THE MAN WITH TWO FACES

Harry pushed open the final door, his heart pounding in his chest. As he stepped into the chamber, he froze, his eyes widening in surprise.

Professor Quirrell stood before the familiar ornate frame of the Mirror of Erised, his back to Harry. At the sound of Harry's entrance, Quirrell turned, his face oddly calm.

"Professor Quirrell?" Harry stammered, "What are you doing here?"

"P-protecting the S-Stone, of c-course, Mr. P-Potter."

"But... but Snape! He's trying to steal the Stone. Has he been here already?"

"P-Professor S-Snape hasn't a-arrived yet, b-but he c-could be here s-soon."

"Oh no," Harry gasped, "Marteen — he's still in the corridor!"

Quirrell raised a hand, "C-calm yourself, M-Mr. Potter. M-Mr. G-Grindelwald is m-more than c-capable of h-handling himself. He is, a-after all, the m-most talented s-student in m-my class."

Harry took a tentative step forward, his eyes darting between Quirrell and the Mirror of Erised. "P-Professor," he began hesitantly, "what do you see in the mirror?"

"I-I see... w-what I m-most desire, Mr. P-Potter. B-but it's n-not important r-right now."

Unable to resist the mirror's allure, Harry inched closer, his heart racing. He'd longed to look into its depths again ever since Dumbledore had forbidden it and removed the mirror from its previous hiding place. As he peered into the glass, the familiar figures of his parents materialized, smiling warmly at him. A lump formed in his throat as he drank in their features, committing every detail to memory.

Suddenly, Harry felt a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, startled out of his reverie. Quirrell stood beside him, his eyes glinting with an emotion Harry couldn't quite place.

"W-what do you s-see, Mr. P-Potter?" Quirrell asked, "T-tell me, w-what does the m-mirror show you?"

Harry blinked, then shrugged casually, trying to mask the emotion in his voice.

"Oh, um, I see my parents," he said, "They're just standing there, smiling at me."

Despite his effort to appear indifferent, a hint of longing crept into Harry's tone. He glanced up at Quirrell, wondering if the professor would comment on his vision or offer any insight into the mirror's mysterious workings.

Suddenly, the door burst open with a resounding BANG! Marteen charged in, his wand at the ready, "Where's Snape? Where is he?" he shouted, wildly pointing his wand at every corner of the room.

As the dust settled, Marteen's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh... uh, sorry," he mumbled, lowering his wand as he took in the scene — just Harry, Quirrell, and the mirror.

Harry's face lit up. "Marteen! You did it! You got through!"

"Yeah, I did," he said, "But what's Professor Quirrell doing here?"

"Professor Quirrell's here to protect the Stone too," Harry explained quickly.

"I-Indeed, M-Mr. G-Grindelwald," Quirrell stuttered, nodding.

"Oh, thank Merlin," Marteen sighed, the tension draining from his body. He plopped down on the nearby staircase, running a hand through his hair.

"Man, this has been one wild night."

Harry and Marteen exchanged glances before turning to Quirrell. "So... where's the Stone, Professor?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"W-why don't you l-look in the m-mirror again, Mr. P-Potter? T-tell us w-what you s-see."

Harry stepped in front of the mirror once more. His reflection grinned back at him, then reached into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. The reflection winked and slipped the Stone back into its pocket — and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow — incredibly — he'd gotten the Stone!

"I — I've got it!"

Harry exclaimed, his voice a mix of surprise and excitement.

"The Stone — it's in my pocket!"

"V-very good, P-Potter," he said softly, his hand outstretched. "Now, if you'd k-kindly hand it o-over. I'll t-take good c-care of it."

The atmosphere in the room suddenly shifted, a palpable tension filling the air as Harry hesitated, his hand hovering near his pocket.

As Harry reached into his pocket, Marteen's mind raced. Suddenly, a memory flashed through his thoughts — that day in Hagrid's hut when they'd discussed the Stone's protections. Hagrid's gruff voice echoed in his head, listing off the professors involved:

"— There's Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall — An' Dumbledore himself did somethin', o' course. Oh, an' Snape."

