“Reasonable,” said Professor Quirrell. “So?”
“The corresponding strategy,” Harry said carefully, “is to mimic Dumbledore’s state of mind under those conditions, in as much detail as possible, while standing in front of the mirror. And this state of mind must have been produced by internal forces, not external ones.”
“But how are we to get that without Legilimency or the Confundus Charm, both of which would certainly be external—ha. I see.” Professor Quirrell’s ice-pale eyes were suddenly piercing. “You suggest that I Confund myself, as you cast that hex upon yourself during your first day in Battle Magic. So that it is an internal force and not an external one, a state of mind that comes about through only my own choices. Say to me whether you have made this suggestion with the intention of trapping me, boy. Say it to me in Parseltongue.”
“Mymindthatyouasskedtodevissesstrategymayperhapsshavebeeninfluenced by ssuch an intent—who knowss? Knew you would be ssusspiciouss, assk thiss very question. Decission is up to you, teacher. I know nothing you do not know, about whether thiss iss likely to trap you. Do not call it betrayal by me if you choosse thiss for yoursself, and it failss.” Harry felt a strong impulse to smile, and suppressed it.
“Lovely,” said Professor Quirrell, who was smiling. “I suppose there are some threats from an inventive mind that even questioning in Parseltongue cannot neutralize.”
Harry put on the Cloak of Invisibility, at Professor Quirrell’s orders, to sstop the man who sshall believe himsself to be sschoolmasster from sseeing you, as Professor Quirrell said in Parseltongue.
“Wearing the Cloak or no, you will stand in range of the Mirror yourself,” Professor Quirrell said. “If a gush of lava comes forth, you will also burn. I feel that much symmetry should apply.”
Professor Quirrell pointed to a spot near the right of the door through which they’d entered the room, before the Mirror and well back of it. Harry, wearing the Cloak, went to where Professor Quirrell had pointed him, and did not argue. It was increasingly unclear to Harry whether both Riddles dying here would be a bad thing, even with hundreds of other student hostages at stake. For all of Harry’s good intentions, he’d mostly shown himself so far to be an idiot, and the returned Lord Voldemort was a threat to the entire world.
(Though either way, Harry couldn’t see Dumbledore doing the lava thing. Dumbledore was probably sufficiently angry at Voldemort to discard his usual restraint, but lava wouldn’t permanently stop an entity that
Dumbledore believed to be a discorporate soul.)
Then Professor Quirrell pointed with his wand, and a shimmering circle appeared around where Harry was standing on the floor. This, Professor Quirrell said, would soon become a Greater Circle of Concealment, by which nothing within that circle could be heard or seen from the outside. Harry would not be able to make himself apparent to the false Dumbledore by taking off the Cloak, nor by shouting.
“You will not cross this circle once it is active,” Professor Quirrell said. “That would cause you to touch my magic, and while Confunded I might not remember how to halt the resonance that would destroy us both. And further, since I do not want you throwing shoes—” Professor Quirrell made another gesture, and just within the Greater Circle of Concealment, a slight shimmer appeared in the air, a globe-shaped distortion. “Thiss barrier will explode if touched, by you or other material thing. The resonance might lash at me afterward, but you would also be dead. Now tell me in Parseltongue that you do not intend to cross this circle or take off your Cloak or do anything at all impulsive or stupid. Tell you me you will wait quietly here, under the Cloak, until this is over.” This Harry repeated back.
Then Professor Quirrell’s robes became black tinged with gold, such robes as Dumbledore might wear upon a formal occasion; and Professor Quirrell pointed his own wand at his head.
Professor Quirrell stayed motionless for a long time, still holding his wand to his head. His eyes were closed in concentration. And then Professor Quirrell said, “Confundus.”
At once the expression of the man standing there changed; he blinked a few times as though confused, lowering his wand.
A deep weariness spread over the face Professor Quirrell had worn; without any visible change his eyes seemed older, the few lines in his face calling attention to themselves.
His lips were set in a sad smile.
Without any hurry, the man quietly walked over to the Mirror, as though he had all the time in the world.
He crossed into the Mirror’s range of reflection without anything happening, and stared into the surface.
What the man might be seeing there, Harry could not tell; to Harry it seemed that the flat, perfect surface still reflected the room behind it, like a portal to another place.
“Ariana,” breathed the man. “Mother, father. And you, my brother, it is done.”
The man stood still, as if listening.
“Yes, done,” the man said. “Voldemort came before this mirror, and was trapped by Merlin’s method. He is only one more sealed horror now.” Again the listening stillness.
“I would that I could obey you, my brother, but it is better this way.” The man bowed his head. “He is denied his death, forever; that vengeance is terrible enough.”
Harry felt a twinge, watching this, a sense that this was not what Dumbledore would have said, it seemed more like a strawman, a shallow stereotype… but then this wasn’t the real Aberforth’s spirit either, this was who Professor Quirrell imagined Dumbledore imagined Aberforth was, and that doubly-reflected image of Aberforth wouldn’t notice anything amiss…
“It is time to give back the Philosopher’s Stone,” said the man who thought he was Dumbledore. “It must go back into Master Flamel’s keeping, now.”
Listening stillness.
“No,” said the man, “Master Flamel has kept it safe these many years from all who would seek immortality, and I think it will be safest in his hands… no, Aberforth, I do think his intentions are good.”
Harry couldn’t control the tension that was running through him like a live wire; he was having trouble breathing. Imperfect, Professor Quirrell’s Confundus Charm had been imperfect. The underlying personality of Professor Quirrell was leaking through and seeing the obvious question, why it was okay for Nicholas Flamel himself to have the Stone if immortality was so awful. Even if Professor Quirrell conceptualized Dumbledore as being blind to the question, Professor Quirrell hadn’t included a clause in the Confundus saying that Dumbledore’s image of Aberforth wouldn’t think of it; and all of this was ultimately a reflection of Professor Quirrell’s own mind, an image from within the intelligence of
Tom Riddle…
“Destroy it?” said the man. “Maybe. I am not sure it can be destroyed, or Master Flamel would have done it long since. I think, many times, that he has regretted making it… Aberforth, I promised him, and we are not so ancient or so wise ourselves. The Philosopher’s Stone must go back into
the keeping of the one who made it.” And Harry’s breath stopped.
The man was holding an irregular chunk of scarlet glass in his left hand, the size perhaps of Harry’s thumb from fingernail to the first joint. The sheened surface of the scarlet glass made it seem wet; the appearance was of blood, suspended in time and made into a jagged surface.