“Thank you, my brother,” the man said quietly.
Is that what the Stone should look like? Does Professor Quirrell know what the true Stone should look like? Will the Mirror give back the real Stone under these conditions, or make an imitation and return that?
And then—
“No, Ariana,” the man said, smiling gently, “I fear I must go now. Be patient, my dearest, it will be soon enough that I join you in truth… why? Why, I am not sure why I must go… when I hold the Stone I am to step aside from the Mirror and wait for Master Flamel to contact me, but I am not sure why I need to step aside from the Mirror to do that…” The man sighed. “Ah, I am getting old. It is well this dreadful war ended when it did. I suppose there is no harm if I speak to you for a time, my dearest, if you wish it so.”
A headache was starting behind Harry’s eyes; some part of Harry was trying to send a message about not having breathed in a while, but no one was listening. Imperfect, Professor Quirrell’s Confundus Charm had been imperfect, Professor Quirrell’s image of Dumbledore’s image of Ariana wanted to talk to Dumbledore, and maybe didn’t want to wait because Professor Quirrell knew on some level that there wasn’t really an afterlife, and the previously implanted impulse to leave after getting the Stone wasn’t standing up to Riddle-Ariana’s arguments…
And then Harry felt himself become very calm. He started breathing again.
Either way, there wasn’t much Harry could do about it. Professor
Quirrell had stopped Harry from intervening; well, Professor Quirrell was welcome to reap the consequences of that decision. If the consequences caught Harry as well, so be it.
The man who thought he was Dumbledore was mostly nodding patiently, sometimes replying to his dearest sister. Sometimes the man cast an uneasy look to one side; as if feeling a strong impulse to go, but suppressing that impulse with the great patience and politeness and concern for his sister that Professor Quirrell imagined Albus Dumbledore having.
Harry saw it the instant the Confundus wore off, and the man’s expression changed, becoming again the face of Professor Quirrell.
And in the same instant the Mirror changed, no longer showing Harry the reflection of the room, showing instead the form of the real Albus Dumbledore, as though he were standing just behind the Mirror and visible through it.
The real Dumbledore’s face was set, and grim.
“Hello, Tom,” said Albus Dumbledore.
Chapter 110: Reflections, Part II
The grimness on Albus Dumbledore’s face lasted only an instant before giving way to bewilderment. “Quirinus? What—” And then there was a pause.
“Well,” said Albus Dumbledore. “I do feel stupid.”
“I should hope so,” Professor Quirrell said easily; if he had been at all shocked himself at being caught, it did not show. A casual wave of his hand changed his robes back to a Professor’s clothing.
Dumbledore’s grimness had returned and redoubled. “There I am, searching so hard for Voldemort’s shade, never noticing that the Defense Professor of Hogwarts is a sickly, half-dead victim possessed by a spirit far more powerful than himself. I would call it senility, if so many others had not missed it as well.”
“Quite,” said Professor Quirrell. He lifted his eyebrows. “Really, am I that hard to recognise without the glowing red eyes?”
“Oh, yes indeed,” Albus Dumbledore said in level tones. “Your acting was perfect; I confess myself utterly deceived. Quirinus Quirrell seemed—what is the term I am looking for? Ah yes, that is the word. He seemed sane.”
Professor Quirrell chuckled; he looked for all the world as though the two of them were just having a casual conversation. “I never was insane, you know. Lord Voldemort was just another game for me, the same as Professor Quirrell.”
Albus Dumbledore did not look like he was enjoying a casual chat. “I thought you might say that. I regret to inform you, Tom, that anyone who can bring himself to act the part of Voldemort is Voldemort.”
“Ah,” said Professor Quirrell, raising an admonishing finger. “There is a loophole in that reasoning, old man. Anyone who acts the part of Voldemort must be what moralists call ‘evil’, on this we agree. But perhaps the real me is completely, utterly, irredeemably evil in an interestingly different fashion from what I was pretending with Voldemort—”
“I find,” Albus Dumbledore ground out, “that I do not care.”
“Then you must think yourself to be rid of me very soon,” said Professor Quirrell. “How interesting. My immortal existence must depend on discovering what trap you have set, and finding a way to escape from it, as soon as possible.” Professor Quirrell paused. “But let us pointlessly delay to talk of other matters first. How did you come to be waiting inside the Mirror? I thought you would be elsewhere.”
“I am there,” Albus Dumbledore said, “and also inside the Mirror, unfortunately for you. I have always been here, all along.”
“Ah,” said Professor Quirrell, and sighed. “I suppose my little distraction was for naught, then.”
And the rage of Albus Dumbledore was no longer leashed. “Distraction?” roared Dumbledore, his sapphire eyes tight with fury. “You killed Master Flamel for a distraction?”
Professor Quirrell looked dismayed. “I am wounded by the injustice of your accusation. I did not kill the one you know as Flamel. I simply commanded another to do so.”
“How could you? Even you, how could you? He was the library of all our lore! Secrets you have forever lost to wizardry!”
There was an edge to Professor Quirrell’s smile, now. “You know, I still do not comprehend how your twisted mind can consider it acceptable for Flamel to be immortal, but when I try for the same it makes me a monster.”
“Master Flamel never descended into immortality! He—” Dumbledore choked. “He only stayed awake past his evening, for our sakes, through his long, long day—”
“I don’t know if you recall this,” Professor Quirrell said, his voice airy, “but do you recall that day in your office with Tom Riddle? The one where I begged you, where I went down on my knees and begged you, to introduce me to Nicholas Flamel so that I could ask to become his apprentice, to someday make for myself the Philosopher’s Stone? That was my last attempt to be a good person, if you are curious. You told me no, and gave me a lecture on how unvirtuous it was to be afraid of death. I went from your office in bitterness and in fury. I reasoned that if I was to be called evil in any case, just for not wanting to die, then I might as well be evil; and one month later I killed Abigail Myrtle to pursue immortality by other means. Even when I knew more of Flamel, I remained quite put out with your hypocrisy; and for that reason I tormented you and yours more than I otherwise would have done. I have often felt that you ought to know this, but we never had a chance to talk frankly.”
“I decline,” said Albus Dumbledore, whose gaze did not waver. “I do not accept the tiniest shred of responsibility for what you have become. That was all, entirely, you and your own decisions.”
“I am not surprised to hear you say that,” said Professor Quirrell. “Well, now I am curious as to what responsibilities you do accept. You have access to some unusual power of Divination; that much I deduced long ago. You made too many nonsensical moves, and the paths by which they worked out in your favor were too ridiculous. So tell me. Were you forewarned of the result, that night of All Hallow’s Eve when I was vanquished for a time?”