Harry Potter : Bloodraven

Chapter 111: Twilight of the Parasite (VII) (CH - 131)

A jet of sickly green light burst from Quirrell's wand, and it sliced through the chamber like a serpent striking its prey. His features contorted into a rabid grin—whether this exhilaration came from his own heart or from Voldemort's parasitic presence, he couldn't tell. All that mattered was that the hunger for this moment felt real to him.

But amidst the hopeless situation Harry was in, he did not flinch. Even as death raced toward him, he stood there in stubborn defiance—he would face his end without surrender.

Just as Quirrell thought he had succeeded, the curse came to an abrupt halt just inches away from the boy's chest. The spell had struck something, but it was certainly not its intended target before it dissipated into nothing.

Harry, dazed and unaware, had no idea what had just happened. Had the curse hit him? Had it missed? All he remembered was hearing that familiar voice—then, everything went dark.

Silence filled the chamber, save for the steady crackling of the flames blocking the entrance. Quirrell's fingers tightened around his wand as he stared at the unconscious boy. He wasn't dead—his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths.

Quirrell's brow furrowed as he realized—someone had interfered.

And true to his thoughts, the next moment, he heard the distinct tap of boots against the stone floor outside. But whoever it was didn't seem to be in any hurry. It sounded slow, rhythmic, almost casual.

He raised his head toward the entrance and saw a silhouette behind the flames. Judging from the height, it certainly wasn't the school's headmaster, and that realization made him let out an unconscious breath.

"Looks like I made it in time."

A smooth and unhurried voice carried through the chamber. Yes, it wasn't Dumbledore—but this was even more troublesome. Quirrell narrowed his eyes. He knew that voice.

There were only three people, apart from Dumbledore, whom his master had ordered him to be wary of.

The two Great Magi—Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick.

And the third—Maverick Caesar, a man with an unknown background, deep connections, and a suspected Great Magus.

For that reason, he had carefully avoided any direct encounters with him—as well as the other two—all year. But now, there was no avoiding it.

He saw the wall of fire at the entrance tremble, its flames flickering as if they had suddenly gained consciousness. Then, they parted, carving a narrow path. The silhouette standing beyond the fire became clear. It was exactly who he had suspected.

Maverick Caesar walked in at an unhurried pace, hands tucked into his coat pockets, as if the sweltering heat and the tension in the room simply didn't exist.

But just as his footsteps neared the unconscious boy, Quirrell's head throbbed with Voldemort's furious shout, "The stone, you fool! The stone!"

Only then did Quirrell react. He jolted, realizing his mistake. With a sharp jab of his wand, he uttered sharply, "Accio!"

Something stirred in Potter's pocket. A glint of red flashed as the Philosopher's Stone wrenched itself free and shot through the air toward him—

—only to halt, suspended mid-flight.

Maverick barely moved. One hand slipped from his pocket, and with a simple flick of his fingers, the stone halted midair, hanging motionless between them.

"Let go, and use the killing curse!" Voldemort's order rang inside Quirrell's head. "Kill him!"

Quirrell obeyed without hesitation. He released his hold on the stone, and in the same breath, his wand snapped up.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Maverick was honestly surprised at this point. Not because of the bolt of death streaking toward him, but at how quickly everything had escalated.

He had expected some back-and-forth, maybe a bit of taunting from old Voldy, but he hadn't thought the Dark Lord would just skip the usual script for a scene like this.

Thinking vaguely amused thoughts, Maverick stepped aside, dodging the curse as effortlessly as one might sidestep a puddle on the street. The Killing Curse shot past him, missing entirely.

The stone, however, did not. It sailed neatly into his waiting palm.

Voldemort shrieked, his fury rattling inside Quirrell's skull.

"Again! Again!"

Quirrell's arm jerked up once more, but before he could utter the incantation, a sharp, agonizing crack filled the chamber.

Arrrrhhhh!

He screamed.

