At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

Chapter 81 Uninvited Guest

Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office.

The principal's office was not as quiet as usual; the sounds of various instruments whirring and spinning mingled with the crackling of firewood in the fireplace.

Most of the portraits of past principals on the wall are dozing, but the eyes that occasionally open slightly all seem to drift towards a huge peephole in the center of the room.

The mirror is reflecting the scene from deep underground in real time:

Ron Weasley is riding a stone horse, directing a fierce game of chess.

Next to the round mirror were two comfortable long-backed soft chairs.

Dumbledore sat on the left, holding a shiny lemon Olaf between his fingertips.

To his right sat an old wizard, almost turned to dust—Nico Flamel.

This alchemist, who had lived for six centuries, had wrinkled skin and trembling hands as he held a steaming cup of black tea.

His eyes were cloudy, yet they held a clear depth.

"Minerva's chessboard layout is still so rigid." Nicolas Flamel coughed softly. "He is too focused on formal rigor, which inadvertently leaves the children with patterns to follow."

Five hundred years ago, one wrong move on this chessboard would have meant total defeat.

7

"The mercy of our times, Nico," Dumbledore smiled as he popped a lemon Olaf into his mouth. "We're running a school, not building a bunker. Besides, this play isn't about killing."

At that moment, the White Queen in the mirror swung her sword and knocked Ron down.

Harry and Neville let out a mournful cry.

"Look, that little redhead," Nico squinted, pointing to the unconscious Ron. "His spirit of sacrifice has been put to the fullest."

Albus, you're still so good at uncovering the light within people, even if that light needs a little pain to catalyze it.

"I just gave him a stage to prove himself."

Dumbledore's tone was calm, yet his gaze was as deep as the sea: "The Weasleys have too many outstanding children; this little boy needs this 'sense of tragedy' to support him on his future path."

"But that's not enough." Nico turned to Dumbledore, a half-smile on his face. "That kid Neville, his performance in the Devil's Web challenge, that unnatural light—was that your doing?"

Albus, you can't even bear to let him experience even one real setback.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, then gently waved his wand, switching the image in the round mirror to the next level.

"Neville Longbottom is a special seed."

"His parents—" Dumbledore sighed, a hint of pain flashing in his eyes, "He needs more affirmation than most people do."

If he backs down because of fear at the first hurdle, his life is ruined.

I had to convince him that the courage he displayed in that moment ignited a miracle.

"Miracle—" Nicolas Flamel savored the word, chuckling dryly twice. "The miracle you weave. Albus, sometimes I think you're more terrifying than Grindelwald. He tried to reshape the world with power, and you—"

Dumbledore did not refute, but simply watched as Harry Potter rushed into the final black flames.

"He's gone in." Dumbledore put down his empty teacup, his expression becoming more serious than ever before.

"We've finally reached the final scene." Nicolas Flamel put down his teacup, turned to look at Dumbledore, and a hint of wisdom shone in his cloudy eyes. "Now, we can talk about the real question, can't we?"

You went to all that trouble to bring this old man from Devon, only to have me watch helplessly as my Philosopher's Stone was snatched away by a greedy remnant of a spirit and a naive child—what you truly desire is more than just Voldemort's retreat.

A brief silence fell over the principal's office.

Only the sound of Phoenix Fox preening its feathers on the shelf could be heard.

"Nico," Dumbledore began, his voice heavy, "do you remember our discussion fifty years ago on the spire of Notre Dame? About balance."

Nicolas Flamel's eyelids twitched: "I remember."

I said, death is the final lock.

"If anyone tries to pry it open, the entire magical balance of the universe will be thrown off balance."

"Voldemort was the one who picked the lock." Dumbledore stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Nico. "He made more than one Horcrux; he cut his own soul into pieces."

He was blaspheming the very essence of life. As long as the Philosopher's Stone existed in this world, as long as its alluring magic—capable of turning lead into gold and granting immortality—continued to flow, Voldemort would always have an irresistible target.