Marteen's eyes widened as realization struck — Quirrell's name hadn't been mentioned.

Just as Harry was about to hand over the Stone, Marteen leapt to his feet. "Wait!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the chamber walls.

Harry froze, his hand outstretched. Both he and Quirrell turned to look at Marteen, surprise etched on their faces.

"Professor," Marteen said, "you weren't included in the list of teachers protecting the Stone. Hagrid never mentioned you."

Quirrell's face twitched, an awkward smile spreading across his features. "W-well, you s-see, Mr. G-Grindelwald," he stammered, "m-my involvement w-was kept s-secret for added s-security."

But his explanation rang hollow. Quirrell's eyes darted between Harry and Marteen, a hint of panic creeping into his expression. "N-now, Harry, the S-Stone, please," he said, his voice strained.

Harry, now alert to the possibility of danger, clutched the Stone tightly and took a step back.

Suddenly, Quirrell's demeanor changed. His stutter vanished, replaced by a cold, clear voice filled with fury. "Give me the Stone, Potter!" he shouted, his face contorting with rage.

The abrupt transformation left Harry and Marteen stunned, the true nature of their predicament dawning on them. They were trapped in a chamber with a man who was not at all what he seemed, and the coveted Philosopher's Stone hung in the balance.

Marteen raised his wand, pointing it directly at Quirrell.

"Harry, get over here," he urged, his voice tense.

Harry stepped backward, "It was you," he gasped, "You're the one trying to steal the Stone!"

Quirrell's lips curled into a cruel smile. He let out a cold, mirthless laugh that echoed off the chamber walls.

"Very good, Potter. I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out."

"But... but I thought Snape was—"

"Snape?" Quirrell scoffed. "Yes, he does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

"You? You tried to kill me?"

"Of course. I'm the one who jinxed your broom at the Quidditch match."

"But—" Harry started, his mind reeling.

"Oh yes," Quirrell continued, "I could have killed you then and there if Snape's cloak hadn't suddenly caught fire. Even with his pathetic attempts at a counter-curse, you would have fallen to your death if it weren't for that... unexpected interruption."

"Snape was... trying to save me?"

Quirrell sneered. "Indeed. The fool thought he could protect you. As if anyone could stand against me."

"And the troll on Halloween—" Harry began, still struggling to process this new information.

"Yes, that was me as well," Quirrell said, "It could have killed you if it weren't for your friend here." He turned his gaze to Marteen, "Mr. Grindelwald's use of the Imperius Curse was... impressive, to say the least."

Marteen's grip on his wand tightened, his face a mixture of pride and unease at the compliment.

Quirrell continued, his voice growing more animated. "I tried to get past that infernal three-headed dog on Halloween, but Snape, ever the meddler, headed me off. Not only did he suspect me, but the beast bit him when he tried to stop me. Quite the loyal watchdog, that Fluffy."

Harry and Marteen exchanged glances, the full weight of their misconceptions crashing down on them. The true enemy had been right under their noses all along, hidden behind a facade of weakness and fear.

Harry's mind raced, trying to piece together this new information.

"So... Voldemort is still in the forest, waiting for you to bring him the Stone?"

Quirrell let out a cold, mirthless laugh. "Oh, you naive boy. My master is much closer than that. He is here... in this very room."

A chill ran down Harry's spine at these words. Marteen tensed beside him, his wand still trained on Quirrell.

"You see, after I failed to retrieve the Stone from Gringotts, my master was most displeased. He decided he could no longer trust me to act alone. He had to... keep a closer watch."

"The Gringotts break-in! It was in the Daily Prophet. That day... you were at the Leaky Cauldron!"

"Very good, Potter. Yes, that was the day I tried to steal the Stone for my master. But it had already been moved. Dumbledore had suspected... he's not as foolish as I had hoped."

Harry and Marteen exchanged worried glances, both acutely aware that they were trapped in a room not just with Quirrell, but with something far more sinister and powerful.