His wand clattered to the floor. His arm—his entire forearm—was twisted unnaturally backward, bent at an angle no human limb should ever take. His knees buckled as white-hot pain shot through him.

Maverick cast Quirrell a dispassionate glance before turning his attention to the unconscious boy. With a flick of his fingers, Harry's body lifted effortlessly into the air.

Without a moment's pause, he tucked the Philosopher's Stone back into Harry's pocket. With a casual flick of his fingers, Harry's unconscious form rose a little higher, then drifted soundlessly through the parted flames and out of sight.

Only then did he turn, his gaze settling on Quirrell, who writhed in agony on the floor.

Quirrell could swear he had never felt such pain in his entire life. It was agony unlike anything he had ever imagined, as if his very being were being torn apart, and to make matters worse, the voice of his Dark Lord raged inside his head.

"Useless fool! Stand! Do something!" Voldemort's voice was a relentless storm, battering his already shattered mind.

Regret washed over him like a tidal wave. He regretted everything. Regretted stepping foot in the forests of Albania, regretted offering himself to Voldemort, regretted every choice that had led him to this moment. He had once thought he would be rewarded for his loyalty, that he would be given power beyond imagination. But now, even if his master regained a body, it was clear he would be discarded like a broken pawn.

As these thoughts churned through his mind, the pain surged—multiplied tenfold. His vision blurred, and his eyes rolled back as his consciousness began to unravel. And then—

Darkness.

His body, which had been writhing in torment, suddenly stilled. The agonized howls ceased, his trembling stopped, and an eerie silence fell over the chamber.

Then, with an unnatural slowness, Quirrell rose to his feet.

His skin was pallid, drained of what little color it once had. His eyes—once human—had sunken deep into his skull, hollow and lifeless. His lips were cracked, and his body, barely more than a husk, twitched with unnatural stillness. His left arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, yet he gave no sign of pain.

This was no longer Quirrell.

His very presence exuded something far more unsettling than Quirrell ever had.

Maverick raised a brow. "Should I call you Quirrell now, or Voldemort?"

The figure's lips curled, and when he spoke, it was in a slow, venomous hiss. "Maverick Caesar."

The way he said his name sent a chill through the air.

"Why?" Quirrell, or rather, Voldemort's bloodshot eyes gleamed with an eerie light. "Why do you defy me?"

Maverick tilted his head slightly, as if he had just been asked the most idiotic question in existence. He decided to humor old Voldy for a moment.

"Are you serious?" he asked, eyes wide with mock innocence. "You're an outright villain, Mr. Voldemort. So, as a good, law-abiding citizen, it's only natural that I do my part and stop you—the bad guy."

His tone was light, almost lazy, but the mockery in his words was unmistakable.

Voldemort hissed, his face contorting in fury. "Are you mocking me, boy?"

Maverick's expression remained unchanged. "Yes."

For a moment, Voldemort was speechless. Never in his life had he encountered someone so unconventional, so brazenly dismissive of him. But he was the Dark Lord—he would not be rattled so easily.

Composing himself, he spoke again, his voice quieter, but no less sinister. "Why does a wizard of your talent follow a crippled old fool like Dumbledore?" Voldemort sneered. "You do not know what he truly is. He—"

Maverick raised a hand, cutting him off. "Stop. This bullshit monologue won't get you anywhere."

Voldemort's lips curled, but he pressed on. "A wizard of your caliber should be standing beside me, not against me. I am the Heir of Slytherin. I was a Great Mage before I was even thirty. I can teach you knowledge beyond—"

Maverick smirked. "You're pathetic."

Voldemort's eyes darkened.

"Not just pathetic," Maverick continued, "but the biggest idiot in magical history."

Voldemort's face twisted in rage, but Maverick wasn't done.

"Just because you reached the rank of Archmage, what on Merlin's name made you think you could do whatever you wanted?"

"Because I am Lord Voldemort!" Voldemort roared.