Nicolas Flamel remained silent.

He looked at the dust on the windowsill, as if he were looking at his own long and exhausting life.

"You're trying to persuade me to destroy it." Nico's voice was soft, without anger, only a fatalistic calm.

"Yes." Dumbledore turned around, his eyes pleading. "It is the pinnacle of human alchemy, and also the most dangerous curse."

Nico, you and Perena have lived long enough.

You have witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, and the ebb and flow of the tides of history.

If Voldemort were to obtain this stone, even with only a one in ten thousand chance, he would use it to rebuild a bloodthirsty, immortal empire.

"If I destroy it, Perenaar and I will die soon afterward," Nicolas Flamel stated calmly, as if discussing tomorrow's weather.

"For a person of sound mind, death is just another great adventure."

Dumbledore replied with the words Nico had once taught him, "That's what you told me, Nico."

Nicolas Flamel suddenly chuckled softly, his laughter hoarse.

"Albus, you always manage to use my spear against my shield."

You orchestrated all of this tonight, sending Harry to guard this stone, which is actually a way of showing me:

Even an eleven-year-old child has the courage to face death and evil; how could I, a six-hundred-year-old man, be reluctant to part with the elixir of immortality I hold in my hand?

That's not what I meant—

"No, that's exactly what you mean." Nico waved his hand, stopping Dumbledore's explanation. "You've figured out my character. You've put this show on me, shown me how the Philosopher's Stone can turn an upright child into a stinking walking corpse, shown me how it can become the fuse for an ambitious person."

Albus, you are indeed a great chess player.

Not only Harry and Quirrell, but even I, your old friend, am a pawn on your chessboard.

Dumbledore lowered his head, his expression somber. "I'm sorry, Nico. If there were any other way—"

"Don't apologize." Nicolas Flamel stood up shakily, walked to the round mirror, and looked at Harry Potter in the mirror, facing the Magic Mirror and Quirrell's back.

"This child—he's so much like you, yet so unlike you," Nicole said, pointing at Harry. "There's genuine innocence in his eyes, while yours is all scheming."

He sighed. "Take it."

Dumbledore was stunned.

"This play isn't over yet." Nicole smiled and winked. "According to your script, it should disappear from that child's hands, or be retrieved by you personally."

Perenaar and I have already discussed it, and we have enough medicine in stock to handle the aftermath.

Six hundred years is indeed a long time; even the most interesting things have become repetitive and tedious.

He paused for a moment, then his gaze suddenly sharpened.

"However, Albus, while you're reveling in this perfect script, I must remind you of something."

Dumbledore frowned: "What?"

"In this round, you beat Voldemort, you beat me, you even beat fate."

But have you noticed that there are some things in this castle that are not on your scales?

Dumbledore astutely caught the implication in Nico's words: "You mean, that alchemical artifact that caused trouble in the Forbidden Forest? I've already sent Severus to investigate."

"more than."

Nicolas Flamel shook his head, a rare look of confusion in his eyes. "The castle is a bit strange tonight. It seems to be responding to something, and I've noticed something different about it ever since I arrived."

Albus, you're busy here teaching the Savior, busy scheming against your old friend, but you seem oblivious to the fact that someone is quietly trimming your fence in your garden.

Dumbledore was startled.

Here, he is always omniscient and omnipotent.

But all his attention tonight was focused on Quirrell, Harry, and Nicole.

If someone can actually use his schemes to "teach" students, or even "undermine" him, right under his nose—

"Who is that?"

"I don't know," Nico said, closing her eyes. "But I can sense that some subtle changes are taking place here."

"7

Just then, a sound came from the round mirror.

Harry Potter's hand touched Quirrell's skin, and a scream echoed through the basement.

"It's your turn to clean up the mess, Albus."

Nicolas Flamel said softly, "Go and greet your hero, go and destroy that tempting stone."