The true extent of the danger they faced was only just beginning to dawn on them, and the Philosopher's Stone in Harry's pocket felt heavier than ever.

Suddenly, a chilling voice filled the chamber, seeming to come from Quirrell himself, yet not from his mouth. It was high, cold, and unnaturally cruel.

"Enough of this idle chatter, Quirrell," the voice hissed, "I wish to speak with the boys... face-to-face."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough for this,"

With trembling hands, Quirrell began to unwrap his purple turban. The cloth fell away, revealing something that made Harry let out a scream of horror, and clutch his scar as it feels burned and Marteen to step backward, his wand nearly slipping from his grasp.

Where there should have been the back of Quirrell's head, there was a face — the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter," it whispered, "We meet again."

"Voldemort."

"Yes. You see what I have become? Mere shadow and vapor... forced to share another's body. Unicorn blood has strengthened me, but it is not enough."

Harry and Marteen exchanged shocked glances, realization dawning on their faces.

"It was Quirrell," Marteen gasped, "In the Forbidden Forest. The cloaked figure drinking unicorn blood."

"Indeed, young Grindelwald. And I must say, your hex that night was... impressive. Such power in one so young."

Marteen's grip on his wand tightened. "I'll do more than hex you this time," he growled.

"Brave words," Voldemort hissed, before turning his attention back to Harry. "Now... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

"NEVER!"

"Don't be a fool," Voldemort hissed, "With the Stone's power, I could bring your parents back. Imagine it, Harry... your family, whole once more."

Harry's resolve wavered, his hand unconsciously moving towards his pocket.

"Harry, no!" Marteen shouted, "It's impossible to bring back the dead. He's lying to you!"

Harry hesitated, torn between the desperate longing in his heart and the warning in his friend's voice.

Voldemort's red eyes shifted to Marteen, "Perhaps you'd prefer a different offer, young Grindelwald. Help me with the Stone, and I'll free your grandfather, Gellert Grindelwald."

"Why would I want that?"

"Come now," Voldemort hissed, "I know how you and your mother have been persecuted by the wizarding world. Not for your own actions, but for the sins of your grandfather. How unfair they've been... how they should be punished."

Marteen's jaw clenched, his face a mask of conflicting emotions.

Voldemort pressed on, "I know of your family's... financial difficulties. With the Stone, you could turn lead into gold. You'd be rich beyond measure. Your family would rise again, just as grandfather was, being respected."

The Dark Lord's eyes gleamed with malicious triumph, "And with Gellert free, you wouldn't need Hogwarts anymore. No more bowing to Dumbledore's whims. Your grandfather, with all his genius, would guide you to greatness."

Marteen's wand lowered slightly, his face etched with deep thought. The offer seemed to be affecting him more than he wanted to admit.

Harry watched in horror as his friend appeared to consider Voldemort's words.

"Marteen, no!" he shouted, "Don't listen to him! You're better than this. You have choices — real choices! Not this twisted offer!"

The chamber fell silent, the tension palpable as Marteen stood frozen, caught between the allure of Voldemort's promise and Harry's plea. The fate of the Philosopher's Stone — and perhaps the entire wizarding world — hung in the balance of Marteen's decision.

"Marteen, think about what we've been through! All of this — it was to protect the Stone, remember? Hermione and Ron are out there right now, waiting for us, believing in us to keep the Stone safe."

Marteen's grip on his wand tightened, his face a mask of conflicting emotions.

Harry pressed on, "Maybe the teachers don't know what we're doing right now, but later, they'll understand. They'll be grateful — especially to you, Marteen. Maybe everyone will be."

Marteen's eyebrows furrowed, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.

"And even if I'm wrong," Harry continued, "even if not that many people appreciate what we've done... your best friends know. Ron, Hermione, and me — we know who you really are, Marteen. We're your friends, your real friends."

At the words "best friends," Marteen's eyes widened slightly, a spark of recognition lighting up in them. The American boy's stance shifted, his wand raising once more as resolve settled over his features.

