Kapitel 297: Real Enemy
"Are you going in the wrong direction?" Quirrell asked, perplexed.
"No, just preparing a bit," Blake responded nonchalantly, casting a bubble-head charm on himself.
"Why a troll? They're smelly and hard to control. A poisonous horned beast would be better; it pokes its horns into intruders and explodes," Blake added casually.
Quirrell's face turned green. He had chosen a troll because he was familiar with controlling them, not to guard the Philosopher's Stone but to help him get through the obstacles later without much difficulty. A horned beast? That sounded like a disaster.
Re-entering the troll room, Blake spotted the creature he had once tamed. Its eyes, dull and lifeless, watched him without aggression. Of course, it wouldn't attack its master. Blake smirked.
"Soul release!" he commanded, followed by, "Knock yourself out, thanks."
With a resounding "thud," the troll complied, knocking itself out with its massive club.
Quirrell, who had just stepped in, was stunned. Blake's methods were always a bit excessive. The Imperius Curse would have sufficed to control the troll. Still, Blake promised Dumbledore to let Harry through, and leaving the troll conscious could result in an untimely death for the "Boy Who Lived." That would be more trouble than it was worth.
As the troll collapsed, Blake opened the door to the next room. Unsurprisingly, it was Snape's puzzle challenge, designed with cunning.
Blake waited for Quirrell to catch up before closing the door behind them, shutting out the troll's foul stench. Once sealed in, purple flames ignited at both the entrance and the exit, trapping them inside.
On a table in the room were seven oddly shaped bottles. A piece of parchment lay beside them. Quirrell picked it up and read aloud:
"Danger lies ahead, safety behind. Two of us will help you, one to move forward and the other to return. Two bottles contain nettle wine, and three are poison, waiting to strike. Four clues we provide:
1. The poisons hide between the nettle wines.
2. The bottles on the left and right are harmless but won't help you proceed.
3. The smaller bottles are safe.
4. The second on the left and the second on the right taste the same."
Quirrell, deep in thought, started muttering, "This is just a logic puzzle. It's simple, just a matter of following—"
Before he could finish, Blake picked up one of the bottles and hurled it to the floor. The potion spilled out, burning through the stone beneath it.
"What are you doing?!" Quirrell shrieked, startled by the sudden interruption.
Blake sighed, "Honestly, Professor, we don't have time for your riddles. Dumbledore could be back at any moment."
"You can't just smash the bottles! We need to figure out which one allows us to pass through the fire!" Quirrell protested, panicked.
Blake simply waved him off and picked up another bottle, tossing it against the wall.
"Crack!"
Another one gone. Quirrell was nearly apoplectic. "Are you sure you're not just destroying the only thing that can get us through?"
Blake smirked, "It's fine. See? These two were poison."
Quirrell trembled. This man was either incredibly confident or utterly insane. If Blake was wrong, they'd be trapped, burned alive by the flames or poisoned to death. Yet, as Quirrell glanced at the remaining bottles, Blake handed him a small one.
"This one will get us through," Blake said calmly.
Quirrell stared at the tiny bottle, doubt filling his mind. "How do you know? What if you're wrong?"
"Do you have any other options?" Blake's smile was chilling. The wreckage of smashed potions lay scattered around them, and Quirrell knew reasoning was now impossible.
With no choice left, Quirrell took a deep breath, snapped the bottle open, and drank. His body was suddenly engulfed in icy cold, a clear sign the potion was working. With a sigh of relief, he passed the remaining half to Blake and rushed through the fire door.
Blake watched him go, unimpressed. He held up the half-empty bottle, eyed it with disdain, and promptly tossed it aside. "I'm not drinking that."
Instead, Blake pulled out his invisibility cloak, a legendary item that rendered him untouchable by the flames. He stepped through the fire with ease, emerging into a circular chamber.
In the center stood a massive mirror—the Mirror of Erised. Quirrell was already circling it, looking increasingly frantic. There was no Philosopher's Stone in sight, just his own reflection staring back at him.
Quirrell tapped on the mirror's surface with his wand, clearly frustrated. This was not what he had expected. The Philosopher's Stone should have been here, not some trick of Dumbledore's! He glanced at his reflection again and saw himself handing the Stone to Voldemort. His resurrected master rewarded him, surrounded by jealous Death Eaters.
But the real Stone? Nowhere to be found.
Voldemort, sensing Quirrell's growing panic, stirred within him. Quirrell's time was running out, and failure would be met with terrible consequences.
Blake, meanwhile, sauntered up to the mirror, curious to see what it would reveal to him. The Mirror of Erised showed a person's deepest desires, and Blake had his suspicions about what he might see.
The reflection in the mirror made him pause. There he was, holding the Philosopher's Stone. But there wasn't just one Stone—he was sitting on a pile of them, like a king on a throne of Philosopher's Stones. Around him, an even more fantastical sight caught his attention.
He nearly choked, barely containing his laughter. "Is this really what I want?" Blake thought, amused and slightly embarrassed by what the mirror showed. He quickly wiped away the grin, trying to maintain his composure.
Voldemort, growing impatient, urged Quirrell forward. "Let Blake try!" the dark lord's voice rasped from the back of Quirrell's head.
"Yes, master," Quirrell muttered, stepping aside with a reluctant bow.
Blake approached the mirror again, only half-serious about finding the Stone. His curiosity piqued, though, he looked closer. Suddenly, he felt something solid in his hand. Startled, he glanced down.
"The Stone?" Blake whispered in disbelief. "Are you serious?"
He looked back at the mirror. It confirmed it—the Philosopher's Stone had somehow materialized in his hand.
Before he could process the absurdity of the situation, the flames at the door flickered. A new figure stumbled into the room.
It was Harry Potter.
The boy stood there, panting, wide-eyed with shock as he took in the scene—Blake, Quirrell, and the eerie mirror in the middle of the room.
"Y-You?" Harry stammered, staring at Blake in disbelief.
Blake grinned, an evil glint in his eyes. "Yep. It's me."
Harry's mind reeled. He had expected to face Snape, the one he had been sure was after the Stone. But Blake? The same boy who had helped him enter the wizarding world, who had once been his friend?
"Snape?" Harry whispered, still trying to make sense of it all.
"Oh, Snape?" Blake chuckled. "That poor guy, always taking the blame. But no, Harry. Snape was never the one you should have been worried about."
Quirrell stepped forward. "Snape tried to save you, Potter, while I was cursing you during the Quidditch match," he sneered.
Harry's world seemed to crumble. He had been so certain about Snape, and now everything was flipped on its head.
"You really thought Snape was your enemy? How naive," Blake said, his tone laced with mockery. "You should have been more careful about who you trusted."
As Quirrell continued his villainous monologue, Blake wandered back to the mirror, stealing glances at the outlandish scenes it projected. He grinned mischievously, enjoying the absurdity of the situation.
But then, he felt the Philosopher's Stone once again in his grasp.
"Well, this just got interesting..." he muttered.
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