And I, it's time to drink my last cup of tea, and then prepare for that—great adventure.

Dumbledore had already stood up, waving his wand, preparing to step into the "classroom" he had built himself, to greet his hero, and to complete that final, philosophical end-of-life care.

However, the moment he took that first step, his expression changed drastically.

Two unexpected people appeared in the mirror.

"Albus?" Nicolas Flamel noticed the change in his old friend's expression, a look of astonishment that had never appeared on Dumbledore's face in sixty years.

"Someone—has come in," Dumbledore said in a low voice, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, "at this time."

Before the Mirror of Eris.

The heatwave and screams nearly lifted the dome of the cellar.

Professor Quirrell's once pale face had turned into charred, mushy mess, and as Harry touched him, the life force within him receded like a receding tide.

Voldemort's fragmented soul struggled and roared madly beneath Quirrell's skull, uttering curses like the spitting tongue of a viper.

"Kill him! Kill him!"

Harry felt a splitting headache, and his scars felt like they were about to explode.

He almost fainted; in his blurred vision, only the enormous magic mirror flickered with an eerie light in the firelight.

Just then, a sharp whistle pierced the air.

"Snapped!"

A blood-covered figure appeared out of nowhere between the Magic Mirror and Harry.

August Travers slammed onto the stone floor like a lump of rotten flesh, blood still gushing from the severed wound on his left arm, his face as pale as a dead man.

He looked around in horror. He saw Quirrell screaming, the boy with a face covered in blood, and the blurry, menacing black shadow that was slowly emerging from behind Quirrell's head.

"Black... Lord Black Demon?" August murmured subconsciously, his voice filled with a devastating mix of joy and despair.

But before he could even breathe in joy, a second soft sound followed.

"Smack."

The sound was very soft, as soft as a feather falling to the ground.

Amidst the distorted spatial fluctuations, the gray-cloaked figure slowly emerged.

He ignored the black flames raging in the cellar, ignored the dying Quirrell, and even ignored the legendary savior.

For a moment, the air inside the cellar seemed to freeze.

Quirrell's screams abruptly ceased, and even Voldemort's shrill roar seemed to be choked by some invisible force.

The remnant soul that was about to disappear into the darkness actually curled up inside Quirrell's body at this moment, emitting a hissing sound of surprise and uncertainty.

"Who are you?" Voldemort's voice came from the back of Quirrell's head. He sensed a heavy aura of death emanating from the gray figure.

The man in the gray cloak ignored Voldemort.

He glanced down at August lying in a pool of blood, then turned his gaze to Harry Potter, who stood frozen in place, his hands still covered in bits of Quirrell's flesh.

Harry felt an unprecedented sense of oppression.

August crawled backward on the ground, vomiting blood as he pointed at Harry and screamed at the cloaked man, "What you want—that's Potter! That's a miracle! Don't kill me—go get the stone!"

Voldemort's patience had long been worn down by Harry Potter's scorching hands.

For him, this humiliation was more unbearable than death.

At that moment, the aura emanating from the gray-cloaked figure that had suddenly barged in made him feel a long-lost sense of threat.

That was a power beyond his control.

"Whoever you are—die if you stand in my way!"

Voldemort roared and forcibly took control of Quirrell.

Quirrell's still-intact right arm twisted and rose, and a ghastly green light instantly emanated from the tip of his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A ghastly green light tore through the black flames, accompanied by a chilling shriek, heading straight for the gray-cloaked man's face.

This is the purest form of slaughter; no defensive spell can withstand it, and no shield can weaken it.

In the instant the green light burst forth, Voldemort's face on the back of his head revealed a cruel smile.

He didn't care who the gray figure was; as long as he was turned into a cold corpse by the Killing Curse, all interference would disappear.

"No—!" Harry screamed in agony. Faced with the green light that could end all life, the grey-cloaked man's response was almost dismissive.

He raised his wand and casually tapped it in the air.