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HRHL# Chapter 90: Who the Hell is the Dark Lord? (1)
🕑 Added 2025-02-05 18:43:11 +0000 UTCThe cramped room was suddenly bathed in a ghastly green glow. To his credit, Quirrell, the man chosen by the Dark Lord, swiftly dodged to the side, avoiding the deadly Avada Kedavra curse.
What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was that when the Killing Curse struck the ground, it split into another beam of green light that shot straight toward his face.
Completely unprepared, Quirrell was hit squarely in the face by the refracted green light.
With a dull thud, Quirrell collapsed to the ground, lifeless, not even managing a sound.
Harry held his wand firmly, pointing it unwaveringly at Quirrell's now lifeless body as he cautiously approached.
The moment the Killing Curse split apart, he knew Voldemort was still clinging to the back of Quirrell’s head. He wasn’t about to let his guard down.
When he reached Quirrell’s side, he didn’t hesitate for a moment and cast the spell again.
“Avada Kedavra!”
The Killing Curse struck Quirrell once more. This time, there was no chance of him surviving.
This was a habit Harry had cultivated over the past century. Once, a classmate let their guard down after defeating a Dark wizard, only to be killed by the seemingly dead enemy in a sudden counterattack.
That painful lesson had been hammered into him by Cassandra and Veratia, who used it as a constant teaching point, drilling it into his ears day after day.
Harry felt no pity for Quirrell.
To crave power and gamble for status was one thing, but no reason could justify colluding with a parasitic Dark wizard like Voldemort.
After finishing Quirrell off, Harry turned his attention to the Mirror of Erised.
What he didn’t expect was that this time, the mirror didn’t show the Potter family or his two female classmates. Instead, it reflected himself.
In the mirror, his reflection gave him a sly smile, winked, and appeared to be holding a stone.
Could it be... the Philosopher’s Stone?
He had read about this item in Veratia’s family library once, and it looked identical to the stone his reflection was holding.
Harry stared curiously at the mirror. He then saw his reflection place the Philosopher’s Stone into its trouser pocket.
At that moment, Harry felt a sudden weight in his own pocket, as if something had been placed there.
The Philosopher’s Stone?!
Harry couldn’t believe it. Had the Philosopher’s Stone fallen into his hands so easily?
He reached into his pocket, and the cold, smooth texture of the stone made him feel as though he were dreaming.
“Harry... Potter...”
A hissing voice sounded, snapping Harry to full alert. He quickly retreated, spotting a face appearing in the mirror.
The face was grotesque and sinister, almost skeletal, with no nose.
“Voldemort?” Harry asked uncertainly, raising his wand and tracing a spell in the air.
“Revelio!”
A ripple of energy expanded outward from his wand, but the spell failed to reveal the location of the face.
The face in the mirror twisted into a strange smile and spoke. “Don’t waste your efforts, Harry Potter... I never imagined we were so alike...”
Even as Voldemort spoke, Harry’s thoughts raced.
Wait a minute—who the hell is the Dark Lord here?
A first-year student casting a Killing Curse right off the bat, splitting it to hit two targets at once? Seriously?
If Quirrell hadn’t taken the hit for him, Voldemort doubted he’d have fared much better.
He was beginning to suspect that this Harry Potter wasn’t who he appeared to be.
Could he be someone else disguised with Polyjuice Potion?
By all logic, a first-year student couldn’t possibly master the Killing Curse. Even if they could, they wouldn’t be able to aim it properly. At most, it might cause a minor nosebleed, let alone deliver a lethal blow.
But this Potter could hit two targets simultaneously, casting the Killing Curse effortlessly, without any emotional buildup. Was this how Hogwarts students were nowadays—utterly ruthless?
Despite his inner turmoil, Voldemort kept his voice smooth.
“I’d love for Dumbledore to see what his Golden Boy is truly like... You were born to be a Dark wizard. Join me, Potter. Together, we can rule the magical world, the entire world, and achieve immortality!”
The face in the mirror spoke persuasively, attempting to lure Harry in. “Just lend me the Philosopher’s Stone in your pocket—I know countless powerful spells. I can even help you bring your parents back... Don’t you want them to be with you as you grow up?”
His goal was clear: the Philosopher’s Stone in Harry’s pocket. As for who Harry really was, that didn’t matter.
“Oh? And why should I trust you?” Harry retorted, unable to pinpoint where the face was, so he resorted to mockery. “I don’t think a parasitic wretch clinging to the back of someone’s head has that kind of capability. You shouldn’t be called the Dark Lord; you should be the Duck Lord because all you can do is quack uselessly like a duck.”
The face in the mirror twisted in rage. Voldemort hadn’t expected this child’s words to be as vicious as his spells.
Even Severus Snape, his former follower, couldn’t match this boy’s venomous tongue.
The idea of being mocked as the "Duck Lord" was a humiliation Voldemort could barely stomach. He could already imagine the ridicule that would follow.
“You insolent brat!” Voldemort snarled furiously. “You, a parentless orphan—”
“Oh, please.” Harry sneered, cutting him off. “My parents loved me dearly, and they died because of you. But you’re different, Voldemort. I’m guessing your mother didn’t love you at all—just look at you. No nose? I bet she abandoned you at an orphanage because she couldn’t stand the sight of you. You might as well crawl back to the primordial abyss and see if anyone wants you there!”
“Shut up! Shut up! How dare you!” Voldemort screeched, his voice breaking. “How did you know... you—!”
Harry blinked, realizing his offhanded jab had hit a nerve.
Judging by Voldemort’s reaction, he had struck a raw and painful truth.
Could it really be true?
Oh, heavens, he’d learned to insult like this from Professor Howin, the magical creatures teacher from China.
Professor Howin was not only a masterful cook but also unmatched in delivering scathing remarks. Her sharp tongue was both poetic and lethal, blending Shakespearean elegance with merciless precision.
And yet, Harry felt his own retort lacked the professor’s finesse—she would’ve brought up Voldemort’s ancestors for at least eighteen generations.
“Well then, I owe you an apology, Voldemort,” Harry said sincerely. “I had no idea your parents abandoned you when you were so young—”
