He suppressed the surge of emotion,
carefully examining the stone a moment longer—
then casually tossed it back to Harry.
As if it meant nothing.
Somewhere unseen—
Dumbledore froze.
…What kind of child treats the Philosopher's Stone like a pebble?
Lewis: I'll make better ones later anyway.
Harry caught it and tucked it away.
"I wonder how Ron and Hermione are doing… and where the professors are."
Lewis smiled faintly.
"Don't worry. This is Hogwarts."
"As long as Dumbledore is here—nothing will go wrong."
Somewhere nearby—
a certain old wizard felt his face heat up.
Moments later,
Dumbledore hurried through the flames,
putting on a perfectly timed entrance.
"Oh my—Mr. Potter, Mr. Green! I'm so relieved you're safe. I hope I'm not too late!"
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