"You're right, Harry," Marteen said, "My real friends do know me. And they're worth more than all the gold in the world."

He turned to face Voldemort, his wand pointed directly at the grotesque face on the back of Quirrell's head.

"Sorry, Baldy Old Man," Marteen drawled, "But I'm not interested in your offer. My friends and I have a Stone to protect."

Harry felt a surge of relief and pride wash over him. Despite the danger they were still in, he couldn't help but smile at his friend's choice. Together, they stood side by side, ready to face whatever came next in their fight to keep the Philosopher's Stone out of Voldemort's grasp.

Voldemort's face contorted with rage, "Fools! Weak, sentimental children!" he spat. "Quirrell, seize the Stone from the boy!"

As Quirrell lunged forward, Marteen's wand whipped through the air. "Confringo!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the chamber walls. A blast of fiery orange light erupted from his wand, hurtling towards Quirrell.

With inhuman speed, Quirrell dodged, and the spell struck the Mirror of Erised. The ornate frame exploded in a shower of glass and silver, the magical mirror reduced to smoldering rubble in an instant.

Quirrell spun to face Marteen, his wand raised. "Stupefy!" he snarled, a jet of red light streaking towards him.

Marteen dove to the side, rolling across the stone floor. "Expulso!" he countered, a blue bolt of energy narrowly missing Quirrell's head.

The chamber erupted into chaos as spells flew back and forth. Harry scrambled for cover, clutching the Stone tightly, watching in awe as Marteen dueled with a ferocity that belied his age.

"Incendio!" Marteen shouted, flames engulfing Quirrell's robes.

"Aguamenti!" Quirrell extinguished the fire, then immediately fired back.

"Diffindo!"

Marteen barely managed to deflect the curse, a small cut appearing on his cheek. "Flipendo!" he retaliated, sending Quirrell stumbling backward.

Suddenly, as both wizards cast simultaneously, their spells met in midair. Marteen's blue jet of light collided with Quirrell's sickly green spell, creating a brilliant flash where they connected. The spells locked together, forming a pulsing, shimmering thread of intertwined blue and green energy between their wands.

Both duelers froze, shock evident on their faces as they struggled to maintain their grip on their violently shaking wands. The combined beam splintered, forming a crackling, dome-like cage around them, filled with arcs of blue and green light.

sweat beading on Marteen's brow as he poured all his strength into maintaining the connection. Quirrell's eyes darted wildly, panic setting in as he realized he was locked in a battle of wills with a wizard far younger — yet possibly more powerful — than himself.

The air crackled with magical energy, the very stones of the chamber seeming to vibrate with the intensity of the duel. Harry watched, transfixed, as his friend stood toe-to-toe with a fully grown dark wizard, neither willing to yield in this unexpected and extraordinary magical phenomenon.

As the crackling energy of the wand connection filled the chamber, Marteen's voice rang out over the magical din.

"Harry! Touch Quirrell!"

"What? Why?"

Marteen's face was strained with effort as he maintained the connection.

"You have the power to defeat him, Harry! Trust me!"

"But you're always better than me! Why can't you do it?"

"I don't have what you have!" Marteen yelled, "There's no time to explain. Just do it!"

Despite his skepticism, Harry nodded. He trusted Marteen, even if he didn't understand. Taking a deep breath, he dashed towards Quirrell, his heart pounding in his chest.

As Harry approached, Marteen suddenly released the wand connection. He dove to the floor, narrowly avoiding the remnants of Quirrell's spell that shot past where he had been standing.

In that moment of confusion, Harry lunged forward. His hands found Quirrell's face, and as soon as his fingers made contact, an agonizing scream filled the chamber. To Harry's shock and horror, Quirrell's skin began to blister and burn beneath his touch, as if Harry's very flesh was toxic to him.

Harry stared at his palms in disbelief, unable to comprehend what had just happened. The skin that had caused such agony to Quirrell looked completely normal.