"No," Maverick interrupted, his tone as cold as steel. "You're just a pitiful fool who can't even accept his own identity. A Muggle-born idiot who convinced himself the world owed him everything. You're not a genius, Riddle. You're a fool. A bitter, self-absorbed fool who never outgrew his teenage tantrums."

Voldemort's entire body trembled with fury. "HOW DARE YOU—"

Maverick barely spared him a glance. "Simply put, you're just a little bitch, old Riddle. A whiny, lying little bitch."

Rage exploded from Voldemort. "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

A thick bolt of green light shot from his outstretched hand, wandlessly. Maverick raised an eyebrow. Wandless casting of the Killing Curse? Now that was new. A small, fleeting thought before he stepped to the side, dodging effortlessly.

Voldemort's fury knew no bounds. Once more, he lashed out, jabbing his hand forward—

Crack!

But before he could unleash the curse, a sickening crack echoed through the chamber, just like before.

His only remaining arm had also been rendered useless, now twisted at an unnatural angle. Yet, unlike Quirrell, Voldemort did not scream. He didn't even flinch. It was as if he did not register any pain. Instead, he merely glanced at his broken limbs—then lifted his gaze back to Maverick.

"What magic is this?" he demanded.

Maverick smirked. "Oh? You want to know?"

Voldemort recognized the mockery in his tone but remained silent.

Maverick obliged him. "It's a little trick I picked up from Muggles. Not that you'd ever be able to learn it, even at your peak."

With a snap of his fingers, the stone floor beneath Quirrell's feet rose, engulfing him up to the knees, locking him in place.

Voldemort's expression remained unreadable. After a moment, he asked, "Do you truly think you have captured me?"

Maverick shrugged. "No idea. But I'm sure I've trapped Quirrell's body." He glanced toward the entrance. "And soon, Dumbledore will be here to deal with your parasite self."

Voldemort let out a low, guttural laugh, one that slowly built into a near-hysterical cackle. The sound echoed through the chamber, hollow and sharp, filled with something between amusement and madness.

He had accepted it now—getting the Stone was no longer possible.

Maverick didn't interrupt. He simply watched as the Dark Lord indulged in his own bitter amusement.

"I will remember you, boy," Voldemort finally said. "When I return, I will make you pay."

Maverick responded with a lazy hand gesture—fingers opening and closing like a talking mouth.

Voldemort didn't understand the exact meaning, but he knew mockery when he saw it. His irritation flared into something sharper, colder. In mere minutes, Maverick had secured himself a place among the most hated names on Voldemort's ever-growing list of those he swore to destroy.

Then, without warning, dark smoke began to seep from Quirrell's mouth, nose, and ears, curling into the air like tendrils of shadow. A low, unnatural wail followed—a sound that was neither entirely human nor entirely alive.

The swirling mass of smoke coiled and writhed, twisting until it coalesced into Voldemort's wraith-like form. Below, Quirrell's lifeless body slumped forward, his head striking one of his own trapped legs with a dull, final thud.

For the briefest moment, their eyes met—Maverick's unimpressed, unyielding gaze against Voldemort's seething, spectral form.

Then, without warning, the wraith spun around and fled.

Maverick chuckled. Almost in the same instant that Voldemort shot upwards, a black raven, wreathed in cursed flames, burst from Maverick's outstretched hand and streaked toward the fleeing specter.

Screeeetch!

The raven struck. Voldemort's shriek tore through the chamber—a raw, unnatural wail, something neither human nor entirely of this world.

"Curse you, boy!" he howled, his voice echoing with fury and pain.

And then, he was gone—his wraith-like form phasing through the solid stone ceiling, vanishing into the darkness above.

Maverick stroked his chin. "Interesting. Fiendfyre really is a versatile spell."

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Author's Note:

? Power Stones = Fuel for the Story Machine! ? Keep it running! ?

? Drop those Stones! ?

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