The moment they crossed the next threshold, walls of fire roared up behind and ahead of them—one purple, the other jet black.
“Well,” Neville said, swallowing hard as he stared at the twin barriers, “this could be a problem.”
“Look.” Hermione unwound herself from Harry’s arm and strode to a small table in the centre of the room.
“Harry, Neville—come here. This looks like a riddle.”
Harry peered over her shoulder at the note placed among a row of potion bottles.
“Is this a logic puzzle?” “I believe so,” she murmured, reading the clues several times.
“Give me a minute.”
Neville ran a hand through his hair.
“That’s actually a clever idea… wizards aren’t exactly famous for logical thinking, are we?”
“Not from what I’ve seen,” Harry muttered—then froze, looking stricken.
“S-sorry, Neville. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Neville said with a sad little chuckle.
“I’ve been around you two long enough to notice that much. I’m working on it.”
“Got it!” Hermione crowed, pointing to several bottles in turn.
“This one takes us back the way we came.
These three are poison.
These two are wine.
And this—” she held up the smallest bottle “—takes us forward.”
“Looks like only one dose,” Harry said, taking it from her.
“None of the bottles appear to have been used yet, so they probably refill after a few minutes.” She chewed her lip.
“Or Professor Snape simply used a Flame-Freezing Charm.”
Harry nodded.
“You two take the return bottle and go back to meet Shiva and Dumbledore. I’ll keep going and try to delay Snape.”
“Maybe we should all wait here,” Neville said with a frown.
“I don’t like you going on alone.”
Hermione’s lips trembled; her eyes filled.
She threw her arms around him and held on tightly.
“You come back—do you hear me? You come back!”
“I’ll do my best,” Harry said, returning the embrace.
“Nev—keep her safe.”
“I will.” Neville clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder and gently drew Hermione away.
“Be careful, mate.”
Harry nodded, drained the tiny bottle in one swallow, and strode through the black flames into the final chamber.
“Professor Quirrell?” Harry blurted in disbelief.
The Defence teacher stood in the centre of the final chamber, scowling at a tall mirror.
He barely glanced at the boy who had just entered.
“Potter. I shouldn’t be surprised. You and your little friends have been remarkably annoying this year.” Every trace of the familiar stammer had vanished from Quirrell’s voice.
“But—no. This isn’t right. Snape is the one trying to steal the Stone!”
“He does make a convenient suspect, doesn’t he?” Quirrell sneered.
“Who would ever look twice at poor, stuttering Quirrell when the sneering bat is practically begging for suspicion? I might almost have thanked him—if he hadn’t made the whole affair so tedious.”
Harry kept his wand trained on the man, though he had no clear plan.
Flitwick had taught him the basics of Expelliarmus and Stupefy, yet he was still clumsy with both.
Against a fully qualified adult wizard he stood almost no chance.
Shiva is coming, he told himself.
Just stall.
“But Snape tried to kill me during the Quidditch match!”
Quirrell’s laugh was hollow and cold.
“Oh no, boy. I was the one trying to kill you. Severus was attempting to save you—muttering that irritating little counter-curse of his. He hates you just as he hated your father, true enough. I doubt he actually wants you dead… or at least he prefers to do the job himself.”
Harry’s mind raced.
Neville had knocked Quirrell over that day specifically to break Snape’s eye contact.
“And the troll? Did you let that into the castle as well?”
“Of course. I even arranged a little bait near that foolish Muggle-born girl. Shame she survived. Had she died as planned I would have had more than enough time to retrieve the Stone before anyone noticed.”
Scarlet edged Harry’s vision.
This man had deliberately tried to murder Hermione.
Rage surged through him.
“Expelliarmus! Stupefy!”
Two jets of red light lanced from his wand in rapid succession.
Quirrell spun and raised a shield at the first syllable.
The second spell shattered it; surprise flickered across his face, but he was already flicking his own wand.
Ropes erupted around Harry, pinning his arms.
He snarled wordlessly.
“Let… me… speak… with the boy,” a thin, hissing voice filled the chamber.
Harry stopped struggling.
His scar began to burn.
“But, Master—”
“Silence, Quirinus!”
Quirrell’s mouth snapped shut.
He turned his back and began unwinding the turban with muttered obedience.
As the cloth fell away Harry recoiled in horror and pain.
The scar pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Protruding from the back of Quirrell’s head was a face from nightmare: narrow red eyes, slits for a nose, a mouth far too wide.
It was vaguely serpentine.
A name rose unbidden from memory.
“Voldemort,” Harry breathed.
“Very good… boy. Stronger… than I expected.”