Voldemort's high, cold voice filled the chamber. "You fool!" he screeched at Quirrell. "Seize him! SEIZE HIM!"

Despite the excruciating pain, Quirrell lurched forward, his hand stretching towards Harry. Without thinking, Harry grabbed Quirrell's outstretched arm. To his horror, Quirrell's flesh crumbled beneath his touch, turning to ash. The disintegration spread rapidly, consuming Quirrell's entire body until nothing remained but a pile of gray dust.

Harry stumbled back, shock etched across his face. He turned and walked unsteadily towards Marteen, who was still sitting on the floor, wand clutched tightly in his hand. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, they exchanged grins of relief and disbelief at what they had just accomplished.

Suddenly—

"Watch out!"

Marteen shouted and pointed at Quirrell's ashes. As Harry turned to look, a dark, smoky form rose from Quirrell's ashes. Voldemort's disembodied spirit, a terrifying specter of malevolence, hurtled towards Harry with frightening speed.

Before Harry could react, the ghostly form slammed into his chest, passing through his body in a rush of icy cold. The force of the impact sent Harry reeling backward. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

The chamber fell silent, save for the echo of Harry's fall and Marteen's shocked gasp. The Philosopher's Stone lay forgotten on the ground, as the young Grindelwald scrambled to his fallen friend's side, fear and concern etched across his face.

Marteen's eyes fell on the glimmering red stone lying on the ground near Harry's unconscious form. He reached out and picked it up, his fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the legendary Philosopher's Stone.

He held it up to the flickering torchlight, turning it this way and that, his eyes wide with wonder. The stone seemed to pulse with an inner light, its facets catching and refracting the dim illumination of the chamber. For a moment, Marteen was lost in contemplation of its power and beauty.

"Whoa!"

Suddenly, as if snapping out of a trance, Marteen's gaze darted back to Harry's prone form. "Oh, right," he muttered, a hint of guilt in his voice for his momentary distraction.

Quickly, he slipped the Stone into his pocket, patting it once to ensure it was secure. Then, with a determined set to his jaw, Marteen bent down to lift Harry.

"Oof," he grunted, his face reddening with effort as he struggled to hoist his friend's dead weight. Harry was heavier than he looked, and Marteen's arms trembled under the strain.

Step by laborious step, Marteen began to make his way towards the chamber's exit. His progress was painfully slow, each movement a battle against exhaustion and the weight of his unconscious friend. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps.

"Come on, Harry," Marteen muttered through gritted teeth. "We gotta... get you... outta here."

His legs shook with every step, threatening to give out, but Marteen pressed on. The Stone weighed heavily in his pocket, a constant reminder of what they had fought for and what was at stake. Despite his exhaustion, a grim smile of determination settled on Marteen's face as he continued his arduous journey out of the chamber, carrying both his friend and the burden of their hard-won victory.

Marteen staggered through the chamber, Harry's unconscious form weighing heavily in his arms. As he approached the black flames, he paused, shifting Harry's weight to free one hand. With a determined look, he pointed his wand at the fire.

"Igniflecto!"

The black flames bent and parted, creating a narrow pathway. Marteen pushed through, the heat licking at his skin but not burning. On the other side, he repeated the spell for the purple flames, his movements becoming more labored with each passing moment.

Finally, they reached the chessboard room. Unable to go any further, Marteen gently lowered Harry to the ground, his arms trembling with relief as he set his friend down. He slumped to the floor beside Harry, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

As Marteen tilted his head back, wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes widened in surprise. Standing before him were five familiar figures:

Professor Dumbledore

Professor McGonagall

Professor Snape

Professor Sprout

Professor Flitwick

The teachers stared at the scene before them — two battered first-years, one unconscious, surrounded by the wreckage of their challenges. Their expressions unreadable.

Before any of the adults could speak, Marteen's face broke into an awkward, exhausted grin. He raised a hand in a weak wave.

"Er... detention?"

The absurdity of his statement hung in the air for a moment, a stark contrast to the gravity of the situation they had just emerged from.